She knew one thing and one thing only:
Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.
xxxxxxx
Nathan woke up from a dream about a boat that held velvet nights and a fear of heights, too many words in his head. That's how it worked sometimes, because writers wake up reciting poems they can't remember and how many different kinds of signs there are in this universe – stop signs, peace signs and regret. Maybe the dream was just a memory of someone else, standing out on a dock and seeing nothing, nothing, like the whole world was encircled in a strand of lights and after that it just ended, not like it was supposed to but like a starless blanket, too close too close.
That nothing backdrop danced in front of his eyes, immortalized within a snatch of memory, a stretch of forcible darkness, sick in its willpower to make him crave the unknown. Emptiness, a veritable fabric of passive malevolence, undeniable, as startling as it was enticing, glorious, endless, vertigo. Furtive beneath eyelids, it had forsaken the wisdom of the world in favor of a richer sense of feast, that twist of the human heart. Everything in the end was surmised by it, and yet it defied summation. It tantalized and tormented. It was the everlasting, and it haunted him.
He stood in the shower and thought that it would not be so bad, the constant flutter of silver-costumed words, if it didn't put his head in a slow daze and make him move like nothing mattered when it was five four three minutes until first period.
Maybe all he was ended on a boat in a nothing ocean, the sea is rough even if it's not there at all, a promise made in darkness.
A knock at the door, and he brought his head up slowly, water around his head and inside too, rain patter and waves, a voice sounded out. "Nathan," sticky with sleep, "If you don't get out, you will drain the nation's lakes and ponds and then all the marine life shall die." Will was outside, and that meant it was time to move.
"I'm serious," the photographer called, "I know because I did it once."
Nathan held his left hand out. It was calloused from playing guitar. Izzy had been teaching him. The shower sounded just like a chord, perfect in its shattering cry.
Some days he was land-sick.
xxxxxxx
Trapped as they were in the effervescence of youth, they saw no sense in hiding that which they coveted so dearly. Perhaps it was a mistake on their part, but their neglect proved to draw less suspicion. To say that you do not see what is before you is to state the undeniable, the unavoidable, the human condition. Perhaps their teenager immodesty was the spawn of more brilliant things than it was of dark ones. It was on their desk, which is how she got her hands on it in the first place. All things could have been avoided otherwise, but life is made of the small mistakes and happenings of fate.
Since the disappearance of her roommate, Kratch had become filled with wanderlust, travelling from hard floor to hard floor idly, unwilling to return to a soft bed where she could still feel the quietness crawling under her skin, impervious to her whimpers [in front of her eyes, a girl covered in blood, a girl short like her hair, singing as they slaughtered her]. She liked that she lived her life carpet to carpet, hardwood to hardwood, one floor to the next like an impermanent tattoo. Thusly she had become sort of a stray, appearing in friend's rooms and curling up on their carpets, innocuous while in the way. Her pokemon followed her gingerly, as if their presence determined her comfort. Perhaps they were aware that she had lost a friend and experienced pain they had never known, and were ashamed of that. They had become muted mirror images of themselves, tranquil in their helpless desire to please.
Kratch was a frequent figure on Orson and Jarel's floor. They made her feel safe, and Orson felt still that he owed her penance. He was not one to forget a debt, and in his mind, the one he had accrued against her was impossible to repay. He treated her like a little sister, precious. Jarel had been harder to coax into friendship, not because he was cruel but because he had a darker way of seeing the world and did not trust what he did not know. But even those who are the tersest of their friends can be lured into security by the benign chatter of a peaceful girl. If nothing else, he was used to her, and becoming used to a situation is the most dangerous thing a person could do.
She was sitting on Orson's bed and hugging Ursula. The Teddiursa had grown accustomed to her new dark-haired sister, and she would mewl in delight each time the pianist showed up, tottering forward and demanding to be snuggled with. Kratch imagined Lux and Skit were not fans of this reciprocated love, but they would make no noise to prove that theory, instead curling up around her and watching her with their wide, understanding eyes. She felt like they were waiting for her to fall apart and order them to fight at the same time, a duality she knew as well as her heartbeat.
She was staring at the model they had made. A small degree bigger than average, it was an otherwise perfect replica of a pokeball. She tilted her head and stared at it. No, it wasn't completely perfect – something in the paint was off. Something in the shade, maybe, and it made her uncomfortable for no reason that she could think of. It was familiar in a way that it shouldn't have been, and yet it resonated with a disparaging note in her heart. She blinked and the feeling of eeriness disappeared.
"Wassat?" she asked, stretching over Ursula and taking it into her hand. It was heavier than she had expected it to be, and she bounced it carefully in her palm.
"A pokeball, Miss," Orson yawned. He was still wearing his Teddiursa pajamas, his hair messy from sleep. He had the first block of the day free, which was a never-ending source of Kratch's jealousy. "Although, darling, I'll admit I'm a little worried if you can't tell that by looking at it."
Kratch loved his smooth voice. He had calmed her down from nightmares with that voice, and had talked her into dating Mika. He had never told her just how selfless that action was, giving her up. He knew it would be the best for her. Mika would never let anything hurt her, although she was scared to death of the little Umbreon that trailed beside the knight. Every time she set eyes on Zulu, everyone could see her face go pale. She never explained it, and she worked hard to get over it, but Mika would gently remove the mass of black fur from her presence. It was that, the fact that Mika put Kratch's sense of security over Zulu's potential happiness that made Orson believe that the knight was a good enough choice.
Jarel was not as easily persuaded, as per usual. It wasn't out of stubbornness or even selfish desires. He had simply never met the boy, and he hated fighting things he couldn't see. It wasn't as if he pushed the issue, but it was obviously a point of contention for him. Every time Kratch would speak of her boyfriend, his lips would thin out and he would make a dangerous noise in the back of his throat, somewhere between a groan and a growl.
Jarel was currently pawing through his backpack, his eyebrows knitted together. He hated it when things were out of place, but it resulted in him having what the upperclassmen called a "freshman backpack." Whenever they saw a specimen of this creature they had named, they would smile a little in a friendly and obnoxious way.
"No," Kratch answered Orson slowly, "It looks like one. But, I mean, why…would you have…?" She peered at it harder as she trailed off. The color bothered her again.
