Pavlovian. It made Imp think of Samuel, and how he’d helped her refine her psychological warfare. Shot with a tinker gun. No longer a part of this dynamic. He had been the closest thing she had to a calming, steadying presence. Chastity liked to tease too much, Candy got wrapped up in whatever problem was presented until she made herself sick, and Aiden was too prone to being outnumbered, though he was coming into his own.

He’d also been one of the few she could have regular conversations with. She had been doing this a lot since he’d died. Letting them forget she existed, and observing.

She couldn’t ever relax, and she was even less able to relax while they were in Teacher’s old headquarters. White walls, floors that had been white that were tracked with gritty melted snow, now, and panels above them that illuminated everything evenly. It was too much like a hospital or lab, garish and antiseptic. She liked the spots where things still hadn’t been repaired from the fights and wars of last week or two years ago, but those spots weren’t kid friendly.

“You put hot sauce on your fries?” Darlene asked, horrified.

Juliette was decorating her paper plate of fries using the same packets that Aroa had been fishing in.

“She puts hot sauce on everything,” Roman said.

“It’s the only way I can feel anything, with my cold, black heart,” Juliette said, deadpan.

“Yeah, don’t think I didn’t see you shaking like a leaf after I saved your life,” Roman said. “You guys should know that’s called eighth grader syndrome.”

“That’s a lie,” Juliette said. “And that ‘syndrome’ of yours is from Japanese cartoons, you embarrassment.”

“What does it mean?” Chicken Little asked.

“It’s something you see a lot in middle school,” Roman said. “Kids who convince themselves they’re special or they have powers, or that they’re the coolest people alive.”

“We are special,” Chastity said, her voice dry. “We do have powers. We are cool, objectively.”

“And yet Julie still manages to make a joke of herself when she pretends to be cooler than all the rest of us,” Roman added. “It’s cringe.”

“And bringing up terms from cartoons isn’t?” Juliette retorted.

“Am I going to have to step in, here?” Imp asked. Nobody responded. “Don’t make me, come on.”

Roman bit into a french fry, and was mid-swallow when he froze. Juliette was also frozen, grinning, as Roman made a small cough, eyes trying to widen and failing to.

“Urrrrggh,” Imp said, aware they wouldn’t register what she was saying. “If you force me to make a sudden appearance, tell you off, you’re going to be mad at me, you’ll resent me, I’ll have to come up with inventive punishments to make stuff stick…”

Such a pain.