To Befriend an Impasse

(ty for readin', the little star calls your name, thank you :D )

(EDITED)(Note to readers: Some chapters ahead may not be fixed to be in line with the new edits)

A caveat to being an off-record nobody without a valid transcript or an honest bone in my body, it meant I was subject to the unforgiving, utterly grueling onslaught of modern university general education courses. No transfer credits to save me, no strings at Mercy's hands she was willing to pull to help me, and no AP classes to absolve such requirements, it meant I had the full, complete list to cover.

History was one such Hell.

I'd taken the course in fall—tried to, at least—but my grade had fallen through with ease all circumstances considered. It'd sent me face to face with a thoroughly-unimpressed advisor with the dignity of a man who could manage all 118 elements of the periodic table and their isotopes, but no, could not for God's good graces remember the order of the presidents.

Therefore, American history.

Taught by a bloodsucker from the 1890s that spoke fluent French but was also not at all French and in fact, hated the French for unknown, personal reasons. Whoever taught it was not my concern, frankly, but rather where I was when they taught.

I sat down at the back of the lecture hall, the rightmost corner, and set my head down on the tabletop. When I peered around to see the accompanying emptiness, I grinned to myself. Perfect. My sleep schedule might fare well from this.

My head was halfway to slumber before such assumptions were torn apart. Someone clinked the desk beside me and said in a voice muffled by my hood, "This taken?"

"Oy vey," I muttered, still face-down.

"That's not an answer."

"All yours, man." I sighed.

"Good to know your lack of manners isn't exclusive to the setting."

I frowned. I pulled my head up to snap something back at whoever had the unfortunate mind to sit next to me, but I paused at the face that met me.

King stared back, clad in a navy knit sweater and jeans that weren't quite black but weren't quite gray either. It took a moment of staring at him staring at me to realize everyone else in the class seemed to be staring at him staring at me staring at him staring at me. A matrix of staring. You get the image.

I gaped. "Why?" I hissed.

King cocked a brow. "Thanks," he deadpanned. He sat down and laid his book bag on the desk. "I usually fill an elective credit to pair up with a Corvus member, and you're here."

"Good to know my company is craved," I admitted, "but you're already forcing Rosalie to sit through the tribulations of engineering chemistry, Zoe's in my writing class, I've got Wynter in calc, etcetera etcetera, I don't think I need another stalker." I leaned back, placing my hands behind my head. "I've got a good head on these small shoulders."

He was unfazed. "Is that why you failed out last quarter?"

I gasped, sitting up. "Who told?"

"Who fails American history? You're American."

"I'm Canadian."

"What?"

"I figure if I say it enough, it'll one day amount to a real citizenship," I sighed. "But for your information, I failed out of rebellion."

"Of history?"

"Not of—why am I even relaying this to you? You're as boring as the bloodsucker down there. And you're not even Canadian. And your name is weird too, so nobody wins nothin' for no one." I set my head back down on the desk.

A few moments of quiet followed that before King drawled, "You should've majored in the dramatic arts."

"Why don't you grant me some peace and go read George Washington's memoir under the apple tree?"

"That's Newton, there's no memoir, and you've got a serious mouth on you." I lifted my head to see King watching me less with amusement and more with an irritated fascination that landed somewhere between mirth and hatred. "Are you always like this?"

"I could ask the same of you. When was the last time you looked like you enjoyed waking up in the morning? Twelve?" I waved him off.  "It's because humanity majors hate themselves."

"I do not—"

"So, because I'm generous," I pointed at my smiling face for emphasis, "I'll make you a deal. I let you sit next to me in exchange for slipping me the answers until the end of the quarter."

"Were you dropped as a baby?" he said. "Thrown off the starboard side and retrieved by the fucking dolphins?"

"Bold of you to assume I didn't retrieve the dolphins."

"Bolder of me to assume you wouldn't have actually been eaten by the first seahorse that bumbled along."

"That's height discrimination."

"Could still be true."

"Oh? In that case, let me tell you something true about—"

"Excuse me, you two, is there a problem?"

