I go away for a week and the world goes to hell. I can tell before I've even so much as gotten out of my car.

The first thing that I notice as I pull up to the campus is that the electricity is out. I know immediately whose fault it is, even without scanning the minds of likely guilty parties. I can only hope that the electric problem is the least of my worries, yet I know that it won't be. Resignedly, almost dreading that which awaits my attendance, I park the car and see to the dormitories.

The sky is dismally grey and overcast, thin raindrops slipping quietly from the watercolour clouds above. Puddles have not yet accumulated on the pavement, but the sidewalks are slippery enough to warrant caution.

I know before I must even so much as knock on the door that they are unoccupied. Scanning the campus for the students requires little effort, and I find that they have taken up residence in my own cottage.

There is no need to knock -- this is my building; they are the ones who are infringing on my rights to privacy. It doesn't matter that I haven't been home. I should think that I've taught them better than that. As I open the door -- not gradually, mind you -- I am greeted by a bright orange basketball which nearly strikes me in the face. The ball is swiftly intercepted by distended grey fingers, quickly followed by the fingers' owner, who races past my line of vision in a blur of motion so fast he can scarcely determine I am even present. At this point, not enough has irked me for my commands to come harshly, but I am certain the need will arise before this day is out.

The foyer presents no problem, but short work has been made of the kitchen. Dirty dishes are piled high, some cracked, some in shards, others lined with a residual crust that forms after too long without washing. I wonder briefly if these items have been reused and decide that not even the coarsest of students would subject themselves to such a punishment. The floor, as well as every other horizontal surface in sight, is littered with paper, plastic, and a fine layer of grime of which I cannot begin to fathom the contents. This will be dealt with.

I am loathe to find the students themselves, should they be engaged in some less than appropriate activity. Whether they are or not is no business of mine, unless it is interfering with their academic career, at which point I may need to bring it to the collective consciousness of the student body, or I may simply impose upon them new regulations. I will think on it later. Currently the matter at hand is discerning what further disaster has been made of the Massachusetts Academy.

The den bears striking resemblance to the kitchen, though here dishes have been replaced by empty plastic bags which once held favorite snacks, cereal boxes, used soda cans with their tabs torn off, half-eaten TV dinners -- the list goes on. As my eyes sweep the room, however, they are drawn to the empty corner where an old chair once stood. A thought to its whereabouts breezes through my mind and touches lightly upon another's -- it is upstairs, where I suspect I may find the students after all.

How, I wonder as I travel up the stairs, could Sean simply let this happen? Has he no concept of discipline? Does he not realise that these are reckless, impressionable children who have been placed into our hands? I had always thought him soft, but never would I guess he was this lenient. My strides become greater as I come closer to the upstairs room I am certain houses the students in all their perverse glory. Simply opening the door is not enough; I throw it open in one smooth gesture to face the irresponsibility incarnate that awaits me behind it.

My eye is immediately drawn to Jubilation's irritating yellow raincoat, which is draped lovingly over Everett's shoulders. He has made himself comfortable on the plush chair from the den and wrapped himself in mismatched blankets like some pitiful excuse for a mummy. Monet sits on the floor, leaning slightly forward and covered from finger to elbow in primary-coloured tempera paint. Scattered sheets of paper lay around her; the carpeting has been soiled miserably. I doubt it will come out. Though at first glance apparently absent, Paige and Jonothon are amusing each other in a darkened corner of the great room with only slightly indecent acts. It is none of my business what they choose to do in their spare time, but now is my time. "Good -- " I begin, ready to issue an impromptu speech, accompanied by several demonstrations, when I am struck from behind with something hard and square.

As someone attempts to open the door further into me, and I am effectively stopping its purpose, I turn to face the girl who would have me move for her entrance. Through the crack of the door, Jubilation's glittering dark eyes within pale features are unmistakeable. I grin intimidatingly -- such is my purpose.

"Frosty?" she queries gingerly, as thought I might be some blanched spectre on the other side of the door and not the real White Queen, ready to impose my will upon her and her beloved friends.

In responce I say nothing, replying only with a look that assures her of my reality.

"I didn't think you'd be, like, back already."

"Apparently not." My words are as crisp as my demeanour. "However, I have returned -- only to find that the world, such as it were, has a striking tendency to fall into chaos without my guidance. Why do you suppose that is?" I turn briefly to let her in, then slam the door behind me in an effort to gain the students' attention. Everett and Monet respond, though the latter's eyes appear glassy and disturbed. As long as she listens and obeys, however, anything else is of no consequence to me. "I am speaking to all of you," I reiterate, my words directed specifically at Paige and Jonothon.

Surprised, shocked, and flushed, Paige sits upright, tidying her hair and placing it back into its clip behind her head. Jono is merely pleased with himself, happy for perfectly obvious reasons, though his characteristic defiance is only magnified by the recent affirmation of that which he had thought hopeless and impossible. I find it very forward of them, especially the overachieving Ms. Guthrie. Doubtless, I approve of her newfound assertiveness. She will go far.

