Bury Me After I Fall

Bury Me After I Fall

A suicidal person dangles their feet over a rooftop in the rain. They don't know if they jumped or not.

Liminal Space: occupying a position, or on both sides of, on the threshold of in between.

Purgatory: a place or state of suffering inhabited by the souls of sinners who are expiating their sins before going to heaven.

Chapter inspired by "i used to have nothing and then" by dirgewithoutmusic

"This wasn't real. They were either falling, or fallen. They weren't in heaven, or hell, but a space in between. When they hit the ground (had they hit the ground?) they knew what it would cost."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You didn't know what was going on.

You didn't feel themselves hit the ground — but all of the sudden, you were standing in an empty banquet hall with a mile-long oakwood table in the center, golden light glinting off the surface. There wasn't any sound except for your harsh breathing — residue from the adrenaline.

"Why are you here?"

The voice echoed from all around them. You turned, but didn't see anyone.

"Who's there?" You called. You spun again. "What's going on?" You blinked, breath faltering. "I — I died. I'm supposed to be dead." You blinked rapidly. "Why am I not dead?"

"Why are you here?" 

"I wanted to die," You said, simply.

"Why?"

"Why do you want to know?" You asked. "Are you God? Is this some sort of ... test?" You gazed at the hall. It seemed endless, stretching along towards the end of the horizon as strange gold light bounced off the banquet table.

"Why now?" 

"Because I wanted to."

The voice considered them. "Everything comes at a cost," it said. "But you already know that, don't you?"

You backed away as you were quickly swallowed by the plummeting darkness.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You were born once, from a sixteen year old girl who committed an act she thought she was ready for. You were born in a cold hospital room, six pounds and eight ounces of screaming, quickly swaddled. Your mother wasn't ready, but she loved you even as she gave you up to the two husbands' in the room. The two men cried as they cradled their new child. They weren't blood, but they loved you. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You hit the ground, knees slamming on the cement. "Fuck."

Harsh sunlight beat down you as you took note of your surroundings. You were on a playground, with plastic slides and metal monkey bars and creaky swings. A huge tree stretched to the sky a little ways away.

You slowly rose to their feet, joints creaking. "What am I doing here again?" You asked.

Again. You knew this place. You’ve been here before. You grew up here.

You walked past the playground and made your way to the tree, touching the bark. The summer sun dripped through the shaded branches.

"A cost," the voice hissed. "A life." 

You startled as a dull thud came from the other side of the tree. A boy, not older than eleven, gripped strands of hair from a kid as he slammed their head into the tree. A sneer twisted his face as the kid trembled beneath him.

"A cost," you watched in horrified fascination as the voice pulled at the boy's mouth. "A life."

You stepped back out of range of the boy, feeling sick. "What are you doing?" You asked. "Stop it."

The boy took a step forward and you flinched back, instinctively. He stopped and stared at you with an unreadable gaze. "You're still running away?" He said. "Even when you're older and stronger than me?"

"Shut up." You snapped. "What is this? A test? A riddle?" You glanced down at your own frozen face, your younger self unaware of the conversation as your eyes burned holes into the ground.

The bully perked up. "You were always better at tests, weren't you?" He said. "That's why I was always so mad at you."

"Oh yeah?" You asked sarcastically, hurt and rageful as you stared at the bully that took up so many years and thoughts and days. The bully stared back at you, the pimples dotting his forehead shiny and raised. He seemed so small for someone who had such a huge impact on your life.

"I'm sorry."

"No you're not."

"I am. I cried when I found out."

"Found out?" You repeated. Your heart pounded. How could your heart pound? You were dead. You weren't in heaven, or hell, but a space in between. You were either falling, or fallen.

This wasn't real.

The bully stared at you, and you stared back. Taking a step back, a tendril of darkness snaked around your ankle and yanked you down.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You were raised once, from two loving fathers who would take you in their arms and smother you with scratchy kisses. From lazy Sundays with buttery sunlight creeping through the window's blinds. With pancakes and orange juice while watching bad cartoons dance on the TV. From crushing hugs and you being tossed in the air as gravity took over and you landed in their arms. 

Your dads always caught you. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You slammed back into you body as you gasped, kneeling on all fours. Trembling, you scanned the room, the itchy red carpet underneath you biting into your palms and knees.

You looked down. A flimsy drawing looked back, waxy colors scrawled all over the paper as crayons littered the floor. You knew this drawing. You knew this room, this carpet, this house.

You knew what would happen.

Arms wrapped around your torso, and you resisted the urge to scream as an overwhelming perfume made you choke from behind. "A cost," your neighbor hissed. "A life." 

You wrenched yourself out of the neighbor's arms, stomach turning. Your dads' were on date night, and decided to drop you off at their neighbor's place. The husbands' didn't notice how the neighbor's smile turned sharp and her eyes landed on you. Goosebumps had exploded throughout your skin.

"You know what it feels like to be taken apart," said the voice. "You know what it feels like to become unmade." 

Your neighbor's eyes blazed with sinful intentions as she took a step forward, a saccharine smile on her lips as she —

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The sky opened up as they dangled their feet over the roof of a building, rain pouring in sheets as it soaked their clothes. 

You hit the ground, and you were watching little kids running around, shrieking with joy as they ran over the place you were beat up yesterday —

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You hit the ground, and were immediately slammed into a brick wall by your classmates —

You hit — your grades were dropping, and anxiety tightened your heart as the teacher held you back after class —

Again — your dads' were disappointed, one angry, one worried, as they took away your belongings after dinner —

You hit the ground — it was a cycle, wasn't it? Kids laughed at you when you did good in school, beat you up, you dropped your grades, your dads' got disappointed, and then the sweet neighbor offered to give you tutoring lessons while your dads' had date night and —

"Why are you showing me this?!" You screamed as bloody spittle flew from your mouth after all the times you hit the ground. "My life was shitty, I know! I don't need to see it again, I know! Stop showing me this!" 

The voice paused, considered. Then darkness grabbed hold of your ankles and dragged you down.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You were born once, from the first time when you visited the relatives of your dads. Grandma kissed, cousins waved, and aunts and uncles hugged. 

Your dads laughed as you squirmed away and dashed off to play with the other children.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Everything comes at a cost. You know what it feels like to be taken apart. You know what it feels like to become unmade."

"Why are you here?"

"Why now?"

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You hit the ground, this time in soft green grass. It was early dawn, the sky opening a purplish-blue as the pale sun peeked over the horizon.

You turned to look at the house, and in the shadows of the porch, you could see your dads' lean in for a long kiss as they basked in the quiet.

You let your head tilt back for a moment, breathing.

This wasn't real. You were either falling, or fallen. You weren't in heaven, or hell, but a space in between. When you hit the ground (had they hit the ground?) you wouldn't land in a warm afterlife. These worlds God kept throwing you into were just painful memories that only solidified your reason for death.

Footsteps rustled through the grass behind you but you didn't move — just breathed in the sweet smell of wind and closed your eyes.

"Hey, kiddo," your dad said, sitting down beside you. Your other dad sat opposite of you.

Your throat suddenly clenched, burned. Your eyes stung. "Hey, dads'," You croaked. "I — hey."

"So ... what happened?" He asked after a beat of silence. You suddenly remembered his laughs, the way it would sneak past your bedroom door as you laid with closed eyes and bruised ribs, wondering if it would get better, wondering if you were ever going to be as happy as your parents.

"I couldn't do it anymore, dad," you choked. "I — I'm sorry. At school I could barely hide the bruises from you, and the neighbor — she just wouldn't stop, and I couldn't tell you because you were so happy. And I messed up your lives from coming home drunk and taking pills and doing cigarettes and —" I couldn't do it anymore. 

Your other dad looked at you sadly, an old look that you knew well. It was one of sorrow, of exhaustion and pain that weighed him deep in his bones as he looked at you when you came stumbling home after a night of shame.

"Why didn't you tell us?" He asked. "We could have talked about it ... given you therapy, meds. We could have talked to the teachers, and the parents of the kids, and had that neighbor arrested. We — we blame ourselves."

Your eyes blurred and you blinked rapidly as your dad's face swam into view. His broken look, his tearstained lashes, his red eyes. Grief was written on both your fathers' faces as he placed a hand on your shoulder.

Suddenly, your father's face shifted. "Everything comes at a cost," he said. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"

His palm suddenly felt heavy on your shoulder as you whipped around to look at your other dad.

"A life," your other dad rasped.

"No," you jerked back away from your dads', suddenly angry. "No. You don't get to use them. You don't ever get to use them. Don't ever touch them."

Your fathers' faces twisted into confusion, frustration. "I — I am trying. To ask. Why are you here?" 

"I just told you — told them. I couldn't do it anymore."

"Why now?"

You didn't have an answer.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The rain pours on the rooftop, dripping down the buildings as it washes into the sewers. They are coming apart at the seams, the stitches have been tearing for years. They know what it feels like to be taken apart. They know what it feels like to become unmade. 

You hit the ground, and the stinging alcohol sliding down your throat as buzzing lights danced under your closed eyelids. You wanted to forget, you wanted to be ok, you wanted — your locked eyes with a stranger across the room. You smiled.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You hit the ground, and you took the first drag of smoke, ash staining your mouth as you used one stick, then another, then another, until the whole pack was finished in a day. You wanted to die.

You hit — you swallowed pill after pill like it was candy behind your locked door, and when the capsule was empty you curled under the covers and waited as a sickening weight built up in your chest —

You hit the ground, and you slammed against the banquet table, gasping as vertigo made your head spin. Your limbs felt cold as the lead in your chest built up —

"You have done terrible things to yourself. You can never repent."

"They did this to me, they did it first," you gasped. You were drowning as your lungs filled with water. Images in their brain filled up — good times and bad.

Early in the morning, you sat with your dads as you watched the sunrise. Later that day, you were slammed into the playground tree for being better than their peers. Later in life, you popped your first pill, lit your first smoke, drank your first shot.

Your grandma gave you kisses on cheeks, your cousins still waved, aunts and uncles still hugged you. Your neighbor slid her hands along your body just like that stranger did. Sunday mornings with orange juice and pancakes and cartoons were replaced with hangovers as you stared at the top of a building and pretended to see the curve of the horizon.

"They hurt me first."

"They don't cancel each other out. Souls are never scrubbed clean, but can be overgrown."

"What are you trying to say?" You spat. "That I should've lived? That I should've dealt with it? It's too late, it was too late, it has been too late! I wanted to die, so I killed myself. I don't regret it, I'm just sorry for my parents." You clenched your fists. All you could feel is the cold in the warmly-lit room.

"You want time," said the voice. "You want to see your parents again."

"Of course I want to see my parents again." You said. "I love them. But —"

Instead of falling, images rose above you like smoke.

Your dads' pulled each other in for a kiss, murmuring about how much they loved each other. Your dads' woke you up at the crack of dawn to watch the sun rising for the first time, and it was one of the most favorite memories they had. Your dads' tossed you up, and you soared, before gravity quickly took over and your dads' caught you in their arms. Your dads' introduced you to grandma, to cousins and aunts and uncles. Sunday light crept through the windows and you toasted your orange juice to your dads' coffee.

"You will never get them back," said the voice. "But isn't that what you want? I will show you time." 

Your dads' pulled each other in for a kiss, murmuring about how much they loved each other in the early dawn.

Your dads' fell to your knees in grief and shock and horror, sobbing as men painted in red and blue lights wordlessly spoke of a suicide. Early sunrises were replaced with broken twilights as your dads found the pills, the bottles and the words on pages.

A man opened the news one day and recognized a classmate who killed themself. Horrified guilt made him weep tears of shame as he remembered how he slammed them into a tree for being better than him.

A neighborhood woman opened her door and was met with charges piled higher than her taxes as the police handcuffed her and dragged her to jail after years of freedom.

Your dads' walked up to a woman, a broken look in their eyes as they exchanged words and handed her a picture. The woman covered her mouth, stared at it blankly. You can only assume that this is the birth mother who was never a part of your life. Funny, you didn't even look like her. You must get you looks from your birth father.

Decades later, you watched as your dads' forgave themselves a little as they placed a white rose next to a wilted black one.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The rain washes the world clean. The showering pellets will wash the blood clean, pooling it into the gutters from when they jump. 

"Everything comes at a cost." Said the voice, but this time it sounded kind. "You know what it feels like to be taken apart. You know what it feels like to become unmade."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"What does this matter?" You said dully. "This isn't real. I'm already dead. I'm falling, or fallen. I'm not in heaven, or hell. I'm in something in-between."

"Do you want to die?" 

"Yes," You said. "But if I lived a different life, then no."

The voice paused, considered.

