In Fair Verona

Chapter Two

A/N: Ahaha okay, so, first off you guys are the greatest reviewers in the universe. Second, I've had a couple of questions. The first is about creepy futures, and why I like them. Basically, I love Young Adult literature, and I have since I was about three. YA follows trends. A few years back, it was vampires, but now it is dystopias, which suits me just fine. Dystopias, of course, being the opposite of a utopia (that was another question I've been asked). Dystopias can be anything from the Hunger Games to the zombie apocalypse, and mine is…well, this. And last but not least, yes, this does take place in California, but there is no such town as Verona, California. In the first chapter, somewhere, I say they take a town and rename it Verona, and that town is…well, it could be anywhere north of LA, really. I originally imagined this story taking place in Venice Beach, but since I blew up LA it would have to be at least up towards Malibu, if not further. Basically, just imagine any little beach town along the coast of California and mix in some rot and ruin.

Their crashpad is a tiny two story house made of red brick and cement, an industrial wreck squeezed between what used to be two large, shiny office buildings. To get there, Kendall has to walk through a side entrance off the street, down a dark little alley, and through a wrought iron fence surrounded by weeds.

The house has got a balcony that's mostly useless; it looks out on the second floor of the nearest L-shaped building, an abandoned state job that now sits empty, shattered glass and deserted desks. James keeps this potted palm up there. It barely gets any sun, but somehow it still grows, little by little.

James's own tiny miracle.

They've been squatting in the building for close to six months, ever since their last home got repossessed by the city. Kendall walks in like he owns the place, although technically, if Griffin or, god forbid, Hawk came along and kicked them out, they'd have no choice but to go.

But that won't happen. Not now. Not when things are finally starting to look up.

Kendall races up the stairs until he hits the second floor. He can't find anyone in their pigsty of a living room, or the bedroom they all share, so he heads out to the balcony. Outside, the wall is discolored, peeling paint and water stains. The railing is coated in rust that flakes off orange on his hands. Kendall ignores that, climbing up onto the shifty metal, his balance precarious. He sways a bit until he gets a good grip on the edge of the roof. Then he swings his weight up and over.

Crawling out on the brick shingles is dangerous, but it's also the only way to get to the one decent lookout spot around. The six story office buildings hide them from prying eyes, but they also make it hard to see if anyone's trying to sneak a peek. On the roof, at least, the guys can sight the street down the alley. It's the only way in or out.

It's where Kendall knows James will be.

Sure enough, James is reclining on the roof, smoking a cigarette and staring at the early morning clouds. When he sees Kendall, his eyes narrow, and he crosses his arms. "Where have you been?"

"Out," Kendall replies.

"Out where?"

"Where do you think? With Mercedes."

There's this tightness in James's expression, and Kendall gets instantly that he was worried. Of course he was worried. What was Kendall even thinking? "Dude, it's fine. I'm fine. Don't freak."

"Because it's that easy," James snorts. Kendall settles down next to him, careful of broken shingles. He bumps their shoulders together, trying for solidarity. It doesn't really work. James bristles and asks, "Good night?"

"Now why would you think that?" Kendall smirks.

"You're humming. It's obnoxious."

"I don't see what that has to-"

"You only hum when you get laid."

Kendall's flush is immediate. "That's not true."

"Yeah." James puffs his cigarette and frowns out at what they can see of the city, which isn't much at all. "It is."

Well. Kendall tangles their legs together. The sunlight feels nice, like it's warming his insides. "Got a smoke?"

James shifts, digging out a pack from his pocket. Cigarettes are a rare commodity, these days, but he's got all these sources on the border that he refuses to name.

Mostly to piss Kendall off, but it's cool. James always shares.

He lights Kendall up, and then, after Kendall's slow inhaleexhale, he leans in close. Too close. So close that James's breath mists against Kendall's lips, making them feel damp when he presses them together. "You have to be more careful."

"Get out of my face." Kendall flicks his cigarette ash on James's jeans, playing around.

