NOT ANOTHER TEEN DIMENSION - RAYGUN
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xp_logsThe dance begins.
The Claremont High gym was fully decked out. One of the decorating committee had a bright idea to bug all the local movie theatres, record stores and parents rec rooms for old posters, and the walls were coated in movies and bands from the 80s. Even the big banner ‘RAYGUN’ was a tongue in cheek reference to the 80s. The DJ had set up next to the stage, where two live acts would alternate between the songs the DJ was spinning. Parent and teacher chaperones were already vigilantly monitoring the punch and the exits for liquor slipping in and couples slipping out into the empty school halls. Finally, Principal Xavier checked his watch and nodded to the members of the student council running the dance.
“Open the door, kids. The dance is officially on.”
Artie was one of the first teens in the door. Well, his stupid teenage body was, the adult behind his eyes watching the room cautiously, despite the cheerful smile on his face. Why did this kid have to be such a chatterbox?
He slipped along the side of the room for a moment, stopping in front of the refreshments table to grab half a dozen cookies. He pocketed most, holding the last one in his hand, ready to eat if anyone tried to talk to him since faking the kid’s death was probably overkill and while he’d considered minor facial injuries or knocking a few teeth out to hide his own inability to talk, it seemed… permanent. And hey, if this universe survived, the kid would have to live with whatever he did to its face.
****
Sharp inhale. Sharper than this body should have been capable of.
Dulled, but the smells of floor wax and hair wax and cologne and -axe- and - they're still there, just less ripe, less pungent.
He is in a suit that does not fit. The pants are fine, the shirt is not fine but he could make it okay, the jacket is tragic. The tie is getting thrown out.
He would've worn this himself at this age and - marius - jan - clarice - nate - julio - dani - anyone anyone
Would've made this better
This Kyle doesn't have any of those.
But he sees streaks of purple hair across the stupid dance floor that he can't feel under his shoes.
God he hates shoes.
He sees olive skin chatting up a cheerleader
He sees the blond hair of his "his" algebra tutor, who is touching a freshly pierced ear with something akin to wonder and confusion
He gets a cup of juice, sips - sets it somewhere else - better have been spiked by one of the actual residents, not his friends-coworkers-colleagues-family
And on awful shoes and in a suit he is about to go un-fuck (rolled sleeves, collar open at the throat, shove the jacket on the back of a chair) Kyle Tyler Gibney - goes across a dance floor to repair this Kyle's social life or at least do his best to try...
“What am I going to do with you?” Clarice asked, intercepting Kyle, a plastic cup of pretzels in hand. She must be popular or something as three different guys had asked her to dance and she'd only been there 15 minutes! Boys here clearly weren't expecting the rejection they'd gotten as she went to peruse the snacks. They weren't great, but at least pretzels.
She handed him the snack cup as she reached up to help him look less like a dweeb. There was an art to rolling a shirtsleeve properly so it didn't fall down every 10 seconds or look a mess. “It's probably too much to ask if you have any scrunchies?”
"'Rice, this kid is getting a note from his future self about showers and AP English. You're lucky he's wearing socks that match his pants." Kyle said, with a grin that should've shown sharp teeth, and instead looked awkward on this face - with these braces, but .. still worked.
***
Until tonight Topaz would have claimed that there was no universe in which she would go to a dance. Now she knew there was at least one. At least her high school version had foregone the dress, instead choosing a nice, deep purple button up shirt and black pants and dress shoes. She could only assume Felicia had dressed her.
“Hey Topaz!”
Why is there a boy approaching her? He’s wringing his hands, obviously nervous, looking at her… hopefully? Is she about to ruin her teenage self’s life?
“Hi… Jack?” She had seen the name scribbled in the margins of notes with little love hearts. God she hoped it was the same person.
He lit up. Okay, the name was right at least. “Hi! Do you uh… do you want to dance?”
Topaz looked at him, then at the dance floor, then back at him. She sighed inwardly. “Sure. Why not.”
***
“So. Berkley?”
“Yeah, my parents are legacies, so apparently it wasn’t very hard to switch from University of Colorado.”
“Why Colorado, though?”
“Be near extended family.”
