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Day 1: Psycho Killer

It happens the same way, every time.

We're playing at the lake, like we always did back then. Leo, Jasmynn, Carl, and Flynn are skipping rocks. I'm in the water, and they yell at me to get out of the way. So I dive under, and head towards where Toby and Sydney are playing. But as I surface, something's wrong. Sydney is sitting on top of Toby's back, who is lying face down in the water. He keeps pulling Toby's head up, just long enough to let him catch his breath, before shoving it back into the water and sand and mud.

He's going to kill him.

Unless I stop him.

I swim over as fast as I can. I pull Sydney off of Toby. Sydney's not happy about that. We fight for a moment. I punch him in the throat, and see the fight leave his eyes. It should be over now.

But it never is.

He'll do it again, I think to myself, Toby's not safe. I drag Sydney to where the water is deep. I shove him under. I follow. There's a ferociousness in his eyes, the fight is back in him again. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I use this as validation. As an excuse. I knew he was faking it, I think, now let's see how he likes it. We wrestle underwater, two bodies in constant, undulating motion. I see his face soften again, and his eyes look into mine pleadingly. I stare back, letting him know I'm not going to offer him any mercy. His eyes twitch suddenly, as he gets an idea. An idea I should have expected. He's always watching wrestling, and when he's wrestling around with one of us, he always proudly proclaims "I'm the heel" to whatever protests we have against his latest underhanded strategy. His whole body twists under the water, and I think he's trying to slip free. But he's not.

He's winding up.

He throws all of his weight into a kick, directly into my crotch. I watch bubbles rise past me as I involuntarily yelp. My hands leave him, involuntarily moving to nurse my injury. I float, curled up, like a fetus in a womb. Then I realize something terrifying:

He's going to tell.

I have to stop him. Maybe I can talk him out of tattling to Leo and the others. Maybe I can use his heel excuse against him. I bolt towards the shallows. I break the surface, and taste the dry afternoon air. I take a few gulps of it, trying to wipe the water out of my eyes, as I wade towards the shore. I can hear Toby still crying, though something sounds... off. As I open my eyes and am blinded by the afternoon sun, I remember my task.

"Sydney!" I shout, hoping to stop him before he gets to the others.

"Back the hell off" I hear, from a voice I know is Flynn's. My eyes adjust, and that's when I understand. Toby's cries sound wrong, because he's not the one crying.

Sydney is. I've seen him cry a time or two, but never like this. He always prided himself on being tough. But now there's no facade left. He's sobbing, practically wailing. Fear and despair and betrayal drip from each moan. I see Jasmynn trying to talk him down, a hand on his shoulder. But he either can't hear her, or can't understand.

Or just can't calm down.

His eyes meet mine and go wide with terror. My stomach turns. This isn't what I wanted. I just wanted him to be the one crying at the end of one of his and Toby's fights.

But not like this.

I take a step forward to try to talk to him, and Flynn is immediately in between us, staring me down. I hear Carl gasp to my right, and glance over to see him hugging Toby, who is trembling into his shoulder. Carl's eyes are darting in between me and Flynn, like he expects me to drag Flynn into the lake next.

"Just let me talk to him" I offer, and try to shoulder my way past Flynn. A large, red-furred arm immediately blocks my chest and shoves me backwards, and I look up to find Leo's eyes burning with anger.

"Stay away, Otter" he warns.

"Stay the fuck away from him, asshole" Flynn adds.

"Come on, guys, we were just wrestling around, and--" I offer.

"Yeah, he told us what you were trying to do, psycho. Now piss off" Flynn hisses at me.

"Just let me apologize," I look up at the wolf blocking my way, "Leo, just let me--"

"No," Leo interrupts. He's a man of few words, though that's mostly because, in English, he only really _knows_a few words.

"Come on," I whine, and try to step past him. I see Flynn's tail twitching in anticipation, but there's no need. Two large wolf paws grip my shoulders, hard.

"Ow, Leo, let go!"

"No," Leo warns, and there's something sinister in the tone that I've never heard from him before. "Stay away, Otter. Or I'll hurt you."

A silence falls over the scene. Sydney is no longer wailing, just trying to catch is breath as individual sobs hiccup in his throat. I feel their eyes on me, and look from one to the next.

Toby's guilty, mournful look.

Carl's confused fear.

Flynn's protective rage.

The hatred in Leo's eyes, and the fact that he's baring teeth, make it painfully, gut-wrenchingly clear: if I try to get closer, we won't be Leo and Chase anymore. We'll be predator and prey.

Finally, my gaze falls to Sydney, still staring at me in wide eyed fear.

It always ends this way. With the silence. With me losing all of my friends.

And Sydney... Sydney just stares.

And then I wake up.

Problem Child

An Echo Fan Fiction

By Fable91

I swat at my alarm in the dark, the image of Sydney's terrified blue eyes still burned into my memory. It takes a moment of wondering why my alarm is going off at all before I remember what today is.

"Fuck, why did I have to have that dream today of all days?" I wonder aloud. The lake dream always leaves me exhausted the next day, like I didn't sleep at all.

And today's the first day of school.

I throw on whatever clothes I can find. I'm sure Mom had some preppy outfit picked out for me. I'm not going to wear it. I get made fun of enough as it is, I at least need the kids to be a little afraid of me if I'm going to survive. Wearing some mis-sized thrift store Sunday School outfit isn't going to help. I shuffle down the hall as quickly as my shitty otter legs will carry me. I'm not made for this being-on-land crap. Mom's already left, off to the underpaying job that comes with the single-motherhood-I-never-asked-for lifestyle. Dad had stuck it out for a few years, before splitting because he "couldn't deal with the problem child" anymore. All dads do that eventually, mine was at least straightforward about it. He married some bitch upstate, she's got an honors kid, and they're off pretending to be a real family somewhere. I see them a couple of times a year, and it feels like pulling teeth. Stepbrother's alright I guess, except he always stares at me when I come to visit. Probably figures I'm there to steal his shit. I've tossed the idea around in my head of just kicking his ass, just to see what would happen. But that's the demented, problem-child shit I'm supposed to be trying to get away from. He's a prissy prick, but he's the only member of that side of the family who at least _tries_to be nice to me. Even my own dad can't stand having me around.

I throw a pair of off-brand toaster pastries in the toaster, and let my mind wander. A bad habit to get into. But that nightmare always leaves me in this sort of mood. Contemplative, I guess. Introspective. Fucking tired. I've had that dream about once a week since that day. Sometimes I'll go a month or so without, and almost taste what it's like to be normal for a minute. Then it comes back, and I remember. I'm not normal. I'm the psycho killer. When it comes back, it likes to come back every day for a week or two. Like I have to make up for the ones I missed. Those weeks are a trainwreck. No sleep, plus my usual ability to get into trouble... I can't help wondering what my life would be like if that day had never happened. Still friends with the kids from Echo, parents still together. Of course Toby might be dead. And Sydney would still have those problems he used to, after his dad died. But maybe he'd be the problem child, instead of me. Hell, maybe he'd look up to me or some shit.

Sometimes, in my darker moments, of which there are more than I'd care to mention, I think about... the alternative. What might have been if... he hadn't gotten away. Would I have killed him? I don't think I would have. But I don't know. If I did kill him, then I guess my life would probably be even worse. So either Sydney dies, or Toby dies, or... this. So then I guess I had no say in it after all. I guess I did the best thing I could, for all of us. Though I hardly deserve credit, I wasn't thinking about that at the time. I was just angry with Sydney. But I got angry with Sydney a lot back then. I don't know what was different about that day. Why I did what I did.

I don't know what the fuck is wrong with me.

The sound of the toaster popping grants me a temporary reprieve from my emotional tailspin. I take a bite, and curse as the filling burns my mouth.

"Fach" I manage over a mouthful of molten imitation strawberry. I glance at the clock. Fuck. Time to go deal with the nightmare that today is going to be.

I grab my backpack and head out the door. I nibble on the shall-remain-nameless toaster tart, pushing myself through the hot edges to the cold center. I'm not sure a single bite ends up being the correct temperature. As I walk I continue to think, because that's all I can do. After the... incident, my parents started sending me to psychiatrists. Shrink after shrink, hoping that one of them could fix me. That I could be their normal, boring, personality-of-a-rock son again. All the "doctors" did was run up a bill while they asked me stupid, meandering questions. One was very concerned with how often my father hugged me. One suggested that I hated my mom for "abandoning" me by giving birth to me. One was very, _very_convinced that I had been molested. To the point where it almost felt like he was trying to convince me. Like I wouldn't fucking know. That one ended with a shouting match that could be heard from the receptionist's desk, where I said some very violent and sexually explicit things that _I guess_twelve-year-olds aren't supposed to shout at their psychologists. But it had pretty quickly become clear to me that the shrinks had a grift going-- each one would run up a bill while asking me asinine questions, then just shrug and go "I dunno, lol" and pass me off to the next one to get his paycheck. So I started fucking with them. If they weren't gonna help me anyway-- and none of them could-- then I wasn't about to let them run the meter and bleed my parents dry.

This was about the time that Dad left. So maybe I miscalculated a bit. Or maybe he's just a weak and feckless coward, and I should be glad to have him out of my life. In either case, what's done is done. He's gone, I'm an attempted murderer with no diagnosis to fall back on, and it's the first day of school.

Jasmynn and Carl are at the bus stop already. Seeing members of the old gang sucks. It's like a breakup that I never get over. I see them, and get excited, then remember. Every damn time. And nearly every time I see them, I do something else too. Something my pride begs me not to do. Something the "rebellious problem child" in me hates me for too.

I try.

"Hey, Jasmynn" I offer. She glances up.

"It's Jenna now" she corrects.

"What?" I ask, in that way where you ask for clarification just before your mind catches up. Her brow furrows, as if she's suddenly remembering who she's talking to.

"Never mind" she assures me, and turns away from me, casting her gaze towards the horizon. Jasmynn usually isn't outright rude to me, but she's got the cold shoulder down to a science. Something about her tone, and the way she moves, can shut you down completely. So I turn to Carl instead, who's busy doing something or another on his phone.

"Morning, Carl" I offer. His gaze remains locked on the screen, pretending he didn't hear me. But the way he flinched at my voice lets me know he did. So, this year should be good. Just like all the others.

The bus arrives, and I shuffle to the back as quickly as possible, keeping my head down. I avoid looking at anyone, because I already know they're glaring at me. Like they always do. I sit in the back, and stare out at the desert.

*****

The trip to school is uneventful, and I plod along to homeroom, ignoring the glares as I pass. You'd think after some four or five odd years they'd be over it, but not much happens around here I guess. I glance at the schedule that I've been handed. P.E. first period, which is a joke. P.E. is of course already a joke, plus being an_otter_in P.E. is an added punchline, plus having to do it first thing in the morning--? Fuck this. The rest of the schedule is fairly standard school shit. Math, Science, History, the usual. I almost let myself feel like I was in for an ordinary day.

I should know better.

I walk to the gym, and find most of the kids sitting on the bleachers. First day, they're not gonna make us actually do anything. So I walk to the bleachers and sit down in a corner, away from everyone else, like I always do. Class starts. The "teacher" (P.E. teacher, so...) comes out, and starts reading off names. They don't seem to be in any particular order. Eventually he gets to me.

"Hunter, Chase?"

I raise my hand.

"Hunter, Chase?" he says again. I glance up, confused. The meathead is staring at his clipboard like letters are a new innovation for him, not even bothering to look up.

"Fuck" I mutter under my breath, "Here!" I shout. Several kids turn, and I see them muttering to each other. Making sure everyone knows who I am. I already know what they're saying, and the word I can read on their lips confirms it. "Psycho." I hate calling attention to myself.

"Well, say that the first time!" the teacher scolds. Great,_I think, _one of these types.

The roll call continues, largely without incident, until I hear a name that chills me to the bone.

"Bronson?"

I look up. That can't be right.

"Bronson, Sydney?"

"Here" a gruff voice answers. It's been years since I've heard his voice, and it's clearly changed with puberty, but I'd still recognize it anywhere. I look over, and sure enough, there he is, wearing a Hot Topic t-shirt of some kind and an "I <3 Boobies" silicone wristband.

Fuck, he's not supposed to be here.

"Ayers, Tabatha?" the P.E. "teacher" calls out.

I have to do something.

"Sir?" I speak up. I can't help but notice how high-pitched and childish my voice sounds compared to Sydney's. But my insecurities can wait. They always do.

"Now, I have a hard time believing that you're both Hunter Chase and Tabatha Ayers, son" the P.E. "teacher" says flatly.

"Chase Hunter, sir, and--"

"Be quiet, Chase" he interrupts. What an asshole.

"But sir, I'm not--"

"I said be quiet" he says again, with a warning tone.

"Sydney and I aren't supposed to have class together!" I blurt out quickly, all at once. Everyone's staring at me. I see a weasel mumble something to his chameleon compatriot, then look up at me, grinning evilly.

"Oh, no, and why's that?" the "teacher" finally asks.

"He and I... I..." I stammer. Fuck this. "We have... history."

"Well, you and your ex-boyfriend are going to have to learn how to get along" he jabs, drawing giggles from the other children. Glad to see homophobia is still alive and well in these parts.

"No, it's not that, he... Well, I..." I start. Am I really gonna have to rehash this whole damn thing for this jackass?

"Hunter tried to kill Sydney once" a voice from the crowd excitedly chimes in. Thanks, asshole.

"Really?" the instructor asks incredulously, "You're telling me our star wrestler was nearly murdered by the eighth best member of our swim team?"

Eighth best. Including me, there had been eight members on the swim team.

Still, he's not wrong.

"He tried to drown him!" the same voice chimes in... helpfully.

"Is that right?" the asshole responds, "he tried to drown... an otter. Hell of a plan. Am I really supposed to buy that?" He looks up at me expectantly, and I can feel everyone else's eyes on me as well.

"It's true" I offer meekly.

"Well, I think that Bronson can more than handle you outside of the water" the "teacher" says, as if that ends the conversation.

"But sir..." I stammer.

"It's fine" I hear a voice mumble.

"Sir, I--"

"It's fine!" the voice says louder, and I realize it's Sydney. I look over to him. He's not looking at me, only staring straight ahead.

"Well, then, sounds like it's all worked out" the "teacher" smirks, as if his stupid ass was going to do anything about it anyway. "That work for you?" he asks me expectantly. I glance over to Sydney again, but Sydney just stares.

"Fine" I finally mutter, sitting back down.

Eventually we find out if Tabatha Ayers is present (she is), and work the rest of the way through the list. I consider trying to talk to Sydney, but can't work up the courage. Plus, I can't imagine the gossip that would fly if people saw he and I talking. So I spend the rest of the period glancing awkwardly at him, then looking back down at the book I'm holding when I realize I'm staring. Sydney, for his part, appears to be writing in a notebook, and seems blissfully unaware of the people around him, including the stalker murderer otter sitting in the corner by himself. So I sit alone, trying not to stare while trying not to look like I'm trying not to stare.

When there's ten minutes left of class, the teacher calls us into the locker room. Each of us is given a padlock and our locker assignment. As I'm latching my new (well, these things are pre-90's, but it's new to me) lock onto my new locker, I catch Sydney's form in the corner of my eye. I stare straight ahead, pretending to be carefully studying my lock, memorizing the combination. But I'm aware of his presence behind me, and hear a creak as he opens his locker.

Directly across from mine. I'd bet money that that douchebag teacher changed the assignments just to do this to us. What a fucking asshole.

As Sydney gingerly slams the lock shut on his locker, I realize I should say something. Realize that I have to, or this year is going to be a special kind of hell.

"Hey, I..." I start, but then freeze. He's turned to look at me, and our eyes are locked. I haven't looked into his eyes like this since that day, and now I'm locked in some sort of PTSD flashback unskippable cutscene bullshit. Though his face remains unbothered, the fact that he's not blinking either makes it clear that it's not much better on his end. Finally, he breaks free of whatever_priori incantatum_ Harry Potter nonsense is going on.

"O-kaaayy...?" he moans, and turns to leave.

"Wait!" I snap, and, for some stupid reason, place my hand on his shoulder. I realize my mistake as both of our gazes suddenly lock onto my hand. Just sitting there. On his shoulder. I pull my hand back like his t-shirt was a hot stove. The last time I laid a hand on him was... Well, you already know.

"I just meant..." I stammer. I shouldn't have tried to talk to him."I just meant, I'm sorry, about..." I gesture between our lockers, then gesture out towards the gym, "...all this." He glances to the side and furrows his brow, like he's thinking really hard about something. I half expect him to just knock me out on the spot. Honestly, I'd welcome it. I deserve it. Finally, he looks up at me and gives his head a quick shake.

"Not your fault," he mumbles, "no worries. Let's just..." he pauses, as if considering the phrasing carefully "...not really deal with each other, okay? I'll keep to myself, you keep to yourself, deal?" Oh my God, Sydney Bronson, you are just too kind for this world.

"Yeah, of course, deal" I say, and as I hear my voice, I notice how overexcited I sound. Or maybe that's just my high pitched... tenor? (let's face it, I'm barely below soprano) Either way, I sound like a giddy schoolchild. Which I guess I am, but... Fuck. The only reason I don't get my ass kicked daily is that people are afraid of me. If I lose that, I'm toast.

"Okay, good" Sydney offers, and turns to walk away. After a few paces, he turns back towards me "Oh, and Chase?"

"Yeah?" I grip my tail nervously.

"Probably best to keep your hands off me from now on, okay?" he warns. There's no threat or anger in his voice, but a firmness that lets me know not to mistake his gentleness for weakness.

"Yeah, I uh..." I stutter, "Sorry about that."

He says nothing, but meets my gaze again. This time, we don't relive any near-death experiences, and he simply nods and walks away. The bell rings, and I follow him out the door.

*****

My classes are fairly boring for most of the day. No more run-ins with Sydney, the teachers, while douchey, are considerably less so than the P.E. "teacher". At lunch I sit at the loser table, like I always do. New year means new lunch shifts, which means new people finding new tables with new other people. But you can shake up the Batavian dressing all you like, it'll always stratify back into oil, weird red goop, and the weird crumbs at the bottom. I'm sitting among the crumbs. They're talking about some old TV show, "Add Asterisk" or something. To be honest, it seems like the type of thing that would interest me, but you can't be the dangerous bad boy and the sci-fi nerd at the same time, and I know which one will get my ass kicked. So I sit and pretend not to listen, while secretly listening intently. Which is how lunch has always been for me, since That One Time At The Lake. One of the nerds, a salamander, keeps looking at me and furrowing his brow. I guess he recognizes me. But the perk of sitting with the nerds is that they're too chickenshit to tell you to fuck off, even if they really want to. So I sit and eat my... I think this is supposed to be a rib sandwich? Of course, rib meat is supposed to come from a rib, but I don't think anyone told this butcher that. It's a pressed patty, one of those meat "products" that has the texture of wet plywood. The barbecue does enough to mask whatever the meat tastes like, however, so it's a high-quality dining experience by cafeteria standards.

"Well, whatever, I tend to watch more of the second series anyway" a stoat sitting to my left chimes in.

"Ugh, I can't stand that... What's the captain's name in that one again?" a frog on my right responds.

"Captain Neferu" the stoat responds proudly.

"Yeah, well, Captain Amicus could take Neferu in a fight any day" is the frog's response. Uh oh. Nerd war.

"You're probably right, but that's not the point. Amicus just punches things. Captain Neferu is contemplative, tactical. Captain Neferu is the _thinking_man's captain." The stoat asserts.

"Yeah, well, Captain Amicus probably gets way more ass than Neferu does anyway" the amphibian retorts.

"I rest my case" the stoat concludes. I suddenly get the stupid,_stupid_urge to say something.

"If Amicus and Neferu were_to..." I start, and gesture with my hand "..._you know..."

"Fight?" the frog asks.

"No, I mean like..." I lean in towards the table, as if to tell a juicy secret, "...I mean like which one would be..." I raise my eyebrows meaningfully. They're not getting it. "Which one would be catching?"

Why did I ask that. I don't know why I asked that. Just to stir some shit, I guess. The nerds look at each other, as if they're unsure what I said, or how to respond. Finally the frog speaks up, "Neferu would" he says smugly. The stoat puffs up like he's about to launch into a tirade, then sighs dejectedly.

"Nah, that's... That's probably right," he admits. After a moment of thought, he adds "Captain Neferu would _choose_to catch, if it furthered the mission objective."

"Fine" the frog accepts this surrender. And so ends my attempt to plunge the table into a bloody civil war. "If Neferu is lowering his shields for Captain Amicus'... photon torpedo... he can make up whatever excuse he wants. Blame it on the synthehol for all I care."

The joke goes over my head, but they all laugh, so it was probably a good one. The rest of the lunch period is spent coming up with new and creative Add Asterisk_style names for dicks and butts. _Delta flyer. Wormhole. Warpcore manifold. Sonic screwdriver is accepted begrudgingly, despite its not being lore-accurate. The bell rings and we stand up to leave.

"Hold on, didn't catch your name" the stoat says to me.

"Oh, uh..." Shit, I didn't want to make friends. I hate friends. "...Chase. Chase Hunter."

His mouth suddenly hangs open, and I know he recognizes the name. He looks me up and down, as if he expects to literally find blood on my hands. Good news: I didn't make a friend after all. I'm not sticking around for whatever comes next.

"Yeah, so uh... bye" I offer, grab my backpack, and quickly walk away, trying not to look like I'm running, which is hard to do on stubby otter legs. Better he find out now, I guess.

I would hate to accidentally make a friend today.

*****

After lunch, my next class is Chemistry. I'm not great at any subject, but science tends to be one of my better ones. Science is, at the very least, reliable. Input bread, output toast. English and History involve too much... humanity. To much analysis, and second-guessing. To much trying to analyze people's motives. Boron doesn't have an agenda.

As we walk into the classroom, I sit in the back corner, of course. The other students find their friends in the class and find seats next to them. So, of course, the seat next to me is left empty. The teacher, a female sable with a fussy demeanor which means she probably hasn't made tenure yet, trots in right as the bell rings.

"Hello class, welcome to Chemistry, I'm just going to read your names off of this list and you say 'here' when you hear yours, okay?" she explains in a rushed tone. Cool it lady, we've all done roll call before.

She starts calling names. Again, they don't seem to be in any particular order. Guess alphabetization is a bit too expensive for this school.

"Chase?" I hear, and see her eyes darting around frantically, like she might miss me if she blinks. I sullenly raise my hand, and she points at it, whispers something under her breath, and marks on her clipboard.

"Micha?" she requests next, eyes darting about again. I know sables are prey animals, but Christ woman, calm down. "Has anyone seen Micha?" she asks.

"I saw him earlier today" some narc offers. I glance over to find that the narc is none other than Tobias Hess. The same Tobias Hess that I saved from drowning by trying to drown Sydney. Yeah. _That_Toby. His eye catches my gaze, and he offers me a weak smile. Of the old gang, he's the only one who still acts halfway decent to me. Says "hi" in the hall, little things like that. I think maybe it's because he feels guilty. Like what happened to Sydney, and by extension, me, was somehow his fault. Which, since I was doing it to protect him... It kind of is. But then again, maybe it's just nice Toby being nice Toby. He was always kind of a pushover like that.

"Hmm, well, alright, maybe he went home sick" the teacher offers optimistically. Some snickering in the class indicates that it's much more likely he's just skipping. Or up to no good. Something's bothering me about that name, though. It's not like it's common, and I swear I've heard it before. I can't picture him though. Who the fuck is Micha?

Roll call continues, primarily uneventful aside from Toby mentioning that he prefers to go by T.J. now. Which is something I didn't know, but then, why the hell would I? The teacher finishes attendance, then announces that it's time to pick lab partners. Everyone jumps up to grab a friend before someone else can, and that's when I get an idea. He always was a pushover like that, after all.

"Hey, Toby" I holler as I close the distance between us. His face lights up, but I can't tell if he's actually happy to see me or just being nice. Doesn't really matter.

"Hey, Chase," he grins, "it's T.J. now, by the way." Duh, I think to myself, I literally just learned that.

"Oh, right, T.J." I try to laugh it off, "how was your summer?"

"Great!" he grins, though I notice his ear twitching with nervousness, "how was yours?"

Lonely mopey miserable hell.

"Oh, not too bad" I lie. Damn it, just make the ask already."So, what do you say?"

T.J.'s smile droops a bit.

"Um... about what?" he asks.

"I mean," I begin, giving him the most sincere smile I can, "Do you wanna be lab partners?"

"Oh" he says, and I can tell by his tone what his answer is.

"Oh, that's alright..." I begin. Part of me wants to keep the pressure on, maybe I can talk him into it. But this is Toby we're talking about. For one, he's the only one who's still halfway nice to me. I'm not gonna punish him for that. Two, if I did try to pressure him, he'd probably just end up crying.

"Oh, no, it's not..." he interrupts, "I just... I already paired up with Heather. It would be rude of me to..."

"No worries" I assure him, "didn't realize you were already paired up."

"Yeah, sorry..." he offers.

"Hey, I said no worries. Listen, Tob-- T.J., it was good catching up with you again." I say, hoping to extend an olive branch of sorts.

"Yeah" he smiles at me, before sighing deeply, "you too." I guess that's the best I'm going to get for now.

Just then, the classroom door swings open, and a bat walks in. Suddenly it all comes together.

Fuck,_I think to myself, _that'sMicha._He lives in Echo, and I know from what little I've seen of him that he's a total douche. Skinny little shit, wannabe punk, kleptomaniac extraordinaire. Somehow manages to still be one of the bad kids, even with the murderous otter running around. If someone from Payton mentions _that problem child from Echo, it's me. If they say those problem children from Echo, it's Micha and his deadbeat little friends.

"You're late" the teacher says, nervously trying to assert authority.

"Looks like it" he responds. Douche.

"Where were you?" she asks.

"Not here" he growls. Is he trying to make his voice sound deeper on purpose?

"Well, I know that" the teacher starts.

"Well then, why'd you ask?" he quips. If there's one thing that pretending to be a badass has taught me, it's how to tell when someone's pretending to be a badass.

"Ugh" the teacher gives up, "just find a lab partner. Who doesn't have one yet?"

Oh God, kill me.

"There's an even number of you, someone must not have one yet?" she repeats.

"Chase doesn't have one" a familiar voice responds helpfully. Thanks Toby. T.J. Whoever the hell you are.

Micha's eyes find mine, and he looks exactly as thrilled about it as I am.

"I'm stuck with psycho?" he sneers. Dude, who the fuck do you think you are?

"Find your seat, Micha" the teacher orders.

"They're all taken."

"There's one next to Chase."

"I'm not sitting next to psycho."

"Should've shown up on time then," the teacher retorts, and while I don't typically root for the establishment, I'm a little bit happy to see her finally stand her ground. Mainly because it shuts Micha up. He walks over and stands next to the desk. A scent hits my nose, and I know that he was either getting a quickie from a skunk in the bathroom, or he was getting blazed on the cheapest weed in the county. His lip curls in a scowl. He's clearly trying to look tough, but something about his pig-like bat nose being flared up like that is almost... cute?

"What?" he asks me.

"What do you mean?" I spit back. Two can play the fake tough guy game, hotshot.

"You're staring at my nose" he responds. Shit, was I?

"If I sit here..." he starts, "You promise you're not gonna try and kill me?" Oh, real bold. You're referencing that time I tried to kill Sydney. Not like every other kid in this school would go for that too.

"Maybe," I respond, "If you sit there, am I gonna need to get a bike lock to keep my backpack at my desk?" You thieving little fuck, I add in my head.

"Nah," he gives me a snide smile, "You ain't got shit worth stealing. Besides, wouldn't make a difference anyway. Bike locks are easy." He finally sits down.

The teacher starts going over the rules for the class, safety procedures, and all that other crap. I'm not really listening, instead still fuming over being stuck with Micha for a lab partner. Micha and Heather are friends, or at least I think they are. If he'd been here, he could have paired with her and I could be paired with Toby. Instead, I've got this tool to deal with. I try to consider my options. I don't really have any. Finally, I think back to my discussion with Sydney. Maybe that could work again?

"Hey" I whisper over to him. He ignores me, but his ears flick, so I know he heard me. Then again, with ears that huge, he can probably hear me thinking.

"Listen, I want to make a deal with you, alright?" I offer. He glances over to me, a scowl tugging at his lips. He looks like he's got something to say. Probably something shitty. But he swallows it.

"Go on" he mumbles. He's definitely making his voice deeper than it naturally is.

"Look man," I whisper, "neither of us wants to be here. I don't want to work with the klepto, and you don't want to work with the psycho." He doesn't say anything, but he appears to at least be listening. I continue, "So let's just make a deal. I don't give a shit if we don't say two words to each other outside of here, let's just agree to get along just enough to get through this hellhole of a class. Deal?" His lip curls again, and I can see him fighting the reflex to say something rude. He considers for a moment.

"Whatever, fine" he finally hisses back. I'll take it. Sometimes you have to take what is offered, and let it be enough. A lesson I learned fast when my life went to shit.

The bell rings, and we stand to leave. Micha and I lock eyes, like we both want to say something. But neither of us does, and after a moment, he scowls and walks away. As he does so, the artist formerly known as Toby approaches me.

"Hey, Chase, just wanted to say, sorry again..." he starts.

"Hey, I told you, don't worry about it" I assure him, "I'm partners with Micha."

"Yeah, I saw that, I think Heather's actually kind of friends with him" he says, in that cheery way that only Toby can pull off without sounding fake, "she says he's a good guy, just kind of has some issues."

"Yeah, maybe" I concede, "I mean, everyone from Echo has issues though."

"Yeah, I guess," he frowns, but quickly regains his composure, "who knows, maybe you and Micha will end up being friends." I'd rather die, I think to myself.

"After all," T.J. continues, "you guys kind of have a lot in common. You know, you're both..." and then his mouth hangs open, as he realizes where that sentence ends. Say it, Toby. Were both bad kids. Just fucking say it.

"I just mean..." he stammers, "you've both kind of been through some stuff, and you both have..." he tugs at his ear, "...reputations, let's say?"

"Reputations, huh?" I ask, and his eyes immediately flick downward in shame.Shit, I'm gonna make him cry, aren't I?

"Hey" I offer, as cheerily as I can muster, "I know exactly what you mean, no worries. Listen, it was good seeing you. See you tomorrow?" He still looks distressed, but he offers a smile.

"See you tomorrow, Chase" he grins.

He walks away, towards wherever his next class is. I can hardly contain myself. I don't want to sound like a loser or needy or something, but... That's the longest I've talked to any of the old group. I know I shouldn't get excited, because it doesn't matter. I'm the psycho killer, and they all hate me. T.J. couldn't talk them out of that, even if he wanted to. And I don't even know if he wants to, he's just being nice. But still, it's _something._Then a chill runs down my spine. I know better. Life doesn't give me _something_without expecting something in return. Equivalent exchange and all that. The problem child doesn't get to have a good day. There has to be a catch.

*****

But the rest of the day progresses and there _is_no catch. I mean, I'm still stuck at school, which sucks, but it's a normal day. The rest of my classes pass without incident, no murder victims or deadbeat kleptos to ruin them. The ride home is boring as well, I sit on my own gazing out the window. I think I catch Jasmynn glancing my way every now and then, but whenever I glance up at her, she's buried in whatever manga she's into this week. The bus groans to a halt, sounding almost as if even _it_can't stand having to stop in Echo. Which, believe me, I sympathize with. The few of us that remain trudge off of the bus, and the engine groans as it pulls away. I nod a farewell to Jasmynn and Carl, hoping to get a response, but neither reacts, and I trudge home alone. Like always.

When I get home, I know I have about a half hour or so before Mom gets home, which means exactly one thing: time to jerk off. I sit in front of my outdated computer, still running Windows Millenium Edition, and open up the browser. I consider a moment, as the cursor blinks in the search bar. This is possibly the most important decision I've made today. Finally, I settle on something. I type otter stallion breeding into the bar and let the internet whisk me away to pornographic heaven. But as the video starts, I'm slightly put off by something.

Fuck, that otter kind of looks like Sydney, I think to myself. And he does. Dark fur, blue eyes, thick build. But then the stallion gets behind him and... yeah. Pretty sure Sydney doesn't do that. At least not without a _lot_of lube.

I'm not going to tell you how my little masturbation sesh goes, except to say it goes pretty much exactly how you expect. 20 minutes opening tabs, 5 minutes actually watching videos. For some reason lately I've been drawn to gay porn, and I'm not sure why that is. Probably just a phase, I mean it's all porn right? I'm a teenager, a particularly curvy piece of driftwood could set me off. At the very least, I'm sure it doesn't mean I'm... Well I'm obviously not. Psycho, problem child, _and_gay? That would just be overkill.

As I'm wiping up my... doings... I hear the door slam shut, and know Mom's home. I realize it's probably about time for dinner, and walk out hoping that she picked something up on the way home. I know she's not going to want to cook, and I sure as hell don't want to.

"Hey, hon" she offers wearily, "How was your first day of school?" I think about the question for a moment. Should I tell her about Sydney?

"Oh, it was okay, you know..." I trail off, "...boring."

"I was hoping maybe you could make dinner tonight?" she asks hopefully. Called it. "I just had a really rough day at work."

"Yeah, I kind of had an off day at school too." I respond.

"Oh? Well, then we can order in, I guess..." she starts.

"No, no" I respond guiltily, "I'll make something, no worries." I know we can't afford to order in. She tries to keep up appearances like we're doing fine, but I'm not a fucking idiot. I know what a letter marked "urgent" from the electric co-op means.

"Are you sure?" she offers, "I know you said you had a rough day, we can get Chinese..."

"No," I interrupt, "I'll make mac and cheese and hot dogs. It's no problem." Of course, I don't really want to cook. But I'm sure as hell not letting her spend money on take out.

"If you're sure..." she trails off, offering me one last chance to renege.

"No, it's fine," I lie, "I really don't mind cooking. Go shower or whatever, I'll get it started."

"Aww, thanks dear" she coos, and scratches at my headfur. Obviously if anyone from school were around, I'd be mortified, but... When it's just us, I put up with it. Because at the end of the day, she's the one who didn't give up on me. The only one.

She leaves, and I get a pot started on the stove. Of course, I don't feel like cooking, but damned if I'm going to let her spend money on food from outside when I can cook it here. I throw the macaroni and hot dogs in the same water. That's probably not correct, and maybe even a health code violation, but, like... fuck that? I'm just going to boil the fuck out of it until it's edible then add the cheese powder. I'm not Gordon-fucking-Ramsay.

I hear the shower running, and I mull over my day. Should I tell her about Sydney? About T.J.? Micha? She always asks me how my day is, and I always have nothing to say. Today I do, but I don't know how she'll react. Last thing I want is to give her one more thing to worry about. I may be the problem child, but like... fuck. She's my mom. I don't mind being a problem for everybody else, but I'm not about to pile all of my shit onto her.

I drain the pasta and questionable sausage, and toss it back in the pan. I throw the powdered imitation cheese product in, and open the fridge. I glance at the milk, and immediately scowl. Expiration date from last week. But sometimes you can stretch milk... I open the cap and take a sniff. Fuck. That went bad two weeks ago, if I had to guess. There's no way. I pour it down the drain. This isn't the first time this has happened though, and I know how to react.

"Hey, Mom?" I holler down the hall. The shower shut off some time ago.

"Yeah?" she hollers back.

"Milk's gone bad" I shout back. A moment's pause.

"Oh, just..." she begins.

"Yeah, I know. It's just gonna be goopy is all."

"Fine, then it'll be goopy."

I throw in the butter (or margarine) that the recipe calls for, then throw in an extra slice. I measure out some water, about half as much as the recipe called for in milk, and throw it in. Then I stir, like somehow I'm going to unify the butter and water into milk. It doesn't work, but it makes passable macaroni and cheese, provided you've never had actual macaroni and cheese before. I plate up two helpings, and carry them into the living room, where Mom is flipping through channels. She stops on some dated sitcom about a struggling comedian in New York. It'll do.

We watch in silence, eating our dinner. Eventually, the commercials come on, and Mom is quick to hit the mute button.

"So, how was your day?" she asks.

"Fine" I lie again.

"Anything interesting happen?" she asks. She always asks that. Usually the answer is no, but today...

"I uh... Ran into a couple of people from Echo" I explain.

"Well, everyone from Echo goes to Payton, so that makes sense," she reasons, "Who'd you run into?"

Well, fuck.

"Sydney," I admit, and she chokes on her macaroni for a moment.

"You mean Sydney..."

"Yeah, that Sydney" I confirm.

"Oh. Where did you run into him?" she inquires.

"We're in the same P.E."

"Oh, honey, I'll call the school tomorrow and--"

"Mom..."

"No, we have an arrangement, I'll call and make sure--"

"Mom..."

"We just all agreed it would be best for both of you, and there's no reason they can't--"

"Mom!" I finally shout. She looks at me in surprise, and I realize how loud I was.

"Mom, it's fine. He and I talked about it. It'll be fine" I assure her, although I'm hardly convinced of that myself.

"I can call if you need me to--"

"Mom, please!" I beg, "he and I talked, it's cool."

"Oh, well, okay" she gives up, "if you're sure." She hesitates, clearly lost in thought. The show has started again, and the wacky neighbor is explaining his clip-on tie dispenser idea. Of course, it's muted, so it's all pantomime, but I've seen this one before.

"You two have really grown up, haven't you" she says, quietly enough that it might have just been to herself.

"I guess" I mumble. She unmutes the TV, and we sit in silence until the next commercial break.

"So, anything else happen?" she inquires. Now I feel like she's getting nosy.

"Ran into T.J." I say.

"T.J...?"

"Oh, Toby. Toby Hess. He goes by T.J. now, I guess."

"Huh. I guess you're all growing up, aren't you?" I'm not sure what she means by that.

"I guess."

"Where'd you run into Toby?"

"Chemistry."

"Oh, are you two, like, lab partners or something?" she asks. I think about that a moment. I sort of want to tell her the truth. But me, and Micha... Both have reputations, as T.J. put it. If people find out we're connected, in any way whatsoever, they'll never leave us alone. So I do what I usually do in this sort of situation. I lie through my teeth.

"Yeah, kind of" I confirm. I hate lying to my mom. She's the only person on the planet who's never lied to me. Well, there was that whole "the stork" thing, but we've cleared that up since. Turns out babies come from drunk, unprotected prom night sex.

"Well, that's interesting" she says. The show's on again, and she's not reaching for the unmute button. "How do you feel about that?"

"Well..." I begin. I don't want to spill my guts out for her, but clearly she's looking for some sort of juice. Because she cares. "I mean, Toby's not bad."

"Of course not," she confirms, "he's a very nice young man."

"Well yeah..." I start, "But that's not what I mean. I just mean... After..." My arms gesticulate wildly, and she understands exactly what I mean, "...he's the only one who's been sort of okay with me. I know it's just because he's nice, but..." I chew my overcooked macaroni and undercooked hot dog, considering my next words. "I mean, he's a good guy. I know the others would never let him close to me, but..."

"Well, why should that be their business?" she asks. Moms just don't get how shit works.

"Because, that's just how it works. They're all protective of him, and of Sydney. If they knew he and I were talking, they'd put a stop to it. But..."

"But...?" she bids me to continue.

"But there's nothing they can do about us having Chemistry together. So I'm just gonna try to be as nice as I can to him. _And_to Sydney."

"I'm proud of you" she grins.

"Mom, it's not that big a deal..."

"No, it is though" she assures me, "it's something." It _is_something, isn't it?

"Yeah, I know, I know. Listen, I'm gonna head to my room for the night."

"Going to bed already? It's barely eight o' clock."

"Yeah, but..." I sigh, "I didn't really sleep well last night."

"Did you have the dream again?" she asks, suddenly deathly serious. I don't answer, but my shifting eyes, looking for an answer, give me away.

"Do you want me to call a..." she tries to start.

"I don't want another psychiatrist!" I insist.

"I don't understand, Chase. If you're having these dreams, then why don't you want to--"

"I don't want a fucking shrink!" I shout, and the silence lingers. I realize that I'm yelling at the only person I have left, and suddenly I feel like absolute shit.

"Well, okay..." she begins, and I can tell by her tone that she's stifling sobs of her own, "...if you don't want..."

"Hey," I rush over to her and hug her. When I hugged her as a kid, she was always so much bigger, and stronger than me. It was reassuring. But now, as I've grown, she feels frail and weak. I hate it.

"Hey, listen" I offer, "if it gets bad... again... I promise I'll get help, okay? I'm not saying I'm gonna see a shrink, but..." I think for a moment, "I'll figure something out, okay?"

She looks at me, her eyes steely with resolve. But she can't hide the tears glistening in them.

"Okay."

Day 12: Heaven and Hell

It happens the same way, every time.

We're playing at the lake, like we always did back then. Leo, Jasmynn, Carl, and Flynn are skipping rocks. I'm in the water, and they yell at me to get out of the way. So I dive under, and head towards where Toby and Sydney are playing. But as I surface, something's wrong. Sydney is sitting on top of Toby's back, who is lying face down in the water. He keeps pulling Toby's head up, just long enough to let him catch his breath, before shoving it back into the water and sand and mud.

He's going to kill him.

Unless I stop him.

I swim over as fast as I can. I pull Sydney off of Toby. Sydney's not happy about that. We fight for a moment. I punch him in the throat, and see the fight leave his eyes. It should be over now.

But it never is.

He'll do it again, I think to myself, Toby's not safe. I drag Sydney to where the water is deep. I shove him under. I follow. There's a ferociousness in his eyes, the fight is back in him again. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I use this as validation. As an excuse. I knew he was faking it, I think, now let's see how he likes it. We wrestle underwater, two bodies in constant, undulating motion. I see his face soften again, and his eyes look into mine pleadingly. I stare back, letting him know I'm not going to offer him any mercy. His eyes twitch suddenly, as he gets an idea. An idea I should have expected. He's always watching wrestling, and when he's wrestling around with one of us, he always proudly proclaims "I'm the heel" to whatever protests we have against his latest underhanded strategy. His whole body twists under the water, and I think he's trying to slip free. But he's not.

He's winding up.

He throws all of his weight into a kick, directly into my crotch. I watch bubbles rise past me as I involuntarily yelp. My hands leave him, involuntarily moving to nurse my injury. I float, curled up, like a fetus in a womb. Then I realize something terrifying:

He's going to tell.

I have to stop him. Maybe I can talk him out of tattling to Leo and the others. Maybe I can use his heel excuse against him. I bolt towards the shallows. I break the surface, and taste the dry afternoon air. I take a few gulps of it, trying to wipe the water out of my eyes, as I wade towards the shore. I can hear Toby still crying, though something sounds... off. As I open my eyes and am blinded by the afternoon sun, I remember my task.

"Sydney!" I shout, hoping to stop him before he gets to the others.

"Back the hell off" I hear, from a voice I know is Flynn's. My eyes adjust, and that's when I understand. Toby's cries sound wrong, because he's not the one crying.

Sydney is. I've seen him cry a time or two, but never like this. He always prided himself on being tough. But now there's no facade left. He's sobbing, practically wailing. Fear and despair and betrayal drip from each moan. I see Jasmynn trying to talk him down, a hand on his shoulder. But he either can't hear her, or can't understand.

Or just can't calm down.

His eyes meet mine and go wide with terror. My stomach turns. This isn't what I wanted. I just wanted him to be the one crying at the end of one of his and Toby's fights.

But not like this.

I take a step forward to try to talk to him, and Flynn is immediately in between us, staring me down. I hear Carl gasp to my right, and glance over to see him hugging Toby, who is trembling into his shoulder. Carl's eyes are darting in between me and Flynn, like he expects me to drag Flynn into the lake next.

"Just let me talk to him" I offer, and try to shoulder my way past Flynn. A large, red-furred arm immediately blocks my chest and shoves me backwards, and I look up to find Leo's eyes burning with anger.

"Stay away, Otter" he warns.

"Stay the fuck away from him, asshole" Flynn adds.

"Come on, guys, we were just wrestling around, and--" I offer.

"Yeah, he told us what you were trying to do, psycho. Now piss off" Flynn hisses at me.

"Just let me apologize," I look up at the wolf blocking my way, "Leo, just let me--"

"No," Leo interrupts. He's a man of few words, though that's mostly because, in English, he only really _knows_a few words.

"Come on," I whine, and try to step past him. I see Flynn's tail twitching in anticipation, but there's no need. Two large wolf paws grip my shoulders, hard.

"Ow, Leo, let go!"

"No," Leo warns, and there's something sinister in the tone that I've never heard from him before. "Stay away, Otter. Or I'll hurt you."

A silence falls over the scene. Sydney is no longer wailing, just trying to catch is breath as individual sobs hiccup in his throat. I feel their eyes on me, and look from one to the next.

Toby's guilty, mournful look.

Carl's confused fear.

Flynn's protective rage.

The hatred in Leo's eyes, and the fact that he's baring teeth, make it painfully, gut-wrenchingly clear: if I try to get closer, we won't be Leo and Chase anymore. We'll be predator and prey.

Finally, my gaze falls to Sydney, still staring at me in wide eyed fear.

It always ends this way. With the silence. With me losing all of my friends.

And Sydney... Sydney just stares.

And then I wake up.

Problem Child

An Echo Fan Fiction

By Fable91

The next couple of weeks of school are fairly normal, at least for me. Sydney and I successfully avoid each other in gym, and I manage not to break an Erlenmeyer flask over Micha's head in chemistry, which, believe me, is no small task. It helps that, when it was time to do our first lab, T.J. and Heather took the station on the other side of the table from us. So Micha and Heather chat about... whatever, and T.J. and I can chat, and so I only have to talk to Micha when I'm actually, you know, doing the assignment. T.J. and I haven't really talked about anything important or deep, we're still strictly making small talk. Which is fine.

But then, like usual, life took a dump in my lap. Or rather, the gym "teacher" did. Metaphorically.

"Alright, today we're going to be starting the presidential fitness tests," he announces. Great, another opportunity to hammer in how sub-par otters are at anything physical. At least, on land. "I've already paired you up, so listen for your names."

Oh no.

I know what's about to happen. There's no way it doesn't.

Oh nonononono.

"Hunter, Chase," he starts.

Don't you dare, fucker.

"...and Sydney Bronson" he finishes. He can't hide the twinge of a shit-eating grin as he says it. I look at Sydney; he's looking at me. He shakes his head slowly. Not in an "I won't do it" kind of way, but more of a "can you believe this asshole?" sort of way. So I just shrug.

First up is pull ups, and wouldn't you believe it, my shitty otter arms fail me yet again. I manage to get just past a 90 degree angle in my elbows, hang like that for a second, feet kicking, then drop from the bar. I walk over to Sydney, who's supposed to be counting.

"Do you..." he begins, "do you need me to tell you how many you did?" He asks it with a straight face, but can't conceal a grin when I make a face back.

"Nah, I know how to count to zero" I tell him.

"I could put down half," he offers, "I mean you were most of the way up there."

"Just put down zero, they'll get suspicious of an otter who's able to do half a pull up. I mean you know how it is, we're built for swimming, not... literally everything else."

"Hmm" he just grunts noncommittally. He saunters up to the bar, and, ignoring the chair placed under it to step up on, simply jumps and catches the bar with both hands. Then he begins to pull and... actually gets his chin over the bar? And then, he does it again. And again. I must be staring like I'm watching him lift a car or something, but... hell. He ends up doing eleven, I'm pretty sure, before finally dropping. He walks over to me.

"Damn, that was impressive" I tell him.

He shrugs, "I work out a lot. So, how many did I do?"

I'm still staring at him. "What's that?"

He frowns. "You _did_count me, right?"

"Oh, oh yeah, eleven," I stammer. At least, I think_he did eleven. He nods, and marks it down on his copy of the fitness test chart. I'm still reeling. _Sydney can do eleven pull ups?

After the other kids have done their pull ups, and found out how much or little the president values their pull up ability, it's time for sit ups. Sit ups, I'm at least okay at. Swimming, at least swimming in otter fashion, uses a good amount of core strength. But I'm still not in the best shape, so it's probably not going to be pretty. We walk over to the mats, and I lay down.

"Nope, I'm going first this time bud" Sydney insists. Okay, I guess.

He lies down in the sit up position, and suddenly I realize something. I'm gonna have to hold his feet down, which is going to mean touching him. And after that first day, when I put my hand on his shoulder...

"Is it okay if I touch you?" I ask. A fox lying on the mat next to Sydney snorts.

"What?" Sydney looks up at me confused.

"I just mean, is it okay if I put my hands on you?" I explain. The fox is now audibly giggling.

"Dude, what the hell are you--?"

"I just mean" I interrupt, "After that time in the locker room--" The fox is now cackling, Sydney's eyes are wide in embarrassment.

"What? Fuck, yes, whatever dude" Sydney insists, "Just shut up." The fox is still giggling.

"Hey Sydney, can I touch you in the locker room too?" he chides.

"Fuck off, dude" Sydney responds.

"No, come on, I wanna put my hands on you" the fox teases again.

"I said fuck off," Sydney snaps, reaching out and slapping the mat right beside the fox's head.

"Alright, alright, jeez" the fox concedes. "Hey, killer," he says, and his eye contact tells me that he's talking to me, "You'd let me put my hands on you in the locker room, right?"

"I, uh..." I stammer, "I don't--"

"Just ignore him, dude," Sydney interrupts, "he'll get bored and wander off."

"Aw, you're no fun" the fox growls.

"Besides," Sydney adds, "You really shouldn't let him touch you unless your vaccinations are up to date."

The fox glares at Sydney, but can't hide a grin on the corner of his mouth. He slaps the mat next to Sydney's head, the same way Sydney did earlier.

"Fucker" is all he says.

The "teacher" gets our attention, and gets his stopwatch ready. He's holding it out in front of him at arms length, like he thinks it might explode.

"On my whistle" he says, and I clamp my hands down on Sydney's ankles.

He blows the whistle, and Sydney immediately starts, so suddenly that I almost lose my grip on him. He does sit up after sit up, as I count. But then, around twelve, his shirt starts to drift up, revealing his belly. As he keeps doing sit up after sit up, I watch his abs tighten and relax. He really does work out, doesn't he? Oh, shit, I've stopped counting.

"Twenty" Sydney grunts through his teeth. Oh, okay good. I focus on Sydney's face, to avoid getting... distracted... again. He manages forty-seven by the end of the minute. He lies on the mat, panting, and I risk one last glance at his abs, watching his belly rise and fall, before he rolls over and stands up.

"Okay bud, your turn. How many was that for me?" he asks.

"Forty-seven," I offer confidently.

"Damn, was hoping to break fifty. Oh well" he says absentmindedly, writing on his chart. I lie down on the mat, and Sydney clamps his hands down on my ankles. I can't help but notice how firm his grip is.

"It must be Bronson's birthday, he's getting to put his hands on killer this time" the fox from before, now holding his own partner's ankles, chimes in.

"I already warned you twice man," Sydney says. He grins and adds "I'd hate you see you get hurt."

"Oh, right, I forgot you don't like those kind of jokes since your best buddy Flynn's a--"

"Dude," Sydney warns, and his tone leaves little room for negotiation.

"Okay, okay," the fox apologizes, "I was just fucking around anyways."

The "teacher" calls our attention again. Sydney looks down at me.

"You gonna break fifty?" he asks me.

"What?" I respond.

"Fifty sit-ups" he explains.

"Are you crazy?" I ask. If he can't do fifty there's no way in hell I can.

"Come on," he encourages, "I wanna see you do fifty." Why is he encouraging me? Are we like, friends now? Or is he just being nice? The Sydney I used to know wouldn't be caught dead "just being nice", but then again, that was years ago. What the hell is going on?

"On my whistle," the glorified drill sergeant commands, then blows the whistle. I start doing the sit ups. Around thirty seconds in, I start to slow down. I need to catch my breath.

"Come on, bud" Sydney cheers, "keep going." Why is he encouraging me?

I keep trying, but a summer spent lying around in my room is catching up to me. Finally, the "teacher" blows the whistle again, and I'm released from this aerobic hell.

"How many?" I pant, lying on the mat.

"Thirty-four" he says. Nowhere near fifty, but if Sydney's disappointed, he doesn't show it. He writes the number down on my chart for me, and hands it to me as I rise to my feet. The class is pretty much over, so we head to the locker room. I'm keeping to myself-- as agreed-- when I hear Sydney's voice call out for me.

"Hey, Chase" he says. I turn to find him standing there, shirtless. Fuck, he's in good shape.

"Uh, what?" I ask, suddenly feeling way too skinny in my own shirtlessness. I quickly throw on my shirt.

"At the end of the semester, when we do this again, I expect fifty sit-ups, okay?" he asks. Why is he being nice to me?

"Uh... Okay?" I stammer. You can expect whatever you want, I'm probably not gonna do it.

I see movement out of the corner of my eye. The fox from before approaches us.

"Hope I'm not, uh, interrupting anything," he says, eyes meaningfully shifting back and forth between Sydney and me.

"Dude, I'm not gonna keep warning you" Sydney says, but his tone doesn't seem as angry as before.

"What are you gonna do?" the fox teases, glancing at me "put your hands on me?"

"Yeah, and you're not gonna like it" Sydney grins. "Listen, did you get those tickets from your cousin?" Their voices get softer as they walk away from me.

"Yeah, but I don't understand why you'd want to go see--" the fox starts.

"It's not for me, alright bud?" Sydney interrupts, "it's for a friend of mine."

"A friend you want to 'put your hands on'?" the fox teases.

"Nah, you know I've only got hands for you, babe," Sydney teases back, before reaching over and, although they're facing away from me, I assume he's pinching the fox's nipple.

"Ah! Rape, rape!" the fox screeches between giggles. I'm starting to notice that his sense of humor isn't exactly... sophisticated. They walk through the door to the hallway beyond, leaving me alone in the locker room, just as the bell rings. I grab my bag and head out the door myself.

*****

My other classes are boring as always, and I'm thankful when the bell rings for lunch, just to have something interesting to do. I've been getting used to the lunch table, though the stoat has been acting sort of strange around me ever since he learned my name. Lunch today is a chicken sandwich, or, you know, the cafeteria version of one. It tastes a bit like someone soaked shredded newspaper in chicken broth, then pressed it into a patty and fried it. But drowned in enough ranch dressing, it's edible enough. I've been getting more comfortable talking to the others, occasionally chiming into the conversations, though I'm still trying to keep my distance.

The lunch itself is boring enough, the conversation, like usual, surrounds a particular episode of Add Asterisk, which I've since learned is called Ad Astra. Which, to be fair, makes a lot more sense.

"I'm just saying, it makes no sense" the stoat pontificates, "they go to this planet where everything is perfect, but it turns out its because it's a fascist, panopticon sort of situation. Everyone is well behaved because they're afraid of risking death if they happen to be in the enforcement zone." He pauses to take a bite of newspaper sandwich. "But..." he says over a mouthful, "when ensign Wil walks on the flowers, he gets arrested, and they're gonna kill him. So then Captain Neferu is talking about how he can't interfere with the trial or the execution, because it would violate the prime directive. But then he just... does. And they get Wil back, and leave. And nothing bad happens. Even though the entire episode is predicated on the fact that if they violate the prime directive, something bad _will_happen."

"Don't look at me" the frog says, "I told you the second series is stupid."

"But it's not_though, that's my whole point!" The stoat is excited, "_Every other episode_is this well-thought-out, meticulous thing. Some exploration of some philosophical or ethical idea. The second episode is the _only episode_where the writers just up and forget what they're doing halfway through. They literally set up the expectation: 'We can't do the thing'. Then the solution is just: 'What if we _did the thing? By God, it worked!' It's so dumb. And it's the only episode_like that. It drives me _insane."

I don't know what he's talking about, but from the context I'm getting, he's right. That would probably drive me insane as well.

"Don't worry, buddy," the frog teases, "Captain Amicus would never disappoint you like that."

The stoat is indignant, "Amicus couldn't_disappoint me like that, because I have no expectations of Amicus. Captain Neferu is _smarter than that_though. Captain Neferu should _fucking know better."

"Neferu is a poorly written character, in a poorly written episode, of an obviously inferior series," the frog comforts the stoat condescendingly, "it's not your fault."

"Oh, piss off. Shouldn't Captain Amicus be off trying to punch an Omorfan bird of prey out of the sky?" the stoat snaps, and there are way too many references there for me to keep up.