We whipped our heads to the front of the class, down several rows of the lecture hall to where the professor was standing. She glowered down the aisles at us. When she spoke, the faintest point of her fangs peeked out with every 's' she spoke.

More staring. That's what I needed in my short, short life.

King ratified himself with an apologetic hand. "Apologies," he said. "Just a disagreement."

"Mister King, I'd really like to avoid a repeat of last year's western civilization class with you and Mister de la Cruz," she said, pointing her pen between us. "Please keep the conversation to a low."

"And the track talk," a siren muttered, sending a ripple of snickers over the students. King didn't bother hiding all of a sneer at him.

I leaned over to him. "Happy you joined the class now?"

King turned the sneer on me. "A serious mouth."

"That could be taken two ways, you know."

"Keep your eyes on one because it'll take a lot more than a flashy smile to swing me your direction." He rubbed his temples. "I'm seeing why you failed this course."

"Because it's redundant and imperious like you?" I jabbed.

"Because you can't shut up and listen to save your life." Kane opened his backpack to withdraw a binder and a notebook along with a few pens.

"Why are you here if you hate me so much?" I snapped.

"Don't put words in my mouth," he said. "Newcomers share classes, it's just how it is. And I'm trying to help you being here, whether you believe it or not." His sneer had faded, leaving his face twinged with frustration but wholly solemn, as it always was. "So save us both and just pass the class this time around."

"Trust me." I opened my backpack. Nothing but my laptop and a few stray pencils. I sighed a heavy breath and turned to him with an open palm. "Trust me a little less."

He glared, but offered a few pieces of paper and a pen anyway. I poised the pen to the paper.

"And do your homework early," he reminded. "Because we've got practice tonight."

"At one?"

"No, we've got practice." He gestured between us without looking at me. "So bring your junk bike tonight."

Like I'd forgotten. "What're you gonna drag my bike into now?"

"Same thing as what we're dragging you into," he replied, as if it were obvious, as if my questioning was surprising. "Racing."

I blinked. I opened my mouth, closed it, then decided against it altogether. I returned to my blank paper, the sound of the lecture blurring together in my ears.

"By the way," he said, reaching into his bag to withdraw a pair of inch-thick glasses, big as bug eyes, to push up his nose. "You've got a physical today, with Ramos, our nurse. Go before practice."

It was enough to wipe out the shock of his glasses and replace it with utter, cold dread.

"I've got a what?" I exclaimed.

____________________

Jasmin Ramos was a Class II Rothrock Omega and the resident nurse of Corvus with a BSN from University of Pennsylvania and six years of practice under her belt, three of which involved making sure Corvus didn't shred themselves limb from limb too often. She was the daughter of a one neurosurgeon and one trauma surgeon, both of which lived on opposing sides of the country from each other. Her Spanish was poorly shaped, but her six years of French from high school to college was its own beast only revealed due to happy Frenchmen on Yelp reviews. She stood at a considerable five foot seven inches, two of which were credited to the black ringlets crowning her head from skull to spine.

I really didn't need too much on Ramos, but she'd still known Corvus longer than I ever had. Even if she was only their team nurse, it meant flying under her radar would be impossible for a multitude of reasons.

I headed down to the office Zahir had shown me the day before, the door wide open to reveal a woman in a chair. A folder in her hand had her frowning down at it intently. Her curls were piled back in a thick ponytail, her plain blue cardigan a sea around her frame and a stark contrast to the brown eyes that lifted from the papers to me upon entering.

"Oh, my apologies," she said, face melting into a sweet smile that pushed her eyes to slits. "You're Echo, right?"

I hummed. "Yeah."

She rose from her seat and grasped my hand. "Nice to meet you. I'm Jasmin Ramos, I'll be your team nurse for the season. I'm glad to see Corvus opening their doors for more recruits."

"Open doors" was a nice concept. I tugged my mouth into a grin. "Thanks."