James scoots to the left, like there's a cord tugging him back, away from Kendall, like maybe he's dodging an oncoming blow. Kendall has this sudden urge to reach out and grab at him, to pull him forward, and it's ridiculous. He doesn't know what's wrong with him. He opens his mouth, maybe to apologize, but then James makes the same prissy face he's been making since before Kendall can remember, since they were kids back in Minnesota, playing with light sabers and ready to own the whole wide world. He brushes the ash off his jeans and mutters something rude.

Kendall laughs. "I didn't mean to- I figured you knew. That I was going with her. At the beach…"

James shrugs. "I was occupied."

Kendall thinks of the girl with her kohl eyes and her octopus arms, pulling James into her. Yeah. He was busy.

"Did you have a good night?"

James declines to comment.

After a beat, Kendall starts unbuttoning the shirt he wore to the interview with Griffin, until the edges of it are hanging open against his chest. He basks in the sunlight like an animal, like it can seep into his skin. He yawns, and James's expression softens. "It's early, still. Why don't you go back to sleep?"

It is early, barely past dawn. Mercedes kicked Kendall straight out of bed the second light touched the horizon, warning that her dad was not a man Kendall wanted to tangle with. Kendall isn't interested in meeting anyone's father, so he quickly agreed.

That kind of thing only ends one way, nowadays, and shotgun weddings aren't his thing.

Still. Carlos probably hasn't even left work, and Logan's obviously out picking night-flowering whatever to mix with the ancient Percocet pills at the apothecary, because his life is all about creating new and exciting remedies.

In a small voice, Kendall admits, "I am tired."

"Go take a nap. You've still got a few hours before you have to hightail it to the beach." James's lips curve; he jokes, "I'll make sure you stay safe and sound."

Kendall doesn't laugh, doesn't even crack a grin at that. He knows it's true, of course. James has steel at his core, hidden beneath the pretty and vain playboy. There is no one on this earth that Kendall trusts more. But still. He confesses, "It's too quiet downstairs."

And it is. It's been years since Minnesota, but that doesn't stop him from remembering. He still expects his mom to yell at him for refusing to pick up his room. He still expects Katie to snuggle into his bed and demand a bed time story. Kendall stares at his bare feet, peeking out from the hem of his jeans, tangled with James's.

"Hey." James squeezes tight around his shoulders, pressing Kendall into his side. He's warm, sun baked. He smells like sea salt and the musk of his favorite man spray. He is familiar. Safe. "It's okay. Sleep here."

"You serious?"

"Why not?" James pushes Kendall's head down until it's pillowed against his thigh. "Sleep. I'll wake you up when it's time to go."

Kendall dreams of blue skies, stretching in every which direction, of skeletal branches and the eerie incandescence of snow, reflecting back that blue, violet-blue, violent blue sky.

It is his last memory of home.

The scenery never changes, but sometimes it is punctuated by laughter: Carlos, Logan, and James. Other times, the noise that trembles through the air is screaming, shrill and terrible, a train whistle blare of shrieks that turns the back of his neck to ice and makes his skin stand at attention. Kendall tries to fumble for his gun, but it is Minnesota. He doesn't have one yet.

Kendall wakes up in a cold sweat, a flutter of fabric tickling at his nose, terror a knot in his stomach.

"Wakey, wakey," James sings, half golden from sunlight, half painted in shadows. He dangles something truly hideous in front of Kendall's face, a shirt that is printed in blood orange and royal blue and rose petal red.

"What is this?" Kendall asks sleepily, because he doesn't remember accepting invites to any luaus lately.

"It's a Hawaiian shirt." Well. Obviously. Kendall stares at the very, very bright print skeptically. "It's festive," James adds defensively.

"It's going to make you look like a circus freak," Kendall decides.

James rolls his eyes. "Good thing I got it for you, then."

"What? I am not wearing that."

"Yes, yes you are. You cannot wear the same plaid button down you wear every day to Rocque Records. Besides." James leans in close and sniffs Kendall's shirt, still lying open against his chest. "It smells like vodka and sex."

"I happen to like that smell."

James rolls his eyes again. "Don't be stubborn."

"Don't be an ass," Kendall counters.