"Science," he replied automatically, like a bullet hole on repeat. A phonograph of phonetics. "We're supposed to be able to understand the complex mechanisms that are encased inside of that there ball and other such things, I would imagine."
She stared at him, watching him pad around the room in a preparatory manner. Something in his manner reminded her of an undusted shelf in the back of her home, a jar of brown ink sitting pretty in the sunlight, sultry and partnered by a curved calligraphy pen, rusting from disuse.
"Are… Are you serious right now?" she breathed. She squeezed Ursula maybe a little too tightly. The Teddiursa chirped plaintively, and Kratch had to relax her ashen hold.
"Why, completely, my dark-haired darling," he purred, handing Jarel a folder. Evidently that had been the magic item hiding from the meticulous boy, as he nodded his thanks and slid it into his bag, shuffling things around to make it fit.
"Orson," she coughed, "You've never lied to be before." She hadn't meant to say it; it had just tumbled from her mouth like a plastic promise, venomous in its pastel purity.
"I'm not, sweetie. You should hurry up, baby girl, if you want to be early." His assurance made her skin crawl.
"Orson," she growled, low, hurt, "I'm in your science class. There was no assignment like that."
There was a long pause filled with a growing sense of being abandoned. Kratch had felt alone before, but she forgot how raw it felt, how much it sat inside of her chest and swelled uncomfortably. Orson and Jarel shared a look, and she just felt lonelier. The fact the boys were so close had never bothered her before. Suddenly an icy jealousy wore her, coating her in crimson frost. She'd never be as close to them as they were to each other. They could lie to her all they wanted.
"I did think you would know I meant Modern Technology. I do think I specified Modern Tech, as a matter of fact. You been sleeping enough?" Orson laughed. It was so fake that it hurt worse than the loneliness. Jarel shouldered the bag and jerked his head to the door. They had to leave soon if they wanted to be on time.
"He did say Modern Tech," the darker boy promised, "I was there. He's right about sleeping more. It's not healthy that you don't sleep in a bed. That's not right." He took her gently by the hand as if she was a sick child, pulling her towards the door. "We'll be late if we don't leave now," he told her calmly, as if this was all just a pleasant misunderstanding.
She stared at the southerner as she was led away, watching to see if there would be some salvation there, willing him to look at her. A glance, just to prove that he was still Orson in some way.
He wouldn't meet her eyes.
xxxxxxx
Some days it was the bad neighborhood that he thought about, the one with the cars parked on the lawn and chain link fences and empty lots filled with dying grass and bad paint, enough of not enough to give everyone a run for their money. Some days he knew the language and why the cheap fast food place had a gate out in front, why sometimes it was better to get out of the car and face the anger, why the trees were cut down to make room for terracotta roofs. Some days he was a number on the bricks, broken headlights, summer heat inside of buildings, tarmac and turnpikes, plastic chairs on balconies, sleeping bodies lined against a wall, an expensive car next to rust, a little glitter with bad grass, no class, flightless, desperate fingers, a bad rap, too much time to waste, clarity, no body's game, landmarks and bullet holes, silicone lips, beauty schools, broken, bad, ugly, you know it because you've been there, hey kid can you come over here, blue skies and neon lights. Sometimes he thinks about it because he grew up there, where flip-flops replaced photo-ops and love was paper or plastic, because sometimes there is no wrong side to the tracks, there's just the tracks and home, it was the same.
He remembered where he came from, before he was scouted, because it was important and you should never forget. He came from plastic spoons and no room, and no, he was never ashamed. He couldn't be, you can't change your stripes even when you change where your paws go. Those things made him stronger, and that was that.
He was sitting in second period and thinking about cities, specifically the city he grew up in. It made everything seem easier, and besides, they were just images in a mind frame.
Tap, tap, tap. His pen bounced against his notebook, history, doodles and his own declaration of independence.
"Sage," voice tired but kind, same voice it had been for four months now, female. He looked up, the pen still staccato on the paper.
"Y-e-s?" he drawled in a high, keening voice, testing it around his mouth. He knew what she was going to say, so he was playing.
"Stop it with the pen please," Izzy, all in a huff, maybe. He thought it was funny. Popular girl, pet peeve. He shouldn't be anything but a distraction. Besides, he knew what they were learning about anyway – it was history, everyone died in the end. Her sunset hair – blondepinkcoral (none of the above, all of the above) – twirled effortlessly around her face, and right then it was being tugged in annoyance. A bad habit, the hair-tug, but Sage thought it was amusing in the same was small children trying to spell were amusing. Izzy didn't actually admit to being in the popular group, which made Sage think she was probably victim to some self-image issues. Who knew anyway.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he purred, tap tap tap. She stared at him, wishing idly that he was still the quiet guy that he'd been at the start of school. She had worked to pull him out of his shell, but that was starting to look like a grievous error.
"And I don't know if you're going to live to see tomorrow," Izzy half-growled. An idle threat, same one she had been making for a while now. Patterns.
"Oh, this pen thing!" he exclaimed, as if he had suddenly discovered the tap tap tap in his ears. "It's not me," he declared, "Else I would stop." He was thinking about low planes and fire trucks and ambulances always filled with children, about cars and no stars and highway bridges and history groups with popular girls and ashes in a smokestack and the same conversation every day for the past forever.
"It's you," she sighed, "I can see you doing it." She had her packet of questions in her violinist fingers, calloused but pretty. She was a nail-biter though. The class around them murmured with the pretense of doing work, but they were teenagers told to talk it out in their groups, none of them were working.
"Why, it is me!" he gasped, startled like it was a recognition he'd never had. "I must be possessed!"
"By what?" she yawned, even though the unscripted part was coming up, the bit where he had artistic license and the others at the table were free to join in as they so saw fit. Sage liked to think that they waited for it, hungry.
"I don't know," he keen-purred in that same plastic tone, "Maybe it's a custard that has developed higher brain functions and is using its questionable texture to take over my motor functions. Let me address the panel. Panel, what do you surmise?" He turned and stared at the others, expectant, game-show-host smiling.
"Well," Will said slowly, twirling the papers and his gum, "I suppose it could be a legion of undead crispy-and-delicious meringues, bent on a drug-free regime of egg-whites. Since today's theme is food, I guess."