Thankfully I'm liberated from the quickly deteriorating Amican-Neferan relations by the bell going off, signaling the end of lunch. I'm about to leave when the stoat stops me.

"Hey, uh... Chase?" he says awkwardly.

"Yeah?" I ask.

"I just, uh... I just wanted to say..." he trails off. God, he's nervous. "I wanted to say sorry if I've been weird the past couple weeks."

"'If'?" I ask incredulously.

"Yeah, okay, I know I've been standoffish, I'm sorry. I just... When you told me your name, I, uh... I recognized it" he explains.

Go on.

"You just have a sort of... a... reputation, let's say?"

"So I've been told" I agree.

"So I guess I just assumed certain things, and... Anyway, you've been cool so far, so sorry if I was a dick" he finishes. I can't tell if he's apologizing because he feels bad, or if he's afraid I'll kill him otherwise.

Guess it doesn't really matter.

"Yeah, okay, no worries" I assure him, "I'm used to it by now."

A guilty look crosses his face, "yeah, I suppose you are. Well, anyway, Captain Neferu wouldn't judge you based on gossip, so I guess I shouldn't either."

"Okay," I accept his strange apology, "and unlike Captain Amicus, I promise not to punch you for it."

His face lights up, "wait, do you actually watch--"

"No," I quickly interrupt, "I just listen to you guys talk, I guess."

"Oh," he looks slightly disappointed, "well if you ever did want to, I've got a buddy in Coalville who's got the entire series on a hard drive, we could watch it sometime."

"Yeah, maybe" I agree, having no intention on following through.

"Okay, cool" he responds, and his tone makes me think he knows I'm not interested. "Well, anyway, see ya" he says, then suddenly jerks upright, and holds his hand up in a peculiar way. I assume he's doing some sort of salute from Ad Astra. He's apparently forgotten that I haven't actually seen it. He then smiles and walks away, and I suddenly realize how long we spent talking. I run, hoping not to be late to my next class. I don't want to have to explain that I was busy talking about a sci-fi show from the seventies.

*****

Again, classes pass by without notable incident until chemistry. After attendance, we're tasked with doing a lab, so I find myself at the lab table with Micha, Heather, and T.J. Doing a lab with Micha, I quickly learned, means doing a lab by myself and prodding him every now and again to hand me stuff. Which is alright, I suppose. I didn't want to work with him to begin with, and now I don't have to. I'm reading the instructions off of a worksheet, while Micha plays with the striker for the Bunsen burners.

"Step one, pour a half cup of sugar into a beaker," I say aloud. I look over to Micha, who's still absentmindedly clicking the striker. "Wanna hand me that measuring cup, and the sugar?" I ask.

Micha shrugs, sets the striker down, and hands me the supplies. We're not even using the Bunsen burners today, so I don't know why Micha's got the striker out to begin with. Probably just to drive me nuts. I want to yell at him, but, seeing as I'm the one who proposed our little "let's get along" deal, I know I probably shouldn't start shit. I start measuring out the sugar, when T.J. gets my attention from across the table.

"Hey, Chase, I was wondering..." he grins, and there's something in the smile that lets me know a sales pitch is coming, "I'm starting this new club after school, a bible study group, and I wondered if you wanted to..." he trails off, staring at Micha. I follow his gaze, and find Micha with a palm full of sugar, licking it up. He scowls at me.

"You got a problem?" he sneers.

"You know, you really shouldn't be licking things when we're dealing with chemicals. Like, I've got sulphuric acid over here" I warn him.

"So keep it over there, I've got sugar over here," he gives sugar in his hand a long lick, "I didn't get lunch, so sue me."

"Too busy getting high in the parking lot?" I ask, and he rotates his sugary hand so that his knuckles are facing me. Then he extends one finger. He gives his palm one last, long lick, while maintaining eye contact with me. I know he's doing it just to piss me off. But damn it, it's working. He turns on the sink and rinses off what's left of the sugar and his spit, still glowering at me.

"Well, what's next, professor?" he asks sarcastically.

I glance at the instructions, "here, fill this beaker halfway with water." I hand him a small beaker, "anyways, T.J., you were saying?"

"Oh, uh, just that I started a bible study group..."

Oh, that's right.

"...and I was wondering..."

T.J. you already know the answer.

"...if you wanted to come. Both of you," he says, glancing at Micha.

"No thanks," Micha grumbles, "Already know I'm going to hell, no reason to remind me. Besides, God ain't real." T.J. retains his salesman-like smile, but his ear twitches nervously.

"Aw, don't say that, God wants everybody to be able to go to heaven" T.J. preaches, "You know what I'm saying, right Chase?"

"Woah, don't get me involved in all that" I start, "I don't really..." I hesitate. I don't know how T.J. is going to react. "I don't really believe in anything."

"Amen," Micha chimes in ironically. I pour the water he hands me into the beaker with the sugar, and start to measure out the sulphuric acid. "Why don't you invite Heather?" Micha asks, glancing at her.

"He already did, and I said yes" she explains, "Chase, you really don't believe in anything? No God, no devil, nothing?"

"No, not really," I offer sheepishly. There's enough evil here on Earth without all that, I think to myself.

"Micha, what about you, I know you believe in some supernatural stuff. You're always talking about--"

"I said I don't believe in God," Micha interrupts, "I didn't say I don't believe in the devil. In fact, I can prove God doesn't exist right now." He snatches the beaker of acid from me, and I'm terrified of what he's about to try. He doesn't think it's water does he? Please, Micha don't drink the acid, I think to myself.

"Fuck God!" Micha proclaims, holding the beaker in the air like it's some sort of sacrament, "God can kiss my ass when he's done suckin' me dry!" He pours the acid into the sugar, and immediately leaps back as a burst of steam leaps from the beaker. I'm hit with the immediate smell of sulfur, and the sugar begins to turn black. The black mass spreads, until it's pouring out of the top of the beaker.

"Jesus, fuck!" Micha exclaims, "was that supposed to happen, or is God real and pissed at me!?"

"God_is_real," T.J. assures us, "but..." he pours his acid into his beaker, and the same reaction occurs, though I can't help but notice that his smells less of sulfur and more like caramel, "...I think that _is_what was supposed to happen."

I look at Micha, who is still staring at the beaker wide-eyed. He realizes that I'm looking at him, and suddenly his too-cool-for-you attitude returns.

"For fucks sake," he whines, "what's next?" I glance at the instructions.

"It says 'write down your observations'," I explain, adding "Do you want me to put 'God smote the beaker and I pissed myself' on yours?"

Micha looks indignant, "Shut up, it's just the Jesus freak talking about hell that got me jumpy."

"I wasn't trying to--" T.J. begins.

"Hey, T.J." Micha interrupts with a wry smile. Here we go.

"You know all about heaven and hell, and God and stuff like that, right?" Micha asks, feigning innocent curiosity.

"Well, yeah, sure, I guess," T.J. responds, taking the bait.

"So which of us is going to hell?" Micha asks with a devilish grin.

"Well, that's... That's not..." T.J. stammers.

"I just mean, like if this beaker were to just explode, and we all died, right now... Who's makin' it into heaven and who's not?"

"It... It's not really my place to judge," T.J. finally answers, matter-of-factly.

"Really?" Micha continues, "isn't the whole point of religion to learn how to judge people?"

"Wh-- No!" T.J. is shocked, "what gave you that idea?"

"Fourteen odd years of life experience" I chime in. I feel sort of bad for T.J. being ganged up on like this, but it's been way too long since I've gotten a chance to mess with him.

"N-- No!" T.J. snaps, but then takes a deep breath to calm himself, "the goal of religion is to explore our relationship with God. To understand sin, so that we can liberate ourselves from--"

"So then, you _do_know the rules?" Micha interrupts.

"Well, yeah."

"So then, you can't tell us for sure who's going to hell," Micha rationalizes, "But you can make an educated guess."

T.J.'s ear is twitching wildly now, but Micha has clearly stumped him on that.

"Well, I mean..." he mutters under his breath, "I guess?"

"Right, so I'm just asking..." Micha spreads his arms wide, gesturing to himself, "am I going to hell?"

"No," T.J. starts, "I mean, why would you be--"

"He steals," I offer helpfully, "a lot."

"Among other things," Micha mutters, and I can't help noticing the way his mood darkens as he does so. What other things does Micha do?

"Well, I mean, as long as you're sorry about it, then..." T.J. tries to lead the discussion.

"Yeah, but I'm not sorry about it. I enjoy it. In fact, I'm doing it right now," Micha proclaims, throwing a wallet on the table.

My wallet.

"Hey, what the fuck?" I gasp, opening the wallet. "Where's the five dollars I had earlier?" I accuse.

"In my pocket," he responds calmly, "I'll pay you back, okay?"

"You'll pay me back right fucking now!" I snap at him, squaring my shoulders. I started the period trying to be nice to him, now I'm gonna end up knocking his lights out.

"Yeah, or what?" he sneers back, unafraid. Or at least, acting unafraid. I'm vaguely aware of T.J. trying to talk me down, and Heather doing the same with Micha.

After a moment of staring each other down, Micha speaks up, "I just want to get something from the vending machine, okay? Like I said, I missed lunch."

I'm not buying it. "That's your own fucking fault."

"You don't know that" he spits back, and there's a hint of embarrassment on his face. Maybe he's just a good liar, or maybe there _is_more going on than I realize. I sigh.

"Fucking fine, you can pay me back" I offer.

He wrinkles his nose, like what he's about to say disgusts him, but he says it anyway:

"Thanks, Chase."

He turns back to the table, as if nothing just happened.

"So, am I going to hell or not?" he asks T.J. again.

"Well, I mean..." T.J. tries to reason, "Stealing isn't _that_bad..."

"Isn't it one of the Ten Commandments?" Heather offers, and I can't tell if she's trying to help us fuck with him, or genuinely trying to help him answer the question.

"Oh, well, yeah..." T.J. admits, "but you apologized, so..."

"Hell no, I didn't" Micha corrects him.

"Oh, well, yeah I guess you didn't... So I guess..." T.J. furrows his brow, "I guess if you paid Chase back, and said you're sorry, and he forgave you..."

"Wait, so now I have the power to decide if Micha goes to hell or not?" I ask. I grin maniacally at Micha, "I hope that five dollars is worth it."

"I mean, it'll be more than five dollars," Micha reasons, "Cause I'm stealing from you every day, you know, if I'm going to hell either way."

"Yeah, I mean, I guess you might as well" I agree. T.J. groans.

"Guys, I think you're missing the point here" he complains.

"So what about me Teej?" I ask, "Am I going to hell?"

"Come on, are you really..." T.J. starts, but then trails off as he starts pondering the question.

"No, I don't think so," he says. Me and Micha share shocked glances.

"I... are you sure?" I ask.

"Yeah, I mean, I know you get in trouble with the school a lot, but none of that stuff is bad enough to send you to hell, I wouldn't think..." T.J. explains. Micha and I look at each other again. I can't tell whether T.J. is being nice to me, or if he's actually spacing on one of the sins I've committed.

"T.J., are you sure there's not anything in my past?" I say.

"Like, something _really_big," Micha helps.

"Like, a few years ago maybe?" I continue.

"At the lake?" Micha adds, giving it away. T.J. audibly gasps. His face darkens, and I feel bad for bringing it up.

"Oh, well, that..." he starts, but clearly the wind is gone from his sails.

"It's okay, T.J., I know I'm going to hell," I admit. It's not something I think about often, but it _is_something I think about. With any luck, there _is_no god and we all end up in oblivion in the end. Otherwise I'm fucked. "I've known it for a long time now, it's okay, really," I reassure him.

"No!" he snaps, startling me, "that's not how it works! That's what I'm trying to tell you!" Tears are forming in the corners of his eyes, he's clearly growing frustrated, but he keeps going. "Nobody is 'doomed to hell'! That's not how it works! Whatever you've done, whatever sins you've committed, they can be washed away. That's the whole damned point!" he exclaims, then gasps in shock as he realizes he said "damned". In a monologue about God, no less. Sacrilege. He starts taking a few deep breaths, trying to calm down. Heather has her paw on his shoulder, and is gently rubbing it to comfort him.

"So you're telling me..." Micha begins, clearly not reading the room, "That if Chase went and diddled some little kid..."

"Hey, hold on!" I stammer. I'm not exactly in love with that example.

"But that's not what we're talking about, is it Micha?" Heather suddenly snaps, clearly hinting at Micha to shut the fuck up. Micha pouts, but succeeds in shutting the fuck up.

"So T.J." Heather says softly, "If Chase was worried about... that..."(I'm thankful that she's apparently gotten the memo that we don't refer to That One Time At The Lake by name) "...what could he do to try and fix it?"

"Well," T.J. begins, clearly calmer than before, "Like I said, it all has to do with apologizing and making amends, so..."

"But how do you make amends for something as big as..." Micha catches himself before he says it out loud, gesturing towards me and adding, with air quotes, "...that."

"I mean, I don't really know," T.J. admits, "I'm not like, a youth pastor or anything. I don't know if I'm the expert that you guys seem to think I am, but..." he looks up at me, and offers a weak smile, "...I guess it would start with Chase apologizing to Sydney for..." his hands trace little circles in the air, "that."

Fuck that, I think to myself, I'd rather go to hell. T.J. is looking at me, like he expects some kind of response.

"Oh uh, okay, thanks, I'll... You've given me a lot to think about," I say, trying to remain as noncommittal as possible.

"That's all I ask," T.J. smiles. Good, he bought it.

The rest of the period is spent trying to scrape burnt sugar and carbon out of the beakers, a task so frustratingly difficult that it stifles most conversation. Micha reasons that we should have done the experiment in disposable plastic cups, but I point out that pouring sulphuric acid into a plastic cup probably isn't the best idea in the world. We eventually manage to get the beakers clean, rinse them, and leave them to dry. Micha suggests using the burners to dry them faster, but I think he just wants to play with the striker some more, so I tell him it's not necessary. He pouts, but throws the striker back in the drawer. As the bell rings, he stops me.

"Hey, Chase?" he says quietly, like he doesn't want anyone to know he's talking to me voluntarily.

"What?" I ask.

"What did you think of... Of what T.J. was saying? About being forgiven, and all that?" he asks. He looks almost embarrassed. We walk out of class together.

"I mean, I don't really know" I admit to him, "Like I said, I don't really believe in hell. Can't really afford to, given..." I tilt my head, "...you know, all that."

"Right, I guess you can't" he agrees, "I guess I was just thinking--"

"Fuck off, faggots!" some voice shouts, and I notice Micha tense up like he's ready for a fight. But whoever it is isn't shouting at us. Up ahead, there are two tall figures making out. Then I realize who it is.

"Wait, Flynn's gay?" I stammer.

"Yep" Micha confirms.

"Leo's gay too?" I continue.

"Looks that way" Micha responds dryly.

"Are Flynn and Leo... together!?" I finally ask.

"Boy, nothing gets past you, does it?" Micha sarcastically responds.

I keep staring. I can't help myself. For one, I'm shocked. I definitely didn't get the vibe off of either of them when we used to hang out. Then again, they were both probably just starting puberty the last time I saw them. They might not have even known. But there's something else to it to. I'm not just staring because I'm surprised, I'm staring because... I watch Leo's hand slide down Flynn's slender back, coming to rest at his waist. Flynn's hands run up Leo's muscular back, pulling him closer. Flynn's narrow tongue flicks into Leo's mouth, and Leo's eyes close in pleasure.

"Hey, can I give you some advice?" Micha snaps loudly, interrupting... whatever that was I was going through just now.

"Uh, sure?" I agree.

"If you want to keep it a secret, you gotta learn not to stare," he offers.

"Keep what a secret?" I ask, and he looks shocked, like he's just realizing what he just said.

"N-- Nothing. Nevermind," he shifts uncomfortably, "just try not to stare, y'know?"

"You're right," I agree, "I just used to hang out with them, you know? I hadn't seen them... together."

"Ah, I see," Micha nods, "well, get used to it, because they're big on the PDA, if you know what I mean. I think they're just trying to make everyone else jealous."

"Jealous?" I ask.

"Or, you know... whatever" he stammers, offering no further explanation. "Anyways..." his eyes shift downward, "thanks again for the cash, I really will try to pay you back."

The five dollars. I had already forgotten.

"Oh, yeah, sure, no problem, I guess," I offer, "although I didn't really have much of a choice."

"None of us do," Micha says forlornly, and walks away, wondering what sort of profound thoughts were going through his head that led to him saying that. Then again, Micha's kind of a weird one. Maybe he's just fucking with me.

*****

When I get home, I spend my half hour of free time the same way I always do. Only this time, for some reason, stallions and otters aren't doing it for me. I sit there staring at the screen, when an idea occurs to me.

_No,_I tell myself. But the idea persists.

That's fucked up, I'm not doing it, I insist. Finally, I give in to my inner horny demons.

"Wolf lizard gay" I type. But nothing is doing it for me.

_Am I really this pathetic?_I ask myself. But I already know the answer. I open the search bar again.

"Red wolf gila gay"

Self-loathing aside, it works.

*****

Mom gets home at the usual time, and after some small talk, we're standing in the kitchen. She's looking through the mail, I'm waiting for the oven to preheat so that I can make dinner. I've made dinner most nights lately, and it's becoming something that I've just sort of resigned myself to.

"So how was school?" she asks, throwing away a postcard advertising aluminum siding.

"Oh, it was fine," I say, and again start to puzzle over how much I should tell her.

"Anything interesting happen?" she asks, and throws a letter marked "FINAL NOTICE" onto the table. She sees me looking, and flips it over so that the notice stamp isn't visible.

"Uh, I dunno, maybe? I'm partners with Sydney in P.E., for the fitness test stuff" I offer her.

She raises an eyebrow. She doesn't insist this time, but instead asks: "Do you want me to call the school?"

"No, no, I think it's fine. Sydney's being pretty cool about it, honestly," I confess.

"And you're okay with it too?" she inquires.

"Why wouldn't I be? Given... what happened... I'm hardly in a place to be picky," I say.

"Now, that's not true. You have just as much right to be upset as he does," she assures me. Is she crazy?

"Mom, I hardly think, given... how all that happened..."

"But didn't you tell me it was his fault? Didn't you say he was torturing Toby?" she interrupts.

"Mom, can we not talk about that day_right now?" I complain. _Or ever, I think to myself. "Besides, that was years ago, Sydney's a different person now."

"And you are too," she adds.

"I guess," I half-heartedly agree. I'm not sure exactly what she's getting at, but I don't want to continue down that train of thought. I pull a frozen pizza out of the freezer and start cutting the plastic off with a knife, because I can never find the damn scissors.

"Well, if both of you are okay with it, then I won't do anything. Although I can't imagine how _his_mom might react, you know how she can be," she says, though, to be honest, I _don't_know how Sydney's mom can be. I only met her years and years ago, and when you're that young, all grownups just act like grownups. You don't really notice which ones are shitty. Except Sydney's dad. And Jasmynn's parents. And Flynn's actual parents, though I never met them. I heard that they were awful, and honestly, it typically wasn't Flynn complaining about them. It was Sydney. Whenever the topic of Flynn's parents came up, Flynn would tend to just get depressed, while Sydney got incensed and either started cussing them out or changed the subject.

"I'm not worried about how his mom might react, I'm more worried about Leo, or Flynn..." then I remember something _else_I learned today, and before I can ask myself if it's something I want to share with Mom, I blurt out, "By the way, did you hear about them?"

"No," she says absentmindedly, "Did you run into them today too?"

"Uh, kind of?" I admit.

"So, what about them?" she asks.

"Well, they're..." I hesitantly mumble, "They're, uh... together."

"Together? As in...?"

"Together."

"Hmm" she seems mildly surprised, but not overly shocked, "and how do you feel about that?"

"I dunno, I mean it's weird," I start.

"Is it that weird? I mean surely boys and girls date at your school? Is this so different?" she scolds.

"What? No, Mom, it's not like that. I just mean it's weird that it's_them,_they're just two totally different people. Or at least, they were, last time I knew them," I say, and I think she senses the sorrow in my voice.

"Well, it's been a few years, they've probably changed, too," she advises. Maybe she's right. "Speaking of dating..." she begins.

Uh oh.

"How come you've never bring any girls over?" she asks. Most of the time, Mom's kind of my counselor, and, as lame as it sounds, even sort of a friend. But when she's a mom, she moms _hard. "_Are you embarrassed to bring them over, or do you just not really date girls much?"

I can't help but feel like that question is loaded, but I don't have a good answer. "Uh, yeah, don't really get along with the girls at school, I guess," I offer, trying my best to be vague.

"Do you get along with any of the boys at school?" she asks non-chalantly, like she's asking me what kind of pizza I'm making.

"Tch-- Mom, jeez!" I complain. I turn to open the oven door, using the pizza as an excuse to turn away so that she can't see my embarrassment.

"Okay, I was only asking is all," she asserts, before adding, "You know I always thought you and Jasmynn would be cute together."

Just kill me now.

"I uh, I don't think that's gonna happen, given..." I reach one hand out of the oven, behind my back, to do the That-One-Time-At-The-Lake gesture, "...everything that happened."

"Yeah, I suppose not," she agrees, "though maybe she's changed, too?"

"Who knows?" I ask, defeated, and slam the oven door shut.

"So Sydney's changed, and you've changed..."

Is she about to suggest me and Sydney are fucking?

"And apparently Leo and Flynn have changed..."

IS SHE ABOUT TO SUGGEST ME AND SYDNEY ARE FUCKING?

"So you mentioned talking to Toby, has he changed?" she finally finishes.

Oh thank God. Unless... is she suggesting me and Toby are fucking?

"Uhh... Honestly, not really. Pretty much the same way he always was, you know... Innocent, nice almost to a fault..."

"...cries a lot?" she adds.

"Mom, come on!" I complain. She's not wrong, but still. Mean.

"What? He did used to cry a lot," she doubles down. "I'm sure he doesn't any more" she follows, attempting to soften it.

"Well, uh, actually, I kind of get the feeling he still might," I admit. "But I mean, I really haven't talked to him too much, so I can't say for sure," I add, attempting to soften my own admission as well.

"Nothing wrong with being a little sensitive," she assures me, as if she wasn't the one who brought up Toby's crybaby tendencies.

"No, I know that. Like I said, T.J.'s a good guy. I know that," I assure her. "Just today, in fact, he was inviting me to some group he's starting. Some Bible study thing."

"Are you going to go to that?" she asks hopefully.

"Nah, I don't really think so. Just not for me, since I don't really believe in anything--" I answer.

"Oh, no?" she asks. Have we not gone over that yet? Great, add "atheist" to the list of disappointments then.

"Nah, not really. Although..." I consider for a moment. I've been feeling bad about how we treated T.J., when he _was_trying to be nice. Even if it was funny. "I might go just once, just for T.J. We were teasing him pretty bad today, although it was pretty funny. Me and Micha just kept asking him if we were going to hell, and he kept trying to convince us we weren't, but we kept like, arguing with him," I laugh to myself, but she doesn't react. Instead she's staring at me, like she's looking for something in my face.

"Micha...?" she inquires.

Oh, shit.

"Oh, Micha's just another kid at school," I try to sound casual, like I'm not about to lie, "He's at the same lab table with me and T.J." That's technically true, I reason to myself. Then the lie: "He's partners with Heather."

"Heather?"

"You know the one, the girl who lives in Tetanus-- I mean, on Jasmynn Street," I offer.

"And this Micha... That's not the same Micha who stole Flynn's dirtbike a few years back, is it?" she asks, and my face gives her the answer before I even have time to think of a lie. "Chase, it's really not a good idea for you to be associating with someone like that," she warns.

"I'm sure his parents would say the same thing about me, though, wouldn't they?" I argue back, suddenly upset. Honestly, more upset than I should be. "Why shouldn't I associate with him? Because he's a bad kid? Well, guess what, Mom? So am I," I fume.

"Chase," she says sternly, "You're not a bad kid. And I'm sure this Micha kid isn't either. But you should be thinking about if being around these people is going to get you into more trouble. Other people are going to look at you and think--"

"Think what, Mom?" I interrupt angrily, "I'm supposed to care what people think? Is that a joke? People think I'm a murderer, Mom. Do you know what my nickname is? I'm the fucking 'psycho', Mom. I'm the psycho killer who tried to drown Sydney in the lake." I'm breaking down and I don't know why, tears start to roll down my cheeks, which just pisses me off even more. I feel weak. "I should be so lucky to be known as 'friends with Micha, the thief'. Then at least I'd be somebody's fucking friend."

I turn towards the oven again, so that she doesn't see me crying. Not that it matters, she already knows I am. I hear her get up, and she says nothing. She walks behind me, places her hand on my back, and rubs gently, and I shake with the sobs I can't keep choked down. I lean against the stove, covering my face with my hand.

"I'm sorry, Mom," I hiss through gritted teeth. "I'm sorry I'm like this. I--" I convulse as a huge sob forces itself out of me. I bury my face in both hands.

"I don't know why I'm like this."

*****

After consoling me for a moment, she leaves to change out of her work clothes. More likely, she's just leaving to give me a moment to calm down and compose myself. I pull the pizza out of the oven, and take deep, shaky breaths, trying to steady myself. I don't know why I just did what I did. Maybe I'm just tired, and that put me in a sour mood. Maybe I'm exhausted from trying to be normal for too long. From trying to deal with all of this shit. Maybe I'm finally cracking.

Maybe I _am_just a psycho after all.

I slice the pizza, and throw it onto a couple of plates. Mom still hasn't come out of her room, so I take her plate to her door. I'm about to knock on it when I hear it.

She's crying.

Nothing can make you feel shittier as a child than to hear your mother crying, and to know it was your fault.

I fucking yelled at her for worrying about me. I am_a fucking piece of shit, after all._

I wait for a moment, trying to think of something to say to her. But I'm to tired to think, and each sob that pierces the door shatters whatever train of thought I'm able to start. I'll probably just end up arguing with her again, because deep down, that's who I am. A fucking asshole. So I set the plate down by her door, knock gently, and hurry to my own room before she can respond.

I throw my own plate onto my computer desk, lie on my bed, and stare at the ceiling. I've been there maybe five minutes, maybe a few hours, I'm not sure, when there's a knock at my door.

"Yeah?" I ask weakly. I don't know if I'm ready to face her.

"Are you done with your plate?" she asks. I glance over to the desk. I haven't touched my food.

"Uh, not really. I'll bring it out tomorrow," I assure her.

"May I come in?" she asks. Fuck.

"Uh, yeah," I respond, shooting a quick glance to my computer monitor to make sure there's nothing compromising on it. I've never left porn up before, but I have some sort of irrational fear like it's something I'm going to do someday.

The door creaks open slowly.

"You alright?" she asks gently.

"Yeah, I think so," I say, unsure how to answer, "you?"

"I'm fine," she says. Bullshit.

"I'm sorry, Mom," I start to apologize.

"It's fine," she assures me.

"No, it's not, Mom. I'm an asshole."

"You're not an asshole."

"I_am_an asshole, Mom. I don't know why, but I am. I have been for a while now, too. Don't think I don't know. I've been like this ever since--" I weakly do the gesture, "--that day."

"You're_not_an asshole," she says resolutely, "you've just got a lot more to deal with than most boys your age do." _Because you're a psycho killer,_I add in my head. "It's okay to be overwhelmed."

"I think I'm just tired," I offer by way of excuse, "I didn't sleep well last night."

"Another nightmare?" she asks. Our eyes meet, and she has her answer.

"I want you to reconsider--"

"I'm not seeing a shrink, Mom," I assert. I'm careful not to come off as yelling at her.

"So what are you going to do?" she asks. I look up at her. "It's not an accusatory or trick question," she assures me, "I'm serious-- what are you going to do?"

"I..." I trail off, "I just don't know. I just need to get my shit figured out, somehow."

"Could Toby's Bible group maybe be something that would help?" she suggests.

"I doubt it," I answer incredulously, then realize how much of a dick I sound like, and add, "I mean maybe. I told him I'd consider it, so... I dunno, maybe?" Even as we're having this serious conversation, I'm trying to be noncommittal. I don't want to see a shrink. I don't want to do Bible study. I just want to lie in my room and count the ticking on the clock until I die. Nothing else can help me at this point.

"Well, I hope you will," she says hopefully, "consider it, I mean."

I shrug.

"Because," she continues, "I'd hate to have to have you committed." I sit up in surprise, and she's grinning.

She's fucking with me.

"Eh, you couldn't do that," I brush her threat off.

"No? You already told me the kids all call you 'psycho'. With that reputation..."

"Mom, I know you're joking, but I've heard about all I can take about my 'reputation' lately," I warn gently.

"Okay, sorry. Well, like I said, just consider Toby's offer," she says, and I can sense the end of the conversation approaching.

"And Chase? About Micha..." she hesitates, like she expects me to interrupt. I don't. "I'm sure he isn't such a bad kid, but... I'm just asking you to be careful."

"Okay, Mom," I gaze at the ceiling, thinking about how much-- or little-- I know about Micha. "I'll be careful."

Day 13: God Thinks

It happens the same way, every time.

We're playing at the lake, like we always did back then. Leo, Jasmynn, Carl, and Flynn are skipping rocks. I'm in the water, and they yell at me to get out of the way. So I dive under, and head towards where Toby and Sydney are playing. But as I surface, something's wrong. Sydney is sitting on top of Toby's back, who is lying face down in the water. He keeps pulling Toby's head up, just long enough to let him catch his breath, before shoving it back into the water and sand and mud.

He's going to kill him.

Unless I stop him.

I swim over as fast as I can. I pull Sydney off of Toby. Sydney's not happy about that. We fight for a moment. I punch him in the throat, and see the fight leave his eyes. It should be over now.

But it never is.

He'll do it again, I think to myself, Toby's not safe. I drag Sydney to where the water is deep. I shove him under. I follow. There's a ferociousness in his eyes, the fight is back in him again. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I use this as validation. As an excuse. I knew he was faking it, I think, now let's see how he likes it. We wrestle underwater, two bodies in constant, undulating motion. I see his face soften again, and his eyes look into mine pleadingly. I stare back, letting him know I'm not going to offer him any mercy. His eyes twitch suddenly, as he gets an idea. An idea I should have expected. He's always watching wrestling, and when he's wrestling around with one of us, he always proudly proclaims "I'm the heel" to whatever protests we have against his latest underhanded strategy. His whole body twists under the water, and I think he's trying to slip free. But he's not.

He's winding up.

He throws all of his weight into a kick, directly into my crotch. I watch bubbles rise past me as I involuntarily yelp. My hands leave him, involuntarily moving to nurse my injury. I float, curled up, like a fetus in a womb. Then I realize something terrifying:

He's going to tell.

I have to stop him. Maybe I can talk him out of tattling to Leo and the others. Maybe I can use his heel excuse against him. I bolt towards the shallows. I break the surface, and taste the dry afternoon air. I take a few gulps of it, trying to wipe the water out of my eyes, as I wade towards the shore. I can hear Toby still crying, though something sounds... off. As I open my eyes and am blinded by the afternoon sun, I remember my task.

"Sydney!" I shout, hoping to stop him before he gets to the others.

"Back the hell off" I hear, from a voice I know is Flynn's. My eyes adjust, and that's when I understand. Toby's cries sound wrong, because he's not the one crying.

Sydney is. I've seen him cry a time or two, but never like this. He always prided himself on being tough. But now there's no facade left. He's sobbing, practically wailing. Fear and despair and betrayal drip from each moan. I see Jasmynn trying to talk him down, a hand on his shoulder. But he either can't hear her, or can't understand.

Or just can't calm down.

His eyes meet mine and go wide with terror. My stomach turns. This isn't what I wanted. I just wanted him to be the one crying at the end of one of his and Toby's fights.

But not like this.

I take a step forward to try to talk to him, and Flynn is immediately in between us, staring me down. I hear Carl gasp to my right, and glance over to see him hugging Toby, who is trembling into his shoulder. Carl's eyes are darting in between me and Flynn, like he expects me to drag Flynn into the lake next.

"Just let me talk to him" I offer, and try to shoulder my way past Flynn. A large, red-furred arm immediately blocks my chest and shoves me backwards, and I look up to find Leo's eyes burning with anger.

"Stay away, Otter" he warns.

"Stay the fuck away from him, asshole" Flynn adds.

"Come on, guys, we were just wrestling around, and--" I offer.

"Yeah, he told us what you were trying to do, psycho. Now piss off" Flynn hisses at me.

"Just let me apologize," I look up at the wolf blocking my way, "Leo, just let me--"

"No," Leo interrupts. He's a man of few words, though that's mostly because, in English, he only really _knows_a few words.

"Come on," I whine, and try to step past him. I see Flynn's tail twitching in anticipation, but there's no need. Two large wolf paws grip my shoulders, hard.

"Ow, Leo, let go!"

"No," Leo warns, and there's something sinister in the tone that I've never heard from him before. "Stay away, Otter. Or I'll hurt you."

A silence falls over the scene. Sydney is no longer wailing, just trying to catch is breath as individual sobs hiccup in his throat. I feel their eyes on me, and look from one to the next.

Toby's guilty, mournful look.

Carl's confused fear.

Flynn's protective rage.

The hatred in Leo's eyes, and the fact that he's baring teeth, make it painfully, gut-wrenchingly clear: if I try to get closer, we won't be Leo and Chase anymore. We'll be predator and prey.

Finally, my gaze falls to Sydney, still staring at me in wide eyed fear.

It always ends this way. With the silence. With me losing all of my friends.

And Sydney... Sydney just stares.

And then I wake up.

Problem Child

An Echo Fan Fiction

By Fable91

I wake up late, alarm clock blaring. The Dream, two nights in a row? Unbelievable. I get dressed and rush out the door, hoping to God that I don't miss the bus. If I do, then I'm in huge trouble, because I've got no other option. As I round the corner, I see the bus, and Carl and Jasmynn getting on.

"Wait!" I holler, begging "Jenna, please!" It looks like Jenna makes some sort of face, but gets on the bus. Did she really just screw me like that?

I clamber up the steps of the bus. "Thank you," I pant to Karen, the bus driver.

"Don't thank me, was your fox girlfriend there who convinced me to wait for ya'," Karen tells me, "Now sit down already."

"Jenna's not my-- Wait, she told you to wait for me?"

"I said sit down, kiddo."

I look over at Jenna. She's visibly trying to avoid my gaze. I walk down the aisle, whispering "thanks" as I pass her seat. Her eyes flick up to me for a second before returning to the manga she's reading. Okay, be that way then. I walk to the back, sweat and oil thickening my fur. Good thing I have P.E. first period, I guess. I'll get to shower right after. Luckily I thought ahead and brought a bottle of otter shampoo to school in the first week, just in case.

Fuck, I can't shower with everyone else,_I think to myself, _what if I get... excited? Of course, I'm not gay, so that shouldn't be a problem, and yet... Maybe it's all this gay porn I've been watching. It's got my brain scrambled or something. I'll have to put on some lesbian porn or something to balance it out, I guess. I just hope we're doing something easy in P.E., since I'm already drenched in sweat.

*****

"Today we'll be running the mile," the "teacher" announces.

Fuck.

He leads us outside, to the track which wraps around the football field. The sun is already up, and the day is already dry and hot, because that's what it's like to live in a desert. Heat is already beginning to radiate off of the pavement. I'm already drained from two days of no sleep, this is gonna suck. I need a second to catch my breath.

"Today we'll be running in two groups, so decide between you and your parter who's going first and who's going second," the "teacher" instructs, "I'll be telling you your times as you finish, so you don't need to keep track of your partner's time."

Sydney is jogging in place, looking raring to go. Man, I wish I had access to whatever cocaine he's on. He looks at me questioningly. I gesture towards the track.

"Be my guest," I invite, and he takes a position on the track. I lie down on the bleachers, hoping to relax and maybe even fall into a light sleep while the first round of kids runs. As I close my eyes, a shadow falls over my face. Whatever, as long as they stay there, I don't care. Then I hear a familiar voice.

"Man, killer, you stink," the fox informs me. I open my eyes, and find him sitting on the bleachers one level above where I've laid down, his silhouette blocking the sun.

"Yeah, I know, thanks though," I try to brush him off.

"Like, you _really_stink," he insists.

"Look man," I level with him, "I woke up late, and I've gotten like no sleep the past two days. I'm just trying to catch a nap before it's my turn, alright?"

"You really shouldn't sleep just before a workout like that, you won't be warmed up, you'll be all groggy, and tense--"

"Yep, thanks man, I'll keep that in mind," I say sarcastically, closing my eyes again.

"So you don't sleep well either?" He continues, not taking the hint, "So is that just an otter thing, or...?"

I open my eyes just a crack. "What do you mean?"

"Well, Sydney has the same problem, that's what I mean. Has nightmares, I guess. You can guess what about," he suggests.

"No," I say, brain fog obscuring the obvious, "what nightmares?"

"Well," the fox sort of laughs to himself, "If I had to guess, the same ones you have. Only, you know, from the other end."

Fuck, of course that would be what he has nightmares about. Somehow it had never occurred to me that Sydney might have nightmares about that day. Of course, if I haven't gotten over _my_experience that day, why the hell wouldn't he still be having them too? I feel like a selfish asshole. I've spent the past few years thinking about how that day affected my life. Sydney's life was never easy to begin with, and with this... I'm surprised that between me, and the nightmares he used to have about that hunting trip with his dad... It's amazing that he gets any sleep at all.

"How do you know what Sydney has nightmares about?" I ask the fox, "That seems like a sort of intimate thing to know about someone."

"I wouldn't use the word _intimate_like that, but..." the fox responds, "I dunno, we talk a lot. We're not super close, but on the long bus rides to a meet, there's not much else _to_do, you know?" _Of course. Meet. Wrestling meets. This guy's on the wrestling team with Sydney._That explains the chumminess, and the crude sense of humor.

"Ah, yeah, I guess that makes sense," I offer him, and try to continue my nap. No dice.

"We're all kind of jealous of you, though," he continues, "in kind of a weird way."

"Why's that?" I ask absentmindedly.

"Well, you're probably the closest anyone's ever come to beating him wrestling," he continues, and my eyes open in shock. He did not just say that. I glare at him, while he continues, "I mean, obviously that wasn't on the mat, and you weren't following rules per se, and you technically didn't beat him, and..." his train of thought derails under my glare. "Uh, sorry, I didn't mean to..." he begins. "Look, sometimes I just..." he continues, and pauses, as if trying to find a delicate way to word the following phrase. Eventually he gives up, and just finishes, "...say shitty things. Sorry."

"It's fine," I mumble, even though it's not, and for whatever reason continue, "but it really wasn't a sanctioned match. I punched him in the throat, he kicked me in the balls. There was also the whole drowning thing, so it was more like--"

"It sounds more like a no-DQ pro wrestling match" he finishes my thought for me.

I look up at him in surprise, "Yeah, that's... That's exactly what I was about to say." I lie back down. Please leave me alone.

"You know, he hasn't been in water since that day?" he says, as casually as if he's just telling me a fun fact about Jupiter or some shit.

"What?" I look up incredulously. There's no way.

"Yeah, he hasn't stepped foot in a body of water bigger than a bathtub since then. And he can't even go underwater in the bath, you know." Great. Now I feel even shittier.

"But, he's an otter--" I protest.

"Yeah, you know, I had noticed that about him, actually," the fox sarcastically responds.

"But, otters _have_to go under--" I begin to argue.

"Apparently not," he shrugs.

"But, I mean, that can have psychological effects--" I continue to argue, as if I'm going to somehow rewrite Sydney's aquaphobia.

"Is that why he sometimes has those..." the fox trails off, giving me a look that indicates that I should know what he's talking about. And I should, but my sleep-deprived brain isn't getting it.

"Has those what?" I ask.

His face lights up like he just realized he went too far. "Sorry, I shouldn't have said that. That's not my business, I--" he stammers, "saying shitty things again, sorry."

I narrow my eyes at his sudden dodginess. A minute ago he wouldn't shut up, now I can't get him to speak. Maybe now I can get a nap. I close my eyes just in time to hear it.

"Alright! Next group!" the "teacher" shouts. Yipee.

I sit up, and the fox and I both make our way down the bleacher stairs. The fox calls out to Sydney, "What time did you get, speed demon?"

"10:15" Sydney responds. That's a fairly average time in general, but... For an otter, that's really not bad. Especially one who's as muscular as Sydney, I mean, he's not exactly lean... But I need to stop thinking about Sydney's muscles right now, because a boner is incredibly noticeable bouncing around in gym shorts.

I take a position on the track, and notice the fox take position next to me.

Oh God, are we friends now? I think to myself, So far this year, I'm friends with a nerdy stoat, a klepto bat, and a wrestler fox with no filter. This is quite the Ocean's 11 crew I'm putting together here. I hope he's not gonna be with me the whole run.

Those fears are quickly assuaged when, as the "teacher" blows his whistle, the fox takes off. Because he's a fox, and I'm an otter. And that's how running on land works. The entire menagerie of high schoolers starts to pass me as my shitty otter legs and my exhausted no-sleep-for-two-days lungs drag me down. I glance across the bend in the track and see that the fox is towards the front.Great, he's one of those assholes, I think to myself.

The run is hell on Earth, and I do mean that literally. Going second meant that the pavement had even more time to warm up, and it should honestly be illegal to make us run on pavement barefoot in the August heat like this. I'm proud to say that the fox only laps me once. But then, as I'm beginning my final lap, I notice something. The other kids have already been dismissed to the locker room, and are leaving the bleachers. I look around frantically, and realize that it's just me, and the fat chicks that walk the whole way.

Oh no, I think to myself, I've become one of the fat chicks.

I try to pick up the pace, but I've simply got nothing in me. I'm exhausted, and my stubby legs just can't run more efficiently than they already are, which is to say, not efficiently at all. As I round the final curve, I hear the "teacher" call out "Come on, Chase!" For a moment I'm surprised that he's being familiar enough to use my first name, then I remember. He still thinks my name is Hunter Chase. He's not being familiar. I cross the finish line and immediately slow to a limp.

"15:05" he shouts. Fuck. I don't care at all about this stupid test, but still... I know that's a terrible time. And I'm pouring sweat. For a 15:05 mile.

As I walk into the locker room, the sound of showers already running tells me how late I am. I'm going to have to hurry if I want to shower. And just pray that I don't give in to the horny thoughts while I'm in there. When I reach my locker, I notice that Sydney is nowhere around. Good, spares me the humiliation of telling him my time. I start to work on the lock, but something seems off. It won't open. As I continue to fiddle with the lock, I hear familiar voices cutting through the sound of the shower.

"Oh fuck, I forgot shampoo" Sydney complains.

"So borrow mine" his fox friend offers.

"Dude, are you crazy? Otter fur has to retain a certain amount of oil. If I use that, I'll be a walking hay bale for the next week," Sydney explains. Otter problems. I keep messing with the lock. Why can't I open my damn locker?

"So sorry for offending you with my friendship," the fox quips, "So borrow some otter shampoo, genius."

"From who exactly?" Sydney asks.

I fail to open the lock again.

"What about killer?" the fox offers hopefully. I'm gonna have to convince him to stop calling me that. Then again, he's on the wrestling team, so violence is... a non-option.

"Dude, I can't ask... Look, me and Chase..." Sydney trails off, and I find myself perking my ears up to hear them. Sydney and Chase what?

"Me and Chase aren't like that, okay? We're not, like, close" he explains.

"The dude tried to murder you and he can't spare you some shampoo?" the fox asks.

"It's not like that," Sydney retorts.

"You afraid he's gonna hold your face under the showerhead, finish the job?" the fox jokes.

"We're just getting along to get along. I can't ask him a favor like that."

"So stink then," the fox responds, "like I give a fuck."

"Shit... you're right" Sydney concedes, "but I don't know how to..."

His voice drops below the sound of the showers, and I can't decide whether he's stopped speaking or if they're just whispering. As I continue to fiddle with the lock, I suddenly understand what the problem is.

"Hey, Chase?" Sydney says, and I jump at how loud and clear his voice is. I turn around to face him, and... he's naked. Holy fuck. His muscles are even more defined under shimmering wet fur, and his junk... is just there. His hands are at his sides, he's not even bothering to cover it up. And why should he? We're all straight men here.

"Uhh... Chase?" he repeats. Shit, was I staring at his junk?

"Yeah?" I ask meekly.

"Do you have any otter shampoo? I kind of reek" he admits.

"Uhh..." I start, "I do, but..."

"But?"

"But someone stole my lock and put their lock on my locker, just to be an asshole" I finish.

"Oh, really? Dude, what a dick" he agrees.

"Yeah, so... Sorry" I apologize, "I do have otter shampoo, but..." I trail off.

"No, I get it, that sucks," he says sympathetically. The fox emerges from the showers now, and is similarly... immodest, with regards to covering up his privates.

"What's the deal, Sydney, is he making you suck him off for it or something?" the fox jokes. God am I getting sick of this asshole.

"Nah, someone switched Hunter's lock, he can't get into his locker," Sydney explains.

"Oh, damn, that sucks," the fox offers, before adding, "you okay there, killer?"

Oh God I'm staring at his junk too.

"Uh, yeah, just... Frustrated," I explain.

"Yeah, I'll bet," the fox agrees, "what a dick move. Plus now you gotta wear your gym clothes the rest of the day."

Shit, I didn't think of that.

"And you already reeked, it's not about to get better, is it?" he helpfully reminds me.

"Yep, thanks for noticing," I dryly respond.

"Right, right, sorry," he apologizes, before returning to the shower.

"Sorry again, Sydney, I would let you borrow it if I could," I offer apologetically.

"Nah, no worries. I'll just be a greaseball for the rest of the day. It happens. You should tell the teacher though," he suggests, and I must have given an incredulous look, because he quickly adds, "Yeah, I know he won't do shit, but at least then if you get in trouble in one of your other classes or something, you can say you tried."

"Ugh, yeah, I guess you're right. Fuck, I hate that guy though," I agree.

"Don't we all?" he grins, sauntering back to the showers. I watch him leave, probably spending too long staring at his... tail. I take a deep breath and steel myself for the unpleasantness ahead.

*****

The PE Teacher's office shares a wall with the showers, just past the hallway that leads to them. This man has chosen an office overlooking naked adolescent boys; I'll let you write your own jokes for that one. I rap on the open door, to be polite. He doesn't look up from his computer. What would a P.E. "teacher" use a computer for?

"Uhm, excuse me, mister..." I suddenly realize that I don't know his name. We've been in class two weeks and he's never given his name. I lean out of the office, glancing at the placard next to the door.

"Mr. Gates?"

"Yeah?" he asks in an annoyed tone, and I already want to kick his teeth in.

"Someone stole my lock, and--"

"You probably just forgot to put it on," he interrupts. Ass.

"No, I didn't and besides, they put a different lock on it, so I can't--"

"Mr. Chase, I can't be expected to drop everything anytime some kid forgets his combination," he interrupts again. It's literally your job?

"I didn't fucking forget it!" I stammer, and feel the air in the room change.

"If you swear at me again I'm giving you a detention!" he's suddenly irate.

"Wh-- I wasn't swearing _at_you, I was just saying--"

"Are you arguing with me?"

Are you fucking kidding me?

"Forget it," I snarl, and leave before I accidentally tell him how I'm really feeling. It's one thing to be a jackass by accident, but this guy's fucking devoted to the role. I walk past Sydney and his annoying fox and hiss "Well, I talked to him," under my breath, immediately feeling shitty for it once it's out. I know it's not Sydney's fault. But it's too late to take back now, and I'm still pissed, so I just keep walking, out the door, into the hallway, and towards my next class.

Bell hasn't rung yet, but I dare someone to try to stop me.

*****

The stoat is looking at me strangely, which I'm not really in the mood for. Lunch is crap too. I don't know where Salisbury is, but they need to learn what the fuck a steak is. And they should have let the guy who invented these mashed potatoes eat some actual_mashed potatoes first, so he'd know what he was going for. The texture is certainly _mashed, but there's some strange flavor overtone that I can't place, I think maybe it's burning plastic? It makes the "potatoes" basically inedible. I reach for the roll, which, thankfully, tastes like a roll is supposed to. It's not good, but it's perfectly flavorless, like bread is supposed to be. The stoat is still staring at me.

"Can I help you?" I manage over a mouthful of roll.

The stoat jumps, like he didn't realize that he was staring. "Oh, no, I just..." he trails off. After a moment, he finally says, "You do know you're in your gym clothes?"

I saw a piece of not-steak off with my fork, and throw it in my mouth. I nod slowly.

"Oh, okay, I just..." he trails off again. Awfully skittish, this one. He finds his courage again: "You stink. Like, really stink."

I roll my eyes. I swallow the piece of American pasteurized steak product. "Yeah, no shit. I know that," I confirm.

"Oh, okay, well..." he stammers, "..._why_do you stink?"

"Cause I'm an otter," I offer incredulously, and shove another piece of god-knows-what in my mouth.

"Yeah, but I mean..." he continues. God, he's as bad as the fox. "You never stunk before today." That's nice of him I guess.

"Someone threw their lock on my locker. So I couldn't get my shampoo, and my clean clothes. Thus..." I gesture at my smelly self.

"Oh, that sucks," he consoles, "you should talk to the teacher."

I must have made some kind of insane face just then, because he visibly jumps back. I roll my eyes and take a bite of roll.

"I tried, talking to the teacher only works for the good kids though," I explain.

"Good kids? What is that supposed to mean?" he asks. I gesture towards himself and the others at the table in a grandiose, sweeping gesture. "But you're not--"

I raise my eyebrows.

"Ah, no, I guess I see what you're saying," he finally admits. He furrows his brow for a moment. "I could talk to the teacher for you."

I laugh out loud at that, and feel bad when I realize that he was being serious.

"Eh, no, that's okay," I assure him.

"Are you sure? I could--"

"Look, I get it, but you talking to the teacher won't make me a good kid, it'll just get you labeled a bad kid. Don't worry about it, I'll work something out."

He furrows his brow again.

"What are you gonna do then?" he asks.

"I don't know," I admit, taking a bite of plastic-flavored mashed... matter, "Something will come up. I'll figure it out. Worse comes to worse, I'll just bring a pair of bolt cutters tomorrow."

The stoat looks shocked at that prospect.

I shrug. "Bad kid."

*****

I sit in chemistry, acutely aware of how much I reek, and acutely aware of how acutely aware everyone around me is that I reek.

"Alright class, pass up your assignments from yesterday" the sable instructs us. Shit.

I try to play it cool, passing the assignments behind me forward, maintaining a straight face. But the teacher counts the assignments as she collects them from each row.

"Chase, where's yours?" she asks.

"I don't have it. All my stuff is stuck in my gym locker," I mutter.

"Well, I hope you have the study guide for today," she scolds.

"I have..." I gesture down at my gym clothes, "...literally nothing."

She wrinkles her nose, "Well, hopefully your lab partner has theirs then." I glance at Micha, and see him similarly trying to avoid being noticed, ears folded back. "Split into your lab groups and study for the test."

We walk to the lab table, and I'm grateful that Micha is more forward than the stoat:

"Why do you stink?"

"Like I said, couldn't get into my P.E. locker."

"So?"

"So I couldn't get to my shampoo or my clean clothes."

"Why couldn't you get into your locker?"

"Someone put a different lock on it."

"So?"

"Micha, I'm really not in the fucking mood."

T.J. gasps. "Chase, you said--"

I glare at him. "I said 'fucking'. If you think that's bad, wait 'till you see what I do to Micha if he keeps running his mouth." I turn back to Micha. He's got his shoulders squared, fists clenched, teeth bared. Like he's gonna try and hit me first. There's a very short list of people who's ass I can kick in this school, but I'm pretty sure Micha's on it.

"I know you're upset..." T.J. is trying to mediate. But my eyes are locked with Micha's, and neither one of us is backing down.

"You got a fucking problem, Chase?" Micha spits through clenched teeth.

"You really think you got a chance, you twinky batshit fuck?" I respond. Not my best line, but I'm improvising here.

"Seriously guys, I'm sure if we put our heads together, we can figure this out," T.J. is offering, trying to stop us from smashing each other's faces in. Micha's ears twitch, and he wrinkles his nose, like he did before he thanked me for loaning him money yesterday.

"Come on, Micha, I'm sure you can help Chase out," Heather says, and there's something in her tone that makes me think she's trying to hint at something.

"Fuck that," Micha says flatly, and T.J. squirms at the swearing. Heather shoots Micha a look, she gestures meaningfully towards me, though I'm not sure what the "meaning" exactly is.

"Give me five bucks," he says simply.

"Fuck off," I respond.

"I tried" he mutters.

"Micha!" Heather scolds.

"What!?" he hisses back at her, but when his eyes meet hers, he flinches. "Chase, if you give me five bucks, I can get you back into your locker. Deal?"

"You already owe me five bucks. Why don't we call it even?" I offer.

"Nah, I'm charging ten bucks for my services. The five I owe you, plus five more," he insists, adding, "I'm sure the stuff in that locker is worth more. Shame if I got to it first." He flashes a knowing grin. I grab the front of his shirt, and his moody pout returns.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I ask, trying to sound threatening. I can practically feel the stress coming off of T.J. Micha's demeanor doesn't change.

"Five bucks, Chase." A strong impulse tells me to knock his teeth through the back of his head, but I swallow it. I let go of his shirt.

"Fine, deal," I agree.

Micha holds his hand out expectantly.

"You get it after," I insist.

"Nah, I get it now," he argues.

"Miss lunch again?" I jab. I see him shift uncomfortably, and I almost regret bringing it up. Almost.

"Maybe. What's it to you?" he sneers.

"Well, too bad. You get it after," I insist.

"Fuck you, I get it now or no deal," he retorts.

"Micha..." I start to explain.

"No, those are my terms," he insists.

"Micha!" I snap, "where do I keep my money?"

He looks at me like I'm an idiot. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"Where do I keep my money, Micha?" I ask again. He's not getting it.

"In your wallet?" he guesses.

"And where do I keep my wallet?"

"In your..." he glances down at my gym shorts, and his eyes flash with realization. His voice becomes smaller. "...in the shorts that are in your locker..." he mutters.

"You'll get the cash once the locker's open, okay?" I assure him, "I promise."

"How do I know for sure?" he asks.

"You just have to trust me. I mean I would have had to trust that you were going to help me out after I gave you the cash anyway," I reason, "My word's just as good as yours."

He grins. "That's exactly what I'm afraid of."

*****

When I get to the locker room, Micha is already waiting, a somewhat apprehensive look on his face. When he spots me, however, he immediately plasters his too-cool-for-you smirk on. Makes me wonder just how much of him is an act.

"Wondered when you'd show" he smirks.

"Yeah, yeah, let's just do this," I groan, already tired of dealing with him. Though, I have to admit, his sudden enthusiasm is sort of... cute? No, not cute. Charming, maybe. I guide him to my locker, and rap on it with my knuckles. He grins.

"Alright, pay attention, I'm only going through this once," he begins, as if he had this whole speech planned. He flourishes, gesturing at the lock. "Now, the thing about these old combination locks is that they built in a protection mechanism. You see, if you pull the clasp--" he pulls down on the lock, and tries to work the combination knob, "the knob won't turn. This mechanism was meant to make it more secure, but in fact..." he raises a single finger to emphasize his point, "...was their downfall. Now, they patched this out of the design back in '91, but lucky for you, this school district is too piss-poor to update any of their shit, so it should still work." It's honestly amazing to see how genuinely excited he is about this. If only he was passionate about something other than crime.

He smiles, "So if you gently pull on the clasp, and start spinning it to the right..." He suits his actions to his words, "eventually, it should..."

The clasp suddenly pulls taught, and the knob stops spinning.

"Perfect," he beams, "you got a pen to write this down?"

I gesture towards the locker, which still holds all of my possessions.

"Oh, uh, right..." he frowns, "well, just remember it then..." he glances at the knob, "Sixty-three."

"Sixty-three," I repeat.

"So now, we spin the knob clockwise a few times, then stop on..." he nods towards me.

I shrug.

He furrows his brow.

"Sixty-three?" I offer hopefully.

His smile's back, "Yep! Then we do the same thing, but turning the knob to the left. First one full turn, then..." He repeats what he did the first time, gently pulling the lock downward while slowly turning the dial. It catches again. He glances at it.

"Forty-two," he offers.

"Sixty-three, forty-two," I respond.