Ramos pushed the door closed behind me and grabbed the papers from her desk. I stayed near the threshold, perhaps to watch my heart beat from the other side of the room.

Since I was twelve, the most I'd ever gotten at a doctor or nurse's office was a shot in the arm. Anything else was out of the question. Bloodwork opened all kinds of cans of worms, physicals were capable of serious collateral, and questions were undoubtedly inevitable. The gray area of "runaway" and "employed captive" was extremely thin and really made only for me to walk it a few steps forward or back. Anything beyond the lines, I was asking for damage on all corners.

Ramos gestured to the table beside her. "You can just sit up here. I'm gonna check your vitals and ask a few questions."

My stomach wrung itself. Still, I trudged myself over and sat up.

She checked the basic things: heartbeat, blood pressure, reflexes, hearing, seeing, basic functionality. When she was done with all the equipment and recording, she set her things down and gave me a grin that I thought was a dismissal. My heart dared to ease.

"All right," she said. "You can take your shirt off and we'll be finished up."

I froze. "What? Why?"

Ramos held her hands up. "I just need to check for stiffening, any sensitive areas or poorly-healed injuries, track marks, the works."

I stared. "I don't do drugs," I said. "Er, I stretch."

She laughed at that. "Even better. But it's protocol, I can't take anyone's word for it unless I see. And checking with a hoodie is a no-go." She gestured for me to change. "I promise I'll be fast."

I stared, unblinking. The locker rooms were one matter, where everything was fast and the only person who could even glance my way longer than a few seconds was King, who was on the other end of the rows and likely wanted nothing less than to see me anyway. Having someone up close and poking around with nothing but glaring fluorescent light to hide in, was a completely different—and out of question—situation.

I said, "No."

Ramos turned her eyes to me. She didn't look offended, but just shocked, then a bit guilty when she folded her hands to her chest and lowered her voice. "I'm sorry, Echo, it's just for precaution."

"I've had my check-ups, doc," I said.

She stared. Then she said, "I promise not to ask." At my silence, she continued with, "About anything I see or you don't want me to see. I won't say a word. I maintain full confidentiality with each of you, nothing gets to anyone but us. Promise."

Her sentiment was kind, but misplaced. Promises hadn't been of any value to me since I was six, and they sure as hell weren't about to become so from a nurse I'd only known for a handful of minutes. Still, refusing further would only ramp up her suspicions, and having her try calling me back in would only raise everyone's skepticism along with hers. I was already treading water with my barren files.

"I'd rather not," I pressed.

Ramos hesitated. She said, "I need to check, Echo. I won't say a word, I promise. But I can't clear you to race without this."

The sudden placement of racing on the chopping block felt like a jagged cut to my stomach, out of sight and aimed low. I clenched my fists. I hoped she saw the contempt in my eyes, but if she did, she didn't care enough to back off, and it really only made me feel worse.

I sighed at the defeat. I pulled my hoodie off.

Half of the issues stemmed from my father, but the others were really my own fault. The Bengals were an organized syndicate-for-hire of all kinds of crimes, ranging from organ harvesting to basic robberies.Pair that with my bevy of street racing work, and something had to take the brunt of things.

Cuts were scattered over my shoulders from blades that got too close and nails dug too deep. A jagged gash that had never healed properly cut my chest open from beneath my heart to my sternum. A burn marred my side, a starburst of a reddened patch from scraping concrete. Puckered scars at my ribs were on-target bullet kisses. At the very base of my neck, just hidden beneath a good crewneck, was the distinct imprint of rope that had dug too deep to ever fully leave.

I held my hand over my hip and prayed she'd be too interested in everything else to notice.

Ramos's face went perfectly still, the color draining within seconds. She stared a long, long while at me, her expression changing from shock to horror to interest to guilt to horror again and again. I waited it out, the cold air like white fire on my skin. The seconds were endless.

I cleared my throat and showed her my arms. "No track marks." I kicked my legs. "And no stiffening. Is that all?"

Ramos said, "Echo." She opened her mouth, then closed it, then reached out to touch my hand. "Are you all right?"