There is an ensuing scuffle, and Kendall- of course- is forced into the shirt because he has considerably more respect for life and the way the shingles slip beneath the squirm of their bodies than James, who scrabbles across the rooftop with leonine grace. James's eyes catch the sunlight and throw colors back out, gold and brown and flecks of green, dazzling in a way that makes Kendall have to pause to catch his breath. He finally submits to the assault the only way Kendall can ever willfully submit to anything; with a pounding heart, laughter, and a begrudging smile as wide as the ocean that sparkles in the distance.

"Only for you, dude," he tells James, picking at the garishly loud fabric, and James grins, an easy gesture that says he knows.

The road Kendall takes to the beachfront studios is one of the most well-traveled in Verona, lined with what used to be cheerful tourist attractions like surf shops and shell-filled boutiques, California style and the substance of dreams. Now those stores are broken glass and faded pastel paint, adobe oversaturated with sun and salt, turned the color of dried blood and rust. Some of the buildings still house trade, like the apothecary where Logan whiles away his hours, or the chamber of commerce that hosts a daily flea market of ever changing goods. There's even a church, more a chapel than anything else, with a high-rising steeple and pretentions of religion.

The people on the street are more variegated, though sometimes it's hard to tell beneath the layer of filth. And there are so many of them. Every time Kendall looks, there's a new flood of people at Verona's gates. It doesn't really look like humanity has a population problem, but the Reproduction Initiative has all these fancy pamphlets with numbers and graphs, and Logan always says they look pretty accurate to him. Still, here in the streets there are hundreds; scar-faced crooks and vacant-eyed wastrels, Hawk's sentinels and the ever lost refugees. So many refugees.

It's not like the entire country has been decimated. Food still comes via trade routes to the North, farming towns full of risk takers, unwilling to sacrifice their freedom for the protection a walled city like Verona can afford. But towns outside the realm of civilized society become rarer and rarer with each passing year while Verona and places like it thrive. And today, the city certainly is thriving. There are dancers from the cabarets stumbling back home and a group of professional looking women on their way to the more upscale part of the city. There are pale-faced children tucked behind their mother's skirts like something out of a photography book on the Great Depression and men in bright white suits that walk around like the world is the same place it was twenty years back.

It should be sad, but instead, it's life. Kendall hasn't known another kind of existence in a very long while, and the hustle and bustle of traders and barterers and cheats doesn't actually look anything like sad. People yell, shout, holler, laugh. They live, and Kendall can't find a whole lot of tragedy in that.

He weaves in and out of tables on the sidewalk pushing thick, marbled leather in assorted colors, chocolate and beige and dung, saffron and the black of an oil spill. There are vegetables, some half rotted through, some fresh from the farmlands up north. Animals, rank with death, their intestines spilled across cloth like tea leaves, like a fortune teller's bounty. Scavenged things; bicycles and scooters, books and toys, clothes moth bitten with age and silverware too tarnished to catch the sun and throw it back out into the world. The shells of electronics turned to fidget boxes; a cell phone that can hold herbs or a computer casing perfect for sensitive documents. It's ridiculous, the things the human imagination comes up with.

It's impressive.

By the time Kendall reaches Rocque Records he can already tell by the angle of the sun that he's late. The studios are actually three beach bungalows standing like chickens in a row, decrepit on the outside, but completely refurbished inside. Kendall makes his way up the porch, trepidation brewing in his stomach. He feels ridiculous in the Hawaiian shirt, and his hands have gone all clammy.

"Suck it up," he mumbles, coaxing himself into bravery the same way he's been doing since he was small.

When he walks into Rocque Records, it is with the air of someone who's been there a million times before. A pretty young woman checks his credentials and then introduces herself as Kelly. She's sweet but brisk when she instructs him to, "Follow me. Time to meet the boss."

Now, Kendall isn't sure what he expects of the boss, but it isn't a large man in a Hawaiian shirt that is nearly identical to the one James picked out, yelling at the top of his lungs at some cowering girl. He is sitting in the middle of an array of black switchboards with buttons that look like they probably operate a space ship, but are obviously old. The whole room is well worn, like it might really have been something years ago, but can no longer hide its age.

Kelly has to clear her throat at increasingly louder decibels to catch Gustavo's attention, and by the time she does, Kendall almost wishes she hadn't. Gustavo Rocque is a local legend. He is also red-faced and sweating and glaring at Kendall like he's the one who switched the sun on high.