He nods excitedly. "So now you just put in the first two numbers in the code, like you would normally." He spins the dial twice, then lands on sixty-three, then spins it the other way once, landing on forty-two. "And now, we just..." he starts alternating turning the dial and pulling the lock, and I get it. If we've already entered the first two numbers, then we just have to try every number for the last number until the lock opens.

"As long as you don't turn the knob the wrong way, the code doesn't reset, so you don't have to keep putting it in to try every new number. You just keep creeping clockwise, until..." he says expectantly. The lock stays shut. He must have meant for it to open as soon as he said that, if the look of frustration on his face is any indication. "Until..." he says again, but he's still not there. "Unt--" the lock springs open. "Stupid piece of shit. Anyway..." he glances at the lock in his hand, "...twenty-three. Sixty-three, forty-two, twenty-three."

He pops the locker open, and tosses my backpack at me. "Write it down, so you can use the lock again. Since yours is missing," he advises. Thats... actually not a bad idea. I've just finished scrawling it on the back of a notebook, when I look up and see him rummaging through my shorts.

"Hey, what the hell, dude?" I shout. He tenses up like I'm going to get us caught with my yelling, even though we're breaking into my own locker. He pulls my wallet from my shorts pocket, and pulls a five dollar bill out.

"Thanks again, Chase. And you're welcome."

"I'm welcome? Yeah, thanks for the klepto lessons."

He screws his face up, "whatever, act like you weren't impressed."

I kind of was.

"Well, I can't afford the next class, so I guess this will have to do," I joke.

"Heh, I saw what's in your wallet, I know_you can't," he jabs back. _Ouch."By the way, you ever gonna use that condom in there?"

"Wh--" I stammer, "What makes you think I don't already?"

He looks me up and down. "Nothin', Chase, nothin' at all. You wanna do me a favor?"

"Not especially, no."

"Get changed, then come with me. While I'm here I wanna do something, but I need a lookout."

"Wait, so now I'm like, you're accomplice?" I ask.

"Only if we get caught," he assures me. I think back to what my mom said: it's really not a good idea for you to be associating with someone like that.

"Look man, I really don't mean any offense, but I really don't wanna be getting mixed up in... your line of work," I offer as delicately as possible.

Micha rolls his eyes, "Don't be a prick. Come on, I only wanna fuck with the gym teacher. I know you must hate him as much as I do."

And with that, I'm sold. Micha stands back, doing his general aloof act, as I change. As I pull my shirt over my head, however, I notice him staring at me.

"You alright, man?" I ask.

"Pfft, yeah, why?" he sneers.

"You were staring," I explain. His eyes go wide.

"No I wasn't, you musky fuck," he insists.

"Are you sure?" I grin. Finally, a chance to fuck with Micha a bit, "I can do it sexier if you want." I give him an over-exaggerated wink. Apparently he doesn't see the humor.

"Fuck you," he sneers, and I can't help but notice the malice in his voice. He's not just acting tough, he's... actually pissed.

"Okay, okay," I try to calm him down, "So, what's this favor you need?"

Micha grins wryly.

*****

Micha leads me down a familiar hallway. He's hunched down, eyes darting about frantically, in full stealth mode. I'm walking casually behind him, talking loudly just because I know it pisses him off.

"What, you need me to be your lookout while you shower? You afraid someone will see your tiny--"

His hand snaps shut around my muzzle, and he gives me a stern look, raising a finger to his lips. I give him a look of my own, and, while he maintains his tough-guy face, he knows well enough to take his hand off of my mouth.

"Touch my face again, Micha, see what fucking happens," I warn him.

"Ain't any bodies of water around here, so you're S-O-L-J-W-F," he whispers back.

"S-O-... What?"

"Shit-out-of-luck-and-jolly-well-fucked" he hisses back, like I should have known that.

We arrive at our destination, the door to Mr. Gates' office. He glances down the hall in both directions, as if someone could have been following us without us noticing. Micha fishes around in his pockets for a moment, and withdraws a pair of paperclips, bent so that the ends stick straight out.

"Are you kidding me?" I murmur to him, "fucking paperclips?"

"What can I say?" he softly responds, "they fucking work. School skimps on security like you wouldn't believe." He kneels down, and inserts both paperclips into the keyhole, resting his head against the door. He begins slowly working the clips around in the keyhole, and I can't help but notice how different it is from in the movies. On TV they usually just jam a screwdriver in and wiggle their hand like they're giving the world's smallest handjob. Micha's process is slow and methodical. I don't know what he's listening for, or feeling for, or what, but _he_clearly does.

"What the fuck?" he mutters softly.

"What's up?" I ask, as if I'm going to understand it if he explains. I don't know how locks work. I'm still wrapping my head around the padlock trick he just taught me.

"Cylinder won't move," he responds.

"I mean... isn't that how a lock is supposed to work?" I whisper, before snidely adding, "what, not as cheap as you thought?"

He shakes his head. "It should still wiggle a little, just from the give in the pins. It won't move at all. I don't understand..."

I'm sure I'm just oversimplifying how locks work, but I think I might have an idea.

"Micha," I whisper.

"Shht" he snaps back.

"Micha!" I whisper more aggressively.

"What!?" he hoarsely whispers back.

"Can I try something?" I ask.

His eyebrows narrow. But he shrugs. "Be my guest."

I reach past him and push down on the handle, then push against it. The door swings open.

"Oh, son of a bitch," Micha grumbles, shaking his head, "damn thing wasn't even locked." He looks up at me, "told you, security around here is shit."

He quickly rises and dashes in, beckoning me to join him with one hand. I do, and he shuts the door behind us, then hits the lights. He immediately heads towards the desk and starts rummaging through drawers.

"What are you looking for?" I ask him.

He shrugs, "whatever I can find. Whatever fits in my pockets."

"Oh gross!" he exclaims, pulling a digital camera out of a drawer.

"What's gross?" I ask.

"Think about it Chase, a digital camera..." he leads.

"Yeah...?" I ask stupidly.

"...in a boys' locker room," he finishes.

"Oh, oh God," I respond, "You don't really think--?"

He's already turning the camera on. He starts thumbing through the gallery.

"Nah, no dick, no worries. Just a bunch of... fruit? I think maybe he wants to be a photographer or something. Is it still still life if you just take a picture of it?" He asks, "Seems like cheating to me."

He flips through a few more, then suddenly exclaims "Oh, Jesus!"

"What?" I ask.

"Well, okay, there's not _no_dick, but I think this ones... the teacher's," he looks up at me horrified.

"Oh, gross. That's what you get for snooping through it!" I whisper.

"What do you say Chase? Wanna see some wolverine dick?" He grins.

"I think I'll pass on that one," I respond.

He's now rapidly mashing the delete button, "I'm gonna take this, but I gotta pawn it fast, shit's cursed. I'm not keeping it in the house with me, that's for damn sure."

"What, you think the ghost of his dick pic is gonna come after you?" I joke.

"With the way Echo is? I'm not taking that chance," he says, shutting the camera off and stuffing it in a pocket. I can't help but notice that he's wearing short-shorts, like what the women's volleyball team wears.

"Why don't you wear dude shorts?" I ask him. He wrinkles his nose, and looks at my own shorts.

"Like those? No thanks man" he laughs.

"What?" I respond indignantly, "they're comfy and easy to wear. Plus you'd have way more cargo space for your... contraband."

"Yeah, cause when people see the klepto bat in cargo shorts with every pocket stuffed, they're definitely gonna just let me walk," he reasons. He's probably right. Micha in cargo shorts is basically walking probable cause.

He keeps rummaging through drawers. "Is this really it? Just a fucking camera?" he whispers.

"I mean... what were you expecting?" I ask.

"I dunno... Something interesting, I guess."

"Besides the teacher's penis?"

"Oh fuck, don't remind me... I'm gonna have to do a shot of rubbing alcohol or something, to wipe that from my mind."

"Pretty sure that'll make you go blind. Are you sure you want that to be one of the last things you see?"

"Fuck man..." Micha trails off. He glances up at me, "So what are you gonna do?"

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"I mean I know you can't stand the dude. You're here, you should do something to fuck with him. Piss on his desk, or something," he suggests.

I consider for a moment. Maybe I am a problem child after all, because that sounds kind of badass, in a weird sort of way. "You think I should?"

His eyes widen, "I mean... I was just joking. But if you really want to, fuck yeah, you should!" He laughs, "I'll tell you what, if you do it, I'll give you this camera for free."

I fluff my junk a bit, through my shorts. I think I could probably need to go, if I wanted to. Actually, now that I notice, I _do_need to go.

"I'll do it whether or not you give me the camera," I smirk, "Besides, you're not pushing that thing onto me. Like you said, shit's cursed."

I unzip my shorts, and am an instant away from pulling the waistband of my boxer briefs down, when I see Micha's ears twitch, and the maniacal grin melt from his face.

"Shit, too late, we gotta go," he whispers hurriedly.

"What, chickening out? I didn't say you had to watch," I joke, and prepare to whip it out. I've spent too much energy mentally psyching myself up for this to quit now.

"No, you idiot, we gotta go. I hear people," he says, frantically slamming drawers shut.

"Oh shit," I respond, and reach for the door. He flips the lights off, and we both slip out, closing the door silently behind us.

"Okay, now you know the doors that lead straight outside?" he whispers to me.

"Yeah?" I confirm.

"Just walk casually but quickly towards them, don't look around, don't let anyone see you," he instructs, and we start walking. We're about halfway to freedom when a familiar voice freezes me.

"Hey, is that killer?"

I involuntarily stop in my tracks, and realize to late. I clearly heard him, now it's gonna be more suspicious if I keep walking. Micha senses my hesitation, and breaks his own rule just enough for our eyes to meet, even as he keeps walking. I shoot a glance at the door, and back at him, urging him to go. I see an imperceptible nod, and I think I see him mouth "thanks" as he continues on. I turn around as casually as I can. The fox is standing there, expectantly. Next to him, for some reason, is Sydney. What the hell? What is this? Is it somehow first period again? What kind of nightmare is this?

"Who was that?" the fox asks, nodding towards where Micha just was. I turn around, and Micha's nowhere in sight. He must have already slipped out the door. He really can be sneaky when he wants to be.

I act casual, "don't worry about it," I grin at the fox, as if this is some inside joke we're both in on. For some reason, it works.

"Oh, dude, did you just have a chick in here?" he asks excitedly, "Quickie in the shower or something? Dude, you're insane!" He holds a paw in the air, which I take to mean that he wants a high five. I start to raise my own hand, and his collides with mine, entirely too hard for my liking. He pulls me in close. "Dude, I saw her ass in those shorts," he mumbles in my ear, "not bad, killer."

I want more than anything I've ever wanted before to tell him whose ass he was just ogling. But that'll get Micha, or me, or both of us, nailed once Mr. Gates discovers his camera is missing. Assuming the fox narcs on us, which, he doesn't seem the type. But then, the good ones don't. That's why they become narcs.

What does a narc look like?_I remember from some forgotten movie, _he looks exactly like us. Stay away from people who look like we do.

That's when I notice Sydney's expression. He's not saying anything, but I can tell he's not buying the Chase-is-a-secret-pornstar story. Which is kinda bullshit. Google "Chase Hunter", the first thing you get is a pornstar. He's not me, but still.

"I see you got your clothes back," Sydney remarks.

"How'd you manage that, killer?" the fox asks.

I grin evilly, "I drowned the P.E. teacher in the lake." I'm not sure why I said that. I guess I want to keep up with the fox guy's_killer_jokes. But I see a look of discomfort on Sydney's face, and immediately regret it. He and I have never talked about that day, and for good reason. I want to say something now, to apologize for bringing it up, but of course the fox is here to ruin that.

"It's about damn time someone did that," he responds, laughing. I offer a weak grin, and I see Sydney force a laugh as well. His eyes are locked on mine, and I'm starting to wonder if I'm going to have another flashback. I have to get out of here.

"Well, anyway, I told her I'd give her a ride home, so..." I offer, heading towards the exit Micha took.

"A ride in the shower _and_a ride home, you're a real gentleman," the fox compliments. Is that a real compliment? Is he fucking with me? What is his deal?

I shrug, "what can I say boys, I'm growing up."

"Enjoy the road head," the fox chides, "By the way, zipper's undone."

Shit.

"Drive safe," Sydney adds, and there's something weird in his tone. Something either knowing, or almost weirdly aggressive.

But I'm not sticking around to find out. I nod at them once more, then head out the door.

*****

"I told you not to stop for anything!" Micha's voice startles me as I walk out of the school. I didn't figure he'd wait for me.

"Sorry," I say, though I'm not convinced I should be apologizing.

"Look forward, keep walking. How hard was that? Now we've got a witness," Micha shakes his head disapprovingly. "It's just sloppy."

"Hey, it's not my fault, he already recognized me!" I protest.

"Fuck. If he fucking finks on us..." Micha begins.

"He won't."

"You're sure?"

"Well..." I start. Of course I'm not sure. Micha notices my hesitation. He grabs my shoulder and looks me in the eye.

"Chase, come on man."

"I'm pretty sure he won't," I explain, "I think he's... cool, or whatever. I don't think he likes Mr. Gates any more than we do."

Micha's frown tells me he doesn't buy it. "Well, if he does... If you get caught..."

"I acted alone."

Micha seems surprised by that, "you serious?"

"Micha, I know it might surprise you, since you think I'm still part of the fucking Echo honors society, but it wouldn't be the first time I've been in trouble with the school. I'll deal with it." I assure him. Which, while perhaps slightly inflating my reputation as a hell-raiser, is still mostly true.

Micha is giving me a weird look. I think he believes me, but doesn't want to. "Okay man, well, same... obviously. If I got caught, you're good," he assures me.

I'm not sure how much I believe that. I want to, but... honor among thieves and such. If they were gonna nail him with criminal charges or something, I don't know how much I'd blame him for squealing. I mean, I'd be pissed, but... It's not like we're really friends or anything. He doesn't owe me any loyalty. But Micha seems like he might be the type to live by his own code of honor. Not the official rules, but rules nonetheless. I guess I've got to hope that's the case, at least.

My train of thought is interrupted by a tingling sensation in my lower belly.

"Fuck, I gotta piss," I announce, and seeing no one besides the two of us around, turn towards the wall of the school and... start the process.

Micha turns towards me, "I guess you didn't get your chance in-- Fuck, you were serious!" he says, suddenly turning away. What did he expect?

"What did you see?" I demand.

"I didn't see anything," he insists, but his suddenly skittish nature makes that seem unlikely. Not like I care, at this point. Today's been such a fucking weird day, he can enjoy the show for all I care. I finish and zip up.

"Okay, it's uh, safe," I tell him.

He glances at the wet stain on the wall. "Damn, Chase Hunter pissing on the school. Never thought I'd see the day you'd grow a pair of balls," he smirks.

"Get a good look at them?" I grin back.

He pouts. "No, I just... Man, fuck off," he stammers, clearly embarrassed.

"Hey, easy," I assure him, "I'm just fucking with you."

He wrinkles his nose, clearly unamused. Then he suddenly smirks.

"Hey, Chase?" he asks innocently.

"Yeah?"

"How do you get to and from school?" he asks.

"I ride the bus..." I start.

Oh fuck.

"Oh, fuck!" I shout, and as if on cue, I hear the hiss of pneumatic brakes in the distance as the busses leave.

"Sucks to suck," Micha snickers.

"Fuck you!" I turn on him, "I wouldn't have missed the bus if it weren't for your stupid klepto detour!"

"Hey, back off!" he warns, "I didn't lock your shit in your locker, and I didn't make you hang out here taking the world's longest leak!"

"Ugh, look..." I start, trying to be diplomatic, "can I get a ride home with you?"

"'Fraid not" he responds.

"Fuck, man, come on," I plead.

He looks at me, almost sympathetically, "Look, man, it's not like that. I'm hanging with some friends after school. So I can't, sorry."

"So what the fuck am I supposed to do?" I ask him.

He shrugs, "I guess you better run back into the school and catch a ride with a friend."

"I don't have any friends!" I snap, and the resulting silence tells me neither of us was expecting me to say that.

Now he looks genuinely sympathetic. "Seriously, man, I'm busy today, or I would. Maybe you can get a ride with the..." he pauses as he recalls the name I gave them a moment earlier, "...'Echo honors society'? Or maybe a teacher lives near Echo or something? I don't know man."

"Fuck, thanks for nothing, Micha," I hiss as I head back into the school.

"Oh, come on," I think I hear him whine as the door shuts behind me.

*****

I rush through the hallways, my footsteps echoing in the unnerving silence. Someone still has to fucking be here. I see a familiar pair of tufted ears round a corner.

"Toby!" I shout, sounding much more desperate than I'd like.

I run as fast as a 15:05 mile will carry me. I round the corner and see him walking into a classroom.

"T.J.!" I shout pathetically. He turns, and seems surprised by what he sees.

"Chase! It's great to see you here!" he grins. It is?

"Hey, T.J., can you give me a ride home? I missed the bus," I gasp, out of breath from my short sprint. I really am out of shape.

"Oh, you're just here for..." the smile fades, "I mean, yeah, of course you can get a ride from us. But..."

"But...?" I ask.

"You'll have to wait 'till after Bible study," he gestures towards the door he has propped open, "you're welcome to join us, of course." And his salesman smile is back. I'd much rather stare at the tile floor for an hour, but I've got no good reason to turn him down, and I know he knows it.

"Ugh, fine," I say, and realize after the fact how harsh I sound. I smile at him. "Sounds like fun," I say, lying.

He smiles.

*****

The Bible group is being held in some unused classroom. Desks and chairs are piled along the far wall of the room, and there is a pile of projection screen rolls in one corner. In the center of the room is a circle of chairs, filled by people I don't recognize. Something about them being gathered in a circle like this is giving me crazy cultish vibes.

As if sensing my apprehension, I feel T.J.'s paw on my back.

"Go ahead and grab one of those chairs," he encourages, pointing to the stacks along the wall, "And have a seat anywhere."

T.J. walks to the circle, where an empty chair is already waiting for him. I begrudgingly walk across the room, and although they're all in conversation with each other, I can't shake the feeling they're watching me. I pull a chair from a stack, and slowly plod towards the circle. As I approach, the others look up at me expectantly. I say nothing, placing my chair opposite T.J. The two on either side of me scoot away, either to give me room to join the circle, or just to get away from me. I'm reminded that I must still stink, having not gotten a chance to shower. Maybe that's why they scooted away. Once I sit down, they all go back to talking to one another as if they were never interrupted.

"Okay, everyone!" T.J. announces, rising from his chair. No one seems to hear him.

"Um... Everyone, if you could all quiet down a bit..." he tries again. Still nothing. I see his ear twitch nervously, and find myself feeling bad for him. So I decide to help.

"Hey, everyone, shut up!" I shout, not bothering to rise from my own seat. Everyone looks at me shocked. T.J.'s ears fold flat, and he has a look on his face like he's disappointed in me. Whatever, your way wasn't working.

"Uh, thanks..." T.J. offers to me. I shrug. "Welcome everyone, I'm glad to see you here. It's nice to see the group growing, little by little." I glance around the room. There's nine of us. How small was the group before, if this counts as "growing"?

"I thought first we should go around the room," T.J. continues, "And introduce ourselves. I'm T.J., and--"

"We already know that," some kid interrupts, "We did this last week."

"Well, yeah, I know," T.J. stammers, "But we've got some new faces, so..."

"The only new face is him," the rude kid interrupts again, pointing a claw at me, "So why doesn't he just introduce himself?"

The group starts murmuring to one another, and it's clear that T.J. is losing control of the meeting again. I'm about to shout something again, when I see a skinny deer next to T.J. stand up.

"I'm Julian," he says, offering a single wave of his hand.

The pika sitting next to Julian takes the cue. He shrugs and says simply, "Hunter."

A chuckwalla seated between Hunter and myself is next. He offers a wave similar to Julian's, "I'm Chris."

"Uh," I offer my own awkward wave, "I'm Chase."

The skink to my left raises his hand awkwardly, "Um, I'm Matt. You can call me... Well, 'Matt'."

A bighorn sheep to his left is next. His arms are folded, and he doesn't bother unfolding them or offering any friendly gesture. Just a name. "Brian."

To his left is the ground squirrel that didn't want to do introductions. I get the feeling he still doesn't. "Donnie," he grunts.

A pronghorn sits between him and T.J. He smiles, "I'm Austin, I'm a Sagittarius, my turn ons are..."

"Alright, that's everyone" T.J. interrupts Austin's bit. "So I thought what we could do was, maybe we could each share our favorite verse? If you all want to take out your Bibles..."

"I, uh... didn't bring mine," Chris explains.

"Yeah, me neither. Didn't think we'd need them," Brian says.

"At a Bible study...?" T.J. begins.

"I don't have mine either," Austin admits.

"No one does, I think," Hunter joins the majority.

"I brought mine," Julian brags. _Well of course you did._Goody-two-shoes probably never leaves home without it. Julian seems nice enough, but I'm starting to think he has the personality of a piece of cardboard.

"Well, if you know your verse..." T.J. offers hopefully, "Then I'll just read them all, okay?"

Everyone mumbles something approximating agreement.

"Okay, Julian, do you want to start?" T.J. turns.

"Sure thing, Teej," he responds. "Teej"? How close are these two anyway?

"Isaiah chapter 40, verse 8 is one of my favorites," he smiles. He _would_just know that off the top of his head, wouldn't he? On the one hand, this guy has no personality besides saccharine kindness. On the other hand, he's really starting to rub me the wrong way anyways.

"Chapter 40, verse 8, chapter 40..." T.J. mutters to himself as he flips through his Bible. I can't help but notice that he doesn't seem to consult the table of contents at any point. He just... knows the order all of the books of the Bible are in. Which is surprising, but also entirely unsurprising. For T.J. Still, I'm a little impressed.

"Ah! Found it: 'The grass withers and the flowers fall, but the word of our God endures forever.'" T.J. grins, and I can't help but notice how relaxed he looks after reading that. Like he just took a big hit of weed or something. Is that what believing in God feels like? Just reading the verses... and buying them? Must be nice. "What made you pick that verse?" T.J. asks.

"I just find it reassuring," Julian begins, and I realize from his tone that he's huffing the same theological high that T.J. is, "So much in life is uncertain, or impermanent. It's nice to remember that God's plan is resolute and enduring. No matter how scattered or chaotic the pieces might seem sometimes, there's always a central plot-line that underlies it all," he says. I get the creeping feeling that he's being really meta right now, and if there were a camera around, I'd be Jim Halpert-ing it right now.

"Alright, who's next?" T.J. asks, although it's obvious who's next, based on the order we introduced ourselves earlier. Hunter shifts uncomfortably.

"I don't know any," he grimaces.

"I'm sure you know some," T.J. assures him, "If you don't know the specific book or verse, if you can give me an idea of what it is, maybe me or Julian can figure out which one it is."

"Uhh, okay," Hunter says, seeming unsure, "It's the one about... forgiveness?"

I can tell from a mile away that he's deflecting. Half the Bible is about forgiveness. But T.J. and Julian don't seem to notice.

"Oh! I bet I know what it is!" T.J. says excitedly, and starts flipping through his Bible. He's taking the bait.

"Luke, chapter six, verse thirty-seven," T.J. grins, "Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven."

"Uh... yeah. That's the one," the pika lies.

"So why'd you pick that one?" T.J. asks expectantly.

"Oh, uh..." Hunter stammers, caught in his lie, "I just... I think forgiveness is such a big part of the Bible, and that verse puts it so..." he plants his hand on his heart in an over-the-top emotional expression, "...so beautifully."

"I agree," Julian says calmly, and there's no tone of derision or annoyance that would indicate that he realizes that the pika is bullshitting.

"Chris? What about you?" Julian asks, and I suddenly realize that I'm next. There's only one verse I know, and... I don't think they want it.

"Mark twelve, verse thirty-one,"

"Good choice," T.J. says as he flips to it. Why bother looking it up if you already know it? "'The second is this: 'Love your neighbor as yourself', there is no greater commandment than these.' Why'd you pick that one?"

"Just seems like the best one, if you had to parse the whole Bible down to a single verse," Chris offers. Virgin. Not that I can talk.

"Okay, good..." I feel T.J.'s gaze turn towards me, "Chase? What about you?"

I can still only think of one verse. Part of being a problem child is a problem with authority, so I started getting into... anti-religion, I guess... pretty early. So I only remember one stupid verse. But now that T.J.'s putting me on the spot like this, I don't feel so bad. I just hope I remember the right verse.

"Uhhhh..." I stammer. Here goes. "Ezekiel 23:20," I mumble.

"I'm not as familiar with that one," T.J. says as he starts searching.Of course you're not, I think to myself. Finally he finds it.

"'There she lusted after...'" T.J. trails off. I see Julian furrowing his brow at his own Bible.

"Are you sure this is the verse you wanted, Chase?" Julian asks gently.

"Yep," I insist.

T.J.'s ear starts twitching, and I feel a little bit bad. But just a little. "Well, I don't know if I should read this verse... I mean..."

"You asked for my favorite verse," I counter.

Julian smirks, "He's right, T.J. You said you'd read everyone's verse. You should read Chase's." I see him wink knowingly at me. Maybe he has a personality after all?

"Ugh... fine..." T.J. groans uncomfortably, "'There she lusted after her lovers, whose genitals were like those of donkeys, and whose emissions were like those of horses.'" The group giggles under their breath. But then I see T.J. smirking at me. "Why's that your favorite verse, Chase?" he asks, clearly thinking he's got me cornered. Don't challenge me, little boy.

"I dunno, I just like all the talk about big cocks, I guess," I smirk back, and T.J.'s facade crumbles. His ear thrashes like a fish on a hook.

"Faggot," I think I hear in my left ear, and I turn towards the squirrel. He's looking right at me. I don't remember deciding that my hands should be fists, but I feel them clenching nonetheless.

"Chase, are you sure that's your favorite verse?" T.J. pleads.

I glance at him. "It's the only one I know," I admit.

"Well," T.J. struggles, "I guess it's good that you're here then." God damn, nothing keeps this kid down.

"Matt?" T.J. asks the skink to my left.

"Oh, yeah, uhh..." Matt furrows his browline, "Deuteronomy, 32:35."

"Okay, let's see..." T.J. starts flipping pages again, after a moment, he begins. "Vengeance is mine, and recompense, for the time when their foot shall slip; for the day of their calamity is at hand, and their doom comes swiftly." T.J. shifts in his seat, "and why'd you pick this one?"

"A lot of the verses people like are all about forgiveness and grace and love," Matt begins, "But God is just as much vengeance and death, but no one ever picks those ones."

"Hell yeah" Brian agrees, and offers his hand, which Matt awkwardly high-fives.

"Oh... I see..." T.J. begins. Obviously not the Bible lesson he wanted to give today. "Well, yeah, sometimes God is grace, and sometimes He is vengeance..."

"How can He be both?" I interrupt. T.J. stares like a deer in the headlights. Julian stares like a himself in the headlights.

"Well..." Julian begins, but apparently can't come up with anything.

"I mean God is different things at different times. Just like us," T.J. explains. I'm not buying it.

"What do you mean different things? We're all the same people, all the time," I insist.

"That's not true!" T.J. retorts, "I mean we all make mistakes, but we're not defined by them..." He trails off, but I know what he's getting at. You drowned Sydney that one time, but you're not always_drowning him._

"But didn't you say..." I begin, "...that the word of God endures forever? Doesn't that imply that He's a constant? Not changing?"

"Well, sure, but..." T.J. begins, but now _he_seems unsure how to finish his own sentence.

"God's response doesn't change, the circumstances that he's responding to change," good old Julian covers for T.J. "God is a constant, but we are all variables."

I can't shake the feeling that that's bullshit, but I can't come up with a good reason why.

"Austin 3:16," Brian says, not waiting to be asked. I think I'm the only one who gets that joke.

"I don't think that's a real--" T.J. begins.

"Matthew, chapter ten, verse thirty-four," Brian says, not even acknowledging his own joke.

"Okay," T.J. says, clearly glad to be done with the previous conversation. "'Do not suppose I have come to bring peace to the earth. I did not come to bring peace, but a sword.' And you picked this verse because..."

"Same reason," Brian shrugs, and he and Matt share another high five.

"I see," T.J. says, but doesn't try to argue.

"I've got mine," Donnie says.

"Okay, shoot," T.J. responds.

"Numbers, 32:23," he says.

"Oh, Old Testament, okay..." T.J. mumbles as he searches, "'But if you fail to do this, you will be sinning against the LORD, and you may be sure that your sin will find you out.' That one is obviously partially based on the context, but why'd you pick it as your verse?"

Donnie doesn't answer, and I look up to find him staring straight at me, smirking. I really don't want to get into a fight at T.J.'s Bible group, but I can't shake the feeling that Donnie has been fucking with me from the start.

When he sees my glare, he finally speaks: "I just rest easy knowing that everyone's sins will be punished eventually. That no one can just get away with anything." His eyes are still locked on me, and I know the rest of the group can feel the tension. Which means I can't just let it stand.

"Any specific sins you got in mind?" I ask him, jaw set.

"Depends, how many sins you got, murderer?" he responds. Well, at least I know one sin he's thinking of. I rise out of my chair.

"Oh, I've got a long list, Donnie," I assure him.

"I'm sure you do," he looks me up and down, not bothering to rise from his own seat.

"There's always room on that list for more, though," I threaten.

"Chase, please!" T.J.'s voice cuts through the sound of my heartbeat throbbing in my ears. I glance over at his despairing face, and immediately feel shame wash over me. T.J. is offering me a ride home. Hell, even this Bible group is something that _he_views as a favor. And here I am, pissing on it, like I always seem to. I glance back towards Donnie, who's staring at me expectantly. I want to uppercut him over the back of his fucking chair. But I just sigh and wrinkle my nose, like he's not worth my time, and sit back down. Donnie gives me a knowing smirk, and it takes everything I have not to launch across room at him.

"If it's alright..." Austin starts meekly, "Romans, 6:14," he requests, and I think I see him shoot Donnie a glance.

"For sin shall no longer be your master, because you are not under the law, but under grace," T.J. reads, and again I see him visibly relax from taking another Jesus-hit. "What made you pick that, Austin?"

"It's just reassuring," he says, glancing at me, "that even as our sins seek to find us out, we're still not entirely beholden to them. That there's always a way out." He shoots another glance at Donnie, and I think I understand. That verse was chosen specifically to dispute Donnie's verse. Only it's Bible group, so you can't argue directly. You have to know Bible verses.

I don't know Bible verses. Next time Donnie tries something, I'm probably just going to tackle him.

"Well, alright, then," T.J. begins, "I think we actually touched upon a very interesting point, that might be worth discussing some more. You were talking about how God seems to be different things at different times--"

"Hold on," the chuckwalla to my right interrupts, "you didn't tell us yours." There are murmurs of agreement around the circle.

"Oh, well, okay... I guess I'd have to say my favorite is John 3:16," T.J. grins, and I hear groans among the others. Even I know that John 3:16 is a basic bitch answer, it's the one they always put on t-shirts and shit. Can't remember what it is, but... Somehow it seems perfectly on-brand that it would be T.J.'s favorite.

"'For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life'," T.J. says, again sighing in relaxation. Is it possible to O.D. on Jesus? 'Cause T.J. looks close.

"So, wait..." Hunter starts, "it says 'shall not perish'. But people die all the time?"

"Their mortal bodies die, but your soul continues on," T.J. explains.

"So before Jesus, what happened when you died?" Hunter continues.

"Nothing, that's it, you were just... gone," T.J. says.

"So what happened if you died before Jesus showed up? You were just screwed? Like, was someone the last person to be sent to oblivion before heaven opened up? And did the first few people who got to heaven after Jesus started, just like, rush the place like a Black Friday sale and get the best heaven for themselves? Or..."

"Well, God sort of exists outside of time," T.J. explains, "So I would assume that God's grace works sort of... retroactively. That people from before his arrival were saved when he came as well. In fact, the Mormons have a very specific belief about that. If you join the Latter Day Saints church, they do a special prayer that gets all of your ancestors into the church too, so they can be saved." T.J. shrugs, "you know, if you believe in that-- needing to be part of a specific denomination to be saved."

"Wait, if people just disappeared when they died before Jesus..." I interject, "...then there was no Hell, either?"

"Well, I guess not?" T.J. admits, and I know he sees where I'm going.

"So then when Jesus showed up, He also created Hell. It almost seems like it would have been better for Him not to show up at all, in that case."

"Do you really think oblivion is better than Hell?" Julian asks me.

"I mean, in order for Hell to really mean anything, it'd have to be. It's like, if you walked in here with food, and were like 'instead of eating nothing at this meeting, we're going to eat cyanide.' That's way worse than just eating nothing," I argue, although I'm not sure I've made my point as well as I'd like. In any case, I see the rest of the group looking at Julian expectantly.

"Well, that's a false dichotomy. Jesus didn't bring oblivion or Hell. He brought Heaven and Hell."

"Dio brought Heaven and Hell," Brian interrupts. Chris laughs, but I have no idea what they're on about.

"Yes, well," Julian tries to pick up his monologue, "So it's more like if I brought cyanide, or ice cream sandwiches. Sure, cyanide is worse than nothing, but obviously we'd all pick the ice cream sandwiches."

"I mean, if someone had just offered me cyanide to eat, I don't think I'd trust the ice cream sandwiches," I insist.

Julian is quiet for a moment, resting his head on his fist. He doesn't look annoyed at me, but rather just thoughtful. After a moment of silence, he finally grins, "Well then it's like T.J. said, it's a good thing you're here in this group, isn't it?"

Incorrigible fuck.

The meeting continues, but I'll admit I start to space out. I'm still exhausted from missing sleep, and it's been a longer day than I wanted it to be. As my mind wanders, I start wondering just what it is that Micha is up to. Then I start wondering why I'm wondering that. I feel a jab in my left rib.

"Ow," I whisper to Matt, trying not to interrupt whatever T.J.'s lecturing about. Grace or forgiveness or love or something.

"You uh..." Matt whispers back, "you thinking about the genitals of donkeys, or horses, or whatever again?"

"What?" I ask, and turn to look him in the eye. He gestures towards my lap. I look down, and see what it is he's looking at.

"Fuck," I curse under my breath, adjusting myself. I did not just get hard thinking about Micha. I refuse to believe that. Anyone but Micha. Sydney's fox friend can have him, for all I care.

After a bit more debating about peace and love and eternal damnation, T.J. announces that we're out of time. We rise and start stacking our chairs, and I suddenly remember that I wanted had to talk to Donnie afterwards. I want to inform him how far up his ass he can stick his Bible verse, and his _murderer_comments. T.J. suddenly grabs my arm, and I can't help but wonder if he somehow knows what I'm trying to do.

"You still need a ride home?" T.J. asks.

"I'm still here, aren't I?" I respond, and realize afterwards how snarky I sound.

"Hey, it was good having you today, Chase," Julian smiles at me. His tone is entirely friendly, but I can't help but feel like there must be some sarcasm in there somewhere.

"Yeah, it was good meeting you, Julian," I offer, assuming that that's what I'm supposed to say.

"If you need help finding a new Bible verse," Julian offers, "We could hang out sometime. Of course, if that really _is_your favorite verse, we could talk about that instead." He offers a friendly wink, and something occurs to me. The verse I gave was about donkey and horse cock. And now here's another ungulate offering to "hang out" and "talk" about it.

Is Julian hitting on me? Or am I just that horny and alone?

I feel my pants tightening again, and hope to God that T.J. and Julian don't notice. Then again... I look Julian up and down. I don't know how deer compare to horses, but if he _is_hitting on me, maybe it wouldn't be so bad if he noticed my...

No. Fucking no. That's it, I'm on an all-straight-porn diet from now on. I've got to get the hell out of this school before I wear a hole in the front of my cargo shorts.

"Well, I hope to see you around, Chase," Julian says, and places a hand on my shoulder. "Hope to see you around"? What does that mean? And physical contact too? What is happening?

Julian lets go of my shoulder and heads out the door. As he walks past me, I smell some light hint of cologne, and my whole body shudders. What the actual fuck.

"You alright?" T.J. asks, and I realize he must've seen the chill run through me.

"Yeah, it's just cold in here is all," I lie, "let's get going."

*****

I'm sitting in the back of T.J.'s mom's car. Music is playing, and I'm pretty sure it's the soundtrack to Produce Patrol, a children's Sunday School cartoon. The fact that T.J. and Mrs. Hess are both softly singing along with it would seem to confirm that. I remember watching it at his house, years and years ago, when we were all still friends. It was one of those things that I outwardly acted too cool for but internally really enjoyed. I used to tease him about it, and that's when we stopped watching it. I was a shitty kid. The song changes, and I swear I almost recognize this one. It must be from the _Silly Songs with Leroy_segment, because, well, I recognize Leroy's voice, and it is most definitely a silly song. What would a zucchini need a comb for anyway?

I'm about to ask what we're still sitting around for, when the answer to my question walks out the front door of the school. He waves goodbye to his fox friend, and starts walking directly towards us.

"What's Sydney doing here?" I ask.

"We give him a ride home after wrestling practice," T.J. explains, "I... I must've mentioned that?"

No. No, you didn't.

Sydney suddenly stops short, and there's a look of shock on his face. He's spotted me. He must realize he's staring, cause he suddenly puts on a smile and jogs the rest of the way to the car.

"Hey, Chase," he says nonchalantly, as if he expected me to be here. He gets in and we pull away from the school. I can't help notice that he's just staring at me, grinning.

"Yeah?" I finally ask him.

"So was that T.J. we saw wearing those bun huggers then?" he grins. Of course. That's why Sydney was acting so weird in the locker room. Because I'm a shitty liar. I said that I was going to give the "girl" a ride home.

Sydney knows I can't drive.

"Was I doing what?!" T.J. asks from the front seat.

"Nothing, Teej," Sydney says dismissively, before turning back to me, "So who was it then?"

"I uh..." I squirm, "I can't say." My mind wanders, and I find myself thinking about Micha again. And, since the topic is fresh on my mind, the volleyball shorts he wears. He _does_fill a pair of shorts pretty well, doesn't he?

Why am I thinking these things!?

"Wait," Sydney gasps, before lowering his voice so that front seats can't hear, "you weren't actually..."

I look over at him, and he's giving me a knowing smile. He glances down at my lap. I look down too.

Oh, for fuck's sake.

I pull my backpack up from between my feet and set it on my lap to cover my... indiscretion. I turn towards the window, but can feel Sydney's stare, and his shit-eating grin, boring into the back of my head.

"So, hey, Sydney," T.J. asks, and I'm glad to have Sydney's attention drawn away from me, "Did you end up getting those tickets?"

"Of course, bud," Sydney says, "And they're decent seats, too. My friend on the wrestling team's cousin works for the venue, they were able to get me a deal."

"I can't believe I'm finally getting to see F.F. live," T.J. says giddily.

"'F.F.'?" I ask, not turning away from the window.

"Flatiron Fryer," T.J. explains, "You've heard of them, right Chase?" Of course I have. They're the most milquetoast, generic Christian "metal" band on the planet. Call-and-response duet lyrics, synthy strings, the whole nine yards. "Sydney and I are seeing them next month," T.J. continues, and I shoot a look over to Sydney, who squirms uncomfortably in his seat.

"_Flatiron Fryer?"_I mouth to him.

"Yeah," he mouths back, avoiding my gaze.

"You like Flatiron Fryer?" I mouth in response.

"Is that a problem?" he whispers back to me.

"Not at all," I whisper, "It's just surprising is all. You don't seem the type."

"I'll explain later," he whispers back, nodding towards T.J. and Mrs. Hess.

"Oh, and look!" T.J. says excitedly, "Lightning Bugs and Paperboys are opening for them!"

I put on a look of mock excitement. "Lightning Bugs _and_Paperboys? _And_Flatiron Fryer? Sounds like quite a night!" I say emphatically.

Sydney still looks embarrassed, but he's grinning at my teasing. "Fuck off" he mouths.

"It sure will be!" T.J. answers unironically, unaware of the silent conversation going on in the backseat.

"You guys will have to get matching tour t-shirts!" I suggest. I see Sydney's eyes widen.

"Oh yeah! We could do that!" T.J. agrees.

Sydney is slowly shaking his head at me, but his grin's still there. "_Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you..."_he mouths repeatedly to me.

"What do you think, Sydney?" T.J. asks.

Sydney only interrupts his berating of me long enough to answer: "(...fuck you, fuck you...) Sounds great, Teej! (...fuck you, fuck you, fuck you...)"

"You boys are in for quite a night, huh?" Mrs. Hess contributes from the driver seat, unknowingly adding to my humiliation of Sydney. I see him cringe, the grin on his face widening involuntarily.

I snicker, "It sure sounds like it!" Sydney suddenly starts to itch at the left side of his face, but I can't help but notice he's only using one particular finger. He looks meaningfully at me, to make sure I see it. I just grin at him.

The rest of the ride is spent working out the details for T.J. and Sydney's platonic little date. Or at least, I'm assuming it's platonic. "Working out the details" here basically means T.J. making a suggestion, Sydney agreeing to it, and me making a snide comment wherever possible.

Since Mrs. Hess doesn't have to make stops along the way, we arrive in Echo shortly after the bus would have, despite having left Payton a whole hour later. Mrs. Hess drops me off first.

"Thanks again for the ride, T.J., Mrs. Hess," I offer.

"Thanks for coming to Bible group, Chase," T.J. responds, and I see Sydney's face light up.

"You didn't tell me you went to Bible group, Chase," he grins, "How was that?" He thinks he's turning the tables on me.

"Enjoy that concert, Sydney," I say smugly, and slam the car door shut.

*****

As soon as I get home, I head for my bedroom. I know I have less time than usual, and let's face it, I sort of need my "me time" more than usual today.

It's been a weird day.

But as I sit staring at a blinking cursor, nothing comes to mind.

God damn, am I tired.

I pull my pants down, hoping that maybe getting started will make something happen.

Nothing.

This is literally the first time in my life this has happened.

Is it just cause I'm tired? It's probably just cause I'm tired, right?

Then again, that didn't seem to be a problem earlier.

When I was thinking about Micha...

...or Julian...

And just like that, little Chase springs to life.

God, am I really willing to think about Micha or Julian while I'm...

What the fuck is with me lately?

Luckily, I don't have to decide whether or not I'm going to self-service to the thought of my classmates, because I hear the front door open, and realize that I'm out of time.

"Chase?" Mom hollers.

Fuck.

"I'm coming," I holler back. No, I'm not coming, I think to myself, pulling up my pants, that's kind of the whole problem.

I find Mom standing in the living room, looking through the mail. She looks up at me and gasps.

"Honey, you look awful."

"Good to see you too, Mom," I mumble. I just need a quiet night. No heavy conversation. No yelling. No crying, from either of us. "I'm gonna just make some ramen tonight, if that's alright with you," I tell her.

"Okay, that's fine."

"Got a preference on flavor?" I ask as I head into the kitchen.

"Whatever you grab is fine," she says. "Chase?"

"What?"

"Did you have the nightmare again?" she asks.

I pull my head out of the cupboard and our eyes meet.

"Chase..." she begins.

"Mom, it's fine, I just had a really long, weird day today," I tell her.

"Chase, we both know you can't keep going on like--"

"Mom, I really don't want to have this conversation today," I plead, and I can hear something pathetic in my voice.

She must hear it too, because she just says "Okay."

I throw three packets of chili lime ramen on the counter, and start looking for a saucepan.

"Have you given any more thought to--"

"I'm not seeing a shrink," I interrupt.

"Okay. But I was going to say Toby's Bible group," she finishes. Why am I always an asshole?

"Oh, uh, actually..." I start filling the pan with water, "I went today."

"Did you?" There's a hint of surprise in her tone.

"Uh, yeah, I did," I say as I start the stove. Not sure what else there is to say.

"And how was it?" she asks.

"It was... Exactly what you'd expect a Bible group to be," I shrug.

"Are you going to go again?" Mom asks expectantly.

I sigh, "I dunno. There's this one kid there, Donnie, that I get the feeling doesn't really like me."

"Well, not everyone is going to like you," she says, "But T.J. is there, and he likes you, right?"

I guess that's true. I'm not sure how the rest of the group felt, but Julian seemed to like having me there too. On cue, I feel a tingling in my shorts, and I desperately try to think about anything other than Julian. I also turn towards the stove, just to be safe.

"Well, I'm just glad you're trying new things," Mom says, and leaves the kitchen, presumably to change out of her work clothes.

I throw the ramen bricks into the water, and, on a whim, add a can of corn to the mix. I'm feeling fancy today, I guess. I grab a fork from the drawer and poke at the bricks of ramen, forcing them under the water. Come to think of it, why does ramen float? Any other pasta sinks until it's done cooking, but ramen floats right away.

Probably all the formaldehyde in it or something.

I stir absentmindedly. She's right, I know, about me not being able to keep this not-sleeping thing up. Maybe if it happens again tonight she'll let me call in tomorrow. The nightmare usually doesn't happen during the day, maybe I can nap and get caught up.

I drain the ramen, add the flavor packets, and take a quick whiff of the MSG-fueled goodness. I separate the dish between two bowls, and head into the living room with mine, leaving the other on the table for Mom. It's probably just how tired I am, but the couch feels extra soft today. I set my bowl on the table beside me, and just take a moment to relax.

I'm just about to doze off when I hear the TV turn on. Mom and I eat in silence, apparently both too exhausted to talk much. Or maybe she's just being quiet because she knows I don't want to talk. Either way I'm glad for it.

After finishing dinner and catching myself dozing off a second time, I wearily stand.

"I'm gonna try to get some sleep," I mumble, already dragging my feet towards the bedroom.

"Okay, hon, good night," Mom offers quietly.

"Mmhmm" I hum in response, shutting the door behind me.

Day 14: Ordinary Day

It happens differently this time.

We're playing at the lake, like we always did back then. Leo, Jasmynn, Carl, and Flynn are skipping rocks. I'm in the water, and they yell at me to get out of the way. So I dive under, and head towards where Toby and Sydney are playing. But as I surface, something's wrong. Sydney is sitting on top of Toby's back, who is lying face down in the water. He keeps pulling Toby's head up, just long enough to let him catch his breath, before shoving it back into the water and sand and mud.

He turns towards me. "Hey, bud."

_What?_I don't know how, but somehow I know this isn't how this is supposed to go.

"Are you coming with us to the Flatiron Fryer concert?" he asks me.

"I... What are you talking about?" I stammer.

T.J. pulls his head out of the sand, holding it up at what must be an uncomfortable angle, "We're getting matching t-shirts!"

Something's wrong. I don't understand. I don't know how I know, but I know what's supposed to happen. Then, my body does it on its own.

I swim over as fast as I can. I pull Sydney off of Toby. Sydney's not happy about that. We fight for a moment. I punch him in the throat, and see the fight leave his eyes. It should be over now.

But it never is.

This is the part,_I think to myself, _where I try to drown him. I drag Sydney to where the water is deep. I shove him under. I follow. There's a ferociousness in his eyes, the fight is back in him again. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I use this as validation. As an excuse. I know he'll survive it,_I think, _what difference does it make? We wrestle underwater, two bodies in constant, undulating motion. I see his face soften again, and his eyes look into mine pleadingly. I stare back, letting him know I'm not going to offer him any mercy. His eyes twitch suddenly, as he gets an idea. An idea I should have expected. An idea I _do_expect, because I know what is happening. Somehow.

He's winding up.

He throws all of his weight into a kick, directly towards my crotch. But I'm already contorting out of the way, and now he's got no options left. Then I realize something terrifying:

He's not going to stop me.

I can't stop myself. My body is moving on it's own. His body spasms, he looks at me mournfully, and then it's over.

It's over, and Sydney Bronson is dead.

I look towards the surface. I wonder if there's enough time to save him. But somehow I know there's not.

My gaze falls to Sydney, still staring at me in wide eyed fear.

It ends this way. Sydney just stares.

And then I wake up.

Problem Child

An Echo Fan Fiction

By Fable91

I wake up, shaking and sweating and nauseous. There's a panicked, confused moment, when I can't remember for sure what's real or what's not. I reach for my cell phone, as if to call Sydney, to see if he's alive or not. Of course, then I remember that I don't have Sydney's number. Then memories of the years between then and now flood back, and my panicked hyperventilating subsides. Sydney survived the lake, he's in my gym class. The nightmare was just that-- a nightmare. Not a memory, like it usually is. Just a fucked up, fucked up nightmare, cooked up by my fucked up, fucked up head. I glance at the clock at my bedside. It's just past three, which means I've got time to go back to sleep.

If I want to. If I can.

But that dream has me fucked up. There's something specific about it that itches at me, though it takes me a moment to figure out what it is.

It's how close I came. How easy it would have been to drown him that day. Because that nightmare just told me something else, something I've been lying to myself about for years.

I would have done it.

I don't know how I know that. After all, it was just a nightmare. Crazy shit happens in nightmares all the time. People do stupid, nonsensical things in dreams. But somehow, something in my gut tells me, that this was something different. It's like my subconscious was sick of me lying about it, and wanted to show me.

To show me what I'd do.

To show me what I'd become.

And it's suddenly occurring to me how much more damning _murderer_is than _psycho_after all.

Or maybe it was just a dream. Maybe it was just that fox guy talking about it during the mile, or that squirrelly prick Donnie bringing it up in the Bible group.

Fuck,_I think to myself, _I need someone to talk to. I know I can't wake Mom up. She'd wake up for me, and she'd listen, but I know she has work in the morning. And I can't imagine she'd be less intent on getting me a shrink after this. I sort of want to call T.J., but I don't think I have his number. And besides, I don't know if we're on that sort of level. Probably not. Plus, I don't even know if he'd pick up. He probably has a bedtime.

So I do the only thing you can do when you need to talk shit out and have no one to talk shit out with.

I go for a walk.

The desert air is cool as I slip out the back door, and I carefully close the screen door to avoid making any noise. I head down the street, unsure of my destination. The town is eerie and beautiful in the moon and starlight, street lights punctuating the expanse before me at regular intervals. Walking around in Echo at night always carries with it the feeling of being watched, or followed. The truth is, there's really not enough people in town for it to be likely that anyone's watching you at three in the morning. But knowing that doesn't help me shake the feeling.

I reach an intersection, and at random, take a left. I wander some more, past houses and sheds and trailers. I want to get lost, but know that I can't. The town is too small for that. A visitor couldn't get lost here, let alone someone raised here. I find myself wishing that maybe the town could grow or change. That I could leave for college, and find it completely changed when I return. Strange streets and houses that I've never seen before. Something to arrest the slow rot the town is succumbing to.

But, somehow I can't explain, deep down I know that nothing new can ever grow here.

I wander a bit more, down streets I pretend not to know, wondering to myself what the point of this all is. The point of small towns that no one leaves, pinpricks on a map that no one would ever bother to notice. Does anyone outside of this place even know we're here?

I contemplate doing something drastic, something obnoxious. Starting something on fire or something. Just to know that I've done something. That the landscape looks a little bit different, thanks to me. But I'm not sure what I'd do, or how I'd explain it to someone if they caught me. That's when I hear the footsteps. They're behind me, and off to one side, as if someone is trying to sneak up onto the main road from behind a tree or something. I quicken my pace to the next streetlight, then turn around.

A figure staggers into the glow of the next streetlight over. It looks at me with huge, glowing eyes, and I want more than anything to scream. Then the ears perk up in recognition, and I'd recognize those satellite dishes from a mile away.

"Hey, Chase," he says.

"Micha?" I whisper.

"Weird science class today, huh?" he says, looking around. I look around too, as if I'm the one missing something.

"What are you talking about?" I ask.

"You know, Chase," he says, ignoring me, "sometimes I wonder why we don't hang out. In Echo, I mean."

I glance around again, just to be sure. "This is Echo."

"Is it?" He looks around again. "Well fuck me, it definitely looks like Echo, doesn't it?"

I'm starting to worry. "Are... you okay? Did you take something?" I ask him calmly, trying to cautiously approach.

"Cause I just think it's stupid. That we pretend not to like each other, you know?" he says, and I can't hide my shock.

"You mean you and me?" I ask.

"Yeah, man."

"Uh... Yeah, that is pretty stupid. But I mean, we get along alright, don't we?" I ask him, just trying to keep him engaged. I'm a little afraid that if he gets distracted, he might wander off. I don't know what's wrong with him, but I'm not sure I should just leave him wandering the desert high on peyote or some shit.

"Yeah, you're alright. You're kind of a prick though, you know?" he says, matter-of-factly.

I swallow my pride. "Yeah, sure, I can be sometimes. Sorry." I'm close enough to see him more clearly. His eyes are distant, vacant. Like he's trying to look at one of those 3D pictures you have to squint at to make the image appear.

"I can be too though, so maybe that's not so bad," he admits, "this town makes us this way, you know?"

I nod, "Yeah, I know what you mean." I approach him slowly. He doesn't seem to be dangerous, though he's clearly a little... off. "Listen, I should probably get you home--"

"Don't want to go home," he interrupts, shaking his head clumsily, "it's too loud there. I can't sleep."

I'm not sure what he's talking about. Maybe his parents are having a party? Or maybe his parents are the type to keep the kids up all night shouting at one another. There's more than a few of those around here.

"Well, do you wanna just go somewhere and... I don't know, sit?" I offer. I'm getting the feeling that I should be heading back home, trying to get a couple of hours of sleep before school. On the one hand, Micha's not my responsibility at all. On the other, I'd feel like absolute shit if I woke up and found out he'd gotten himself hit by a train or lost in the desert or something.

"Yeah, maybe that'd be nice, I--" he suddenly gasps. He holds his hand up, as if warning me not to speak. I glance around frantically, but don't see anything.

"Micha?" I whisper, "do you see something?"

"No, I just--" he starts, before inhaling sharply again. There's a look of anticipation on his face that I can't quite place. Then finally:

"Achoo!" he sneezes, and his eyes go wide. He frantically looks around, and his eyes lock onto mine. He staggers backwards a few steps, and falls on his ass. "What the hell?" he yelps, a little loud for my liking.

"Shh, Micha, quiet down," I try to soothe him.

He narrows his eyes. "What are you doing here?" he asks suddenly.

"Went for a walk, couldn't sleep," I explain, "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I... I don't know," he answers sheepishly, "where exactly is 'here'?"

"We're a couple of blocks from Jasmynn street, sort of near the convenience store," I answer, "Micha, are you on something?"

Micha looks offended, "Fuck no, I ain't 'on something'. I just sleepwalk, is all. Been a while though..." He looks around again, still trying to figure out exactly where we are.

"Sleepwalk?" I ask.

"Yeah, I was having trouble sleeping, cause the Hum is so loud tonight, so I--"

"The Hum?" I interrupt.

He looks embarrassed, like he wasn't supposed to tell me that. His mouth works wordlessly for a moment before he says, "Just forget I said that. Anyway, I was having trouble sleeping, so I smoked some weed, cause it helps sometimes, and--"

"So you _are_on something," I accuse.

He narrows his eyes at me. "Nobody's 'on weed', they're just 'stoned'," he explains, before adding, "...officer."

"Just because I don't know the lingo, that makes me a narc?" I ask him, suddenly pissed.

"Or a square," he answers.

"Fuck off, Micha. I was trying to be nice to you," I insist.

"Speaking of..." he begins, "how long did you stand here talking to me before you realized I was asleep?"

I don't answer. It seems somehow embarrassing to admit that I _didn't_realize he was asleep, not until he woke up.

"I thought you were on something, hallucinating or something, I don't know. So I was just trying to keep you calm," I finally tell him, "Fuck me for helping you, right?"

He looks at the ground guiltily, "Nah, that was good of you. I've never wandered anywhere too dangerous sleepwalking before, but there's a first time for everything." He looks down at his feet, "I definitely think I walked through something though, my feet are killing me. Hope I didn't walk through broken glass or some shit."

I kneel down and look at his feet. He flinches at first, like he thinks I'm up to something. After a moment's examination, I look up at him. "You're not bleeding or anything, you probably just walked through some thorns or gravel or something."

I rise to my feet, and offer a hand to help him up. He accepts it hesitantly, and I hear him grunt as he puts weight on his feet. He really must've stepped on something.

"Well, anyway, I should probably get back home," he finally says, and takes a few steps back, "hey, Chase?"

"Yeah?"

"Did I say anything... weird, while I was out? Or embarrassing or anything?" he asks.

"You don't remember?"

"Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't. Tonight... I got nothin'."

"Well, I think you thought we were in science class at first, I guess because you saw me. Then you asked..." I stop. I suppose baring his soul and telling me he wants to be friends would classify as 'embarrassing'.

"I asked...?"

"You asked why we don't hang out," I tell him.

"Bullshit," he huffs.

"Really," I insist.

"You're lying to me," he insists again. I feel that familiar Micha-flavored irritation itching at the back of my brain.

"I'm serious, then you called me a prick," I continue.

"Oh shit, that _does_sound like something I'd say," he confesses.

"Then you called yourself a prick too, then we were gonna go sit somewhere--"

"Why, like, on a date?" he asks, and I can't hide my confusion.

"Umm, no? Like, to let you mellow out, or whatever. You said you didn't want to go home, that it was 'too loud', so I offered for us to go and sit somewhere," I explain, adding "Remember, at this point I thought you were tripping, or something. I just wanted to get you somewhere safe to ride it out."

"You were willing to sit up all night with me?" he asks incredulously.

"I mean, I didn't want to," I admit, "But it seemed better than waking up and hearing that someone had found your body or something."

"Jesus Christ, Chase," he looks at me wide-eyed, then sighs deeply, "Well, thanks for looking out, I guess. Maybe some other time we can, uh, 'sit'. See you in class." He offers a sort of half-wave-half-salute, and shuffles off down the road. The sky beyond him is a purple and pink watercolor, as the sun rises just beyond the horizon.

I should get going, too.

*****

The hour and a half of sleep between my walk and the blaring of my alarm clock is thankfully, dreamless. I have a suspiciously easy time waking up, which makes me think that I probably wasn't sleeping too heavily. I throw on some clothes, throw a tart of the poppable variety in the toaster, and am on my way. I nod a silent greeting to Jasmynn and Carl as I get to the bus stop, and think I almost see Jasmynn nod in return. But I'm probably imagining that.

Gym starts relatively normally as well, with the exception of me temporarily fumbling with my locker, before remembering that my lock had gotten changed. Only now does it occur to me how easily Micha could have lied to me about the combination, or just not told me it, and extorted me for his services a second time. On the one hand, I feel like he hardly deserves a Nobel peace prize for simply not being the shittiest person he could be, but on the other hand, knowing Micha, it almost certainly occurred to him to do that. So maybe it_is_something that he decided not to do it.

Or maybe he just felt that bad for me.

As I walk into the gym, I catch Sydney's gaze and cock my head back in greeting. He's standing around, chatting with his fox friend, who... I'm gonna have to start making people wear nametags or something. Then again, everyone knows who _I_am, don't they?

"Hey, killer," the fox grins cheerfully. It's just now occurring to me how casually he calls me that. I think maybe he doesn't even realize that it's insulting, borderline offensive. Which I guess is maybe... good? It means he isn't _trying_to be a dick to me.

Just doing so accidentally.

Look, sometimes I just... say shitty things. Sorry.

So I suppose in his defense, he _did_warn me.

"Chase?" Sydney says, a sort of inquisitive tone on the edge of his voice. I guess I've been doing that thing where I stare instead of talking like a normal person.

"Huh? Sorry man," I stammer. "Morning Sydney, morning...?" I nod towards the fox, beckoning him to give me his name.

"Morning," he says with an oblivious grin. Damn.

My gaze shifts back to Sydney, and the dream I had. I almost want to tell him. But I can't imagine any way that that would go well. I think I've probably fucked his life up enough as it is. His gaze meets mine, and he offers a weak smile, and there's something... off about it. It almost feels like he already knows? But he can't. The only person I've talked to since then is Micha, and I didn't even mention the dream. But then the fox's words come back to me again:

Well, Sydney has the same problem, that's what I mean. Has nightmares, I guess. You can guess what about...

I know it sounds absolutely crazy, but... Did Sydney have the same dream as me? No, that's not how shit works. That's not how dreams work. But there's something in his eyes, a sadness, or dread...

I know it can't be that he had the same nightmare as I did.

But something's definitely wrong.

"Listen up!" the "teacher" shouts over the din of high schoolers with better things to do than listen to him, "Today we're going to be doing the shuttle run, so--"

"Didn't we run yesterday?" a voice asks from the crowd.

"How many different ways of saying 'otters suck' does this stupid presidential fitness thing have?" I chime in.

Mr. Gates looks down at his clipboard. "Five," he answers, apparently mistaking that for an earnest question. "Now we'll be going in pairs, you and your partner, I already have cones set up."

The "teacher" directs us towards the bleachers, then calls out a pair of names. The fox sits down at the very top of the bleachers, in the very back corner. His partner, a rock chuck, sits just in front of him. Sydney sits next to him, and I hesitate. As friendly as we have been lately, I still shouldn't presume an invitation to sit with them. Not until I know for sure what the hell is going on between us. But as I stand there, halfway up the stairs, Sydney's eyes meet mine, and he cocks his head back, beckoning me to join them. So I plod the rest of the way up the stairs and sit beside him.

I sit in awkward silence, not sure of what to say. Until I finally think of something.

"So..." I start, smirking, "Flatiron Fryer, huh?"

"Oh God..." Sydney groans.

"Oh, you bet," the fox teases, squeezing Sydney's shoulders, "They're his favorite. Aren't they, buddy?"

"Fuck off..." Sydney groans, "It's not like that."

"Oh, no?" the fox chides, "So then why'd you have me get you those tickets?"

Sydney turns towards me. "T.J. likes Flatiron Fryer. And I've been trying to be nicer to him. So I thought I'd get him tickets. That's all."

"Two tickets," the fox suggests.

"Yeah, I mean, you didn't just get him a ticket..." I reason, "...you're going too."

"Well, I mean, yeah. Maybe I kind of like them too," he admits.

"Really?" I can't hide my surprise, "Gotta say, they don't seem your type."

"Why's that?" he grins.

"Well, they're Christian, and you're..." I start, before realizing I'm not sure what Sydney believes in, "...Mormon, I guess?"

"Well, a few things..." he starts, and begins numbering off on his fingers, "One, Mormons are still technically Christians, kind of, sort of. Two, they prefer to be called 'The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints' these days. 'Mormon' has... implications. And three, I'm not a... one of them anymore, really."

"Aww, you're not a Latter Day Saint anymore?" the fox asks.

"No,_we're_not the Latter Day Saints, the Latter Day Saints are... Look, it's complicated," Sydney huffs, "I'll send some missionaries to your house, they can explain it."

"Nah, no need. If there's one thing I understand, it's missionary," the fox emphasizes the last word, to make the punchline more obvious.

"It just seems weird is all," I continue, "You listening to Christian rock."

"Does it?" Sydney grins, "Chase, I know we haven't talked in a while, but back then, when we did, what was my favorite music?"

"Um... I think you called them 'boner jams' or something?" I guess. It really _has_been a long time since we've had a conversation like that.

"Nah, boner jams are different. It was 'butt rock'," Sydney explains.

"Right, and what was the deal with that? It was like, intentionally bad rock or something?" I ask. I hadn't talked to anyone about butt rock since I stopped talking to Sydney all those years ago.

"Nah, nah. Kind of the opposite. It's _unintentionally_bad. That's what makes it so great," he grins, "And do you know what quality Christian rock tends to be?"

"Oh, God," I sigh, "Does T.J. know you only like his favorite band because you think they're terrible?"

"He knows that I like them for different reasons than he does. But at least they're something we have in common. Like, the only thing we have in common. And, like I said, I'm trying to un-shitify that relationship as best I can, so, I'm starting from there," he explains.

"That's... nice, I guess," I shrug, "So what about Lightning Bugs and Paperboys?"

He smirks, "Lightning Bugs and Paperboys make Flatiron Fryer look_talented_."

I shake my head, "Can't wait to see you and T.J.'s t-shirts."

"That reminds me..." he grins, "How was Bible study?"

Dick.

"It... Listen, it's not like--" I try to explain.

"Because I definitely didn't think you_were the type for _that, considering it's Christian, and you're..." he pauses, but I already know what's coming, "...Mormon, I guess?"

"Ha, ha. I just needed a ride home, that's all," I grumble.

"Is that so?" Sydney seems slightly perplexed, "Teej is gonna be disappointed. He seemed pretty excited that you were there."

I shift my gaze guiltily, gripping my tail. "Yeah, well, I don't know if it's for me, is all."

Sydney lets out a soft chuckle, "I hear that."

The fox and the rock chuck suddenly stand, and I curse myself for not having listened for what names Mr. Gates shouted. As they leave, I realize this might be the best time to try and discuss whatever's off about Sydney.

"Hey, you okay, man?" I ask him gently.

He gives me a bewildered smile, "Yeah, of course, why?"

I think for a minute, unsure of how far I want to pry. Or how much I want to confess about my own night.

"You just seemed... a little off?" I offer, "First thing this morning, when we first got out here. You looked... Uncomfortable? I guess?"

"Oh that," he shrugs and offers a weak smile, "Didn't sleep well last night."

"Nightmares?" I say, before I can catch myself.

"Maybe," he says, suddenly suspicious, "Did Elliott tell you that?"

"Who's--" I start, and glance towards the floor of the gym, where the fox and rock chuck are kneeling on the starting line, "Is Elliott the fox guy?"

"Elliot is the fox guy, yes," he nods.

"Then yeah, Elliott told me," I admit.

Sydney frowns and shakes his head. "Fucking Elliott."

"Hey, listen, he..." I start, then hesitate. I don't really want to bare my soul to Sydney in the middle of gym class. I don't really want to talk about our shared nightmare. But I feel bad dragging Elliott, whose name I now know, under the bus with me. "...He only told me because we were talking about it. Nightmares, I mean. 'Cause..." I hesitate again.

"'Cause?" He goads. He's not going to let up.

"'Cause I have them too," I confess, "A lot, especially recently."

"Same," Sydney agrees, "What are yours about?"

I must have given him a bewildered look of some kind, because I see a moment of confusion, then a flash of realization.

"Oh, yeah, that..." he nods, "That makes sense, I suppose."

"You been having them a lot lately too, then?" I ask him, and I'm not sure why.

"Yeah, more than usual, I think. Or I'm remembering them more vividly than usual, but last night's was really bad," he tells me.There's no way, I think to myself.

"Yeah, same," I agree.

"Last night's was..." he continues, "...different, for some reason."

What the actual fuck?

My heart jumps in my chest, then jumps again when I hear my name shouted.

"Bronson! Chase!" I hear the wolverine bark at us, and remember that he can't tell my first name from my last.

Sydney stands, and offers me an encouraging smile, having no idea the firestorm that's running through my brain right now.

Did he have the same dream as me?

"Come on, bud," he offers his hand, to help me up.

Did he dream he asked me about the Flatiron Fryer concert?

I take his hand and he pulls me up, easily. Damn he's strong.

Did he dream I dodged his little heel trick?

We're walking down the steps of the bleachers.

In his dream, did he drown?

We reach the floor and take our positions on the starting line. I'm feeling all of the feelings from that one rap song, right up until "Mom's spaghetti". I look over at him. He smiles at me.

Does he know I killed him?

"Ready?" the "teacher" asks, though I know the question is rhetorical.

Does he know I'm a murderer?

I hear the sharp blast of a whistle. I'm slow off the block, and I stumble as I try to get to speed. My mind is having some sort of existential crisis, and my body is in fight or flight mode. I touch the first line, and turn. My foot slips slightly as I put pressure on it to turn around.

He drowned.

He's faster than me, even with all his bulk, and I watch his tail whip around as he turns at the second line, a moment later, I'm there too.

I killed him.

He's halfway to the third line before I can even take off, and again I stumble. My body is refusing to obey me, like the connection is shorting out or something. Like when I used to play video games with Carl and would lose: "My controller's broken."I finally reach the third line.

I'm a murderer.

Sydney waits for me at the finish line. My first clue that something is amiss is the way the smile melts off of his face, replaced with a look of shock. Then, as I get close to him, he starts growing. Or rather, my point of view starts shrinking, as I appear to be sinking into the floor. My vision is blurring, and for the first time in my life I comprehend what the color "clear" looks like without anything behind it. Just empty nothing in my vision. My ears are filled with a roar, I think it's the sound of my blood flowing. Somewhere, outside the fog I've wandered into, I hear a voice shout my name. I think it's Sydney. My teeth clack together as my chin hits something cold, large, and flat. I slip, just for a moment, into what feels like a light sleep.

"Chase?" I hear again, faintly. The rushing is starting to go away. I'm lying on my back now, I think. The invisible clouds are clearing from my vision, and I can see Sydney's concerned face looking down at me. That's nice of him, I suppose.

"I'm fine," I say, but as I hear the weakness in my voice, even _I_don't believe it. I try to sit up. It takes more effort than it should.

"Hold on, don't sit up yet," Sydney warns me.

"I'm fine," I smile to him, sounding more confident this time, "I just tripped is all."

His face says he doesn't buy it. "You sure?"

"Of course," I lie.

He stands, and he offers a hand again. I take it, and he pulls me swiftly to my feet. I stand uneasily a moment, and he must sense it, because he doesn't let go of my hand right away.

"Bronson, 11.2 seconds. Chase, 15.7 seconds."

"But wait..." Sydney protests, "Chase tripped, he should get a redo! He--"

"It's fine," I weakly interrupt. If I don't sit down soon, I'm gonna end up getting to the "Mom's spaghetti" part after all.

Sydney gives me a concerned glance.

"It's fine," I repeat, "The president can kiss my ass if he doesn't like it."

Sydney smirks at that, and starts towards the bleachers, though I can't help but notice that he's keeping close to me for some reason.

As we approach the top of the bleachers, I notice that the fox-- Elliott-- looks concerned too.

"You okay, killer?" he asks, his voice uncharacteristically gentle, "What happened out there?"

"I'm fine, I just tripped is all. Shitty otter legs," I lie. I don't know what happened, but I didn't trip. I didn't even feel the ground under my feet anymore.

"Didn't look like you tripped," Elliott frowns, "Looked like you just kinda... flopped over?"

I shrug, and as I sit down, I feel my body break into a cold sweat. It feels almost like a fever breaking. I take a few deep breaths, and I feel way better. But with all this sweat... I'm gonna stink. Damn musk glands.

I can hear the others mumbling about me, but I don't feel like intervening. I hug myself and close my eyes, taking slow, deep breaths. I don't know what just happened to me, but I'm not a fan.

Sydney's voice breaks through my mental fog.

"Chase, Chase, you alright bud?" I hear him say. I open my eyes, and find the three of them-- Sydney, Elliott, and Elliott's partner-- all staring at me.

"Yeah, I'm good," I lie.

"You missing sleep still, killer?" the fox asks sympathetically.

I don't want to tell them that, actually, after my walk, I slept quite soundly. I'm better rested than I've been all week.

"Yeah, something like that," I mumble.

"You should really see a doctor or something," Elliott advises, "You're gonna get yourself hurt running on empty like that."

"Mmmhmm," I hum noncommittally. Elliott's still giving me a worried look, so I offer a weak smile, to show him I'm alright.

He and Sydney share worried looks, but say nothing more.

*****

I'm in the locker room, with my shirt pulled halfway over my head, when I hear Sydney's voice behind me.

"Uh, bud, aren't you showering?" He asks someone.

I pull my shirt down, and he's staring right at me. Oh, he's asking me.

"Uh, nah, I was gonna, but--" I start to improvise an excuse.

"What're you afraid of, killer?" Elliott grins. They're both standing there in their underwear, Sydney in dollar store boxer briefs, Elliott in preppy branded boxers.

"They glow in the dark," Elliott brags.

"What?" I ask.

"The boxers. They glow in the dark," he smiles, and wiggles his eyebrows.

"Why would I be looking at your boxers in the dark?" I ask dumbly.

"I dunno, you tell me," he grins, and his eyebrows raise again.

I'm so caught off guard, I don't have a smartass reply.

Damnit, I always have a smartass reply.

"Come shower with us, killer, we promise not to make it too weird," Elliott says warmly.

"Uh, well..." I stammer.

Sydney steps towards me, and puts his hand on my shoulder.

"Listen bud," he says under his breath, suddenly serious, "Otter to otter, you stink."

"Fox to otter, you stink too," Elliott hollers from behind him.

"Not helping," Sydney tells him.

"What? Foxes musk too!" Elliott complains.

"Yeah, I know, I can smell you from here bud," Sydney laughs.

"Wha--" the fox feigns indignation, "My musk is a potpourri which contains delicate notes of lavender and honeysuckle!"

"Oh yeah?" Sydney grins, and turns away from me, towards Elliott. I can't see exactly what he's doing from my position behind him, but it looks like hes adjusting the front of his waistband, "Why don't you honeysuckle on this, big guy?"

Elliott snorts in laughter, and turns away from both of us. He bends over slightly, and thumbs the back of his shorts.

"You're familiar with the bouquet, but what do you think of the color?" Elliott giggles.

"Hey, I thought we weren't gonna be weird," Sydney interrupts suddenly, "You know, for Chase."

Elliott's freezes, waistband halfway down his ass. He cinches the boxers back up.

"Yeah, you're right," Elliott sighs, "But _you're_the one asking me for a blowjob."

"That's not--" Sydney starts, then glances at me, then at Elliott. "Alright, you're right. We'll save the homoeroticism for the wrestling showers."

"That's a big word," Elliott remarks. He pulls down his boxers, but this time without the... well, homoeroticism. "Your buddy Flynn teach you that one?"

"Sure did," Sydney smiles, "And after I beat you at practice, I'm gonna show you the _other_thing he taught me." Sydney pulls his own underwear down, and I make a conscious effort not to look.

"Hey now," Elliott warns, "That sounds like more of that homo-heroism or whatever."

"Homoeroticism."

"I'm not gonna learn how to say that."

"It's not that hard of a word."

"Yeah, but I'm not gonna bother to try."

"Asshole."

"Duh."

Sydney turns towards me.

"You coming or what?" he asks encouragingly. He also mouths the phrase_Seriously, you're musky as fuck_, which I find slightly less encouraging.

"Nah, I can't, I--" I start, but don't know how to end that sentence. _I might get a throbbing erection at the sight of the two of you glistening wet_seems like it might have relationship-damaging implications.

Sydney grabs my right wrist and tugs me gently towards the hallway where the showers are. Despite the fact he's being playful, and clearly trying to be gentle, he's still way too strong for me to resist, and I find myself being slowly dragged towards the shower.

"Hey, Sydney, I--" I stammer, "Alright, alright!" I finally snap. I sigh in defeat. "Alright, I'll shower, but just let go of me so I can get undressed first okay?"

"Actually..." Sydney grins slyly, "I'm gonna teach you a cool wrestling trick."

"What?" I groan.

"Roll your arm towards my thumb," Sydney instructs.

"What do you--"

"You know what a thumb is, right?" He asks.

"Yeah..."

"So roll your arm towards my thumb."

I look down at my arm. He's got it with his left hand, thumb on top, fingers underneath. I roll my arm, inwards first, then up and around his hand. I slip free. He quickly snatches me again in the same way.

"Roll your arm towards my thumb," he says again.

"Sydney, I don't--"

"Just do it," Elliott encourages from behind him. I do it again. I slip free again. This time, he grabs me with his fingers on top, thumb underneath.

"Roll your arm--"

"Yeah, yeah," I groan, and roll my arm, downwards this time. I slip free again. Okay, so maybe that _is_a neat trick.

"Most people's thumbs aren't strong enough to keep a good grip if you do that quickly. It won't _always_work, but it's a good trick to know anyway," Sydney beams, adding, "Hurry up and get naked already, dude."

*****

I let the slightly-warmer-than-lukewarm water wash over me. I had "hurried up and gotten naked", and joined the other two in the showers. It's just the three of us, which seems strange, but then, I suppose musk-types are a bit pickier than others about their shower regimens. It feels strange; showering in public. A mixture of nerves and exhilaration at the thought of being naked, at school. It's like that dream everyone has where they somehow got all the way to school before they realized they forgot to put clothes on, only everyone else is treating it like it's completely normal.

I squeeze the bottle of otter shampoo into my hand. The label has a picture of a ripped, shirtless man-otter surrounded on either side by bikini-clad female otters. I'm sure I'm supposed to be checking out the she-otters, but I can't help but admire the model in between them. Defined arms, pecs just large enough to be noticeable while small enough not to be moobs, and his abs have that v shape that points downwards into his crotch. I read somewhere that Gothic architecture uses arches to draw the eye upwards, towards God. I can't help but feel that ripped guys like this use the v-shape for something similar. The otter is wearing a speedo, and the label is surprisingly candid about showing off his... assets. Wish I looked half as good as this guy does in a speedo.

"Hey, Chase, don't gawk at the girls too long, you'll get a boner," Sydney warns from across the showers, his voice echoing and reverberating unnaturally against the hard shower walls. I look down, and find that little Chase _has_started to stir, albeit just a little.

"Fuck," I mutter to myself, and set to lathering up. I also turn slightly away from the other two, as naturally as I can.

"Aw, don't let him make you feel bad, killer. He's only warning you 'cause he knows from experience," Elliott hollers.

I continue to lather myself up, eyes closed. I lose myself in the darkness, the sound of the showers, the warmth of the water, and the scent of... I don't know what this stuff is supposed to smell like. I mean, it's supposed to smell like the musk spray that it comes with, but I don't know what _that_is meant to smell like. It's a strange chemical smell, though not necessarily unpleasant. It's like artificial flowers, with sucralose sprinkled on top.

"That was one time," I hear Sydney protest.

"Yeah, but instead of just turning away like a decent person would, like Killer here did, instead you started chasing people around the showers."

"I was immature back then," Sydney assures him.

"It was earlier this month," Elliott argues.

"I was immature earlier this month," Sydney insists, "I'm a fast grower."

"Yeah, I know that," Elliott grins, "The whole wrestling team learned you're a _fast grower_that day, didn't they?"

"Fuck off," Sydney laughs, "...Or I'll do it again."

"You better not!" Elliott protests, "I'll get you put on government lists! You won't be able to live near a school!"

"Oh no, then I'd have to move to some middle-of-nowhere town like Echo," Sydney complains sarcastically, "God help me."

"I thought we weren't gonna be super gay, you know, for Killer's sake," Elliott points out.

"Eh, he's a guy, he gets it," Sydney says, "Don't you, Chase?"

I have no idea what he's talking about, exactly. I'm pretty sure I don't even know what the it_is that he's referring to, let alone _get it.

"Sure, I know how it is," I lie.

"See?" Sydney says, as if this settles whatever argument they were having.

"He's just being nice," Elliott insists, "There's a reason he's clear at the other end of the room."

Sydney turns towards me, and Oh God, he's got the v-shape too. I make a conscious effort to resist the v-shape's downward pull.

"Yeah, why _are_you all the way over there?" Sydney asks.

Because if I were closer I'd almost certainly be rock hard right now.

"Why?" I flirt coyly, "How close did you want me?"

Elliott's face lights up. "Yeah, Sydney, not everyone wants to be nuts-to-butts in the showers like you do, man."

"You know Chase," Sydney grins, "You were a lot less sarcastic back when we were kids. I think I liked that better."

"No, I wasn't," I correct him, "I was just nice to you because you were younger than me."

"I'm still younger than you," Sydney points out.

"Yeah, but I don't give a shit anymore," I explain, drawing a chuckle out of Sydney.

"Yeah, you sure don't, huh?" He says, and I can't help but wonder if there's something to that, "Guess getting old does that to us, huh?"

I shrug.

"I guess."

*****

As I walk into the chemistry classroom, T.J. grins and waves at me. Seeing that there are a couple of minutes before class starts, I walk over to him.

"Hey, T.J." I sigh.

"Hey, Chase!" He grins, in his usual chipper way, "You ready for the test today?"

Fuck, no.

"Shoot, no," I say, internally laughing at my self-censorship.

"Oh, well..." T.J.'s ears flatten, but his cheesy grin stays in place, "I'm sure you'll do fine anyway."

"I dunno, I don't even remember what this test is supposed to be about," I confess. That knocks the smile off of his face.

"Wh-- How? You've been here for every class, how--"

"I've been missing a lot of sleep lately, bud," I admit, "My head's been pretty fuzzy. I remember occasional talks with you, Micha, and Heather, but as for classwork..." I just shrug.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Chase. I had no idea," He sighs.

"It's alright, bud, it happens. I'll survive. I always do," I assure him. Though, as of late I've been having more and more trouble believing that myself.

"Why didn't you mention that at Bible study yesterday? We could have prayed for you," T.J. asks me.

"I didn't want to... Eh, just slipped my mind I guess," I offer.

"Well, I'll pray for you tonight," he smiles.

The asshole voice in my head tells me to argue with him. I tell it to shut the fuck up.

"Oh, okay... Thanks bud," I sigh.

"Most people don't think about just how important sleep is. In fact--" He starts lecturing, but then interrupts himself, "Micha, are you okay!?"

I turn towards the door, and find Micha limping in.

"Shut up," he sneers at T.J. Micha, I swear I'm trying to like you.

"Still limping then?" I ask him.

"Sure looks that way, don't it?" he hisses in response.

"Oh, God, Micha!" I hear Heather's voice behind me, "You're positively limping!"

"You noticed too, huh?" he growls, but I notice it's a softer tone than he used on me and T.J. Then again, he knows Heather better. And she's a girl.

"What happened?" She asks him.

"Nothing, don't worry about it," he assures her, and involuntarily shoots me a gaze, to warn me not to say anything.

Unfortunately for him, Heather and T.J. both see the look, too.

"Chase, what happened?" Heather turns to me, and I'm suddenly starting to understand why Micha is softer on her than anyone else. When she's looking right at you, there's an intensity that's hard to describe. It's something like the wild look in Flynn and Leo's eyes that day at the lake, only... Heather can't hurt me. So why is she so terrifying?

"I, uh..." I stammer, not wanting to sell Micha out, but feeling the pressure of her gaze, "We think he just stepped in something. It didn't look bad."

"When did this happen?" T.J. asks, kneeling down by Micha's desk.

"Hey, what are you--?" Micha protests, but quits flailing as T.J. tries to examine his foot.

"It happened this morning," I say, trying to be vague.

"You've definitely got some lacerations here. They weren't deep enough to bleed, that's why it didn't look bad, but it's really inflamed. You should've bandaged these up when it happened." T.J. says matter-of-factly.

"Alright, alright, that's enough," Micha pouts, planting his foot on T.J.'s shoulder and kicking gently, pushing the lynx away, "I'm not gonna walk around with bandages on my feet like some kind of asshole."

"Why would bandages make you an--" T.J. gets interrupted by the bell.

"Alright, everyone, find your seats!" The teacher, who slipped in at some point while we were talking, commands, "You'll have the whole period to do the test, so just take your time."

She hands out the tests to the front of the class, who then pass them back to the rest of us. I look down at the test. These aren't even questions. They're just drawings, I guess of atoms, with little dots around them.

What is this?

There's a spot for my name at the top. I think I know that one. Maybe.

How do you answer these?

I flip through the pages. The next is asking me questions about the periodic table. At least these are questions. I still don't know the answers.

We learned this? Fucking when?

I sit, wallowing in my existential crisis, until a sound snaps me out of it.

Micha's stomach growling.

He glances over at me nervously. He knows I heard it.

Miss lunch? I mouth to him.

He shrugs.

I give him a worried sort of look.

He sneers, but then his stomach growls again. He meets my gaze, then just shrugs again. He returns to his test. From the look of it, he's not having much more luck than I was.

I continue trying to take the test, trying to use clues from the other questions.

"How many protons does Carbon have?"

What the fuck, am I supposed to count them?

The class period ends, and I hand in my mess of a test. As I'm about to walk out the door, I see Micha hobbling towards me. Somewhat instinctively, I offer a hand to assist him.

"Fuck off, I don't need your help," he groans, but there's not malice in his tone, just annoyance. I lower my hand.

"Fine, just thought you might need a hand," I explain.

"Yeah? Well, I don't," he assures me.

"Might try eating lunch every once in a while too," I advise.

He gives me a sour look, "Fuck off, Chase."

"Hey, man, I'm trying to be nice here," I protest.

"Well, you're shit at it," he sneers.

"Well no shit, it's..." I hesitate for a moment, "It's been a while. Since I actually tried to be nice to anybody."

"Yeah, no, I..." his gaze is distant, "I get that." Then his smirk is back, "Jesus, Chase, you really are pathetic, aren't you?"

"Fuck you, Micha."

"Hey, no, it's fine, I'm not judging," he raises his hands defensively, "We're all pathetic, in our own way. Just starting to get a feel for how you work, that's all."

"How I work?"

"Yeah, what makes you tick, or whatever."

"So, what, I'm just another lock to you?"

"Of course not. A lock implies something valuable on the other side." He grins widely.

"Fuck you, Micha," I say again, albeit with less vitriol.

"See you around, Chase," he grins.

*****

I lie on the couch at home. Now is normally the time that I'd be... taking care of my urges, especially since I didn't get a chance to last night. But every time I do, my mind wanders back to Sydney and Elliott in the shower, and... Well, I'm just not ready to deal with whatever _that_is. If I keep letting myself _take matters into my own hands_while thinking about boys from school, there are some truths that I'm going to have to face. Truths that, on some level, I'm starting to realize that I'm going to have to face either way. But if I ignore them, I can put them off for now. So I do.

Besides, my head is also reeling from my conversations with Micha. I can't tell how the hell I feel about him, and I kind of hate that. He seemed somewhat genuine, and deep, and vulnerable this morning. But then this afternoon he was his usual asshole self. But even then, something seemed off about him. And I know like half of Micha is a facade. But which half? Was he faking being introspective and nice to get something out of me, or is he faking being an asshole to posture and look tough? And why do I seem to like him either way? Even when he's a dick, I put up with him, for some reason. It must be the lack of sleep.

Speaking of... What the hell was going on with Sydney this morning? There's no way we had the same dream, but... He's losing sleep just like me. His nightmares are getting worse, just like me... Maybe it would be worth it to talk to him sometime, outside of class. If I could ever grow the balls to try and ask him to do that. But I know damn good and well-- the fact is, he doesn't owe me that. And worse, Flynn and Leo know it, and won't be shy about letting me know how they feel about it. And even worse than that?

I don't really blame them.

Then there was whatever happened to me during that run... Did I faint? It seems like that must've been what happened. I've never fainted before, I don't really know how it feels. If that was it, I'd rather not do that again. I'm lucky I didn't crack my head wide open. I'm lucky Sydney was there to help me.

Fuck. After everything I've done to him, Sydney was there to help me.

I don't get what Sydney's deal is either. He's being nice to me, way nicer than he has to be. He said something about being nicer to T.J.-- trying to "un-shittify", he called it. Is that what he's doing with me? Or is his interest in me like my own interest in Micha? Are we Echo folk just inherently attracted to assholes, because we all know so many? No, not attracted to. That's not the right word. But... Intrigued by, maybe? Is he intrigued by me? Am I intrigued by Micha?

Am I attracted to Micha?

Am I the asshole?

Fuck.

*****

I wake up to the sound of Mom opening the back door, and it's only then that I realize that I've fallen asleep lying on the couch. The last thing I remember thinking was... Something about being an asshole, I think. Which could mean a lot of things, I'm an asshole a lot. But on the plus side, the nap has left me even more well-rested than before, and I don't think I had any nightmares.

"How was your day, hon?" Mom calls absentmindedly from the kitchen. I can tell from her dull tone that she's reading the mail, and only half paying attention.

"It was fine," I call back, "Pretty normal day, actually."

"Compared to?"

"Compared to every other day this week, I guess," I shrug.

"Did you have the nightmare last night?" She asks.

"Uh, kind of, not really?" I admit.

There is a silence, and although I haven't bothered to get up from the couch, I know she's looking towards the living room doorway, probably giving an incredulous look of some sort.

"What does 'kind of' mean in this context?" She finally asks.

"I had the dream, but it was different," I confess.

"Good different, or bad different?"

"Uh, probably bad different," I admit.

"Chase--"

"But it's fine, Mom, I honestly feel better rested than I have in a while."

"You're not lying to me are you?"

"Ah!" I gasp in mock horror, "Lying, to you? Never."

"Okay, okay," she sighs, "Any ideas for dinner? I was thinking we could order in, if you didn't want to cook, since it's Friday."

Shit. It is_Friday. Awesome._

"Nah, it's fine. We still have frozen pizza?" I ask.

"I think so, yeah," she responds.

"I'll cook a pizza if you'll preheat the oven," I offer.

"Deal," she accepts, and I hear her get up and start the oven. She walks into the living room, but stops when she sees me sprawled on the couch.

"You sure you're alright?" She asks.

"Yeah, I just took a nap is all," I tell her.

"Chase, if you're still missing sleep, we need to--"

"No, no, no," I interrupt, "It's not like that. I was just laying here thinking and kind of... dozed off."

"Alright," She hums, only half-convinced, and heads towards her room.

I roll off of the couch, and head to the kitchen. I know the oven isn't going to be heated yet, but I'm impatient. I open the freezer, and find that I'm not spoiled for choice: a single four-meat pizza sits atop the frost. I tear the plastic off with my index claw, too lazy to fish around the drawer for a knife. I peel a pepperoni off of the top and stick it in my mouth. Like I said, I'm impatient. I throw the pizza in the oven, and lose myself in my thoughts again. Last time I made a frozen pizza was two days ago, and I ended up breaking down into tears. It's possible to make pizza _without_breaking down into tears, it turns out. What were we even arguing about?

Oh yeah, Micha.

Has it really only been a couple of days since that conversation? Since I first started considering the possibility that Micha might actually be my friend, whether that's for better or worse? Then the very next day I helped him break into a teacher's office.

Weird how life works.

And now I find myself thinking about him again. I think the thing that bothers me about him is that I can't figure him out. T.J.'s easy, he's nice to everyone. Flynn's easy, he hates me. Elliott, well, I think he's just here for a good time. Even Sydney, while I'm confused about his exact motives, still seems to follow some sort of internal logic. But Micha... He's too friendly to be hostile, but too hostile to be friendly. I don't get what his deal is. It's like he wants to be friends with me, but doesn't want to want to be friends with me.

Which I guess is how I feel about him, too.

I mean, I've realized by now he's not a bad guy. He's certainly not the asshole people think he is. His kleptomaniac reputation is fairly well earned, but I'm starting to see that even _that_has a sort of rhyme and reason to it. He's pretentious, anti-social, and methodical.

But then, so am I.

And I can't help but admire the way he gets excited when he's actually excited about something.

I think back to the padlock-picking lesson, or our little camera heist. He's good at what he does, I'll give him that. And he's enthusiastic about it. But then, I suppose he just wanted to show off. I suppose, when you have talents like that, you don't get to show them off too often, by definition. So maybe that's why he's nice to me. Must be nice to have a fellow problem child to show off his illegal skills to.

But that just makes me worry. Because if he's expecting me to reciprocate... Despite my reputation as a problem child myself, I don't actually _do_that much. If he expects some cool crime lesson from me, he's gonna be disappointed. If he wants to know the best porn sites, on the other hand, I've got him covered.

Seeing as that's basically my only hobby. Which I've never thought about until now, but jeez, that's kind of pathetic.

I start thinking about the weekend. Tomorrow's Saturday, which is nice. Not that I have any plans, you need friends to have those.

But after the week I've had, doing nothing sounds amazing.

The First Saturday: Tears/Beers/Fears

Problem Child

An Echo Fan Fiction

By Fable91

I wake up, not to the panicked bleating of an alarm clock, nor to the terror of another nightmare.

This morning, I wake up on my own terms.

I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling. It's been so long since I've slept in. It's been so long since I've slept this well at all. Sunlight fills the spaces in the blinds. I want to check what time it is, but, at the same time, don't. I don't want to break the still chrysalism of this moment. The world outside is happening, bright and fast and terrible. But in my bed I'm at peace.

But I know I can't lie here all day.

I stretch, and finally pull the covers down. I roll to my side, and glance at the clock.

9:22.

Earlier than it feels, but I guess I've been going to bed kind of early lately. My body probably doesn't know what do do with me.

I roll out of bed, stumble blearily through the hallway, and head into the bathroom. I take my morning leak, then stare at my face in the mirror. I'm not sure what I'm looking for, exactly. Maybe it's just been a while since I've looked in the mirror. I look different, I think. Maybe it's just the lighting. But my face seems bonier, like I've lost weight or something. Then again, everyone I've talked to the past two weeks has told me how terrible I look. Have I looked this tired the whole time?

I head back to my room and throw some clothes on. I head to the kitchen, reach into the cupboard for a toaster tart, but then hesitate. I'm sick of toaster tarts. I want something different today. Might as well, I've got nothing else going on. Mom's off running some errands or something today, so I'm on my own for the time being. I grab my wallet and head out the door.

*****

I'm immediately hit by the dry heat of the desert when I step out into the sunlight. My eyes are slow to adjust, and I sort of shuffle blindly for a few steps, trying to feel where the sidewalk is under my feet. Eventually, my eyes _do_adjust, and I look around. The sky is blue and bright. The kind of hot, bright summer day you dream of during summer vacation as a kid. Back when little things like that could make you happy. I walk, already aware that I'm sweating. And probably musking. And I didn't spray for musk this morning. Oh well, I'm only headed to the convenience store, and there's no one there I'm looking to impress.

The walk to the convenience store is only a few minutes, but it feels longer due to the sweltering heat. At first I'm relieved to see the convenience store, but then I see the slender, grey and orange figure in front of the store, and the burly, red-furred figure he's talking to.

"Well, if it isn't Sydney's little gym partner," Flynn sneers.

"Well, if it isn't Leo's new chew toy," I spit back. Leo makes a move as if to get in between us, almost like he thinks I'm going to try to knock Flynn out.

Which, I might.

"It's alright, big guy," Flynn assures Leo, and I think I catch a certain inflection in the word "big", "Go ahead and pick us out some drinks, I want to talk with Chase a minute."

"You sure?" Leo narrows his eyes at me. We're a long way from the lake "big guy", what do you think I'm gonna do?

"I'll holler if I need you," Flynn assures him, "But I'm sure I can handle anything Chase can come up with." This time there's a derisive tone to "Chase". I bare my teeth. Leo glances at me, then begrudgingly obliges.

"Look, Chase, I just want to get everything out in the open, okay?" Flynn says.

"...Okay," I respond. I don't know where he's going with this, but I'm sure he's got some bullshit planned.

"So you and Sydney are gym partners. Okay, fine, whatever," he begins.

"You don't have a problem with it?" I raise an eyebrow.

He sneers, "Of course I fucking do, muskshit. But there's exactly fuckall I can do about it, isn't there?"

"Must suck," I grin.

"Listen," he warns, his tone way darker than I've ever heard it. There's the bullshit. He closes the distance between us, fast, and is looking straight down at me. I clench my fists.

"If you're gonna be partners with Sydney in gym, fine, I could give a fuck," he begins, and I smell gila venom on his breath, "But you just better know, if he gets hurt... I don't give a fuck if it was your fault or not. I don't give a shit if a meteor falls from the fuckin' sky while you're playin' jump rope and it smacks him in the fuckin' dick. If anything at all happens to him in that gym class while you're there, your ass is grass, you got that, muskshit?"

"The fuck are you gonna do, Flynn?" I ask, posturing up to him as best as I can. He's taller than me, but he's thin. I know he's not really that much stronger than me.

He grabs the front of my shirt with both hands. "If _anything_happens to him... Any little _accidents_like at the lake..." Flynn grins, and there's a sadistic glint in his eye, "Well, if you think _I'm_a chew toy..."

"Let go of me, fucker," I tell him simply. I'm not in the mood for Flynn's tough guy bullshit. I find myself hoping for Leo to come back out, just so that maybe he'll talk Flynn down.

Or bite my head clean off, whichever.

My savior, instead, is a short, skinny, twinkish little bat wearing short shorts and a scowl.

"Something goin' on here?" Micha asks as he crosses the parking lot, as if he has some sort of authority.

"Fuck off, shithead," Flynn hisses.

"Morning, Chase," Micha smiles, purposely ignoring Flynn's comment. He turns towards Flynn, "Morning, Leo's bottom."

Flynn finally lets go of my shirt. He stands up, and his calm scowl is back.

"Good morning, klepto. Seen any nice dirtbikes lately?"

"No, not really. Since I would hardly consider yours 'nice'."

Flynn smirks. "Well, if it ain't the odd couple. Psycho Killer Chase and Kleptomaniac Micha. Aren't you two just cute together?"

"You got something to say?" Micha spits.

"I just said it, titdirt," Flynn snaps back.

Just as I think Flynn and Micha are about to trade blows (I mean, like, punches) Leo emerges from the store, bags of snacks under his arms and a soda bottle in each hand.

"Hey Micha," Leo smiles at Micha, seemingly unaware of the tension in the air. Or perfectly aware of it, and ignoring it on purpose. Either way, it works.

"Hey Leo," Micha mutters back, his posture relaxing. He looks almost... flustered?

"Ready to go, Chula?" He asks Flynn.

"'Chula'?" I wonder aloud.

"Means beautiful, or sexy" Leo answers, before realizing who he's talking to.

I meaningfully look Flynn up and down, then force a laugh.

Flynn's face sours. "You're gonna make fun of _my_physique? How are you the only otter on the planet who doesn't have a swimmer's build?"

My mind races, looking for another insult. But I've got nothing.

"Sun's comin' out," Micha grins, "Better shove those sodas up your ass so they stay cold."

Leo suddenly shoves everything he's carrying into Flynn's arms, and storms across the parking lot towards us. He leans in close to Micha.

"You better fuckin' apologize," Leo growls.

"Fuck off, I ain't apologizin' for shit," Micha hisses, but I can see that he's shaking a little.

"Come on, let's leave Bonnie and Clyde to their... Whatever it is that they're doing," Flynn hollers at Leo. Leo closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, like he's trying to calm down. He and Micha's snouts are practically touching, but Micha just keeps staring, unafraid. Or at least, trying to look unafraid.

Leo rises to his full height. "You're right, Chula, let's leave these two lovebirds alone. But which one's Bonnie?" He asks, as he jogs to rejoin Flynn at the other side of the parking lot.

"I think that's pretty obvious," Flynn says, looking right at us. He doesn't offer any further explanation.

Micha and I share a look, then walk into the store.

*****

The air inside the convenience store is mercifully cold, and I just stand for a moment, letting it dry some of the sweat off of me.

"You alright, Chase?" Micha gives me an inquisitive look.

"Yeah, just cooling off," I confirm to him, still not moving.

"Okay then," he says, and heads over to the candy aisle. I finally walk in, and head to the same aisle.

"Hey, thanks, by the way," I mumble.

"Forget it," Micha says, "Besides, I mainly just wanted a chance to insult the gila."

"Yeah, I definitely get that," I grin, "Though you almost got torn a new one by Leo."

"Nah, I would've been fine," Micha assures me.

"You say that, but I saw the look in your eye, when he was close to you."

"You saw that?" Micha looks shocked, and he's staring at me like I just threatened to cut his dick off or something. Honestly, he's as flustered as when he was talking to Leo to begin with.

"Yeah, the way you were trembling, you were scared, man," I tell him.

"Wh-- Oh, uh, yeah, scared. Maybe a little," he admits, which isn't like him at all, "You know how it is with predators man."

Do I ever, I think to myself. But it seems like Micha's not talking about wanting to be railed by one. At least, probably not.

"Either way, thanks for looking out," I say, nodding to him and heading towards the coolers in the back of the store.

"Looking out for each other is the only way to survive a town like Echo," he says, absentmindedly, as if he were just reciting something he'd read somewhere. There goes Micha with the weird philosophical shit again.

I stare at the glass door of the cooler, trying to decide what I want to drink. I've noticed most people hold the cooler door open when they're picking their drinks, but I've never needed to, on account of the doors being made of glass. I hear a disturbance at the front of the store, and hazard a glance. It looks like Micha and the shopkeeper are getting into it.

"I saw you put those candy bars in your pockets, thief!"

Oh, for fuck's sake, Micha.

I hear my mom's voice in my head: it's really not a good idea for you to be associating with someone like that.

"Hey, I was gonna pay for them!" Micha protests. That's not even a good lie, Micha.

Then I hear Micha's voice in my head:Looking out for each other is the only way to survive a town like Echo.

I make my decision. I grab two bottles of cola off of the shelf, and fast-walk to the front. I've never been good at running, but I've always been a fast walker. Wonder what's up with that.

"Hey buddy, got your drink," I begin my lie. "Oh, you grabbed me one too?" I say, looking meaningfully at the candy bars on the counter, "Thanks bud." I turn towards the cashier, "I think this will be everything."

I can feel Micha staring at the side of my head, but I ignore it.

"What the hell is going on here?" the cashier demands.

I put on a look of indignation, "My friend and I are buying some pop and candy bars. Why, is that a problem?"

"Told you I wasn't fuckin' stealing!" Micha hisses at the cashier.Don't push it, bud.

"You thought he was stealing?" I gasp in surprise, but then look over at Micha and add, "No, I mean, I understand, looking at him, why you'd think that."

Micha gives me a dirty look.

"Hey, actually, could you go grab me a box of instant oatmeal? The kind with the marshmallows in it?" I ask Micha sweetly. He's staring at me, and I know it's because he doesn't want to do it. He doesn't want to take orders from me, but he has no choice. That's half the reason I did it.

Finally, he plasters a fake smile of his own on. "Of course, friendo," he says, dripping with so much sweetness it nearly makes me nauseous.

He daintily trots over to the aisle, grabs a box from the shelf, and returns, smiling the whole time. He's having way too much fun with this.

"Anything else, buddy?" He asks me.

"No, I think this is everything," I smile back.

"Actually," he interrupts, "Didn't you say outside that you'd buy me a bag of chips, too?"

You little piece of shit, I think to myself. He knows that I'm in this as deep as he is now. Clever fucker.

I sigh, "Yeah, of course I did, grab one of the small bags." He smiles, but this time it's not the saccharine-sweet fake smile. It's his shit-eating smirk of having pulled one over on somebody. Me, in this case. He strolls over to the chip display, much more casually this time, and pulls a bag off of it.

"Alright, that's everything," I tell the cashier, though I mean it more as a warning to Micha. The cashier looks down at me like he still doesn't buy our act, which is fair, because we're improvising and not doing a great job of it. I hand him a ten dollar bill, and he hands me my change. Micha collects the candy bars and chips, and I grab the soda bottles and oatmeal. The doorbell dings as we walk out into the sun.

*****

"You asshole!" I say as soon as the door closes behind me.

"What?" He blinks in surprise.

"Fuckin' chips?" I spit.

"Oh, yeah," he giggles to himself, "Well, that's what you get for making me grab your oatmeal for you. I ain't your bitch."

"I didn't have time to grab the oatmeal because I had to hurry to the front to save _your_stupid ass!" I protest, "Also, you're giving me one of those candy bars."

"What? Why?" Micha protests.

"Because I paid for them?" I insist, "Besides, I'll give you one of my sodas."

"I don't _need_soda," he says.

"You don't _need_to get busted over two candy bars either, but that wasn't stopping you," I tease.

"Yeah, well..." he begins to argue, but then stops. "Yeah, alright," he sighs, "Thanks for stepping in, by the way. I swear I checked if he was watching me. Fucker must've been using reflections, or something."

"It's not a big deal," I say, offering a bottle of soda, "It's like you said, you need people watching your back in a place like this."

He gives me a strange sort of look. He looks like he's thinking about something, but I have no idea what. He takes the soda from me, and places a candy bar in my empty hand. Finally, he speaks.

"Hey, Chase, you busy this evening?" He finally asks. He looks nervous, almost as nervous as when Leo was bearing down on him.

I pretend to think for a moment, though I already know I don't have plans. You need friends for those, remember?

"I think I'm free, what's up?" I finally ask.

"Well, I was just thinking..." He begins, shifting uncomfortably, "I mean, the way you looked out for me yesterday, when I was sleepwalking..."

"Yeah?" I ask.

"Well, I guess, it sounds like I owe you a 'sit', whatever that means," he stammers, "So, would you wanna maybe hang out tonight? Just, walk to the lake or something like that? I could get us a couple of beers, we could just... shoot the shit?"

My mind is reeling. I hadn't been completely sure that I wasn't just imagining the whole "Chase and Micha are friends" thing. Not that this is necessarily a huge step, but... Plus, I've never drank before. I always figured my first drink would be at some stupid high school party. But maybe just drinking with a friend somewhere quiet would be better?

"Uh, Chase?" Micha asks, "Look, if it's weird, just forget it, I didn't mean to--"

"Sure," I finally say. Micha looks surprised.

"Really?" he asks.

"I mean, why not?" I reason, "Besides, you owe me a beer after all that." I gesture towards the store, shaking my head, "Bag of chips..."

Micha grins, "Yeah, shit, I guess I do. Alright, meet me back here at like, 5:30, deal?"

"It's a date," the words spill out of my mouth. Why did I say that? Why am I like this?

Micha gives me a weird look.

"Not, like a date, just... Whatever," I stammer.

Micha's grin is back.

"Sure, a date, or whatever," he teases.

*****

I'm waiting in the parking lot. I check my phone. It's 5:35. I think about calling Micha, but of course, I'd need his number to do that. The sun isn't setting exactly, but is basically at its lowest point before you'd call it setting. I think about going in, to where it's cool, but I don't want to miss Micha if he's not heading inside. Then I finally see his figure walking up the street. He quickens his pace when he sees me.

"Hey, sorry I'm late," he smiles. So am I getting genuine, sincere Micha tonight, or...?

"No problem," I say, then glance at his feet, wrapped in bandages, "What are those?"

"Eh, I decided maybe the lynx knew what he was talking about," Micha admits, "And besides, it's just gonna be us, so, it's whatever."

Then I notice something else. Or rather, don't notice it. Notice that something isn't there to be noticed.

"Where are the drinks?" I ask, trying not to sound greedy.

"I don't have them yet," he says, gesturing towards the convenience store.

"They'll sell them to you?" I ask incredulously.

"Well, no..." he squirms.

I narrow my eyes. "We're stealing them." It's a statement, not a question.

"_I'm_stealing them," he corrects me, "You just gotta be a distraction."

"Micha, come on," I whine.

"Look, I'll provide drinks if you provide snacks. Just go in there and grab a couple bags of candy, or some jerky, or something," he instructs, "And I'll grab the drinks. Easy."

"I'm still not sure how I feel about being your accomplice," I complain.

He huffs, "Come on, man, it's not that big a deal."

I glance at the store, then at Micha. I mull it over.

"Fucking fine," I yield, "But if they catch us, I had no idea what was going on."

"Fine, fine," he agrees, grinning that sly grin, like when he knows he's pulled one over on someone.

*****

We walk into the store, and he makes a show of carefully considering each and every carbonated soft drink as he works his way towards the beer cooler. I glance at the cashier. Someone different than this morning. Which makes sense, but I'm hoping that means they won't be too suspicious of us. After what happened this morning, the two of us walking in together wouldn't have looked the best had the other cashier been here. I walk over to the candy aisle and look around for a minute, before something strikes me. We're drinking beers, right? Is candy good with beer? Micha said something about jerky...

I grab a big bag of jerky, teriyaki flavor. I head towards the cashier, and after a moment, Micha joins me. He's got his hands tucked in his pockets, but he doesn't appear to have any drinks.

"Turn out your pockets," the cashier suddenly orders. I'm genuinely taken aback.

"What the fuck?!" I protest.

"Not you," he nods towards Micha, "Him."

"Yeah, I get that, but what the hell--" I stammer.

"Think I didn't see you by the beer cooler?" The cashier snaps, and Micha shifts uncomfortably.

"It's fine, Chase," Micha mutters, and pulls his pockets out, folding his arms. Empty.

The cashier scowls.

"Wanna strip search me too, pervert?" Micha sneers.

"Listen here, you little shit--"

"Can I just buy this jerky, or what?" I snap, interrupting. I wonder if Micha caught the cashier looking and aborted his mission. Probably a good call, though I'm a little disappointed that I won't get to try beer tonight.

I hand over my cash, and take my change. The cashier is silent as we leave.

"Yep, thanks, you have a good night too," I snarl sarcastically. I half expect Micha to flip the guy off, but his hands are tucked in his pockets, and he's just stomping behind me.

The doorbell dings as we walk out the door.

*****

The air is a bit cooler when we get outside again. Sunset has officially begun.

"So what happened with the beers?" I ask Micha, once the door shuts behind us.

"Come on, let's just get going" Micha barks.

"Hey, easy," I snap, "I'm not mad or anything, I was just wondering."

"I'll explain once we're out of line of sight from the store, alright?" He huffs.

"Fine, so where are we going?" I ask him.

"I dunno, somewhere nice. Somewhere with a view, I suppose. How's Lake Emma sound?" He asks.

I stop for a moment. I'm about to explain why I don't want to, when he speaks instead.

"Take that as a 'no' then?" Micha hums, "Well, follow me, keep moving. Shit's getting cold."

"I'd just rather not--"

"Nah, I totally get it. What about that river above Lake Emma?" He asks, as we continue to make our way towards the lake.

"Yeeyaw?" I ask.

He gives me a look. "I don't know what it's called... but I'm pretty sure that's not it."

"Yeah, I..." I grin sheepishly, "That's what we used to call it. Me and the... uh... 'Honors Society'."

"But you know the place then?" He asks.

"Yeah, for sure," I confirm.

"Great, let's go," He says, picking up the pace. He fast-walks as well as I do, turns out.

"Wait, you said earlier that shit was getting cold...?" I ask him.

"Oh, yeah, here," he turns around, producing a large, 40 ounce bottle of some alcho-pop.

"That isn't beer," I comment.

"Yeah, well..." his eyes shift, "This is your first time drinking, am I right about that?"

"Uh, maybe," I say, not sure if he's judging me or not.

"So I figured maybe you'd like this better. It's sweeter, tastes a_bit_less like ass," he explains.

"Oh, that's..." I grin, "...considerate. Thanks. Where the hell were you keeping it though?"

"Oh yeah, that's a neat trick. One I'm afraid you're not going to be able to copy," he says, and turns to face me. He sticks his left arm straight out, then presses his own bottle, which I can't help but notice _is_beer, against the skin of his wing. Then he brings his left arm in, and shoves his left hand in his pocket, securing the bottle under his wingflap. He flourishes with his free arm, "Ta-da."

"You knew they were going to check your pockets," I grin, despite myself. I hate being impressed by him.

"I knew it was a risk," he shrugs.

"That_is_a neat trick," I admit. "But you're right, my wings are a bit less developed than yours," I add sarcastically.

"Your_everything_is a bit less developed than mine, Chase," he grins.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I snap.

"Pretty much whatever you _think_it means, that's what it means," he laughs.

*****

We sit in the grass, listening to the river behind us. The sun is setting over Lake Emma. We sit in silence for a moment, and I'm beginning to understand what people are talking about when they say "enjoying someone's company". Just sitting silent, knowing the other is there. I hear the hiss of his drink opening, and am reminded of my own. I start to wrestle with the cap, but it won't unscrew for some reason.

"Chase, here," I hear him behind me.

I'm about to snap at him, like I always do, about to ask him "well, how would you do it?" I turn around just in time to see that he's holding out a bottle opener towards me.

Oh.

I'm the asshole.

I take the opener from him, and, after slightly longer than I'd like to admit, figure out how to use it. I offer the opener back.

"Thanks," I mumble.

I sniff at the bottle in my hand. I can smell the sweetness, and something familiar. Something citrusy, I think. I hesitantly take a sip. He's right. It _is_sweet. There's definitely citrus in there too, it reminds me of lemon-lime soda. But with a sugary start, and a bit of a burn on the end. So I can definitely taste the alcohol, but it's not bad at all.

"You were right," I admit, "That's not bad."

"Heh, glad you like it," he says, and I must be going crazy, because he seems almost... _sincere?_I'll remind you, this is _Micha_I'm talking about.

"Yeah, the only alcho-pop like this I'd ever seen is the caffeinated stuff in those colorful cans," I remark.

His eyes widen, "You think I'm homicidal? I'm not gonna give you a_Loco Ocho_on your first time, man. That stuff's only for spirit quests or if you want to make a suicide not look like a suicide."

"Jesus," I shudder.

"Yeah, maybe someday I'll get you one of those, but that day ain't today," he smiles, and again I'm put off by how genuine it looks, "Those are better for parties. Stuff like this is better for chilling." He holds up his bottle.