“Isn’t Berkley like, a lot more expensive?”
“My parents are lawyers, dude. And they set me up a small stock portfolio to help with tuition.”
“You are so fuckin’ bougie, Ramsey.”
“Be real, J. This whole -school- is bougie.”
“...okay, yeah.”
***
Beneath the flickering disco ball, a pair stood near the dance hall’s entrance — backlit and unescapable. The one with hair too slicked back, too polished to be innocent, wore a sharply tailored navy military jacket. Gold piping traced the seams like faint lightning, and his epaulets bore the weight of actual authority. A storm of pins decorated his chest: Model UN, Debate Club, three "Most Intimidating Presence" trophies, and one singular, cryptic badge that read simply: Imperious Rex. Beneath it, a crisp, high-collared white shirt. Black trousers tucked neatly into knee-high leather boots, every inch an (student government) emperor.
His sole concession to the era was a glowing blue bracelet, pulsing faintly like a tethered star. In his other hand, he held a handful more, their synthetic light catching like fire on water.
“Come,” Namor said, voice low and unhurried, lifting one like a coronation relic. “Adorn yourself with the sacred light of antiquity. Or the mid-’80s. The distinction grows murky."
A pause, drier than dust.
“Two for a dollar. Support the senior trip.”
Felicia laughed, bumping into him with a half bared shoulder possibly a little harder than necessary as a collection of sophomores timidly handed her ones. Hair teased within an inch of its life and sprayed pink, face a map of glitter and stars, Felicia was a glam rock queen in metallics and neon, her pointed toe knee high boots keeping her only a couple inches shorter than her companion, but still less of a heel than she'd like. Her smile would glow under the black lights.
"Isn't he the most?" she asked, tucking the cash into her belt bag as he began doling out black plastic wrapped bulk buy toys as if they were gold bars. "Truly outrageous."
“Outrageous is an aesthetic,” Namor replied, glass-smooth. “Reckless is a flaw. I happen to be neither. But I understand the confusion. Altitude often looks like spectacle to those watching from below.”
He scanned the crowd with the casual confidence of a man who believed he could name every threat in the room.
“They did elect me, after all. One assumes for the gravitas. It appears I’ve confused spycraft with discernment. Try to keep up.”
"Oh, King," Felicia replied, saccharine but only mostly unkindly. "They elected Rex McKenzie. And possibly as a pretty figurehead, given Guthrie is second in command."
"Tubular!" she said, shifting with a pretty smile at a junior, taking their ticket and a fist of ones before gesturing them towards Namor. "It's an 80s party. A human era full of neon, and this is lingo. Which you'd know if you'd bothered to read anything we spies sent you. Try to keep up, or at least your head down for those of us who aren't just cheekbones."
Namor handed off another bracelet with a motion that could have been mistaken for benevolence — if it weren’t so imperious.
“Ah. Tubular. A word with too many limbs and no spine.” He regarded her attire, faintly amused. “You’ve embraced the era’s glitter with devotional fervor. I presumed camouflage. Operative strategy. Reflected light.”
Then he looked at her — not briefly, not politely. As one might observe a star and count its gravity.
“But no,” he said softly. “Not disguise. Bait.”
He tilted his head just slightly. Not indulgent. Not fond. Something quieter.
“This crown they placed on my double — ‘king of the court,’ such endearing theater — is camouflage enough. Tailored, bestowed, and as performative as your shine.”
His gaze dipped — slow, intentional — not to objectify but to study the radius she carved into space.
“Tell me,” he asked, voice lower now, almost intimate, “do we wear these roles because they fit... or because it’s easier to hunt when no one’s watching for claws?”
"I can only answer that for myself," Felicia said, watching a stream of teens crack their glowsticks and head inside the gym. A moment alone, her smile moved to something else, still dishonest but without veneer, an eyebrow raising. "I can fit any role, but in my experience? People seem to mind getting stepped on less when it's from a pretty face they don't see coming."
“You ought to be impossible to miss,” Namor murmured, something reverent curled beneath the words. “And yet — here you are.”
He let the silence settle like silk.
“That is no mere camouflage, Felicia. That is power.”