"Is that all?"

"Echo—"

"Look, I've got somewhere to be, practice starts in ten," I said, harsher than I intended. Ramos bit her lip. I sighed. "So, is that all?"

She looked like she wanted nothing more than than to say something, to ask, to reach out for me. But I was up and moving before she got the chance to decide, backpack over my shoulder. I couldn't stay in here for any longer than I already had. My stomach, my psyche, wouldn't be able to handle it.

"That's all," she murmured behind me.

"Then, thanks," was all I said.

I let the door slam behind me, and I zipped down the hall and to the stairs, a trail of history dripping like blood in my wake.

____________________

Dinner was to be home-cooked, for health purposes, or some other bullshit excuse Corvus mustered up.

I shoved the laptop beneath my Dynamics of Biology 33rd Edition textbook before rising from the desk, which was undoubtedly on the smaller side but infinitely more comfortable than any workspace I'd ever owned prior. Corvus had trudged back to the Talon post-practice, giving me a few hours of a break before I was due for the dreaded night practice with King. Everyone had relegated themselves to the kitchen for dinner, but King and I had readily taken leave for homework purposes.

"Rule says..." Rosalie reminded.

"GPA calls," I argued, and shut the door.

From the satin silence I'd sat through for the past hour however, I assumed everyone had finished their meals and retreated to their own units for sleep. The clock ticked towards the ungodly phase of night-painted morning, and my stomach must've known it if its incessant growling meant anything.

I headed outside past the living room and to the kitchen. Upper level meant it was warmer than my apartment had ever been, even in the summer months, so I had foregone sweats for basketball shorts and a sweatshirt for a PLUTO IS A MOTHERLOVIN' PLANET T-shirt I had stolen from the Lost and Found. I rubbed at my eyes, trying to push the layers of microscopic atomic structures from my vision. To no avail.

I made it all the way to the first cabinet before someone was interrupting me.

"You look like a corpse," someone said from my left. "Go to bed."

A thousand better nights. Several alternate universes consisting of only better nights. All of which did not include the person on my left. You'd think the eight-digit guillotine above my head would be sufficient torture from God, but you'd be damn wrong.

I sighed and tipped my head back. "Your cruelty is unmatched," I snapped. I turned my head.

Kane King stood in front of the unlit stove, two packs of instant ramyun beside a pot of water. He seemed not to mind the mild warmth of the apartment considering his blue LIBRARY OF CONGRESS sweatshirt and flannel shorts, and the extra spice labeled in red letters across his ramyun.

He didn't look at me, but did gesture vaguely between the ramyun and I. "If you're looking for dinner, they ate it all. Leftovers are rare in these units."

I cocked my head. "I wasn't," I lied, "but good to know." I pushed my hands into my pockets and traipsed over to the other side of the counter. "Is that your dinner?"

"Of champions," he muttered. He tapped a silver ring against one of the packs. "Want some?"

I did a double take. "Really?"

"Say anything that isn't 'yes' or 'no' and I'll take it back," he snapped.

I held up my hands. "Yes." He turned the stove on. "Thank you," I said, with surprising ease.

King didn't answer to that. He pointed towards the fridge. "There's two eggs in the drawer. Grab them."

I snorted. "Good to know your lack of manners isn't exclusive to the setting," I mocked.

He turned to me and narrowed his eyes. "You want dinner or not?"

I headed for the fridge. "Your generosity is a gift that keeps giving, let me tell you." I opened the door and pulled out two eggs. I placed them in his waiting hand.

King set the eggs beside the noodles and leaned against the countertop, crossing his arms. We waited for the water to boil like watching the night sky turn with the hour. Arduously. Patiently, out of necessity.

King pushed himself from the counter, breaking first, heading to grab a mug from the upper cabinets. "Where have you raced before?" he asked.

I paused. "What?"

"Square racing," he said. The water gurgled and bubbled as it heated. "You said you did it in gym and little leagues. Where else?"