"A veritable theory, Will," still Sage the game show host, "Mika?"
"Ketchup. Personally, I always thought it looked a little bit too much like blood. I got tyranny for the first one. Do you think that counts?"
"I said dictatorship, so yeah," Will answered, "But I'm not sure about condiments. I just don't see the harm they could do. What, are they going to squirt awkwardly onto your clothes or something? That's what they invented washing machines for. Ketchup's kryptonite. Number three is taxes, right?"
"I think so," the knight mulled, biting his thumbnail and staring at this writing, "But I'm serious about ketchup." He scribbled down another answer while continuing, "It's too tart. Plus it hides other flavors. Evil, I'm telling you."
"No," Izzy said suddenly, "It's plush throw rugs with their insane amount of comfort. Just when you think you're safe, their soft fibers rise up and entangle you and make you sleepy. Then the drowsiness sets in as it slowly creeps into your throat and takes over your vocal chords and one day it will be everywhere, in every home in tacky colors of green and blue and bright pink, next to ugly artwork in three dimensions, and the rugs just control everything, from the weather to clothing and you can never escape because it knows things, it knows things that you would never expect. Don't think you could tile over it, because you'll hear it calling you in the middle of the night, calling you and demanding that you listen to its plushy ways. Always, always, always. Always."
The others just stared at her and her clenched hands and crazed look.
"Wow," Sage said, now accented in Spanish, "La señora es una locura."
"I think she's probably had some past carpet trauma," Will nodded conspiratorially to Mika, "Possibly in childhood."
"Possible tapestry affliction," Mika sniffed, "Certain curtain connections."
Izzy just stared at her paper and covered her mouth with one hand, her blue eyes wide. She hadn't actually meant to speak at all. "I don't know," she muttered defensively, "They just make me inexplicably sleepy."
"Well, that's weird," Sage said, back to his deep passive normal voice, a roll of fresh ink, "I mean, even a custard kind of makes sense."
"I…I guess… I can see it working," Will tried, mostly because he was nice and Izzy was hot, "Sometimes… I mean, I can imagine sitting on the ground and falling asleep. I used to live in a cave, you know. I feel that a throw rug… might be… tacky? Horribly comfortable? You know, I think I was talking to Grace about this sort of thing and -"
"Shut up," she interrupted darkly, "You're not helping. You're ugly when you're swimming around hopelessly for a quick response."
"Wow, honey, don't hold back," Sage whistled, "Let him have it."
"Well, if you would just stop it with the pen," she hissed, "Maybe I could think."
The tapping stopped. The three boys stared at the girl who had suddenly gone into beast mode.
She sighed and ran her hand through her hair. "Sorry," she breathed, "Sorry, Will. I'm just… I'm tired. Just tired. It's been awhile since I've gotten a good night's sleep. We… we have to work. What did you get for eight?"
Then followed an awkward silence before Mika threw out the answer for the eighth question and then it was slow chatter and history and Sage not helping at all and cities in minds. The same.
xxxxxxx
She had learned a vague hatred of holiday music. In a few days it was Twine, the celebration of Mew Two's creation, for those that believed the second Mew was the brother and other half of the original one. The familiar notes had gone from nostalgic to disturbing in the course of the month. She would growl a little under her breath whenever they started to play.
She was thinking about grey skies and palm trees, warm wind in her hair, landfills and empty houses waiting for demolition, standing outside on the sidewalk with her clothing in her hands, watching her life leave. A suitcase, black and charcoal wheels. No tears and no fear, except it was all inside.
She was shuffling around mahjong tiles in a lazy representation of activity, bored, cloud images connecting. She yawned, because if nothing else, she knew what boredom felt like, her white teeth shining in the yellow light.
Echo was by her, curled up, his orange tail around his body. He twitched his ears in his sleep and she wondered again if he could hear in his dreams. She hoped he could, although hope was one of those things that made her think that the world was unjust. Treatments had taken everything from her, but still the hope in her chest, ugly, painful. It was like hoping for an impossible set of words, it was terrifying, it was beating her winds against a glass jar and suffocating.
She had no past. Sometimes she liked to imagine herself one, because then she might be whole in some way, complete, as if a white picket fence could stich her back together. She liked to think that she had been through a happy childhood, but she knew she couldn't have been. She had chosen to be what she was, she knew that much. No one was ever forced into the House. There would be too many treatments required if a person was set against it. Everyone knew that hypnotism was fake, and besides, everything in life was only made of choices, one after another, dangerous. She knew, mostly, that whatever had made her decide to leave her past behind had been something awful. But in dreams she had the yellow house and normal parents, a large backyard and a normal school. Sometimes maybe that was enough.
No.
She was drinking pineapple soda, which she loved. It didn't actually taste like pineapple, and that was the best part, the half-lie, the promise and the letdown. It was a sweet concoction, and something told her that it was from her past. She didn't know why that sort of thing was one of the only things left, but it was, as much as the wind in her hair and talking to someone she could never really remember, white felt and sticky fingers.
Eilsa had always liked sweet things. They made her feel safe, although they made a part of her brain hurt like it was turning its wheels and nothing was working. A cotton candy cloud.
Maybe that was why she put up with Jacob, although that was probably wrong. She just liked sweet things and even though he was wild and deconstructing slowly, he was sweet. Sometimes right after he had killed someone, he'd talk too much, but that was just adrenaline. He hated it, and she knew it, even if she didn't tell him that. She had some tact at least.
Sparks had killed more people than she did, she figured. He and Feather were kind of a fall-back for the House now. It was funny because she could remember when it was just Echo and her, jobs every day, constant motion. But when Jacob had shown up, he'd taken over most of her work. She didn't mind. She liked having time to herself, and besides, when she wanted to she could stretch her muscles by taking any one of Jacob's missions. The House treated her better than him anyway, like she was the ace up their sleeve. They only sent her out when things were getting serious.
She remembered when he had appeared in her life, the dark circles of a new House member fresh under his eyes, the bandages and healing scars marking his body. He looked excited, bouncy, happy. He followed her with such admiration it had made her sick. He'd felt too much, and it made her jealous, maybe, if she could still feel jealous. By the time the treatments got to him, she'd set boundaries beyond what was really required.