His eyes lingered a moment longer, that almost-smile tugging like a tide too proud to break.
“Together, we could bring this dance to its knees.”
Then a sigh — quiet, amused, a blade in velvet. He turned, just enough for the lights to catch the angle of his borrowed alternate's jawline.
“Yet alas . . . a universe awaits salvation. And, please. These cheekbones have won wars, Felicia. You should see what they do in full daylight.”
***
It had been.... a long time since Jono had worn a suit. But he did know a few things: one) that he cleaned up nice, and, two) that Paige liked how he looked in eyeliner. Both things were at his disposal as he waited for Paige to open the door so that he could pick her up and go with her to prom.
"It's just a school formal." He thought to himself. "No reason to get all worked up about it Jonothan."
Paige tried not to seem like she was rushing for the door when she heard the doorbell, taking a moment to smooth down her forest green dress. It was just a dance, a high school dance at that and she was 26. No need to get excited. Calmly, she opened the door and couldn’t help but beam at Jono as soon as she saw him.
“Wow, Starsmore, you clean up nice,” she said, looking him up and down.
Jono let out a low whistle and winked when Paige opened the door. “Very much decided that you’re being gifted my green jumper back home. It’ll look better on you than me.”
“I told you, it’s more fun to steal your clothes than let you give them to me!” Paige grabbed her purse and closed the door behind them. Better to get out the door before someone tried to take a million photos of them standing in the yard.
“The end result is the same for me, so I don’t care how you do it.” He laughed, holding out his hand for her.
Paige gave a fake, deep put upon sigh as she took Jono’s hand. “You know, you’re too nice. It takes all the fun out of it.”
“It is purely selfish, I assure you.” He teased, sticking out his tongue.
“You’re ridiculous,” she laughed, leaning into his shoulder.
---
The thing about dancing with Paige was, was that it was easier than dancing with anyone had ever been. It was almost as natural as breathing to pull her close, and a comfort and even a joy to be able to feel her heartbeat on her wrist and know that not only did he have a heart, but that it was beating in time with hers. It was a stupid thing to be emotional about, but he wasn't going to dwell on it, not when experiencing it was so much better.
Paige was having a wonderful night, dancing with Jono with her arms wrapped around his neck and brushing off the earlier tension with Sam, but she could see Jono getting lost in his thoughts.
“Hey.” She gently rubbed her thumb against the back of his neck to get his attention. “You ok? You seem a million miles away.”
He tilted his head down, taking the opportunity to kiss her forehead while he could. "Perfect, actually. Just thinking about how nice this is....even if the music is shi- not my cup of tea."
“Sorry, dear, I don’t think grunge is everyone’s idea of good slow dance music. Actually, I’m surprised you didn’t have to play tonight. Other you is in a band, right? You’re not skipping out on a gig?” Given that they had live music, Paige had been shocked that Jono had the whole night to himself. Though, maybe his band wasn’t the right genre for tonight.
"Angel, you just said it yourself that grunge isn't really what's played at these. They didn't even ask. Though I did get teased by the other guys for wanting to go." He pulled her closer, spinning them a bit as they swayed. "Definitely worth it though."
“You know…I think I have a pair of earbuds in my purse.” Paige dug around a bit before pulling them out from the very bottom. “Could make out our soundtrack for the evening?”
Jono's brain took a moment to process the words that came after 'make out' there were, as it turned out, not as many differences between twenty-six year old Jono and teenaged Jono as he had hoped. Once able to get his brain back online, Jono dug around in his pocket until he produced an mp3 player. "We could."
Paige smiled and pulled away, running her hands down his arms until she was holding his hands. “Come on!” She guided him out the gym doors, making the music more of a dull thump in the background instead of a constant roar. There was a small bit of sidewalk before the walkway to the football field. Perfectly sized for a bit of slow dancing.
“Got a song in mind?” she asked, working on untangling the knot in her earbuds.
"Already queuing it up." He promised, struggling to find it amongst the seemingly endless amount of Nirvana other-him had downloaded on the device. He finally got it and readily plugged the end of the cords into the player, pulling Paige close to dance as he hit play on And I Love Her, pulling her in for a lingering kiss as the song started.