That, however, is not the matter at hand, I must remind myself again. "I cannot believe that the school would fall into such a state of disarray. How was this ever allowed to happen?"

Though my last sentiment was only a rhetorical question, posed for the purpose of allowing my students to think for themselves, Paige finds the courage and audacity to answer, a hand raised high above her head as though she were still in class. "It wasn't," she confirms.

"It wasn't," I muse, tasting the words as I circle the room to inspect each of them in turn. Jubilation has taken to standing protectively over Everett -- I knew she harboured affections for him, but I was unaware her passions ran so deeply. Perhaps, I take note as I pass them, perhaps they don't. It is unimportant. "Where is Mr. Cassidy?" I demand. Certainly someone must know.

"Away," replies Jubilation tersely. It is evident she wants me out of her room and quite possibly out of her life entirely. She won't be rid of me so easily. She knows, though, and I could easily reach into her mind for the information.

"I see," is all I say -- likely making her believe I've infiltrated her minor shields. She possesses only an extremely latent psionic skill that often only manifests itself in the form of shields around her mind -- nothing very strong, certainly the sort I can easily breach, but if she is ever to mature she must think for herself. Not cutting through her shields purposefully as I can will only allow her to guess when I've read her and when I haven't. I quit pacing around the room and stand before the doorway to maintain that all their eyes are on me at all times. "You will all -- all -- not only clean the kitchen as well as the den, but will be required to accompany me the next time I deem it necessary to pay a visit to my offices."

This notion elicits a groan from Jubilation. "When's that gonna be?" she whines.

"When it comes," I assure her. "It will be a learning experience for all, I'm sure." I decide not to make them aware of the classroom work that I will be doubling when classes resume next Monday. Nor do I mention my increasing discomfort at Sean's absence.

"But Ev's sick," she protests.

"Then he will have to deal with that."

"But Frost --" I can hear the extra "y" she's purposefully removed from the end of my nickname.

"No buts. I expect this building to be spotless by six o'clock this evening." Protests emerge from all minds, though remain unspoken, because they know what will happen to them if I so much as catch a whisper of insubordination. I close the door behind me and I know they aren't going to pay any mind to my orders or unvoiced threats. Not at this point in their training. But eventually they will come around.

The heels of my boots click impatiently as I take the stairs back to the kitchen. Angelo has returned to his makeshift court, tossing the bright orange orb in directions only he can, relaying the ball to himself from across the room with the aid of his stretched fingers. He still is unaware that I am even in the same room as he is -- poor soul, he should know better. "Mr. Espinosa."

Finally distracted by the sound of his name, he turns his head casually to note that I am standing in the doorway, more than perturbed with his actions. "Oh, Ms. Frost. Hey. Welcome back." He is attempting to compensate for his infraction by ignoring it. I've seen this tactic before, countless times.

I search for the appropriate words to humiliate and scold, the words that will make certain that he knows that I am in charge in this institution, but sadly, they are lost. "Take your game outside," I insist with no need to mask my disgust.

"It's raining," he points out, confused.

Mind control is unnecessary. A sharp glare and the promise of it will do quite nicely in this instance.

"Yes, Ms. Frost," he mutters, more out of courtesy than actual sentiment, dribbling the basketball out the door.

"And Angelo?"

His grey head pops through the door, awaiting my question like a vapid lackey. "Si?" He doesn't want any harm to come to his precious, shallow mind, and will do almost anything to prevent the damage that he believes will come to every neuron should he fail me.

"Where," I begin, as though I already know the answer and am only testing him, "is Mr. Cassidy?"

Angelo's eyes shift nervously to the floor as the skin of his face loosens ever so slightly -- the question I've posed has caused him to lose what marginal control he actually has over his power. But foremost on his pitiful mind is Sean's whereabouts, and the task of picking the information delicately from the surface of his brain is far from difficult. "Don't know," he lies.

I say nothing, letting silence speak for me as a small, satisfied smile creeps across my face. I've trapped him within his own lie, and it will cost him dearly -- not his prized brain, but only the time he holds so dear.

His face droops even more as the nervous time passes and he realises he cannot retract his already spoken words, and he's most certainly in for it. However, neither the punishment nor the lecture awaits him first -- instead, another question.

"Why," I ask again, now savoring each moment of torture building within the thin psyche standing just outside the kitchen door, "have you locked Mr. Cassidy in the basement?"

I finally put my powers to use, crafting in him a necessity to tell only truth. Entranced with so powerful a creature such as myself, with eyes glazed slightly over like twin glass beads glittering within that unnaturally-coloured visage, Angelo responds frankly, "He was givin' us a hard time. So we decided it'd be for everyone's good if we jus' got rid of him for a while. Y'know, jus' til you got back."

"Do continue," I prompt, tightening my psionic hold on his attempts at truth so as to make them clearer. "Whose idea was it?"

"Mine, mostly, but Jubes helped."

"And the other students simply let you get away with it?" The question is perhaps a bit too particular, and doubtless they were all involved or Sean would not be in the basement still.

"Si, why not?"

