Many thanks to themanwhowas, Assembler, and frustratedFreeboota for betareading.

Many thanks to MugaSofer for fact checking.

Hearth 5.3

The sun rose over a cloudless sky on the second of May. I rose early, left my lonely barracks—Sophia having moved back into her family's house once things were stabilized—and headed for the mess to grab sausage and eggs for breakfast before slinging my old backpack back over my shoulders and jogging out of the Rig.

The sun had already risen by the time I strode out across the light-bridge towards the city at a little before seven in the morning. Without cars or buses, the walk was almost an hour—and I couldn't afford to use Nenya to speed myself along, because whether in or out of armor, running down the road toward Arcadia High could compromise my identity.

Besides, it would make it harder for my well-hidden tail of PRT troopers to keep up. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to know they were there, but neither Armsmaster nor Deputy Director Renick had been especially secretive, even if they hadn't told me outright that I would be tailed.

It was fair. I was confined to the Rig, except for school, and the transit was long enough for me to make trouble if I wanted.

I wore Nenya anyway, with the Jewelry Box safely secured in my backpack, partly because it would make the walk less of a pain, and partly because it was the best Ring with which to deal with unpleasant surprises. No such surprises came upon me.

Arcadia High was a large, white affair, with tiled stone walls and windows that glinted crystalline in the bright dawn. I took a moment to look it over from outside the brick-and iron gate at the front.

I hadn't been to a high school in any capacity since Bakuda had started her bombing. That had only been two weeks ago.

It feels like a lifetime.

The gates were open, and I considered them for a time. These gates, this simple open doorway, had featured in my dreams for years. The closed bars and blocked path had been a merciless reminder of my mistake, two years ago, in following Emma to Winslow High—I'd had grades which would have at least given me a good chance at acceptance to the private school, and she simply hadn't. I hadn't even considered changing schools, hadn't even broached the subject with Dad; though now, looking back, I was sure I could have swapped if I'd pursued the opportunity. There was a lesson to be learned in that mistake—many lessons, perhaps.

More than anything, it's strange to think that a week ago, that was the worst mistake I'd ever made. I smiled impulsively. How small that year and a half at Winslow seemed now—how remote. My own suffering was transient; it would always fade. But loss was forever, and I'd never again fear pain half so much as I had feared loss on that horrible night last Sunday.

"You going inside?"

I turned. There was Chris, smiling at me, hands in the pockets of his jeans. "Don't think I've seen you around here before," he said, eyes twinkling merrily. "You a new student?"

"Yep," I said, playing along. I didn't know whether anyone was watching, and I didn't care—it might be nice to be Taylor again, if only for a little while. "They figured it was as easy to finish my transfer now as ever. Taylor Hebert."

"Chris Thompson." He took my extended hand and shook it firmly. I was honestly astounded at how well he pulled the act off. If I weren't party to the game, I'd have sworn that he was meeting me for the first time. "You're here early. Long walk?"

"Yeah," I said. "Better to be safe than sorry, you know?"

"Yep, same," he said with a nod and a roll of his eyes. "It's crazy, you know? Boom, and suddenly we don't have cars, phones, computers, anything." He sighed, and the facade dropped for a moment. "I miss technology."

"Yeah," I said, turning away and looking back at the school. "It really makes you think."

He didn't answer. I felt his eyes on me.

After a moment, I shrugged. "Well, standing at the gate won't make school any less real," I said dryly. "Shall we?"

"Things are very uncertain here in Brockton right now, I'm sure you'll all agree." The principal stood at one end of the gym behind a lectern, looking around at our assembled faces. He was a slightly overweight man in his fifties, with thick spectacles perched on his impressive nose. Despite these traits, he wasn't a particularly ugly man, with a strong jaw, well-kept black hair, and broad shoulders.

"Nonetheless," he continued, "Arcadia High is, as always, committed to maintaining a standard of excellence in education."

The impressive part is that he doesn't need a microphone, I thought. He's just projecting, and yet we can hear him all the way to the back of the room.