"I didn't want any of those shitty things to happen to me. I didn't want to get bullied, or touched, or hurt, or drugged, or anything. But what the hell does that matter? I'm already falling, or fallen. I'm already dead, or dying. I didn't want any of those shitty things to happen to me, but they did."

"It matters," whispers the voice. "That's what makes this a sacrifice." 

"I'm angry," you whispered. "No one should go through what I did. No one should feel what I felt. My parents —" you trembled.

"Be angry," said the voice. "I am."

That gives you more comfort than you thought it would. Your eyes stung with fury and hurt and sadness as your throat grew tight and your hands started shaking. "I didn't want to die," your voice broke. "I don't want to die. I just —" you sobbed, an ugly sound. "I just wanted it to stop."

The voice pauses, considering.

You don't fall, and the images don't rise, but suddenly your whole world went dark and you woke up in soft green grass as the early dawn opened the sky a purplish-blue as the pale sun peeked over the horizon.

You let your head tilt back for a moment, breathing, tears drying.

This wasn't real. You were either falling, or fallen. You weren't in heaven, or hell, but a space in between. When you hit the ground (had you hit the ground?) you knew what it would cost.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The sky opened up as you dangled your feet over the roof of a building, rain pouring in sheets as it soaked your clothes. The rain pours on the rooftop, dripping down the buildings as it washes into the sewers. You are coming apart at the seams, the stitches have been tearing for years. You know what it feels like to be taken apart. You know what it feels like to become unmade. The rain washes the world clean. The showering pellets will wash the blood clean, pooling it into the gutters from when you jump. You gazed along the length of the building you had chosen, heart heavy as you hope that your dads' love you enough to forgive you.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Earthbound

earthbound definition: attached or restricted to the earth.

In which Cole stands up to a tyrant that is cruel and unjust deep within the mountain. Because he made a promise.

🪨 🌋 🖤 🪨 🌋 🖤 🪨 🌋🖤 🪨 🌋 🖤

It doesn’t take a genius to see that Cole’s losing.

The cave is in chaos; the sound of screams and clanging weapons fill the air as two sides clash against each other.

Vangelis and the Skull are toying with him, and he knows it: they’re circling him, trying to throw him off by telling lies about his mother. Cole blocks the hits from Vangelis and the blasts from the Skull, feeling like a fly they were winding up in a web of lies.

Vangelis rises above him, resembling a winged creature of death with his blank mask and the glowing Skull of Hazza D’ur in hand. “And now, her deceit has doomed you!”

“Her only son,” the Skull rasps.

Vangelis hurls the Skull at Cole; growing brighter and brighter the closer it gets. He stands his ground and braces himself.

The Skull collides, and the blades …

… shatter.

Cole is thrown back, the air knocked out of his lungs as his body rolls to a stop. He sits up weakly, before throwing back his mask to gasp at the sight of the broken Blades of Deliverance.

“No!” He cries. With trembling fingers, his gloved hands hold onto the shattered pieces of the black and white blades. “It can’t be …”

His mother … lied …

“It is,” Vangelis glides towards him menacingly. “And now, you will pay the price for your mother’s lies.”

“Lies, deceit,” the Skull rasps.

Cole screams in pain as the Skull unleashes fire upon his fallen form.

“Your cause is lost.”

More fire.

“Have the grace to admit defeat.”

More fire. More, more. Blistering pain wreaks havoc across his broken body.

It’s hopeless. He’s finished. He’s too weak. It’s over. He just wants to —

He remembers his mother.

🪨 🌋 🖤 🪨 🌋 🖤 🪨 🌋🖤 🪨 🌋 🖤

“I want you to promise me, Cole. That you will always stand up to those who are cruel and unjust. Always.”

“Always.”

🪨 🌋 🖤 🪨 🌋 🖤 🪨 🌋🖤 🪨 🌋 🖤

His mother … her strength hadn’t come from the Blades of Deliverance. She’s always been strong. She had been sick all his life, yet no matter how weak her body had gotten she had moved through her life with implacable momentum. Impossible to sway or dissuade. Ever since he was young, his mom had power — from her beliefs … and from the Earth.

“It was her,” he realizes. “It wasn't the blades. It was her. The power inside my mother.” The power inside of me, his heart whispers. Not the Spinjitzu Burst. The power of Earth.

“It was all her.”

“Alas,” Vangelis laughs cruelly. “You are not half the warrior your mother was.”

Pain and grief bite through his being, but Cole forces himself to his feet to glare at the Skull Sorcerer. “Maybe not, but I am her son.” Conviction buries itself deep into his being. “And I made her a promise to stand up to tyrants like you! Always!”

The mountain rumbles its agreement. Cole digs his fingers into the rock and feels it mold around the shape of them. Every grain of earth begins to glow as his power seeps into it.

“What are you doing? What is this!” The Skull Sorcerer demands.

“It's the Burst!” He barely hears Master Wu cry above his roaring element.

But no. It's not, and Cole can feel it. It's something different. Deeper.

His power was strongest when he was the closest to the earth and he’s never been farther underground. He was basically at the bottom of the world. Never has he been more surrounded by the very thing that powered him. The Skull Sorcerer thought he was burying him — but what if bringing him closer to his full strength? To the source of his elemental power?

Cole could feel it — the connection to the earth. He could feel it reaching out towards him, coming from the ground all around him.

He stands and lets it in. He let the energy of the earth infuse him, deep into his core and surging forward. The Skull of Hazza D’ur comes flying forward to finish him off and Cole bursts to life.

Unparalleled power explodes from the earth, bright and blinding, and Cole feels more alive than ever. His skin disappears, being replaced with magma and rock as the mountain quakes under his force.

The battle halts as everyone stops at the sheer force of the Earth; Ninja gape in shock, the Shintarians fly back in fear, the cave-dwellers stare with awe.

“Son of Lilly,” the Geckle and Munce whisper.

Cole rises with the power of the Earth; the Skull spiraling, lost, as he reaches for it with a molten hand and throws it down against the Earth. Destroying it.

The battle — one that had been reigning in secret for decades — is finally over.

🪨 🌋 🖤 🪨 🌋 🖤 🪨 🌋🖤 🪨 🌋 🖤

Vania dips her head as the last servant that has finished attending her and shuts the door.

She takes a deep breath, listening to the fading footsteps of the servant and the guards clanking armor move away.

Then she springs into action.

She quickly changes, flying out of her normal, queenly wardrobe into more plain, neutral robes. She glances at Chompy, who’s watching her from his bed. She touches the dragon’s head.

“I’ll be back before morning — promise,” she whispers. He makes a chattering noise, telling her he’s displeased. “I know! I will, I promise. I just …” she bites her lip. “I just can’t leave him alone down there.”

Maybe Chompy can hear the pain in her voice, because he doesn’t argue — simply pushes his head into her hand with a small chur of forgiveness.

Vania pushes past the grief and stands, lighting a candle before leaving. She sneaks through her own palace silently, moving past guards like a ninja as she heads for the gardens.

She makes her way to the entrance of the garden alcove leading into the mountain, her heart steadily beating harder. The caves beneath the mountain were deserted, with the Geckle and Munce people deciding that they wanted to live their new lives above the mountain.

She scurries down; down and down the winding mountain, past cramped caverns and twisting turns, the cloying darkness only fought off by a single flame.

Finally she reaches it.

The Heart of the Mountain.

The legendary temple for the Masters of Earth. Ancient scriptures written in the Old Tongue read: Let pass through here, into this refuge and sanctuary, only those who are One with the Earth. Orange flames danced off the walls, even though no one had been down here to light them. Power shined through the giant doorway as Vania drew nearer.

Creak …

The door opened slightly.

Vania went inside, following the carved path molded by Geckle and Munce. Statues of ancient Earth Masters and their stories echoes around her, and she ignores the familiar goosebumps that rise along her skin. Her eyes linger on the statue of Lilly, before moving on.

Statues are more than solid pieces of art. They are immovable, unbreakable monuments that enrich storytelling, making the experience of living more profound and unforgettable. They remind us of the strength of traditions, the power of history, and the enduring spirit that echoes throughout the ages.

She draws closer to the one standing in the middle, heart beating loudly in her chest. It's tall and strong, newly carved. Awake and glowing with the surging elemental energy. She reads the plaque in front of it.

This statue was carved with love and gratitude by Geckle, Munce, and Shintarian craftsmen in honor of Cole Brookstone: Ninja, brother, and son.

Vania places the candle on the stone ledge and takes a seat on it, facing away from the statue. It feels like yesterday she was trapped in here with the Upply and Master Wu, trying to figure out a way to stop her father. She forces the memories away when she feels the mountain move.

“Hello, Cole,” she says softly. The Earth rumbles under her feet, before slowly forming and making a vague shape of the person she used to know. Orange light shines through the cracks of rock as he peers at her curiously, waiting.

Vania smiles.

“So, what story would you like to hear today?”

to love and to learn

I’ve had this request since 2022 and had half done for more than a year now. Sorry it took so long! 😭

Summary: (to have and to hold)

Zoey navigates her relationship with Mike and co. throughout the year, learning that just because things are tough doesn’t mean you shouldn’t hold onto who they are.

A girl with a heart as big as hers shouldn’t be afraid to speak it.

| he is so many things. he is everything. she loses her heart and gets it back, this time ready to hold on. |

*♥️*🩵*

Mal (Spring)

Zoey unlocked the door to her place, purposefully making more noise than necessary as she closed the door and placed all her belongings on the table.

“I’m back!” She called out.

The empty house said nothing back and Zoey sighed, heart sinking. She didn’t know what she was expecting, to be honest. Her house was always empty, always silent, always dark. Normally, that would be any teenager's dream, but Zoey had always felt constricted when she was alone — like she was one tug away from panicking.

Separation anxiety, is what Courtney would call it. Neglect.

Zoey the Lonely, is what the elementary school kids called her.

It wasn’t like Zoey’s parents were bad or anything like that. They were just … never around. They were busy with work and away on trips often, which was fine because they were making money and putting a roof over her head. So Zoey didn’t say anything when they didn’t call her and she always smiled when the neighbors asked how her parents were and if she was fine …

Zoey shook her head out of the thoughts she wandered in. She had friends — close friends, better than anything she could have asked for — and that was enough.

Zoey walked over to the fridge and opened it — only to find absolutely nothing at all. Zoey quickly began looking through the shelves in the pantry and resisted the urge to sigh.

Right, she was supposed to go grocery shopping like, a week ago, curse finals for making her forget —

Zoey grabbed her wallet, keys, and phone and walked out of the house even though it was midnight.

Anything was better than being alone in an empty house.

* * *

Zoey is a sixteen year old girl walking home alone late at night, and apparently that’s some sort of welcome mat to get mugged.

Her credit card is weeping from the amount of things she’s bought but the food will last her a while so she doesn’t have to go shopping again. Zoey’s in good spirits as she crosses the street.

Normally, she would take the buses, but she doesn’t want to wait around outside when it’s one am and she has school tomorrow — well, today. She's also relaxed enough for the first time in about three months to let her guard down a bit, so it's a real shame that she immediately gets jumped by thugs the moment she does.

Zoey shrieks when a heavy hand covers her mouth and she gets dragged into an alleyway. Her back slams into a wall behind her, and Zoey counts three big, dark, intimidating thugs in front of her.

"Hands up, sweetheart, nice and easy," the biggest guy says, waving his gun at her.

Ice-cold fear shot in her veins and she instinctively reached for her pepper spray. Her heart skipped a beat when she felt empty space. She forgot it!

"He said hands up, kid!" the second guy barks at her, his own gun leveling out somewhere wildly above Zoey’s shoulder.

Zoey flinches. Great, not only would she be killed by thugs, she would be killed by amateur thugs. With the way they were holding the guns, she would most likely be shot by their own carelessness rather than actual intention.

"We don't want any trouble, just your money."

Zoey bit back a retort. Yeah, because teenagers just happen to be real millionaires. Who's even teaching these guys how to pick targets —

The thugs move forward, and Zoey cuts off her inner dialogue. Adrenaline races through her veins and her hands tremble at her sides. Just as she tries to summon her voice to call for help, or to desperately use one of Courtney’s self-defense lessons —

“Hey.”

All four of them jump, and the three thugs turn around to see two figures. Zoey couldn’t make out their facial features in the dark, but one was short and stocky while the other was tall and lanky.

The short one took a menacing step forward. “Leave the girl alone, and I promise we’ll leave you with your teeth intact.”

The thugs laugh. “Oh yeah? Last I checked, there’s three of us, and two of you. And we have guns.”

The tall one walks forward, and the thugs gasp. From her place Zoey can’t see who he is, but it makes the thugs tremble.

“B-boss … it’s the Malevolent One! And … the short mohawked green punk!”