"What?" he yells, making hand gestures at Kelly that Kendall isn't sure how to interpret. He doesn't like being yelled at.

"This is the kid Griffin sent over. For security?"

Gustavo looks him up and down and up again. Then he demands, "Where's the rest of him?"

Kendall will not hit his new boss.

"He looks like one of the mongrels Hawk keeps by the fences," Rocque continues.

Kendall will not hit his new boss.

Then, dubiously, "Does he even know how to use a gun?"

Kendall will not hit his- oh, fuck it. He doesn't punch Gustavo, but he does seethe sarcasm when he snaps, "I don't know, do I?"

He frees the gun from his holster and twirls it in his hand, trying to give the move some flare so that Rocque will be impressed. Impressed is not anything like what he looks, but there is some relief in Gustavo's voice when he says, "That'll do."

Rocque spins in his chair, and the girl, the one still cowering behind the ancient sound booth's glass, cringes, thinking he's going to start in on her again. He seems to have completely forgotten Kendall, which, not cool. Kendall's maybe pouting a little. That trick always impresses everyone else.

When it becomes clear that Gustavo isn't planning on saying anything more, he clears his throat and asks, "So…uh. What do I do, exactly?"

There is a noise that doesn't exactly sound kind, and Gustavo swivels his chair back around. The girl sags against the wall in relief.

"You sit back and watch me make magic." Gustavo wiggles his fingers and makes this face that is the exact definition of ludicrous. And then he keeps on making it.

Kendall raises his eyebrows. "Are you okay?"

In a low voice, Kelly says, "Don't worry, it's not a seizure. He always does that."

Gustavo growls. It is not very intimidating. He announces, "Here's how things work. Don't get in my way and I won't make Kelly here shoot you."

Kelly's wearing a smart pantsuit with a weapons holster flashing at her side. For emphasis, she extracts her gun and twirls it like Kendall, albeit a little clumsily. Then she dangles it off the edge of her finger and sighs. "Don't make me shoot you. I have no idea how to use this thing."

"I could teach you," Kendall offers. He makes sure to stand well out of the line of the barrel.

"Well aren't you sweet?" Kelly pats his hand.

Gustavo rolls his eyes heavenward. "Don't get attached to my guard dog."

"Don't call him a dog," Kelly retorts. "He's a human being."

"He's a dog." Gustavo emphasizes. "Don't come crying to me when he gets put down."

And that is the end of Kendall's first meeting with Gustavo Rocque. He gets introduced to plenty of other people throughout the day, of course, and gets to run through a whole list of duties that include patrols and taking care of problem clients. Mostly Kendall is a little bewildered and a lot overwhelmed, because he still doesn't get why a stupid record studio needs protection.

The only time his hackles really go up is when one of Griffin's other security workers stops by during lunch to flirt with Kelly. He's wearing an insignia that designates him as a higher up in Hawk's militia, which mostly makes Kendall thinks of nights camped out on the border of Verona, being taunted and jeered at while they waited their turn to go through the trials to enter the city. He remembers the slurs that got thrown his way, making his cheeks heat with shame, and the way one militiaman pissed on some poor kid that was begging admittance, cold and hungry and alone.

Kendall doesn't have the best track record with Hawk's posse. He also has never seen one willing to work with Griffin before. Usually people choose one faction or the other.

Kelly laughs when she introduces them, totally oblivious to how uncomfortable Kendall is. "This is Dak. Dak's gun is bigger than yours. I'd be nice to Dak."

Kendall doesn't think he and Dak will be getting along. Even if he hadn't had a tiny hawk on his collar, Dak's got the kind of self-possessed confidence that's inherent to guys with pretty faces and a lot of power, the same confidence that James has carried around for his entire life. But James is Kendall's best friend, while Dak is some city official with a smarmy smile that doesn't quite meet his eyes, more practiced than genuine.

He doesn't start anything, though. Kendall has been getting by on a smile and a wink for a long time, and despite Gustavo's anger management issues, today is the first day in ages that Kendall has felt something like secure. Logan works without a salary, because training with medicine promises a future the way a pretty girl promises love with a smile. And what James makes is barely enough to feed a small child, much less four full grown almost-men. Carlos rakes in most of the cash, and it still hasn't been enough. But this job?

