Qwear sat down on the bench after a difficult and insufficient day at stoned jail they called 'school'. Of course, it wasn't really a school. How could an uneventful zombie-box be called a school? Even the crumbling classrooms of which he called 'cells' were bland, cold hellholes. The school of which he went to held special classes, for those special people who weren't able to stay awake. And this is where he lay now. The teacher, Pl. Rein, was droning on about something called schizophrenia.
"Something we all have in this room, bar myself and the cat," he was saying.
Lies. All lies. Why was he even here?

Through the dark streets he stumbled. Here he saw it. Through the misty fog that choked all around him, the clear scent of Sandalwood seeped through his nostrils. Then, silently in the dim lights of dusk, he stepped forward to the figure. It was much like himself. The slim, reflective facets made it glow brilliantly in the mist. Crystal, he thought. An exact copy of what Qwear was.

The Boy of Glass