(SHATTERPOINT) A GREG CHAPTER

Despite what everyone thought—or said out loud if they were feeling particularly brave or particularly rude—Greg Veder knew he tended to do too much. No, scratch that. He knew he was too much. Too much for teachers, too much for classmates, and too much for people who were supposed to love him, like his parents.

It wasn’t a habit, or a phase, or some tragic character that could be smoothed out with a spiritual journey to India, a few therapy sessions, or a bestselling self-help book like The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People. It was just how he was wired, like the way breathing was wired into your body, or the way your brain forced you to eat when you were hungry, or, in his case, to shitpost when bored.

That was how ‘being too much’ felt to Greg. It was instinct. And yeah, the world hated him for it, but what was he supposed to do? Be less?

Even now, slouched cross-legged in front of his computer on his beanbag chair, piled up with old textbooks and laundry that technically counted as clean because he’d only worn it once, Greg knew this was probably a mistake. Entertaining the delusions of ‘Skyguy’ on PHO was the kind of thing that could, statistically speaking, end with him in a shallow grave and a segment on the evening news: “Local Teen Missing After Online Meetup.” 

He could already picture his mom, eyes rimmed red, telling reporters he was “a nice, quiet boy who wouldn’t hurt a fly”, a line so far from reality that anyone who’d spent five minutes with him would choke on their coffee.

But there was this compulsive itch in his brain, the same one that had driven him to binge-watch conspiracy videos at three in the morning and post thousand-word rants on why half the Protectorate were secretly Cauldron people. He had to see where this went.

And maybe—maybe—it was about more than curiosity. Maybe it was nostalgia.

Maybe it was because Greg remembered her.

GStringGirl.

Between her bursts of hormone-fueled tangents about how hot Weld was, and rambling stories about her life he’d never actually asked for, she’d slip in oddly specific details about being a monster and how much it sucked. And though Greg wasn’t exactly the brightest bulb in the Winslow High chandelier, it didn’t take him long to figure out she was probably a monster, and unlike others, one who remembered the life she’d had before her transformation.

She’d told him about the family farm she’d grown up on, the exact number of cows they had, and how she used to lie in bed on summer nights listening to crickets. It was small stuff, but it stuck because most monsters didn’t remember who they were, and she did.

Greg had blocked her months ago, partly because he was ninety-nine percent sure ‘she’ wasn’t really a ‘she’ and probably just some middle-aged guy with a questionable interest in teenage boys, and a username designed to attract hormonal idiots like him. And partly because their chats had gone from fun, to mildly depressing, to full-on awkward in record time.

But still… he didn’t think she’d lied about being a monster, since she probably wanted to keep it hidden.

And if Skyguy was telling the truth about not being from this Earth, if he really had memories he shouldn’t, then maybe he could help. Maybe Greg could connect him to her, or connect her to someone like him, or… something.

That was the noble, altruistic reason.

The much bigger, much more Greg reason was that, ridiculous as it sounded, he hoped maybe she’d talk to him again.

Sure, Skyguy was probably a creep, a liar, or one of those forty-something dramatic guys who thought wearing all-black indoors made you mysterious and cool. 

But what if he wasn’t?

Greg tapped the keyboard of his computer, rereading the PHO thread twice before typing his DM. The thrill flowing through him was part self-righteous mission to help a lost soul, and part the sheer chaotic glee of knowing he was about to ignore every ‘Stranger Danger’ lecture he’d ever been given.

Whatever happened next, he was in.