There was a certain hierarchy in the House, almost tangible sometimes. She and Jacob were well above the newborns, but only a few steps above the spies. They had fewer rules than most of the others, because they operated just a bit outside of anything the rules said. But always, always, they were under the girls. Lily especially. Everyone knew she was the master's favorite, because she was special.
Today Eilsa felt like being a tease, a little bit. Sometimes she could see that look in his eye, like he could remember what it was like to be in love with her. Sometimes she was still a girl, and Jacob was, she had to admit, pretty hot, all in all.
She pushed her tiles away into a messy pile with one hand, picking up her soda with the other. She padded to a room where Sparks was sitting at a desk. The sun was shifting through his hair, and he was staring at what she thought were probably the steps to one of his orders. He looked lonely for some reason, although she couldn't say.
"Hey," she smiled, so soft, gentle, "Ever have pineapple soda?" She slid next to him, offering, head to the side, eyes wide and caring.
He sent her a startled look and took the cup from her, sipping it cautiously. She liked the look of surprise on his face – it never tasted the way that you would expect it to. She pulled the straw back to her pink lips.
"Mm," she laughed, "Indirect kiss." But she was standing again, moving, gliding. All lean muscle. He was watching, but he wasn't talking. He'd been quiet the past few months, but it hadn't really concerned her or anything. She peered out the window, staring at the campus woods. Something took flight from the leaves, dark against the midday bright blue.
She looked again to the black-haired boy and realized that she was wrong, it wasn't plans or orders he was staring at, but instead papers that had thick black lines through them. Censor bars. He wasn't watching her anymore, but flipping between pages, biting his lip, a pen in his hand paused on a notebook. She noted idly that he was left-handed, and couldn't think why she hadn't noticed that before.
He glanced up, but it wasn't at her again, it was at the room. He was checking to ensure the door was shut, she could tell. She knew that move because she made it often. One of the House benefits was soundproof walls and no cameras. Evidence was one of those things that the House couldn't risk.
"Who gives us orders?" he asked, strong, old, different than she could remember. Tired, maybe. Knowing. A little dead. A lot.
She shrugged and faced the window again. She just got the orders and followed them, a fist for hire, a death in her fingers. An accident-arranger.
"I thought it was probably the Dean, I don't know. I don't really think about it. But he's whack and all that, so, I mean. Plus, I mean, the House is the school, right? Or something." She sipped the pineapple soda and stood in front of him as he drifted his fingers [blood, he was standing there with blood making fingerprints, crying, coughing, telling her that he'd killed a man out of mercy, telling her torture wasn't covered by treatments, and then she kissed him] over the papers.
He was silent. Today he was old again, even if he had just turned seventeen. Well, maybe seventeen. The thing about losing your past meant that you lost your sense of age as well. Some days Eilsa thought she was younger than they said she was, and some days she was not.
Jacob looked older, which was more than she could say. She knew she looked young, fourteen when they said she was eighteen. His shoulders were broadening, and there was a certain sense in his face of what he would look like when he became an adult. Time touched all things, she guessed, even House members. For a fleeting second, Eilsa wondered if they were old.
"No," his voice like a steel dagger, smooth and cold, "I thought that too at first. Everything in these papers seemed to say that. But the more I looked, the less it made sense. It looks like they were edited to appear that way. It's too clean, like it's only the Dean that's the master, and that's it. It's black and white, no more questions. But," he paused and flipped back a few pages, sliding a few across the table to her, "I've been figuring it out. I think… and I'm pretty sure about it… but it looks like the House is ordering the Dean, and not the other way around."
She trailed her fingers over the black lined paper, one hand still holding her soda. She sipped it and shrugged again. "So?" she drawled. Orders were orders, no matter who they came from. And besides, the House controlled everything, why shouldn't it control the Dean? The House stood on bodies and bags and bad memories. No, no memories at all, blankness where there should be white noise. Ashes, they all rose from ashes. Coughing and taking it into their lungs, orders, and no, she loved this place that she called home. She loved it so much.
"So," Jacob, still quiet-calm and oh so loving [deadly, torturous, blood sinner], so sweet to her because they were friends after these four [if it was four, sometimes it was seven, sometimes it was none] years, "If the House controls the Dean…?"
"…Yes?" She didn't see where he was going.
"Then who controls the House?"
xxxxxxx
She was painting her fingernails silver-blue, her tongue peeking out of her mouth. There was a puzzle beside her, half-assembled. She had braided her hair back neatly, but strands were starting to escape. She shook her hand and smiled at her roommate.
"Calm down, it looks fine," she promised, "Stop trying so hard. Everything looks better when you're not actually trying."
Izzy bit her lip and stared at the painting she was working on. Music, she could do. But her art homework wasn't turning out exactly fantastic. Sometimes it sucked having an artist as a best friend: it was painfully obvious that Izzy didn't exactly have natural talent. She'd sort of procrastinated making it, and now she was worried it wasn't going to be dry in time.
Grace had too much makeup on at the moment. The circles under her eyes still shone through, though. She hadn't slept in the past months. Just as she had appeared from the meeting with Ashley, she'd been told Tarrow was dead. She couldn't contact her sister and her surrogate father was gone. Everyone she loved was always leaving. It had been rough on everyone.
She'd broken a promise, and she knew it. She'd stolen the puzzle in front of her, and that wasn't the only thing. She just needed a little control.
"I just…" Izzy sighed, "I just feel like it's not expressive. I don't… I don't know if I even have anything to express. I'm all…" she gestured like she was holding a ball of twine, "Mixed up."
The brunette looked up and squinted a little at her friend's work. She cough-laughed, the sort of laugh that was unexpected, as if she hadn't meant for it to escape. It was brittle, but it was something. It was a breath in a dead girl. "Do you want a tip?"
Izzy stared at her work. It was a half-finished clown. Even she didn't know what it meant. She swung her face to the other girl and nodded soberly, pouting a little. It just wasn't working.
"Start paintings like you start fires: furthest away from you first," the thief sang happily, running the nail polish over her other hand. Izzy dismissed the fire comment. Grace was just weird. But, the blonde mused, the artist in the room probably knew what she was talking about. She sighed and stared at her white background. Things were about to get hard.