Short mohawked green punk? That sounded like someone she knew, but who was the Malevolent One?

Caught up in her musings, Zoey almost didn’t notice the conversation going on.

"Hey kid, we said — hey, stop that creepy grinning, we're pointing a gun at you — "

Duncan just grins wider, cracks his knuckles, and throws himself into a fight.

Zoey screams as Duncan tackles the thug that called him short and gleefully begins going to town on him. The Malevolent One moves like a shadow, knocking the gun from the thug leader and sending him unconscious.

Slowly, they both turn to look at the last thug standing.

The thug’s face loses all its color and he jumps back in terror, screaming as he drops his gun in his haste to escape.

Zoey is frozen, gasping hard as her knees tremble. The two took on three armed thugs and managed to escape with only bruised knuckles.

Zoey’s legs suddenly give out.

“Hey, Zo, are you okay?” A hand is placed on her shoulder, and Zoey looks up to see Duncan staring down at her.

Zoey can’t help but smile. Duncan liked to put up this bad-boy image to make him seem tough, but secretly he had a soft heart. Zoey was glad to be one of the few to see it.

“Yeah, I — um, yeah. Just in shock. No need to worry about me.”

Duncan offers a hand to help her up, handing her the groceries in the process. Zoey shakily stands up, letting out a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Duncan.”

She looks at the other guy, whose figure was hiding in the shadows. “Thanks …” she trails off hesitantly.

He steps into the light and her heart stops. Mike, is her first thought. The tall, lanky body, the skin color, the face. Then she looks closer — the frown on his lips, the dark look on his face, the hair covering his eye.

“Mal,” Zoey says. Her throat suddenly feels extremely dry and she resists the urge to swallow.

“Zoey,” he responded neutrally.

Duncan looks back and forth, obviously picking up the strange air between them. “So, are you headed home?” He asked. Zoey and Mal both broke off the weird trance they found themselves in from staring at each other.

“Yeah,” Zoey nodded. “I was just walking back.”

Duncan takes the grocery bags and turns away. “Come on, we’ll walk with you! Don’t want you to get mugged again, do we?”

Zoey exchanged a bewildered look with Mal, but when he merely raised a brow she quickly flushed and hurried after Duncan.

No way was she letting herself be robbed two times in a night.

* * *

“Hey,” Zoey suddenly asked on the walk back. “Where’s Scott?”

Scott, Duncan, and Mal were the “bad guys” of the neighborhood, the misfits. They liked going out at night and causing trouble — nothing serious or endangering, but just enough graffiti to give the police a headache.

Zoey wasn’t very fond of Scott, but if his friends liked him and they were happy, who was she to judge?

“He stayed in because he had to do a biology project.” Duncan said casually, swinging her grocery bags from side to side. On her other side, Mal was carrying her other bags.

Zoey raised a brow. “And he cares because …”

“He’s failing. He spent three hours begging Dawn to help him out.”

Zoey cringed. He must really be desperate if he went crawling to Dawn. She hated his guts more than Zoey did.

“Right…” Zoey said, because she didn’t really know where to take the conversation.

“Anyway, where’re your parents?” Duncan asks. “Should they be the ones doing grocery shopping? Or at the very least, make you do it at a decent time?”

Zoey shrugged, suddenly not in a very chatty mood. “Oh, uh, they’re on a business trip.”

Duncan narrowed his eyes. “Wait, didn’t you say that last month? What —”

Zoey cut him off. “Duncan, I’m tired. So please drop the topic or else I'll text Courtney that you were on the streets beating up thugs at two am on a final’s night.” Zoey waved the phone for emphasis.

Duncan instantly backed off at the threat of bringing Courtney in. He definitely didn’t want his on-and-off girlfriend to get on his case again (even if they were broken up now). “Okay, okay, fine. I get it, I’ll back off.”

Zoey sighed in relief. “Thank you.”

She turned to look at Mal and found his eyes already on her. They were dark and scorching, and it felt like they were burning her body apart to look into her soul. It felt like he knew every secret scrawled under her skin and was taking it apart to observe at his leisure.

Zoey looked away, her heart beating nervously as her skin tingled under his eyes. “This is my stop.” Zoey stopped walking in front of her house. “Thank you for walking me home and for carrying my bags. That was very nice of you.” Zoey sent Duncan a cheeky grin, knowing how much he disliked being called “nice”.

“Just don’t tell anyone about it,” Duncan huffed, handing her the bags. “Probably about time to start heading back anyway. Later, Zoey. See ya, Mal.” With that, Duncan turned away and walked down the street.

Leaving Zoey and Mal standing alone together on the sidewalk.

“Thanks for walking me home, Mal. I appreciate it.” Zoey held out her hand for the other grocery bag.

Mal stared at her open hand uncomprehendingly, long enough for Zoey to get uncomfortable before saying, “I’m supposed to be walking you to your house.”

“We are at my house.”

“No, we’re in front of your house,” Mal corrects.

“My house is literally right there,” Zoey stabs a finger up the front lawn. “I can carry a couple of bags across the lawn. I’ll be fine.”

But Mal just stared at her unwaveringly, so Zoey huffs and marches towards the door. Mal trails after her, and it’s only until she unlocks the front door and opens it when he gives the bags to her.

Zoey flicks on the light, already feeling unsettled by the darkness before she turns to Mal. He’s already staring at her intently, and Zoey bites her lip uncertainty. “Thank you for walking me back,” she says. “For real, this time.”

“No problem,” Mal shoves his hands in his pockets, eyes flicking behind her to see the undeniably empty house. He turns to walk away, before he hesitates. “If you’re ever feeling lonely …” he starts, looking like he was already regretting it, “call me. I’ll always be there.”

Zoey’s face explodes in red and her mouth drops open. Mal quickly turns around and hurries away, leaving Zoey to gape after him in shock.

She closes the door before leaning against it sliding down to the floor. She buries her face in her hands, cheeks hot from her blush.

Yeah, she would call him. She did have his number after all.

She had all of theirs.

* * *

Vito (Spring)

Now, Vito has always been a massive player.

While Manitoba liked to flirt, Vito actually went out with girls. When he wasn't busy starting fights, he was chasing skirts — and while his behavior had always bothered Zoey, lately it bothered her for an entirely different reason.

That reason used to be because she hated the way Vito eyed girls like they were a piece of meat. The smug smirk he wore whenever he flirted with them made her want to punch him.

These days, it was because he flirted with girls. Period.

Not because he was a jerk about it, not because he was crude, not because he finally realized females were more than just boobs and a butt.

It was because every time she caught him winking at a girl or talking her up, it sent her blood spiking. Zoey would find herself gritting her teeth and clenching her fists and she didn't know why.

(Well, she did know why. She just didn't like it, so she ignored it.)

But the fact remained that something had changed, and it was aggravating the life out of her.

Despite everything, Zoey had resolved to simply ignore it. Whatever had happened to her would fade over time, and Vito was his own person (well … sort of. As much as he could be with five others in his brain). He was allowed to make out with whoever he wanted to.

Zoey also knew she was a major people’s pleaser and the type to obsess over every single detail — so she stuck to the mindset of ignoring Vito as well.

And it served her well, until one day after art club she rounded the corner and nearly crashed into Vito, who was currently sucking face with Anne Maria.

Zoey gasped and skidded to a halt. For a moment she simply stood there, gaping. Her feet were glued to the floor and her heart was pounding rapidly.

Zoey clenched her fists, digging her nails into her palm to clear her head. Zoey could feel a powerful emotion bubbling up and she bit her tongue.

What was Vito doing here? Football practice was over, he should have driven home by now. If he wanted to make out with Anne Maria then he should have done it under the bleachers — unless it was occupied by Geoff and Bridgette again. But why would he bring her here? He knew this was the path she always took to get to the bus —

Zoey suddenly stopped at the thought.

She watched as Vito pulled away and noticed Zoey staring at them in shock. For a moment their eyes met, holding a connection as they looked at each other.

Then Vito had the audacity to smirk at her, mouth pulling up in a cocky smile. His hands rested on Anne Maria’s hips and Zoey’s blood boiled.

She wanted to punch him. She wanted to punch him so bad, and she wanted to rip Anne Maria off him and yell and yell and yell until he made her shut up. But she knew what Vito would look like if she did that and Zoey would rather die than give him the satisfaction.

So instead Zoey clenched her fists, scoffed in annoyance, and brushed right past them with her head held high.

Zoey was jealous. Vito didn’t need to know that.

* * *

Chester (Winter)

Zoey was late, and she was dying.

The girl flies by pedestrians, red hair blowing out behind her as she runs down the sidewalk in a full sprint. Her legs burned and her lungs ached as she took heaving breaths of cold air.

It was one of those days in Canada where the air was so frigid it literally hurt to breathe, but the clouds still stubbornly clung to the snow that would fall later. She was late to her shift at work — too busy studying for classes after school — and had missed her bus, leaving her to wait for the second one impatiently.

Zoey burst into the shop. “I’m here!” She announced grandly.

Gwen looked up mid page-turn from her book at the register, observing the disarray that was Zoey. “You’re late,” she raised a judgemental brow.

“I know, sorry. I was just so caught up with school I lost track of time.” Zoey sighs, taking off her coat. Things would be so much easier for her if she had a ride … unfortunately, she and her ride had had a falling out a while ago and she doubted they would want to talk to her anytime soon.

Shaking off the negative thoughts, Zoey falls into the routine of getting ready. She worked at a small vintage shop that was tucked into the corner of the block for decades. Gwen had introduced it to her, and she had fallen in love with the still, older vibe of the place. Zoey was naturally attracted to older aesthetics, so it made sense that she fit in here.

Gwen and Zoey worked in tandem, attending to customers and working the register until people came in fewer and fewer. After a few hours, Zoey took a breath, checking her phone. Evening had come early, the sky turning a gorgeous shade of midnight blue outside.

Gwen reappeared from the back, bundled in a beanie and scarf. “I’m going to head out early. You okay with closing?”

Zoey smiled. “Of course,” she said, waving off Gwen’s guilty eyes. “Go have fun with Trent. I’ll see you at school.”

Gwen turned crimson, said a quick goodbye, then ran out the shop to the car parked outside at the curb. She slammed the door shut, and Zoey caught a quick glimpse of Trent waving at her before they took off.

Zoey sighed and started to close up. She was glad Gwen and Trent were back together after the rocky hardships that had actually led them to breaking up for a little bit. She wasn’t sure about the details of it — some jealousies and lack of communication — but she knew for sure that Gwen had found it hard to deal with her boyfriend's OCD, and struggled to manage it. She had confessed to Zoey about it, how she struggled to keep a normal relationship with Trent when his mental disorder was constantly interfering.

Gwen had come to her about that, asking for her advice about how to have a partner and manage their mental health, and Zoey had given it, feeling like a total hypocrite in the process.

The ding of the doorbell interrupts her thoughts, and Zoey looks up with an automatic smile to treat the last customer of the day before she freezes as she recognizes the person walking through the door.

Chester.

The alter shakes out his coat, wiping snow with a decisive sort of disdain off his cane. He looks up, takes note of Zoey’s unflattering stunned expression, and says, “Are you goin’ to be sittin’ there starin’ till my bones drop off or are you goin’ to make me some tea?”

Snapping out of it, Zoey blushes, rushing to make the drink under Chester's freezing glare. She sets down the pot, pouring the liquid into the cup as Chester grumbles before sitting down awkwardly.

“So,” Zoey manages to get her voice not to squeak. “How have you been, Chester?”

“Like you care,” Chester says gruffly and takes a sip of his tea. Perfect, just how it's always been. He and Zoey always had the same taste.

“I do care, that’s why I asked,” Zoey responds patiently. Without realizing it, her tone slips into the familiar, soothing, serenade that usually came out whenever Chester made a mean comment. “Just because we haven’t spoken in a while doesn’t mean I don’t wonder how you or everyone else is.”

Chester eyes her suspiciously, and Zoey finds herself randomly struck with how she sees him as Chester, and not Mike. To anyone else, it would look like a teenage boy was acting like an old man, but that wasn’t it. Chester hunched in on himself, and had crooked fingers that always itched for his cane; he subconsciously squinted in one eye and spoke with an inflection that Zoey never knew came from. Mike was the total opposite — he walked straight, but with a small slump in his spine as if to make himself less taller; he used enthusiastic hand motions and spoke loudly when excited. He didn't even like tea like Chester — he preferred juice.

“I’m as fine as these old bones can be in this weather,” Chester says after a moment.

“I see,” Zoey smiles. “You should stay inside and keep warm — what will happen if you slip and fall?” Even if Mike’s body was still young and strong, he had Chester’s psychology — so if he fell, he’d be in immense pain because he believed he had the bones of an old man and wouldn’t be able to get up on his own because of the psychological limits in Chester’s own mind.

