A/N: Not sure about this chapter, but I thought I might as well go ahead and publish it anyway. Big thank you to readers Grz and GuardianDragon98 for their support and encouraging reviews. Enjoy, folks!
Chapter 3:
Feeble, late-morning sunlight streamed in through the grimy windows to illuminate the cramped kitchen table, highlighting the slight figure bent over a stack of battered textbooks and crumpled papers.
Sunday meant research, hours spent poring over piles of scholarly texts mingled with extended periods of sustained writing, his own addition to academic literature slowly taking shape in his brain to be transcribed under his fingers. Not that anyone in the academic community would ever read or give credence to a dissertation proposing outlandish and seemingly impossible theories, even if it did pass a faculty committee. Still, conviction counted for something, and conviction combined with sound empirical research was a powerful tool. Even if said empirical research wasn't strictly legal.
Henry dug through a stack of papers, unearthing a battered brown notebook and thumbing through its pages until he found what he sought. It contained a detailed sketch, lines of dark charcoal standing out in stark contrast to the light brown page. He studied it intensely for a few seconds, then scratched at his chin, suddenly becoming aware of the prickly stubby under his fingernails. His fingers came away smudged with charcoal, a clear indication that his face was no longer strictly clean.
He stood and stretched, checking his old-fashioned communicator for messages; there was one, a confusing jumble of words, numbers, and symbols; it was obviously scrambled for privacy. Muttering dolefully about 'ridiculous conspiratorial secrecy' and 'inevitable communication misfires', he set about the process of decoding it. When he had finished, he sat back and carefully read through the neat print he had copied into his notebook. He read it through, once, twice, scratching at his stubble contemplatively. After a few moments, he picked up his communicator and sent a brief response back to the sender.
For the rest of the afternoon, the sunlight slanted ever further across the table, lighting up the dust motes dancing in the air and casting strongly marked shadows across the floor. But though the stacks of books remained sentinel, Henry was gone, off on some errand that only he understood or cared about.
The following day's classes were, surprisingly enough, relatively calm and free of anxiety. No bullies accosted him on the sidewalks, none of the undergraduates tried to stuff him in a locker. The weather was warmer too, providing pleasant relief from the bitter cold that had held the city in its grip. Although, as Henry quickly realized, warmer weather wasn't necessarily accompanied by increased brain-power in some of his students. The Jorgenson boy, in particular, seemed intent on giving him premature grey hair. Between constant acting up and the most ludicrous questions possible, any class he attended was always in danger of dissolution into unrivaled mayhem and masculine stupidity.
"Wait; you're seriously telling me I have homework due?" Steffan Jorgenson whined in his irritating nasal tones, the rest of the class filing out. "I have homework, now?"
"No, Steffan," Henry almost sighed. "You've had homework due all semester, I told you about it when term started. So where is it?"
The broad-shouldered boy hemmed and hawed, absently chewing at his thumb-nail. "Oh, that's what you said? Because, I'm pretty sure you said it was due at the end of the year."
"Well, have you been working on it? Please tell me you haven't just disregarded everything I've said in class."
"Not everything," Steffan protested. "I heard the part about you losing your job if any of your students fail; I also heard the part about everybody gets a fair chance at, what was it? Oh yeah: success!" the stocky student finished, grinning broadly.
Henry huffed in frustration. "Both true, but right now you're looking at a very low passing grade," he explained, hoping some of it would get through. "Lowest of the low, actually. Your written assignments are all missing, you haven't turned in any of the longer papers, class presentations are coming up and you still haven't submitted a topic. The point is: get your homework turned in, and maybe, just maybe, you'll actually learn something in the process."
"Learn?" Steffan asked. He had the unbelievable audacity to sound incredulous. Or maybe that was his habitual state of mind. "Who cares, Professor? I've got better things to do."
With which irritating response, he sauntered out of the classroom, thickly tattooed arms crossed over his designer leather jacket, the better to show off his bulging muscles. Henry remained staring after him, shaking his head and casting his hands skyward. He could have sworn he'd heard the cocky pest gabbling something about 'useless lectures' and 'stupid rules' as he walked away. Finally, slinging his heavy backpack over one shoulder, Henry walked slowly out of the building. In his preoccupation, he neglected to watch where he was going, and walked straight into a slight figure waiting just outside the door.
He stumbled, dropping his backpack in a swirl of heavy textbooks and escaping papers. Henry stooped, muttering an apology and grabbing desperately at his things, too embarrassed to look up at the source of his predicament. Too embarrassed, until a familiar voice spoke up just above his head.
"You might want to look where you're going next time."
"A- Astrid," he stuttered, surprised by her appearance. "What are you doing here?"
She offered him a hand up and he took it, standing to look her in the eye. "I wasn't aware that this is private property," she observed ironically, not bothering to answer the question.
