Like any other high school, the one Clyde attended had its isolated spots. This particular one was nestled behind one of the buildings, mostly hidden from view. The few tables it had were made of rusted metal and wood. The janitors hardly bothered maintaining the area. While the more populated areas of the school were filled with noisy cliques, most of the people at this spot were loners of some type. It was more peaceful than the other parts.

When lunch started, Clyde found a spot at one of the tables to eat and do his homework undisturbed. Like usual, there were a few other students, though there were never groups. He was just about to sit down when he took notice of another person at the tables.

Someone (Clyde was pretty sure that he was male) about his age with a funny black, blue, and green-striped hairstyle was seated a few tables away. It was not the first time he had seen that guy, though they had never spoken. Normally, Clyde would have ignored him. However, the stack of stuff he was constructing in the middle of the table caught his attention. It was the most bizarre tower of random things he had ever seen. There were random school supplies and, among other things, ketchup and mustard packets from the cafeteria. That was quite a peculiar behavior.

Clyde gave a funny look from across the area as he sat down. What the heck was he doing?

Blake did not approve of school. It took up time, and wanted him to learn stuff that was utterly useless, and hardly ever taught him something he actually wanted to know. And it had gym. Blake did not at all approve of being forced to chase after a ball for an hour for a grade. Gym was the worst class of all; it was as useless as all the others, made most people feel miserable and
gave the bullies an excuse to pick on everyone else, and he couldn’t even ignore the teacher to draw like he could in actual classes. Gym was absolute proof that school was a horrible idea in every way. Blake hated school.

And when Irri was sick--which Blake was fairly sure actually meant ‘had an idea at midnight and spent the night on music, instead of sleeping, and will spend the day doing the same thing’ but wasn’t going to translate for anyone--that just made things worse, because Blake didn’t even have anyone to complain to, or help to get things stuck in someone’s head. It did, however, allow him to be a bit more creative in finding substitute entertainments. Which was why his table had, over the first half of lunch, acquired a small mountain of jumbled books, paper, binders, pencils, brushes, pens, and erasers. He’d even paused to shape the kneaded eraser into something kind of Godzilla-like, and placed it carefully near the top of the mountain, roaring at the sky. Even his bag and jacket were in the pile, forming the base of it; the only things he owned that weren’t included was the sketchbook he was drawing in, and the pencils he was drawing with. Blake himself was climbing up to stand on the top of the table, so that he could sketch a proper aerial view of Godzilla conquering School Mountain.

Plenty of derogatory things could be said about Blake, but a lack of imagination was not one of them. A lack of shame, however, might be.

The thoughts about the guy and the tower of random junk aside, Clyde pulled one of his textbooks out and started turning the pages. He liked keeping ahead, because academics were the thing that distinguished him from real kids. Even though he rarely went out of his way to explain himself these days, doing well in school did make him feel more grown up.

He had not even pulled out paper nor pencil when movement out of the corner of his eye drew his attention back to the funny-haired teen. He was climbing onto the table. It was strange enough that the guy had set up the tower, but now, this was begging for an explanation. Was he insane, or was this some kind of statement? Clyde usually did not go of his way to talk to his fellow students. However, curiosity got the better of him. What was the worst that could happen if he just asked about it?

The teenage kid returned the book to his backpack and walked over to the table. He looked up at the other teen with a bored yet perplexed expression. “If you don't mind me asking, what ah you doing?” he asked, nodding towards the school supply tower.

His tone and manner were not that a curious little kid, but rather that of a serious teen. He was not trying to come off as rude, though he had no idea how his classmate would react. Sometimes, Clyde's behavior could be seen as pretty off key.

School Mountain was roughly sketched in, and the outline of conquering Godzilla was in progress (slow progress, as it turned out aerial Godzilla outlines weren’t very easy to draw) when a voice interrupted. Blake had enough practice to only jump slightly, and to be sure that the pencil moved away from the paper instead of creating an irreversible mark on it. That didn’t stop him from being annoyed as he turned around, looked down, and….

What was a little kid doing in a high school cafeteria? Even if that did explain why he didn’t know to leave artists alone like he ought to. Any inclination to yell at the kid disappeared, but Blake was still frowning as he looked down at the kid. “I didn’t know there was a daycare here.”

Daycare? DAYCARE?! Clyde's hands clenched themselves into fists. This was positively infuriating. He might of looked like a little kid, but he didn't need to be supervised like one! He was an inch away from storming off. Getting made fun of was never fun. But, he had to hold his ground – leaving at just that would be admitting defeat.

Arms crossed, Clyde looked right back at this guy. “I go to school here,” he said, crossly. He looked his fellow student over. There had to be something he could say in retaliation, but what? Aha! “Sorry that I interrupted your drawing session, ma'am,” he snidely remarked, putting emphasis on that last word. He had no idea how this teen would react, but hey, he had to get back at him somehow.

“Look, I know that a bunch of the people here are immature brats, but that doesn’t mean--ma’am?” Blake spun fully around, glaring down at the kid. “I am not old and I am not a girl! Go tell your mom you need your eyes checked!” One hand had a pencil and the other had a sketchbook. Blake folded his arms, deliberately, across his chest when he noticed one planted on his hip. Fortunately having a sketchbook in hand made that particular pose fairly impractical, so only the hand with a pencil had fallen into it. “And tell whoever’s supposed to be watching you that they suck at their job.”

Throwing something at the kid was really, really tempting, but Blake didn’t want to disturb School Mountain or damage Godzilla. And throwing the sketchbook was even worse. Hm....

