Are bad boys made, or are they born?

This has been the question many philosophers have asked themselves through the centuries, with answers varying from the perhaps and the what ifs. The Greek philosopher and man literally known by his wrestler name, Plato—which literally translates to "Wide One"—said that men do no bad on purpose, and when they do, it comes from ignorance, rather than nature. Point for nurture, not nature.

German philosopher and man definitely not known for his wrestler name, Immanuel Kant, stated that humans are born bad, have a tendency to do bad, and those who are born "Good" will turn bad at the end like a banana forgotten in a child's backpack over the weekend. Granted, Kant hated humanity, and being a human overall, as even his last words before dying, knowing he was finally done with that meat prison he called existing, were "It is good." Also, he had a big forehead, which would've suited him best for the nickname of "Plato," but I digress.

Truth is, there is no hard evidence of whether bad boys are made or born, unless you want to get into eugenics, and trust me, nobody wants to get into eugenics. Of course, there is a third answer to the question, and the answer is "Yes." Does it answer anything? No, and frankly, it's not even a proper answer, but that's basically what English philosopher and definitely not a wide man, John Locke, answered when asked the question. To him, every person is born as a tabula-rasa, a blank-slate, and that both genes and nurture make a bad boy what he is.

I don't know John Locke, but I'm 100% sure that, given the option of a thousand ice cream flavors, he would order plain vanilla. But I would agree with him. Look at Hayden and Brayden. They look normal. Maybe in another country, another time, they could've lived non-bad boy lives. But because of the circumstances around them, they had to adapt. Hayden had to play football to get a scholarship. Brayden had to learn to be a crook to make his father proud. They're bad boys because of nurture, not nature.

Okayden, on the other hand, was born a bad boy. Werewolves and Vampires are practically born with six packs. He's made of bad boy. And me? Well.

I'm just like him.

I was born with a very rare mutation called Alexandria's Genesis. The mutation is mostly associated with purple eyes, smooth skin, dark hair, excellent metabolism, superior strength, and long lifespan. My body was made to be a bad boy, and to be hotly desirable. My body is a temple to be worshiped. That, with my allergy to non-leather or cotton fabric, sweat that smells like perfume, and dulcet voice makes me the ultimate bad boy.

Or, like so many kids called me growing up, an anime protagonist.

"Coolm so can you, like, make shadow clones and shit?" asks Brayden, being the dumb, uneducated fuck he is while drinking LaCroix Pure and swinging his legs back and forth.

"Brayden, make like a forest and burn in hell, will you?" I say, grabbing a pair of random shades from a box of lost and found Hayden found tucked in a corner of the infirmary. They were 3D glasses somebody obviously stole from a cinema. They smell like buttered popcorn.

"don't you wanna say, burn in the shadow realm?" adds Brayden. "you know, because anime."

Hayden hands me a pair of novelty shades from 2001, where the "o" are the shades. Jesus, how long have they been here? "Anime is not real, brother. It's a myth made by the Japanese to make Incels out of Western men as retaliation for dropping the atomic bombs. At least that's what my grandpappy used to say."

I grab another pair, this one having a comically large nose, mustache, and silly eyebrows. Somehow, these are the best so far. "Look, you dipshit twink, knock it off. I'm not an anime protagonist."

"Of course you are not," adds Okayden, sitting in a corner while reading a Footlocker catalog,

"You do not have spiky hair,

Or childhood rivals."

"Also, anime is not real," I say. "Can't believe I have to clarify that."

"well, neither are werewolves and vampires, and piggly-fucking-wigglily, we have a mutt here being both."

"Anime is not real!" yells Hayden, handing me one of those douchebag Kanye West shutter glasses everyone inexplicably had back in 2007. It only works to make everyone look like they're in a weird art-deco jail, and to announce to everyone around you that you chose drip over being able to fucking see shit. "Anime is not real, right, love?"

"Not, it isn't," I say, putting on the ugly white shades. These might work in a pinch. My eyes can't see shit, ergo, nobody can see my eyes.

Brayden pulls up a picture of a yellow-haired spike anime boy, shoving it in front of Hayden while speaking in a scary tone. "boooo, i'm gonna take your big titty blue-haired waifu and add her to my harem!"

"Your magic words have no effect on me, silly boy," says Hayden while picking up the box and setting them aside. "Besides, having Alexander Hamilton Syndrome doesn't change anything. You're still my love."

"Alexandria's Genesis," I add.

"so, like, you pilot a giant robot and fight angels and shit," says Brayden.

"That's Evangelion," I say, adjusting the stupid shutter glasses in my stupid sexy face so I can be a stupid sexy member of society.

"ayden, get in the fucking robot!"

"I'm going to ignore you now," I say, standing up from the gurney. My joints ache and pop with every stretch, up and down, from side to side. I can still feel shards of glass stuck on my face. "We have more important things to discuss."

"Yes, please," says Hayden, putting his hands around my shoulder. I had to remove the spikes from season 2 due to him touching my shoulder 24/7. I think that's his love language. "Like how we need to get into this tournament thing."