I can feel my eyebrow arch clear to my hairline, appalled at the disrespect the students would show their teachers. I almost lose the grip my powers hold over him, but quickly realign myself and strengthen my psionic fist.

"We give him food, even. S'not like he's helpless."

I can scarcely believe the story I'm being told, though I am certain of its truth. In few short moments, I erase Angelo's memories of this interrogation and casually suggest that he stay in the kitchen and begin cleaning it. He does as told, without a word of protest, and I turn my attention to the basement.

On my way I send a thought, laced with compulsion, to the remaining children, still gathered upstairs, to come down and clean the kitchen while they haven't got anything better to do. The task won't be completed before six if they rely on their own initiative to begin, especially after the lax week they've just had.

Unable to contain my impatience and irritation, I cross the campus to the main building, my heels clicking even louder than before.

After entering the school, I open the door that leads to the basement and flick the switch on, but the room remains dark. Of course -- Jubilation has been "experimenting" again, even after I specifically told her not to. I can only expect such things when I am gone. I descend the stairs, preparing to have a long talk with Sean about the state of the school. "Sean?" I call, but there is no response. I call for him again, and this time am answered not by voice, but by unconscious thought alone. I turn the corner just beyond the stairs and find that he has been rendered powerless by a simple gag, his hands and feet tied as well.

I cannot suppress the humour I find in this odd situation and begin laughing.

/It's not funny, woman,/ comes his clear thought.

"Yes, it is," I inform him through my laughter. "It's terribly amusing. I suppose you expect me to free you from these restraints?"

An unspoken affirmative shines on his surface thoughts. I dare not kneel down too quickly, for fear of dirtying my crisp white slacks with the unknown levels of grime that cover the basement floor. Instead I bend, still chuckling softly, to remove the gag from his mouth.

"Thank ye," he replies gruffly before launching into the questions that are foremost on his mind. "What are ye doin' back so early? I dinnae expect ye until Tuesday at the least."

I crouch near his feet and begin untying the simple knots that hold his ankles in place. "There was little of interest in the minds of simpletons," I explain. There is no need to elaborate on what is not his business anyway. After removing the restraints from his feet, he stands and turns so I might untie that which binds his wrists behind his back.

Though his feelings remain unspoken, he is glad to have me back. Likely my return is appreciated only so he can be freed from these things that keep him helpless, but it is appreciated nonetheless. "How," I ask him, "could you have allowed this to happen?"

I am answered by another look at the floor, and cannot help but wonder if floors across the campus are offering free advice today.

"The kids -- they're good kids, Emma, but I dinnae think they'd --"

"Obviously," I interrupt. He is beating around the bush and I am not enjoying his avoidance of the subject at hand.

"I'm not sure how it happened," he admits. "We were holdin' a training session in the biosphere, as usual, and Monet ... " Now he searches the ceiling for the proper version of events and I am growing even more impatient.

"Shall I help you remember?" I offer innocently, with only good intent.

Sean's face turns from the silent ceiling to my own, his crisp blue eyes shining with certain defiance. "No," he insists coldly. "Ye'll not be enterin' my head. I'm perfectly capable of handling this on me own."

I say nothing, sure of my own competence and possession of the upper hand. After all, I am not the one who allowed myself to be locked in the basement by the very students I am supposed to be training.

Just before he is about to recount the fabulous tale of his abduction, Sean's eyes grow wide with realization. "Where have ye left them now?" he demands, concerned for his own welfare as much as theirs.

"They're in the kitchen of my cottage," I assure him. "Out of trouble and repairing the damage they've done to it."

He starts for the door urgently. Certainly he can't be going to speak with them! "Don't just stand there, woman, we cannae leave them unattended!"

The man is truly naive; so much so that I cannot hold back the laughter that floats through my lips. "I've left them all with thoughts of repairs in their minds," I assure him. "They won't be doing any damage."

"Ye've turned them into mindless zombies?" he exclaims, certain I must be crazy to implement such a practice as mind control. "Can ye be any more -- !" Whatever word he was going to use to describe me is left hanging in the air, absent from his thoughts as well, only proving that all adjectives have successfully failed him.

"Go to them if you will," I tell him, "but it's truly unnecessary."

Sean stops on the stairs, takes a deep breath and refrains from saying any more to me before heading to the room upstairs. He's going to see to them anyway. It's like speaking to a brick wall sometimes, trying to get a thought into that man's head using words alone. It's perfectly obvious that he cares for the children, perhaps too much -- naturally, a fallacy that he will pay for one day, if not today or this entire past week. Yet he seems not to care so much that they trapped him in the basement, as he does that they were on their own this week. They are, after all, nearly adults -- perfectly capable of taking care of themselves without all the fuss he makes over them. I wonder if he will ever learn his place as instructor. I realise I must follow him if I am to prevent him from further harm. My suggestion was not, after all, that strong, and should the children choose that they don't want to deal with his mothering any longer, they could easily overtake him again -- ordinarily I would not think so, but since they have proven that they can, I don't doubt that they would a second time.

Resignedly, I climb the stairs after Sean and follow him across campus to my cottage.