The buzzing of his mobile phone registered dimly on his senses.
He reached over to pick it up, knocking over several things in the process.  He read the message before glancing at the time.
[i]Oh, shit...really?[/i]
He had overslept, on the all important first day of the school year.  He scrambled off the couch he had crashed on the night before and haphazardly scraped together his papers that had consumed what was supposed to be his eight hours of beauty sleep.  He sprayed on some deodorant and splashed some water on his face.  No time to shave, so he'd just have to try and rock the rugged look.  No doubt the bags under his eyes would betray the illusion.
He pulled on his coat and ran his hands through his hair, forming it into something approaching neat and tidy.
[i]Way to make a good impression Ray...par for the course, old buddy![/i]

He took a dignified power walk to the common room where all the new students would be congregating.  He felt a pang of anxiety as the noise of milling students got louder.  He didn't know how to deal with kids, nor even if he would be a decent teacher.  How would the kids (or worse, their blue blooded parents) feel about a murderer teaching their children, he often fretted.
Sure, some of the faculty here had fought in the war and had certainly killed many cultists, but war was war.  The cult declared it and the Council answered.  What Ray had done...it just didn't bear repeating, he told himself.
One day it would stick.

He shouldered his way into the crowded common room, the noise of youth pounding his weary ear drums like a sledgehammer.  Thankfully it was broken by the smell of the platter against the far wall.  Above all was the smell of fresh ground coffee.  He made for it like a buzzard on a fresh corpse.  He poured himself a cup and took a long, deep mouthful of it, savoring the heat, the smell and the taste before refilling and hastily grabbing a croissant.
He turned around as he unceremoniously demolished the flaky pastry.  He couldn't help but feel overwhelmed.  He almost preferred the trenches.  At least there everyone was the same size.  There was no class or aristocracy, just the kinship of men and women who knew they could die at any moment. 
Here Ray felt hopelessly alone.  He was poor trash in comparison.  The divide between him and the rich benefactors of the Marchand (and their equally smarmy offspring) was as apparent as if one were to stand on the edge of the grand canyon.  
He guessed that in the end it really didn't matter.  He straightened his posture and put on a stern outward gaze.  

He looked around to try and find some familiar faces in the crowd.  He of course spotted the last two people he was looking for, or at least the ones he was convinced liked him the least.  He had been unable to get a read on either Oren Kovalenko or Maeve Brigid Byrne.  They were both as stern and rigid as ancient pillars, but the way they interacted with one another was like idioglossia.  He knew they fought in the war together and were close, but they were decorated special ops veterans.  Ray had just been another grunt grateful to come out alive with a second chance.  One would think that would at least afford him some warmth from them, but they were as cold to him as they were to just about anyone else.  He generally tried not to think about it.  For all he knew he had just gotten the wrong impression.  As it was, he didn't know anybody terribly well yet; it just felt as though he wouldn't get to know either of them very easily.
He shouldered his way gingerly through the throng of new students, greeting casually those who introduced themselves to him.
He sat down on the chairs that he been set aside for the members of faculty and began to organize his papers.  His curriculum, personal notes and schedules.
He glanced up every now and then for any other members of staff who might arrive.  He didn't know the other staff members terribly well, due to their limited amount of time to interact and even then it was all business.  He'd only managed something not unlike casual conversation with Jamie Lebeau.  He had come across as a genuine and decent guy.     

He managed to briefly meet the gaze of Professor Kovalenko.  He nodded tersely at her and offered up a look as a sort of apology for his tardiness.  He secretly hoped she wouldn't approach, as he was sure a scolding would follow.  He was happy to trade barbs one on one in private, but in this kind of setting he'd just have to sit down and take the lashing.
This setting was entirely alien to him, at least from the perspective of a teacher.  As a child, there had been nothing like this for him, not that he had known of anyway.  He was put in a regular old public school, and had to keep his magic on the down-low.
He took a deep, sighing breath.
[i]Better than having my eternal soul ripped from my body, I guess...[/i]