Excuse me, what is tarnation? I shake him off me, walking two steps back while saying "whoa whoa whoa, what in the Kentuky Fried Fuck are you on?" I would love to describe his expression right now, but can't see shit through these glasses. Seriously, who the fuck thought this was a good idea? "We are not gonna play this game, period. This is obviously a trap, and more than a trap, it's plot!"

"yeah! i agree with yokohama mitsubishi," says Brayden, which I don't know if he's being racist or not, given that he's asian. "sounds like a hassle. besides, we don't need money. i'm rich as fuck, boi! even if we don't make it, we can make our own unofficial club! with beer and bitches. but no beer, cause it gives me the runs. nor bitches. sorry, fido."

"I'm not a dog," whispers Okayden.

"It's not about the money," says Hayden, trying to wrap his arms around me again, but I step back. There are boundaries even in relationships. Take note, kids. No means no, even when you are in a couple. "It's about the teensie-weensie fact that I'm here on a scholarship! I need to be in a club to stay here, remember?"

Ah, yes, that. Hmm... shit. Feels like there should be a workaround around that. If only there was someone with a vast amount of cash milling around that could give us a loan to cover Hayden's tuition... Hmmm.

Nope, can't think of anyone.

"seriously, i'm rolling in dough," says Brayden. "i could probably make a new school for only us four, where we get to eat lasagna everyday, like garfield, and not have classes on monday. also like garfield."

The plot is never that straight-forward.

"Well, why don't you compete with the football team?" I ask.

Okay, kinda feel the vibe of the room shift a bit there. Did I say something wrong? There is a weird silence. A pregnant silence, one who just got pregnant out of wedlock and is still living with her fundamental parents, and she knows the second she says anything, she will be kicked to the curb. A secret pregnant silence. I feel like I fucked it up.

"Brother," says Hayden, for once not trying to grab me or touch me. Weird. Touch me, daddy, "the whole point of us trying to make a club is to avoid cliches and stereotypes. You're literally telling me to go and embrace the stereotype I'm trying to escape. Not cool. Not cool at all."

Shit. I just did that, didn't I? I've been trying so hard to avoid the plot that I neglected to actually follow the plan we had to achieve it. God, I'm such a dick.

"Hayden, babe," I say, trying to get close to him, but I feel a tenderloin hand of his in an open palm against my chest, stopping me cold.

"Please, don't say another word," he says with a shaky voice, as if he's about to cry. But the Yeezy shades don't let me see him. "You might say something you might regret. Just, stop. Indeed some fresh air. Let's just go home, cool down, and we can talk about this later."

His hands leave my chest, leaving it empty and cold. "Babe, fuck... I'm sorry."

But it's too late. For what little I can see, he turns around and leaves the room. Probably in tears. Fuck, me.

"what are you waiting for?" says Brayden out of nowhere, grabbing my arm and pulling me closer to what I assume is the door. "go fetch him!"

"Fetch? Where?!" says Okayden, the sound of the bulge of his pants smashing side to side in excitement filling the room. I hope it's his tail.

"But-"

"no buts!" says Brayden. "hayden is a good man, but also a prideful man. i've been trying to loan him cash for years to pay his tuition, but he never accepts. he has a dream, and he wants to build it with his own merits. he can be stubborn, but he's the best man i know!"

I stand there, frozen solid, getting scolded by Brayden of all people. And you know what? He's right. Hayden is a stubborn man. But he's also a kind man. The man I fell in love with. And I just spit on his face, and not in a kinky way. I have my head so far up my ass that I failed to care for the only ass I wanna get my head in.

"Okay, I was a dick," I say. "I will apologize. But shouldn't I give him some space first? He seems like he doesn't wanna be around me at the moment."

Brayden grabs my glasses and snatches them out of my face. Ouchies.He also grabs me by the collar and pulls me to his eye level. Mostly pulling down. "bitch, he's a bad boy jock that just had an argument with his significant other. and is going home. in a car. you catch my drift?"

Holy Santa Maria! A jock is gonna drive after a big discussion! He's gonna fucking crash! Damn you, jock cliche!

I don't have time for this. I muster all my strength and run down the hallway, ready to prevent a tragedy in the making. I'm ready to cross the corner to the main hall when I hear Brayden yell behind me.

"just make sure not to get isekai'd you fucking anime protag!"

I wonder what that cryptic and vaguely foreshadowing sentence means? No matter. I have to run. I am fast. My legs are speed. My blood is fuel. I need to catch him, now!

I see him in the middle of the road in front of the school, just about to cross to the parking lot across the entrance.

"Hayden!" I cry, jumping down the steps to the entrance of the school.

Hayden stops in his tracks, turning around to see me. "Ayden?" he says, incredulous.

"I'm sorry!" I yell. I'm three feet away from him now, ready to hug his ass.

But his face is not one of relief, but of horror. He takes a few steps towards me, all seemingly in slow motion.

Hu. Weird. Why is everything in slow motion? Is this what love is?

"Watch out!" I hear him slowly say as he raises his arms towards me. I guess we are both hugging each other. But why watch out?

I fan feel our fingertips touch in the air, followed by what I can only describe as something large, heavy and yellow blindsiding me from the side, and I think Hayden as well.

Our bodies fly through the air at great speed, and also at slow motion, for some reason, I can see what happened.

We were Regina George'd by a school bus.

Followed by complete darkness for the second time that day.