No more scrounging together coins from the back of that ratty old sofa in their crashpad just to catch a bite to eat. No more salvaging or dumpster diving or god, begging. How embarrassing.

Besides, Dak's gun really is way bigger than his.

Kendall spends his afternoon watching Gustavo work his magic, which is actually more interesting than he thought it would be. The cowering girl in the glass box has an amazing voice on her, and despite all the bellowing, Gustavo manages to wheedle it out and mold it into something better than great, something beautiful. In the middle of his constellation of dinosaur age-electronics and dust, Gustavo really is a wizard.

Kendall only makes it halfway down the main road when he finally stumbles out of work. There, he finds Camille cross legged on the roof of an old El Dorado, face tilted against the sun.

There aren't any working cars in Verona because there isn't any gas left, but the rusted out shells of old hunkers sit in the middle of streets, abandoned. Some of them have been pushed to the side as part of a community effort to make some space, but the one Camille has chosen is smack dab in the middle of the street, hard to miss.

She's got a flare for dramatic entrances.

They're close to the beach, and when Camille sees Kendall she smiles and yells across the thunder of the waves, "How was work?"

A rebel wind picks up her hair, makes it dance a quadrille around her head, and then dies down as quickly as it came. Camille laughs, sniffs the air. "Smells like a good beach day."

Kendall mostly thinks the air smells of smog and brine, but whatever. He's happy for the company. "Don't you have a job to do?"

"It's a big day, and I've got some time to kill." Camille's smile grows. "Figured I'd come out and support you."

"I don't need support," Kendall objects, even though her presence fills him with warmth. Good friends can be really hard to come by, but Camille proves her mettle time and time again. She is the most capricious person Kendall knows, but she is also one of the best people he's ever had the pleasure of meeting.

"Too bad." Camille hops off the car with easy grace, moving like a dancer. "You're getting it anyway, you big dummy."

They walk in step, heels catching the crumbling pavement at exactly the same time. Camille asks Kendall about the studios, and he tells her about Gustavo and Kelly and the cringing singer and Dak.

"I know him. He's a dick," Camille says bluntly, and then she switches topics as quick as the breeze changes, giving Kendall a full run down of the dog fights Hawk's men have been hosting on the outskirts of the city.

The boardwalk is busy, if not crowded. On the way up the steps, they run into a girl wearing a long, dark robe and carrying a stack of pamphlets. A religious nut, obviously. Kendall tries to avert his eyes, but there is no way to get around her. She ends up handing a pamphlet to both of them, and when Camille tries to say no thank you, the girl shakes her head and refuses to take it back.

"The world is disappearing around us, miss. You have to believe in something." She bops her head and continues, "May grace light your way."

Camille rolls her eyes. "We'll get right on that."

Kendall crumples his own pamphlet, shoving it into his pocket instead of throwing it on the street like so many of the other passersby are doing. His mother raised him to be polite.

They pass a few food vendors, and nearby, a guy perched at the edge of a rotten plank of wood, strumming a guitar, twisting the melody through his fingers and shaping it into something that Kendall can feel in his bones. They walk past him like it is common place, and it is.

Kendall doesn't know much about music, but it really is everywhere. Refugees have been flocking to the city since its foundation, and over time they've figured out that talent gives them an edge, a means to get past Hawk's men and score a chance with Gustavo Rocque and Radio Free Griffin. Gustavo is a picky bastard, and most acts don't make it behind glass to be ridiculed and degraded and heard, but that doesn't mean anyone ever gives up the hobby. Verona is filled to the brim with street musicians, violinists with battered strings and freestyle singers, drummers who can coax a sound out of any hollow object and pianists who create instruments from bone.

"You must have had a good night," Camille muses.

"Why do you think that?"

She raises her eyes heavenward, smirks. "You're humming. Are you going to see her again?"

"Mercedes?" Kendall feels this fond smile tug at his lips. "Probably."

They didn't talk about it, but Kendall's got a good feeling.

At the far end of the beach, there is a half-constructed something, a long tarp fluttering over the edges of it.

"Look at that." Camille points to the monstrosity. "Building another monument to themselves. Like it makes any difference on the outside."

