***

Judgement is inevitable.

It's part of life, it's human nature. Stereotyping and assuming and generalising, it's normal— it's common. Not always right, but typical enough. Duncan, of all people, knew this well.

A single glance was all it took to gain a perspective. He was juvenile, he was trouble. He cared about no one but himself. He didn't follow the rules. There were no limits for him, Duncan knew no boundaries. One would assume that he had no respect for authority, no respect for a justice system of any sort. And it would go without saying that, of course, he had a black hole for a heart and a non-existent conscience. One would think that he simply was incapable of caring for anyone else, that the ability was so unbelievably out of his league.

But to think this would be presumptuous. For Duncan most certainly did have a conscience. He just chose to ignore it. Not unlike all the other adult figures in Duncan's life, it murmured its discontent without acknowledgement. And following the lead of those adult figures, the sound slowly died away, fading into nothing.

So he had learned, from personal experience, that first impressions were always the most accurate. The first idea that slipped into his mind was always the truest. And not once, not once had he been proved wrong.

And that was just the problem Duncan found with the world. It was so… predictable. Each day droned on the same as the last, patterning a dull life. This simply didn't suit him. So, he decided to stir it up.

That was when trouble started.

It was thrilling, the uncertainty. It was exhilarating, and it reflected Duncan quite well. He could not, would not, refused to become predictable like the rest of the world. He wouldn't follow the trend. He would defy it.

There was this excitement, knowing he was different, that he did things according to his own rules. No one could tell him how to live his life, and that was exactly how he liked it.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The sound of the classroom clock seemed to reverberate in each of the students. They were gripping their bags, squinting at the plastic face of their tormenter. Only five long minutes until school would finally —finally— be let out for the summer. No more crappy cafeteria food, no more locks that were so old and rusted they only opened half of the time. No more demanding teachers, no more lame school dances. Just the summer, and all the freedom that came along with it.

Duncan didn't have any plans. He rarely made any. But the summer, in all its glory, was here. He'd been waiting since the beginning of school for it to end, and now the moment was closer than ever. And though he would just go with whatever the summer would throw at him, a gut feeling told him that he had much to look forward to. If only that damn bell would ring.

"And I can't even begin to stress the importance of summer safety, students," the nasal voice of Duncan's history teacher mumbled on, "I know this is a time to be free and frolic, but responsibility is still vital."

Not a single teen paid attention. Their heads were turned to one another, gossiping and laughing and devising plans for the next two months.

A boyish-looking teen with blond hair leaned forward in his seat to grin at Duncan.

"This is going to be awesome." He said with pure enthusiasm. The young man then proceeded to climb onto his chair and shoot a fist into the air.

"We are going to party!" He bellowed, and the class hollered its appreciation. Duncan mirrored his friend's smile as he clambered down from the chair, wobbling a bit as he did. The teacher frowned, not finding the rowdy interruption the least bit amusing, and returned to the small pile of paperwork on his desk.

The boy leaned nudged the delinquent with an elbow. "Duncan, man, this is gonna be the party of the year."

True, Geoff said this about most parties he attended, but Duncan had to admit— it was going to be one hell of a time.

Duncan was about to reply to his friend when the sound of the bell, the final bell of the year, rang throughout the classroom.

"Yeah!" The blond cheered, leaping from his seat and sprinting out the front door.

"School's out!"


"I really thought she'd come."

Geoff, not the least bit sober, nodded his head with what must've been drunken sympathy. The girl under his arm sighed.

"I'm leaving for Maui in a week. She could have at least come for a little while. What do you think, Geoff?"

"I think," he slurred, about as coherent as he was responsible. "I think, that, uh, that you're the most beautiful girl in the planet. And I don't mean just today, I mean…" the drunk teen squinted at the couch beneath him. "What… time is it? Dude, dude." He gripped Duncan by his forearm. "D'you got a watch on you?"

Duncan smirked at the rather messy sight of his friend. "Sorry."

Geoff's nose wrinkled. "Shit…"

His girlfriend pouted slightly, and looked at him with disappointed. "I hate it when you're drunk."

The careless teen's mouth curled into a sloppy grin. He tilted his head slightly. "Sorry, Bridge. Babe." Geoff then proceeded to lift the drink in his hand to his lips to take a sip, but not before Bridgette pushed it away.

She scowled mildly and grabbed the cup to place it on the table sitting in front of them, refusing to let him continue. Geoff just laughed, "No school!" and slumped against his girlfriend. Bridgette sighed, and turned her warm eyes to Duncan.

"So, do you have any plans for the summer? Going anywhere?" Her innocent eyes portrayed nothing but interest. Bridgette brushed several stray strands of blonde hair away from her eyes and pressed her lips together, waiting for an answer. Her other hand clasped Geoff's, as to make sure he didn't reach for the beer again. Sitting there, she appeared nothing short of motherly. The sight caused Duncan to roll his eyes lightly with a sort of annoyance.