"You could've just gotten me one of those," I tell him, gesturing at his bottle, "I wouldn't have complained."

"Yeah, I get that..." he hums, "But I know you would've hated it. So I was extra nice."

"Try me," I challenge him.

"What, you want to try a sip?" he looks at me skeptically.

"I'll let you try a bit of mine," I offer. Of course, he's probably already tried whatever this is, but fair is fair.

He glances down at his drink, as if he's unsure if he's willing to give up even a sip of it. Which is technically his right, but just makes me want it even more. Finally, he shrugs, and holds out the bottle. I snatch it from him, and offer my own. He smiles, and takes it.

I sniff his, and can smell the familiar, yet foreign, smell of beer. The hops, I'm assuming? I eye it warily. It's got a weird golden-brown color that seems somewhere between light beer and dark piss. I take a swig.

The taste is... Well, like I said. Somewhere between light beer and dark piss. I snort slightly, as my body rejects this new poison. This sudden disturbance causes the beer in my mouth to foam up, causing me to snort more.

"Easy, Chase," Micha warns, "Just swallow. This ain't exactly an 'enjoy-the-mouthfeel' sort of beverage, man."

I follow his instructions, shuddering once it's all down.

"Are you sure this isn't just some bottle you pissed in?" I ask him sarcastically.

"Chase, do you really think I piss in bottles so frequently that I'd lose track of them?" He grins, "Trust me, I keep my piss bottles and my beer bottles separate."

I give him a look.

"Chase, I don't piss in bottles."

I hand him his drink back.

"You could probably piss in this bottle and sell it back to them," I tell him, "They wouldn't know the difference."

"Didn't know you had such a head for business, Chase," He jokes, handing me my own drink back, "I'll keep that in mind. Thanks, by the way. It's been a while since I had one of those, it's nice."

I look down at the bottle in my hand, "Yeah, well, thanks for stealing it for me, I guess."

He grins, "Anytime."

Looking at our drinks, I suddenly get an idea.

"Should we toast to something?" I ask.

He raises an eyebrow, "Like what? What is there to toast around here?"

"Um, I dunno..." I think for a moment, "What about to each other?"

He smiles, but I know that smirk. It's derisive. "I don't think so, Chase. Seems... weird. And besides, it seems like bad luck, somehow."

"Okay, so if toasting things we like is bad, what about toasting to things we don't like? I mean, toasting to hating them, I guess," I say, aware of how stupid I sound. What the hell am I talking about?Toasting things we don't like?

"Okay, sure," he smirks. He raises his bottle, "To sticking it to the man."

I raise my own, "To sticking it to Echo."

Clink

We each take a swig. I notice him grimace as he drinks his, and realize that he's not as into his high gravity lager as he's pretending to be.

"You comfortable down there, Chase?" He asks. He's moved to a rock, while I'm still sitting in the dirt in front of it, "There's plenty of room up here."

"I can't imagine a rock would be that much more comfortable," I remark. There's something nagging at the back of my stupid rock-go-clack-clack goblin brain, but I'm not getting it.

"You'd be surprised," he shrugs, putting on a forced tone of indifference that seems almost... hurt? But why would he--

Rock go clack, clack, you idiot.

I don't--

He's inviting you to sit next to him, dumbass, my internal monologue harshly informs me. Oh, shit.

I scoot up to where he is, and he slides over to make room for me. This _is_way better for my inflexible otter legs.

"Thanks," I say simply.

We sit in silence some more, occasionally taking swigs from our bottles. The silence is peaceful. So obviously, I've got to ruin it.

"I guess the beach would have been more comfortable," I sigh, "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry," he shrugs, "I get it. I wouldn't want to go there either, if it were me. I assume you haven't been there since..."

"You assume right," I interrupt.

He nods in understanding, "Fair enough."

We sit another moment, but there's a tension that wasn't there before. Then he speaks again.

"Hey, Chase?" he says hesitantly.

"Yeah?" I ask, and take a swig of my drink.

"Can I ask you a question? And it's kind of a shitty, personal question, so if you don't want to answer, that's cool," he says. My mind races, but I try to play it off like I'm not worried.

"Go for it." What is he going to ask? Do you like guys?I'm gonna rob the Meseta casino, wanna be my accomplice? I murdered someone, wanna help me dispose of the body?

"Well, um..." he shifts uncomfortably, "I mean, I guess it's obvious. My question is..."

"Please, just say it, Micha," I beg him.

"Right. Why'd you do it?" he asks, and when he looks at me, there's not that smug smirk, or even really curiosity. There's... concern.

"Do what?" I ask cluelessly. Rock go clack clack.

He gestures towards Lake Emma.

Oh.

My face must've changed just then, because he starts stammering.

"Like I said, you don't have to answer, I was just--"

"Micha," I interrupt, "I would answer. But I really don't know. Something came over me that day. I know that's a stupid cliche, I hate that it's my only answer. But it's all I've got. I had some kind of..." I hesitate, because I hate using the following word to describe myself, but it's the only right one, "_psychotic_episode. I mean, I thought..." I take a deep breath, and sigh, "I thought he was going to kill Toby. T.J., I mean. But I don't know why that made me want to do what I did."

He nods slowly, "I mean, that makes sense to me. Eye for an eye or whatever."

"I've heard that makes the whole world blind," I tell him.

"Yeah, I've noticed people like to tell you that just _after_they've jabbed your eye out," he huffs.

"So, what, you think I should have done it?" I ask him, incredulous.

He shakes his head quickly, "Of course not. But I'm just saying it's not the cardinal fucking sin everyone makes it out to be. Revenge, I mean. Or in your case, it was almost more like self-defense."

"To be honest, Micha, I'm not really interested in justifying it. I know how fucked up it was," I sigh, "I just wish I knew why it happened. Something I could fix, so that I could know that I wouldn't lose myself like that again."

"For the record," he responds thoughtfully, "I'm not sure you're as crazy as you think you are. I mean regarding the whole 'something came over me' thing. Stuff 'comes over people' a lot in Echo."

"I can't blame everything that's wrong with me on the town, Micha," I sigh, defeated. "Though I appreciate what you're trying to do."

"No, I don't mean it like that, I mean..." he hesitates, like he's not sure if he wants to tell me what's coming next, "...have you ever heard something around here? But not like a sound, like a feeling. It's like a sound, in your head?"

I look at him.

"I'm sorry, I'm not explaining it well..." he mumbles, "I just mean like, it's like this vibe, this feeling that just makes you feel like complete shit."

"Yeah, the entire town's like that," I grumble.

"No, that's not what I mean, I mean..." he heaves a long sigh, "Alright, I'll just tell you. It's called the Hum. That's not its official name, 'cause it doesn't have one. But that's what we call it."

"The Hum," I say under my breath.

"You heard of it then?" he asks.

"Only from you," I say, and he raises an eyebrow, "When you were sleepwalking, when you woke up, you said you couldn't sleep because of the Hum. Actually..." I think a minute, "While you were still asleep, you said something. About how you didn't want to go home, because it was too loud there. I assumed your parents were being too loud, but... You might've meant the Hum then, too."

"Not 'might've'," he shakes his head, "Definitely did. The sleepwalking gets worse when the Hum gets worse."

"I'm still unclear on what the Hum is," I admit.

"Yeah, I'm sorry, I..." he trails off, "I've got this friend, Keith. He's the one who named it and everything, and he can explain it way better than I can. But it's like a bad vibration, or an energy, or like a... there's a word he used for it. Some m-word. I forget. Anyway, it's stronger in certain places, and weaker in certain places, and sort of ebbs and flows. And when you're in it it makes you do stupid shit. Crazy shit. It sort of sinks into your skull, and..."

I must be making a face, because he trails off again.

"Sorry if I'm acting like I don't care," I explain, "I really do find this interesting, even if..."

"Even if?"

"Even if I don't necessarily buy into it. Supernatural auras or whatever," I admit.

Micha nods, "Yeah, I get that. I was the same way. Still am, sort of. But the more I think about it, the more sense it makes. Which honestly, scares me."

I nod breathlessly, "So you were saying before, it sinks into your skull?"

"Right, right," he takes a swig, "It messes with your head. Different ways. For you, I'm assuming it might be the nightmares. For me, it's the sleepwalking. But in high concentrations..."

"High concentrations? How do you measure it?" I ask.

"Fuck if I know," he shrugs, "It's just a feeling. Once you learn what you're looking for, it's actually not too hard to spot. But it's kind of like the hum of an air conditioner. You know what I mean?"

"Maybe?"

"Like, you're in bed, about to fall asleep, when the air conditioner kicks on, and startles you awake. So you try to fall asleep again, only this time, the air conditioner shuts off. And the silence is as jarring as the noise was," he says, and I don't know if I'm getting drunk or am just too stupid for this, but it feels way over my head. "The Hum's sort of like that. You can't hear it exactly, but you can hear it relative to itself. It's louder sometimes, and softer sometimes. So you can start to notice the changes if you pay attention." He sighed, "Like I said, Keith explains it way better than I can."

"Nah, I think I'm starting to get it," I say, taking a swig of my own drink, "But what were you saying before? About 'high concentrations'?"

"Well, yeah, in higher concentrations, it can make people act weird. And we're not really sure how high the concentrations can go. So, it's possible that, at the lake that day, things were just right to set you off," he says, and I'm suddenly reminded that this conversation was about That Time At The Lake.

"Oh, uh, yeah, maybe," I say, still not buying it. Though I appreciate his effort. "But wouldn't the others have noticed it?"

"Hmm," Micha takes another drink, then strokes his chin thoughtfully, "I guess maybe you're right. But maybe there's a reason it just hit you? Maybe you're, like... sensitive to it, or something?"

"Then wouldn't I be able to hear it?" I reason.

"Look man, I don't know," he throws his hands in the air, "Like I said, Keith knows this stuff, not me."

"Ah, I see," I hum, "Well, either way, it's at least interesting. And a better explanation than I've been able to come up with."

"I could introduce you," he says softly.

"Who?"

"You and Keith."

"Oh, right."

"I mean, if you wanted. He can answer your questions better than I can. But you should remember, he's just sort of theorizing as well, so none of this is like... science," he warns.

"Yeah, I kind of figured that out," I say sarcastically.

Micha shrugs, "This sort of shit can't be figured scientifically. Not that Keith isn't tryin'."

"So who is this Keith, then? Some sort of paranormal investigator?" I ask.

"Nah, he's more like a spiritual healer."

I raise an eyebrow.

"Yeah, I know, I know, but he's a good guy. He genuinely just wants to help people. He's probably like, the first person I've ever met like that," Micha says defensively.

"Sorry, I don't mean to insult the guy," I assure him, "But he just seems a little..."

"He's definitely a little..." Micha interrupts, "...hippy-dippy. But he might be able to help you. With the whole... lake thing."

"You think I need a spiritual healer? Why, do you think I'm possessed?" I laugh.

"Nah, probably not, but..." he pauses to take a drink, and I'm left wondering how much work that "probably" is doing, "Keith reads a ton of books. Philosophy, psychology, religion, mythology, meditation stuff... He's like a polymute."

"Do..." I hesitantly offer, "Do you mean 'polymath'?"

He looks up at me. "Yeah, probably."

"So you think this hippie-of-all-trades can help me, even though all those psychiatrists couldn't?" I ask him. I realize once it's out of my mouth how asshole-ish it sounds. But maybe I'm skeptical, so sue me.

"I don't really know, Chase," he shrugs, "Just figured I'd make the offer. Be willing to bet good money he's smarter than any of those psychiatrists though, personally."

"Ugh," I groan, "I've gone from actual shrinks, to T.J.'s bible study, to hippie healer? I'm really running out of options, aren't I?"

"Wait, you actually went to the Bible study?" he grins, "How was that?"

"It was... pretty much exactly what you'd expect. T.J. said a bunch of nice shit about forgiveness and love, one of the kids there made it absolutely clear that I'm going to hell, and the rest didn't really have any idea what they were doing there, just like me," I summarize.

He nods, "Yeah, that sounds about right."

"T.J. read out our favorite Bible verses, so I made him read one about horse dicks," I grin.

Micha's face lights up, "You did not."

"Totally did, he tried to get out of it, but then Julian goaded him into it," I laugh.

"Who's Julian?"

"Oh, he's... I guess he's T.J.'s friend? I don't think he has an official title, but he seems to basically co-run the club with T.J. He was the only one other than T.J. who seemed to know what the hell was going on. But then afterwards, he came up to me, and he was talking about my verse, and sort of giving me a weird look... I wasn't sure if I should flirt with him or if he was gonna exorcise me," I laugh.

Micha's giving me another strange look, "Chase, why would you... Nevermind."

"What?"

He seems to think about something for a moment. Then he grins, "Why did you know a Bible verse about horse dick off hand?"

I shrug, "I went through a phase."

"A gay phase?" he teases.

I hope he didn't see the panic in my face. I grin coyly, "an anti-religion phase."

"That's not technically a 'no', Chase," Micha says.

"Micha," I groan.

"I'm just sayin'," he smiles.

"And for the record..." I offer, "I think the verse is actually about horse semen. It mentions _donkey_dick, though."

"An important distinction," Micha nods thoughtfully. "So of the three groups..." he asks, counting on his fingers, "...the holy, the damner, and the clueless, which one was Heather?"

"I..." I start. I had completely forgotten about Heather. She _had_said that T.J. had talked her into going to the Bible group, hadn't she? "I didn't see her there."

"Ah," is all Micha says, but there's a look of concern on his face.

"Micha, you alright?" I ask.

"Yep," he says, but his tone says nope.

"You sure, man, you seem--"

"I'm fucking great, Chase!" he snarls. I suddenly want to punch his stupid face, but I know I shouldn't. So I turn to leave instead. As I stand, I hear his voice again.

"Fuck... I'm sorry, Chase."

I turn to look at him. I'm fully prepared to tell him off, until I see the forlorn look in his eye. He's, like, _actually_sad. Fuck.

"What the fuck, Micha?" I mutter, trying to keep my own temper under control.

"Look, it's just... With Heather, it's..." he stammers, "I'm just protective of her, alright? If she wasn't at Bible study, then that means she was at home."

"And?" I ask.

"And she's got a shitty home life," he explains.

"Join the club."

"No, not like..." He takes a deep breath, and a long swig of his beer, "She's got family issues."

"So does half of Echo," I say, wondering internally why I'm being such a jackass.

"Chase, listen..." Micha pleads, "...Even by Echo standards, Heather's dad is a piece of shit. Okay?"

His tone tells me not to ask any more questions. Not that I need to, because a comment like that pretty much tells me everything. I'm not sure what to say, so I just sit back down next to him.

"I'm sorry for bringing it up," I say softly.

He shakes his head sullenly, "Not your fault. You didn't know."

"Yeah, I had no idea," I tell him.

"But now you do, so... Don't go mentioning her home or her family when we're around her, okay?" He requests.

"Yeah, sure thing, but..."

"But?"

"She always seems like she's in such a good mood at school," I say.

"Of course she is, Chase. When she's at school, she's not at home," he says flatly.

"Is it really that bad?" I ask, and the sad look he gives me is my answer.

"Fuck," I mutter.

We sit in silence some more. Nothing like domestic abuse to kill the mood. We just sit together, staring out at the lake, glowing in the sunset. I glance over to Micha, and find that he's laying on his back, his head hanging off of the rock at what must be an uncomfortable angle. I respectfully don't notice that his tank top is creeping up, exposing his furry belly.

"Micha, you alright?" I ask. He offers a thumbs-up. "You're gonna be sick or something if you stay like that. All the blood is gonna rush to your--"

"I can hang upside down indefinitely," he says, anticipating what I was about to say, "It's a bat thing."

"Oh," I say, "Yeah, that makes sense." A question suddenly occurs to me, "Hey, do you--"

"With a mattress and pillow, Chase, just like everybody else," he says. So apparently he's heard that one before.

"Right, sorry," I say, "Not trying to be speciesist."

"And you're not being," he confirms, "But I just get that question a lot. Same thing for if I can use echolocation."

"C-- Can you?" I can't resist asking.

"Nah. I know some bats can. But it's sort of like whistling, not everyone learns how. I've never been able to do it. Not that I necessarily want or need to, I've got crazy good eyesight," he says, still not bothering to sit up.

"Not 'blind as a bat' then?" I tease.

He points at me, still laying at that awkward angle, "Now that _is_speciesist, Chase."

"Alright, alright, sorry," I offer, admittedly half-heartedly. I look back out at the lake.

"While you're being speciesist, you wanna take a closer look at my batwing?" I hear him say.

I make a conscious point not to look over, "You're not just gonna do that thing where you stretch your sack and say it looks like a batwing, right?"

"Pfft, no," he says, but as I glance over I see him retying the drawstring on his shorts.

"Hey, Micha?" I ask.

"Yeah, Chase?" he says, still upside-down.

"Can I ask you a kind of shitty personal question, since you asked me one?" I ask hesitantly.

He looks down at me. Or, at least, down from his perspective. "I guess," he says warily.

"Well, you asked me why I did it, and I told you. Or at least, tried to..." I start.

"Yeah?"

"So, why do you do it?" I finally ask.

"I don't drown people, Chase," he says nonchalantly.

"No, I mean..." I take a deep breath, "Why do you steal, Micha?"

He gives me a strange look. He sits up, and I definitely don't notice the way his abs flex and tighten as he does so. He's leaning in towards me, looking closely into my eyes.

"Why do you want to know?" he asks.

"Same reason you did, I guess," I explain, "I suppose I'm just curious. Or trying to get to know you better."

He wrinkles his nose.

"It's... complicated," he says.

"Go on, then," I say, not about to let him get away with that, "I've got literally all night."

He sits in silence a moment, looking lost in thought. I'm half convinced he's deciding whether or not to just get up and leave. But then he finally speaks.

"There's a couple of reasons," he starts.

"Okay?" I bid him to continue.

He looks up at me, "Sorry, it's just not something I've thought about before."

I nod in understanding, "It's cool man, take your time. And remember, if it's too shitty, you don't have to answer."

"Nah, it's cool. Just give me a sec," he hums, and takes a drink.

"The main thing is, I steal to get stuff. I mean, I know that seems obvious, but... That's really it. If I need something, I take it. My parents... Don't really do shit for me. No allowance, even stuff like school supplies and clothes and stuff... So if I want something, or need something..." he shrugs.

"Ah," I say, admittedly disappointed in that answer, "I guess that _was_the obvious choice. Your parents really don't give you anything?"

"Not really," he shrugs, and noticing my sympathetic expression, adds, "Which is fine by me. Don't need nothin' from no one, man. Everything I have, I got for myself."

"I guess," I agree, "Though it doesn't kill you to have people to help you out, on occasion."

"I know that, which is why, like I said-- I can't count on my family, but I know I've got people watching my back," he says, his eyes glistening as he looks towards me.

"Yeah, okay, I guess I get that," I hum.

We sit in silence, until he interrupts.

"Hey, Chase?" he asks.

"Yeah?" I respond, steeling myself for another introspective, philosophical question.

"Where'd you put that jerky?" he asks, and I laugh in surprise. I look around my own spot for a moment, until I spot the bag, tucked between my feet. I reach down to it, then toss it to him.

"Awesome," he says, tearing the perforated strip off of the top, "I'm starving."

In that moment, something occurs to me.

"Hey, Micha?" I ask hesitantly.

"Hmm?" he responds, mouth full.

"So the fact that your parents don't give you much... Is that why you miss lunch at school? Do they not even give you lunch money?" I ask. His eyes flick away from me, embarrassed.

"That's shitty, dude," I say. I don't know what else to say.

He swallows the mouthful of jerky, "They give me five bucks for the week."

"What the fuck? That's like two days' worth at most," I protest.

"Yeah, I fuckin' know that. You can stretch it to three, if you eat light," he informs me.

"That sucks, man," I say, and something else occurs to me, "And the candy bars from today?"

He says nothing, but nods his head.

"Dude, that..." my mouth hangs open uselessly for a moment, before I smugly add, "Good thing you got those chips."

He laughs, "Yeah, good thing."

We sit in silence again, but this time is like the first time. There's no tension, just a separate sense of togetherness.

"Micha?"

"Yeah, Chase?"

"Look, it's not like my house has much, but... If you're ever hungry on the weekend..."

"Chase, don't."

"...I'll make you some ramen or something."

"Chase, I-- I don't wanna live on handouts, man."

"I'm offering. Not all the time, but sometimes?"

"Chase, I'm not a beggar."

"Just a thief."

He gives me a hurt look.

"Okay, sorry," I apologize.

"Nah, you're not wrong," he says. "But there's another reason."

"Another reason for what?"

"Why I do what I do. Why I steal shit."

"Oh--" I had forgotten how this conversation had started, "Oh yeah?"

"It's... sort of a power trip for me. Like, the risk of getting caught, and the reward of getting way with it. Like gambling, I guess," he mumbles, stuffing his face with more jerky.

"I could see that, I guess," I admit. Breaking into Mr. Gates' office had been fun, as reticent as I had been about admitting it.

"But it's not just that," he adds, "It's like, a power trip, over other people. Like, I'm not strong, I know I can't take too many people in a fight. But like, I'm smart. I'm clever. People have shit, and people don't want me to have it. But that doesn't matter. If I want something, I take it. They're powerless to stop me. And that, kind of feels good. It's a sort of different rush. If I _could_win a fight, I imagine that's how it'd feel. Dominance."

"I guess I get that," I agree, before slyly adding, "So, you like dominance, huh? Interesting."

He raises an eyebrow, "What are you saying, Chase, you think this whole thing was just a trap to get in your pants or something?"

I grin coyly, "I mean, you already bought me a drink." I raise my bottle.

He smirks, "Shit, yeah, guess you're right. You've got to put out now, or else you're a tease."

I would if I thought you'd let me, I think to myself. Wait, why did I just think that?

"Chase, you good?" he asks.

"Oh, uh, yeah, just spacing," I say.

"You're probably getting a little buzzed at this point, I'd imagine. I mean, fuck, I sure am," he admits.

"Yeah, I didn't notice it right away, it kind of crept up on me," I say. I'm not all clumsy and giggly like on T.V., but there's a sort of tingling warmth washing over me.

"Yeah, you'll have that," he smiles, "But anyway, I guess that's why I steal. To get what I want, and to take it from others. Which, I guess, now that I think about it... Is kind of just the definition of stealing. So maybe it was an obvious answer. Sorry."

"Nah, it was a good answer," I tell him, "I mean it was a better answer than I had for yours."

He shrugs, "I guess."

We sit again, staring out at the lake. The sun is just about completely set, the sky a vibrant red. I feel his gaze on me, and look over at him. When he sees me turn, he suddenly turns back towards the sunset. In this light, with the deep shadows of twilight on it, I can see every feature and crease on his face. He's more handsome than I give him credit for. He turns slowly towards me, but I don't turn away. We just sort of... look at each other.

He leans it a little bit, and for some reason I follow suit.

"Huh," he says softly, and I feel his warm breath on my face.

"What?" I ask, equally soft.

"Uh, nothing," he mutters suddenly, and starts to turn away.

"No, what?" I encourage, "Come on, Micha."

"Oh, I just never noticed," he says. He's looking into my eyes again.

"Noticed?"

"Your eyes. I mean, I knew you had eyes, but I always just thought they were brown. Like, basically the same brown as your fur. But in this light, I can see that there's a sort of red to them, too. It's... interesting," he mumbles.

"Interesting?" I ask, "Good interesting or bad interesting?"

"I mean, normally, red eyes would be creepy," he says, "But on you, it sort of works?"

"You're saying creepy looks good on me?" I question.

He shrugs, "I guess? I didn't think of it that way, but... Yeah?"

"Uh, thanks I guess," I tell him.

We sit in silence again, just sort of staring at each other. I'm not sure what's happening. It can't be what I think it is, that's for sure.

Can't it?

Nope. Get out of here, optimism, I know better.

I want to tell him about the way the gold of the sun is playing in his own eyes. But I'm not sure how he'll take it, because I'm not even sure what's real anymore. Is this all just one long, Hum-induced dream? If that's true, then my own subconscious came up with this whole conversation. What kind of loser spends all night in their bedroom coming up with a convoluted conversation like that?

The wind blows, and his fur dances in the breeze. He's even closer now. If he gets much closer, my snout is going to touch his nose. I can smell the hops on his breath. His lips smell way better than the bottle did.

Maybe they taste better, too.

What the actual fuck is going on in my head?

I make my decision. I read somewhere that the search results for "I should have kissed him" outnumber the results for "I shouldn't have kissed him" like ten-to-one. I'm a lot of things, but I'm not about to become part of that statistic.

I close my eyes.

Micha pulls away.

"Fuck, I'm sorry dude," I hear him mutter. I open my eyes, and he's scooted away from me. He's avoiding my gaze, looking over the lake, where the last pink watercolors of sunset are fading into the stygian blue of night. "I'm drunk man, I... I'm sorry," he cringes. With how nervous he suddenly is, I half expect to see Leo creeping out from behind a tree.

"What?" I say, still trying to figure out what's happening, and how I feel about it, "No, don't be sorry."

"Nah, I shouldn't have--"

"It's fine, man, no worries. Really," I assure him.

"But I was about to--"

"It's fine."

"How can you be so okay with it?" he asks.

"Because, I was about to--" I catch myself just in time. "Because I'm a bit buzzed too, you know, so, like, I get it. It doesn't have to be a big deal."

He stares at me a moment, and I see a flicker of realization. Fuck, I just outed myself, didn't I? There's no way he doesn't know. Nothing left to do now but tell me off and leave. Or punch me first. I might deserve it, for trying to make a move like that. What the fuck's wrong with me?

But he doesn't yell. He doesn't stand to leave. He doesn't punch me.

Micha just stares.

Finally, he finds his voice again: "How can it be okay? I mean, anyone else would have decked me for trying that shit."

So was he actually trying to kiss me? Part of me wants to just shut him up by kissing him. That's how they'd do it in a romantic comedy. But given how freaked out he is by the prospect, that would probably be a terrible idea. Besides, it's like he said, we're drunk. I'm not necessarily into guys, maybe, hopefully. And Micha's definitely not. People do all sorts of shit when they're drunk. I've seen the movies.

"I'm not anyone else, Micha," I tell him, "It's just you and me out here, and I'm telling you, it's fine. We'll just pretend it never happened."

There's a sort of gratefulness in his eyes, and that makes me sad for some reason. "You serious?" he whispers.

"Of course, man," I offer a smile, "Let's just... get back to hanging out. Like we were."

He looks relieved, and I start to wonder if he was playing a similar scenario in his own head: me knocking him out, calling him a faggot, and storming off. As much as I try to play up the dangerous, unhinged psychopath to keep bullies off my back, it sort of turns my stomach to actually imagine myself doing something like that. Which I guess is good, since if it didn't, that would pretty much confirm my "problem child" diagnosis.

"Well, if we're sticking around," he grins, as if the past ten minutes never happened, "I gotta take a piss. Stay here, don't want you seeing anything, at least not for free."

A thought of an entirely different nature occurs to me.

"Hey, Micha?" I holler at him, as he shuffles away to find a suitable spot to do his business. Which, to be honest, is pretty much anywhere. We're in the middle of nature and no one's around.

"Yeah, Chase?" He calls over his shoulder, and I hear a familiar pattering sound, that I recognize from taking a piss on the dirt roads of Echo when no one was around.

"So your chest is covered in fur, and your neck is. But your arms are bald..." I start.

"Right...?" He says hesitantly, and I think he might see where I'm going.

"And your legs are bald, too. So where exactly does the fur end? Do your ass and junk--"

"You're gonna have to get me a lot drunker than this to find out the answer to that question, Chase," he laughs.

I sigh, "I suppose that's fair. I'll have you steal us some vodka next time."

His shoulders shake in a laugh, the most genuine laugh I think I've ever heard out of him.

*****

I lie awake in my bed. The room sways around me like a cruise ship. Fuck, I think I might be a lightweight.

We spent the rest of the evening by the lake, finishing off our drinks and bullshitting about whatever stupid thing came to mind. When we decided to leave, Micha had even offered to dispose of my bottle, which I thought was nice, until he immediately turned and chucked both bottles as hard as he could towards the lake.

When we had reached Jasmynn street, I had even hazarded a hug. Which I probably shouldn't have done, given that we were both trying to figure out what the hell had been going on with our earlier attempt at PDA. But maybe I was feeling selfish, or maybe I was feeling close to him. So I pulled him in for a quick hug, one arm, one clap on the back, like your grandpa who's never been comfortable showing affection but who knows he's supposed to hug his grandchildren would do. If it was weird, then... I blame the alcohol.

Now I lie awake in bed, the room swaying around me like a cruise ship, because I'm a lightweight.

Before today, I hadn't been sure what to think of Micha. I certainly hadn't expected to hang out with him like I had. I didn't expect to have an actual conversation with him. A deep, meaningful, introspective conversation. Like friends or something. I didn't expect to get my first drink of alcohol, and my first taste of beer. I definitely didn't expect that I'd try to kiss him. Life's fuckin' weird, man.

Before today, I hadn't been sure what to think of Micha...

But now...

I still don't know what to think of Micha.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Day 15: Friends and Enemies

It happens the same way, every time.

We're playing at the lake, like we always did back then. Leo, Jasmynn, Carl, and Flynn are skipping rocks. I'm in the water, and they yell at me to get out of the way. So I dive under, and head towards where Toby and Sydney are playing. But as I surface, something's wrong. Sydney is sitting on top of Toby's back, who is lying face down in the water. He keeps pulling Toby's head up, just long enough to let him catch his breath, before shoving it back into the water and sand and mud.

He's going to kill him.

Unless I stop him.

I swim over as fast as I can. I pull Sydney off of Toby. Sydney's not happy about that. We fight for a moment. I punch him in the throat, and see the fight leave his eyes. It should be over now.

But it never is.

He'll do it again, I think to myself, Toby's not safe. I drag Sydney to where the water is deep. I shove him under. I follow. There's a ferociousness in his eyes, the fight is back in him again. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I use this as validation. As an excuse. I knew he was faking it, I think, now let's see how he likes it. We wrestle underwater, two bodies in constant, undulating motion. I see his face soften again, and his eyes look into mine pleadingly. I stare back, letting him know I'm not going to offer him any mercy. His eyes twitch suddenly, as he gets an idea. An idea I should have expected. He's always watching wrestling, and when he's wrestling around with one of us, he always proudly proclaims "I'm the heel" to whatever protests we have against his latest underhanded strategy. His whole body twists under the water, and I think he's trying to slip free. But he's not.

He's winding up.

He throws all of his weight into a kick, directly into my crotch. I watch bubbles rise past me as I involuntarily yelp. My hands leave him, involuntarily moving to nurse my injury. I float, curled up, like a fetus in a womb. Then I realize something terrifying:

He's going to tell.

I have to stop him. Maybe I can talk him out of tattling to Leo and the others. Maybe I can use his heel excuse against him. I bolt towards the shallows. I break the surface, and taste the dry afternoon air. I take a few gulps of it, trying to wipe the water out of my eyes, as I wade towards the shore. I can hear Toby still crying, though something sounds... off. As I open my eyes and am blinded by the afternoon sun, I remember my task.

"Sydney!" I shout, hoping to stop him before he gets to the others.

"Back the hell off" I hear, from a voice I know is Flynn's. My eyes adjust, and that's when I understand. Toby's cries sound wrong, because he's not the one crying.

Sydney is. I've seen him cry a time or two, but never like this. He always prided himself on being tough. But now there's no facade left. He's sobbing, practically wailing. Fear and despair and betrayal drip from each moan. I see Jasmynn trying to talk him down, a hand on his shoulder. But he either can't hear her, or can't understand.

Or just can't calm down.

His eyes meet mine and go wide with terror. My stomach turns. This isn't what I wanted. I just wanted him to be the one crying at the end of one of his and Toby's fights.

But not like this.

I take a step forward to try to talk to him, and Flynn is immediately in between us, staring me down. I hear Carl gasp to my right, and glance over to see him hugging Toby, who is trembling into his shoulder. Carl's eyes are darting in between me and Flynn, like he expects me to drag Flynn into the lake next.

"Just let me talk to him" I offer, and try to shoulder my way past Flynn. A large, red-furred arm immediately blocks my chest and shoves me backwards, and I look up to find Leo's eyes burning with anger.

"Stay away, Otter" he warns.

"Stay the fuck away from him, asshole" Flynn adds.

"Come on, guys, we were just wrestling around, and--" I offer.

"Yeah, he told us what you were trying to do, psycho. Now piss off" Flynn hisses at me.

"Just let me apologize," I look up at the wolf blocking my way, "Leo, just let me--"

"No," Leo interrupts. He's a man of few words, though that's mostly because, in English, he only really _knows_a few words.

"Come on," I whine, and try to step past him. I see Flynn's tail twitching in anticipation, but there's no need. Two large wolf paws grip my shoulders, hard.

"Ow, Leo, let go!"

"No," Leo warns, and there's something sinister in the tone that I've never heard from him before. "Stay away, Otter. Or I'll hurt you."

A silence falls over the scene. Sydney is no longer wailing, just trying to catch is breath as individual sobs hiccup in his throat. I feel their eyes on me, and look from one to the next.

Toby's guilty, mournful look.

Carl's confused fear.

Flynn's protective rage.

The hatred in Leo's eyes, and the fact that he's baring teeth, make it painfully, gut-wrenchingly clear: if I try to get closer, we won't be Leo and Chase anymore. We'll be predator and prey.

Finally, my gaze falls to Sydney, still staring at me in wide eyed fear.

It always ends this way. With the silence. With me losing all of my friends.

And Sydney... Sydney just stares.

And then I wake up.

Problem Child

An Echo Fan Fiction

By Fable91

I wake up to the alarm. The shitty thing about weekends is that they always seem to lead into a Monday, for some reason. It's a real flaw in the whole weekday-weekend system.

I slap the snooze button, just to get the noise to shut up. I lie in bed, trying to mentally talk myself into waking up for the day.

I'm just not feeling it.

The thing is, it's not because I'm tired. It should be, but... I'm not that tired. I'm actually more well-rested than usual.

Could it be that I'm getting used to the nightmare?

I hope not.

The alarm starts up again. I guess I've been lying here longer than I thought. I throw the blanket off, and force myself to sit up. I trudge the short distance to the bathroom, and take a leak. I don't feel tired, exactly, but I can't shake the bleary sort of feeling that comes with waking up early. I start to think. Maybe it's that _Hum_Micha was telling me about. I'll have to ask him if it's loud today, for him. I listen, but all I hear is the soft hush of the air conditioner, and my piss hitting the toilet.

I wash my hands, and take a moment to look in the mirror. I still look tired as fuck, but maybe a little better than I have been. I sort of press and pinch at my face, like I'm somehow going to make myself look less tired. Like I can just sculpt it like silly putty into a handsome otter.

I ignore the fact that the handsome otter that comes to mind is Sydney.

I sort of scratch at my headfur, trying to fix it into something resembling a style. I don't know when I started caring how I looked. I guess it was probably around five seconds ago, when I looked in the mirror and realized how shit I looked.

I head for the kitchen, open the cupboard, and am pleasantly surprised when I discover the oatmeal I bought over the weekend. I empty a packet into a bowl, add a splash of water, and throw the bowl in the microwave. As it cooks, it makes me think of Micha, which makes me smile, for some reason.

I nibble on the oatmeal, glad to have finally woke up in time to eat breakfast without rushing out the door. I lean against the counter, bowl in one hand, spoon in the other. I feel like I don't get moments like this much anymore. Quiet moments. More likely, I get them, but my stupid problem-child internal monologue bullshit doesn't let me enjoy it. But how much of that is my fault? Like, maybe_I should be able to quiet my head, to enjoy the silence. Maybe that's what a normal person would do. But I'm not a normal person. I've never been able to, especially since _that day. The voice in my head is an asshole, constantly picking apart everything I say and do. Constantly telling me how worthless I am.

It doesn't exactly help that he's right, of course.

But problem child Chase nonwithstanding, today I'm feeling almost... normal?

I wonder what's up with that.

*****

I stroll to the bus stop, again marveling at the leisurely pace that I can take when I don't wake up late. Jas-- Jenna and Carl are already there, snouts buried in manga and a cell phone, respectively.

"Good morning, guys," I offer cheerfully. They probably won't answer, but I'm... kind of legitimately in a good mood? So I don't really care.

"Morning, Chase," Jenna mumbles, surprising me. She doesn't look up from her book, but still.

Carl's eyes flick over to me for a second, and I think I catch the slightest hint of a nod of greeting, before he returns to his game.

"What're you reading?" I cautiously ask Jenna. I'm feeling extra bold today, I guess.

"Mmhmm," she responds, though I'm not sure if that's an ignoring-Chase-specifically mmhmm or a too-busy-reading-to-listen mmhmm.

"I see," I smile, "What game is that, Carl?" Good god, am I pushing my luck here.

"Candy Crasher Clans" he hums absentmindedly, clearly more interested in the game than in conversation.

"Oh, sounds neat," I lie. Honestly, it doesn't even sound like a real thing, and I can't help but wonder if he's fucking with me. But I think he's too distracted to think to try that.

The bus pulls up behind me, and I hop onto the first step.

"Morning, Karen," I say as I head down the aisle.

The bus roars to life again, excited to be leaving Echo.

*****

I walk out into the gym, scanning the crowd for Sydney. Instead, I find Elliott, whose face visibly lights up when he spots me. He offers me an enthusiastic wave, so I head over towards him.

"You look good today, Killer," he beams at me.

I hope he doesn't notice how flustered that makes me.

"Wh-- What do you mean?" I stammer, and I can hear it in my voice. There's no way he doesn't notice how flustered that made me.

"Easy there, Killer," he giggles, "I just mean, you look like maybe you slept last night."

"Oh, uh, thanks," I grin sheepishly, "I guess. Where's Sydney?"

"No idea," he says, but there's a playful coyness that would seem to indicate that he _does_have an idea.

My vision suddenly goes dark, as I feel a paw clasp over my eyes.

"Never mind, I found him," I say, and I hear Elliott and Sydney's combined laughter.

The paw comes off, and Sydney steps into... frame, I guess.

"Hey bud, how's it hangin'?" Sydney asks me.

"Uh..." I'm not sure how to answer that specific question. "...good, I guess?"

"Good to hear it bud," he smiles, "How you been feeling?"

I sort of furrow my brow. "Um, good, I think?"

"I just mean..." he sort of gestures to the middle of the gym, "Compared to the shuttle run."

Oh, right. The last time Sydney and Elliot saw me, I fainted and ate shit hard in front of the whole class.

"Oh, that, I'm..." I start, before realizing I don't know how to answer. I think I'm feeling better? But I don't exactly understand what happened to me back then, either. I thought I was feeling alright then, too. "I think I'm better today? I guess we'll find out if I completely wipe out again," I laugh, but they only manage weak smiles, not bothering to hide their worry.

"Listen up!" Mr. Gates shouts, startling me slightly, "Today we'll be doing archery. So follow me outside, the targets are already set up."

"Ugh, outside?" I moan. As upbeat as I've been feeling, I'm sure the desert sun can put a quick damper on my day.

"Oh, come on Chase, it's not that bad," Sydney smiles, "Archery's not the worst thing we could be doing, I mean..." He hesitates, like he's suddenly realized that the next part is at my expense, and he's second guessing it. Which, it is. "...It can't be worse than your mile."

"I mean, you say that..." I grumble.

"That's true, Killer could end up shooting his own eye out or something," Elliott jabs, "Or, he might decide to--"

I shoot him a look, and he immediately shuts up.

A look Sydney doesn't catch.

Or ignores.

"Decide to what?" he asks Elliott, a coy grin creeping onto his face. Okay, so he definitely knows where Elliott was going there, too. I keep the pressure on with my own stare as Elliott glances at me nervously.

"Uh, nothing..." he mumbles, before a grin spreads across his own face, "Definitely wasn't going to suggest that Killer here might decide to, you know, finish the job. I would never suggest something like that."

"You know Elliott," I start as we cross the threshold of the door into the hot outdoors, "We probably get more than one arrow, you might want to be extra nice to 'Killer' if you don't wanna end up on the list, too."

"Nah, you couldn't hit me," Elliott brags, "I'm quick."

"You know an arrow flies at like 160 miles per hour," Sydney warns, "You really think you're that quick?"

"If I have to be," Elliott says smugly.

We reach the area where everything has been set up. The targets are about 40 yards away, the bows are unstrung, sitting on stands. The arrows sit in holsters attached to each stand. Three arrows to a holster, and three bows per station. Taking this as a cue, Elliott, Sydney, and I approach one of the stations together. Sydney looks down at the bows disapprovingly.

"Okay, these definitely _aren't_firing at 160 miles an hour," he mumbles, "You... Might be able to outrun these, actually."

"I guess I just better hope Killer isn't a sharpshooter with these things," Elliott grins.

"I wouldn't know, I've... Never used one."

"Really?" Sydney seems surprised.

"I mean, when would I have?" I ask.

Sydney shrugs, "I dunno. Just figured at some point between then and now you would have." Then. The Time at the Lake. Are we talking about it casually now?

Mr. Gates shows us how to string the bow. It doesn't look particularly hard. Then again, he's a wolverine. Elliott strings his bow no problem, locking his leg in front of it, and bending it over his knee, making some glib comment about bending one of us over his knee and spanking us. While I'm giving him a look, Sydney manages to string his own.

Which means now it's my turn. I stick the bow into the ground, hook my right leg around it, and push as hard as I can with my right hand, but can't get it to bend properly. I wrestle with it a moment, cursing to myself.

"Fucking... thing..." I grumble.

"Here, Chase, let me--"

"Do you want one of us to--"

"I got it!" I snarl. But the stupid thing won't bend. And every time I think I'm finally getting it, it just sort of rotates in place, because my shitty otter legs can't keep it pinned in place. So I try a new tactic. I hook it around the outside of my left leg, while trying to pull with my right arm, instead of push. I've still got the string in my left hand, which means I'm doing a weird, cross-armed thing. But maybe if I can pull the bow into position...

I start to pull and the bow starts to bend.

"Killer, I'm not sure that's--"

"I said I got--"

The bow slips from my hand and snaps straight, slapping Elliott in the snout as it does so.

"Ah, fuck!" He yelps in surprise.

I sullenly pick the bow up off the ground. I hold it out at arms length between them.

"Fine, who wants it," I grumble, defeated. Elliott is rubbing his nose, and I see that his eyes teared up as well. Hopefully just due to being smacked on the nose, and not because he's crying or something. Sydney gingerly takes the bow from me.

"I got it, bud" he says, clearly toeing a line between supportive and patronizing. He sticks it in the ground, and as he moves to push it over his knee, I catch his tail pressing against it, compensating for his stubby otter legs.

Wish I had thought of that.

He hooks the string around the end, and triumphantly holds it up, offering it to me.

I scowl, "Thanks."

"Hey, it's alright bud," Sydney says, again being careful not to come off like a dick, "Stringing the bow isn't the important part anyhow. You've never shot before, who knows. You might be a natural."

I somehow doubt that, but Sydney's cheerful attitude is at least a little bit contagious. Reminds me of a certain lynx I know, as a matter of fact.

"First shooter!" the "teacher" calls, and the three of us exchange glances. The other two simultaneously step back, gesturing towards the target. I guess I'm going first then. I step forward.

"Here, put these on," Sydney commands, offering me two tangles of straps and leather.

"How do I--?"

"Wrist guard goes on the left arm, finger guard on the right. Want me to show you?" he asks, and while normally I'd have some snarky comment, again I notice that he's deliberately avoiding sounding shitty. So I just wrinkle my nose.

"No, I can do it, I think," I mutter.

I've barely managed to get the guards on when I hear Gates shout "First arrow!"

I pull one of the arrows from the quiver. I'm trying to nock the arrow, when I hear Sydney's voice again.

"Colored fletching out," he says.

I look up at him, confused. He points to the butt end of the arrow, at the "feathers". One of them _is_differently colored. I twirl the arrow in my hand, until the colored fin is pointed away from me. Of course, now the arrow fits. I get that he's being helpful, but he's starting to get on my nerves anyway.

I pull the arrow back and try to line up the shot. I don't really know how to do that.

"Pull it all the way back," Sydney says from behind me. I ignore him, and loose the arrow.

It more or less falls out of the bow, landing a couple feet away.

"Fuck me," I groan.

"Hang on," I hear Elliott say, and I see him shoot a quick glance, first at the other shooters, then at the "teacher". Then, confident no one is watching, he quickly dashes a couple of steps out, deftly picks the arrow up with one hand, and returns to us. He holds the arrow out to me, his left finger on his lips, bidding me to act like nothing happened.

"Thanks," I mutter, taking the arrow.

"_All_the way back, bud," Sydney says, and his "help" is really starting to rub me the wrong way, for some reason.

"I_was_pulling it all the way back," I grumble.

"_All_the way all the way," he insists.

I roll my eyes and pull the string back. It hitches again.

"Keep going, bud, trust me," he coos warmly behind me.

I roll my eyes again, but keep pulling. As far as I'm concerned, this is as far as it goes, I'm just not strong enough to--

Then the string suddenly finds more give, almost as if it came unattached from the bow for a moment. I keep pulling until the bow is taught again.

"There it is," Sydney says, and I can hear a smile in his tone.

I loose the arrow, and this one, while still missing, falls just a foot short of the target, sticking straight out of the ground.

"Still wasn't far enough," I complain.

"Next arrow!" the "teacher" calls.

"Sure it was, you were just aimed too low. That's why it's sticking out like it is," Sydney says matter-of-factly.

"Y'know, your shots better be real good after all this talk," I warn him.

"Don't worry about me, bud," he grins confidently.

I draw the next arrow back, and again, keep pulling until the bow is completely taught. All the way all the way.

I let go, and the next one manages to hit the target. Not on the circular bullseye shaped target itself, but in the white space around that.

"Alright!" Sydney says, and as much as I want to find him patronizing, I can tell he's being genuine.

Ugh, just let me hate you.

"Not too bad, killer," I hear Elliott say.

"I still didn't really hit the target," I groan.

"Yeah, but look at the improvement! At this rate, the next one's headed right for the center!" Elliott laughs.

"I don't think that's how it--"

"Third arrow!"

I pull the last arrow from the quiver, and nock it. I pull again, and try to clear my head. Which isn't something I'm great at. I draw all the way back, then aim, way higher than it seems like I should have to. I fire.

Thwack!

The arrow drives itself into the target block. Not in the center, like Elliott had predicted. Far from it, in fact. But in the circles marked on the block, at least. I'm pretty sure this is the only shot that actually counts for anything, in a real competition.

"Hey, not bad killer," Elliott grins.

"Retrieve your arrows!" Mr. Gates shouts.

I walk forward and collect my arrows. As I return to our station, Elliott and Sydney are rock-paper-scissoring, I assume to figure out who's going next. I don't catch who wins, but I see Elliott pump his arm triumphantly, and can assume.

"Hah! Yes!" Elliott celebrates.

"Fine, fine, you can go first. Still gonna beat you," Sydney brags.

"Yeah, right! I used to spend every summer when I was a kid running around the woods, pretending I was Robin Hood. You know, the fox one, from that old movie?" Elliott asks.

"Pretending's one thing, bud. Did you actually use a bow back then?" Sydney raises an eyebrow.

"Well... no. But I mean, what's the difference?" Elliott smiles, surprisingly unflustered for having been completely called out.

"First arrow!"

Elliott confidently saunters up to the mark. He draws the bowstring, aims, and lets it loose, clearly more coordinated and confident than I am. The arrow sticks in the outermost circle. Elliott shrugs.

"Not bad, for a first shot," Elliott remarks to himself.

"Not good enough, though," Sydney smirks.

"Hey, I'm not done yet," Elliott retorts, "And I highly doubt you're half as good as you're pretending to be. All talk."

"Oh, is that right?" Sydney challenges, smiling, "Have I ever promised more than I can deliver?"

"Well, there was that time..." Elliott starts, but then furrows his brow, "...Hmm... Well, anyway, there's a first time for everything."

"Second arrow!"

Elliott smirks at us, then pulls the second arrow from the quiver. He dramatically flourishes as he moves to nock the arrow, and I realize that he's showing off for our benefit.

"Just shoot already, Robin Hood," I quip.

"Alright, this one's for you, Killer," he grins, and I think I catch a glimpse of him winking at me as he moves to take aim.

He looses the arrow, which plants itself in the blue ring on the target, about halfway between the rim and the center.

"There it is!" he turns towards me, and I definitely catch him winking this time.

"My hero," I say flatly.

"Why can't _you_be as supportive as Killer here, Sydney?" Elliott accuses.

"Maybe he likes you. He hasn't gotten to know you like I have yet," Sydney smiles back without missing a beat.

Elliott shakes his head. "So hurtful."

"Third arrow!"

"Just take your shot so I can beat you already," Sydney teases.

"Sydney, you..." Elliott turns towards the targets, and his bushy tail flicks upwards dramatically, "...can kiss my ass. Killer can too, but only if he wants."

"Was the Robin Hood in the movie this gay?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"You otters and your sharp tongues..." Elliott tuts as he lines up the shot, "I try to be nice..."

"Be nice?" Sydney laughs, "We've _seen_your ass. What you said basically amounts to a threat."

Elliott looses the arrow, which immediately thwacks into the target, again in the blue.

"My ass is a national treasure," Elliott assures us, "It could be on the cover of a magazine."

"Sure it could, I hear the New Amsterdam Times is running an issue about Ecological Disasters," Sydney smiles.

"Listen here, you little--" Elliott starts, pointing an accusatory finger.

"Retrieve your arrows!"

Elliott's mouth hangs open, like he's going to continue with whatever insult he had prepared. Instead, he just smirks, and saunters off to collect his arrows, which makes me think he might not have even _had_an insult prepared. He definitely seems to talk faster than he thinks.

"Fine then," Elliott says as he hands Sydney the arrows, "Show us how it's done, hotshot."

Sydney answers with a confident smirk, "Gladly."

Sydney takes a deep breath in his nose, and lets it slowly out through his mouth. He reaches across his body with his right arm, pulling it in close at the elbow with his left hand, stretching. Then he does the same, or rather, opposite, with the other arm. I glance over at Elliott, who shoots me a smile, but his eyes look nervous. After all the trash talk, it looks like Sydney _might_know what he's doing after all.

"First arrow!"

Sydney picks up his arrow calmly, nocks it quickly, and draws it back in a slow, controlled motion. He raises his left arm, and lets out a shaky breath. Then his right hand flicks open, and the arrow is gone, already sticking out of the blue ring, pretty much exactly where Elliott's last shot ended up. Sydney shoots us a calm, quiet smile, but there's a touch of smugness tugging at his cheek.

"Well?" he grins.

"Pfft, mine was closer than that," Elliott insists.

"Oh yeah?" Sydney asks, clearly unbelieving. He just shrugs, "Fine, just better hope the next two don't get any closer, huh? Only your best shot gets scored, you know. And uh..." He glances at the target, "I've already about got your best beat." He then turns towards me, "Sorry, Chase."

I raise my hands defensively, "No worries, I wasn't expecting to win anything today. But where'd you learn--"

"Second arrow!"

"Flynn," Sydney says softly, and prepares for his next shot. I raise an eyebrow and glance at Elliott again, but this time Elliott is transfixed, watching Sydney's form. I hear the bowstring snap, and look over. His second shot is in the blue as well, probably about as far from the center as the first.

"Not bad," Elliott grins, having suddenly found his smug confidence again, "But you're still behind. It's like you said, only the best shot gets counted."

"Yeah, yeah," Sydney groans, "I got one shot left, bud."

"When did Flynn--"

"Third arrow!"

"WhendidFlynnlearnhowtoshootabowandarrow?" I blurt out all at once, sick of being interrupted.

Sydney shoots me a stern look, and raises a finger to his lips.

"Quiet while people are shootin', bud."

He turns his back to us to line up his final shot, and I already know what's about to happen next. He draws the string back, and--

"SYDNEYDONTCHOKE!" Elliott shouts right as Sydney looses the last arrow. I hear Sydney grunt in frustration, but then look over, and find that the final arrow is an inch or two from dead center.

"Don't worry, bud, I won't," Sydney smiles, no longer hiding his smugness. He turns to me, "And to answer your question, Flynn was pretty much _always_into archery. Or bowhunting, more like. Huntin', fishin'... you know how Flynn is."

"Oh yeah," I huff, "I had forgotten that he was kind of a bit of a... doomsday-prepper type."

"He's not a doomsday prepper," Sydney defends.

"You know what I mean though, the sort of fatigues-wearing, army-manual reading, MRE stockpiling, cable news watching type, sort of like--" I explain, but my voice hitches when I realize who I was about to mention.

Sydney raises an eyebrow. "Were you gonna say 'like Duke'?"

"Uh, yeah," I lie.

"Or, were ya gonna say, 'like your dad'? Or, you know, _my_dad."

"Uh, yeahhh..." I sort of awkwardly trail off, "I didn't mean..."

"Retrieve your arrows!"

Sydney sort of gives me a sympathetic look, which just makes me feel worse. He plods off to fetch his arrows, and I desperately try to come up with something to say to him. So, of course, I come up empty.

"Listen, Sydney, I'm sorry..." I start.

"What for?" he asks.

"Well, your dad's dead--"

"SINCE WHEN!?" he suddenly shouts, panicked, and even though I know it's bullshit, his panicked act is enough to startle me. "Just fuckin' with you, bud, it's fine. I know he's dead. Been that way for quite a while. And, I get the feeling, it's gonna stay that way for the foreseeable future."

"Yeah, I--"

"So don't worry about it bud, it's okay," Sydney smiles.

"I guess we haven't really talked since back when it _wasn't_okay," I explain.

Sydney nods, "Yeah, I guess you're right. But now you know, so no worries, alright? Elliott makes dead dad jokes constantly."

"That's true, but you know what?" Elliott suddenly pulls Sydney in for a hug. A hug which Sydney isn't necessarily consenting to, "I still love him, even if he is half orphan."

"Half orphan?" I groan, already knowing where this is going.

"You know..." Elliott winks, "...On his father's side."

Sydney shakes his head as he finally breaks free of Elliott's bearhug, "You really love that one, don't ya, bud?"

"It's a perennial," Elliott beams.

"But anyway, yeah, I suppose..." Sydney lets the emphasis hang, "...Flynn and my father might have had... certain similarities. But those similarities end pretty much there. Consider their stances on homosexuals, for instance. My dad said, 'fuck 'em'. Flynn says..." Sydney shoots me a wry smile, "'Fuck'em'. Or consider how they treated me, for instance. Or treat me, I guess, since Flynn's not dead or anything. At least not last time I checked."

"Oh, right..." I mumble, suddenly feeling guilty again, "Sorry, I didn't mean to suggest that Flynn was as bad as--"

"There you go apologizing again," Sydney interrupts, laughing, "You're as bad as T.J. used to be, I swear. You don't have to apologize, I_know_you hate Flynn. I'm not gonna hold you two's feelings against you, just so long as _you_know that neither of you is gonna sway my opinion of the other."

"Of course," I sort of half-heartedly mumble, mind lost in thought. I_do_hate Flynn, at least I'm pretty sure I do. I wouldn't piss on him if he was on fire. And I probably _would_piss on him in any other circumstance. But even so, even with everything Flynn's done to me... I know how much Sydney means to him. I know how much he looked out for Sydney back in the day, especially once his dad died. The thought of comparing Sydney's borderline-- if not outright-- abusive father to Flynn feels... gross, somehow.

"But as I said, the _few_similarities aside, Flynn and Dad are basically opposites," Sydney shrugs, apparently unaware of the crisis of conscience going on in my mind, "And anyway, yeah, Flynn taught me to shoot. Wouldn't let up until I could pick a beer can off from 100 yards."

I grin, "Of course he wouldn't... Because he's preparing you. For doomsday."

"Goddamnit, Chase."

"I mean, they're both Mormons, right? Maybe that's where they got it," Elliott suggests, and I wonder how long he's been thinking about this.

"The conservative political compass?" Sydney asks, already knowing the answer, "...or the--"

"The doomsday prepping," Elliott answers.

Sydney lets out an aggravated groan, "They're not-- And the Mormon's aren't--"

"Really?" I ask, suddenly recalling another piece of anti-religious trivia, "So you're telling me you don't have a bunch of canned goods and bottled water stored away at the temple?"