It did appear that he indeed made him mad, but that only earned more insulting remarks. So that guy was under the impression that someone was supposed to be supervising him? He'd already mentioned that he went to school there. This guy hadn't even listened to him! “I don't need to be watched!” he snapped.

Immediately, he regretted it. Letting his frustration through wasn't helping. As much as he wanted to yell at him and shove the fact that he wasn't really a little kid in his face, it would probably only get him more ridicule. Getting a grasp on his temper, he glared back at the sketchbook teen. “You, on the othah hand, I'm not so shuh about,” he said in a serious tone. “Standing on the table like that seems like a desperate plea for attention.”

Blake paused, looked down at the table, then around, and noticed just how much higher he was than everyone else. And how, yes, that would probably stand out just a bit. He glared back at someone who was staring, then redirected the glare back to the kid, with an expression that was intended to be superior and probably turned out condescending. “Just because art requires me to do odd things to get interesting perspectives and people are too nosy to mind their own business doesn’t mean I’m doing it so that they’ll stare.” Of course, the stares being unintentional didn’t prevent Blake from suddenly appreciating the attention, either. But the point remained; it hadn’t been intentional. “Besides, you’re the one coming over here and causing a scene.”

So, apparently this guy was doing this all for the sake of art. Strange. Clyde might have been satisfied with that answer, but something else was bugging him now. What annoyed him was the fact that the artist guy wasn't looking at him as an equal. Instead, he seemed to be looking down on him, viewing him as a pesky little kid. This was exactly why Clyde didn't normally socialize with people. Did he STILL think that he didn't belong there? Or was it the fact that they were arguing? Okay, maybe he'd gone a little far with the insult, but there was no turning back now.

“What do you mean I'm causing a scene?” he asked, straightening up to look taller. “Besides, I thought artists liked it when people asked them questions.”

Blake smirked as he noticed the kid trying to be taller. Alright, so he recognized it because he still had to do the same thing occasionally; he did it around Ace and taller adults, and not when they were already standing three feet above him so it’d make no difference. Maybe he should point that out. “You came over here and started bothering me, and no, that’s a lie. Artists like being left alone to work on their art. Critics just made up the questions lie so they’d have an excuse to be more annoying.” And, that established, Blake stepped deliberately down from the table to the bench, then the ground, and looked down at the kid. Words probably weren’t even needed.

Clyde watched as the other teen stepped down off of the table and stood in front of him to look down on him. So he was trying to look taller when he was already almost two feet taller than him? Or was this another ploy to assert his so-called dominance? Being shorter than most kids his age never sat well with him, and it seemed as though this guy was attacking that. Well, he probably didn't know, but that didn't make it any less infuriating. Why did he get himself into this argument? Honestly, it was a bit stupid, but he didn't want to back down and let this guy bask in victory.

Clyde relaxed his pose slightly. “Hey, it's not like I've actually said anything about your ahtwork itself,” he pointed out, attempting to keep a calm tone. However, the remark about him being annoying bothered him. He narrowed his eyes at the artist guy. “What about me is so annoying anyways?”

“That just makes you more annoying. You’re not even pestering me about stuff that matters.” Whether the kid had figured out he couldn’t make himself tall enough to matter to Blake or not, he’d stopped. Good; the kid wasn’t a total idiot. Just more than enough of one to be annoying.

As for why the kid was annoying… Blake wasn’t totally sure. There were obvious answers, but he was also just annoying, and Blake didn’t really care why. “I don’t know. Who cares? Besides, you called me a girl.” He glared. “Which I am not.”

The art was what mattered? Clyde thought it was strange that he was calling him out for not asking about his art, when he was bothered by the initial question. It appeared that this guy didn't even have a good reason to think he was annoying, save maybe for calling him “ma'am.” That seemed to get to him.

“Oh, so you want me to be a critic that asks annoying questions?” he asked sarcastically. “I thought I was saving you the embarrassment of me pointing out that that's just a pile of junk.” He pointed at the mini-mountain on the table as he talked, then crossed his arms and glared back at him. “Sorry about confusing you foh a girl. You just look like one.”

“I want you to go away so I can draw.” Blake’s glare intensified. “And it’s called props. And models, and imagination. Try criticizing me again when you know step one of what you’re talking about, brat.”

Blake was very, very close to hitting the kid. He wouldn’t actually, of course, hitting kids was something Ace would do and Blake did not want to be like Ace, but it was really, really tempting. And the kid ought to learn that there were consequences to insulting someone many times your weight and strength, before he irritated someone not as nice as Blake was.

On the other hand, seeing him beat up would be almost as satisfying if Blake wasn’t the one to do it, and Blake wasn’t really that inclined to beat up a kid himself. There was no reason not to enjoy the consequences that the kid brought on himself, though, so Blake limited himself to a disdainful look. “I get that it’s not your fault you haven’t noticed yet, kid, but girls my age are different in a lot more ways than long hair and playing with ponies.”

“I know what I'm talking about, so don't call me a brat,” Clyde demanded through clinched teeth. A brat was someone who was annoying because despite their inferiority, they acted superior. He was at least an equal; he wasn't supposed to be inferior! It wasn't fair that he looked a lot younger than he actually was. All he had done was ask what he was doing, and for that, he got treated like, well, a brat. The age shifter did his best to appear unbothered, but inside, he was furious.

Annoyance with the stuck-up so-called artist was the thing keeping him from walking away. Models, props, junk... they were all the same thing. Why did he act like he was better than him? “I can see yo hair's long,” Clyde noted. “So you play with ponies, too?” He had to snicker just a bit at that. There was nothing like using this guy's words against him to try to get him.