[center][h3]Back in the Athletic Field[/h3][/center]
	Izzy sighed in the darkness of the night, wondering whether she had been earlier than she thought, or if Psychotic Episode was running late. Either way, she took a deep breath as an uncharacteristically chilled summer wind blew through the field, taking in the many smells that rode its invisible waves, searching for any that smelt familiar. Perhaps one of Riley, though she doubted she would sense him in any way unless he wanted her to, even though she was sure he was there, somewhere, cloaked by whatever abilities he possessed.
	She glanced around the field, absentmindedly searching for him as she ran his warning to not leave the school unnecessarily through her head. She sighed darkly. Bound by the sun, and now ordered to remain within the rotting building’s property save for her impending fights.
	If the hunters didn’t kill her, she thought, she may just go raving mad.
	Movement in the corner of her eye made Izzy turn around as Episode appeared in a cloud of mist. So, he could use transformation. To what extent, though, was the true question.
	Izzy returned his glare, her mouth a straight line. She snarled at his words and tone, then snorted. She clasped her hands behind her back and leaned forward slightly. “Says the guy who’s half-bloodsucker,” she said, trying to keep her tone even despite the bite in her gaze, to feign a standoffish air equal to Cerasus’. The desire to annoy him as much as he did her was overwhelming.
	“Nah,” she began with a dismissive wave of her hand as he finished speaking, her voice soaked with sarcasm. “I was thinking we could have a friendly chat over tea and crumpets. There’s this [i]lovely[/i] place between Childs Road and Eisenhower.”
	She glanced warily to the mammoth cross he held, then to the track that circled around them. How she had hated running that thing in school. But now, she could not help but wonder for a quick second how quickly she could run a lap.
	[i]He has half the strengths,[/i] she reminded herself. But passion was one of the strongest motivators. Trying to remember exactly how fast he had moved the night they first encountered, and debating on whether she would regret the suggestion, she stood as straight as she could, her tone dark as she spoke aloud.
	“What do you say to an old-fashioned race? No weapons.” She cast another glance to his cross, then spread her arms to her side, showing her lack of armaments. “No transformations. Just physical prowess. Going outside the track,” after all, she did not exactly have a patch kit for a running track on hand, “the first one to pass the finish line,” she gestured to the white stripe painted on the polyurethane, “say, thirty times, declaring each pass, claims the victory.”