"Chase, I'm not a member of the LDS church anymore. I don't have jack shit stored at the temple."

"Except your dad's corpse," Elliott interjects.

Sydney rolls his eyes.

"Okay, but, you're telling me that the Mormons don't have an emergency stockpile at the temple?" I ask, not letting up.

Sydney open and closes his mouth, as if to answer, then just grins snidely, "I believe the Fifth Amendment protects my right not to answer that question."

"That's what I thought," I smirk.

"Okay, so, when doomsday _does_come, we just raid the temple," Elliott suggests.

"I wouldn't do that, they have guns. _Lots_of guns," I say.

"They're not _all_gun nuts," Sydney protests.

"Oh yeah, you're not supposed to mention that, because it makes people uncomfortable, because of the Mormon rebellion and whatnot," I explain nonchalantly.

"Sounds like you know more about my religion than I do at this point, Chase," Sydney smiles, and I think he might be a little impressed? "But as I've told you two like, a thousand times, I'm not a Mormon anymore."

"So then, what are you?" I ask, genuinely curious.

Sydney shrugs, "I'm Sydney. Sydney-motherfuckin'-Bronson. Syd the Kid. The first World Heavyweight Champion to come out of the podunk town of Echo. The most feared dread-pirate on all of Lake Emma. The most well-hung--"

"You've been waiting a long time for someone to set you up like that, haven't you?" I ask flatly.

Sydney deflates a little, "Why? Did it sound rehearsed?"

I laugh, "You tell me."

"So, Killer, how did you learn so much about _morons_like Flynn and Sydney? Oh, uh, sorry," Elliott can't hide his grin, "...I meant 'Mormons'."

"Oh, I just spend a lot of time on the internet," I say, trying not to get into the fact that I have no other hobbies.

"Oh yeah, I noticed that one of your arms is way bigger than the other one," Elliott smiles, and I subconsciously glance down at my shitty otter arms before realizing I'm walking right into the joke.

Elliott and Sydney both laugh.

"It's okay, Chase, we all do it," Sydney assures me.

"Oh, for sure, I jack off constantly," Elliott agrees, "...In fact, I'm doing it right now." I know he's kidding, but I find myself doing a hand-check nonetheless. This _is_Elliott, after all, he's kind of a weird guy.

Elliott raises his hands defensively, as if to show me they're empty, "Was only joking, Killer, tough luck. But remind me and I'll let you watch next time, okay?"

"Just warn me, so I can stay clear of the blast zone," I respond.

"Oh, good idea, I shoot jizz like... Well, like you shoot arrows," Elliott grins, and I can tell he's waiting for me to ask.

"Meaning?" I throw him the bone he's waiting for.

"Everywhere except where I'm aiming," he laughs.

I suppress a smile.

"Fuck off."

*****

The rest of gym continues on that way-- the three of us exchanging jabs and dick jokes while Sydney wipes the floor with us at archery. Eventually, we find our way back into the locker room.

"You showering today, Chase?" Sydney asks expectantly. Encouragingly, he doesn't tell me that I stink.

"Uhh, I don't--" I start.

"Come on, Killer, it'll be fun," Elliott grins.

"I don't think 'fun in the showers' is the convincing argument you think it is, Elliott," I smile, "But, eh, fuck it. Fine, I'm coming."

"You say you don't want fun, but it still convinced you," Elliott smiles coyly.

"Yeah, alright, then," I agree, "You just better be ready to deliver the 'fun'."

"Of course, my cock's already all lubed up for ya!" Elliott giggles.

"Now there you go assuming you're topping," I warn him.

He looks shocked for a moment, I think maybe he didn't expect me to respond to his flirtations. At least not so... aggressively. But I'm in a weird sort of mood today.

"No problem, though I should warn you, I've never been manhandled by an otter before."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Sydney interjects suddenly, "We have wrestling practice once a week. You're _constantly_getting dominated by an otter. Oh, or did you mean, specifically, sexually?"

Elliott's mouth works wordlessly for a moment.

"You see? This is what I'm talking about," Elliott says softly, trying to suppress his grin, "I try to offer my friends some good clean naked shower fun, and out come the insults. You otters and your hurtful words..."

*****

The showers are warm and relaxing, and the otter inside me is contented, at least for the moment. I glance over at Sydney, and see a similar look of peace on his face. I wonder if this is how he gets his underwater fix, now that he can't actually _go_underwater, thanks to a certain asshole. It's nice, but it's a far cry from the feeling of actually being submerged. There's no way I could stay halfway sane if showers were all I got. Still, it's nice to see him relaxing at least a little in the water. I wonder if this is part of the reason he's always encouraging me to come shower with them. Otters are social creatures, and often times find soaks to be more rewarding with other otters. Hence the romantic movie cliche of the otters floating together, hands clasped. Which, I mean, _is_a real thing, but nobody actually _does_that.

At least, not that I know of.

Of course, there's a non-otter in the room, who doesn't know any of this. He doesn't understand the anguish of being away from the water, or the bliss of being in it once more. He doesn't get the importance-- the borderline sanctity-- of a moment like this.

So of course, being Elliott, he's gotta ruin it.

I see Elliott tiptoeing towards where Sydney stands, eyes closed, blissfully unaware. When most people tiptoe, it's for dramatic effect. When foxes do it, they are nearly silent. That is, if he can suppress the giggles that I can see trying to force their way out of his chest. He glances over at me, he sees me watching. He points at Sydney. I shrug, not understanding what he's getting at. He reaches down and gently grabs the tip of his own sheath, then nods towards Sydney again.

Oh, come on, dude, leave him alone.

"Don't" I mouth.

He raises a finger to his lips. He turns towards Sydney again, and dramatically lifts his leg, like a feral dog would. I can't believe what I'm about to see, and find myself watching from in between my fingers.

Sydney speaks without opening his eyes.

"Elliott, if you piss on me, I'll tear it right off. You know how strong I am. You know I can," he says calmly.

Elliott rolls his eyes, as if he doesn't buy it, but I notice him tiptoeing backwards, increasing the distance between himself and Sydney. He's moved to the shower across from me, presumably to give himself a head start if Sydney decides to carry out his threat. Then I catch Elliott giving _me_that prankster-y look.

"Piss on me, I'll punch you in the dick so hard your ass will hurt," I warn him.

Elliott shakes his head, snickering, "You otters are all such bullies, I swear."

"_We're_the bullies?" I ask softly, trying to allow Sydney to relax, "You're the one going around pissing on people."

"I didn't piss on anyone!" he whispers sharply at me.

"Only because he caught you," I snap.

"What's your point?"

"My point is, do you know how hard it is to keep otter fur halfway clean, with how oily it has to stay? We can't just shampoo up a second time," I explain.

"Oh, well, I guess I didn't think about that," he starts.

"And also, remember what we were talking about the other day? About otters, and needing water?" I ask him calmly.

"Yeah? What about it?"

I jerk my head towards Sydney. There's a flicker of realization in his eyes, and his face softens.

"Oh, well, I didn't think about that either, I guess," Elliott says, and looks genuinely guilty.

"I can hear you guys talking about me," Sydney says flatly, still not opening his eyes.

"And..." I add, "There are plenty of non-otters who don't actually want to be urinated on, believe it or not."

"Well, I _did_think of that, actually," Elliott responds, and his grin is back, "I mean, that was the whole point."

"You're an asshole," I shake my head, but find myself suppressing a grin. How do I keep finding myself in the company of assholes?

"Yeahhh..." Elliott grins, and sighs dreamily.

"Who'd you say likes getting pissed on?" Sydney asks from across the shower, eyes still closed in relaxation. I guess he couldn't hear us quite as well as he thought.

"T.J." I offer.

"Nah, T.J. likes to be the one doing the pissing," Sydney says, still relaxed, still eyes shut.

"Wait, does T.J. actually--"

"Chase."

"Oh, you're fucking with me."

Sydney nods his head slowly, eyes still blissfully closed.

We stand in silence a moment.

"So the Flatiron Fryer tickets were to get the lynx to piss on you?" Elliott suddenly asks, grinning.

Sydney's calm face breaks into laughter. He opens his eyes.

"You caught me. That's why I didn't want you to do it, bud. All this..." he gestures down at his naked body, and I probably look longer than I should, "...belongs to Tobias Jedidiah Hess."

"I see," Elliott giggles, "But I thought those guys liked to get pissed on by like, as many people as possible. That's how it is in the porn at least. So why--?"

"I wouldn't know, bud, I don't watch those kinds of porn," Sydney's eyes light up, and he knows he's got Elliott dead-to-rights, "Why don't you fill us in some more?"

"I-- I don't-- I wouldn't--" Elliott stammers as we laugh. So maybe we _are_bullies, just a little bit.

"So Sydney," I change the subject, feeling-- God help me-- bad for Elliott, "...you're good at wrestling, and the presidential fitness stuff, _and_archery... Is there anything you're not amazing at?"

Sydney furrows his brow, clearly thinking deeply about the question.

"Math," he says simply.

"Well, okay, math. But I mean something physical," I clarify.

He furrows his brow again.

"Jacking off with my left hand," he says simply.

"That's... not what I was expecting," I admit.

"I mean..." he continues, "I know most guys learn to jack it left-handed, to work the mouse with the right." He pantomimes both actions with the respective hands. "But I never could, so I just learned to use the mouse with my left hand..." he mimes clicking a mouse with his left hand, "...and jack it with my right." With that, he gives his sheath a few solid strokes with his right hand.

This catches me off guard, and before I can put up my mental horniness barriers, I feel Chase Junior rising to attention. I quickly turn towards the wall, away from the two of them, pretending like I'm trying to rinse my face. The last thing I see before I shut my eyes is a confused, slightly shocked looking Elliott, his eyes meeting mine.

Did he see?

Fuck.

Does he know?

I press my forehead against the wall. If he talks, my life is over. What the hell am I supposed to do now?

"Uh, Chase, you okay bud?" I hear Sydney's voice to my right.

"Uh, yeah, I'm fine, I just--"

I suddenly feel a hand on the small of my back. My eyes shoot open, my forehead still pressed to the wall, and I see another package of otter junk beside my own. Nothing like a side-by-side comparison to shake your self-confidence.

"What are you--?" I begin.

"Sorry," he says, and the hand leaves my back, "You just looked like you were about to pass out again. If you hit your head on this floor, it's basically game over, bud."

"Oh," I say softly, and sort of laugh under my breath, "No, I'm fine. Just having a weird sort of day, is all. Uh, thanks, I guess."

Sydney gives me a strange sort of look, which makes me think he doesn't believe me, but then returns to his side of the shower.

*****

Lunch today is pizza. Strange, soggy, square pizza. With something approximating sausage on top. I take a napkin and press it on top of the cheese, to soak up the oil. When I pull the napkin away, it's semi-transparent.

"You know, it's a lot easier to stomach the pizza if you _don't_do that," the stoat says to me.

"Yeah, I know, I've had cafeteria pizza before, believe it or not," I respond dryly.

"No, I meant, it's easier for _me_to stomach if you don't do that," he corrects.

"Oh, uh..." I throw the napkin down on my tray, "Sorry about that."

"No worries. Honestly, now that I've seen how much oil is on these things..." he bites his lip as he lifts his own slice. He lets it hang vertically, and watches the oil drip off. After he's satisfied that it's done dripping, he hesitantly hazards a bite.

After chewing a moment, he shrugs. "Not bad if you can ignore what it looked like, actually."

I make a face. But then I realize that I don't really have any other options for lunch. Maybe I can find Micha and we can hit up a vending machine. Come to think of it, why the hell does he need my cash to get lunch? Surely he has some crazy master-thief hack for getting the machine to dispense the entire row of Twinkies or something. But then, I wouldn't begin to know where to find him. I glance back to the mess of pizza on my plate.

"Seriously, it's not that bad," the stoat encourages, "Once you get over how bad it is."

"Jeez, thanks," I mutter, and lift the soggy approximation of a beloved childhood food. I finally will myself to take a bite. Drowning Sydney was much easier than this, and I don't know if that says things about me, or the pizza. I get a mouthful, and, thankfully, it's not terrible. But it's definitely upsetting.

"Okay, you're right," I admit, "Though I don't like the way it feels completely chewed after just one bite."

"Yeah, you're right," he responds, taking another bite, then eying the slice in his hand skeptically, "It does have a baby food-y sort of texture, doesn't it?"

"Yeah!" I agree excitedly, "That's what it is! It's just like those little jars of mushed peas!"

Our gazes meet. We both put the pizzas back on our trays.

"Maybe the cookie is edible?" he suggests, with what I can only describe as impossible optimism. He takes a bite, but then opens his mouth, and I can't help but notice that the cookie doesn't have any bite marks in it. It's as if he decided at the last second that he'd rather not. Which is probably the safe call.

"It's..." he raps it against his tray, "...It's rock hard."

"Oh, I actually know the trick for that," I tell him, and pick up my own cookie. I press the center out of the cookie with my thumbs, then pick it up and roll it into a doughy ball. I pop the ball in my mouth.

"The middles are soft, but the outsides are gross and hard," I say over an (admittedly uncouth) mouthful of cookie.

"I don't suppose they could feed us something that doesn't require an instruction manual?" he winces, then follows my lead in making an edible cookie-ball. He chews it for a moment, then swallows hard.

"It's still not great though, is it?" he asks.

"Nope," I sigh.

*****

Chemistry starts the way it always does: boring. Micha comes in a few minutes late, as is his habit, and by this point it seems like the teacher has more or less given up on the idea of punishing him. His face visibly brightens when I catch his eye, but the look quickly shifts into that familiar smug smirk, like he's way too cool for this shit, when he remembers that he's in public. I roll my eyes.

"Afternoon, Chase" he grunts as he sits down at his desk.

"Hey," I whisper back, as the teacher talks about god-knows-what. I'm starting to understand how I managed not to learn anything in the past two weeks.

"Listen, what are you doing after school today?" he asks me. I pretend to think a moment.

"I don't think--"

The other students are getting up. I guess we're doing a lab today. Micha and I stand and head for the lab table, where Heather and T.J. are already waiting.

"I don't think I have anything going on," I finish as we reach the table.

"Well, you do now. Meet me in front of the school, by the flagpole, I'm gonna be hangin' out with Keith, you can meet him, talk about all your... I don't want to say 'issues', but..." he hesitates, his eyes sort of shift back and forth as he tries to come up with a better word. Finally, he just shrugs. "...Issues."

"Where are you hanging?" I ask him.

"Keith's place," he says simply.

I suddenly feel less certain about this whole thing. I've never met Keith, I have no idea what kind of person he is, and the idea of being in his house_is suddenly unsettling. He could be one of those people who leaves half-filled cans of soda on every surface. Or one of those whose house smells like _something, and you spend basically the entire time you're there trying to avoid mentioning it. Hell, Keith might be one of those people who doesn't shut the door when he goes to take a dump, and tries to carry on a conversation with you. I wouldn't know.

"I'm not sure, actually," I mumble, and I catch a look of disappointment from Micha, "I mean, I don't really know him, and he doesn't know me, I dunno if you should be inviting me to his house, you know?"

"Oh, nah, you've got it all wrong," Micha shakes his head, "We're hangin' at his bar. He owns a place on Flint, just outside of Echo."

"Chase, you're going to a bar?" T.J. asks, not bothering to hide his shock.

"I don't know, maybe?" I answer honestly. On the one hand, I've never been in a bar before, and it kind of sounds like a cool place to hang out. Certainly better than the trailer I'm imagining with pop cans everywhere that smells funny and has no bathroom door.

"I don't think people our age are supposed to be in bars," T.J. warns me. As much as I want to be annoyed at his nagging, I can't help but notice that there's no condescension in his tone. He's legitimately just worried about me, which is kind of sweet, in a way.

"Well, then it's a damn good thing I'm not inviting you, ain't it?" Micha sneers at T.J. While I sort of want to be mad at Micha for being shitty, when he sneers, his nose does that cute thing and now I'm distracted.

"I just don't want you guys to get in trouble, that's all," T.J. explains glumly, "And I've seen the ways that alcohol can ruin your future, and--"

"On after-school specials?" I interject sarcastically.

"Well, yeah... But--" T.J. tries to continue.

"It's not like we're gonna be doin' body shots in the back room, jeez," Micha huffs, "Heather, tell him Keith's a good person."

"Oh, yeah!" Heather brightens, turning towards T.J., "Keith's great, you'd really like him. He's all spiritual, or whatever. Like, he's way into science and religion, all that crap."

"Well I wouldn't call religion 'crap'..." T.J. mutters.

"It is," Micha says matter-of-factly.

"But if you're looking for spirituality, why not come to my Bible group tomorrow? We're way spiritual!" T.J. beams, suddenly having that painted-on salesman smile.

Micha and I glance at each other, then laugh. Then, at the same time, realize that T.J. isn't joking. This causes me to try to stifle my laughter. Micha just laughs louder.

"What!?" T.J. stammers, "If you're looking to expand your horizons spiritually, then that's great! I want to help is all!"

"T.J., I appreciate that you want to help," I say, feeling bad for him, "But I just don't think the Bible group is the place for us."

"Why not?" he asks, and I realize that I don't actually have a good answer.

"Ugh, just let us think about it, okay?" I ask.

"What's there to think about?" he asks.

"It's just... complicated," I say. Which seems easier than saying "I'm hoping Keith can identify whatever demons are possessing me so that I don't have to be committed."

T.J. wrinkles his nose, like he's not quite buying it.

"I'll tell you what," he offers, "Would you be willing to come to Bible study, if I came with you to this... spiritual thing?"

I'm aware of my mouth hanging open at that suggestion.

"T.J., you were just saying how you don't want _us_to be in a bar, there's no way _you'd_feel comfortable, and--"

"Actually, that's not a bad idea," Micha says, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

"It's not?" T.J. and I say in unison.

"Sure," Micha grins, and it's the shitty grin that tells me something derisive is coming, "Keith and his boyfriend sell meth, it could help even you out, make you less twitchy."

At the prospect of doing meth, T.J.'s ear and muzzle twitch nervously, almost in unison.

Micha points at him, "Yeah, like that."

I see Heather shoot a look towards Micha, not a glare so much as an "I'm very disappointed in you." Then she turns and regards T.J., a look of concern on her face.

"I don't, I don't need--" T.J. is stammering, and I'm starting to feel bad now. This almost reminds me of young Toby, back before... all that... when he'd be about to cry. Shit, I hope T.J. isn't about to cry.

"Why don't we get started on this lab assignment?" Heather says, and while she's saying it to T.J., as if to comfort him, I notice there's an edge on her voice, and feel like that might be directed at Micha. Or myself.

"Oh, okay..." T.J. says, but he's still clearly upset.

"Hey, T.J., listen..." I say gently, "I really will think about going to that Bible thing, okay? Really."

T.J. smiles softly, and, although I'm pretty sure the smile is forced, he seems calmer.

"Okay, I appreciate that, Chase," T.J. says, clearly trying not to sound excited. "What about you, Micha?"

"Fuck off, Toby," Micha sneers.

"Micha!" Heather snaps at him.

Micha looks like he's thinking of a million different things to say to Heather. But he keeps his mouth clamped shut. Finally, he folds his arms and huffs.

"Fine, if Chase goes... Maybe I'll think about going," he mutters, barely loud enough to hear.

"Oh, um... Thanks, Micha," T.J. smiles.

"Yeah, yeah," Micha mutters.

I glance over at which page Heather has her textbook open to (because I wasn't listening when the teacher said it, remember), and start flipping through my own. I glance up at T.J., who seems to be cheering up, talking to Heather as they read the instructions together. Then I glance over at Micha, who's pouting sullenly with his arms crossed. It'd be nice if everyone could be not-shitty at the same time, I think to myself. Then I read the first instruction, and grin.

"Oh, Micha?" I say cheerfully.

"Yeah?" he says, raising an eyebrow at my tone.

"We'll need the striker for this one," I grin.

"So?"

I narrow my eyebrows. "So you maybe wanna grab it?"

"Don't know what the 'striker' is," he says.

"I... are you serious?" I ask.

"Don't act like I'm an idiot, just tell me what it is!" he huffs.

"It's the thing you always come over here and play with when we don't need it. The clicky thing," I explain.

"Clicky thing... clicky thing..." he mumbles under his breath, "Oh!_That_clicky thing." He starts rummaging through the drawers, and I'm reminded of the skillful speed with which he searched Mr. Gates' office.

"Grab me the burner while you're at it?" I ask him. He gives me a quick thumbs up, before returning to his searching. Finally, he cheers in triumph, and I immediately hear the familiar clicking. He holds the striker in his left hand, clicking away, as he continues to search with his right. Finally, he stands back up, offering me the bunsen burner.

"Thanks," I say, hooking the burner up to the gas and switching it on. I gesture towards it, taking a step back. Micha smiles, and, with a flourish, clicks the striker. The burner roars to life, and we stare mesmerized for a moment at the glittering flashes of burning flint in the flames. I glance down at the instructions again.

"Wanna hand me the tongs?" I ask Micha, who briefly rummages through the drawers again, before handing the tongs over.

As I take them, I remember something else that's been on my mind since he said it.

"Micha, does Keith really sell meth?" I mumble to him, trying to keep T.J. from hearing.

"Yeah, he and his boyfriend both do," he says, as though that were obvious. Then, seeing the face I must be making, quickly adds, "But they don't sell to us. Keith's an idealist, you know? So no hard drugs to anyone underage. Not that he IDs people, of course. But he _knows_we're all underage, so..."

"So when you say hard drugs..." I trail off.

"Coke, crack, meth, hallucinogens, stuff like that. He always says he can get basically anything, if you let him know ahead of time. I think he's kind of proud of that. The connections he has, or whatever. Like he's some kind of international businessman. Which, I suppose, technically he is."

"So what _does_he sell to kids?" I ask.

"He doesn't sell shit to 'kids'," Micha insists, "But teenagers, on the other hand, he's willing to sell weed and beer to. And harder liquor, but he marks that shit up so much, it's way easier just to steal it from the store."

"Uh huh," I hum.

"Hey, listen, I know I played him up to be some sort of saint, or whatever, but he's still a person. It's still Echo. He's still gotta eat, just like the rest of us. So he does what he can to straddle the line between starving to death and compromising his values. He really is a good guy, but he's still in shitty circumstances, you know?"

"Hey, listen," I assure him, "I don't mean to come off like I'm judging him. My conscience isn't exactly clean myself, you know? I just want to understand exactly what I'm getting into here."

"Don't worry about it man, he's not gonna shoot you up with something, or whatever," Micha responds, "I wouldn't be inviting you over there if it weren't safe. That said..." Micha shifts uncomfortably, "...if his boyfriend is there, I'd recommend giving him some space."

"Is the boyfriend dangerous, then?" I ask.

"I..." Micha bites his lip, "I don't know. I've never seen him do anything too heinous, and Keith absolutely worships the ground he walks on, but... There's just something off about him. A vibe. Like he's his own fuckin' hum amplifier or somethin'. But Keith says he doesn't feel it, and Keith's normally pretty sensitive to that sort of shit, so... It's probably just me being paranoid. But Brian's not usually there in the afternoons, it's typically just us."

"'Us', being...?"

"Myself, Heather, Clint, Jeremy, and Keith. Or some variation of that mix. I guess we can add you to the pile, now, too,"

"Oh," I mutter, "Clint and Jeremy are gonna be there?"

"Yeah, I..." he looks up at me, "I guess I _did_sorta forget to mention that, huh?"

"'Sorta', yeah," I complain.

"Well, is that a problem?" he asks, and I can't tell for sure if he's challenging me, or legitimately asking.

"Uh, I guess I don't know," I admit, "But back in the day, I didn't really get along with either of them. Especially Clint."

"Well, back in the day, you didn't get along with me, either," he observes. "I'm not gonna let them treat you like shit, don't worry."

"I don't need you to defend me, Micha," I say defensively.

"So then what are you worried about?" he smirks, knowing I'm out of room to argue.

Rather than admit defeat, I opt to distract him. I hand him the tongs.

"Pick up that piece of metal, there," I say, pointing to the paper plates the teacher left on each table, each containing eight samples of metal, divided into groups of two, with numbers written on the plate for each group, "Number one, the brownish one."

"I don't need the tongs to do that," he says, and plucks the piece of metal up with his free hand.

"Okay, then, tough guy," I smirk, "The next step is to hold it in the flame. Can you do that without the tongs?"

He looks up at me, then over at the burner, as if he's seriously considering it. Finally, he places the metal in the tongs.

"Fine, fine, smartass," he tells me, "So what am I supposed to..."

He trails off as the metal reaches the burner, and the flame immediately turns a ghostly sort of green color.

"Woah," T.J. says breathlessly, "That's... That's really cool."

"Yeah, hate to agree with Toby, but..." Micha says in a hushed tone, "...He's right. That's metal as fuck."

"I don't think that's what I said?" T.J. comments.

"Shut up," Micha says, still in the hushed tone. T.J. frowns, but he doesn't look all that upset, and I can only hope that he's getting used to Micha's somewhat acidic brand of friendliness.

"So, then, if it's green, then that means that it must be..." I say, looking at the chart in the textbook, "...copper. So I guess we just write that down? You can probably pull that out of the flame, now. Just let it cool before you put it back on the plate."

Micha pulls the piece of metal away from the burner, then, impatient for it to cool, starts waving it around frantically. I'm just about to warn him why that's a bad idea, when the object slips free of the tongs. It flies towards me, and it's headed over my shoulder. I instinctively, stupidly, reach up and catch it in my left hand. My pawpads immediately inform me that this was a mistake.

"Fuck!" I yelp, and slam my hand down, depositing the burning piece of copper on the table.

"Shit! Sorry!" I hear Micha say.

"Chase!" I hear from across the table. Before I can react, T.J. has my wrist in his paw.

"Hey, careful!" I snap at him, seeing that he seems unaware of how close his fur tufts are to his own burner.

"Here," he says, ignoring me, but thankfully moving away from the fire. He pulls me towards the sink at the end of the counter, Micha moving out of my way as we pass. He cranks the sink on, and puts my paw under the running water.

"Hey, hey, it's okay, it's not that serious," I protest. But I have to admit, it does feel better under the water, and I don't think it's just an otter thing.

"Jeez, Chase, seriously, I'm sorry," Micha apologizes to my right.

"Well, what'd you think would happen?" I snap, but then look over at him, and see the genuine guilt on his face. "It's fine, it doesn't hurt that bad, it just startled me mostly."

"You're lucky T.J. knew what to do," Heather remarks. I'm about to correct her, to tell her that my injury isn't that major, when I look up at her. She's looking over at T.J., and there's a certain look in her eye, and a million pieces fall into place. I can't believe I didn't see it before.

"Yeah, he's pretty great," I grin.

"You just never know when you might need to know stuff like that, I guess," T.J. explains bashfully.

"It wasn't that big a deal, I mean--" Micha argues, before I gently kick him in the shin. He looks over at me, eyes narrowed. I nod over at the other two, and smirk. He looks over at them, then back at me, then back at them again, then back to me. I raise an eyebrow.

He rolls his eyes, and smirks, "Jeez, you gotta be kidding me."

"What?" Heather asks.

"Nothing," Micha lies smoothly, "But you're right, T.J. sure here knows his stuff. Like the other day, when he told me to wrap my feet? I did, over the weekend, and they're way better now."

"You did?" T.J. asks, "I'm so glad to hear that!"

"Sure, I owe you one," Micha smiles, and the look on T.J.'s face tells me he's uneasy about how nice Micha's suddenly being.

"Really?" T.J. asks, eyes wide. Then he gets a sly smile. "You know what you _could_do to make it up to me..."

"I think I know what you're gonna _try_to say," Micha says flatly.

"...You could come to my Bible--"

"Pushing your luck, Toby."

"O-okay," T.J. shrugs and grins sheepishly, "...Was worth a shot."

"Say T.J.?" I call, not wanting to interrupt the bonding between him and Heather. Or him and Micha, for that matter.

"Yeah?" he asks, beaming, as always.

"Can I be done rinsing my hand now?" I ask.

"Oh! Uh, yeah, you're probably good," he giggles, ears folding back in embarrassment, "Kind of forgot you were doing that."

"To be safe," I grin, "I think we'll let you guys do the next one."

We spend the rest of the period doing the experiments in the book, turning the flame blue, and red, and purple. T.J. continues to be skeptical of Micha's newfound kindness, but doesn't say anything, apparently smart enough not to jinx himself. Neither of them suspects that we've noticed that they're clearly into each other. Come to think of it, I don't think either of them has noticed that the other is into them, either. I have to put most of the blame for that on T.J., both being far too innocent to communicate his own feelings, and far to obtuse to notice how (at times painfully) obvious Heather's feelings are. And I'm still over here kicking myself for not catching it before now. No wonder they partnered up so fast.

The bell rings, and we gather our things and head towards the door. As we reach it, I feel Micha gently nudge me.

"So, you coming to Keith's today, or what?" he asks me.

I bite my lip, considering for a moment. This seems like another example of someone like that who I'm not supposed to be _associating_with.

But fuck it.

"Sure, see you then," I grin.

*****

After school, I walk out into the hot desert sunlight. Micha is there by the flagpole, as promised. He cocks his head, just barely perceptibly, and I'm reminded yet again of the annoying way public-Micha and private-Micha are two very different people. He's nice enough to greet me when he sees me, but it always feels like he's embarrassed that someone else might see him being nice to me. Which, while I like the guy, he's hardly got such a stellar reputation that he needs to worry about the damage I can do to it.

"Glad you decided to come," he says, just quiet enough that only I can here it. Which I'm willing to ignore for now. But if he starts acting too cool for me once his friends show up...

"Said I'd come, didn't I?" I respond.

He shrugs, "People say a lot of shit, you never know--"

"Yooo, Micha," a voice says. Micha turns, and spots the source-- an old 90's-era sedan, with a young-looking, but clearly older than us, fox driving. He's leaned across the passenger seat, hollering at Micha through the open window.

"Hey, Keith, what's up, man?" Micha smiles, heading over. I'm not sure if I'm supposed to follow, so I don't. I stand there, by the flagpole, undecided...

"Keith, this is my buddy I was telling you about, this is..." Micha turns to introduce me, and realizes that I haven't moved. "Hey, Chase, get over here!"

I jog over to the car. Some strange sort of middle eastern disco is playing on the radio, and I can tell from here that it smells like old car. I lean towards the window, to get a better look at Keith, and to give him a better look at me.

"This is Chase," Micha says, "It's cool if he comes and hangs with us, right?" I briefly ponder what it would be like if Keith said no. If, after all this buildup, and all of Micha's prodding, our plans got completely harpooned.

"Of course, man," Keith grins, "If you vouch for him, then he's good by me. Hey, new guy, Chase?"

"Yeah?" I respond.

"Chase. Chase-man. Chaser. Straight No-Chaser," he yammers.

"Um, what?" I ask, confused.

"Sorry, was trying some nicknames. Those all sucked though, I'm just gonna call you 'Chase'," he says, and I'm becoming acutely aware of just how high this guy must be.

"That's fine by me," I agree.

"So, rule is, new guy gets the front," Keith grins, before adding, "You know, if you want."

"Oh, uh, sure," I say. Keith leans across and opens the door from the inside. As I pull the door open, I notice something strange-- the shoulder belt part of the passenger seat belt, already buckled, slides forward. I sit down and shut the door, and the anchor point of the shoulder belt runs along a track above the door until it's back in its original position.

How old is this car?

The song changes, and I immediately realize that Keith is one with rather eclectic tastes, as the ethnic techno has given way to death metal. He's got an iPod plugged into one of those tape adapters, feeding into the tape deck in the center console. I hear the door behind mine open, and turn to see Micha climbing in.

"So, who else we waitin' for?" Keith asks.

"Sounds like Clint and Jeremy are both coming," Micha responds.

Yay.

Then something else occurs to me.

"Wait, so, no Heather?" I ask. Micha gives me a sad sort of look.

"Ah," I say softly. I glance over at Keith, and see that he's staring at his instrument panel, brow furrowed. Which makes me think that he knows the implications there, too.

"Her dad usually isn't home in the afternoon on Mondays, though," Micha chimes in hopefully.

"Oh, that's good," I mumble, before adding, "Who knows, maybe she and T.J. are making out behind the bleachers."

"Heh, yeah, there you go," Micha grins, "Maybe."

I hear the back passenger door open, and brace for what's coming next.

"What the--" Clint's voice is first, "What the fuck is the psycho killer doing here?"

"He's coming to hang out at Keith's," Micha says, clearly trying to sound in charge.

"Fuck that," Clint snarls.

"Come on now, Clint," Keith says, and I can't help notice how calm he sounds. Maybe it's the meditation, or the spirituality.

Or the drugs.

"There's plenty of room at the Bastion for all of us," Keith finishes.

"Clint, what the fuck's taking so long, who are you talking--" I hear Jeremy next, "Chase... Well, holy shit."

"Hey, Jeremy," I mutter.

"What is _he_doing here?" Jeremy asks, and I'm already 100% sick of both of Micha's friends.

"I already told Clint, he's hangin' today. Is that a problem?" Micha asks, slightly more edge in his voice than he used for Clint.

"What, does he think Keith's gonna meditate the psycho out of him?" Jeremy jabs.

Yes.

"Hey, Jeremy, you didn't miss lunch today, did you?" I ask him, my tone thick with sincerity.

"Uh, no, why?" he responds.

"Yeah, you didn't look like you did, that's for sure," I smirk.

"Hey, you little piece of--" Jeremy leans forward, as if to try and smack me or something, but is thrown on top of Clint as Keith, having decided that everyone was in, peels out of the school parking lot. Jeremy squirms into his seat, and glowers at me a moment. Then the glare is replaced with a wry grin.

"Okay, actually, that was kind of a good one," he admits.

*****

Keith & Brian's Booze Bastion is an old building on Flint, right on the edge of where I'd consider Echo to end and the real world to begin. It's a small, somewhat dingy place, and the way the tables and booths are arranged makes me wonder if it used to be a restaurant of some kind. Given its location just a short drive from the interstate, I could see it being a greasy spoon for roadtrippers and truckers in some bygone era. But now, it's the Booze Bastion, a somewhat empty-looking bar full of people too young to legally drink.

Not that that stops Keith.

"What can I get ya, man?" Keith asks me cheerfully, "It's your first time here, and you're Micha's friend, so it's on the house. What kind of beer do you like?"

Micha's sitting at the barstool next to me, and must sense my hesitancy, because he quickly asks, "Keith, you have coke, right?"

"You know I do, brother, but you know I won't sell to you guys," Keith nods solemnly, "That includes the new guy."

"No, I meant... I meant, like, cola," Micha explains.

"Oh! Oh, yeah, I can definitely get him cola. You want the same then?" he asks Micha, who just offers a thumbs up.

"Cool, two colas, comin' right up!" Keith beams, and pulls two mugs out of a refrigerator behind the bar. The mugs immediately fog up in the warm air. Keith grabs the soda gun and fills them, and passes them to Micha and me.

"What do you two want?" Keith hollers at Clint and Jeremy, who busied themselves with an arcade cabinet as soon as we got here. I can't help but wonder if they did that to avoid having to talk to me. Not that I'm mad about it.

"We'll have whatever," Clint hollers back.

"Now, they say that," Keith says under his breath, but loud enough for Micha and me to hear, "But if I just got them colas like you guys, they'd be pissed." He pulls two more mugs out, but instead of filling them from the soda gun, turns around and fills them from one of the beer taps behind the counter.

"Your beers are ready," Keith hollers.

"So bring them over here," Jeremy responds, "We're already in the middle of a game."

"Sounds like they're gonna get warm then," Keith retorts, sliding the mugs towards the far end of the bar, then returning to where Micha and I are sitting. Jeremy looks longingly at the beers, glances at the screen of the arcade game, then sprints as fast as he can (which, to be fair, isn't that fast) to the bar, grabs the drinks, and sprints back to where Clint is waiting.

I take a sip of the cola, and come to the realization that all cola, all of the time, should be served in frosted mugs. None of those paper cups at fast food places, and certainly none of those thin plastic tumblers that diners use.

"So, Chase, I've heard a lot about you," Keith smiles at me.

"You have?" I ask, glancing at Micha, who's expression tells me that he didn't want Keith to share that bit of information.

"Mostly good things," Keith adds quickly, which makes me think that he saw the look on Micha's face, too. "And I'm curious: what brings you to the Bastion on this fine afternoon? I'm sure Micha has told you that I won't sell you hard drugs, but if you like pot, I just got some shit out of Sonora, it's grown up in the mountains there, with the coffee, it's some primo shit." He nods, smirking.

"No, actually, I'm here because..." I trail off. I'm not actually sure how to ask for what I want to ask for. Do I just ask him for "spiritual healing"? Is he gonna mistake that for a strain of weed or something?

"The Hum's been getting to him lately," Micha finishes for me. I shoot him a grateful look.

"Ah, yes, the Hum," Keith nods, "I trust Micha has explained the basics, then?"

"Uh, kind of," I respond, "Though I didn't necessarily get all of it, I don't think."

"Understandable," Keith nods, "It's a tricky thing to wrap your head around. See, your brain is made to understand this world, our world, here and now. Logic, math, data... All of that is easy for your brain to figure. But spiritual matters, things like emotion, and relationships, and experience... All of those things can confuse your brain, because they don't operate according to the rules. They probably have rules, yes, but our brains just aren't equipped to even begin to wrap our heads around them, because we're trapped in our world with our logical rules. Like, for instance, if you were two-dimensional, then the idea of a third dimension would be completely out of your comprehension. Like, I could tell you what a cube is, relative to a square, but you could never imagine it. Never truly comprehend it. You could only understand it in pieces, pieces which fit your two-dimensional worldview."

"Why couldn't I learn to understand it, once I learned the rules?" I ask.

"Because you have no basis for it. No machine code. It's permanently beyond your grasp, like..." He reaches under the bar, and when his paw returns, it has something between the forefinger and thumb.

An ice cube.

"Like, if I hold this under the light, it casts a shadow on the bar, right?" he asks, and sure enough, holds the cube underneath one of the lights suspended from the ceiling.

"Okay?" I respond.

"And that shadow looks like a cube, right? But it's not. It can't be, 'cause it's two-dimensional. So it can only approximate a two-dimensional impression of a cube. Like, a cubes sides all meet at 90 degree angles. But the shadow's sides don't, no matter how I hold it. Because they can't. Because it's mathematically impossible in two-dimensions. So you can imagine a three-dimensional cube, like this one, as an impression of a four-dimensional shape. But it's not actually four-dimensional, it's just, like, the 3D shadow of a four-dimensional hypercube."

"You're losing me," I admit.

"Exactly," he smiles, then he draws his hand back over his shoulder. With a flick of his elbow, he launches the ice cube, which I hear splash into one of the other boy's drinks.

"What the fuck?" Jeremy yelps, glancing first at us, then all around, then finally at the ceiling, before looking back at the ice cube floating in his beer. "Where the hell...?"

"So, spiritual stuff is kind of like that," Keith explains.

"Four-dimensional?" I ask.

"Not technically. But as alien to our logical minds as four-dimensional tessaracts are to our three-dimensional minds. Now, you can get close, with philosophy, or meditation, or drugs... One of my friends swears that he actually saw in four dimensions on an acid trip once. But he described it to me, and it all seemed pretty three dimensional to my ears."

"Maybe because you couldn't comprehend it?" I jab.

He smiles, "I like you, Chase, you're a quick learner. But I can tell you, for instance, that a hypercubes sides all meet at 90 degree angles. All 32 sides. And there's no way you can picture that. No way that you can wrap your head around a thirty-two sided shape with all right angles. 'Cause the most sides that a three-dimensional shape can have that meet like that is six. But you don't have to understand it fully, if you can just learn to accept it. If you are willing to trust me that such a shape exists, and that it works the way it does, then I can ask you: 'Two sides on a hypercube meet. What is the angle between them?' and you can say...?"

I think for just a moment, "I mean, you said it's 90 degrees, right?"

"Exactly! You know what a side is, and what the angle is. You don't have to understand how the whole thing works, and you can't. But you can understand pieces of it, like that, well enough to still be useful."

"Okay... So what's your point?"

"I'm just trying to open your mind to how this stuff works. Our minds like facts, and rules, and logic. But the things you and I are going to be talking about here are going to defy all that. And it can be frustrating. Honestly, it's harder for smart people to handle oftentimes, because they're so much more reliant on their logical minds. So you've gotta get away from that mindset. Just trust me, have a little faith, that the things I'm going to explain to you will be useful to you, in some way, even if it feels like they don't make 100% sense at the time, okay?" he explains, and then looks to me for a response.

"Yeah, okay, I'll try," I offer.

"Excellent. It's like religion, right? God is supposed to be this endlessly complicated, infinite, incomprehensible thing, but then they're able to distill Him into a single book? How's that work? Well, the trick is, it doesn't. The Bible, or Quran, or Torah, or whatever, doesn't contain a complete description of God. It contains a snapshot of Him, in a discrete time and location, to a specific flawed person's perspective. A book which actually explained the nature of God would require all of the matter in the universe. In fact..." he nods thoughtfully, "...you could say that the universe _is_a complete book about the nature of God. But an actual book is like the shadow of that cube. It's not the real thing, the real thing does things that seem impossible to that shadow. But it's a momentary impression, which is enough to gain an idea, if not an understanding. More Coke?"

I look down at my glass. I hadn't even noticed that I was drinking it as fast as I was. But all this blathering about cubes sort of entranced me, I guess. Honestly, I'm starting to get a headache from it, and we haven't even gotten to the Hum yet.

"Um, actually I kind of changed my mind, could I have a beer?" I ask him.

He looks uncertain. Then he smiles, "Sure, if you want, but don't feel pressured or anything. If you want another Coke, that's fine, too. Though I should tell you that beers are $1.50 each for you guys. Mainly just covers the cost on my end. If the bar didn't break even, Brian would kill me."

"Oh, okay..." I start, and shift to pull my wallet out. Micha, who has been sitting there silently the whole time, suddenly chimes in.

"Put his on my tab, alright?" he asks Keith.

"On your tab?" He smiles and glances at me, then back at Micha, before nodding, "Sure thing, brother." He turns around and writes something on a pad of sticky notes beside the register. Then he turns back to me. "So what'll it be, otter-man?"

"Oh, uh..." I look at the tap handles behind the bar. I recognize a few names, but don't know how any of them taste. "I'll just have what Micha has?"

"Keith, you still got that cider?" Micha raises an eyebrow.

"I believe I do. Two ciders then?" Keith responds.

Micha nods.

"So Micha's here often enough to have an open tab?" I ask.

"Micha's the _only_person I'll give an open tab," Keith says as he draws two new mugs from the cooler under the counter. "Because of the arrangement we have. He doesn't have much cash, so he pays me in other ways."

I'm sure I shoot a shocked glance at Micha, because he quickly chimes in. "He means stealing stuff. Fuck, Keith, you can't just say vague shit like that. You're gonna have him thinkin' I'm suckin' you off behind the bar or something. Jeez."

Keith pulls on one of the tap handles, shaped like a stoplight, but with red, yellow, and green apples replacing the lights. "You should be so lucky," he smirks at Micha. "But yeah, I meant stealing stuff. Sometimes, when he gets something cool, he gives it to me, instead of pawning it. So I add money to his... 'account'. So it's more like I_have a tab with _him, I guess. He just got me this sweet digital camera the other day."

I shoot a look at Micha, who puts a finger to his lips and gives me an intense look. I nod.

"Here you are, boys,"Keith smiles, and puts the mugs of cider on the bar. "So, where were we?"

"You talked a lot about cubes," I say, "But we hadn't really gotten to the Hum yet."

"Right, so... Basically, the Hum is like, this miasma that--" Keith cuts off when Micha suddenly claps.

"'Miasma'! That was the--" Micha jolts, before cutting off when he notices us staring. "The 'm-word' I was trying to think of the other day," he mumbles meekly, embarrassed at our staring, "...was 'miasma'. Anyway, Keith, you were saying?"

"So it's this miasma, sort of this dark energy, which permeates everything. Everything in Echo, I mean. And it just... fucks with shit. It's like concentrated bad luck, or something. Makes bad shit happen. Makes people act crazy."

"How crazy?" I ask, "Like, could it make someone, I dunno... Kill someone else?"

Keith's eyes widen in surprise for a moment. Then the grin is back, "Well, I don't know. But in theory, I suppose it probably could, yeah. But now I have to ask... Why exactly are you so interested in the Hum? Because that felt like a very specific example." He waits calmly for my response.

"Well, I..." I stammer, suddenly feeling very unsure about all of this. I don't know how I imagined this would go, of course he needs to know what's wrong with me if he's gonna fix it. "When I was a little kid, there was this other kid, Sydney. He was my friend, and he was fighting with my friend Toby. Then something snapped, and I... I tried to kill him. Tried to drown him in the lake, specifically."

Keith furrows his brow a moment. "Clint called you 'psycho killer' in the car today."

"Yeah," I sulk, embarrassed.

"Hey Clint!" Keith shouts.

"Hey, what?" Clint answers, not looking up from the arcade cabinet.

"Don't call Chase 'psycho killer' anymore!" Keith responds.

"Why?" Clint shouts back.

"Because I'm asking nicely?" Keith responds.

"No you're not!"

"Oh, right... Please, don't call Chase a psycho anymore."

"Fuck that."

"Pretty please, don't call Chase a psycho killer anymore, or your beer's gonna get more expensive!" Keith threatens.

"What? That's bullshit, you can't--" Clint stammers, "Fucking fine! Whatever!"

Keith smiles down at me.

"You didn't have to do that. It doesn't bother me... as much as it probably should. I'm used to it by now," I tell him.

"Nonsense," he shakes his head, "Don't ever let anybody tell you who you are. So what became of this Sydney kid?"

"Nothing, I guess. I mean, he's my gym partner now," I explain.

"Oh, so then you're still friends?" he asks.

"Well, no. I mean, kind of. We weren't, until, like, two weeks ago. So I still wouldn't say we're 'friends' exactly, but... We're better than we were."

He nods. "So you're wondering if the Hum might've had something to do with the way he acted that day? Or the way you acted?"

"Both, I guess," I agree, and take a sip of the cider. It's tart, but not unbearable. "I've just felt so guilty about it ever since, and it ruined my life. I lost all my friends that day. I became the 'problem child' that I am now. My parents divorced because of it... I just want to know why." I realize as I finish saying this that I'm tearing up. I wipe my face with my arm, then steal a glance at Clint and Jeremy. Neither of them noticed.

"Well, if you're feeling guilty about it..." Keith hums softly to himself for a moment. "Do you have any, like, Hum symptoms? Like how Micha sleepwalks?"

"Nightmares."

"About?"

"That day, mostly. Or, back when it got really bad, during the divorce, I'd have dreams where my old friends killed me." Keith doesn't hide his shock at that. Micha reaches over to my shoulder to comfort me, then withdraws his hand, once he realizes what he's doing.

"So then it's all manifesting from your guilt, more or less?" Keith asks.

"I guess?"

He nods. "Well, for one, this could just be a normal, psychological reaction. I mean, still way unhealthy, and something you'll want to get dealt with, but... Might not be Hum related at all." He wrinkles his nose. "On the _other_hand... The Hum likes to exacerbate negative emotions. If you're already feeling guilty, it could be amplifying that. The negative feelings amplify the Hum, then the Hum amplifies the negative feelings... It's like feedback."

"So how do I fix it?" I ask him, more desperately than I'd like.

"Well, this might seem a bit obvious, but..." he shrugs, "...have you apologized to this Sydney kid?"

"I don't... I don't know how I would do that," I shrug.

"Saying something like 'I'm sorry' is usually a great start," he jokes.

"Yeah, but like... I feel like it's hard for me to apologize sincerely if I can't at least explain why I did it, you know? And I don't know if I _am_sorry..."

Keith's eyes widen again.

"No, I mean, of course I am, but, like... With the way he was bullying Toby, I couldn't do_nothing,"_I explain.

"Okay, I wanna try something, alright?" Keith asks gently.

"Okay."

"Okay, so, you're back in that day. You're exactly who you are now, but in that ten year old boy's body. You come up on Sydney and Toby fighting. What do you do?"

I take another swig of cider, more to give myself an excuse not to talk while I'm thinking. I swallow hard.

"I guess, I run up, and... I dunno, shove him, or smack him on the back of the head, or something? Pull on his tail? Something to get him off Toby. But... I make sure the fight stays on the beach. We don't go to the water," I say, and take another swig.

"Okay. So then, from what I understand... I think you probably _do_feel bad about what you did. Or rather, don't feel bad about what you did, but about the exact _way_it happened. Sort of how you can feel super guilty about something that you did by accident, you know?"

My gaze shifts absentmindedly to my left palm, a welt developing where the metal had burned it. Micha sees me looking, and shrinks in his chair.

"Yeah, I get that, I guess. But what do I do? How to I apologize for something as big as trying to fucking murder a nine-year-old?" I ask, exasperated.

"Well, if you feel bad about how it happened... Was Sydney alright?" Keith asks, and again I'm struck by his calm tone. I wonder how much of it is weed and how much is just who he is.

"Depends on what you mean by 'alright'," I grimace.

"Was he left disabled or anything? Any physical issues?"

"Fuck no. Dude could probably throw me out that door from here, he's shredded as fuck," I laugh.

"Okay, any mental or psychological issues?"

I shift, and I know they both see it.

"Well, he has the nightmares. Like I do," I tell him.

"The ones about that day? I assume he doesn't have the ones where your friends kill you."

"Right. But he has others, I think."

"Oh?"

I look up at him guiltily.

"Yeah, a few months before... I did what I did. His dad died."

"I see. That's hard for any kid," he hums, "He took it especially hard, I assume?"

"Well, yeah. His dad shot himself..."

"Yeah, I could see how that would--"

"...in front of him," I finish.

"Jesus, fuck," Keith gasps, and it's the first I've seen actual emotion pierce the surfer-bro facade. But then it's back. "I see."

"And it's not just the nightmares," I continue, "His friend told me about something else."

"Go on," Keith says softly.

"Well, apparently, he's afraid of water now," I say.

"Ah. Well, I suppose that makes sense," Keith nods.

"But, the thing is, otters _need_water. It's a psychological--"

"This Sydney, he's an otter too, then?"

"Oh, uh, yeah. So like I was saying, it's way bad for him to be afraid of going underwater. We swim from before we're a year old. We need to soak, like, once a week. Most otters who can afford it soak daily. And I guess Sydney just... doesn't."

"So then we know what you need to do, don't we?" Keith smiles.

I take a drink.

"No?" I say.

"Well, if you're feeling guilty about the way things ended up," Keith reasons, "then maybe you could help him get over his fear? He would be able to swim like he used to, you would feel better, and the damage you did would be undone. Everybody wins."

I look up at him, an incredulous stare fixed on my face. "Yeah, but that would mean he'd have to... you know, get in the water. With me. The guy who drowned him."

"_Nearly_drowned him," Keith corrects.

"There's not that big a difference between those two," I mutter.

"A world of difference for him, I'll bet," Keith quips.

I take a deep breath, and sigh.

"I guess. I'm going to the bathroom," I mumble.

*****

The bathroom of Keith & Brian's Booze Bastion is exactly what I expect it to be. Dingy, and the sort of clean where it's not_definitely_dirty, but probably not clean. The urinal is one of those troughs, where the only limit to the number of users is how well you can manage to stagger the line of men using it. I take a spot at the near end, unzip, and begin... you know, the process.

I hear the door open, and wonder if Micha followed me in, using the break in conversation to take a chance to go himself. I cock my head to see who it is.

It_would_be Clint, wouldn't it?

"Hey, psycho," he sneers as he takes a position at the other end of the trough, "Have a nice Coke?"

"Hey, asshat," I respond casually, "Nice cirrhosis."

"What's a 'rosis'?" he asks, and I hear the sound of his own stream joining mine.

I just huff and shake my head. I'm not into dealing with Clint today.

Especially not with my dick in my hand.

From the sound of it, Clint's draining a firehose, so I'm not especially surprised when he's finished before me. I _am_surprised, however, when, as I shake off and zip up, I sense his presence right behind me. I raise my arms up over my head.

"Fine, you can shake me off if you want, just this once," I jeer.

I feel his hand roughly grab me by the shoulder and spin me around. Before I can react, he's pinning me, his arm across my shoulders, my body arced, limboing over the trough. I'm just now realizing how strong he is. Puberty filled him out, but in basically the opposite way as Jeremy. He's not Leo-huge, but he could definitely kick my otter ass. I just hope it doesn't occur to him how easily he could dump me into the trough, still full of our piss, if he wanted to.

"What the fuck are you doing?" I spit at him.

"Listen," he hisses, and his breath reeks. If I hadn't been in here the whole time, I'd assume he'd tried to drink from the trough. "I don't know what the fuck you think you're doing--"

"I'm not doing shit, you asshole!" I snarl.

"But this is _my_place, you got that? I'm not gonna have some prissy little wannabe-killer otter sweet talkin' Micha with some sob story, and suckin' Keith's cock, and causin' trouble for me here. You got that?"

"I didn't do anything, shithead!"

"Why don't you just go home?" he growls, but there's almost a hint of pleading in his voice. There's a certain sadness in his eyes, as well, "You actually can."

"Look, I'm not here to start shit, alright?" I groan, baring my teeth. "I'm just here to hang out with Micha and Keith. I don't want anything to do with you."

He snarls at me, and I'm suddenly realizing just how much like Flynn he feels right now, "Good, because I'm not gonna fuckin' lose the only place I'm safe, because the fuckin' psycho got lonely. I'm _not_losing this fucking place." I think I hear his voice crack a little on "fucking", but I avoid pointing it out. He finally lets me up, and storms out of the restroom. It's just now occurring to me that he went straight from touching his dick, to grabbing my arm, without washing his hands in between.

So I guess I'm just cutting this arm off, then.

*****

I return to my seat at the bar, and I guess I look shaken up, because Micha immediately interrogates me.

"What happened?"

"Nothing, nothing happened," I say, trying to act like I'm confused by his question.

"Did Clint say something to you?" he asks me, eyes intensely fixed on mine. Probably to see if I'm lying.

"No, I'm fine," I lie. Micha's stare is making me antsy, though, so I take a drink of cider to give myself an excuse to look away. I sneak a glance at the arcade machine, and find that Clint is looking right at me. Probably assumes that I'm going to rat him out.

I'm not about to give him that satisfaction.

Besides, I don't need Keith or Micha to fight my battles for me. If Clint tries to pull that kind of shit again, I'll just have to be more ready.

I mean, you can't just jump a man while he's taking a leak. That's like, the Geneva convention or something.

"So, have you given any thought to what we talked about before you left?" Keith smiles warmly.

"You mean, helping Sydney learn to swim again?"

Keith nods calmly.

"I dunno, I mean... Maybe I'll ask him. I don't expect him to say yes. And even if he does, Flynn would _definitely_kill me."

"And Flynn is, who? Sydney's boyfriend?" Keith asks.

I legitimately laugh out loud at that. "I think he thinks he is, sometimes. But no, he's just, like, Sydney's best friend. And my former friend. He's way protective of Sydney, and he's hated me ever since... You know, the whole _murdering_thing."

"_Attempted_murdering thing," Keith corrects.

"Whatever."

"Well, I do hope you'll try it, and I hope he says yes, though of course he has every right to say no," Keith says calmly.

"Yeah, well, I'd still feel better if I knew what was actually wrong with me though," I admit, "I mean, I'm not exactly in love with the idea of being in the water with him without knowing what that was."

"Well, it could be that you were just very angry, because he was hurting your friend. And it could be that the Hum was loud that day."

"But is there anything I can do? I mean, is there any way to like, silence the Hum, or drive it out of you, or whatever?" I ask, and it occurs to me that at this point, I'm 100% buying this nonsense.

"Well, you're in luck," Keith smiles, "Because that happens to be the exact point of an Ahoa party."

"What's an Ahoa party?"

Keith gives me a strange look.

"You mean you didn't... I just figured Micha..." he glances at Micha, who is again shrinking into his seat. "Oh, I guess I assumed you had been invited, but..."

"But...?"

"I mean, it's okay if you weren't, you shouldn't read too much into it," he stammers, and I get the feeling that he's trying to save Micha's ass for not inviting me, "It's important to the party that it only be close friends, for the most part, you know? I just assumed with the way Micha talks about you--"

Micha buries his face in his hands.