“ ’s not like I meant to come out on my own,” Chester scowls. “The boy was already frustrated before that darn hooligan ran the red light while we were crossing. Nearly hit us too, that no good son of a —”

“You’re walking in this weather?” Zoey interrupts before he can go on his tirade. “What about your car?” Mike’s parents had bought him a car in the middle of autumn for passing his drivers test, a beat-up old thing. But still, Mike loved it, and the rest of his alters did too, taking it and driving it around to all their individual appointments.

It had been a fight for Mike to get his license — officials were too worried about him disassociating and switching out while he was driving — but thanks to his psychiatrist’s approval and his adopted parents pushing, he was finally able to get it. She can still remember how proudly Mike's eyes had shone when he first showed her his ID.

“Parents took it away,” Chester grunted. “He was switchin’ out with the rest of us too much.”

“Oh,” Zoey’s mouth felt dry. “I —”

“He's a mess without you, you know. They all are, those stupid young fools. But you should know, with what you said before.”

Zoey feels the words hit, like a sucker-punch to the gut. Her mind flashes back to the time when she asked Mike out. She had worn her favorite red halter top, with wildflower sticker tattoos stamped up her arm as she had rubbed it shyly. She had been so nervous; it had felt like the nerves her belly had turned into a livewire full of electric butterflies.

The words she’d said to him came back to her when he asked why she liked him.

"It's just that … the sort of mess you are ... has always felt like the sort of mess I am.”

How cruel of Chester to bring that up so suddenly. But then again, Chester never really had a problem with being cruel when he wanted to get his words across. Zoey found herself momentarily at a loss of words, stomach flipping in guilt. “That’s not … I didn’t …” What was she supposed to say? Sorry? As great at apologizing as she was, that felt too insensitive to say.

She was self-aware enough to know that she couldn’t keep her friendship with Mike, not after how much she’d hurt him. Maybe if they talked more, if she’d been more commutative …

The familiar sting of tears building up mortifies Zoey and she hides her face behind her hand, squeezing her eyes shut. That only makes it worse as the pressure causes a few wayward drops to slip out. God no, she wouldn’t cry in front of Chester, she wouldn’t …

Zoey waits for the sound of disgust that should be coming from him, a grumble about how sentimental young people were, but —

Something soft touches her cheek and she looks up to see Chester avoiding her eyes, holding out a handkerchief. She sniffles, taking it from his hand and unceremoniously scrubbing her eyes as hard as she can.

“You want to help everyone. You're too sweet to be alone,” Chester says gruffly. “Too dependent on others. You’d save a houseplant if you thought it could be your friend.”

Zoey lets out a choked laugh, not sure if she should be amused or offended at the words. “I just — I thought I'd get over it by now. We weren't even together that long anyways.”

Chester stared at her. “Why do ya still miss him? You’re the one that left.”

Zoey stares down into her cup, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. “Sometimes you don't get a choice. You think about someone ... a lot.” After she broke up with Mike, she had hoped that that would be the last of it. That he would fade into the background of all the other students, and that the only thing left would be a bittersweet memory.

But no. He still lingers, in her heart and in her mind. He was a bolt out of the blue, and a catastrophe that shakes her to the core. She could go about her day just like any other, and like a habit, she'd think of him.

“That’s what happens when ya give up on somethin’ ya care about. You grieve it just as much as you loved it.”

Zoey glances up at Chester before looking away again.

“What do I do now?” She whispers.

Chester takes a sip of his tea. “Ya know what you did wrong. Ya know what ya wanna change. The only thing that you can do now is try to be better next time around.”

Zoey blinks, the bowstring tightness drawn around her shoulders loosening at his words. She gazes into the mug like it holds all the answers, thoughts swirling around her head like a whirlwind. The fears and insecurities still weighed in her consciousness but now — although tentative — resolve was there as well.

She took a sip of her tea as well, chamomile lingering on her tongue. She could still try.

She wanted to try.

* * *

Svetlana (Winter)

Zoey watches on the sidelines as Svetlana dances on the ice, lost in her own music. The scrapes of ice against her blades are the only sound in the rink. It's completely empty, which she felt fortunate for because now Svetlana can completely focus on her routine while Zoey sits on the sidelines.

Svetlana skates by again, arms moving like the wind, somehow making the most complicated movements look like the easiest thing in the world.

She was intricately beautiful, and Zoey can’t take her eyes off her. Even with all the inner turmoil in her head, she can’t help but stop and stare at her. She knew this place — here, on the ice rink — was where Svetlana belonged. Skating was her passion, and the movements of the dance were her religion. The air rushing by her ears could clear her head more than any words can, and Zoey knows that she is the reason why Svetlana is out on the ice.

The cold bites her fingers numb and brings a rosy color to her cheeks, stinging like a slap. Zoey didn’t bring gloves with her, a self-inflicting punishment for what is to come. If this was, perhaps, a month ago, she would have been out on the ice with her, sliding on her skates and trying to catch up to Svetlana. Laughter would be echoing throughout the rink as she kept on slipping, not the void of silence now between them.

She couldn't do it anymore.

She could feel her mind fracturing the more she was stretched thin.

She was just so tired. She couldn't handle it. Dating five personalities, each with their own individual traumas, was too much. The stress, the insecurities, the fears were piling up and she just wanted a break.

She thinks (or hopes, maybe) that the others can sense it — her pulling away. It was cowardly, but she hoped that they would willingly drift off into the sea of faces in the school so that Zoey wouldn’t be able to say anything at all.

Svetlana dances across the ice, blissfully lost in her own winter wonderland and slows to a stop. She opens her eyes and catches Zoey’s. She isn’t quite sure what look reads in her gaze, but Svetlana doesn’t skate forward and close the seemingly sudden large gap between them.

Zoey was gonna break her heart. Take the fragile organ that all of the alters held so dear and shatter it into a million pieces.

* * *

Manitoba (Fall)

Manitoba pulled her along by her hand, dragging her to wherever he was taking her. She honestly had no clue. Mike had switched when he was in gym class, and the now-present Manitoba Smith had promptly ditched and went to seek Zoey out, even though she was in a different class at the time.

It had been … an experience to find out about Mike’s alters. She had known that he had some sort of disorder, because he always seemed to have a pink slip note of visiting the counselor’s office. It wasn’t until Mike had told her about his Multiple Personality Disorder —or Dissociative Identity Disorder, as Cameron often corrected— and Cameron had explained what it was when she suddenly understood.

Apparently, back at his old school, Mike had been severely bullied for his disorder and was often called a freak. Monster. Jekyll and Hyde. It had enraged Zoey beyond reason. She herself had been picked on for being different back in her old town, and she knew how much words could hurt.

When he came here, Mike’s plan of laying low was shot when he saw Duncan, who recognized him when they were in juvie, and from Scott, who had wrangled the truth from Cameron with slightly unethical means. Because it was a small school, the information traveled around the grapevine. Nobody batted an eye. Wawanaka High, if nothing else, was filled with eccentric people.

Mike had explained that he didn’t tell her about his personalities sooner because he was afraid she would think he was a freak, but Zoey had simply laughed and told him how much she loved oddballs. But secretly, she was nervous. She had no idea on how to handle his alters, or his trauma that sometimes arose at the most random things. It had been weird, and scary, and confusing, to see the boy she liked (like … really liked), acting like someone else entirely. His posture, his voice, his entire attitude did a complete turn around, and she didn’t know how to handle it.

“Why are you dragging me out of class?” Zoey complains. “We have midterms coming up, and—”

“You’re focusing on the wrong things, treasure!” Manitoba laughs. Zoey trips at the nickname. “You only live once! Why not make this one worth living with adventure!”

Easy for him to say. Mike was the only one who had to focus on school grades and studying. All the others were there for fun.

Manitoba leads them up the stairs to the roof and Zoey withdraws when she sees the Emergency Exit plastered on the doorway.

“Wait, what are you doing?!”

“Huh?”

“You’ll set off the fire alarm!”

Manitoba laughs like she’s said something cute. He opens the doorway to the rooftop and Zoey holds her breath, waiting for the alarms to start. When there is nothing, she lets it out almost disappointedly. A dud.

Manitoba doesn’t let go of her hand as they walk onto the roof and Zoey doesn’t pull away either as she looks around. So this is where Manitoba went whenever Mike switched out with him. Since Mike had a full-time pass to the counselor’s, he was technically obligated to go there whenever he felt like he was about to dissociate, but he and the others never did. She knows that for a fact because the other alters have been caught trying to leave school (Vito and Manitoba mostly) and now Zoey finally knows where one of them disappears.

Zoey can’t help but stare at him while his back is towards her.

She liked to keep busy. Needed to, really, because then she can ignore the persistent loneliness that ached whenever she was alone in a house that was too big for only her. So she made friends, joined clubs, and studied hard. She took it as a challenge when Cameron had asked if she would date any of the alters since she was dating Mike. If her boyfriend had more parts of himself then she wanted to know them as well.

And she liked them, too. Zoey didn’t doubt that before long she would like them just as much as she liked Mike. Svetlana had a beautiful soul and Zoey loved spending time with her. Manitoba was wild but captivating and she could feel herself getting used to him as well. Vito was coming around as well, taking her on drives whenever possible. She was slowly finding the gaps in Chester’s prickly nature and she remained a polite distance with the ever-elusive Mal.

There were doubts, perhaps, that she had been too hopeful. Not that she would ever think Mike a freak, but she couldn’t help but wonder if she had bitten off more than she could chew. If she was truly the right person to handle this. Zoey had her own problems and insecurities, and she could admit that she was prone to keeping it in due to her upbringing — unlike Mike, who knew how to communicate thanks to his training with his therapist.

“You get quiet when you’re stressed.”

She blinks, broken out of her thoughts due to Manitoba’s casual remark.

“Sorry,” she said. “I think more in my head than aloud.”

“I know, love.”

Zoey is glad Manitoba doesn’t comment on the small jerk she makes at his nickname and her furious blush. It was still embarrassing to get used to the others’ affection.

“Now, get on the ledge, Sheila.”

Zoey raises a brow.

Manitoba’s mouth curved into a smirk. “’Course, if you’re feeling afraid I’ll have no problem holding onto a beautiful—”

Maybe it was because of the thought of Manitoba thinking that she was weak or too afraid or boring to do it, but before she thought about it she grabbed onto the metal bars separating her from the ledge and leaped over them. Her converse hit the other side and Zoey spun around to face open air. The wind wasn’t too bad, but if she let go of the bar it would only take a push to send her careening to her death.

Zoey glanced over her shoulder, a smile tugging at her lips. “You were saying?”

Manitoba gazed at her, none of his usual cockiness in his eyes. “Look.”

She's never had a fear of heights, so she isn't afraid when she stares down at the world. Trees dappled with red, orange, and gold leaves lined the block of houses they adorned. The cars looked like toys on the winding road, the people so small they looked like ants. She hears Manitoba jump on the ledge to join her but doesn't turn her head.

“Wrong place, Shiela.”

“What?” Zoey asks. She turns to look at Manitoba only to see him watching her already.

“You’re looking in the wrong place.”

Without any further comment, he takes her chin and gently lifts it up so her gaze shifts upwards. Away from the town and to the world beyond that. Midnight-colored lakes, rolling plains, and forests stretching as far as the eye can see. And even farther, mountains peaking towards the blue sky, desperate to touch the clouds.

The air rushed out of her in her next breath.

And suddenly, Zoey understood what Manitoba was trying to make her get. There was a whole world out there. A whole country, and whole continent, even, and Zoey was still lost in her head. Her problems seemed like nothing in the grand scheme of things, and Zoey was just letting her life pass her by because she let them consume her.

She stands on the edge of the rooftop. Wind brushes along her skin, causing goosebumps to rise along her arm, but Zoey doesn’t say anything. She didn’t bring her jacket, and Manitoba wasn’t wearing one either. Even if he was, she doubted she would ask for it. She stands on the ledge, making no move to shield herself from the wind and looks at the Canadian wilderness in front of them.

She tips her head back and closes her eyes, the wind making the loose strands of her hair fly around her. Her feet felt rooted to her place, but she imagines herself as free as a bird. She could taste the tantalizing weight of wilderness on her tongue and wants.

So Zoey stands, and stares, and breathes.

* * *

Mike (Fall)

Zoey walked into her last class of the day, Chemistry. It had taken her a while to find the classroom, so most of the tables were filled up. She spotted Lightning in the back showing off with Cody staring up with adoring eyes. Noah was on the other side of the class, rolling his eyes at the antics before burying his nose in his book.