The Claremont High gym was fully decked out. One of the decorating committee had a bright idea to bug all the local movie theatres, record stores and parents rec rooms for old posters, and the walls were coated in movies and bands from the 80s. Even the big banner ‘RAYGUN’ was a tongue in cheek reference to the 80s. The DJ had set up next to the stage, where two live acts would alternate between the songs the DJ was spinning. Parent and teacher chaperones were already vigilantly monitoring the punch and the exits for liquor slipping in and couples slipping out into the empty school halls. Finally, Principal Xavier checked his watch and nodded to the members of the student council running the dance.
“Open the door, kids. The dance is officially on.”
Artie was one of the first teens in the door. Well, his stupid teenage body was, the adult behind his eyes watching the room cautiously, despite the cheerful smile on his face. Why did this kid have to be such a chatterbox?
He slipped along the side of the room for a moment, stopping in front of the refreshments table to grab half a dozen cookies. He pocketed most, holding the last one in his hand, ready to eat if anyone tried to talk to him since faking the kid’s death was probably overkill and while he’d considered minor facial injuries or knocking a few teeth out to hide his own inability to talk, it seemed… permanent. And hey, if this universe survived, the kid would have to live with whatever he did to its face.
****
Sharp inhale. Sharper than this body should have been capable of.
Dulled, but the smells of floor wax and hair wax and cologne and -axe- and - they're still there, just less ripe, less pungent.
He is in a suit that does not fit. The pants are fine, the shirt is not fine but he could make it okay, the jacket is tragic. The tie is getting thrown out.
He would've worn this himself at this age and - marius - jan - clarice - nate - julio - dani - anyone anyone
Would've made this better
This Kyle doesn't have any of those.
But he sees streaks of purple hair across the stupid dance floor that he can't feel under his shoes.
God he hates shoes.
He sees olive skin chatting up a cheerleader
He sees the blond hair of his "his" algebra tutor, who is touching a freshly pierced ear with something akin to wonder and confusion
He gets a cup of juice, sips - sets it somewhere else - better have been spiked by one of the actual residents, not his friends-coworkers-colleagues-family
And on awful shoes and in a suit he is about to go un-fuck (rolled sleeves, collar open at the throat, shove the jacket on the back of a chair) Kyle Tyler Gibney - goes across a dance floor to repair this Kyle's social life or at least do his best to try...
“What am I going to do with you?” Clarice asked, intercepting Kyle, a plastic cup of pretzels in hand. She must be popular or something as three different guys had asked her to dance and she'd only been there 15 minutes! Boys here clearly weren't expecting the rejection they'd gotten as she went to peruse the snacks. They weren't great, but at least pretzels.
She handed him the snack cup as she reached up to help him look less like a dweeb. There was an art to rolling a shirtsleeve properly so it didn't fall down every 10 seconds or look a mess. “It's probably too much to ask if you have any scrunchies?”
"'Rice, this kid is getting a note from his future self about showers and AP English. You're lucky he's wearing socks that match his pants." Kyle said, with a grin that should've shown sharp teeth, and instead looked awkward on this face - with these braces, but .. still worked.
***
Until tonight Topaz would have claimed that there was no universe in which she would go to a dance. Now she knew there was at least one. At least her high school version had foregone the dress, instead choosing a nice, deep purple button up shirt and black pants and dress shoes. She could only assume Felicia had dressed her.
“Hey Topaz!”
Why is there a boy approaching her? He’s wringing his hands, obviously nervous, looking at her… hopefully? Is she about to ruin her teenage self’s life?
“Hi… Jack?” She had seen the name scribbled in the margins of notes with little love hearts. God she hoped it was the same person.
He lit up. Okay, the name was right at least. “Hi! Do you uh… do you want to dance?”
Topaz looked at him, then at the dance floor, then back at him. She sighed inwardly. “Sure. Why not.”
***
“So. Berkley?”
“Yeah, my parents are legacies, so apparently it wasn’t very hard to switch from University of Colorado.”
“Why Colorado, though?”
“Be near extended family.”
“Isn’t Berkley like, a lot more expensive?”