Give the guy a break, will you? School just let out, and he can do what he wants.

Duncan had no idea what his friend saw in the girl. She was too… good. But, then, to each his own. If Geoff wanted to waste his time with her, then that was his choice.

Stretching an arm around the back of the sofa on which they sat, Duncan scanned the bustling scene of partying teens and gave a quick reply. "Nah. Not really."

Her light brows furrowed, and she leaned across the passed-out teen to hear more clearly. "Sorry, what did you say?" Her voice mixed in with the pounding beat of the music that surrounded them, and Duncan strained to hear as well. When had the sound been turned up higher?

"Nothing. I'm not doing anything." He told her once more. This time, Bridgette nodded.

"Yeah, well, I'm doing some volunteer work this summer. Trying to finish my forty hours before school starts, you know? I have the feeling that senior year is going to be pretty busy."

She continued, but Duncan felt himself spacing out of the conversation. School was far from his mind, so low on his list of priorities. College and his absent volunteer hours had been pushed out of his head the moment they had entered. He held no concern about the state of his future. He could handle anything that was thrown his way. That was how he had dealt for a while, and it worked just fine. It fit his profile, anyway.

And as Duncan had been so unfortunate as to learn, sometimes it was easier to go by expectation.


An angry, glowering six-year-old Duncan stood towering on the wooden edge of the school's sandbox. His arms were crossed, and his features held as much threat as a young boy's could.

"That's my shovel."

An awkward boy of the same age hesitantly turned his coppery head from the mound of sand he had been constructing to meet Duncan's eyes. The scrawny boy's lips curved into a trembling little smile.

"…Oh?" He squeaked.

Duncan, feeling superior, nodded his head firmly. "Yeah, so, you have to give it back. It's mine."

At six, mine must have been every child's favorite word.

But the smaller boy was more stubborn than he had assumed, the plastic red shovel still clenched in his clammy palm. "Well, what if I don't want to?" The densely freckled child said with a shaking bottom lip. Go ahead, Duncan thought, cry like a little baby, why don't you? "I was using it first. I'm not giving it to you."

Blue eyes were narrowed.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah!"

Stepping forward, Duncan gritted his teeth, and drew back an arm.

"OUCH!"

And though it had merely been a spur of the moment, a sudden feeling, Duncan couldn't deny the ultimate satisfaction he felt as his small fist collided with the boy's stomach.

Of course, not everyone felt the same way.

"Unbelievable!" The grade one teacher raved as he paced the carpeted classroom floor, the short, greying beard on his chin waggling as he spoke. "Hitting another pupil! Do you understand the consequences, young man?"

The boy scuffed his sneaker against the side of his chair and shrugged uncaringly. "No."

An eyebrow was raised angrily, and Duncan rolled his eyes with an over-the-top sigh. "Yes." He groaned rather sarcastically, his gaze shifting to the window, where the other children still played. "Can I go back outside now?"

His teacher's eyes sparked with obvious disapproval.

"I don't think you understand what's going on here. You injured a boy, do you know what that means? If you were older, the results of your actions would be far worse. Assault is a crime, Duncan. Keep that in mind. That little stunt you pulled outside was unacceptable. And all over a plastic shovel? Ridiculous! If it weren't for your age, I would…"

Rant, rant, rant. That's all adults ever did. Why couldn't they let it go? So he punched Harold— he deserved it. Was that all that bad, what he had done? Did that make him such an awful child?

When he returned home, it wasn't much better.

"Damn it, Duncan!" His father roared, slamming a fist on the dinner table. Duncan focused his eyes on his feet. A teacher was one thing, but his father was something entirely different.

His mother slid her blue eyes to her husband. "Arthur, now, calm down. Duncan didn't know—"

"Oh, he knew alright. Beating up a kid… What were you thinking, son?"

No words came to mind. Duncan's mouth was as dry as the sandbox. He gave a slight shrug.

"You don't know?" The man's voice cracked at the question. He ran a hand shakily through his thinning hair. "Your room. Go. Now."

With nothing but an unhappy nod, the boy turned and marched towards the staircase. His head was cloudy with his father's sharp disapproval. He hadn't meant to let down his father. It had just… happened.

His foot was raised to mount the last step when he heard something from below that made him stop in his tracks.

"Carol? What did we do to deserve such a hopelessly corrupt child?"

The foot hovered.

Hopeless?

Corrupt?

The regret turned to hurt. Duncan's eyes went steely.

"Oh, Arthur—"

He recognized the creak of chairs and knew his parents had turned to see if he had heard.

"Duncan, I didn't mean…"

His heart was pounding. His head throbbed. And then the anger inflamed. He might have been young, but not so young that he didn't know what his father had meant. Not so young that he didn't know what he thought of him.

Well, if he already had been labeled, he might as well start living up to his reputation.