It was all kinds of unnerving that he'd recalled such a detail. But I swallowed those questions down and settled for, "Why?"

"Just a question," he said, raising a brow. He set two mugs down, then grabbed two bowls. "Figured you must have raced somewhat professionally off the streets to know front port."

I stiffened. I narrowed my eyes at him. "I never said I raced the streets."

King's mug paused halfway to the water dispenser. He pursed his lips. "No," he agreed. "You want ice?"

"No," I said. "Why did you say that?"

He shrugged. "It was an assumption. It's not malicious."

"Have you raced elsewhere?" I asked. "Other than professional teams."

King faced me. It was a haphazard arena, a makeshift ring, him at one side of the ropes, I on the other. Neither of us removed our gazes, content to play tug-of-war in still silence. The water broiled, coughed and hacked.

King said, "I started racing when I came to America." When he cranked his neck to the side to consider that confession, black threads crawled up the side of his throat in a flicker. "Around middle school."

"To America from where?" I asked obliviously.

"Korea. I was born there before I came here."

"Korea? Where?"

"Gangnam."

Unsurprising, but still a close call nonetheless. "How'd you assume?"

King drummed his fingers on the counter. "Don't know," he said, but it was a lie from a mile away. "Just the way you race. The ideas you have."

"Perhaps I'm unconventional."

"That's one word."

"Your word?"

"Unreadable, maybe."

"On the track or in general?"

"Give me another week."

Breath. Brake. The turn was as sharp as a razor.

"I heard there's been some issues with your file," King said. He brushed past me to attend to the boiling water. The sound of plastic packages ripping wasn't a match for the pick-up in my heartbeat. "Something or other about logistics."

"Logistics," I repeated, albeit unsteadily. "How so?"

He slid the noodles into the water. "No record of anything before Avaldi," he said plainly, and my world lurched left. "Why is that?"

"Why is what?"

"Was I beat in the head when I was a kid?" King snapped. He stirred the noodles around the pot with a pair of chopsticks. "Is there a part of my brain missing I forgot about?"

I gritted my teeth. "I'm not trying to be funny."

"Even if you were, you aren't," he drawled. "Why does your record have it as though you appeared yesterday?" King glanced at me. "Do you even have an answer you're willing to give me?"

The question was more than downright rude, but relatively invasive alongside it. Still, it wasn't anything unexpected. It might be a miracle I lasted a week. A blank file drew more than raised eyebrows. It could raise pitchforks if it wanted to.

I steeled my face. "Not a good one," I admitted. "Definitely not one any of you would like."

King set the pan on the stove, and tore open the sauce packets. "Try me."

I blinked. I didn't know if I dared. I rolled the mouthful of truths around on my tongue several times before I thought of a method to cough it up. What made me do even that, I didn't know. Maybe King's cold delivery was apathetic enough to feel comfortable, especially after Ramos's glossy-eyed incident from the physical. Besides, there would be no escaping King anytime soon, especially not with the newly-coined midnight practices that had come to light. If there was anyone I wouldn't be getting away from this season, it'd be him.

"Call it wanting a blank slate," I settled on.

King stirred the noodles in constant, thoughtful circles. His face didn't shift, but his eyes hardened. I held my breath.

Eventually, King took the noodles from the pan and distributed them evenly into the given bowls. He grabbed the second mug to fill with water, before pushing it across the granite until it landed in front of me. His black eyes were liquidized, swimming with light and opaque scrutiny.

"How's that?" I asked him.

King set a pair of chopsticks in front of me, took up his own, and shrugged.

"Honest," he deduced.

It might've been the killing blow.

We stood quietly, eating our ramyun apart. The conversation lingered like the steam from the water, the spicy aroma from the sauce packets, thick but fading quickly. I relayed the back-and-forth like rewatching ping-pong and attempting to follow the blurring white ball, before losing it all over again at the same spot over and over.

The way you race.

King said, "Why biochem?"

I looked up. "Why?" He nodded. I considered that. "Why not?"

"It's biochem."

"It makes sense," I said.

"Why?"