“My parents are lawyers, dude. And they set me up a small stock portfolio to help with tuition.”
“You are so fuckin’ bougie, Ramsey.”
“Be real, J. This whole -school- is bougie.”
“...okay, yeah.”
***
Beneath the flickering disco ball, a pair stood near the dance hall’s entrance — backlit and unescapable. The one with hair too slicked back, too polished to be innocent, wore a sharply tailored navy military jacket. Gold piping traced the seams like faint lightning, and his epaulets bore the weight of actual authority. A storm of pins decorated his chest: Model UN, Debate Club, three "Most Intimidating Presence" trophies, and one singular, cryptic badge that read simply: Imperious Rex. Beneath it, a crisp, high-collared white shirt. Black trousers tucked neatly into knee-high leather boots, every inch an (student government) emperor.
His sole concession to the era was a glowing blue bracelet, pulsing faintly like a tethered star. In his other hand, he held a handful more, their synthetic light catching like fire on water.
“Come,” Namor said, voice low and unhurried, lifting one like a coronation relic. “Adorn yourself with the sacred light of antiquity. Or the mid-’80s. The distinction grows murky."
A pause, drier than dust.
“Two for a dollar. Support the senior trip.”
Felicia laughed, bumping into him with a half bared shoulder possibly a little harder than necessary as a collection of sophomores timidly handed her ones. Hair teased within an inch of its life and sprayed pink, face a map of glitter and stars, Felicia was a glam rock queen in metallics and neon, her pointed toe knee high boots keeping her only a couple inches shorter than her companion, but still less of a heel than she'd like. Her smile would glow under the black lights.
"Isn't he the most?" she asked, tucking the cash into her belt bag as he began doling out black plastic wrapped bulk buy toys as if they were gold bars. "Truly outrageous."
“Outrageous is an aesthetic,” Namor replied, glass-smooth. “Reckless is a flaw. I happen to be neither. But I understand the confusion. Altitude often looks like spectacle to those watching from below.”
He scanned the crowd with the casual confidence of a man who believed he could name every threat in the room.
“They did elect me, after all. One assumes for the gravitas. It appears I’ve confused spycraft with discernment. Try to keep up.”
"Oh, King," Felicia replied, saccharine but only mostly unkindly. "They elected Rex McKenzie. And possibly as a pretty figurehead, given Guthrie is second in command."
"Tubular!" she said, shifting with a pretty smile at a junior, taking their ticket and a fist of ones before gesturing them towards Namor. "It's an 80s party. A human era full of neon, and this is lingo. Which you'd know if you'd bothered to read anything we spies sent you. Try to keep up, or at least your head down for those of us who aren't just cheekbones."
Namor handed off another bracelet with a motion that could have been mistaken for benevolence — if it weren’t so imperious.
“Ah. Tubular. A word with too many limbs and no spine.” He regarded her attire, faintly amused. “You’ve embraced the era’s glitter with devotional fervor. I presumed camouflage. Operative strategy. Reflected light.”
Then he looked at her — not briefly, not politely. As one might observe a star and count its gravity.
“But no,” he said softly. “Not disguise. Bait.”
He tilted his head just slightly. Not indulgent. Not fond. Something quieter.
“This crown they placed on my double — ‘king of the court,’ such endearing theater — is camouflage enough. Tailored, bestowed, and as performative as your shine.”
His gaze dipped — slow, intentional — not to objectify but to study the radius she carved into space.
“Tell me,” he asked, voice lower now, almost intimate, “do we wear these roles because they fit... or because it’s easier to hunt when no one’s watching for claws?”
"I can only answer that for myself," Felicia said, watching a stream of teens crack their glowsticks and head inside the gym. A moment alone, her smile moved to something else, still dishonest but without veneer, an eyebrow raising. "I can fit any role, but in my experience? People seem to mind getting stepped on less when it's from a pretty face they don't see coming."
“You ought to be impossible to miss,” Namor murmured, something reverent curled beneath the words. “And yet — here you are.”
He let the silence settle like silk.
“That is no mere camouflage, Felicia. That is power.”
His eyes lingered a moment longer, that almost-smile tugging like a tide too proud to break.