I sat surrounded by other students in a crush of bodies. It would have been uncomfortable, except that I had Dennis on my left and someone I didn't know on my right. Dean, who I'd only seen a couple of times since Panacea had healed him last Monday, sat a few rows below, beside Chris. My eyes, with Nenya's help, picked out Glory Girl—no, Victoria Dallon—sitting some distance away from them, her eyes darting to the back of Dean's head so often that I wondered why she even bothered looking away. Her eyes, I noticed, were faintly red with recent tears, even if her makeup and grooming were impeccable enough to hide all other signs of stress.

"That means that we're holding you to that standard, and that we expect you to do the same for yourselves. We have been hit with disaster, but the world spins on. It will not wait for us." He paused, looking around the room—almost searchingly. "Some of you may have already noticed that a few new students are joining us. Immaculata High School was struck during the conflict last week, and as such many of its students have been filtered among the other local schools, including Arcadia. In addition, a few other transfers have been facilitated for other reasons. I urge you not to pry—things are unstable right now, and not everyone may be willing to discuss what they've been through. Just welcome your new classmates and show them a proper Arcadia welcome. We may be a bit crowded for the remainder of the school year, but once Immaculata has some of its facilities back in operation it'll be accepting many of its students back and things should stabilize."

He sighed. "I know a lot of you are dealing with things outside of school right now," he said, and though his voice retained volume, somehow it seemed gentler. "I know some of those things may make school seem like a waste of time at best. They seem more important, more pressing. And there are things that take precedence over school. We know that. But that's no excuse for giving up. We've all lost something—property, homes, people. That's important. But dwelling on it, to the exclusion of education, would be a mistake. All that's in the past, and there's time to deal with it. Education, school—those are the future. Students of Arcadia, I urge you not to give up on your futures for the sake of your pasts.

"New students should report to the main office to receive their schedules. Returning students have a short break. Our first period will begin at eight forty-five, and we'll have a short period in that class today before getting back on schedule. Thank you, and welcome back to Arcadia."

As the applause rang through the hall, I leaned over and spoke in Dennis' ear. "He's a few steps up from Blackwell."

"I bet," Dennis laughed. "You'd better get going if you don't want to be at the back of the line."

I reached the lunchroom a little after many of the other students. French had been about as far from it as you could get, and unlike many of my classmates, I'd felt no real need to run.

The moment I entered the cafeteria, I was struck, not for the first time that day, by the difference from Winslow High. Where Winslow's cafeteria had been grimy, worn, dimly-lit, and thick with the unwashed scent of pubescent human bodies, Arcadia's was clean, well-maintained, and brightened by sunlight streaming in from the windows, though it was dimmed by the darkness of the incandescent light fixtures on the ceiling.

Of course, the biggest difference between the two schools was that I had friends at this one. Dennis waved me over the moment I left the lunch line (with a ham and cheese sandwich that actually looked quite tasty, and included more by way of fixings than a single limp leaf of aged lettuce).

I joined him, Dean, and a decently-sized group of others, young men and women alike. Chris sat elsewhere, in part, I figured, to preserve the team's secret identities.

"Hey, Taylor," Dennis said with a grin. "Find your classrooms okay?"

"Yeah, no trouble."

"This is Taylor," he introduced me to the rest of the group. "I met her before school today. She just transferred in. Taylor, these are—"

Charles was a tall, wiry guy with curly blonde hair and a shy, timid sort of gin. His glasses kept slipping off his nose so that he had to push them back up every few seconds. Annabelle was a curvy brunette with an unfortunately bad case of acne, not fully covered by her makeup. Nonetheless, her full lips were more often in a good-natured smile than not. Jackson was a slightly overweight Asian guy—Korean, I thought, although I was far from sure—whose brow seemed furrowed in a permanent frown of concentration, and whose lips seemed forever turned down in focus. Pauline was a slim redhead with bright green eyes which shifted constantly as if in nervousness or tension.

"So, Taylor, where did you transfer in from?" Annabelle asked once introductions were finished.

"Winslow," I replied.

Her eyes widened. "Really?" She suddenly looked shifty. "I don't want to put you on the spot or anything, but we hear stories about Winslow, sometimes. Are they—"

"All true," I confirmed. "I was an idiot, followed a friend there in freshman year. Turned out she wasn't such a good friend after all."