"Keith, please stop talking," he whines.

"Hey, it's fine, I'm not like, bitter or something," I tell them. "But I have to ask, now that you've said it: what's an Ahoa party?"

Keith smiles, and I'm suddenly realizing that he's been waiting to give this lecture.

"So, Ahoa is a Mesetan word. It means 'happy', but, like, it doesn't_just_mean 'happy'. Well, it can. But like... It's a reference to, like, spiritual joy. Happiness in your soul. And things that bring you happiness. So, like, that feeling you get when you see someone you love, or someone you haven't seen in a long time. That's Ahoa. Or like, the joy of hanging out with your friends. That's Ahoa. It's the pleasure of doing the things you wanna do, you know? But, like, the natural pleasure. Things like friendship, or love, or sex, or whatever. Not stuff like drugs, you know, artificial highs. Now I'm not knockin' drugs, and I'm not sayin' they can't help you _find_your Ahoa, but it's that specific moment, when you look at what you're doing, who you're with, whatever, and think 'I'm really happy right now'. But Ahoa is more than just a feeling. The Meseta believe that its like, a spiritual force. Sort of like, the opposite of the Hum, I suppose. So, back in the day, they'd have these big bonfires, all over the countryside. And it was said that a warrior could whistle loudly all night long, and be fine. Like, there was so much positive energy in these campfires, or whatever, that no harm could come to you near one. And when the Hum would get _real_bad, they'd build them. So you build a bonfire, then, like project your joy, your Ahoa, into it. Then, the idea is, that everywhere that can see the light gets bathed in the Ahoa. As the light drives back the darkness, the Ahoa drives back the Hum. You know, allegedly."

"So is there a specific spot around here you go? One of the old bonfires or something?" I ask.

"No, see, that's the thing! I've got this old map, my grandfather got it from a friend of his, or something. And marked on it, in little x's, are all the bonfire locations. And there's just a big, empty circle around Echo, man."

"Why aren't there any bonfires around Echo?" I raise an eyebrow.

"Who knows. Maybe there was another tribe here, so the Meseta avoided it. Or maybe the Hum was loud enough here, they'd rather go around. But, see, I think that's the thing. Why it's so bad here. Because for hundreds of years, they were going all over the desert, doing the Ahoa tradition, and silencing the Hum. But they never did here, so it just pooled and pooled, until it became what it is today. So I try to have an Ahoa party every so often, invite some friends over, have a campfire. You know, try to push back a little. I don't think we'll ever really 'defeat' the Hum. I don't know if that's really even the point. But we can try, you know? We can make the world a little better, for just a little bit."

"That's... really interesting," I say, aware of how condescending that makes me sound. "So you think that can maybe help me?"

"I dunno, I mean, maybe," Keith shrugs, "And I doubt it could hurt, right?"

"I guess," I sigh, finishing my drink.

"Oh, holy shit, I need you guys out of here, it's time for the bar to_actually_open," Keith says suddenly, though his tone is still calm and casual.

"Oh, uh, okay," I stand from my barstool. Once I'm on my feet, I realize that I'm slightly buzzed, "It was really cool meeting you, Keith." I hold out my hand for a handshake, like a jackass.

"Cool meeting you too, my dude," he says, and he knuckle-bumps the back of my hand, "Have Micha bring you around more often, okay?"

"Sure."

*****

The four of us walk home in silence. Once we reach Jasmynn Street, Micha waves the other two off.

"You guys go on ahead, I gotta talk to Chase for a minute," he goads. The two share a glance, then say their goodbyes (to him, of course, not to me) and walk away.

"So, Chase..." he takes a deep breath, "...sorry I didn't tell you about the Ahoa party. If you wanna come, that's cool."

Nope. Not doing this anymore.

"Do you want me to come?" I ask him.

"I just said you can come if you want," he insists.

"That's not what I asked," I argue.

"Come on, man, are you really gonna bust my balls over this? Are you really gonna make me, like, officially ask you out or something?" he whines. And now I have my answer. Micha is considering the Ahoa party a date. Which would mean that Micha and I are dating. Which is probably why he's so hesitant.

"Look man, I'm not trying to be an asshole," I tell him, "But, your friends don't like me. We both know that. So I don't wanna go to this thing if it's gonna cause problems for you. Or drama, or whatever, okay?"

"So then, you'd want to go otherwise?" he asks.

"Is that you officially asking me, or..."

He gets that annoyed sneer on his face. Then he takes a deep breath.

"Chase," he says softly.

"Yeah?" I respond.

"Do you wanna go to the Ahoa party with me?" he mumbles.

"Sure," I grin.

He smirks.

"Being friends with you is a pain in the ass, you know that?"

I grin.

"Yep."

*****

When I get home, Mom is already there.

"Where were you this afternoon?" she asks quizzically.

"Hanging out with some friends," I say nonchalantly, not mentioning the beer, or that one of them is a drug dealer.

"Friends?" she asks incredulously.

"I feel like I should be insulted by your surprised tone, but _yes,_friends," I confirm.

"Okay," she sighs, "Stay out of trouble?"

"Made it home didn't I?"

She shrugs, "I suppose so. Dinner?"

"Sandwiches?" I offer. I don't feel like cooking at all, and I'm starting to come down from my buzz. Which is probably good, considering, you know, Mom's right there.

"Fine by me. Did you want to--"

"Yeah, I'll make them," I sigh.

"Thank you dear," she says, walking to her bedroom. I notice that she's carrying a piece of mail with her, and wonder if this is her new strategy to keep me from noticing the late bills.

I pull the bread out of the cupboard, and the meat, cheese, and mayonnaise out of the fridge. As I'm mayonnaise-ing the bread, my mind starts to wander.

Wonder what an Ahoa party is like.

Shit, I hope it's not like, some kind of orgy. Then again...

No wait, Clint and Jeremy are gonna be there. I definitely hope it's not some kind of orgy.

What the fuck was Clint's deal, anyway? Besides the normal hating me, of course. That shit about it being his only safe place... Then again, knowing his family...

Jesus, that's fucked.

Wonder if Heather will be at the Ahoa party. If T.J. isn't balls deep in her by then.

I laugh out loud at that thought, and the sound shakes me out of my trance.

That is way too much mayonnaise. I reach for the meat.

So, are me and Micha a thing? Does he want that?

Or was he just inviting me as a friend, and I'm reading way too much into it, like I always do?

Guess I'll find out, this...

Wait.

When's the Ahoa party? Nobody told me.

Shit.

Day 16: Born Bad

It happens the same way, every time.

We're playing at the lake, like we always did back then. Leo, Jasmynn, Carl, and Flynn are skipping rocks. I'm in the water, and they yell at me to get out of the way. So I dive under, and head towards where Toby and Sydney are playing. But as I surface, something's wrong. Sydney is sitting on top of Toby's back, who is lying face down in the water. He keeps pulling Toby's head up, just long enough to let him catch his breath, before shoving it back into the water and sand and mud.

He's going to kill him.

Unless I stop him.

I swim over as fast as I can. I pull Sydney off of Toby. Sydney's not happy about that. We fight for a moment. I punch him in the throat, and see the fight leave his eyes. It should be over now.

But it never is.

He'll do it again, I think to myself, Toby's not safe. I drag Sydney to where the water is deep. I shove him under. I follow. There's a ferociousness in his eyes, the fight is back in him again. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I use this as validation. As an excuse. I knew he was faking it, I think, now let's see how he likes it. We wrestle underwater, two bodies in constant, undulating motion. I see his face soften again, and his eyes look into mine pleadingly. I stare back, letting him know I'm not going to offer him any mercy. His eyes twitch suddenly, as he gets an idea. An idea I should have expected. He's always watching wrestling, and when he's wrestling around with one of us, he always proudly proclaims "I'm the heel" to whatever protests we have against his latest underhanded strategy. His whole body twists under the water, and I think he's trying to slip free. But he's not.

He's winding up.

He throws all of his weight into a kick, directly into my crotch. I watch bubbles rise past me as I involuntarily yelp. My hands leave him, involuntarily moving to nurse my injury. I float, curled up, like a fetus in a womb. Then I realize something terrifying:

He's going to tell.

I have to stop him. Maybe I can talk him out of tattling to Leo and the others. Maybe I can use his heel excuse against him. I bolt towards the shallows. I break the surface, and taste the dry afternoon air. I take a few gulps of it, trying to wipe the water out of my eyes, as I wade towards the shore. I can hear Toby still crying, though something sounds... off. As I open my eyes and am blinded by the afternoon sun, I remember my task.

"Sydney!" I shout, hoping to stop him before he gets to the others.

"Back the hell off" I hear, from a voice I know is Flynn's. My eyes adjust, and that's when I understand. Toby's cries sound wrong, because he's not the one crying.

Sydney is. I've seen him cry a time or two, but never like this. He always prided himself on being tough. But now there's no facade left. He's sobbing, practically wailing. Fear and despair and betrayal drip from each moan. I see Jasmynn trying to talk him down, a hand on his shoulder. But he either can't hear her, or can't understand.

Or just can't calm down.

His eyes meet mine and go wide with terror. My stomach turns. This isn't what I wanted. I just wanted him to be the one crying at the end of one of his and Toby's fights.

But not like this.

I take a step forward to try to talk to him, and Flynn is immediately in between us, staring me down. I hear Carl gasp to my right, and glance over to see him hugging Toby, who is trembling into his shoulder. Carl's eyes are darting in between me and Flynn, like he expects me to drag Flynn into the lake next.

"Just let me talk to him" I offer, and try to shoulder my way past Flynn. A large, red-furred arm immediately blocks my chest and shoves me backwards, and I look up to find Leo's eyes burning with anger.

"Stay away, Otter" he warns.

"Stay the fuck away from him, asshole" Flynn adds.

"Come on, guys, we were just wrestling around, and--" I offer.

"Yeah, he told us what you were trying to do, psycho. Now piss off" Flynn hisses at me.

"Just let me apologize," I look up at the wolf blocking my way, "Leo, just let me--"

"No," Leo interrupts. He's a man of few words, though that's mostly because, in English, he only really _knows_a few words.

"Come on," I whine, and try to step past him. I see Flynn's tail twitching in anticipation, but there's no need. Two large wolf paws grip my shoulders, hard.

"Ow, Leo, let go!"

"No," Leo warns, and there's something sinister in the tone that I've never heard from him before. "Stay away, Otter. Or I'll hurt you."

A silence falls over the scene. Sydney is no longer wailing, just trying to catch is breath as individual sobs hiccup in his throat. I feel their eyes on me, and look from one to the next.

Toby's guilty, mournful look.

Carl's confused fear.

Flynn's protective rage.

The hatred in Leo's eyes, and the fact that he's baring teeth, make it painfully, gut-wrenchingly clear: if I try to get closer, we won't be Leo and Chase anymore. We'll be predator and prey.

Finally, my gaze falls to Sydney, still staring at me in wide eyed fear.

It always ends this way. With the silence. With me losing all of my friends.

And Sydney... Sydney just stares.

And then I wake up.

Problem Child

An Echo Fan Fiction

By Fable91

I wake to the alarm, feeling, like usual, like I just fell asleep. I clumsily slap at the snooze button, then flick the alarm switch off and on again. I sit up, rub my eyes blearily, and stare miserably at the light coming through the blinds. Every day feels like it chips just a little more off of my soul. Absentmindedly, I wonder if it's the Hum...

...Or if it's just me.

I stand and stretch, feeling my muscles twinge in protest, and my morning wood yearning to breathe free against the cloth of my boxers. I glance at the clock. Not enough time. Sorry, old buddy, you'll have to wait 'till after school, like usual.

I stare into the bathroom mirror as I wait for the... situation... to calm down enough to take a leak. Again, I'm faced with that tired, gaunt face. I'm not ugly by any means, but it's hard to be attractive when you just don't have the energy to smile. I'm starting to get how Micha knew that I never use that wallet condom. Not the most unattractive kid in school, by a long shot. But still fairly unfuckable. Then again, if I'm reading Micha right-- and I have no idea if I am-- then he seems to see something he likes in me. And he's really not bad looking at all. He's not boy-band cute, but he's cute in his own way. He could do way better than me, I know that much. I guess I just have to hope he never realizes that. I look in the mirror again, examining my face from different angles, trying to see what the hell he's seeing in me. I think about what he said at the lake, and look deeply into my own eyes. No flash of red. No glow. Just dull and dead, like the rest of me. Then again, maybe you just get used to looking at your own face, you stop noticing things. I wouldn't fucking know.

I lean against the kitchen counter, waiting for the toaster to pop. I don't know how, but today's already boring as fuck. I already want to be done with it. I'm already thinking longingly of the jerk-off session and nap that I'm going to have when I get back home. The toaster pops. I grab the still-too-hot tart of popping and my backpack, and am out the door.

*****

I nibble on my toaster tart as I approach the bus stop. As usual, Jenna and Carl are already here.

"Hey, Jenna" I say wearily.

"Mmm," she hums in response.

"Hey, Carl," I offer.

"Hey, Chase," he responds. I stare at him. A greeting? And with a name? Could this be progress?

He notices me staring, and suddenly makes a face like he feels guilty. Like by acknowledging me, he did something wrong. I realize that I must have been staring at him, mouth hanging open, like some kind of jackass.

_Way to be normal,_I think angrily at myself. So today's relationship progress was not saved, and will most definitely be lost.

The bus pulls up, the smell of diesel exhaust somehow preceding it.

"Hey Karen," I mumble as I climb aboard.

"Hey kiddo," she mumbles back, apparently as enthusiastic about today as I am.

My weight shifts as the bus pulls out, dragging us all to the state-sanctioned penitentiary we spend eight hours a day at.

*****

"You look rough today, Killer," is the first thing I hear as I emerge from the locker room. Honestly, one of the last things I'm in the mood to hear, even if I know it's true. I look up at Elliott.

"Yeah?" I ask in a challenging tone.

"Get enough sleep last night?" he asks me, his tone noticeably softer. I don't answer or try to make a face, but I must give it away somehow, because he wrinkles his muzzle in response, "Bummer."

"No shit," I sigh.

"Wonder how Sydney will be then, you and him seem to have the same off days, I've noticed," he hums.

I raise an eyebrow. "I've never seen Sydney have an 'off day'. He's always at like 110%. And why would we have the same off days, anyway?"

He shrugs, "Hell if I know, but all you Echo kids seem to run on the same clock."

I know why.

"Yeah, well, everyone from Echo is crazy," I grin weakly.

"Oh, uh..." Elliott sort of laughs, "...I didn't realize you guys knew we said that about you."

"Of course we do. We're crazy, not stupid, man," I reply glibly.

"Who's crazy?" I hear Sydney say, coming up behind me.

"I am," I sigh, "You too. Not him..." I gesture at Elliott, "...he's just stupid."

Elliott throws a lanky arm over my shoulders, throwing the other over Sydney and hugging us in close.

"That's why we make such a great team," he grins, "We're like the three stooges, or the two-and-a-half men."

I balk.

"Which one of us is the half-man?" I ask him.

"Well, I didn't want to start an argument..." Elliott explains, but then starts cocking his head towards Sydney. Sydney swings an open, clawed hand at Elliott, stopping just short of the crotch of his gym shorts.

"I could always make you the half-man, big guy," he grins at Elliott, wiggling his eyebrows.

Elliott shoots him a flirty sort of look.

"Don't threaten me with a good time."

*****

P.E., of course, is archery again. Elliott, Sydney, and I choose the station furthest from the school, so that we can be furthest from the "teacher" barking commands. Yet again, I fail to string my bow, but this time I manage to not smack Elliott with it. As Sydney, ever the good Samaritan, strings my bow for me again, I'm reminded of how much stronger he is than me.

"I'm going first," Elliott chirps, "Watching Killer whiff it last time threw off my focus."

"Whiff it?" I ask.

"Whiff it," Elliott explains matter-of-factly, "Verb, to fuck up, to screw over, to take a shit upon, to fail, to--"

"Okay, okay," I sigh, coyly adding "You know there's only one thing out here that I wanna whiff." I gently prod the seat of his shorts with the end of my bow. He doesn't even turn around.

"You're bigger than I expected, Killer," he says so casually I can't help but wonder if he was expecting that.

"Alright, big guy," Sydney grins cockily, "Chase threw off your focus? Excuses, excuses."

"It's only an excuse if I fail again," Elliott responds confidently.

"So it's an excuse, then?" Sydney and I say in unison.

Elliott whirls around and stares at us, gaze shifting back and forth between us.

"You two..." he says, pointing between us, "...are a couple of twin... otter... assholes!"

"Come up with that on your own, bud?" Sydney smiles.

"Shaddup!" Elliott quickly snaps, "I know what you're doing! You're trying to get in my head again! Psych me out. With your otter... mind games. You..." he points at Sydney, "...with your petty, childish insults, and you..." he jams a skinny finger into my chest, "...with your sexual advances."

"Guilty as charged," I shrug, "So then you're gonna suck again, if we're already in your head?"

"One," Elliott can't suppress his grin, "_You_shouldn't talk about sucking at archery."

That's fair.

"Two, I am the finest archer in the whole school. Your otter mind games will not penetrate me this time."

"Last thing I want to do is penetrate you, bud," Sydney smiles.

"See, the thing about me boys, is, I myself am like an arrow," Elliott grins, that familiar ask-me-for-the-punchline grin of his.

"Meaning?" Sydney takes his bait.

Elliott grips an arrow halfway down its length. He points it first at Sydney.

"Meaning, if I don't get you with my head..."

He points at me and winks.

"...I'll get you with my shaft."

Sydney and I share a glance, then roll our eyes.

"Take your shot, bud," Sydney commands.

"Oh, and here I thought you enjoyed our playful banter," Elliott coos at Sydney, "Killer, teach Sydney here to be more coy. The flirty stuff, like you do. He's too blunt."

"After however many years of hanging out with Flynn, I doubt I could unteach that bluntness even if I tried," I tell Elliott, "But if it's flirting you want..."

I let out a long, drawn out, groaning sigh, like I really don't want to do it. Then I smile.

"Show me how your long shaft penetrates those targets, big guy," I grin, doing my best to bat my eyelashes. I've never batted my eyelashes before, so I'm not sure how it came across. Elliott seems to get the intent, anyway.

"Sure thing, Killer," he grins, but then makes as if he's going to pull his shorts down as he walks towards the targets a few steps. Suddenly he doubles back.

"Oh! You meant with the arrow. I get you," he giggles to himself.

Sydney and I share another eye roll.

As Elliott (finally) lines up his shot, it occurs to me that this might be the best time to talk to Sydney about something that's been on my mind.

If I want to talk to him about it at all.

Fuck it, just do it. He'll say no, then it's not your problem anymore.

"Hey, uh, Sydney," I say softly.

"Yeah? What's up, bud?" Sydney turns his attention away from Elliott's shooting to look me in the eye. This time, I don't see the time at the lake in his eyes. I just see... Sydney.

"I was talking to this friend of mine, and--"

"Suck on that, otters!" Elliott shouts from the shooting line. Sydney and I glance over.

"Not bad," I admit.

"For your first shot," Sydney quips.

Elliott shakes his head in disbelief.

"There's no pleasing you, is there Sydney?" he smiles.

"Hey, you got two more shots to please me, big guy. Don't give up yet," Sydney grins, then turns to me, "So you were saying?"

"So my friend thought it would maybe be good for me... And good for you too, I guess... That is..."

"What are you so nervous about, bud? Just spit it out," Sydney encourages, a warmth in his tone.

"Right, right, okay," I stammer, still nervous, "Would you maybe want to take swimming lessons from me?"

Sydney gives me a strange sort of look.

"I'm an otter, bud," he says succinctly.

"Well, yeah, I know that, but--" I start.

"Unless..." he glances at Elliott, "...someone has running his mouth some more."

"Uh, no, kind of the same amount," I explain, "It was part of the same conversation as the nightmares. He told me you can't even take baths."

"Who the hell takes baths?" he asks.

"Well, yeah, but like, wouldn't it be nice to be able to, if you wanted?" I ask.

He shrugs, "Sure. But a lot of things would be nice. A lot of things I don't need. Just like baths."

"He's right Sydney," Elliott shouts from the shooting line, apparently having half-heard our conversation, "You _do_need a bath."

"Hey, you're in deep enough shit with me as it is, big guy," Sydney warns him.

"What did I do?" Elliott asks.

"Running your mouth about my nightmares, and my fear of bathtubs," Sydney explains, "Which, to be fair, I had at least a little bit of before... all that... ever since I saw that one cartoon movie, with the toaster. What the fuck was up with that clown scene?"

"You're gonna get me in trouble, Killer," Elliott whines.

"Sorry," I mumble, not really feeling that sorry.

"Don't worry about me bud, I'm fine," Sydney smiles at me, "If it's the aquatic fix you're worried about, I get mine from the shower, it's no big deal."

"You and I both know that's not the same," I tell him firmly.

"It has to be," he insists, "It's all I've got."

"That's my point," I say, "I could help you get that aquatic feeling back. The real one. From a soak."

"You sound like you're about to offer me a drug, bud," Sydney jokes, "And, I dunno, I just... Don't think it's that good an idea, is all."

I must make a face, because he adds:

"...And it's not you! Or, at least, it's not _just_you. I just... I just don't see a point in it, is all. I get along fine without."

"Do you?" I ask him, raising an eyebrow.

"Of course," he says, smiling, but his smile is weak and his voice falters. "Why are you so insistent on this? Just feeling that... altruistic?" he asks pointedly.

My gaze shifts guiltily away from him, and I grip my tail for comfort.

"No," I admit, "I was hoping that maybe helping you might help make me feel less guilty. Might make my nightmares stop."

"You've been having a lot of trouble sleeping, haven't you, bud?" he asks me, and some combination of the fact that it's _him_asking me, and the genuine concern in his voice, overwhelms me. I feel myself about to cry, and turn away from him, pretending to itch my face as I wipe the water from my eyes. I feel his hand on my back.

"Listen, bud, I'm okay, really I am. So you can stop feeling guilty, and stop having nightmares, okay?" he says gently.

I hum noncommittally.

"So, uh, is there room for a fox between you two, or..." Elliott chimes in behind us, "...is this like a monogamous thing?"

I roll my eyes and can't fight the grin that overtakes my lips.

"Fuck off, Elliott."

*****

The rest of P.E. is uneventful, save for a single round of archery which Elliott actually manages to beat Sydney in. So of course, on the way to the locker room, Elliott can't help but brag. Never mind the results of every other round. I, on the other hand, managed to maintain a solid third place among the three of us.

"I'm just getting back into my groove, next time it's gonna be game over for you, Sydney," Elliott brags.

"It was one round, bud," Sydney smiles, "Even a stopped clock is right occasionally."

"Aww, is Sydney upset by my obviously superior skill? You know, it's funny," a grin spreads across Elliott's face, "Normally you like the spots my shaft hits."

Sydney shakes his head in disbelief

"That mind of yours never stops workin', does it bud?" he smiles.

"Not when it comes to sex, no," Elliott beams proudly.

"Imagine if you could put that energy towards something productive," I sigh.

"Oh, I produce plenty," Elliott grins, "Buckets. Gallons, even." Damn, he really doesn't_stop, does he?_

We strip, and head for the showers. There's no reason to shower, archery is hardly a way to work up a sweat. But I've pretty much resigned myself to having to shower with the other two, if just to avoid their whining otherwise.

Getting to see two athletic, muscular wrestlers balls-out naked doesn't exactly hurt their case, either.

We take our usual spots in the shower-- myself near the door, to avoid whatever antics Sydney and Elliott get up to. Sydney's the furthest in, which I'm realizing might be to synthesize the cozy chrysalism that the bottom of a body of water typically brings us. Forgoing an actual soak, I suppose that being nestled in the corner of the showers, furthest away from the door and the noise of the outside world, must be a substitute. Elliott takes his usual place as well, that is, close enough to Sydney to pester him while far enough away to dodge any possible retaliations from the otter.

I'm enjoying the silence of the showers, lathering up my fur, when I realize something strange: I'm enjoying the _silence_of the showers. Silence? I open my eyes and glance over at Elliott, and, sure enough, his muzzle is shut, a strange look for him. He seems to be watching Sydney soak, a sort of quiet curiosity in his eyes. I wonder if maybe he's taking what I told him yesterday, about Sydney's soak sessions, seriously. It's strange to see him being respectful, almost reverent, when I've only ever seen him be a colossal asshole.

Fine, I suppose he's not _that_bad.

"Can I help you with somethin', bud?" Sydney asks softly, not opening his eyes.

"Oh, uh, no," Elliott stammers. This is the first time I've seen him this flustered. No, wait, there was yesterday, when Sydney caught him talking about watching piss fetish porn. Still though, it's rare. "Having a good shower?" Elliott asks, in an uncharacteristically gentle voice.

Sydney smiles gently, and nods his head.

"Good," Elliott smiles, and it's a genuine smile, not a shit-eating grin. He steps a bit closer to me. "What about you, Killer? Good shower?"

"Uh, yeah, I guess?" I answer.

"I just mean," he explains, "You don't seem to get as... um...into it... as Sydney does." He gestures towards the far end of the room.

"Well, I soak in the bathtub, or in a pool, or whatever," I explain, "So for me, a shower's just a shower. I mean, it does feel nice, but, like, I don't need to get my fix from it."

"Huh, that's... interesting," Elliott nods.

"It's like junk food versus actual food, you know?" I explain, "Like, the shower is a bag of chips. It's nice, I enjoy it. But it's not fulfilling, not sustaining. Not the same way a meal is."

"Ahh, I see," Elliott nods again. Then a sort of vexed look crosses his face, "So is it okay for Sydney to just be living off of... you know... 'junk food'?"

I shrug, but I can feel my demeanor shift, "I really don't know, man. He says he's fine--"

"He can also hear you," Sydney informs us.

"...But I wouldn't be able to, I don't think. But then, there's people who actually _do_live on junk food. Like literally. For most of us, that would be miserable. But for them it's normal. So maybe it's like that. Maybe Sydney's able to live off of showers, even if I never could," I explain.

"It's crazy I never noticed it before," Elliott hums softly, "I mean, I noticed he always got a bit quiet in the showers, but I never put it together, you know?"

"It's not something most non-otters know about," I admit, "And not something we necessarily talk too much about, either. It's like, well... like jerking off. We all just kind of... do it. But we don't, like, tell each other about it every time. It's just a thing we do."

"What I'm hearing..." Elliott says, and that grin creeps back into place, "...is that you want me to let you know every time I jerk off."

"Is that what I said?" I raise an eyebrow.

"That's what I heard," he smiles.

"That's not what I asked," I challenge.

"Well, it's what I answered," he grins, "And to answer the question, I'm planning a sesh here in about sixty seconds, so you might want to get clear of the blast zone."

"Elliott..." I sigh, ready to tell him off. Then I just shrug, "...I'm glad you're comfortable enough with me to tell me these things."

"Aww, you made it wholesome. Now it's no fun," he laughs.

*****

"So Chase," Heather says across the lab table, smiling, "I hear you're coming to the Ahoa party."

"The what?" T.J. asks from under the countertop as he searches for the supplies for today's lab.

"Oh, yeah, it's like, this big party with a bonfire and everything, you should totally come!" Heather smiles.

"He's busy that day," Micha quips.

"How do you know that?" Heather asks, and there's a certain flatness in her tone.

"Trust me, he is," Micha doubles down, "Ain't that right, Toby?"

"Um, it's T.J. now, and I don't know, I don't know when it is," T.J. explains, connecting their burner to the gas spigot.

"It's--" Heather starts.

"On second thought," Micha interrupts her, "Maybe you should come. You seem like the type that might be into sativa."

"Sa-- What?"

"It's weed. Keith always saves his best shit for Ahoa. Plus he's always super generous with it, you'll get blitzed out of your mind. He says it helps with the transcendence. You know..." Micha's suddenly got an evil smirk, and I'm reminded of Sydney and Flynn back when they'd pull their mean pranks when we were kids, "...to help get into the right mindset, for the pagan ritual."

"Oh, well I don't know if--" T.J. starts.

"Of course," Micha continues, that stupid grin still plastered on his face, "You probably won't want to smoke too much weed. Cause there'll be plenty of beer there, too. If you've never smoked before, you don't wanna start when you're drunk. Cross-faded on your first time is bad road, for sure."

"Oh, well I don't really drink, I don't know if I should... I mean, not that it's not okay that you do it! I mean, it'd be okay if you didn't do it too, of course, but I--"

"T.J., buddy," I snap to get his attention, as I watch the muzzle twitching escalate, "Calm down."

"O-okay," T.J. sighs.

"So, Micha," I turn towards the bat, "When _is_the Ahoa party, since, you know, you didn't tell me, either."

"Oh, did I not? Uh..." he glances towards T.J., as if he doesn't want him to know. Like T.J. is still gonna go after finding out about all the drugs and alcohol. "It's on Saturday. _This_Saturday. At Keith's place. Or, you know, behind his place, since it's a fire and all."

"And Keith's place is...?" I inquire.

"It's on the way towards... Actually, I've got a better idea. Give me your phone," he demands.

I hand it to him before realizing that I should probably have asked why first.

"Here," he says, tossing-- literally tossing-- his phone at me, "I'll put my number in here, you put yours in mine. I'll come by and pick you up, we can go together."

As a date? Or...

Micha's phone background is a slightly bitcrushed image of some band logo I've never seen before. I open his contacts, and briefly consider flipping through them, just to see who he knows. But I know that's uncool, so I tap the "add contact" shoulder button before I can give into the temptation. I stare at the input fields for a moment, trying to think of a clever name to put in. But I'm not a clever person, at least not today, with my brain running on half-sleep. Which is, unfortunately, starting to become the norm for me. So I just put in "Chase Hunter" like a good boy would.

I take my phone back, and assume that Micha will have put something clever, and perhaps inappropriate, in mine. But sure enough, it's just his name.

"Huh," I hum to myself.

"What?" Micha raises an eyebrow.

"Oh, just..." I trail off, "Just didn't know your last name, is all."

He gives me a sort of weird look, but then just shrugs.

"Eh, well, now you do," he says nonchalantly.

"Hey, Chase! You and me can exchange numbers too, you know, if you want!" T.J. grins.

"Oh, uh, yeah, sure!" I smile at him. I pass my phone to him, and accept his. A small voice in my head tells me to put myself in as "Lucifer" or something, so that maybe I can spook him when I first text him. But I convince myself that that's not _that_clever a prank, and just settle for my boring name. When I take my phone back, I definitely expect it to be just his name, knowing T.J.

Yet somehow, he still manages to surprise me.

His name is in there, alright. His full name.

Tobias (T.J.) Jedidiah Hess

He put his full name. Like it was a loan application or something. He put "T.J." in parentheses. Like I might not remember who Tobias Jedidiah was without that clue.

He is without a doubt the biggest fucking dork I've ever met in my life.

I see him glance at Micha, as if he's considering asking him for his number. I also see Micha's face contort, preparing a shitty response. In the end, T.J. decides against it.

Then he puts his phone away. I glance over at Heather.

Come on T.J., are you gonna make us do everything?

I'm about to say something, when I get a better idea. I pull my phone back out, and text him.

Hey, TJ

He pulls out his phone, and looks at it. He glances up at me, confused. Then he shrugs and types a response.

Tobias Jedidiah (T.J.) Hess: Hi Chase :)

Leave it to T.J. to keep emoticons alive and well.

You should ask Heather for her number.

Tobias Jedidiah (T.J.) Hess: Why?

I roll my eyes.

Because it's the first step in dating someone.

Tobias Jedidiah (T.J.) Hess: What makes you think I want to date her?

He looks up to find me giving him a hard stare.

It's pretty obvious

Get her number, already

Stud

I'm not sure why I added that last one. Figured maybe he needed the confidence boost.

Tobias Jedidiah (T.J.) Hess: Obvious?

Tobias Jedidiah (T.J.) Hess: Is that why you and Micah traded numbers? ;P

I have the briefest of panic attacks, before remembering who it is I'm talking to. He has no idea. He's just teasing me. Damn it, I just got successfully teased by T.J. Hess. I must be going soft.

It's spelled Micha

I learned just now when he put it in my phone

And dont try to distract me. Get that number.

You can tell her its to study :)

Tobias Jedidiah (T.J.) Hess: You get her number, if you want it so bad. :P

I raise an eyebrow. What bluff does he think he's calling here?

I guess, if you insist

I'll ask her 4 u

"Hey, Heather..." I start.

"Heather!" T.J. interrupts suddenly. There you go. "Would you want to maybe exchange numbers? You know, in case we wanted to go over something from class?"

"You could even study together," I suggest.

"We could?" He asks, then his ears perk up, "We could! If you wanted to, I mean. Or we could work on homework together, or we could..."

T.J. keeps yammering for a bit, but Heather's phone is already out.

"Oh! Uh, gosh, thanks!" T.J. grins, handing his phone over. I make sure his phone is back in his own hands before texting:

Told u ur a stud

T.J. looks down at his phone, then looks up at me, ears flattening in embarrassment.

Tobias Jedidiah (T.J.) Hess: Thanks?

I shoot him a quick wink.

"So, Heather," I ask across the table, "You're going to T.J.'s Bible study today, right? His mom can give you a ride home if you need."

T.J. shoots me a bit of a look, like he doesn't like me interfering. Like that's going to stop me.

"Oh, maybe I could..." Heather trails off. She suddenly shoots a look at Micha, and smirks, "I'll go if Micha goes."

"Wait, what does it have to do with me?" Micha whines.

"Yeah, why does he have to go just for you to go?" T.J. agrees, before quickly adding, "Not that I'd have a problem with you coming too, of course."

"Why don't you just go, Heather?" Micha asks, and there's a slight gentleness to his tone. I guess, knowing what I know about her home life, I get why he's so adamant on seeing her go to the Bible study.

"It'll be more fun if you go," she insists.

Micha folds his arms and huffs. Then he looks over at me.

Don't you dare.

"I'll go if Chase goes," he mutters.

Fucker.

Now it's all on me. Now, if Micha doesn't go, it's my fault, which means if Heather doesn't go, it's my fault. Which means if Heather's at home, instead of getting to know T.J., that's... My fault.

Asshole.

He's probably expecting me to say "no". He just wants it to not be his fault.

So I grin.

"See you there, Micha."

*****

"Ugh," Micha groans as he, Heather, and I approach the door to the Bible study, "I swear, if I open this door, and they're all in there in a circle like some kind of cult, I'm out."

"Well, actually--" I try to warn him.

He pushes the door open, and, sure enough, finds the group sitting in their circle, like they were the last time I was here. He shoots me a look.

"Come on already, just go!" Heather encourages, shoving us into the room from behind.

T.J. is sitting next to Julian, just like last time. His face brightens when he sees us enter, or, at least, when he sees Heather enter. He offers a cheerful wave.

"Hey guys! Heather, I got you a seat!" T.J. gently pats the empty chair to his right, then his gaze shifts to Micha and me, "Sorry, I would've gotten you chairs too, I just wasn't sure if you were actually coming." I feel a little guilty about that.

"Why the hell did you think we wouldn't come?" Micha asks. I give him an incredulous look, and he shrugs. "Well, anyway, we're here."

Micha and I cross the room and each pull a chair from the stacks. I take the same spot as last time, opposite T.J., and Micha slides in next to me. It seems like most of the same people are here from last time, though I'll be honest, I can't really remember. There isn't anyone new here, I don't think. But there may very well be people missing. The one person I was hoping _would_be missing, on the other hand, is sitting in the same spot as before, grinning smugly.

"Didn't think we'd see you again, murderer," Donnie smirks.

"Keep talking, Donnie," I grin back, "And _nobody's_gonna see you again."

"If we're ready to start?" Julian half-asks, half-announces. His gaze is turned towards T.J., who is chatting with Heather.

Stud.

"T.J.?" Julian nudges.

"Oh!" T.J. snaps to attention. He looks around the room.

"Welcome everyone to another Bible study. I see we have a couple of new faces, I thought maybe we could go around and introduce oursel--"

"Fuck that," Donnie snarls.

"Well, I just thought--" T.J. tries, but it's clear that he's losing control of the meeting already.

"What, are we just gonna keep introducing ourselves every damn time?" Donnie retorts, "It's just fucking stu--"

"HEY!" Heather hisses, and gives Donnie the meanest look I've ever seen her give. She's fucking scary. Then her face softens, she smiles, and it's like nothing ever happened. "I'm Heather," she offers, "...and that's Micha, and I think you already met Chase, right?"

There's awkward mumbling as no one knows how to respond, and no one wants to draw her ire.

"Okay," T.J. finally offers gently, "So around here we kind of have a tradition, that the new people in the group share their favorite bible verse."

"That's not a tradition," the skink to my left (Mark? Mike?) insists, "That's just a thing we did once."

"Okay, well, I thought maybe we could do it again?" T.J. shrugs, "Unless you wanted to discuss something specific, of course."

The skink (Marco? Miles?) shrugs.

"Nah, go ahead."

"Okay, so then... Micha, what's your favorite Bible verse?"

"Don't got one," Micha huffs, arms folded.

"Surely you can think of one?" Julian goads.

"Hmm..." he furrows his brow, then glances at me, "Sure, alright. That horsecock one."

"Micha!" Heather snaps.

"What? I don't know any! At least not by name!" Micha insists.

"Oh! Well," T.J. smiles, "If you maybe remember the verse itself, or what it's about, maybe we can figure out which one it is?"

"Uh..." Micha makes a face like he's thinking hard about... something. Then he sort of sighs.

"Come on, Micha, aren't your parents, like, super religious or whatever?" Heather asks.

"Fuck no. I mean, yeah, but only when it comes to, like, corporal punishment, and homophobia and shit like that. They haven't been to church in I don't know how long. Not since I was real little, that's for sure," Micha grumbles.

"I guess you probably don't remember any verses then," T.J. offers, "...since you were so young."

"You guessed right," Micha smirks, but then frowns, "Well, there is this one, that always stuck with me. Something from Sunday school, I guess. But I don't know what verse it is."

"Do you remember the text itself?" Julian asks.

Micha purses his lips, then nods slowly.

"I think so."

"Well, let's give it a shot? Maybe T.J. or I-- or one of the others-- can figure out which one it is?" Julian offers.

"Uhh, so it's somethin' like... 'Behold, I was shaped in iniquity,' or somethin' like that?" Micha says uncertainly.

"Yeah, I've definitely heard that one before," Julian confirms, "Psalms?"

"I dunno," Micha answers, but it appears that Julian was asking T.J. They're mumbling back and forth, flipping through their Bibles-- which they have with them, of course-- trying to find Micha's verse.

"Got it!" T.J. cheers, "The full text is 'Behold, I was shapen in iniquity, and in sin did my mother conceive me.'"

"Huh, didn't know there was a 'yo momma' joke in there, nice," Micha laughs to himself.

"Why was this your favorite verse?" T.J. asks.

Micha shrugs.

"Like I said, I don't know if it is. Just the only one I can remember, is all."

"Why did this verse stick with you, do you think?" Julian asks.

Micha furrows his brow in thought for a moment.

"I'm... not sure. Just the way I've always felt, I guess?" he offers somberly.

"Felt what way?" Julian presses.

"Like..." he begins, then looks around the circle and rolls his eyes, like he doesn't want to have a deep conversation with random strangers. Which is probably a reasonable way to feel. "Just, like, the idea of it. Of being born a certain way. Or of being made a certain way. It's just... bullshit, you know?" He looks up at Julian. "Like, some people are born to a rich, loving family, and just have everything in the world thrown at them, you know? Then some of us are born to my_parents, in fuckin' _Echo. Some of us will live and die, and never have meant a thing to anyone, just because we weren't born in the right place, or the right time, to the right people, with the right fuckin' money and shit. There's supposed to be this big, just God overlooking everything, but like... What's the point? If He lets kids be born with AIDS and innocent people die to drunk drivers and shit, while rapist Hollywood producers just get to run around doin' whatever? What's the point of Him watching over us, if He's just gonna let all that fly? People like to say we're all born equal, that we're all God's children. But that's horseshit, we ain't all equal. Not from the second we're born, you know? And it doesn't mean shit to be someone's 'child'. Being someone's child doesn't mean they'll look out for you. Just trust me on that one." He leans back into his chair, like he's exhausted from talking. There's an incredibly awkward silence in the circle.

"What?" Micha asks in disbelief, "Don't tell me you're not gonna try and convince me why I'm wrong. I know better."

Julian smirks.

"I'm working on it," he says, flipping through his Bible.

The strange silence falls on us again. I glance around the circle. The skink next to me (Mitch?) looks deep in thought, lips moving imperceptibly as he thinks to himself. I look to the right side of the circle and find the pika looking around as well. Our eyes meet.

He shrugs.

"I'm just here 'cause my mom can't pick me up 'till 4:30 on Tuesdays. I don't know anything about what's going on."

"Got it!" Julian says suddenly, "Romans! Chapter nine:

'You will say to me then, 'Why does He still find fault? For who has resisted His will?' But indeed, O man, who are you to reply against God? Will the thing formed say to him who formed it, 'Why have you made me like this?' Does not the potter have power over the clay, from the same lump to make one vessel for honor and another for dishonor?'

You see, Micha, it's part of God's design that we're all different from one another. God honors who He honors, and hardens who he hardens," Julian says, sighing in that Jesus-junkie sort of way.

"Yeah, but that's still bullshit," Micha huffs, "Saying 'it's right', and saying 'it's wrong, but you're not allowed to point it out', is two different things."

"But as the verse says, does the clay ask the potter why it's being shaped into whatever vessel it's being shaped into?"

"Clay can't think," Micha says flatly, "It probably would_ask if it _could. And that's kind of my point, too-- What potter would purposely make shitty pottery? If you're like, an artist or whatever, don't you typically try to make each thing as good as you can? If God's so perfect, how come everything's so fucked up down here?"

"We discussed this a bit at the last group Chase attended, but it has to do with mortal reactions to His will. He is perfect and everlasting, but we're all flawed beings," Julian explains.

"Because_He_made us flawed. He's perfect. He could have made _us_perfect," Micha hums.

"Is that what you want?" Julian asks, "To be perfect?"

Micha considers for a moment.

"Not perfect. But it wouldn't kill anyone if we were all a bit better," Micha pontificates.

"But the thing is, the way we grow is through adversity. The grit is what makes life interesting. The pain is what makes the relief from pain have value. The scars are what make us beautiful," Julian responds.

Micha shakes his head, letting out a dry laugh.

"Let me ask you a question, antlers."

"Julian."

"Sure. You live here in town, don't you, Julian?"

"Yes."

"How often do you make it down to, oh, I don't know, say, Echo?"

"Not too often... Why?" Julian asks warily.

"Exactly," Micha nods, another dry laugh escaping him, "Didn't think so. All that 'beauty from pain' talk only ever comes from people who've never seen pain. Never really seen it, at least. Of course, deep down, you knew that." Micha points an accusing finger at Julian, "That's exactly _why_you never go to Echo."

"I don't go to Echo, Micha," Julian says calmly, but I can tell he's seething just behind his facade, "Because there's nothing _for me_in Echo. No other reason."

"There's nothing for anyone in Echo, that's my point," Micha insists.

"You know, I find it a bit presumptuous of you to assume I've never seen tragedy in my life, Micha," Julian says, again with that I'm-calm-but-I'm-secretly-gonna-kill-you tone.

"Never said that," Micha shakes his head. "But that's just it-- you've seen tragedy. You've seen beautiful, poetic sadness. _Romeo and Juliet_type shit. You haven't seen the things a junkie will do for one more ride to Heaven. You haven't seen the things a dealer will_make_a junkie do for it. You haven't seen someone whose dad--"

Micha's voice hitches suddenly, as if he's suddenly decided not to share that story, and there's a half-second glance towards Heather that only I see. Then he continues.

"My buddy, Clint-- his dad likes to tell him stories and shit, just to fuck with his head. Tells this one about this wolf who got his legs chopped off by a train back in the 50s. Go tell that guy that he's part of God's plan. Or tell Clint, for that matter. I got another buddy, grown-ass man, stuck living with his mom, and trapped in the fuckin' closet because she'd kick him out if she knew. And he's not the only person in Echo with parents who'd do that. I know people on every type of drug you ever heard of, all barely scraping by, skin and bones, until one day... They either off themselves, or OD. There's no sad violins playing. No dramatic pan out. Just a junkie, lying in an alley, choking on his own vomit. They're not the adversity. They're not interesting. They don't ever get that _relief_you were talking about. They're just people. People who suffer and die, because God couldn't be bothered."

There's another silence.

Holy shit, what the fuck was that?

I glance over, half-expecting-- hoping, really-- to find that shit-eating smirk on his face. Like it was all an act, just to fuck with Julian. But instead I just see a stoic sort of grimace on Micha's face.

"Micha, I..." Julian begins, but he has no way to end that sentence. After a moment, he speaks again: "Look, I don't mean to sound like I'm shutting you down or anything, but... I think all of that-- what you just said-- might be a bit beyond the scope of an after-school Bible group. But... Thank you for sharing it with us."

Micha just sighs and shrugs.

"I'm sorry I can't offer more," Julian admits, "It's just--"

"Actually," T.J. interjects, "I think Heather and I have her verse picked out, if we wanted to do that? I think it might help." T.J. smiles knowingly at Micha, who just sticks his tongue out in return.

"It's cheating for her to get help from Jesus-freak over here," Micha complains to Julian.

"We both helped you find yours," T.J. responds.

"Whatever," Micha shakes his head.

"So, this one's from Ephesians--"

"What the fuck's an Ephesian?" Micha interrupts.

"Well, first, language," T.J. tuts, "And second, it's someone from Ephesus."

"First of all, you know_that doesn't answer my question," Micha insists, "Second of all... _Fuck, shit, ass."

"If you're through?" T.J. snaps, the closest to angry I've seen him for a while, "Ephesians, chapter two:

'And you were dead in the trespasses and sins in which you once walked, following the course of this world, following the prince of the power of the air, the spirit that is now at work in the sons of disobedience-- among whom we all once lived in the passions of our flesh, carrying out the desires of the body and the mind, and were by nature children of wrath, like the rest of mankind. But God, being rich in mercy, because of the great love with which he loved us, even when we were dead in our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ--by grace you have been saved-- and raised us up with him and seated us with him in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus, so that in the coming ages he might show the immeasurable riches of his grace in kindness toward us in Christ Jesus. For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God, not a result of works, so that no one may boast. For we are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand, that we should walk in them.'

So you see--"

"There's no way that was one verse," Micha narrows his eyes.

"Well, no, I guess I read the whole paragraph, but--"

"Told you," Micha says to Julian, "Cheaters."

Julian shrugs.

"Don't know what you think I can do about it. You know how T.J. is, no regard for rules. Total anarchist."

Micha makes a face which I can only describe as laughing-while-not-wanting-to-be-seen-laughing.

"My point was..." T.J. begins cautiously, expecting Micha to interrupt again, "...that we can know that we _aren't_beholden to the way we're created, because of His grace. In His grace, we are remade. However we were made before, whether shapen in iniquity, or crafted in honor... doesn't matter. We get remade. I mean, that's literally why they call conversion being 'born again'. It's meant to unmake whatever you were before. You're made anew."

T.J. and Heather sneak a glance at one another that they think nobody sees.

"See, Micha?" Heather smiles, "All that stuff, about being born bad or whatever, it doesn't matter! Because your past doesn't have to matter!"

"Is that what you think, Micha?" T.J. asks, worry in his face. Genuine worry, because it's T.J. and he cares way too much about other people. "You think that you're 'born bad'?"

Micha folds his arms.

"I don't think, I know."

"But you're not--"

"Before you say anything," he snaps at T.J., "Just listen. I said I_know_. Fact is, if you're born to junkie parents, you end up a junkie. Look at Jeremy and Jasmynn's older brother. If you're born in poverty, you're more likely to end up in jail. We all do what we have to do to survive. If you're born into a shitty situation-- if the things you have to do are bad-- then you do bad things. It's as simple as that."

"But like he said, that can all be forgiven. It all goes away," Heather assures him.

"Yeah, but it's all bullshit!" Micha growls.

"Micha! How can you say--" Heather starts.

"No! I'm sorry, Heather, T.J., antlers..."

"Julian."

"...Chase, everybody, I'm sorry, but it's bullshit," Micha shakes his head in disbelief.

"What makes you so sure that--" Julian starts.

"What makes me so sure that it's bullshit? Because that's just not how shit works! Like, that story I told you earlier, about the wolf who went train hopping, until a train hopped him? Say he finds God in those last moments. Does he stop bleeding? Do his legs grow back?"

Micha waits for a moment, either for effect, or actually waiting for a response.

"Of course not! So it sure sounds like his past still fucking matters! It'd be great if we could all just cut ourselves off from where we come from and escape it! I know a whole town _full_of people who'd love that! But it ain't how shit works!"

He finishes his rant, and he seems out of breath. He also looks upset, and I wonder how wound up he's getting. I guess with Micha I always assume whatever's going on is 20% bullshit, but I think maybe he's being genuine.

"Well, the past can still matter physically..." Julian starts.

"But we can change!" Heather finishes for him, "That's the point of it Micha, that we're not bound to who we've been before. To our past experiences."

"Well, maybe I just don't believe that," Micha grumbles.

"Well, maybe some of us have to," Heather insists, "Have to believe that we can get away from our pasts. From our childhoods."

I see a flicker of realization in Micha's eyes when he realizes what she's getting at.

"It's like you said, Micha. Echo messes people up. Some of us need to be able to escape, and leave it behind us. If we can't cut those ties, we'll just keep coming back to those moments. Just keep going in circles."

There's another awkward moment of silence. There have been a lot of those today.

"But your physical past still matters though," Micha mutters, "I mean, if you can't even afford to get out of Echo, then it doesn't matter how much you want to leave it behind you, it's gonna be all around you. The place you're born into matters. The way you're born matters."

"Of course it fucking matters!" the skink (Max? Methuselah?) to my left suddenly stammers, "Why the fuck am I a lizard!?"

We all take a moment, trying to comprehend the question. Then the pika pipes up:

"Well, when a mommy lizard and a daddy lizard love each other very much, they--"

"Shut up, Hunter, that's not what I'm saying. I'm saying like, what advantages are you wanting, Micha? Because-- and I know we're not supposed to talk about them-- different species have different strengths and weaknesses too. Advantages and disadvantages. And as much as we'd all like to believe it, we're not all exactly equal either. Some of us are way better off than others. Like, this guy can hold his breath for, like, ten minutes..." Matt indicates me, "...but he reeks of musk."

"Thanks."

"And like, T.J.'s from the Great White North. He's got all that fur that keeps him warm up there. I'm cold-blooded. I'd literally die if I went to visit him up there. That's just how it is. So which species would you switch to, since you probably don't want to be a bat anymore, right? Useless vestigial wings, ears as large as the day is long, small frame--"

"Hey, what are you trying to--" Micha sneers.

"If it makes you uncomfortable," the nameless lizard continues, "Then ask yourself why you're so okay with changing anything else about you. The place you live, your parents, your upbringing... Those are just as much part of who you are as your species is, if not more so. So, you want to be born in a comfier situation, ask yourself which species you'd be, too. Ask yourself how much of yourself you're willing to change to get that happy upbringing you're imagining. Because someone could have that life you're imagining, but he wouldn't be you, would he? He'd be a completely different person." The lizard folds his arms, seemingly finished with his monologue.

"You're just like antlers over there..." Micha responds.

"Micha, I've told you, my name's--"

"...Talking about this shit like you know what you're talking about. Maybe some people's lives are bad enough that they _would_give up who they are. Maybe some people are bad enough that it wouldn't be that much of a sacrifice in the first place," Micha mutters.

"Yeah, yeah," the skink rolls his eyes, "We've all listened to that emo song before."

"Hell yeah!" Hunter throws up a hand, as if expecting a high five. After reading the room, he lets it drop. "Inappropriate. I get excited about pop punk. Sorry."

"What is it about Echo that's so bad?" Julian asks, and I hear myself snort in response.

"A lot of it is because of the Hum," Heather says.

"Heather..." Micha warns.

"What's the Hum?" T.J. asks.

"You mean you've never heard of it? You live there and everything! It's this sound that you can hear all over town, and it makes people act weird. It's like, dark energy or something," she explains.

"Everyone from Echo really _is_fucking crazy," Donnie mutters to himself.

"The fuck you just say!?" Micha jumps up, fists clenched. Micha hates Echo as much as anyone _can_hate Echo. But Heather, on the other hand, he'll defend.

"I said..." the squirrel has a defiant look in his eye, "...You're all fucking crazy."

Micha takes another step, and T.J. and Julian both jump up, although I'm having a hard time imagining either of them actually getting between the two of them. I probably could, but... I kind of really want to see Donnie get knocked on his ass.

"Why don't we go ahead and just close this with a prayer?" T.J. says optimistically.

Micha doesn't move, still taught and ready to strike. I gently, subtly, place a hand against Micha's arm, and he turns to look at me. I give him a look of understanding, one which says that I won't think less of him for backing down, but that I won't be mad if he goes for it, either. He nods in a sort of understanding.

"Fine," he mutters, and sits back down.

*****

Something which _hadn't_occurred to me, when volunteering all of us to go to Bible study, was how the hell we'd get home. Which is why we're now all crammed in the back seat of T.J.'s mom's car. Sydney is pressed against the driver's side door, I'm sandwiched between him and Micha, and Heather is on the passenger side, just behind T.J. T.J.'s mom had said something about not having enough seatbelts for all of us, but to be honest, I don't think we're going anywhere, even if the car crashes. With Sydney and Micha pressing into me from both sides, this is the most securely I've ever been packed into a car seat.

As uncomfortable as it is, I can't exactly say I mind being pressed up against these two particular gentlemen, either.

"So T.J." Heather leans over T.J.'s shoulder, "You never said if you were coming to the Ahoa party or not."

"What's this about a party?" T.J.'s mom asks over her shoulder.

"Oh, it's this big bonfire thing my friend Keith throws, there's gonna be food, and drinks--" Heather answers.

"What kind of drinks?" T.J.'s mom asks, eyes narrowing.

"Oh, you know..." Heather shrugs, her sudden nervousness only slightly obvious, "...fruit juice, soda, the usual stuff like that."

"Mmhmm," T.J.'s mom says, unbelieving.

"Oh, well I'd probably bring my own then. Did you know that most fruit juices have just as many calories as sodas?" T.J. answers obliviously.

"So are you coming or not?" Heather asks excitedly.

"Well--" T.J. starts.

"When is it?" Sydney asks from my left.

"Doesn't matter, cause T.J.'s busy that day, I already told her," Micha insists.

"This Saturday, in the evening," Heather answers, ignoring Micha.

"Oh, shoot, he really _is_busy then," Sydney answers.

"How do you know?" I ask.

"Because we're both busy," he says.

"With what?" I ask, before the embarrassment on his face reminds me. "Oh, right, you guys have the concert. The Flatiron Fryer concert."

Sydney smirks at me, "Yep, that's right Chase, thank you so much for reminding all of us."

"Oh yeah! I can't believe that it's finally here!" T.J. says excitedly, again oblivious to the ribbing I'm giving Sydney.

"You_would_like Flatiron Fryer, wouldn't you?" Micha smirks.

"Uh, yeah? I do?" T.J. says, not understanding how that's an accusation. "Have you ever given them a chance, Micha? Their lyrics are surprisingly deep. You know, you think they're singing about one thing, but it turns out it's full of references, and is really about something entirely different."

"Something entirely different... Like Jesus?" Micha asks.

"Well, sometimes..." T.J. admits.

"Most of the time?" Micha presses.

"Well I don't know if--"

"Yeah," Sydney answers for T.J., "Most of the time."

"And when you say references... You probably mean, like, Biblical references. Right?" Micha raises an eyebrow.

"Uh, well..." T.J. squirms.

"Usually, yeah," Sydney grins, "Why, is that a problem?"

"Nah, nah," Micha shakes his head, "It's just-- lyrical depth... Always felt dishonest to me, ya know? Maybe 'cause I listen to punky stuff mostly--"

"Punk music can have good lyrics," T.J. interjects.

"Didn't say it couldn't. But it doesn't tend to have depth. Tons and tons of layers. Like, if you want to tell me something, just say it, or get off the stage. No need to hide it under esoteric bullshit," Micha explains.

"Language," Mrs. Hess nags.