A little while later, Grace stood, dusting off her hands and staring at her finished puzzle. She liked things that kept her mind at bay. "You know," she murmured, "Everything would be so easy if every person put their little pieces together. That's a puzzle for you: it's not done until all the holes are filled."
"Mm," Izzy agreed, but she wasn't really listening, "And that's why you start at the edges and work your way in. So the hole gets smaller."
"So it does," Grace whispered. She was talking about other things, though. Tarrow still burned empty in her mind. It was a pointless death. She was guilty, and she knew it. She wasn't sure how, but something told her that she could have stopped it. No, she couldn't have. She had been told that so many times that it made her sick to think about. "I'm going out to see a friend," she announced, clearing her throat. "Don't worry, I'll take Tabbot and Fina. Be back in an hour. Love you."
"Wait," Izzy called, suddenly inexplicably afraid, "It's practically night. Who are you seeing?" Something made her heart pound waiting for the answer. It felt like terror, and she hated it. Every part of her rejected the idea that…that what? And then she knew: that Grace was going out to see one of the boys. No, though, there was no way Izzy liked Will or Nathan or anyone at all. Least of all Tommi, with his grey hair and laughter and sudden compliments from the blue and tortured past.
"Oh. Charlotte. You don't know her," the brunette replied, pausing in the doorway. She was cast in darkness and light, her two opposing forces flanking her. "She's in my… I think it's World Lit class, but it might be Civics. I can't actually tell those classes apart, so," she grinned impishly, "But she has answers. She always has the answers I need. I do love me some Charlotte." She paused and ducked her head, her hair swinging before her face. "And I might stop by… you know. Avalon needs someone to keep her company. I'll be back as soon as I can," she promised, and then she was gone.
"You know something?" Izzy said to her clown, "I think I hate Grace."
xxxxxxx
You think you could stand darkness because you have been bathed in it all your life, a little smoke creature scuttling through the ashes. But the darkness you covet is nothing besides the darkness inside of eyes and you've never been trapped in a room where there are no windows. You think you could stand it because you don't know the absolute quality of blackness, that it eats at you.
Time, time, slime through your fingers. There is no way to tell time in darkness. It all appears the same. Maybe this blackness belonged to yesterday and maybe it is the same blackness you have been breathing for the past week, who knows, seconds are only a figment of your imagination, love is only a light switch, there is no love there is no light it would be better if you could just sleep. Everything would be so much better, but they never let you, they never let you rest. You don't sleep but you do, you don't know anymore because the blackness all looks the same and the monsters in your dreams share your jail cell.
He had been awake for a while now, but it didn't matter again. Something made the darkness move, but it was his eyes playing tricks on him, vicious. That's what he told himself. He was flexing his fingers when the bark sounded from outside the metal walls. He had been exploring once, to see what infinity they had dropped him in. The memories, like everything else, made him flinch.
He began reciting words but they made no sense. He was just doing it because they kept him company, little green bursts where there was no colors. The bark sounded again, closer. They were coming again, and he didn't mind because after they came, he could go back to sleep, if it was sleep.
The door clanged and he blinked in the light. She always came at night, but there was a less complete blackness outside, if there was an outside, if he wasn't trapped in a dream again. She looked dangerous in the light, her dark silhouette standing in the doorway. He had met her before, but that was because she was so nice and she checked on him so often, if it was often, if there was such a thing as often where there was no such thing as time. She would come and poke and prod him with sharp things and questions, and he never knew which part was harder. Sometimes (but maybe it was rarely and maybe it was always) she would just feed him and leave.
She was holding a bowl. He smiled through his broken teeth, crazy maybe, but slave to food. He was still mumbling. Maybe they were names and maybe they were the last prayers of a broken man.
She was frowning, he thought, but she was always frowning. She hated the way he threw himself on the ground, crawling towards the half-liquid mash. He didn't care. She looked too old to be pretty anyway.
"Look at you," her voice, gravel, "Look at what you've become. You used to be a force to content with. Now all you do is sit and mutter and fall at your food. Did you think we could not break you? Diamond, but I think we have," she laughed, turning and leaving him to the bleak metal endless room, just like she always did, the door clanging shut. Another bark sounded, in the distance, and then all was silent.
Slowly, he sat up, licking his fingers clean. He ate neatly and then set the bowl aside. He eased his back to the floor and started his sit-ups, same as he had done every day in this endless dream.
He was alone, but he spoke. He did it to remember.
"My name is Ike Rend. I opened a door and solved a mystery."
xxxxxxx
She liked to repeat things she had heard on late-night evangelistic television. Something about their depravity made her think that they were hopelessly desirable, the crux of her effervescent perdition, and her enervating salvation. She liked to think that it made her modern and cultural, as if stolen phrases could become her in the way that a necklace might make her look young again. The words were no complement to her thinning hair, ashen in their immorality.
She tied her greying hair back with a satin band and painted black lines under her eyes. She started the meeting of the teacher's union with a frown and a strut, right up to the podium.
"My name, as you know, is Kaylee Norad," she declared in her glass-high voice. She liked to say her name as much as possible, and she liked to hear it more. It was as fame could be captured in the four syllables that made her recognizable. "I think it's high time we did something about…" she trailed off and set her eyes on Spirit Ikusa. Her voice died in her throat and was replaced by another.
"The fact that this school has not gone green," a calm, cool voice finished for her; "It is a shame. It is as if the person writing our lives was colorblind and had a particular hatred of all things green."
It was Justin Montgomery, playing with a yo-yo lazily in the back of the class. He liked that the string and the wheel could turn ad infinitum, and he loved the sound it made as it fell through the air. Justin, his dark eyes almost dangerous, watched the world around him. The Unbearable Lightness of Being and Slaughter-House Five were pressed together under his free arm, both much abused and therefore much loved.
Kaylee stared at him, and with a particular bleakness, she realized that she could fall in love with him at that moment, if she wasn't careful. He was so gentle and cruel at the same time, and he had saved her. She cleared her throat, but it was in such a girlish manner that it sounded weak and sickly. "Yes. We must think foremost of the future. I, Kaylee Norad, stand for helping the environment." She grinned like a wilting flower, all promise and failure.
Spirit returned the grin, but it was deadly. "I do not believe that we were gathered for such reasons, but I suppose that fear turns us all tactful," she stated, but it was so cold that Kaylee's whitened teeth were covered by faltering lips.