Without a glance at his parents, Duncan flew down the stairs three at a time and sprinted out the front door. He had no idea where he was going, but he ran. Down the driveway and onto the street, his feet slapping the sidewalk like the beat of a heart. He ran like it would erase what he was, who he was. Like it could change everything.

But things like that don't just disappear. Being labeled that day caused a shift in who he would become. Because suddenly, what he was meant to be wasn't a set plan, but a choice. He could be whoever he wanted to; he could be someone who didn't need anyone's approval. Someone who didn't need to satisfy those who had no faith in him. Duncan didn't want to, would not become someone who tried to please those who saw him for merely what he was, not what he could be. Not what a little bit of guidance, a bit of inspiration could do for him. They saw what they thought he was— someone who wouldn't heed advice, wouldn't try to change. They saw a troublemaker, an addict, a thief. They saw something they didn't like, something unlike them, and took it as their duty to brand him. They didn't bother to think twice.

So who could blame him for taking it to heart? Who could blame him for judging the world in the same way? And who, who could dare blame him for being who he wanted to be?

Not once did he look back.


Rain splattered sideways against the ground rhythmically. Duncan was walking against it.

He'd left early. Early enough, since it must have been three in the morning. His feet skidded against the pavement of the road, yellowed by streetlights. The muggy air coated his skin, and he dug his hands deep inside the pockets of his jeans.

His mind still hadn't adjusted to the calm of the night, for in it pounded a heavy beat, racing with the excitement and thrill of his evening. Only whisper of alcohol touched his lips, though, as he had somehow lacked a taste for it. Odd, since Duncan had never before hesitated to reach for a drink, tonight no exception. Yet when the liquid had brushed the back of his throat, a feeling of disgust overcame him. So he set the glass bottle down for a moment, with intentions of returning to it, and sauntered off. But he hadn't come back; in fact, he left the party altogether. And though its reasoning was undeterminable, he had a sudden feeling that it was in his best interest to depart. So, unsure as he was, Duncan obliged. Gut feelings, as he had learned, were to be trusted— contradictory to his desires as they might be.

Though in the tender light of the crescent moon and with the intoxicating pitter-patter of the rain, Duncan ultimately stood by his decision to leave. Because, formidable as it was, the nighttime had always attracted him, with the way the world seemed to stop and listen to every creak and sigh it made. The acuteness brought out something in him, something that made his blood a degree warmer, his skin a bit tighter, his eyes a bit sharper. It was as if something was lurking in the darkness, something foul, something he needed to find, and soon.

It was more than that, though. The unpredictability played a role, no doubt. In the daytime, he could see what was happening, what was going on. He could predict and calculate and understand life as it shifted around him. But when the sun went down, when the shadows thickened, uncertainty set in. It was an excitement, the likes of which Duncan couldn't picture in any other way.

Nocturnal, he might as well have been. It suited him accurately enough.

Although, not everyone saw it as he did. There were still people who opposed him, who stood in his way. God— how angry it made him.

Yet, if you were to ask Duncan, if you sat him down and stared boldly into his eyes to ask why, why he held a strong hate for authority, you might not suspect the given answer.

Of course, he despised those who enforced the rules for stereotypical reasons you would expect. He hated the fact that they could take anything and find a fault, that they could eliminate freedom of choice and set restraints. Sure, that was the truth— but not all of it.

His reasons lay past his disagreement. What struck Duncan as such a pity, such a waste, was the fact that they couldn't see past the boundaries of their blinders. They were too occupied noting how wrong it was to appreciate the night as he did, they couldn't look beyond what they had been limited to. They could take restrictions to heart, enforce them, but not see that they weren't really there, that it was simply a matter of perspective, and what they chose to follow. It was frustration, really, that Duncan felt. How could they not see the wonder in all things dangerous? How could they not even consider the pleasure of such a rush?

Trying to make sense of it was far down on his list of worries, though. In truth, he didn't really care what they did. He had his opinions, but as long as they stayed on their safe, secure and utterly bland side of life, there was no troubling him. By all means, they could waste away and never know the truth about what it meant to live.

Such thoughts were ripe in his mind when he heard the sudden, loud rumble of an engine. His eyes turned up sharply and he heard the screeching of tires, along with a shriek.

The front bumper of the car had missed him by five frighteningly short feet. He had been so close to being hit; it was a miracle he wasn't laying on the cold ground in pain. Yet, despite his obvious luck, Duncan didn't find himself breathing a sigh of relief, nor was he dropping to his knees in gratitude. In fact, he was rather calm; his gaze transfixed on the dark, widened eyes of the driver.

And for a reason he couldn't quite conjure, Duncan found himself unable to look away.


I'm exceptionally excited for this story, I've got to tell you. Having an idea for about eleven months will do that to you! This isn't another high school fic, just so you know. It's a fairly different idea. Basically, it's all set in Duncan's point of view and will focus on the development of their relationship and, something I just adore, their friendship as well. Savvy? I can't give everything away… just check up on this story once in a while to see if you can become hooked ;)