“Together, we could bring this dance to its knees.”
Then a sigh — quiet, amused, a blade in velvet. He turned, just enough for the lights to catch the angle of his borrowed alternate's jawline.
“Yet alas . . . a universe awaits salvation. And, please. These cheekbones have won wars, Felicia. You should see what they do in full daylight.”
***
It had been.... a long time since Jono had worn a suit. But he did know a few things: one) that he cleaned up nice, and, two) that Paige liked how he looked in eyeliner. Both things were at his disposal as he waited for Paige to open the door so that he could pick her up and go with her to prom.
"It's just a school formal." He thought to himself. "No reason to get all worked up about it Jonothan."
Paige tried not to seem like she was rushing for the door when she heard the doorbell, taking a moment to smooth down her forest green dress. It was just a dance, a high school dance at that and she was 26. No need to get excited. Calmly, she opened the door and couldn’t help but beam at Jono as soon as she saw him.
“Wow, Starsmore, you clean up nice,” she said, looking him up and down.
Jono let out a low whistle and winked when Paige opened the door. “Very much decided that you’re being gifted my green jumper back home. It’ll look better on you than me.”
“I told you, it’s more fun to steal your clothes than let you give them to me!” Paige grabbed her purse and closed the door behind them. Better to get out the door before someone tried to take a million photos of them standing in the yard.
“The end result is the same for me, so I don’t care how you do it.” He laughed, holding out his hand for her.
Paige gave a fake, deep put upon sigh as she took Jono’s hand. “You know, you’re too nice. It takes all the fun out of it.”
“It is purely selfish, I assure you.” He teased, sticking out his tongue.
“You’re ridiculous,” she laughed, leaning into his shoulder.
---
The thing about dancing with Paige was, was that it was easier than dancing with anyone had ever been. It was almost as natural as breathing to pull her close, and a comfort and even a joy to be able to feel her heartbeat on her wrist and know that not only did he have a heart, but that it was beating in time with hers. It was a stupid thing to be emotional about, but he wasn't going to dwell on it, not when experiencing it was so much better.
Paige was having a wonderful night, dancing with Jono with her arms wrapped around his neck and brushing off the earlier tension with Sam, but she could see Jono getting lost in his thoughts.
“Hey.” She gently rubbed her thumb against the back of his neck to get his attention. “You ok? You seem a million miles away.”
He tilted his head down, taking the opportunity to kiss her forehead while he could. "Perfect, actually. Just thinking about how nice this is....even if the music is shi- not my cup of tea."
“Sorry, dear, I don’t think grunge is everyone’s idea of good slow dance music. Actually, I’m surprised you didn’t have to play tonight. Other you is in a band, right? You’re not skipping out on a gig?” Given that they had live music, Paige had been shocked that Jono had the whole night to himself. Though, maybe his band wasn’t the right genre for tonight.
"Angel, you just said it yourself that grunge isn't really what's played at these. They didn't even ask. Though I did get teased by the other guys for wanting to go." He pulled her closer, spinning them a bit as they swayed. "Definitely worth it though."
“You know…I think I have a pair of earbuds in my purse.” Paige dug around a bit before pulling them out from the very bottom. “Could make out our soundtrack for the evening?”
Jono's brain took a moment to process the words that came after 'make out' there were, as it turned out, not as many differences between twenty-six year old Jono and teenaged Jono as he had hoped. Once able to get his brain back online, Jono dug around in his pocket until he produced an mp3 player. "We could."
Paige smiled and pulled away, running her hands down his arms until she was holding his hands. “Come on!” She guided him out the gym doors, making the music more of a dull thump in the background instead of a constant roar. There was a small bit of sidewalk before the walkway to the football field. Perfectly sized for a bit of slow dancing.
“Got a song in mind?” she asked, working on untangling the knot in her earbuds.
"Already queuing it up." He promised, struggling to find it amongst the seemingly endless amount of Nirvana other-him had downloaded on the device. He finally got it and readily plugged the end of the cords into the player, pulling Paige close to dance as he hit play on And I Love Her, pulling her in for a lingering kiss as the song started.