"I'm sure," Justin yawned, "That none of us has any idea what you are talking about. I like going green. Do you hate the world or something?" The yo-yo in his hand dipped up and down, up and down.
"She's talking about the fact that Spirit sucks," Cam Blake spat suddenly from the background. "Stop dancing around that."
"Is she allowed to say 'suck'? Isn't that technically a profanity?" Kaylee interjected worriedly, her voice shaking terribly, a rustle of feathers.
"I don't know," Justin drawled, "Since no one interrupted dramatically before she finished the word, I bet it's probably ok."
Ikusa was laughing, but it was at Cam. "Well, thank you," she purred, "For at least being honest."
"You need to learn to be quiet," Mako Wolff growled at Cam, putting one hand on the back of Spirit's chair. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"I thought we were talking about the fact that Spirit sucks," Richard Lenard babbled happily, "That's what Miss Blake said. She likes sunflower seeds. We should listen to her."
"Or the fact that she's a straight-up traitor to us all," Grain said to him agreeably, tilting his head to one side. "Personally, I think we're both a little too old for this kid stuff."
"She's no traitor," Wolff spat, standing to meet the accusation, "No more than the rest of us."
"Except for you," Justin shrugged, "I mean, you actually poisoned a student. I think she's actually less traitorous than you are."
Wolff sat down hard, darkness settling into his eyes. "It was an accident," he muttered, but it was halfhearted.
"I think that the problem lies inside of childish rumors," Spirit stated in her calm voice, "Because no one will directly ask me about the accusations."
"You're right," Richard Lenard said to Grain, his eyes dark, "We're way too old."
"Oldy-pants," Grain agreed, his yellow eyes on the ceiling, "Although you're four years dustier."
"Luckily I think there's actually a vaccination for death now. It's called life," Lenard announced joyfully, "What a funny name for a thing."
"Fine then," Blake growled, her muscles rippling under her coach shirt, "Did you betray us the way it looks like you did?"
"Yes," Justin smiled, "Were you a total witch? I would add the 'b' you know, but then someone would cut in dramatically, and I hate being interrupted. It's really magical actually, watch. You, Spirit Ikusa, are a really wonderful bit-"
"The thing is," Grain said jovially, "Fifty-six only seems old when you're that old. And also when you're not. It's amazing! Perspective is everything!"
"I might be," the accused shrugged, "So it goes. But in regards to my alleged breach of loyalty… It is the most untrue thing I have ever heard. I would never, never be the cause of the death of a student."
"Sure," Cam sneered, "You say that now. Wolff said that too."
"Accident," Wolff growled, and Nikkei Finetivus silenced him with a look. The two teachers were not rivals, but every part of Wolff's body told him to watch out for the beautiful man.
"She was poisoned," Nikkei hissed, speaking in his haunting voice, a frozen lake, ashes. The room fell quiet at it. "Please. I do not engage in this war, but I demand that you all show respect for Mimi's perils. She is not just a pawn in a betrayal but a victim as well. We are teachers first, so our duty is to the students. When referring to the incident, do remember a person other than Wolff was hurt."
The room was silent for a moment before Ikusa, as frigid as ever, spoke. "I don't know how the reports that I was involved in the recent death occurred. I never leaked information of the resistance, nor will I ever. That's final."
The room broke out into the mass of conversations again, but a small, shrill voice was talking just quiet enough to silence the others.
"It was me," Kaylee whispered, pale and shaking, "I am the one that killed Jason. He is dead because of me."
xxxxxxx
The next day found Caen still following her orders from the Sunflower Project. She had volunteered herself at the reception desk in the bottom floor of the Dean's building. She sat in the middle of a gaping, empty, gold-tawny room, separated from the world by a large mahogany desk. Everything felt clean inside. At first, she had half expected the air itself to taste like evil. She thought she'd be listening in on exciting, dramatic phone calls, or overhearing half-finished sentences that would suddenly blow the mystery wide open. Instead, she found herself sitting and tapping her bright red fingernails against the smooth surface, nothing to do but wait for someone to come in. The only benefit she could find was that the desk offered a view of all people who entered the building. Other than that, it might as well have been a very expensive jail cell.
She yawned and leaned her elbows on the top of the desk. It was a touch screen, technically, embedded in the wood in such a perfect manner that there were no visible seams. She had been fascinated with it at first, scared to use it. The first time she had to pick up the phone, she'd found out that it meant all conversations were over speakerphone, and recorded. After that it became easy to disrespect, a pricy excuse for a mechanical demon, a listening device.
She idly picked at her teeth, wondering how Avalon was doing. Jason and Tarrow had become too real to the girl. The circles under her eyes were becoming dangerous. Tommi did everything he could to help, Caen knew that, but sometimes his everything just wasn't enough.
Suddenly the door opened, and Caen sat upright, startled. A tall thin girl with long black hair strode in, wheeling a suitcase behind her, her high heel boots clicking against the floor. She crossed the wide tiles with a bright smile on her face so confident that for some reason Caen was unsettled. The newcomer marched right up to the desk and winked one of her honey eyes. "Hey!" she sang, voice pretty, "I just transferred here. Well. Yeah, I guess it's a transfer. They told me to go to the office? Are you the office?"
Caen scrambled to get things ready. It was the first movement she had seen in a while – she was desperate to accommodate the new girl. She heaved transfer papers out of one of the desk's drawers, scuttling around for a pen. "Well, then, welcome to the Frost School for the Exceptionally Talented. If you'll just get to signing these papers, we can have you on your way to your room shortly. Would you like a tour of the campus?" Caen chirped. She'd gotten good at sounding happy after Jason and Tarrow had died. She playacted joyful every day for the sake of Avalon.
The girl smiled and blushed. She pushed her hair behind her ear, the bracelet on her wrist jingling. She looked somewhere between lean and scrawny, like she had been stretched into her height. "Oh," she said in her sweet voice, "Oh no. I've actually been here. Sorry. I mean, I was here when I was younger. I really liked it, but I had this friend…they said some stuff to me that scared me. She was all into this mystic idea that we were all doomed or something, and I don't know, I listened to her. I spent awhile…well, you know, away. But I'm back now." She blushed harder as if she realized that she had been babbling.