She winced sympathetically. "That sucks. I guess you're glad to be out of there?"

"Very," I replied with a grin. "The grass really was greener on the other side of the fence, what do you know?"

There was some laughter at that.

"So, what classes did you have so far?" Charles asked.

"English first period," I said. "Didn't have enough time to get much there, but I like Mr. Ross. He seems nice." And more than that, he seems good. Nice is easy. Gladly was nice.

"Mr. Ross is great," said Pauline, her face breaking out into a small smile, the nervous twitching of her hands and eyes subsiding slightly. "He's super funny when you get him on one of his favorite books."

"We're reading Brave New World right now. Is that one of his favorites?"

She shook her head. "But you'll read Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead next, and a little of Hamlet, and both of those are. So, you know, small mercies." She made a face. "Brave New World sucks."

At this, Annabelle rolled her eyes. "Oh, come on," she said. "It wasn't that bad."

"Well, no, it's not that bad—it's no 1984—but really—"

"What'd you have next?" Dennis asked, rolling his eyes at the two squabbling girls.

"Math," I said. "Algebra, with Ms. Irons."

"Oh, you're already calling her Ms.?" Jackson asked with a little chuckle—a derisive one, which did nothing to smooth out the lines on his brow. "She'll like that."

She had, as a matter of fact—she insisted on Ms., as opposed to missus or miss. "I am married," she had said, "but I'd prefer as a matter of course that you didn't assume one way or the other, thank you very much."

"How'd you like her?" Charles asked.

"She's good," I said honestly. "Strict and harsh, but that's okay with me, honestly. She knows her stuff, and teaches it well enough."

Charles gave Jackson a sly look. "Told you it was just you."

"One new student isn't exactly a representative survey, Charlie." Jackson looked annoyed.

So did Charles. "Don't call me that, Jackie."

Dean put his head in his hands. "You see what I have to deal with every day?" he asked me, his eyes peering at me through his fingers. "It's like herding cats."

"Hey, don't complain about being the only sane man here. It's good practice for when you go back to Vicky's table," said Annabelle with a giggle. "I swear, Dean, I know she's hot, nice, and all around a cool person, but dating a superhero? That doesn't strike you as, I don't know…"

"A little bit on the insane side?" Jackson finished for her.

"Hey," said Dennis, his brow furrowed. "No making fun of Dean about Vicky right now."

"No, it's fine," Dean said with a faint, wan smile.

"Dennis is right, though," said Pauline, glaring at Jackson. "You just broke up with her a few days ago, and these two chuckleheads ought to know better than to make fun of you now."

Annabelle looked ashamed. "Sorry, Dean."

Jackson echoed her. His expression didn't change much, but by the way he looked down at the table, I saw that no, he really was ashamed of himself, and in a way that overacted expressions like Annabelle's wouldn't help him to convey.

"It really is fine," Dean said. "Vicky's—temperamental. And she's going through a bad time right now. She needed to yell at someone, so she did, and then she felt bad about it, so she broke up with me. I'll talk to her again in a couple days, try to patch things up."

"That sounds silly," said Charles slowly.

"But super accurate," Jackson put in. "Girls are weird."

"Can confirm," said Pauline, "am girl."

"And after math?" Annabelle asked me then.

"French," I said, a smile breaking involuntarily across my face. "With Miss Rush."

French had been a joy. Miss Rush had spoken to the class almost exclusively in French, and the sounds were like little flawed diamonds, imperfectly imitating stars, and all the more beautiful for their determined attempts at perfection. I was a natural, partly because I knew enough about English to work backwards from the Latin roots, and partly because French bore a few resemblances to Sindarin, Quenya, and Valarin, albeit very vague and inconsistent ones. It was mostly sound—none of my languages were Romance, of course, but French seemed to tap into the same musicality that Quenya did, albeit inexactly.

"Guess you liked it," Dean said.

"French is nice—musical, complicated, elegant. And I like languages." I gave him a private grin. "I've got a knack for them, you might say."

Soon after, the final lunch bell was rung by a teacher poking her head into the cafeteria, and it was with a smile that I threw myself back into class.

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