"How do you know it doesn't?" Kendall's curiosity is genuine. His knowledge of the world is mostly limited to Minnesota, Verona, and the back roads that spider web between the two. He's never known anything else.

"Please." Camille scoffs, kicking up sand with her boot. "Who's going to see it?"

"Aliens?" Kendall suggests. "I don't know. Maybe the city board just wants to show off their stupid supremacy."

Shadows settle on Camille's features. "I know it seems like they're gods, here, but outside of Verona the stupid city board consists of nobodies. Why do you think they built the walls? The Council has all the real power. That's why people like Griffin and Hawk fight to be on it."

"I don't. Think about it, I mean." Kendall says, and that's mostly true. He tries not to dwell on things he cannot fix or change.

"You should try it. Thinking, I mean," Camille teases. She kicks off her boots and then does it again, changes the subject as easily as if it's a sundress that doesn't fit right.

The two of them walk right into the surf, where the water is clean, blue, and cold. Goosebumps trail up Kendall's pale legs. Camille splashes him in the face, and that simply means war, and they while away a few hours splashing and laughing and sunning themselves like beached seals until their clothes are dry, but stiff with salt.

It's a good day. The best Kendall has had in ages. Summer brands his skin, a red burn across the bridge of his nose and a flush high in his cheeks. He digs his toes into the sand, reveling in it.

Every odd job he's worked since arriving in Verona has been on the other side of the city, wetbacking construction sites or running the fences with Camille as a freelance. He never gets much of an opportunity to just enjoy the sun and the beach all at the same time.

Camille makes an angel in the sand, waving her arms back and forth lethargically until her skin is sticky with garnet, rose quartz, and granules of obsidian. Her hair is tangled from the waves, and her eyes are bright, but feral. She looks the same the first time Kendall met her, wild energy reverberating through her whole body.

Camille turns to him, pretty as a mermaid with the sand and the sky and the salt air shading her smile. She blurts, "I have a new hobby, you know."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Palm reading! It's great. This woman on the other side has been teaching me while she waits for her admit pass." Camille laughs, grabbing for his hand. "Want me to tell your fortune?"

"I'm game."

"Let's see." Camille traces his palm, the places where the lines branch and curve and dissipate. "Your fate line is deep."

"My fate line? You're making that up. Is that a good thing?"

Camille's eyes widen comically, her thick eyelashes a stark contrast against her skin. "That depends on how much you like the idea of some higher force pulling your strings."

The idea makes Kendall grumpy. He scowls. "Not at all."

"Right." Camille nods. "Your heart line is deep too. That's surprising, considering it's you."

"Hey!" Kendall considers. "I don't even know why I'm insulted, what does that mean?"

"It means you'll find your one true love," Camille coos. "Isn't that sweet?"

Kendall snorts.

"Palmistry is serious business, Knight. Listen up. This is your-" She cuts off, staring at Kendall's palm like it's a crystal ball, swimming with the images of monsters.

"My what? Is that my sex line? Because it looks awfully short." He makes a face.

"It's- you know what? I don't remember." Camille laughs, and there is an edge to her voice that Kendall can't translate, but that is nothing new. Camille's always a little bit of a mystery to him. "I'm not very good at this yet."

"I want my money back."

"Jerk." Camille heaves herself back in the sand. "It's a dumb hobby anyway. It's not like anyone can really predict the future."

"I don't know about that." Kendall lies back beside her. "I've got a job, I met a cute girl, and I'm on the beach with one of my best friends. The future's looking up."

And it is. Kendall doesn't know what life was like before the crash, but he knows what it is now. Short and violent. At least today he's finally, finally having fun.

Overhead, the cotton candy sky grows flush with fuchsia as the hour wears on, the edges of clouds bruised with indigo. They buy snacks from a local vendor and stay on the beach until well past nightfall, when even the lone guitarist has packed up and gone home.

The moon is finally on the rise when Camille says, "Let me walk you to your door."

"You don't have to."

"It's a big bad world out there, Knight. I think you need some protecting."

"Well, if you insist." Kendall graciously takes Camille's extended arm, and they saunter off the beach the same way they entered, making cracks at each other and Verona and the world.

There's an execution notice tacked on the front door. It's scheduled for Saturday.