Caen slowed the paper flow. She wondered what could possibly make someone come back to Frost, but then she knew. If you were never aware of the darkness under the soil, then the castle made of mud was still a glorious place to be. The rebel wondered if she should give a warning, but she knew she couldn't. She promised herself that she'd memorize the girl's room number and see to it that she was helped out. It was just a small thing.
"Well," Caen smiled, peering at the screen that separated them, "There are several rooms that are open. Were you thinking about any place in particular?"
"My old room would be just fine, if that's possible. My roommate and I have a ton of catching up to do," she laughed, rubbing her left shoulder.
"Alright then. Your name please?" Caen's fingernails clicked against the touch keyboard. The fighter thought that she had to look like the perfect secretary: peppy, bright, helpful. Maybe she would be promoted, and then she could actually help out her comrades.
"Es muss sein," the girl murmured, so quietly Caen almost didn't hear her, "Einmal ist keinmal, ja?" She paused and shifted her suitcase and smiled like a spring fever.
"My name is Yuki. Yuki Koori."
xxxxxxxx
The glass was too thick. All she saw was her own thin little body.
She wondered where she was, and then she remembered.
xxxxxxxx
At lunch Izzy slipped back to her room, loving the way that Tommi made an excuse to join her. They were sitting on her bed, and her heart was racing.
"I hope Grace doesn't come in," she whispered. "The neighbors will talk."
"What's wrong with Grace?" he asked, tilting his head to the side. "I think she's pretty ok."
Izzy pulled a tight smile. "Nothing," she promised sweetly, "It was a joke." But lately the patient blonde was fed up with the way the world seemed to revolve around the brunette. The girl had been through terrible things, and that meant she had more of a reason to complain and be all dark and mysterious and tortured or whatever. Grace was so windowpane perfect, and Izzy wished people would just shut up about her already. "Why… Why did you come here?" she breathed, changing the subject, redirecting it back to the bed and her smile. She picked up a book and played with it, just to give the illusion of nonchalance.
"What if I told you…what if I told you it was possible to make life?" Tommi said slowly, fiddling with his hands. Izzy smiled rakishly at his question, tossing her hair. She could handle flirting. He didn't need to be so nervous about it.
"I'd say that I'm a little bit young to be pregnant, don't you?" Izzy grinned, shifting herself so part of her leg was touching his. She pretended to be too busy flipping through her book to notice.
"Not like that," he smiled. She looked up. His voice quivered. It was not normal. "What if I told you… that an army was being made? Not…not a normal army. All of them will be barely a day old when they…when they move out or whatever."
Izzy made a face, pulling her head back in disbelief. She could see the Dean being a little off his rocker, yeah, but an evil-army-creating madman? Not exactly likely. But Tommi's eyes burned with something. She knew that something because she'd felt it before. It was desperation. She looked down as the pause between them stretched like leather. Finally she whispered, "Ok. Ok, let's say I believe you. Let's say the Dean is some freaky kid from space and is planning on taking over the world. Tell me exactly how one would go about this," she murmured, feeling the sarcasm on her tongue. She watched it sear into Tommi's honest eyes, but the secret he was holding was evidentially too important.
"It starts," he stated, all tawny-eyed honesty, "With you."
xxxxxxx
Felix and Thompson were arguing again, but it was back to their loving words and not their heated ones. The magician watched his sister fall asleep next to him, her head on the desk, buried in her crossed arms. She was everywhere these days, and he liked to think it was her way of checking up on him.
Thompson had gotten worse, much worse. The disease and the medicine were starting to show on his body. He was scary-skinny, and the blackness under his eyes made him look gaunt and impossible. The once-attractive boy was there somewhere, under the surface, but it was lost when he moved and the sharp edges of his bones shone through his yellow skin.
"That's not what I'm saying," he was informing his roommate, his slim fingers picking apart a tangerine, "I'm saying that brain control is possible, but not through hypnosis."
"Because hypnosis is like the loser of all losers," Spiral mumbled, bleary from her sleepiness.
"Hypnosis," Felix said, sending her a disparaging look, "Has been proven to not work if the person is unwilling."
"No, mate, I agree. Trust me. But mind control has been proven. It's simple brainwashing. I could do it to you in a matter of days, if I really wanted to," he nodded and sucked on a slice of the orange fruit. It was weird to see him eat, although Felix couldn't think why.
"I don't see how anyone could fall for brainwashing. Worse than hypnosis, in my opinion. I mean, they say, 'jump,' and you just say no. It doesn't matter how many times they say 'jump,' just don't do it. Solved," he yawned. His golden eyes were rimmed in red. Even sociopaths can get colds. It made his voice scratchy and his bones hurt, but he wasn't complaining. He wasn't a little girl or anything – he could handle a wittle bitty cold, even if it did suck and make his throat feel swollen and full of razors. It also made him short-tempered, he had to admit. There was just less patience in his mind when every movement was full of his sore body's protests.
"But it's not like that," Thompson grinned. Here was something that he knew. "Brainwashing isn't saying a command enough times to make you follow it. It's the act of making you think of the command on your own. Brainwashing is as easy as anything. If I gave you the same sandwich every day at the same time, one day you'll start craving it around that time. That's conditioning, but it's also brainwashing. The way you know it is successful is when the victim believes that their sandwich craving situation has stemmed from their own wants and needs, and not because you've made them into your puppets. Everyone thinks, oh, I'm too smart or I'd be too scared to fall for all of that. But it's not fear, always. Fear is not the greatest motivator, love is. You love the sandwich I'm shoving down your gullet, even if you don't mean to. The worst thing about humanity is that we get used to things, and then we love them. It could be a tar sandwich and by the end of six months, you'd salivate at the sight of a freshly laid highway. If that's not successful brainwashing, I don't know what is."
"Monologue," Spiral complained, "Blah blah blah," but she was smiling. She said she liked it when Thompson was excited about something. It was such a rare situation these days. Seeing Tarrow so close to his death had done something to Thompson. Something had clicked in the psychologist about his own mortality, and he'd been waxing darkness for a while now. Thompson had always been a little bipolar, but lately his mood-swings were violent and tragic.
"Which is why," Thompson added, talking over Spiral, "Which is why we're all stuck up a creek."