"It's consistent," I decided. "Why history?"

He shrugged. "Makes sense."

"Why?"

"It's repetitive," he replied, and his eye glinted, as if he was making a joke.

I gestured at his hands. "Why the rings?"

King stared down at his knuckles. "Why not?"

"That's a lie."

"You would know?"

"It's an assumption."

"Then, what do you think they're for?"

"Decor. A bloody nose."

"Which is it?"

"You're the number one racer in the NCAA. If I'm taking bets, probably both."

He scoffed, but it was less mocking and more mirthful. "Then, what about your hair?" He pointed at the vomit-worthy, colorful mess on my head. "Looks like a murder of Care Bears."

"Could be. I have hobbies," I said. "I like the colors."

"That's not a color. More like a traffic signal."

"When you're this short, you have to find creative ways to get people to see you."

It was enough to knock something half-breathless and half-raspy from his throat, that I had half a mind to believe was a laugh. My lip twitched.

"Why does everyone call you King anyway?" I asked through a mouthful of noodles. "What's wrong with 'Kane'?"

He frowned. His brow furrowed deep as if the answer was somewhere or other he couldn't remember.

"'King' was their idea," was his only response. "And, there's nothing wrong with 'Kane'. Not that I know of."

"You prefer King?" I asked.

"No. Why?"

"Don't know. You are one."

"One what?"

"King."

"Is that a compliment?"

"Depends on what point in time I say it," I said.

"What point is this one?" he asked, strangely genuine.

I shrugged. "You're a history major," I told him. "You'd probably know better than anyone."

King stared at me for a long, long time. Eventually, he asked, "Why're you named Echo?"

"I think my parents thought they were funny," I said. "I'd say they are, but..."

"But?"

"Depends on the timing."

King's lip twitched. "But everyone calls you 'Yun'. So which one do you prefer?"

"Neither. Both. My name and I are complicated as of right now," I admitted.

"'Echo' is memorable," he acknowledged.

"Something in common. I thought it'd never happen between us," I scoffed. "You're gonna have a blast. You're gonna call me Echo."

"Why?"

"Dunno," I said. "You seem the type to go for the difficult choice."

"Takes one to know one."

"I barely know you."

"Then know me." King ate the last mouthful of his noodles. He placed his bowl in the sink, letting the water run into it, before grabbing the rest of the dishes to toss into the abyss. "That's your prerogative."

He wiped down the counter and held out his hand for my now-empty bowl. I reluctantly placed it into his palm, and he set it down in the now-full sink. I made a move to wash them, but he shook his head and tossed me a drying rag instead. The night churned, unsettled, restless, sleepless. As out of place as I knew I was.

"I'll wash, just dry," he told me.

I nodded wordlessly.

We worked in the same silence as before. The moonlight was barren company, the lack of others even more so. The unit was large without bodies to hold up the space. Walls stretched impossibly long and high. Shadows were an unregulated population in the corners, across the floors.

King shook the water from his hands as the last dish was dried and placed in the cabinet. He wiped his ringed fingers on a towel, and made a move to head for his room.

I said, "Kane."

He stopped. He turned around to face me. We stood, suspended between each other, both bodies trapped on either side with no way to move forward, but no way to move back. A sentient impasse.

"Thank you," I said, when I found my footing. "For dinner."

Kane watched me for a brief moment. Not with disdain, or disinterest, or even indifference, but rather a delicate curiosity. It left my skin peeling from my bones. It was as isolating, as it was recognizing.

My spine curled.

"Don't thank me," he said.

I watched him head for his room. I turned my eyes towards the clock to watch the hand tick, and hoped for miracles.

_________________

I.GHOST - New Message

'Merci' has sent you a message. View it here.

I.GHOST - Merci

Aww cmon ghostie :(

Gonna leave us hanging? That's so cold !!

Don't be cheeky. I saw your files

Hey hey ghostie

How's it, feeling so alive?

(ty ty for readin'. more reasonable chapter length this time around :D the little star is appreciative of you)