Kendall swallows. Camille growls.

The idea that a person can be killed for doing what they want with their own bodies doesn't sit right with either of them. It's certainly not Kendall's business who loves who or who doesn't want kids, and he can't really see why it's anyone else's either. Love never hurt anyone.

Besides, how does killing people help the population grow?

"It's not about continuing the human race." Camille says quietly, tapping against the flyer. "It's about power. They have it. We don't. And they keep reminding us so we don't get out of line."

When Kendall doesn't answer, Camille prompts, "Are you going to go?"

"No."

He hates executions. He hates the theatrics of them. He hates the way Mayor Bitters waves at the crowds like he's a contestant in a pageant, Griffin and Hawk silent statues at his back, and Kendall hateshateshates the blood thirst in people's eyes. It's not that he's a pacifist, or that he has a problem with violence.

It is that this violence is meaningless. It does not protect or defend or help anyone survive anything. It's just the Reproduction Initiative, asserting its authority over everyone, like Camille says.

The Initiative is a shoot-off of the military war tribunal that began when large chunks of America turned to mulch. No one knows where it's based out of, or even who the shadowy figures that run it are, exactly. But once a month, a member of the Copulation Council swings by Verona with a truckload of posters and a clipboard to check on humanity's progress.

Griffin and Hawk might own the city, might make every single pretense of running it, but they're not on the CC. They are bound by the same rules as every other citizen of Verona – of the country, really- forced to kowtow whenever a Council member deigns to visit. Of course, the mayor is the one with the real weight on his shoulders.

Bitters was placed in office as one of Griffin's pawns, but the power went straight to his head. He is a bumbling caricature of a man, but he is shrewd, and he enforces the Initiative's mandates with an iron fist.

In another world, in a book, someone would rebel. But this is real life, and on the tail end of a long, brutal war, no one has the energy left to stage a coup. People want peace, and they're willing to sacrifice anything to get it.

Kendall's not any different. He isn't planning any revolutions in the future.

He wishes good night to Camille and stomps up into the pad, the execution notice gnawing at the edges of his otherwise good mood. The apartment is dark, but that's not exactly a huge surprise. It's well past eleven, and James and Carlos like late nights, while Logan is all about early mornings.

Kendall's hand is on the knob to the bedroom they all share when a voice from the couch warns, "I wouldn't go in there."

He turns to see Logan, cocooned in blankets, trying to catch some sleep on the lumpy old sofa they liberated from some house on the outskirts of town.

At Kendall's questioning look, Logan says, "James brought home his date. Yipee."

Kendall groans. "And you didn't think I'd like to have some input on this?"

"We thought you were out with Mercedes. James said you two were getting along pretty well." Logan makes a face. "He explained that graphically. In great detail. To make him stop, I told him it was okay if he took the bedroom tonight."

Oh.

The door reverberates, rhythmic, the knob jumping in Kendall's hand like the whole room is shaking and oh. Logan moans and pulls a pillow over his head. "It's been like this all night." He yells, "Some of us would like some peace and quiet already!"

The shaking continues, thud, bump, slam, and there is the sound of guttural laughter that cuts off, turns to a groan. The floorboards creak, a squeak, a scream, and Kendall imagines James rolling onto his back, pulling the girl up and onto him in one smooth motion, her thighs braced tight at his hips.

It's too hot to think about. Kendall winces. He slides down against the door, wood splinters pressing through the stupid Hawaiian shirt and pricking at his skin.

Logan throws him a sympathetic look. "Don't sleep on the floor. I can try to squeeze you in up here?"

"No. It's-" Through the door, James makes this noise that Kendall can feel in his marrow, and he tries not to look guilty when Logan lets off a string of curse words and buries his face further into his pillow. "It's fine."

It's really not fine at all.

The sound of James's voice doesn't turn Kendall on. That would be sick. Wrong.

Just…it's kind of sexy. Two people. Getting it on.

It's like the soundtrack to porn, and Kendall's a guy. He's supposed to like that.

Right?