Apprehension pooled her gut. She didn’t know who to sit by and barely knew anyone. The class was mainly filled with seniors she only knew by name with only a handful of juniors she had never spoken to.

Zoey feels sick. She wants to walk right out. Why was her social anxiety starting to act up now?

She spots a boy sitting with a table to himself, a giant bookbag next to him. He’s hunched over, like he wasn’t used to the open air around him, and is wearing thick glasses and a giant red hoodie that hide nothing with how scrawny he is. Zoey is surprised to see him have such a big bag, seeing as how the boy is basically twigs it looks like even the weight of a butterfly could knock him over.

He seemed like the safest bet to sit next to.

Zoey walks towards the small boy — anxiety trembling in her bones — and gives him a nice smile, trying to appear more confident than she truely was.

“Hi!” She greets cheerfully. “Do you mind if I sit here?”

The boy jolts so hard that he nearly topples to the floor. “Oh! Yeah, sure! No problem!” He eagerly swipes all his belongings off the side of the table to make room for her.

“Thanks,” she says, taking a seat. Continue the conversation, ask questions rings in her head from all the How-To-Make-Friends podcasts she had obsessively listened to over the summer. “I don't think I've ever seen you around before. Are you a freshman?”

The boy lights up, and soon he is talking a mile a minute. His name is Cameron, and he's sixteen like her — which surprised her, given his small stature — but this is his first year of attending Wawanakwa High after being homeschooled all his life. Apparently his mother was obsessively overprotective of her only son and as a result, Cameron was what was known as a “bubble boy”. He was sweet though, and eager, even though he lacked any real world experience he was quite knowledgeable in academics.

By the time Cameron kindly offers her some hand sanitizer, Zoey is estatic to find that she has made her first real friend of the year.

Their conversation comes to a natural lull and Zoey busies herself organizing her backpack and pulling out the notebook she will need for the class.

Officially, chemistry should have already started, but none of the seniors pause in their continuous chatter and after waiting for another awkward couple of minutes, Cameron turns and asks a senior, Courtney, where the teacher was. The honors student makes a face, nose wrinkling in a way that makes her freckles scrunch cutely and responds, “Our teacher is Blainely. She never shows up to class on time, no matter how much Principal McLean complains.”

A desk over, a girl named Heather with beautiful, glossy long hair, scoffs in a way that shows her just how much she’s a fan of their teacher and goes back to filing her nails. Zoey wants to compliment her on her hair, but something primal very deep inside of her tells her that any word spoken to her would be met with a nasty comment on her hair.

She goes back to doodling on her own notebook before all of the sudden the door slams open and a harried teen rushes in. He’s holding a pink slip that meant he was coming from the office, and after seeing that the teacher is nowhere in sight, looks for a table.

He lights up as he sees the only open seat on Cameron’s other side and hurries towards it, practically dumping all his belongings on the table as he collapses in his seat.

“Hey,” he says, running his fingers through his spiky hair. “Did class start yet?”

Cameron shook his head no.

“Really? But didn’t class start like —” he glances at the clock, “— ten minutes ago?”

“Well, our teacher for this class is Ms. Blainely, and I heard she doesn't care about tardiness because she's always late.” Zoey reports back what Courtney said to her.

“Can’t see why,” the boy responds flippantly. “We’re as pleasant as all the teachers in the school.”

Zoey feels her cheeks pull up in a grin and she giggles. “Nice to meet you. I’m —”

Blainely slams through the door of her classroom like a typhoon of bravado and too-much confidence for a teacher who was late to her own class by ten minutes. “Alright, you little brats, it’s time for Chemistry!” She sing-songs.

There’s a thunk from behind of Bridgette slamming her head into her table and her deskmate Lindsay sympathetically pats her on the back. A few tables over, Heather fake gags.

Blainely, in her true, characteristic nonchalant fashion, tells them to have at it in mixing the chemicals after barely skimming the safety protocols and handing out labs.

Her, Cameron, and their new teammate work in tandem together, like they’re a well-oiled machine. He cracks jokes with Cameron and laughs with Zoey, and she feels her cheeks getting sore with how much she's grinning.

She hasn't had this much fun in a long time. Their new teammate is charismatic. And cute. And nice. Zoey didn’t really have a type, but if she did …

Well. It would probably be him.

From over Cameron’s head where he’s chattering, Zoey chances a peek at the boy to see him already watching her. Her heart leaps in surprise and she can’t help but stare at him even after he quickly glances away. Does she have pen ink on her face? It wouldn’t be the first time. Zoey opens her mouth to ask, but before she could —

The bell rings.

The students stir and begin packing their bags with vigor, chatter filling the air as the last class of the day is finished. Cameron bids them goodbye and leaves quickly, and Zoey waves as he practically sprints towards the door, saying something about his mom picking him up.

She spots the boy beginning to pack his bag with the new chemistry papers and realizes amongst all the fun they had together, she has yet to learn his name.

“Hey,” Zoey smiles over the space at the boy. “My name is Zoey.”

The boy blinks, then gives her this big, beautiful, beaming grin that seemed to light up his entire face. Zoey feels her heart skip a beat, then trip and stumble and crash against her ribcage at the sight of it. Oh boy.

“I'm … Mike.”

* * *

Kimbaps & Kind Talks

Summary: a girl found a boy being cornered by some bullies. homeless, alone, and starving, the boy asked the girl if she could please buy him some food.

the girl said yes.

***

(Their first meeting isn't really a meeting, but more of a moment where their lives briefly touched then went their separate ways.

But everything starts from somewhere.)

***

She meets him again when she is walking home from school, the light of the sunset dying the sky hues of orange and gold.

They both stop, equally surprised when they see each other again.

“Oh, you’re the…” Dayeon trails off, not sure how to finish that sentence. Homeless boy? Runaway that was starving and asked me for food? Kid who’s all alone? None of those sound particularly appealing, and she doesn’t want to be rude.

While she’s lost in thought, the boy rummages through his pockets before finally pulling out what he wanted— the money she had given him the day before. She notices that half of it has been used.

“H—Here,” the boy holds out the crinkled money. “Thanks for before, you really saved me. This is all I have, but I'll pay back the rest soon.”

Dayeon hesitantly takes it. “Oh, you don't have to do this… will you have anything left for yourself?”

“I'll be alright.” He reassures her.

“Well, if you say so.” Dayeon goes to bow before she suddenly hears a stomach growl loudly. She looks up to see the boy turning bright red.

“Oh?”

“…”

Dayeon can't help but let out a soft laugh when she sees the boy's embarrassed face.

“You know, I'm actually feeling a little bit hungry myself. There's a convenience store right around the corner, care to join me?”

“ … yes, please.”

Dayeon begins walking, and after a moment, the boy follows her. Dayeon glances at him. She can already tell he's a bit on guard and on the quiet side, so she tries to loosen him up.

“You know, now that I think about it, I never got your name last night,” says Dayeon. The boy tenses for some reason, so Dayeon tries to put him at ease by introducing herself first. “I’m Dayeon.”

The boy hesitates, jaw working, like he was struggling with himself. Dayeon turns to look at him, and he meets her eyes. She waits, smiling patiently, and slowly, some of the tension dissolves in his shoulders.

“My name is… Isak.”

“Isak,” Dayeon repeats the foreign name slowly, and the boy gives a strange sort of shudder, like he's never heard his own name come out of another's mouth before. She eyes the reaction curiously and gives him a smile. “That's a nice name.”

The boy doesn't look like he knows what to say to that. “Um, thank you,” he says. His face is still stained with blush.

They walk in silence for a few minutes, and Dayeon steals another glance at him. He’s relaxed a bit more, so he isn't hiding his face under his cap like before, and now she can see the giant bruise swelling on his cheek.

“Hey,” she says, snapping his attention back to her. “Are you alright? You have…” Dayeon trails off and gestures helplessly to his face.

He blinks in surprise, almost as if he's startled she noticed the fresh bruise painting his face. “Oh. Um, yeah, I got into a fight earlier today.”

Dayeon gasps. “Was it those guys again?” She cries, dismayed.

Isak flinches. “Well, I did run into them again…”

Call it a habit she’s inherited from living with Ijin, but Dayeon is able to spot a half-truth a mile away. Her eyes flicker down to his hands.

(His knuckles were split and had fresh bruises. He didn’t carry himself as someone who had been injured. He hadn't been defending himself. He'd been fighting.)

A niggling feeling worms its way into her stomach.

“I see,” she says when she realizes she left him hanging. “You should be careful around here. Seoul is pretty safe, but there are a lot of gangs around these parts. Lots of rich kids try to pick fights with each other and get away with it because they have money.”

“Alright,” says Isak. He suddenly flinches like a thought has come to him and turns to her. “Will you be alright?”

Dayeon blinks, surprised. At first, she has no idea what he is talking about, but then she realizes what he means. She’s a teenage girl walking home all by herself in an area where she said there is a lot of criminal activity. And she knows firsthand how much men like to harass teenage girls.

His red-colored eyes stare into her, and it feels like he’s probing her soul for answers.

“I’ll be fine. I’m a fast runner,” Dayeon reassures him. “Lots of experience.” That probably wasn’t the most reassuring thing to say, but it was true. All the times of outrunning her bullies, drunk old men harassing her, and teenage boys who wouldn’t take no for an answer has practically turned her into a professional track star.

Gaining a brother had decreased those problems significantly, but old habits die hard.

Isak nods silently, and Dayeon somehow feels like he's more aware of what those experiences are than most boys are at their age.

They walk into the convenience store together, and Dayeon immediately sets out to ask Isak what he wants. He gives her a noncommittal shrug, so Dayeon is left nervously deciding what to pick out for him and second-guessing each item. Isak is hovering over her shoulder and trailing after her like a lost puppy, but every time Dayeon asks him what he would like he keeps on shrugging and saying variations of “I don't care” which inadvertently makes her more awkward. Finally, she suggests that they'll have better luck picking out items if they split up and choose.

Dayeon fingers the mouth of the cold soda, eyeing Isak across the store. He's studying the packages of kimbaps, looking a bit overwhelmed and flinching every time he meets the employee's gaze.

(Sometimes. Sometimes Ijin would flinch whenever someone called his name. Like he wasn’t used to it. Like he didn’t recognize it. Like he didn’t know it.

Like he was never called it.)

“ISAK!” Dayeon calls across the store, and he jerks so hard he knocks down the rows of food-filled plastic containers on the floor.

Dayeon is shocked. She didn’t know what she was expecting, but she didn't expect that reaction. Spotting the cashier scowling, she hurried over to Isak, who was hurriedly picking up the food.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he mutters. His whole face is red with embarrassment.

“It's okay,” soothes Dayeon, helping him pick up the mess. “It's my fault for calling you so loudly in public. I didn't mean to startle you.”

Dayeon neatly stacks the meals on the shelves while Isak picks them up from the floor. She glances at him when he isn't looking. She doesn't even know why she is wary of him, but it's just something about this boy that is sending some sort of signal to her.

He's different. Not in the way of a foreigner, but of something else. He walks like he's half-expecting to be stabbed than be offered a handshake. His words are mindful, but not in the way of not knowing the language but of carefully wording out information.

And his eyes.

Watchful and wary, darting around like he is looking for something— or hiding from it.

He reminds her of Ijin, and she wants to know why.

And then she does.

It happens in an instant. So unnoticeable that Dayeon would have missed it if she was paying less attention. Isak hands her the final plastic container, and as he does so, the sleeve of his red hoodie slips up.

And she sees it.

There, on the inside of his left wrist, written in small fine-print black ink, is:

032.

Suddenly, the air just leaves her lungs. Her ears can hear nothing but a high-pitched ringing. Dayeon suddenly feels dizzy and faint.

(Her brother had a tattoo on his wrist. It was small and he tried to hide it, but they lived together so it was impossible to, really. Sometimes, when they washed dishes together, he would pull up his sleeves and Dayeon would catch a glimpse.

Inside of his right wrist was the number 001 .)

Dayeon tries to force herself to think it's a coincidence. This boy was likely a runaway, and that's why he wasn't used to his name. He was so jumpy and careful because he had likely lived on the streets, not because he was looking out for something. He had the tattoo because — because — just because!

(Something tells her it isn't.)

“Hey, are you okay?” Somebody asks. Dayeon snaps out of her daze to see the boy — Isak — staring at her with concerned red-colored eyes. His brow is furrowed, and it causes a crease in his face.

“Yes, I'm fine,” Dayeon's heart is pounding, and she doesn't know why. She forces a smile. “Sorry, I just blanked for a second.”

Shame and guilt sweep under her skin. Who is she to throw her half-baked suspicions onto him? She's probably on edge from Yeona’s kidnapping and seeing that blond foreigner that had thrown Ijin off for days. Right now, she’s just jumping to conclusions about who or what this boy is with only a gut feeling and circumstantial evidence.