"Okay, rephrase," he offered, stung by the implied criticism. "Are you hanging around outside of the first-year communication classroom to look for potential boyfriends? Because I might know one or two who would be just your type."
That was the wrong thing to say. Astrid's eyes narrowed dangerously, hands clenching into fists at her sides. "If and when I start looking for a boyfriend, you certainly won't be the first to know."
"Glad to hear it," he retorted, rising to her bait. "Just don't go around tripping up any candidates."
"That is not why I'm here," she snapped, color rising in her cheeks, "and you can forget it. I'll just leave, since you clearly don't want me around."
Heads were starting to turn in their direction, curious eyes and ears drawn by raised voices. Henry, too tired for a proper argument and eager to avoid public scrutiny, backed down. "All right, you win." He raised his hands in supplication. "Just don't step on me, okay?"
"Not this time," she relented, still growling slightly.
There was an awkward pause; Henry looked down at his feet, unsure what to say next.
"So . . . is this the part where I say I'm sorry?" he asked nervously.
She studied him again; he looked even skinnier in full daylight, and there was a pallor to his skin that made his freckles stand out alarmingly. She hadn't noticed the freckles before. "For what?" she asked, not quite ready to forgive him, though the freckles were beginning to change her mind. Don't think about his freckles, she reminded herself irritably. "For running into me, and then starting an argument on the sidewalk? Or how about for running away the other night without answering my questions?"
He winced. "All of the above?"
"Yeah, all of the above," she replied, punching him in the shoulder.
He winced again, rubbing at the spot. "Okay. I'm . . . sorry."
"All right; we're good," she snipped, lifting his backpack. They set off down the sidewalk, Henry doing his best to keep up with her long strides.
"So . . . what were you doing outside my classroom?" he ventured after a while. "You weren't really looking for a boyfriend, were you?"
She frowned at him. "Are you really so oblivious?"
There was silence in response, and she rolled her eyes. "I was waiting for you."
"For me? That's . . . new." Henry smiled, flattered. The smile was nice, if slightly gap-toothed. "Is this about the other night?"
"Oh, in case you were wondering, yeah. Why didn't you answer my question?"
He took a deep breath. "Because you wouldn't believe me if I did."
She came to a full stop, turning to face him. "Go on, I'm intrigued now."
But he shook his head and kept going. "You shouldn't be. I've said too much already."
"Oh no you don't," she retorted, catching up with him. "If it's such a big secret, why bring it up in the first place? And, if it is a secret, how is it something you know about?"
He stilled, turning his head away. "Aagghh . . . I was afraid you were going to ask that."
"What, you're some secret government agent or something like that?"
His eyes widened, growing impossibly large in his narrow face. "Oh no, nothing like that!"
"Then what?" Astrid could sense his hesitation, so she smiled. That was playing dirty. "Come on," she pleaded gently. "Think of it this way: you owe me one. And besides, I'm a willing audience."
"More than that, you're an intelligent one," he muttered. He hesitated a bit longer before caving in. "Okay, fine. Do you have a ride?"
"Yeah. And nothing to do for the rest of the day."
Astrid's ride turned out to be the sweetest little motorcycle Henry had ever seen, a throwback to the kinds of vehicles people used before the war had made them unsafe and therefore obsolete. With a pang, he realized that the bike was probably illegal; he shot a questioning glance at Astrid, but she ignored him, fastening her helmet nonchalantly and handing him a spare. He settled behind her on the seat, his hands very discreetly placed on her shoulders. It was a new position, and a slightly awkward one.
They drove slowly in silence for several miles, Astrid navigating New Amsterdam's crowded streets with ease. The bike proved a smooth ride, aerodynamic enough that there was little wind resistance to deal with. Hiccup dared to smile, almost hesitant to admit to himself that he enjoyed it. Once they reached the suburbs, Astrid shifted into a cruising gear and straightened her back, though she kept her eyes forward, scanning the garbage-strewn streets for potential obstacles.
"So, back to my question," she ventured, breaking the silence. "What species?"
"I think there's another question you need to ask first," he replied carefully. He had to raise his voice to reply, but if she wanted to make conversation he wasn't going to stop her.
"And what would that be?"
"Where are we going?"
She cocked her head. "Okay, where are we going?"
"North," he replied, indicating the next turning with a pointed finger. "Just follow my lead. It shouldn't take us long to get there."
She nodded, and drove on. Their destination was well outside the city limits, set in a remote and mountainous region long since declared uninhabitable by humans, though squatters inevitably turned up in even the most desolate regions. They saw none, to their mutual relief. True to Henry's word, they came to a halt before a very tall, very intimidating electronic gate that rose abruptly out of the mountainous rock around it. Two guards in grey uniform stepped forward, approaching the vehicle with ominous frowns on their faces.
"Henry, what are we doing here?"