"Do the British have the idiom, 'up a creek without a paddle,' or does it exist with different words?" Felix wondered, stroking his five o'clock shadow. Thompson sent him a look and growled a little in frustration. "I'm saying," the magician drawled, "We're all controlled. Just not through brainwashing." Felix stated, brushing his sister's hair off his arm. He sniffled and started searching for a tissue. His ears felt like someone had poured fluid into them and then shaken him hard.
Thompson looked down and played with his fingers, making the nails match up. He then ran his fingers over his thumb. It was the start of the macular degeneration test, something he had picked up muscle memory of and set to doing idly. He shrugged one skinny shoulder and bit his lip, watching the teacher pace. "What if I told you that was all in the Silent Hour?"
"Silent Hour?" Spiral murmured, "What's the Sil-"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Felix shrugged. He sighted a tissue box, but on closer examination, it proved to be empty. Felix thought he'd never felt so let down in his entire life.
"There exists a moment at Frost where all students and faculty fall asleep. It occurs precisely at the hour when the moon is at its zenith. It does not matter what you are doing at the time, it does not matter where you are. You will fall asleep and awake later without realizing you even closed your eyes. It is as if an entire hour has been erased from your life. At that precise moment, she sings. We don't know what's in her voice that does it, but it puts you to sleep. You've heard her before, giving announcements. Except those are pre-recorded, and when she speaks for real, it does something to your head. The Silent Hour starts with her song, and then the chants. It rewires you. We're not sure how, but you wake up and you forget things: a stab in the stomach, your roommate's past. She tells you to do things, and it's like a spell. You're being programmed in your sleep, like long-term conditioning. But we don't know exactly what she says, because in order to remain awake, you must have earplugs in. But we know it's important."
"That can't be. Is that what Tommi said he told Izzy earlier?" Felix snapped, "This impossibility? Do you think she's going to magically know what to do? Do you think she's going to handle it well? I mean, I'm handling it well, I think, but…"
"No," Thompson replied, his voice soft, "You're not. You never have." Then he whistled, low and jarring, and finished by snapping his fingers. A silence spread through the classroom.
"No," the magician announced suddenly, talking over the student's chatter, "Freud was the most wrong psychologist."
xxxxxxx
Carmen was a teacher's assistant in Creative Writing, although it wasn't technically under the realm of her talent. She liked to read what people wrote, and when she'd taken the class, she'd really liked the teacher. She loved the psychology behind literature, and if someone would let her, she'd wax lyrical on the human mind's representation of itself.
"The thing is, if you want to learn how to lie, you read. It's brilliant. Writers are the best liars of all time," she grinned. She was walking two students back to their dorms, making sure that they were actually getting the project that they said they were, and not just slacking off.
"You know what I don't get?" Tobi said, although it wasn't really related, "I don't get why nerds in movies always live with their moms. They're smarter than we are, you'd think they'd get good jobs. That's probably a lie in some way, the whole duality thing."
Davion nodded nonchalantly, his hands in his sweatshirt pockets. He looked less ridiculous than usual, because Tobi had stepped in and informed the model that he looked like a renegade disco dancer. Carmen liked the two boys a lot, the dark-eyed silent one and the dreamer. Ever since Patches had left her, she'd been so alone. So alone. Sometimes when she thought of it, it felt like a slowly tightening chord around her, like she could fight for forever, and she'd never be free.
"Not necessarily," Carmen laughed, "I've seen movies that have nerds that get super rich."
Tobi clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes to her. "Please tell me you're not talking about '17 Again.' I will die, Carmen."
"No!" she cried defensively. He sent her a look and she blushed. "Alright, yes. But it wasn't that bad! Don't judge me!"
"Next you'll tell me that 'Secret Life of the American Teenager' is your favorite show and you think that all ABC Family moments are perfectly written," he scoffed, tossing his hair.
"Not all of them are so bad. Some are pretty good," she defended herself, grinning. Tobi gripped his chest as if he'd been shot, groaning.
"Oh Miss Carmen. The things you do to me," he gasped, grimacing.
"Personally," Davion said in his melancholy voice, "I don't think all of those things are legal."
Carmen sent the model a startled glance, but Tobi was laughing. Carmen was the assistant coach for the swim team, so she and Davion were on pretty good terms, but the only time he opened up and said things that might be considered inappropriate was around Tobi. The two were best friends and everyone knew it, but the part that Carmen liked the most was that their friendship was mostly unwitting.
Davion opened the door to the dorms and motioned for the girl to go first, always the gentleman. She thanked him and ducked inside, watching as order dissolved when the boys got into a mini battle over who would be the next one inside. Their quick friendly wrestle resulted in her laugher and their tumble to the floor.
"Alright, you guys go and get the project. I'll be there in a second, I'm just going to go get my bio binder really quick. Behave," she chuckled, setting up the stairs at a jog. She heard their banter all the way up to the third level.
By the time she reached her room, she was panting. She brushed the hair from her face, smiling. Those boys always lit up her day in some way. She snatched the binder and put it into her arms, shaking her head.
"Carmen." A voice, smooth, glassy. It was delicious and wonderful, dark and full of mischief, a slow dissolving sweet poison, sugar. She knew who it was, because she'd imagined that voice every day for four years.
She didn't turn. She faced the window and put the binder down on her bed.
"Oh," she whispered. "So you've come?"
"All things," he replied, "End."
She closed her eyes and tilted her head back as if she was bathing in the sun. "And so it goes," she murmured.
"I've come to collect."
"And so you have."
She did not scream, but extended her hands towards the window, gently, a dancer's movement, her palms open and up, one last flight, white and red petals dripping from her skin, falling from her fingertips like snow.
Inside of her, slowly, the chord twisted and she smiled.
X-X
A.N: I know, this is late. :( I am sorry. But it does use every character at least once, I think. Although I bet I left out someone and then I will feel bad. So sorry, potential character owner.
There was action/drama/intrigue, so...? I hope you liked it and I hope you had a good Christmas and I wish you luck in your New Year.
Thank you to those who review. This one is for you, pretty much. It always is. And my secret readers who leave no trace. I love you too, you know :)
Alright then, you know when. Twenty-two is coming soon. Thanks again for your patience. :)
Take care.