From now on, Dayeon would just treat him as a— a normal boy.

In recompense, she offers him the ice-cold soda and he takes it confusedly. “We still have to pay?”

“It's for your bruise,” she says, gently tapping the side of her own jaw.

He blinks, startled. “Oh. Thank you.”

“No problem. Did you want to buy this or are you ready to pay?”

“Pay, please.”

Isak trails after her, soda to his cheek as he watches her pay. They make their way onto the porch, and as soon as she dumps all the food on the table, Isak gobbles it up like it's his last meal.

"You should leave some for spending next time. I wasn't expecting you to pay me back,” says Dayeon as Isak chomps down on the kimbaps.

"Of course I should pay you back. You're not supposed to wait until you have extra to pay someone back for their help." Isak scoffs.

"True," Dayeon counters with a smile. "But haven't you ever heard the saying, 'kindness is free'?"

The boy lets out a sharp, barking laugh like she’s said something hilarious. “Not from where I’m from.”

“Well, then clearly you didn’t grow up in the right place,” says Dayeon.

Isak stares at her, a curious, surprised, studying look appearing as he takes her in consideration. After a moment, his mouth twitches into something of a smile. “Maybe,” he agrees softly.

There's a beat of awkward silence as the two teenagers stare at each other until Dayeon clears her throat and gestures to the food. Isak flushes and digs in.

Dayeon can't help but stare at him while he's busy eating.

She didn't really notice the last time they met, but this was her first time seeing the boy in a real light instead of being cast in shadows or the dim glow of the convenience store.

His face is fair and slender, wisps of blond hair escaping his black cap. His lashes were blond, but they were long and thick and in the dying sun, cast shadows under the startling red-colored eyes that Dayeon first noticed.

He was actually… really pretty.

Dayeon knows that pretty isn’t really something that should describe a boy, but she didn’t know how else to describe him. He just… was.

Were all Western boys this pretty?

His eyes flick up questioningly, and Dayeon practically jumps when she meets his gaze.

“So, how old are you?” Dayeon blurts out the first question that comes to mind.

“Me? I'm seventeen…”

Dayeon gasps, a pleasantly surprised smile blooming. “You're my age.”

“R-Really? We're the same exact age?” Isak looks up, shocked, like he’s never spoken to another person the same age before.

“Yup, I’m seventeen years old too!” Dayeon beams. “Let’s speak comfortably now!”

“O-Okay. Do what you want…”

Dayeon looks at the kimbap he’s eating longingly. She’s feeling kind of hungry right now, but it would be rude to eat the food she had bought for Isak when he was likely much more hungry than she was. Isak notices her staring and nudges a kimbap towards her with a slight smile.

“You’re from overseas, right?” Dayeon asks, gratefully taking the kimbap from him.

“Yeah, I’m traveling right now.”

“With your friends?”

“By myself.”

“By yourself?” Dayeon exclaims, far too loud.

Isak flinches. “Y-Yeah.”

Dayeon had to physically bite back the concerned questions rising up from her tongue. Why on earth was a kid her age traveling all alone? Where was his family?

(Who even was he?)

“Oh wow. You’re traveling all alone? How many countries have you been to?” Dayeon asks once she’s sure the concern won’t leak into her voice. At least her question is genuine in its awe and curiosity.

“I dunno, I never counted, but probably over twenty countries…” Isak trails off and shrugs, obviously relieved she isn’t pressing his traveling alone-ness.

“Whoa… you must really like to travel,” comments Dayeon.

“Not really, I just sort of ended up with this job where I usually have to travel to different countries to complete different assignments.” Isak fiddles with the cap of his soda, and Dayeon clocks in on the nervous gesture instantly.

(Not telling the full truth, then. Hiding something.)

“What about you?” Isak asks, and Dayeon snaps out of it.

“Huh?”

“You seem really interested in going abroad. Your eyes lit up,” says Isak, then seems to immediately regret admitting to paying that much attention to her. His face turns bright red, and he stutters, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s alright. You’re right anyway,” Dayeon laughs good-naturedly. “What person wouldn’t like to travel to other countries? I’ve stayed in Korea my whole life. I’ve never even left Seoul.”

“Why not?” Isak asks curiously.

Dayeon shrugs. “Money expenses, mostly. Going abroad is pretty expensive, and I don’t have that kind of money.” She thinks of the first time she and Yeona had met up after she’d returned from America and how she had devoured the stories Yeona had from overseas. She had brushed off the question of wanting to study abroad, but secretly, in the darkest corner of her heart, she wanted to go.

But then if she did, her grandpa would be all alone… and Ijin too…

“Not to mention, my family’s here. I would get homesick.” Her lips curl in a slightly wry smile. Maybe she just wasn’t meant for traveling.

“Oh,” says Isak quietly. He looks like he wants to say something else, but ultimately stays silent.

Dayeon studies him for a bit. He looks lost in thought, forlorn, and runs his slender finger around the soda can again and again. Strangely enough, she finds that she doesn’t like that expression on him.

“What about you?”

“Huh?”

“You must speak a lot of different languages if you're traveling all over the place,” says Dayeon. “You’re Korean is very good. How long have you been studying?”

The boy flushes but can’t hide the proud smile on his face. “A few months.”

“A few months?” Dayeon splutters, and the boy laughs.

(He has a nice laugh.)

“Yeah. I also speak English, Mandarin, and Arabic. I know a bit of Spanish, too. And—” he cuts off when he sees the slack-jawed look on her face and laughs again.

“You know that many languages?” Dayeon stutters, disbelief written all over her face. "And you learned Korean in just a couple of months? How is that even possible?”

“To be fair, I knew a bit of Korean before I started to learn it. There were a couple of Korean missionaries in the place I grew up, and I had a… friend, who spoke it when we first met, so I sort of understood the basics. To be honest, the one who knew the most Korean was my broth—”

Isak stops, his smile freezing as his fingers tighten around the soda until indents appear in the metal. He suddenly looks lost, red-colored eyes flickering, and biting down on his lip so hard she’s surprised it’s not bleeding.

Dayeon swallows; a sudden knot in her stomach.

Oh. She’s hit a sore spot, hasn’t she?

“I’m sorry,” she offers, quietly. She recognizes that grief-look on his face.

The boy snaps his eyes up, looking like he is about to snarl, ‘What does sorry even do?’ when he sees her eyes and realizes how genuine she is; how honest. She knew, better than anyone, that sorrys couldn’t take back the time spent in pain from loss. But as she grew older, she realized that people said them because they were offering condolences, showing their sympathy, offering support to ease the burden of grief. It wasn’t to make them magically feel better, it wasn't meant to do anything, it was—

It was just meant to tell them, subtly, that they cared.

He nods, and the grip on his can slowly relax. Silence grows between them, and she feels awkward and guilty for being the cause of it.

“So how long will you be in Korea?” Dayeon asks.

Isak pauses, a strange expression crossing his face. “... Until I'm done with things here,” he says, like something final.

Dayeon can sense the undercurrent of something but decides not to press it. “I see. You must be staying nearby since I ran into you again.”

“No, I just had something to take care of here… but I guess you live around here?” He suddenly straightens, eyes wide as a hand covers his mouth. “Ah, that's a rude question, isn't it?”

Dayeon laughs. “No it's not. My school is nearby—”

The next following moments happen in the span of three seconds.

Dayeon screams as out of nowhere Ijin tackles Isak, sending the food tumbling to the ground and the table flying as they grapple.

In the blink of an eye, Ijin snatches a single chopstick and tries stabbing it into Isak's eye. Isak grabs his wrist, barely blocking it, and Ijin snatches another chopstick with his other hand and slashes at him. Isak twists his neck to dodge, releasing his grip. The air shrivels up in her lungs when Isak kicks Ijin right in his broken ribs. Ijin falters with pain, and Isak is able to push him off and spring to his feet, her brother doing the same.

Dayeon’s feet are frozen to the ground. The whole fight happened so fast, and it was lethal. If Isak hadn’t dodged the slash to the neck, it would’ve hit an artery.

Ijin would’ve killed him.

Over her brother's shoulder, Dayeon meets Isak's eyes wildly. His eyes flicker to her before turning back to Ijin.

And then he begins speaking in a foreign language.

Dayeon feels her heart stop.

The language is guttural, tongue-twisting, and undeniably unlike any language Dayeon has ever heard. But she recognizes it. She recognizes it because she’s heard it before.

(Yeona’s kidnappers spoke it. That blond foreigner man spoke it.

Ijin spoke it.)

Dayeon finally finds her voice.

“Ijin?”

They both stop.

“Ijin, what are you doing here? What's going on?” Dayeon says desperately.

Ijin doesn't turn to look at her. “You should get out of here, now.”

“Huh? What do you mean…” Dayeon's voice drifts off as she notices the dangerous look in his eyes. He's looking past her, right at Isak, like he’s a threat, like he’s dangerous. She recognizes that look… it was the same one he had worn when he rescued her from Yeona’s kidnappers.

Cold and ruthless, just like how he fought.

Dayeon's eyes drop down to his shirt, and to her horror she sees it bloodied, his side slashed. Was he stabbed?

“Ijin, you're bleeding…” she whispers.

“You two… know each other?” A voice breaks through her panic, and she turns to see Isak staring at them.

“Huh? He’s my brother.”

“As in…”

“My older brother.” Dayeon says.

Isak struggles to keep his face from showing anything and fails spectacularly.

“I'm sorry, he's not usually like this. There must be some sort of misunderstanding…” Dayeon falters off when she sees the look on the boy's face. It's harsh and disbelieving. The boy looks nothing like the one she'd been happily chatting with a minute ago, and it makes Dayeon come to a chilling realization.

Right. How well can she know a boy she only met a day ago?

Ijin moves in front of her, protecting her. “Can you give us a moment, Dayeon?” He speaks up.

Dayeon jolts. “Huh?”

Ijin stares at the boy, hard and intense as he glares right back. She can feel a fight rearing up, the tension crackling in the air.

Dayeon wants to say no. She wants to argue. But as she gazes between the two of them, she knew she had no place here.

“… Okay.”

Dayeon walks off the porch, her heart racing and legs numb as she leaves the two of them standing there. Even though they’re busy glaring at each other, she can still somehow feel their eyes burning into her back until she rounds the corner of a building and leaves their sight.

As soon as she does she doubles over, gasping. Her heart is pounding out of her chest and her legs are weak and shaking.

The fighting skills. The mannerisms. The foreign language. The tattoo.

This boy was a part of Ijin’s past.

And she had left him alone with him.

Dayeon pokes her head out from the pillar she is hiding behind. Right now, her brother and the boy aren't currently fighting, but if they did, Dayeon had one hand on her cell phone, ready to call the police. While she doubted they could do anything, at least it would break up the fight and send the boy running.

Ready to duck if they looked her way, Dayeon watches as the tension slowly works its way out of the atmosphere. Suddenly, Ijin bends down… and starts picking up the trash? Dayeon blinks, hardly able to believe her eyes as the boy he had previously tried to murder, the one who had been glaring daggers at her brother like he was his most hated enemy, bent down to help him.

Dayeon gapes, rubs her eyes, and wonders if she’s dreaming.

The two finish cleaning, and the boy begins walking away before he suddenly looks up— and meets her eyes. Dayeon startles, and even he looks surprised. Ijin joins the boy, and they exchange a few words before Ijin makes his way towards her while the boy hangs back.

Dayeon hurries over to Ijin. “Are you okay?” She asks urgently.

Ijin looks down at her, at the worry pouring off her in waves, and softens. “I'm fine,” he says.

“Is… he okay?” Dayeon glances at the boy, who is anxiously hovering a few feet away. He jumps when he meets her eyes.

“ … Yes. You don't need to worry, Dayeon,” says Ijin.

“Good. Then I want to talk to him.” She looks up at Ijin boldly. “Alone.”

Her brother looks like he's about to argue before he stops. He takes in the stubborn set of her shoulders and the way her lips draw into a firm line and knows there's no dissuading her.

Dayeon takes a deep breath, looks over at the boy, and refuses to show her nerves. He was fine. She was fine. Ijin wouldn't allow him near her if he was going to attack her, nor would he be acting all buddy-buddy if they weren't friends.

Dayeon slowly approaches the boy, giving him plenty of time to panic.

“So.” Dayeon says. Just because he and Ijin were on good terms now doesn't mean she's about to go easy on him.

“So.” The boy echoes. He looks mildly afraid of what she's about to say next.

“Would it be wrong of me to assume that you were the one who stabbed my brother?” Dayeon goes right for the throat.