The trembling and banging stops, if only temporarily, and Logan drifts off into sleep. There, in the still of the night, Kendall allows himself to wonder what James and his lady-friend are doing now that it's quiet; whether James is holding himself still over the girl, dipping in and out of her like a tease, or if she's sucking him off, maybe. Kendall thinks about it, about the faceless date of James's pressing her mouth against his skin, making James hot for it while she tongues around hollows and bones without actually touching his dick. He thinks about the face James would make when she finally, blessedly took him between her lips, and-

Kendall licks the corner of his mouth and imagines he tastes salt skin and cum; he teases it over his tongue only to realize he doesn't actually taste anything at all.

Shit.

He can't take this. Theirs is absolutely no way that Kendall is going to be able to stand a whole night of it. He shakes Logan awake, gentle, murmuring, "I'm going to see Mercedes. Tell James?"

Logan replies with something that sounds distinctly like, "Mmmarghango."

Kendall takes it as an okay.

The streets are empty, like they are every night, like Verona is a ghost town. It makes Kendall think of a few years back, when they were still stuck somewhere between Minnesota and California and convinced they'd never reach any kind of destination. Camille always says she saved the four of them from life on the road, and Kendall never, ever corrects her because he is insanely grateful to have this place, this safehaven of a city. But sometimes, privately, he thinks that life on the road was not that bad. There were days of footraces and freedom, and nights of campfires and ghost stories, eyes growing heavy with exhaustion, but each of them insistent on wakefulness until James deigned to sing a lullaby or three.

His voice was always the last memory Kendall had before he drifted off to sleep.

Kendall knows there is a reason that they came to Verona in the first place, and he remembers the blood and the gore and the absolute terror that punctuated every moment they traveled in the great, wide beyond. And yet sometimes he still thinks they could have been better out there, on their own.

He thinks of James and the girl and he quickens his pace.

Kendall finds his way by the light of the moon, only pausing when he reaches the gates surrounding Mercedes's house. It's massive, so damn huge that an entire village could live inside. He wants to know what she does, what her family does, but it's not like they know each other very well. Definitely not well enough for Kendall to try sneaking into her bedroom in the middle of the night.

He scales the closed wrought iron fence, feeling like a total creep. He has no idea if he was supposed to be a one night stand or something more, but he can fully acknowledge that what he's doing is a little bit insane. He just couldn't stand listening to James, not like that, not anymore. It made his gut clench and twist and somersault in his stomach, made him feel weird in ways he couldn't quite pin down.

Kendall can't quite bring himself to actually climb the trellis to Mercedes' room, but he throws a few pebbles in what he hopes are a romantic manner- and he only misses once- until she comes to her balcony.

A myriad of emotions flit over her face, ranging from annoyance to curiosity to something dark and fleeting, like anger. Her nails, bright red now, dig into the railing, contrasting against the stone like a bloodstain. "What the hell, Knight?"

Kendall doesn't remember telling her his last name. He brushes it off and calls, "Can I come up?"

Mercedes waves frantically, hissing at him to hurry, already.

Kendall does. When he reaches the balcony, Mercedes helps haul him over. She's wearing this thin, gauzy night dress that doesn't actually cover anything up, and she doesn't look even remotely embarrassed about it. "What do you think you're doing?"

Kendall tries for a charming smile, the same one that used to win over his mom and his baby sister back before Minnesota burned. "I missed you?"

It sounds more like a question than he means it to. He flounders, trying to save the night, but before he can stick his foot any further in his mouth, Mercedes laughs. A grin breaks over her face, bright as the sun, and she says, "I don't know why I think your strangeness is cute."

Meekly, Kendall ventures, "Does that mean I don't have to leave?"

"Not tonight." Mercedes hooks a finger in one of his belt loops, pulling him close. Her mouth hovers close to his, just for a beat, and then her lips press together. "But don't get used to it. I dictate the booty calls from now on, alright?"

"Works for me."

Kendall lets Mercedes pull him into her room, and watches her strip bare. She runs her hands down her body, and in the moonlight she glows.

"You have to leave before morning, okay?"

Kendall stares, mouth dry, openly awed. He doesn't think he's ever going to get past the point where he thinks another naked human being is the coolest thing ever. But he manages to stutter out an affirmative, and then he doesn't say anything else for a long, long time.

A/N: I swear, Kendall/James will happen. It will be heating up in chapter four.