The boy pales. “Um—”

“And would it be a shot in the dark to assume that your business in Korea has suddenly ended and you have to leave?” Dayeon arches her brow.

The boy looks like he quite possibly wants to die on the spot. Dayeon wonders if it's possible for the blood to both rush to your face and leave it at the same time.

“I—I'm sorry,” the boy blurts out almost desperately. His hands wring nervously. “It was a misunderstanding.”

Dayeon says nothing but shows that she's listening. The boy continues rambling. “I thought— I thought your brother had something to do with my brother, and I was angry and impulsive, so I came here without thinking. But it turns out I was wrong and my brother is alive. But, um— I'm sorry for attacking your brother. And dragging you in it. It was— I didn’t mean for it to happen.” The boy’s eyes are wide and sincere as he fumbles through his apology.

Dayeon studies him for a long time. “... I believe you,” she says, and means it. From the look on the boy's face, she can tell he's surprised she does too.

“I just have one question,” she says, and he tenses. “Your name.”

“Huh?”

“The name you gave me. Isak. Was it your real name, or a fake one?”

The boy stares at her.

Dayeon had just blurted out the question and now immediately felt embarrassed under the boy’s gaze. Heat rises to her cheeks.

Well, too late to take it back now.

To be honest, Dayeon wasn't really sure why she asked that. She has lots of questions, and he likely had lots of answers. She doubted he would have told her the full truth, but the point is that she could have asked him anything.

But for some reason, the only thing she can focus on is his name.

(She knew, vaguely, that names were important where they came from. It was the only thing that couldn't be taken away from them.)

The boy stares at her, studying, suspicious, like he is trying to see if she has any ulterior motives. Dayeon keeps her eyes genuine and posture open, letting him see she isn’t hiding anything. Her heart is beating rapidly, and she’s strangely nervous, but she hopes he can see her.

Finally, he relaxes, and a small smile crosses his face. “Yeah, it is.”

“Really? That's your real name?” Happiness bursts from her chest.

“Yeah,” Isak smiles.

(He has a nice smile, too.)

“Right.” Dayeon sighs and leans back on her heels. “Well, that's all I wanted to ask. Thank you for answering my question… Isak.”

“No problem… Dayeon.” Isak turns scarlet when he says her name.

“Good luck in whatever you have to do,” says Dayeon. “And take care.”

“Thank you,” replies Isak. He hesitates, then almost sheepishly, adds “... you too.”

Dayeon beams.

Ijin approaches, and Isak jumps in what looks like fear and before backing up from her. Dayeon raises a hand to wave goodbye, and with a small smile hidden under his cap, Isak does the same.

Now for Ijin.

“So you two knew each other?” Dayeon asks once Isak leaves.

Ijin jumps. “Yeah.”

“Then why were you so harsh earlier?” Dayeon watches him closely. She knew she had said not to ask anything about his past, but she wasn’t really breaking her promise. He had attacked a kid out in the open and then made up with him in the next ten minutes. Surely he was expecting her to ask some questions about that?

But she had literally seen him try to stab someone’s eye out with a chopstick, so she was curious about what kind of excuse he would come up with—

“I thought some weird guy was hitting on you because you are pretty,” Ijin whips out, cool as can be.

Dayeon’s jaw drops. “What?”

She stares at Ijin.

Ijin stares back.

They both just stood there, staring at each other blankly for what feels like forever.

“Let’s just… let’s just go back home,” Dayeon manages faintly.

“Alright. Are you going to tell Grandpa about this?”

“Only if you don’t let me stitch up that wound, I will.”

***

It isn’t until much later when it hits her.

After Dayeon had done an appropriate amount of fussing over Ijin’s wound and had cleaned and bandaged it before he had kindly but firmly kicked her out of his room so he could brood, she was sitting in her room contemplating the day.

Meeting Isak had revealed a lot about Ijin and his past today. She closes her eyes, her thoughts flying around like a whirlwind in her brain: comrades and numbers and fighting; quick-to-kill hands, secret names, and tattoos. Even though there was animosity, it’s clear there’s some sort of innate trust in each other. Bonds are hard to break, after all.

That blond man that came before Isak— he’s another one of Ijin’s old comrades. Yet when they saw each other, they were eyeing each other like predators ready to kill one another instead of friends. Old comrades — friends — but ready to kill each other on a moment's notice.

(Who’s notice?)

Dayeon sighs and opens her eyes. It seems the more conclusions she comes to leave more questions to be answered. It feels like there is a string being drawn in her chest, slowly becoming tighter and tighter the more Ijin’s secrecy piles up. She fears one day it might snap, and whatever emotions she has carefully stored away will come breaking out.

Dayeon absently scrawls 032 in her notebook. She wonders if he’s somehow managed to leave the country yet, or if he’s still in the city. It would be hard to leave Korea without any money—

Her brain screeches to a halt. Wait. He didn't have any money. He was broke. Which means he likely wouldn't be able to eat for who-knows-how-long again.

Dayeon jumps to her feet and begins knocking on Ijin’s door frantically. “Ijin! Ijin, open up!” She whispers.

After a moment, he pokes his head out, dressed in new clothes. “Dayeon? What is it?”

“We need to go to the convenience store. Now.” She says urgently. “Do you have your wallet?”

To his credit, Ijin doesn't question her even though he looks extremely confused. He nods, and soon he and Dayeon are on their way to the convenience store by their apartment.

“Why are we going to the store in the middle of the night?” Ijin asks.

“Your friend,” Dayeon begins, and ignores the way he subtly tenses. “He's broke. I forgot to mention it to you, but that's the reason you found us eating together. He was starving so I offered to pay for his food.”

Whatever Ijin is expecting her to say, it certainly isn't that.

“Oh,” he says. “You gave him food?” For a split-second she can see fondness for his old comrade — no matter what history there was — play on the shadows of his face.

“Yeah. And we’re going to buy him food now. Do you have any idea where he’s staying?”

“A couple but…” Ijin hesitates. “You can’t come.” It might be dangerous, is what’s left unsaid, and she doesn’t argue.

“So I won't be able to see him again?” Dayeon asks. “That's too bad. I thought he was pretty cute.”

Ijin trips on the curb as they enter the convenience store.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No!”

“Yes!”

Dayeon laughs at the scandalized expression her brother wears as he buries his face in his hands. He looks like he regrets this entire conversation. Dayeon flits around the store, grabbing food and drinks from the shelves like a storm. Ijin watches her and pulls out his wallet when she joins him by the cashier.

The lady begins scanning and bagging the items and Dayeon’s hand lingers on one of the packages. It's one of the meals she had spotted Isak wanting, but didn’t buy because she was paying.

Dayeon stares at the packaged meal, and in a split-second decision, digs into her bag and pulls out a sticky note. Ignores Ijin, who has given up all pretenses of busying himself with paying and is blatantly staring, and writes down a note.

Dayeon caps the pen, forces down her embarrassed hesitation, and smooths the sticky note down on the plastic. She fixes Ijin with a stern look. “No. Peeking.”

“What’s so important about that note that I can’t even see it?” Ijin scowls— no, sulks.

“It’s nothing,” Dayeon says quickly. “Really. Just… an inside joke.”

Ijin raises an eyebrow about that, likely wondering how Dayeon and Isak had gotten around to sharing inside jokes, but thankfully doesn’t press the issue.

The woman who was checking out their items — and Ijin, by default — looks jealous of her boldness.

Dayeon avoids each of their gazes.

***

Isak finally threads the last stitch through his flesh and gasps in pain. It’s been around half an hour since 001 had come and saved his life, and he had finally managed to patch up all the injuries Aiden had left him.

He eyes his blood-soaked hoodie crumpled in a corner and scowls. Aiden, that bastard; that was his favorite hoodie. Blood took forever to get out. That coward had almost managed to bring him down with an ambush— if he had fought him head on, there was no chance the mercenary would’ve been able to land as many hits as he did.

He pants, giving himself a moment to calm his heart and settle his thoughts. He had to get back to The Camp quick, before whatever assholes they sent next decided to fuck him up even more. He is in no condition to fight, and the thought of moving caused him physical pain right now, but he has to get out of here before whatever shady cleanup crew 001 got his hands on in this country came over.

Isak eyes the plastic bag on his right. 001 had said his sister had told him he was broke and had bought him food.

… Maybe he can stay for a quick meal. Now that the immediate danger is gone and his pain has subsided into a dull ache, he’s actually feeling kind of hungry. 001 had already dragged Aiden’s ass out of his hideout, and it would take some time before someone came to clean up the evidence. He has time.

With a groan, Isak reaches over and hooks his fingers into the plastic to drag it forward. The bag is bulging with the amount of food stuffed into it. Isak roots through the packages and recognizes some of them as the food he had been eyeing at the convenience store when he was with 001’s sister.

His fingers brush against something odd. Frowning, Isak pulls out a plastic package of food— with a sticky note attached. He peels off the note.

Don’t forget kindness is free, but if you really want to pay me back, then remember to come back and say hello!

— Dayeon

He can’t help but laugh. He laughs until his ribs hurt; until he’s breathless and his cheeks ache from grinning ear to ear.

Holy shit. That girl is something else.

From the very beginning she’s made an impact on him; he doubts he can ever forget her if he tried. She paid for his food when he was starving— and went even more by leaving every piece of money in her wallet for him because she knew he needed it more than she did.

When they met again, she was still kind, still caring: offering him companionship, sympathy, care— even though they were practically strangers. He thinks of her kindness that is so rare from where he’s from, her knowing eyes, her secret smiles.

It was so weird; in the short time they met, he’d been so aware of her. She had gotten him to let his guard down in such a short period of time; she’d gotten him to talk about his childhood, about his brother—

Even when he had almost fucked up and killed her brother, she gave a chance to explain himself and apologize— and she accepted. She forgave him, and now, was leaving him with a final gift.

Haven’t you ever heard the saying kindness is free?

He rubs his thumb over the ink on the sticky note. He still didn’t believe that, still believed that kindness can still be used as a way to stab someone in the back, but—

He guesses with Dayeon, it might be true.

***

Icebound

icebound definition: surrounded, obstructed, or covered by ice.

In which Zane uses his element against the Overlord to save the city and his friends. Because it wasn’t about numbers, it was about family.

❄️🩵❄️🩵❄️🩵❄️

It is the end, and Zane knows it.

The Overlord is conquering Ninjago City, webs of gold stringing across buildings like Christmas lights and tying up his friends like flies. They struggle, but it is useless under the might of the Overlord.

Zane flips out of the way of a golden band reaching to ensnare him and lands on a roof. All of his friends are tied up, and only Zane is free. He knows what he has to do. He is the only one who can.

“Support me, friends. For one last time.”

He takes a running leap off the ledge, and Jay flips midair so his feet plant squarely on top of his. Then Cole, Lloyd, Kai, Sensei Garmadon, and Wu.

He soars, flying straight at the Overlord, and grabs onto his golden fangs.

Immediately, he feels its power, and its agony. Pain rips into every crevice of his body; his jolts rattle and shake and his wires spark under his skin.

“Let my friends go!” Zane shouts.

“Go where, Doomed Ninja?” The Overlord sneers. Its eyes, red and hateful, glare into him.

Zane writhes under the immense pain and power. His body cannot handle it, he knows, and he feels himself falling apart under it.

“The Golden Weapons are too powerful for you to behold. Your survival chance is low.”

But Zane isn’t trying to hold them. He’s trying to destroy them.

He thinks of his brothers. He thinks of PIXAL. He thinks of his father. He thinks of an old man with long white hair as pure as snow and ice blue eyes that visited him a long time ago, who had come and left as quickly as winter did and had breathed that power into him because he saw him worthy of it.

“This … isn’t about numbers … It's about family!”

The golden webs holding the Ninja fall and they escape. He can hear them screaming, telling him to let go, and he thanks them for that. Wu and Garmadon grab onto them and yank them back, away from the oncoming destruction.

His core — his heart — started reaching critical mass. Frost began creeping upon the Overlord’s fangs. Something blue and blinding in his heart freezes under his power, and Zane embraces it. It's his power. His choice.

“I am a Nindroid. And Ninja never quit. Go Ninja … go!”

He is the Master of Ice. He was built to protect those who cannot protect themselves. He stands for peace, freedom, and courage in the face of all who threaten Ninjago.

Frostbite burns his skin away; jolt and wires freeze under the cold; until he is left completely bare.

The last glimpse they get of Zane is him surrounded by a blizzard of his own making, bright and beautiful like a supernova. Burning blue and white with the terrible brilliance of his own determined choice.

Zane died; not as a machine, not as a human, not as a tool of anyone or anything — but as himself. Zane died to save the ones he loves.

And woke up as something completely different.

❄️🩵❄️🩵❄️🩵❄️

PIXAL climbs her way up the steep cliff side, careful to place her foot in secure crevices in case she slipped and fell from the icy mountain. Heavy snow blinded her vision as the blizzard whipped around her, but she kept her pace steady and sure.

It had been months since she had left Ninjago City and began her search. Months since Zane’s death and memorial. PIXAL knew, logically, that she should be back there, properly mourning him. But she could not.

He had never given up on her, not when she was under the Overlord’s control or when she was struggling with the newness of emotions.

And that meant she could never give up on him.

When she had first met Zane, she became more than a machine meant to function. He was vital to her, and she was a part of him.

She carried half his heart, and against all logical explanations, she knew he was still alive.

She did not tell the Ninja of her suspicions: the immediate aftermath of Zane’s loss had been devastating. She’d watched as the team fractured, splitting at the seams as they all fled their separate ways, too heartsore and dizzy with grief to do much otherwise. She did not tell Cyrus Borg where she was going either, for she knew if he begged her to stay, she would.

If she had told them she had seen a snowy wraith emerge from the destruction of the frozen, apocalyptic atmosphere on the rooftop, she would have been told she had imagined it due to her grief.

And while she was grieving, she was not imagining it. She is a Nindroid, and she did not have an imagination. PIXAL was built to observe, to analyze, to collect data and gather information. She built theories and hypothesized, not assumed.

So she followed the signs. She kept track of all weather anomalies that happened across Ninjago — sudden snowstorms, cold drops in temperatures that swept through small villages and towns. It led her all across the country until it ended here, with her climbing up the frozen, snow-peaked mountain.

Finally, PIXAL arrived at her destination.

The Ice Temple.

Slowly, she makes her way towards it. Her sensors indicate the temperature dropping the closer she gets. For a normal human, they would have already gotten frostbite without the proper equipment and numb with it, but PIXAL was made of metal. The cold did not bother her.

She peers into the glacial architecture, but does not enter. Or more like, she is unable to. It feels as if there is some sort of force of winter that is keeping her at bay.

“Zane?” Hope finds its way into the desperation of her voice. Freezing winds whip her hair out of its ponytail and against the purple circuits on her cheeks, but she barely notices. “Is that you?”

There’s nothing except for the howling wind, then her eyes catch movement. Slowly, almost like a ghost, a figure starts to come closer, making a shape against the blizzard.

If PIXAL had lungs, all the air would have rushed out of them.

A being made of pure winter floated in front of her. Formed of ice and frost and molded by the wind, it stood there and looked at her. Opaque ice carved the face that has been imprinted in her memory drives, the one she had traveled across the entire world to see again.

It was frozen, and beautiful, and Zane.

Inside her neural drive, alarms were blaring into her system, flashing behind her eyes. Warning: Severe weather alert. Temperature reaching sub-zero levels. Retreat into a warmer climate —

PIXAL shut off the notifications.

“Hello,” she says. Zane does not move. She dares a step closer. “Do you recognize me?”

He says nothing, so PIXAL continues on. It feels like their roles were reversed when they first met: she, the one struck speechless by the other’s beauty. Him, stoic to it all.

“I’m PIXAL, the Primary Interactive X-ternal Assistant Lifeform. I’m a … friend. I came searching for you to bring you home. There are things about you that you don’t understand. That you have yet to discover. I am here to help you remember.”

Zane is quiet, but she senses that he is listening. Something glowing in her chest aches.

“It is alright if you don’t remember me,” PIXAL says. She cannot cry, but is she would she could. She is still new to emotions, and many are overwhelming her: joy and grief and something fierce and pure deep in her heart. “I remember you. And we are still compatible.”

Zane tilts his head and drifts closer. The snow slows its fall, the wind stopping altogether. Snowflakes gently coat her hair. Now that he is closer, she can see the differences that make him unlike the old Zane: he doesn’t have the one dimple on the right side of his cheek, or the small beauty mark on his collarbone, or the tiny scar on his index finger from his shuriken.

But he is still Zane, even as an icy spirit.

She held out a hand. “Your brothers miss you very much. Will you come back with me, Zane?”

He is silent, staring at her. Unlike before, it is impossible to know what he is thinking. She gazes up at him, imploring. His eyes have no irises or pupils, so she is simply staring up at pinpricks of pure blue light.

Slowly, his hand reaches out of her.

BANG!

A loud sound echoes across the ice, and out of nowhere chains of Vengestone come flying out and capture him.

Fear slams into her. “Zane!” PIXAL cries.

Ice races out from his body and across the chains as Zane struggles, but no matter what, he can’t break them.

PIXAL whips around to face the assailant.

A man in his thirties, wrapped in a thick parka to prevent the cold and wearing a red mask. He has shoulder-length brown hair and is wearing a dyed red straw hat, and under it she can see he is hiding an eyepatch.

“What are you doing?” PIXAL shouts. Anger — an emotion she rarely feels — burns through her.

The man lowers his gun and pulls out another one before she can even blink.

“Sorry, sweetheart. Just following orders.”

Before she can question what that means, he fires. A net tangles her limbs together and brings her down against the cold snow. Before she can fight against it, electricity courses through her.

And then everything went black.

First Meetings

Summary: May and Drew meet for the first time, and it goes about just as well as you expect it to.

……… | flirting, fighting, and explosions. Not necessarily in that order. |

DREW

………

Drew against the bridge that was facing the shoreline and watched. The girl in a red bandanna was flinging frisbees at her Beautifly — and failing.

“Amateur,” Drew said in his head. The Beautifly had just failed to complete the move Silverwind. “You’re too nervous, Beautifly is sensing it.” He thought.

“You’re not on the same wavelength. You’re rushing your commands.” Drew recited in his head. He watched the three guys cheer up the girl that had just sunk to the ground in defeat.

A rugged boy around Drews age with messy raven hair and a red hat was encouraging the girl enthusiastically, a Pikachu by side.

“Whatever,” Drew let out a breath and closed his eyes, flipping his green hair from his face. That girl could try her hardest to perfect Silverwind, and those guys can keep on being her personal cheerleaders, but by the end of the contest he was going to end up on top.

“WATCH OUT!” a feminine voice suddenly shouted at him.

A lazy smirk glided along Drew’s mouth like an unwinding ribbon, and he didn’t move a muscle. Drew held out a hand and let the frisbee fly right into it. The cold, hard plastic pressed against the palm of his hand as he heard the girl footsteps against the sand as she reached the front of the bridge.

“I’m sorry,” she panted when she came to a stop.

Drew leaned against the banister and spun the girl’s frisbee around his finger, scoffing, “Please don’t tell me you’re planning on entering the Pokémon contest with the cheesy act like that.”

Drew almost jolted when the words came out of his mouth. He was almost about to apologize before he stopped. He was Andrew Hayden, and Andrew Hayden never apologizes.

Eyes still closed, Drew tossed the toy at the girl's feet and jumped off the bridge, navigating his way to the girl and her personal cheerleaders with ease. Now closer, Drew could feel her offense rolling off her more than the waves behind her.

“You have no finesse. No moves.” Drew continued. The mean words wouldn’t stop rolling off his tongue.

“Hey, who are you to tell me that!” The girl raged on like a Toros.

“If you must know, I’m Drew.” The said person did a cocky flip of his hair, smirking. “Pokémon Coordinator.”

Drew let his eyelids rise and came face to face with the most stunning pair of blue eyes he had ever seen.

………

MAY

Green Guy opened his eyes, and May felt caught off guard when she faced the most stunning pair of eyes she had ever seen.

They weren’t emerald, exactly — they were a lighter, softer shade of green that May would no doubt ponder about later at night. But right now Green Guy — Drew — stared back at May with a strange expression on his face. His pupils are dilated, and May couldn’t help but feel self-conscious as his eyes drank in her every feature.

May felt, as accurately as possible, like a Goldeen out of water.

“Really?” Ash's voice cut through the tension, and both coordinators snapped out of it. “That’s just like you May!” Ash exclaimed happily.

Drew cringed like the very thought of being related to May was painful and Max and Brock practically fell to the ground.

“Please, no comparison,” Drew flipped his hair and held out his hand in front of him, as if he couldn’t bear the sight of them. May looked ready to order Torchic to use Ember on the arrogant excuse-of-a-coordinator.

Drew continued insulting May as Beautifly flew down and elegantly perched herself on her head, tilting her head with curiosity. “You and your Pokémon here,” the green brat addressed May, “you have no style.” He turned his head away from them pridefully.

And … that’s it.

With an animalistic growl, May dove for the boy, literally ready to tackle him in her rage. Luckily, (for Drew sake, everybody but the two thought) Brock lunged forward in the nick of time and grabbed the girl by her forearms, successfully preventing May from her attempts of murder.

Drew didn’t flinch as May struggled to get out of her friend's grip.

“HOW DARE YOU! YOU CAN MAKE FUN OF ME ALL YOU WANT, BUT DON'T YOU DARE MAKE FUN OF MY POKÉMON — MMPH!?”

Drew pressed his hand against May’s trap to prevent his eardrums from being injured. He tossed her a careless smirk, amused and not at all intimidated by her temper.

May squirmed angrily in Brock’s death lock. This guy — this arrogant, cocky, grass-headed guy — had the audacity to touch her after insulting her and Beautifly? He must be joking.

“Whoa, just calm down little girl. I know you want a piece of this —” Drew gestured to his body with his other hand, “but I’m not interested in children.”

May got immense satisfaction when Drew actually took a step away from her as she went in for the kill again, dragging a shocked Brock along with her. Pikachu quickly shot off his partner's shoulder to grab onto the leg May was prepared to kick with. Beautifully quickly dropped back down on the brunette’s head to calm her down.

May took a deep breath, shutting her eyes for a second. She focused on the comforting weight of Beautifly weighing down on her neck before releasing her breath.

“Who are you calling little? We’re the same age," May retorted.

Drew simply ignored her comment and flipped his hair, purposefully ticking her off further.

Max jumped into the conversation, sensing his sister was about to blow again. “May, don’t listen to him," he said, sweating at the way May was eyeing Drew like a Mightyena would pounce on its prey.

“Yeah, why don’t you show us all your great Pokémon,” Ash butted in.

Drew rolled his eyes and answered snootily, “Why, what good would that do?”

Drew flipped his majestic (please note the sarcasm) green hair and locked eyes with May again. “I think,” he continued slowly, “that you all should be on your way.” Drew didn’t take his eyes off the blue-eyed girl as he jabbed his thumb behind him to the five-star hotel none of them had noticed before. “This is a private beach reserved for people like me staying at that hotel.” Drew tilted his head to the side, slightly challenging May — challenging them all — to argue.

May dragged her eyes from the fancy hotel to the boy standing a few feet ahead from her.

She hated him.

Rivalry burned in the pit of her stomach and she made sure she channeled all that heat into the glare she was giving him.

“Let’s go,” Ash broke the silence, grabbing May's wrist and tugging.

“Pika,” Pikachu, who was still at May’s feet, agreed and jumped on Ash's shoulder as the latter turned away and walked in the opposite direction.

“Yeah,” Brock said, unlocking May from his death grip and following Ash. Max followed the others, not before glancing nervously between the two coordinators who were in the middle of a face-off.

“Would you stop glaring at me like that? You look like a Gible,” Drew broke the silence as soon as the boys left.

“No,” May snapped back, anger evident in her tone. Beautify flew off her head and hovered above her.

Drew ran a hand through his hair and let it rest for a moment on her. Then he flipped his hair out and walked right up to her, not stopping until he was inches away from her. “I’ll see you at the contest, May,” he said teasingly, daring her to push him away.

May felt her hands ball up on instinct and her face burned with anger and embarrassment. The girl willed her feet to move, but to no avail.

That’s right,” May heard herself say. “You’ll see me win.”

Drew’s smirk grew wider and he leaned closer. Sapphire and emerald eyes burnt into each other. Both coordinators just stood there, staring at each other, standing in each other’s personal bubbles until May finally had the strength to pull away. Both watched each other like a hawk as May backed away from Drew scowling.

“Come on Beautifly, let’s go,” May finally said.

“Beautifly,” her Pokémon agreed.

Still, the trainers would not move, nor remove eye contact.

Finally, Drew turned on his heel and left, heading back to the hotel he had previously pointed out earlier. May and Beautifly stood and stared at Drew’s retreating form and May was left to ponder what had just transpired, blinking.

“What in Arceus’s name just happened?” May thought bewilderedly. Beautifly startled her out of it by landing on her head once more and May smiled at her Pokémon.

“I’m going to pound that arrogant piece of green hair into the battlefield when I win that ribbon,” May murmured to herself.

The young girl turned around and broke into a sprint, shouting, “Hey Ash! Let's have a Pokémon battle!”