"Sorry, meant 'esoteric horsepucky'," Micha jokes. Mrs. Hess clicks her tongue, but says nothing.

"So you're into punk music, huh?" Sydney asks.

"Punky stuff, yeah. Not necessarily, like, _punk_punk. But you know, ska punk, pop punk, folk punk--"

"What was that first one?" Sydney interrupts.

"Pop punk," Micha says flatly. "Why do you care?"

"Just figured that might explain your sense of fashion," Sydney says, before quickly adding, "Not that I'm knocking it, it's just... interesting. Not the way a lot of guys would be willing to dress."

"Well, I do a lot of stuff that most guys in our school ain't got the balls to do," Micha smirks. Then he shoots a guilty look towards T.J.'s mom. "Sorry, I meant to say 'testicles'."

"I'm not sure that's actually better," T.J. explains.

"I just mean, those shorts," Sydney insists, "They're bold."

"Like I said before," Micha mutters, "If you got something to say, then just say it."

"No, I'm just saying, they're unique. And they seem familiar somehow," Sydney says.

He recognizes the shorts.

He knows it was Micha who was with me in the locker room.

Kill me.

"Well, maybe you've seen me around?" Micha offers, "I mean, we go to the same school."

"Yeah, that must be it," Sydney grins, and I can feel him looking at me, "You live in Echo, right?"

"I'm in the wrong car if I don't, since we already left Payton."

"Yeah, guess you're right. Well maybe I'll see you around. You _and_Chase."

"Maybe you will," Micha shrugs.

"Sure, maybe you and T.J. can come to the next Ahoa party," Heather offers.

"They're busy next time," Micha insists.

*****

Micha and Heather insist on being dropped off at the corner of Jasmynn street, either to avoid the aggravation from their parents asking who they got a ride from, or to avoid the embarrassment of us seeing their homes. I offered to get out there, as well, and think I catch Sydney staring at Micha's ass as I'm getting out. Not in a leering sort of way, more like he's trying to confirm if that's the ass he and Elliott saw in the locker room that day. I'll have to convince him not to say anything, given that we're still technically at large for a digital camera. A digital camera which is now owned by one hippie fennec drug dealer.

I wave my goodbyes to Micha and Heather. I can't help but smile when I think about the idea of T.J. and Heather finally getting to know each other, after all of this time clearly pining. A smile which falters when I start to wonder if that's what's going on between me and Micha. It has to be, right? But if I get it wrong... That's a reputation lost, a friendship ruined, and my life basically over. But the longer I think about it the more obvious it is. The more obvious my own feelings seem, at least. And after that text from T.J.... Was he just messing with me, or am I being that obvious?

Either way, I think to myself, I just wish it was Saturday already.

The Second Saturday: Ritual

Problem Child

An Echo Fan Fiction

By Fable91

It's Saturday already.

Mom's off running errands, as per the usual on a Saturday. I've been watching TV all morning, to keep myself from going crazy waiting. Fact is, I'm excited. I feel like a dweeb for being excited, like I should be too cool to be excited for a party.

But let's face it, I'm not cool, and this is the first party I've been to since That Day. So I'm an excited dweeb.

I'm fighting the itch to text Micha, because I know you're supposed to be too cool to do that sort of thing, right? That's how it always is on TV. I know I shouldn't be over-thinking this, because that's something else the cool kids don't do, right?

But again... not cool. So, over-thinking.

But I know I have to figure out what the hell is going on with Micha soon. Because it's driving me crazy. If he's not interested in me, then that's fine. We can be friends. I'm completely cool with that.

And if he _is_interested in me?

I think, maybe, I'm cool with that, too? Not only that, but I've started wondering if maybe I'm interested in him? I mean, let's face it, I know I am. But is it really a good idea to try and follow through? Because, the thing is...

I don't want to be gay.

I don't have a problem with it, exactly. I mean, that's one of the few things about Leo and Flynn that I _can_stand. But that's just it... it's fine for other people. That doesn't mean that I want it. Being gay is for the brave, resilient heroes who can stand up to the bullies and find their inner strength and teach us all a valuable lesson by the end of the episode.

I'm not brave. I'm no fucking hero. I have no inner strength.

I'm just trying to fucking survive high school, and shuffle into whatever dead-end job I can land until I die in some barfight in my mid-twenties. I'll take the vanilla high school experience.

No rainbow sprinkles, please.

And I know what you're thinking, and you don't have to tell me. I get that it's bullshit. I get that it sounds like I must have a problem with gays, if I don't want to be one myself. But I promise I don't. I just don't want it for myself.

I don't hate ambulances.

They're important. They do an important thing, and I'm glad they're there. There's nothing wrong with ambulances.

But you still don't want to see one pulling into _your_driveway, do you?

Exactly.

Being gay is fine for other people. But ever since I was little, the future I saw for myself included a wife. And while it's beginning to look like there's no chance of that, that doesn't mean I'm about to switch teams.

But if Micha is into me, that's fine. I won't think less of him, or anything, you know? And I'll let him down easy. We'll be friends. It'd be cool to have a gay friend, I think. And Micha's a cool friend to begin with, so... It's flattering too, you know? Having someone find you attractive at all, and _especially_someone as hot as Micha.

Wait, not hot... But like... I mean...

Fuck.

My phone beeps at me, the sound of a text message. Mom must be picking up lunch on her way home.

But it isn't her.

Micha: Hey, this is chase rite?

I stare at the phone for a moment, almost as if I'm not sure of the answer. Finally, I snap out of it and tap out a reply.

Yea

Micha: Cool, what u up 2?

I look around the room for a second. What would be a cool thing to be up to? Is watching TV an okay answer?

Watchin TV

Micha: Cool

Micha: Dont forget aloha tonight

Micha: Ahoa

Micha: ducking autocorrect

_Don't forget?_It's literally the only thing I've thought about all day.

Ya, I no

I'm excited

Oh, shit, why did I say that? Fucking dweeb.

Micha: Me too

Micha: Alohas great

Micha: Ahoa

Micha: Keith makes the best a pinatas

Micha: I know that's not rite, I don't know how to spell it

Micha: And autocorrect isn't even helping

He's excited too? I mean, I guess, why wouldn't he be? Like I said, over-thinking everything. Not sure what "a pinatas" is supposed to be though. Guess I'll find out tonight.

Good, can't wait for a pinatas

Micha: It's a food thing. You'll know it when you see it.

Micha: Smartass

Micha: M pinatas

Micha: That's closer, I think.

I think for a moment.

Empanadas?

Micha: Yeah!

Micha: You had em before?

I think back. There was something I had at Leo's house, once, when we were way younger. It wasn't long after he, Jas-- I mean Jenna, and I first met.

Are they anything like papusas?

Micha: No idea

Micha: They're great tho, trust me

Micha: Good with a surface a

I begin to type a snarky response, but he beats me to it.

Micha: I no that's not rite either.

Micha: Sonoran beer

Cerveza?

Hey Micha, can u do me a favor

I've just realized something that should definitely have occurred to me before now.

Micha: That's it! Cerveza

Micha: I was close

Micha: Maybe, what u need

Is there any way you could grab me a beer when you get yours?

I don't really have a way to get my own

And I don't think a 40 would fit in my otter pocket

Micha: Otter pocket?

Micha: You mean like a prison wallet?

WTF is a prison wallet

Micha: Ur ass, chase. Its ur ass.

WTF No!

It's an otter thing, like your wing trick

Do people really not know about otter pockets? I mean, I guess they must not, or else it wouldn't be such a good stash spot. Grinning to myself, I add:

Don't think a 40 would fit in my ass either, tho

A momentary pause, wherein I imagine him laughing. The way his nose scrunches when he--

Fuck.

I'm down bad for this bat, aren't I?

Micha: Ud be surprised

Micha: U never no till u try

Micha: Keith's gettin mine, I'll text him real quick

While waiting for his follow-up, I think of another jab:

He's gettin ur beer, or ur ass?

Micha: Both

Micha: It's like a trade

Micha: And he says it's cool, he'll grab urs when he gets mine

Again, my beer or my ass?

Micha: Beer first

Micha: But once you've tried his empanadas, who knows

Micha: Keep ur options open

Micha: Cuz there fuckin good empanadas

I laugh out loud at that. Then I get the sudden impulse to say something risque. Am I willing to be flirty with Micha? I mean, we're just texting like this, just joking around. I can just say I was joking if it goes south, right?

So I assume for arranging all of this, you get a finder's fee?

Like, 10% of my ass?

My heart pounds as I wait for a reply.

Micha: Nah

Micha: I get 100% of ur mouth

Micha: Say aaaah

I feel like an idiot for ever being nervous. This is Micha I'm talking to. Micha, my friend. Because that's a thing I have now, after two years of being an abject loser.

So you get mouth, he gets ass?

Good. Cuz he's prolly bigger than u

Micha: Think ur so funny

Micha: Lets see you tell ur jokes with nine inches of bat down ur throat

Why, do you have a brother or something?

Micha: Soooo funny

Micha: Choke on it

Make me

Micha: That's the plan

Micha: We'll do the spitroast before dinner

Micha: If you gagged and puked, would be a waste of empanada

These empanadas must really be amazing

If we're arranging our spitroasting session around them

Micha: You'll see.

*****

I spend the rest of the morning like that-- exchanging jabs disguised as sexual propositions, or sexual propositions disguised as jabs, I'm not sure which. Mom gets home in the early afternoon with a late lunch: fish sandwiches from one of the local diner places in Payton. It's already a bit cold by the time I'm digging into it, but not so cold that it isn't still good. The place is an old Anglish-style place, the kind that sells crinkle fries and calls them "chips" and gives you malt vinegar to put on them instead of catsup like a normal place. I'm pretty sure the only meat the place sells is deep-fried cod, just arranged in different ways to convince you that it's a complete menu.

But you know what? I'm an otter who likes fish. Make whatever snarky speciesist joke you want to and move on with your life. I can't hear you, I'm busy eating my fillet-o-fish.

I spend the afternoon after lunch lounging around, then showering and getting dressed. I decide on something a tad nicer than I'd usually wear, but not obnoxiously so. I'm still on the fence about whether or not this Ahoa party is a date, or even about what the hell's going on between me and Micha. There's feelings there, I know that much.

But I don't know what to do with that.

I do, however, make one classy adjustment to my wardrobe, in the form of my musk-off spray. Where I would normally use the cheap otter-shampoo silicone flower scented Battleaxe Mountain Glacier, today I'm opting for something a little bit fancier. A real fragrance, by a real fragrance house, with a fancy fashion name and everything. A glass bottle that Mom got for me last Christmas, I think because she assumed I had to be getting close to dating girls. A bottle I haven't touched since.

A valiant effort, Mom.

I let Micha know I'm ready, and am just about to head out the door when she stops me.

"What are you all dressed up for?" she asks.

I shrug.

"Nothing, just felt like dressing nice, I guess," I lie.

"Where are you headed?" she asks.

"Just to hang out with some friends," I say nonchalantly.

"I don't remember saying you could do that," she hums.

"It's Saturday," I say matter-of-factly.

"And?"

I sigh, "Can I please go hang out with my friends?"

She wrinkles her nose.

"Who all is going to be there?" she asks.

God, why did she pick today of all days to be a total mom?

"What does it matter?" I ask, slightly irritated.

"I could just say no" she warns sternly.

"I could just leave anyway," I sneer, pushing the front door open.

She gives me the look. The I'm-not-mad-I'm-disappointed look.

Fuck.

I pull the door shut.

"Just Micha and his friends," I mutter, "Please, can I just go?"

"This is the same Micha...?"

"It's the only Micha, yeah."

She's giving me a look of consternation. A look I know all too well. I already know what's coming, so I decide to beat her to the punch.

"Just fucking forget it, I'll tell him I can't go," I growl.

"Now hold on, why--"

"No!" I interrupt, "I'm not fucking doing... Whatever this_is. You're clearly not gonna let me go, so just say so." My voice cracks. _Fuck, I'm more of a crybaby than T.J. is."I'll just spend another goddamn Saturday night alone in my room, like always."

I pull my phone out to text Micha, and stomp towards my room.

"Chase Hunter, don't you take another step," she scolds, the closest to yelling that I've heard her in months.

I stop. I feel the muscles in my legs tensing, trying to take that step, just because I was told not to.

I don't do well with authority.

Finally, I swallow all of the shitty things I want to say, take a deep breath, and turn towards her.

"What?" I mumble weakly.

"What the hell is going on with you?" she asks.

"What do you--"

"You know _exactly_what I mean! Sneaking around, hiding things from me, getting lippy when I ask you a simple question," she scolds, "This isn't like you at all."

"I don't know where you've been, Mom," I counter, "But getting up to shit I'm not supposed to is _exactly_like me."

"Chase, I'm the one grownup in your life who that isn't going to work on," she lectures.

Shit, she's right.

I sigh.

"I'm sorry, alright? I just knew you were going to make a big deal out of it."

"Why would you think that?" she asks, apparently appalled.

"You're literally yelling at me right now," I argue.

She pinches the bridge of her nose.

"Chase, I know it may seem like I'm trying to ruin your life, but I--"

"Taking an interest, keeping me safe, yeah, yeah, I know," I groan, "I get it, I do. But it feels kinda bullshit that the first time I go out in two years I'm getting the third degree for it, like I'm always going out partying or something."

"Well," she smirks, "Like you said, getting up to shit you're not supposed to is 'exactly like' you."

Goddamn it.

"Okay, okay. Can we just start this over? I'm going to hang out with Micha, cool?" I offer.

"Where at?" she asks.

I roll my eyes.

"Chase."

"I know, I know," I assure her, "It's at Keith's place."

"Keith...?"

"Yeah," I confirm, "I don't know his last name. Fennec guy, Mesata too, I think? He's having an Ahoa party."

"What's--"

"An Ahoa party is this Mesata thing," I pre-emptively explain, "It's just like, a bonfire thing. There's apparently gonna be empanadas. I'll try to remember to bring you one back if you let me go." I give her my best puppy-dog eyes. Puppy-dog eyes aren't as cute on teenagers, but it's the only trick I have left.

"Where is Keith's place at?" she asks.

"I'm... not sure," I confess, "Micha is on his way, he's gonna take me there."

"So you're asking me to let you go with someone I know nothing about, other than that he's a troublemaker, to a party hosted by an adult I've never met, at a house you don't know the location of, to celebrate a holiday I've never heard of, and..." she raises an eyebrow, "...eat empanadas?

"There might be a spit roast, too," I offer, internally smirking. "And you know, I don't think it's exactly fair of you to judge Micha like that, since you've never even met him. I mean, to everyone else in town, I'm exactly the same way, you know?"

"You're right," she concedes, smiling warmly. Her smile is perfectly friendly, but suddenly my prey instinct is begging me to run. Then the guillotine drops: "When he comes to pick you up, I want to meet him."

"Wh-- What?" I ask, laughing nervously, "Why would you want--"

"I'm not letting you go otherwise, Chase," she says firmly.

Fuck.

*****

A few minutes later, Micha shows up.

Unfortunately, he doesn't show up alone.

I'm sitting on the couch, watching TV with Mom, when I hear the honk of a car horn.

I jump up, confused, because I was under the impression that Micha and I were walking. I peer through the blinds to find Keith's jalopy in the driveway. Through the windshield I can clearly see Keith and Micha, and I'm pretty sure I can see motion in the backseat that must be the others. Micha catches my eye, and gives me a wave.

"Looks like Keith brought everyone to come pick me up, so you'll have to meet Micha some other time," I tell Mom as I try to rush out the door.

No luck.

"Great, that gives me a chance to meet everyone," she insists.

"Mom, you can't be serious," I deadpan.

"I am," she says.

I look back out the window. Micha is giving me an incredulous look, shrugging as if to say "what the fuck's taking so long?"

My phone beeps.

Micha: What the fucks taking so long

My mom wants to meet you

All of you

Micha: ?

Just forget it

You guys have fun, sorry

I see Micha read his phone, then look up at me. He turns towards Keith and says something, and Keith looks up at me and smiles.

Then he does something horrifying.

He turns the car off, and opens his door.

Oh God, they're actually coming in.

The other three doors open, and the whole group: Keith, Micha, Jeremy, Clint, and Heather, scramble out.

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

This has to be one of my nightmares. I just have to wake up.

Keith gently raps his knuckles against the front door.

"Come in" Mom hollers, having _way_too much fun with this.

The entire group wanders in, Keith in the lead.

"Good evening, Chase," Keith beams, in full impress-someone's-parents mode, "Good evening, Mrs... Chase's mom."

"Hi," Mom responds, raising an eyebrow, "You must be Keith."

"Indeed, I must," he smiles, and offers his hand.

"I'm Micha," Micha offers, clearly uncomfortable and in a hurry to get this over with.

"Right, I thought that was you," Mom says, her tone unclear, "You and Chase have been spending a lot of time together recently."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Micha asks. He's clearly trying to keep cool and mute his natural shittiness, but his eyes are wide.

"Nothing," Mom says, raising a wary brow, "Just glad Chase finally has a friend to hang out with."

Jesus Christ, Mom, could you make me sound like any more of a loser?

I see Jeremy's pudgy belly shaking with silent laughter, at my expense. Whatever, I just need this to be over.

"And you're Jasmynn's brother, right?" Mom's gaze falls upon Jeremy.

"She's Jenna now, Mom, remember?" I correct.

"Right, Jenna's brother..." Mom trails off for a second, "Adam, correct?"

Jeremy flinches.

"N-no, Adam's older than me. I'm Jeremy, the other one," he stutters awkwardly.

"Oh, right. You just look so much like--"

"I get that a lot," he interrupts.

Mom turns towards Clint. Clint, to his credit, looks exactly as happy to be in my home as I am to have him here. He glares up at her sullenly.

"I'm sorry, I'm not sure I've met you, you are...?" she offers.

Clint just keeps staring.

"He's Clint," Heather offers, "And I'm Heather. Sorry, he's just a bit shy." She punches Clint's shoulder, and while it's clearly meant to look playful, it looks like she slugs him pretty hard.

"Well, that's everyone, bye, Mom" I say, hoping everyone will take the hint.

"Hold on," Mom says, "I've got a couple more questions."

"Of course," Keith smiles, either legitimately friendly or blitzed out of his mind.

"What kind of drinks will there be at this party?" she asks.

Keith nods.

"I totally understand your concern. No responsible adult would offer high school students alcohol, I think we can agree on that. I've got soda and water available for them," he assures smoothly, "...and I know how kids can be about sneaking drinks in places. I assure you they won't be drinking any beverage of any kind which I have not personally supplied to them. As for food, I'm making empanadas."

"So I heard," Mom nods, "And a spit roast, if I'm not mistaken."

Keith shoots me a quizzical glance.

Micha shoots me an entirely different sort of look.

"Were there any other concerns?" Keith asks, "Cause if not, I really_should_get those empanadas in the oven."

"No, I suppose that's everything," Mom hums, giving Keith a once-over, as if inspecting him for contraband, "You kids have fun. I'm a little bit jealous, it's been way to long since I had a good spit roast."

I don't need to look at Micha to know that he's looking at me, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face.

"Alright, we'll be going then," I insist, holding the door open and ushering the others through.

"You've got my phone number in case you need anything, right Chase?" Mom asks.

"Yep."

"Be safe, let me know if you need a ride home."

"Got it."

"If you feel uncomfortable or anything, just call--"

"I got it, Mom."

"Love you, Chase."

I glance nervously at the others.

"Love you too, Mom," I mumble.

"What was that?" she asks.

Really?

"I said, 'I love you too, Mom'," I say, louder. I hear Jeremy snickering.

"Have fun, my little waterbug," she coos as I slam the door shut.

*****

Why.

Why?

Why the _fuck_did she call me that? She hasn't called me that since I was, like, ten. Then she picks today?

Waterbug.

Fucking waterbug.

We're in Keith's car, on our way to... wherever the hell his house is. Music I can only describe as "Christian Sludge Metal" is playing on the tape deck.

"So..." Keith says, glancing at the rearview mirror, "She seems nice."

"Yeah, she's fine, I guess," I mumble.

"So..." Keith grins, "...'waterbug', huh?"

Jeremy howls with laughter.

"It's a stupid nickname from when I was a kid. She whipped it out tonight just to embarrass me," I fume.

"I think it's cute," Keith comments.

"Exactly," I groan.

"Hey, man, I'm only teasing," Keith assures me, "For what it's worth, you have like, the most normal parent out of everyone here."

I take a quick glance around the car.

Shit, he's right. That sucks.

"Yeah, cheer up, waterbug," Jeremy jabs.

"Sure thing, Adam," I quip back. Jeremy shrinks, and Micha shoots me a look. So I guess there's more going on there than I know about.

"Honestly," Micha suddenly grins, "I wanna hear more about the last time your mom was spit-roasted."

"Fuck," I mutter.

"Yeah, what was that about?" Keith asks, "Why did she think we were having a spit roast?"

"It's..." I glance at Micha, who's grinning at me, "...kind of a long story."

"I mean, if it makes you feel better," Micha muses, "She said it's been a while since her last spit roast."

"No, she didn't," Jeremy interjects, "She just said it's been a while since her last good_one. Then she said she wanted one with _us."

"Jesus Christ," I moan, "Can we talk about literally anything else?"

"Come on guys, let's stop talking about how hot Chase's mom is," Micha grins.

"She's not hot," I insist.

"Hard disagree," Jeremy argues.

I elbow Jeremy in the ribs, the pained grunt he lets out oddly satisfying. He smacks me in the back of the head in retaliation. I turn towards him, grabbing the front of his shirt, and draw my other arm back.

Keith's hand quickly snatches my elbow, his eyes still on the road.

"Play nice, you two, or no beer. Or empanadas," he warns.

I let go of Jeremy's shirt, and peel Keith's fingers away from my arm.

"Alright, alright, we'll be good," I huff, "So what did you end up getting us to drink?"

"Just some cervezas, and a bottle of Hellfire," Keith smirks.

"Hellfire?" I ask.

"Cinnamon whiskey. But we're gonna take that real slow, 'cause some of us have a tendency to get a bit violent on Hellfire," he glances meaningfully at Clint.

"That was one time, and you chased me around with a stick," Clint argues.

"_You_chased_me_around with a stick," Keith corrects.

"Yeah, but then you got the stick away from me," Clint says.

"Damn right I did. _Then_I chased you around with the stick, yeah," Keith nods warmly at the memory.

"I had those welts on my ass for like two weeks," Clint mutters.

"Always remember that that was only the second worst thing I could have done to your ass with that stick," Keith jabs.

"Yeah, you'd take any excuse you could get to try that, wouldn't you?" Clint jabs back.

"You got me, Clint," Keith smiles, "The years of friendship, the weed selling, the bar, they're all a ruse to give you a prostate orgasm. The day you cream your pants from assplay, I'm just gonna wave my dildo like a magic wand and fly away like Mary Poppins."

"_Mary_Poppins is right," Clint retorts, "_Mary Louise_Poppins, more like."

"That's a slightly esoteric term, Clint," Keith notes, "You been brushing up on your gay culture?"

"No, I think you must've rubbed off on me," Clint replies.

"Clint, if I had ever _rubbed off_on you," Keith smirks, "I'd like to believe at least one of us would remember it."

*****

Keith's trailer is on the edge of town, on the way towards the reservation. The backyard opens to miles of desert, but the yard itself seems to be marked off by patches of sagebrush. There's a pile of sticks roughly in the middle of the yard, with canvas folding chairs scattered around it. The others run ahead to the backyard, while Keith, Micha, and I take the scene in from afar.

"Feel free to have a seat anywhere, Chase," Keith invites, "Oh, and by the way, Ahoa to you."

"Uh..." I mumble uncertainly, "Ahoa to you too?"

"Right, right," Keith nods, "I haven't actually explained that bit to you yet, have I? So on Ahoa, 'Ahoa' can also be used as a greeting. To wish the recipient the internal joy of Ahoa. But it should only be used with someone who brings you that same joy."

I feel my brow raise in surprise.

"And that's... me?" I ask.

Keith shrugs.

"Yeah, so maybe it's a little premature. But the small time we have_spent together has been enriching, and I place a great deal of trust in this young man's opinion," he explains, nodding towards Micha, "So... _Ahoa. Ahoa to you, too, Micha." Keith holds out his hand.

"Sure, Ahoa to you too, buddy," Micha says, taking the hand. But instead of the handshake Micha was expecting, Keith pulls him in for a hug. Micha seems to resist at first, but then leans in and puts his free arm around Keith.

"Alright, alright, big guy," Micha mutters, "You ain't even drunk yet, man, save some hugs for later."

"Oh yeah, Keith," I remark, "You were smooth earlier, lying to my mom. I think she totally bought it."

Keith makes a strange face.

"When did I lie?" he asks.

"In the car, you said you got drinks, right?" I ask, "Like, alcoholic drinks."

"Of course."

"Didn't you tell my mom you didn't have any, and that we wouldn't be drinking?" I ask.

"Did I?" he remarks, "I remember telling her that you wouldn't drink anything I haven't provided, which is true."

"Didn't you say that you wouldn't give us--?"

"Nope," he grins, "I said _no responsible adult_would provide drinks to high schoolers. Which is probably true. But no responsible adult would invite a bunch of teenagers to hang out in a dive bar, or sell them weed. I am no responsible adult. I'm proudly irresponsible, and honestly only an adult by the strictest legal definition."

I take a moment to try and make sense of all that. I guess that _is_what he said, isn't it?

The grin on his face says that he's pretty pleased with himself.

"Go ahead and have a seat, grab a beer out of the cooler, if you want," he invites, "Though the other thing I told your mom was true, as well. There's soda and water inside if you want it, just let me know. I've got empanadas to cook. Which reminds me..."

He shoots a wary glance between Micha and me.

"...Why did your mom think there was gonna be a spitroast?"

"Fuck," I mutter. Micha giggles.

"It was just this stupid thing me and Micha were texting about earlier. I mentioned it to her as a joke. I didn't know she was gonna bring it up to you guys..." I grumble, "I mean, I didn't know she was gonna meet you guys at all."

"I mean, we could maybe make a spitroast part of the next one," Keith hums, "If you think that would be fun."

Oh, God.

"Sure, he'd love one," Micha grins, "Look, he's practically drooling already."

Micha, I swear to God.

Keith's gaze shifts between the two of us again.

"We're not talking about food here, are we?" he finally asks.

The look that Micha and I share must give him his answer.

"Well, I'm not gonna tell you you _can't_celebrate Ahoa in that way..." Keith shrugs, "...But you ain't doing it in my Mom's backyard."

Micha and I share another glance.

"Fair enough, I guess," I shrug.

Micha and I head towards the pile of sticks.

"Ahoa, guys," Micha hums.

"Ahoa," the group responds.

"Ahoa, everyone," I offer hesitantly.

Everyone stares at me. Finally, seeing the others silent, Heather speaks up.

"Hey, Chase!" she offers.

I finally figure out why they're being so dodgy. Keith just told me, after all.

It should only be used with someone who brings you that same joy.

Right, so I just made an ass of myself.

I feel Micha give me an encouraging pat on the back. I sigh, and head over to the cooler, which Clint and Jeremy have strategically placed their chairs on either side of. The two look up at me, Clint with his trademark scowl, Jeremy with a sort of cautious amusement.

"What's the password?" Jeremy challenges, placing a paw on top of the cooler to prevent me from opening it.

"Uh... Is it, 'go fuck yourself'?" I offer.

Jeremy hesitates for a moment, considering.

Then he grins and pulls the lid open.

"Good enough, I guess," he shrugs.

I reach into the cooler and pull out two beers, handing one to Micha. I look at the label of what is apparently called Los Lobos Locos. The art has two wolf-men with spirally, crazed eyes, doing some sort of dance. I choose to believe that this is a faithful recreation of a beautiful Sonoran-Wolfen tradition, instead of the much more likely reality that the beer's name has its roots in some heinously offensive racist, speciesist stereotype. Below the wolves it says "Cerveza tradicional Sonoras".

Well, if the label says it's authentic, then it has to be true, right?

Micha and I head to the side of what _will_be the fire opposite Jeremy and Clint. This will make retrieving beer more difficult, but has the advantage of being further away from Jeremy and Clint. In fact, once the fire's going, I bet we won't even be able to see them. That'll be nice.

Heather sits in the chair to our right, with her back to the trailer. This leaves a single open seat, opposite her, halfway between the trailer and the sagebrush fencing that marks the edge of civilization, and the beginning of the desert. Next to Keith's chair is a gas can, and I find myself hoping that it's not for starting the fire, or that if it is, that it's not actually full of gasoline.

But knowing what I know about these people...

It is, and it is.

Keith slips out of the trailer through a screen door, and cheerfully crosses the lack-of-a-lawn towards us. It's hard to describe, given his usually cheerful demeanor, but he's somehow even more upbeat today. Like there's a spring in his step, I guess would be the phrase.

He must really dig this Ahoa thing.

He walks over to the cooler, and I see Jeremy's hand cover the lid again. Instead of answering, Keith just stoops down, grabs Jeremy's foot, and lifts, tipping the fox, and his chair, over backwards. The last I see of Jeremy is his hand reaching for his beer to save it from tipping, then his feet sticking straight up in the air. Then Keith opens the cooler, takes out a cerveza, and strides over to his chair.

"I'm happy to report that empanadas are in the oven," Keith grins as he pops the top off of his beer and takes a swig. I wrestle with the cap of my own, before offering it to Micha, who already has a bottle opener ready.

"You made them that fast?" I ask.

"Made them last night," he explains, "I always make 'em ahead of time, so that I don't miss the festivities. Just throw 'em in the freezer, then throw 'em in the oven. Easy."

"You've really got this whole thing down to a science, huh?" I ask as I take a sip of my Los Lobos Locos. It tastes like... nothing. But like, beer-flavored nothing. Definitely preferable to Micha's high gravity malt liquor or whatever from before.

"What are traditions if not anthropological natural selection?" Keith hums thoughtfully.

I don't know what that means, so I nod knowingly.

"Sure."

Keith grins, a knowing sort of grin that tells me he knows none of us followed that, and are all just being polite.

"I just mean, traditions are repeated activities, right? And like, you wouldn't repeat stuff that didn't work, or that sucked. But you_would_repeat stuff, and you'd _remember_to repeat stuff, if it was good. So it's sort of like evolution, you know? Like, there's all sorts of weird old Christmas traditions, and we don't do them anymore. 'Cause at some point, they stopped making sense, right? Stopped being fit for their environment, in that sort of way, you know?" he explains.

"I guess," I shrug.

"So I take pride in Ahoa, and in the traditions we have here together. It's a testament to the resilience of Mesetan culture, that these traditions persist. Through everything, they're still here. And it's a testament to the camaraderie and good nature of all people that we're here together celebrating," he gestures broadly among us, "All of you of Europan descent (fellow fox-man excluded), helping me to carry this proud Mesetan tradition on."

Keith stands, and picks up the gas can. I see Clint and Jeremy exchange a look, then stand up and back away from the stick pile, which tells me that gas can is filled with _exactly_what I thought it was. I feel Micha tug on my arm, coaxing me to take cover as well. I glance over and see that Heather is already a few steps behind her chair. Keith pours... I guess it's gasoline... onto the stick pile, and backs up to his own chair. He lights a match, and shoots us all a glance, grinning widely.

"Ahoa!" he toasts, preparing to toss the match.

The rest of us glance among ourselves.

"Ahoa!"

*****

A conflagration, a singed eyebrow, and a couple of beers later, Ahoa is officially in full swing. The sun is low in the sky, and the air is finally cooling off enough to make the bonfire in front of us seem, while not exactly necessary, at least a little less insane. I've even managed to get along with Jeremy and Clint, which is to say, I've managed to completely avoid talking to them.

"So Chase," Keith calls to me over the mouth of his beer, "Did you end up talking to your friend?"

"Friend?"

"Cedric or whatever?" He takes a quick swig, "The otter? About swimming lessons?"

"Oh, Sydney!" I respond, then feel my smile falter, "Uh, yeah... I did."

"And?" he asks, raising his eyebrow hopefully.

"_And_he shot me down," I pout.

"Ah, I see," Keith nods sadly.

"Yeah, so that's a bust," I sigh.

"Was it?" he smiles.

"Uh... Yeah?"

"You offered though, isn't that worth something?"

I shrug.

"Doesn't seem to be," I huff.

Keith smiles and shrugs.

"If you say so, bud. But I think it was worth a lot just to try. And I think your friend will see that too, eventually. Hopefully."

I shrug again.

"I guess."

"Yo Keith?" Micha interrupts our heart-to-heart.

"Yo, Micha," Keith grins back.

"Those empanadas done yet? I haven't eaten all day, man," Micha asks.

"Almost, I set an alarm on my phone," Keith says, patting himself down, "...Which I left inside, shit, be right back." Keith leaps up and bounds across the lawn with a spry lightfootedness which is entirely characteristic of his species but wholly uncharacteristic of the slow-ride-take-it-easy personality of Keith himself.

Those empanadas really _must_be good.

"So Chase," I hear Jeremy call from across the fire.

Here we go.

"Are you just, like, part of the gang now, or..." He asks.

"God, I hope not," I hear Clint mutter, "Keith's bad enough, last thing we need is another--" He drowns the last word in beer.

I feel my heart start to race. The familiar burn of adrenaline that I've learned to call home the past two years begins to envelop me.

"Got something to say to me, Clint?" I hiss. I'm vaguely aware of Micha watching me cautiously. "Or Keith, for that matter? 'Cause as far as I can tell all he does is do shit for you, and all you do is bitch."

"So do something about it, Psycho," Clint sneers.

I jump from my chair, and am vaguely aware of Micha trying uselessly to calm me down.

"Be cool, Chase," he warns.

"Fuck no," I spit, "Maybe Keith is too nice to knock some sense into him. Doesn't mean that I won't."

"Oh, you're gonna knock some sense into me?" Clint snarls. I round the fire and face him.

"You fucking want me to?" I snarl back.

"Gonna finally kill someone, freak?"

"I'm long overdue, aren't I?" I quip.

"So fucking do it, Chase. Wouldn't even be the worst beating I get this week," Clint hisses, "It'll be nice to dish one out for a change."

I step forward, ready to strike, when Heather's voice cuts through the fog of testosterone brewing between Clint and me.

"I think it's nice," she says, "That Chase is hanging out with us."

I don't know if she really means that, or if she's just trying to defuse the situation. At the very least, it catches me off guard.

"You're just saying that..." Clint sneers, "...Because you think it means the lynx will start hanging out with us. I swear to God, I'll kick his ass if I ever see him at the Bastion."

"You got a problem with T.J.?" I snarl, feeling the flames in my chest rising again.

"Yeah, I do," Clint stares me down, and his eyes don't waver, "He's a fag. Last thing this town needs is any more faggots running around."

"Well, there's gonna be one less if he keeps running his mouth and I throw his ass into the fire," I warn.

"Funny, I was just thinking the same thing," Clint smiles, and I know the intent in that smile, because it's one I've given a dozen times before.

His right fist comes in first, but it's sloppy, something between a straight and a hook. I manage to dodge enough that it glances off of me. He follows with another sloppy swing, a half-jab-half-uppercut, with the angle of both and the power of neither. This catches me on the side of my jaw, and while he's got some strength behind it, it's not enough to send me reeling. I respond with a left fist into his gut, and a right hook across his face while he's stunned. He's obviously stronger than me. Between his build and my shitty otter arms, he's almost certainly going to win. But I've lost fights before.

Just because I lose doesn't mean I can't make you regret picking the fight to begin with.

I see the look of intent in his eyes, and know he's ready to try again. I see Jeremy jump up behind him, and have to wonder what his plan is. Is he gonna try to get involved? In the old days, he and Clint had no qualms about double-teaming someone, even if that someone was poor little Toby. I find myself distantly wishing that Micha would come over and help me. But these are his friends, he probably doesn't want to get involved if he doesn't have to. And besides, with his wiry frame, he's not much better cut out for fighting than me.

Which is to say, not at all.

But Jeremy isn't joining in. He's just standing there, trying to talk Clint down.

"Clint, come on man, it's Ahoa. It's just Psycho, let it go," he pleads.

"I don't fucking care if it's Ahoa, I'm gonna kick his ass!" Clint insists, "He's deserved this for a long time! They all have!"

Clint takes another wide swing, and I manage to step back and dodge it. While his body's still twisted to the left, I grab the back of his head with my left hand and smash his muzzle with my right. With the back of his headfur in my grip, I reel back and deliver another blow before his hands find their way to my throat. I respond with my own hands around his.

The average person will succumb to a well-placed blood choke in about twenty seconds, regardless of species. But neither of us is in a position for a blood choke, so we have to settle for air chokes instead. As an otter, even with the way my blood is pumping, even with how I'm exerting myself, I've probably got a good four or five minutes of oxygen in me. Best case scenario for Clint is sixty seconds, at most.

There's a nauseating sort of thrill as I realize that this might be a fight I actually win. Clint is staring at me, a hatred in his eyes that seems intense even for him. But there's a slight wavering, and I think he may be starting to understand how the odds are stacked against him.

But there's nothing he can do.

I'm so focused on what I'm doing-- on killing-- no, not killing-- is that what I'm doing? Killing him?-- No, that can't be right-- that I don't understand what I'm hearing at first.

"What the fuck?" Keith howls, a distressed, strained plea so intense and emotional I almost don't recognize it, "Knock it off, now!"

No time seems to elapse between the sound of Keith hollering from the trailer, and Keith standing between us, prying our fingers away from each other's throats.

"I said, that's enough," he snarls, and shoves both of us in the chest hard enough to force us apart.

"What the hell is wrong with you two!?" he demands, in that same I'm-not-mad-I'm-disappointed tone Mom uses, "Chase, I invite you out here, and this is how you act?" I don't answer, instead turning towards the fire and gripping at my tail. It feels shitty to know he's pissed at me.

It feels even shittier to know I deserve it.

"And Clint, you've been to enough of these, you know_the rules! The _rule! The _only_rule," he insists, "I mean what the hell am I--"

He raises his arm in a wild sort of gesture, to emphasize his point. Clint visibly flinches, and Keith's voice catches in his throat. He looks up at his hand, still raised in the air, then at Clint. He slowly lets his hand drop. He turns away from all of us, away from the fire, looking out into the desert. He takes a few deep breaths, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Look, let's just... forget it, okay?" he finally offers, "Let's just put it behind us, and move on." He looks at us.

"I want you two to apologize to each other," he says.

Clint and I finally agree on something.

"Fuck that," we say in unison.

Keith gives me a disappointed look, but there's a flicker of light in his eyes, like he's at least a little amused that Clint and I are suddenly on the same side about something.

"Okay, fine, you don't have to apologize, if you don't want to. Instead..."

There's a sudden change in his face; the same one that Mom had before she insisted on meeting Micha.

"...I want you each to say something nice about the other."

Clint and I look at one another.

"Or else what?" Clint sneers.

"Look, if you two are gonna stay, I need you to start getting along. That starts with finding something you like about the other."

"Wh-- What do you mean 'gonna stay'? You're not really gonna make me leave, are you?" Clint pleads, "You can't!"

"I don't want to either, man," Keith shrugs, "So just think of something nice to say."

"Look, can't I just walk back over there..." I suggest, "...And just not talk to Clint any more?"

Keith shakes his head solemnly.

"'Fraid not, my dude. It's too late for that now," he hums sternly.

"'Too late'?" I ask.

He turns towards Clint.

"Clint, what's the rule?" he asks.

"I know the rule," Clint grumbles.

"What is it?" Keith presses.

"You... You're gonna make me say it?" he groans.

Keith raises his eyebrows expectantly. Clint rolls his eyes.

"The rule is..." he mumbles, saying the next part so quietly I almost don't hear it, "...good vibes only."

"That's right," Keith nods, "And you knew that."

He turns to me suddenly.

"_You_on the other hand, didn't. But I didn't think you needed a rule to know that starting fistfights at my bonfire was unacceptable," he scolds. I shift uncomfortably, but say nothing.

"Do you know _why_that's the rule, Chase?" he asks me.

"Uh... Because you want to have fun at the party?" I guess.

Keith sort of tilts his head back and forth, considering.

"I mean... That's part of it. You really shouldn't start shit at_any_sort of party. But this is an Ahoa-specific rule. Anyone know why?"

"I know!" Heather offers, "It's because of the fire!"

Keith smirks and points a finger in her direction.

"That's right," he nods, "Because the fire isn't just a fire. It's a beacon. Broadcasting our emotions outward, to push back the hum. It's supposed to be picking up joyous emotions, so what do you suppose happens if we're starting fights around it instead?"

I stare for a moment, then realize that he's not asking a rhetorical question.

"I guess it... Probably fucks up the signal, or whatever?" I offer.

He nods.

"Exactly. One bad apple will spoil the bunch, so to speak. So even a little negativity can poison the whole night. So we have to undo the negativity. We have to fix it, with justice. Not punitive justice, like you're used to, like the kind the Hum is such a fan of. Restorative justice. It's not about hurting the perpetrator, but about healing the victim. Like, for instance..." he looks at me knowingly, "...if you had hurt someone really badly when you were younger. Which would be better? To just let him to unto you as you would have yourself have done unto him? Or to fix it? To help him heal from the injuries you caused him?"

"This isn't going to be fixed by you two fighting, or by you two ignoring each other. It's going to be fixed by you two being nicer to each other. So, out with it already. Clint, what's your nice thing about Chase?"

Clint glares up at Keith sullenly, then finally glances over towards me.

"He's... Really good at swimming," he says.

I roll my eyes, and I see Keith let out a small chuckle.

"Clint, have you ever _seen_Chase swim?" Keith inquires.

"No," Clint mutters.

"Then I'm not going to count that," Keith scolds, "I want you to say something about him, Chase, the person. Not just his species."

"I can't think of anything!" Clint protests.

"Clint, I can think of plenty of nice things to say about Chase, and you seem to know him better than I do," Keith argues.

"Exactly. If you knew him like I do, you wouldn't have anything nice to say," Clint grins.

"Clint!"

"Fine, he's..." Clint mumbles, then gets a smirk on his face, "...really good at killing children."

"Clint," Keith snaps in a mirthless voice.

I want to say something shitty back, but I know that's what Clint is fishing for. I'm not going to play his game.

So I smile.

"Clint, Sydney is in my gym class," I state.

"So?"

"So..." I shrug, "...I'm clearly not _that_good at it."

Clint's nose twitches, the closest I've ever seen his face to genuine, non-suffering-induced-laughter. I can hear Jeremy giggling under his breath as well.

"Chase, let's start with you then," Keith beckons, before pointedly adding "while Clint thinks of a real one."

"Okay, uhh..." I stammer for a moment. The bruise forming on my jawline throbs, giving me my answer.

"He's decent in a fight," I offer hesitantly, "I mean... If he had better technique, maybe. But I respect someone who doesn't back down."

Keith nods thoughtfully.

"Okay, that's... good. Though I wish you didn't have to kick the snot out of each other to find nice things to say," he hems, "Clint?"

"Fine! I guess he's..." he looks me up and down, "...for a musky fuck, he's not _that_musky."

"...Meaning?" Keith asks cautiously.

"Meaning he smells a lot better than you," Clint mutters.

"Fine, I guess that'll do," Keith sighs, "Let's get back to Ahoa already!" He smiles, and picks up the pan of empanadas that he set down at some point, when Clint and I were to busy fighting to notice.

"Who wants an empanada?" he asks cheerfully.

"You mean Jeremy didn't eat them all?" I hear Micha holler from across the fire.

"Hey, Micha," Jeremy shouts back, "Do me a favor, flap those little wings of yours and fly off a building?"

"Only if your fat ass is there at the bottom to cushion my fall, big guy," Micha quips, and they both start laughing. I grab a fresh beer out of the cooler, and an empanada off of the sheet pan, and head back to where my chair is waiting. Micha studies my face as I sit back down.

"You okay man?" he asks.

"Yeah, of course," I assure him.

"You looked like you caught that second swing pretty good, you sure you're--"

"I said I'm good, man," I assure again, slightly more firmly, "Really. It's not the first scuffle I've ever been in, alright?"

"Sure, sure," Micha raises his hands defensively, "Fuck me for caring."

"I get it, I get it," I assure him, "But I can handle my own ass."

Micha wrinkles his nose, then smirks.

"You're gonna have to, cause we forgot about the spitroast," he smirks, holding up his empanada.

I let out a small chuckle, then look down at my own empanada. It's a sort of half-moon shaped hot pocket thing, with crimping along the rounded edge. If I had to guess, the dough is something like biscuit dough, baked to a golden-brown color.

Honestly, it looks really good, and I'm sort of impressed that Keith of all people knows how to make something like this.

"Keith, is this some kind of family recipe?" I ask, finally biting into it. Oh god, it's stuffed with hamburger, veggies, cheese, and salsa. It's even more amazing than it looked. Maybe not worth getting spit-roasted for, but...

I'm not saying I'd suck a dick for these empanadas. But I'm not saying I wouldn't.

"I suppose you could say that, man," Keith nods before taking a small bite of his own empanada, "It was passed down to me by my mom, and passed down to her by the label on a can of biscuits in the 70s."

"Hey, Keith," Jeremy chimes in, "I'm getting kinda full--"

"It's a miracle," Micha interjects.

"What I meant was, I could maybe use the munchies, if you catch my meaning," Jeremy insists to Keith.

"Oh, yeah, it's getting to be about that time, I suppose," Keith smiles.

"We can try this new thing I learned, you can use someone's whole body as a bong. What do you think, Micha?" Jeremy grins.

"Sounds like bullshit," Micha muses.

"Nah, it's easy, see, I'll put the piece in my mouth and light it," Jeremy giggles, "Then you can suck on my cock and see what comes out."

"Knew it," Micha snickers to himself.

"Wait, does that actually work?" Heather asks, and I'm really not sure if she's fucking with us or not.

"No, he's just confessing his feelings for Micha is all," Clint mutters.

"Oh, right," Heather nods, before adding, "You know, it's funny, I always thought they'd kind of be a cute couple."

"What!?" Jeremy and Micha gasp in unison. Keith nearly falls out of his chair laughing. Clint just shakes his head.

"Whatever, I'm gonna go find the weed, okay?" Clint asks, but starts walking towards the trailer before getting a reply.

"Hey, I'll help," Jeremy offers, possibly desperate to be anywhere but here right now, "It's in the usual stash spot, right Keith?"

"It's in the one you know about, yeah," Keith confirms, "Just keep it down, my mom's sleeping."

"Yeah, yeah," Jeremy hums, clamoring out of his chair and hustling to join Clint.

The four of us who are left sit silently for a moment, no sound but the desert night, the crackling fire, and someone's window-mounted AC unit in the distance.

After swallowing another bite of (delicious) empanada, I break the silence.

"So Heather," I ask, "How do you like being chemistry partners with T.J.?"

"It's great," she beams, "He really knows a lot of stuff, you know?"

"Who's T.J.?" Keith raises an eyebrow.

"Just someone in our class," I hum, before adding, "Actually, you kind of know him. Well, don't _know_him know him, but know _of_him."

"Really?"

"Yeah, you remember the story I was telling you, about the lake? And how Sydney was torturing Toby?" I remind him.

"Ah," he nods.

"Yeah, Toby's T.J." I explain.

"What's the 'J' stand for?" Keith asks.

"'Jedidiah'."

"Well fuck," Keith laughs, "Yeah, I'd probably just use the 'J', too. So you still talk to this T.J. then?"

"Yeah, kind of," I shrug.

"Well, that's great," Keith smiles, "How are T.J. and Sydney? Do they get along? You know, after all that?"

"Actually," I say, "They seem to be pretty close. In fact, they're at a concert together right now."

"Really? What kind of music are they into?" Keith inquires.

"T.J. likes Christian music. Sydney just likes bad music."

"Yeah, I could see how they would make that work," Keith laughs.

We sit in silence for another minute or two, before Keith breaks the silence.

"Hmm..." he half-growls under his breath.

"Whats up?" Micha asks.

"Those two have been in there a while..." he says, narrowing his eyes, "...with my weed stash."

He sets his beer on the ground, but keeps his empanada in hand as he strides towards the trailer.

"I'll come with!" Heather volunteers, jumping up and joining him.

"Sure, you can help me kick their asses," Keith smirks as they disappear into the darkness.

Leaving Micha and I alone.

"Hey," I offer awkwardly.

"Yeah?" Micha asks, taking a sip of Los Lobos Locos.

"Thanks for inviting me tonight, this has been..." I pause while I try to think of the word. A word that's good, but not too pathetic. "...Nice."

"Sure, no problem," Micha smiles, a genuine smile, "It's been nice having you here. I wasn't sure if you were having fun though, you know, after--"

"Yeah," I interrupt, "I'm sorry for starting shit with Clint. I just--"

"Nah, I get it," Micha grins, "Clint can me kind of... Clint. I know how hard he is to deal with."

"So why _do_you?" I ask, only realizing afterwards how assholeish it sounds, "I just mean... You _and_Keith. With all of the shit he talks, why--"

"Because he's Clint," Micha says simply. "Yeah, he talks a lot of shit, and he can be an asshole. But he's my friend. And he only acts that way because of how his home life is, you know? He's got it really bad, worse than all of us probably, except for Heather. But he's still Clint. He's been my friend forever, and damned if I'm gonna be the guy who turned his back as soon as things got difficult, you know?"

I sigh, taking that all in.

He only acts that way because of how his home life is.

Wouldn't even be the worst beating I get this week. It would be nice to dish one out for a change.

Why don't you just go home? You actually can.

You're not taking the only place I'm safe...

"Chase?" Micha asks, studying my face.

"Sorry, I spaced," I sigh, looking back. His eyes have that golden glow again, from the fire this time, instead of the sunset. The way he's looking at me, mine must have the same glow from that day too.

"Well, anyway," he shrugs, "I'm really glad you came."

"I'm really glad I came, too," I tell him.

He leans in close, and our noses almost touch. Then I see that hesitation again.

Not this time, I think to myself, as I close the distance and kiss him.

"Wh-- Woah," Micha whispers breathlessly, looking into my eyes. The silence drags on, and I wish more than anything he'd just say something.

Instead, he suddenly leans forward and returns the kiss. Our muzzles play against one another, just for a moment.

We pull back and stare at each other, both trying to think of something to say.

Unfortunately, someone else beats us to it.

"What the fuck!?" Jeremy yelps.

*****

Jeremy is standing in the doorway of the trailer, staring at the two of us.

"Fuck," I mutter under my breath.

"Jeremy, listen," Micha pleads, his voice frantic, "Please don't tell--"

"Get your fat ass out of the way," I hear Clint snarl from somewhere behind him. Clint shoves Jeremy aside, and the sudden violence seems to shake him out of his stupor.

"What the hell were you staring at?" Clint demands of him.

Jeremy glances at Clint, then towards us, then back at Clint.

"N-- Nothing," he finally stammers, "Just spaced out is all."

"We haven't even started smoking yet!" Heather calls from the doorway of the trailer, "Don't be spacing out already!"

"Right, yeah," Jeremy shrugs sheepishly, "Must be those empanadas weighing me down."

"Figures," Clint snarls as they make their way across the yard to us, "You ate half the pan."

"I did not, asshole," Jeremy grins, and whatever shock was left in him seems to dissipate, "...And even if I did, I gotta maintain this figure you love so much." Jeremy runs his hands up his hips and over his belly, stopping when he's firmly cupping his... Let's call it a pec.

"Eugh," Clint snarls.

"Come on, man," Micha goads, "It's Ahoa, you can tell Jeremy how you really feel about him."

"I would," Clint grins, "But it's 'good vibes only', remember? I don't think anything I could say about Jeremy qualifies."

"What, you don't like tits?" Jeremy teases, giving his own man-tit a shake with his free hand.

"Tits are fine," Clint hums, "It's the dick I could do without."

"You're just mad cuz I've got the biggest tits _and_the biggest dick you're ever gonna see," Jeremy brags. I'll admit my mind lingers on that statement a bit longer than it should.

"Aw, I hate hanging out with a couple that fights all the time," Micha grins.

"Yeah, kiss and make up, you two!" Heather adds.

"A gay kiss at an Ahoa party," Keith remarks as he crosses the lawn, "Now that _would_be a spectacle."

"Well, keep dreaming," Clint snarls, "I know it's what you've been hoping for this whole time."

"Yeah, a gay kiss at Ahoa," Jeremy's gaze flicks towards me and Micha for a second, "Imagine that."

Keith sits back down in his chair. He gives me and Micha an appraising sort of look, then takes a swig of beer.

"So who ended up with my weed?" he finally asks.

"Oh, uh," Jeremy offers, holding up what appears to be an ornate glass bottle, "I got it here."

Keith reaches into his shirt and fishes something out of an unseen pocket. He holds it up.

A lighter.

With a flick of his wrist, it flies towards Jeremy, who snatches it out of the air. Then he lights it, puts his mouth around the opening on the bottle, and I suddenly understand what the bottle actually is.

"So Chase," he says, in the voice of someone trying to talk whilst also holding their breath, "What do you think of Ahoa?"

I ponder for a moment.

"It's not the worst way to spend a Saturday night, for sure," I offer.

"What would you be doing otherwise?" Keith asks.

I shrug.

"I'd probably be at home jerking off or something."

Jeremy lets out the breath of smoke he's been holding.

"We can jerk off, if it'll make you feel more comfortable," he offers, grinning, "Micha, you'd be up to jerk off with Chase, right?"

Is this what he's going to do now, hold it over us?

What the fuck am I talking about, this is Jeremy, _of course_that's what he's gonna do.

"I mean," Micha shrugs, grinning, "Rather be over here having to see his junk, than over there having to see you naked."

Jeremy is unfazed.

"Yeah, I bet you would," he smiles.

"Jeremy, play nice," Keith warns, a knowing grin playing at his lips.

What is it he thinks he knows?

"I swear to God," Clint says in that same held-breath tone. "Every day you guys all get a little bit gayer. Even you..." he points at Keith, "And I really didn't think you had much room to _get_any gayer."

"Well it's no secret that the gay agenda has always been to indoctrinate the minds of the youth," Keith pontificates sarcastically, "Don't you watch the news?"

"This is how you do it, huh?" Clint says, letting out the breath, "Just turn it up real slowly, so that we don't notice it happening?"

"I've been subtly moving your chairs closer together every Ahoa," Keith nods, "One day, one of the chairs will be gone, and you'll just accidentally sit in Jeremy's lap. It's all going according to plan."

"Bullshit," Clint sneers, passing the bong off to Heather, "You don't own a chair that could hold both of us. As long as Jeremy doesn't lose weight, we'll be fine."

"Aren't you glad I ate half a pan of empanadas now?" Jeremy jabs. "Although, the gayification seems to be affecting some of us faster than others."

Another knowing glance at Micha and me.

"I'll say," Clint scowls, "I'll be lucky if I haven't seen your dick by the end of the night, at this rate."

"Wait, are you talking about me?" Jeremy balks, before grinning. He reaches over to slide his arm around Clint. "Honey, don't be upset."

Clint squirms out from under Jeremy's arm.

"I_will_knock you on your fat ass, man," Clint warns.

"Hmm, I don't know," Jeremy shrugs, "That doesn't sound like good vibes to me."

"Clint, good vibes," Keith warns, before adding, "Jeremy, quit picking on Clint."

I'm suddenly aware of Heather standing beside me, holding out the bong and lighter.

"Oh, uh..." I stammer, not sure what to do with them. I take them from her, and she sits back down. I glance hesitantly at Micha. He reaches over and takes them from me.

"Psycho not smoking?" Clint asks.

"Nah," Micha answers.

"Well, hang on, I never said that," I protest. Truth is, I don't think I want to smoke right now.

But I'm not about to let someone else make that decision for me.

"If Chase wants to smoke, he can smoke," Keith insists, "But if he doesn't want to, that's cool to. No pressure, good vibes, et cetera, et cetera."

"He's never smoked before," Micha explains, "And he's already been drinking. I don't wanna get him cross-faded."

Oh, shit, I forgot about that.

Keith nods.

"It's still up to you, my dude, but Micha's right," he explains, "Cross-faded on your first time is a real bad deal. Hate to scare you away from pot just cause we didn't warn you."

I'm vaguely aware that this is Keith deliberately providing me with an out.

"Oh, uh, yeah," I mumble, "Maybe next time, then."

Keith nods knowingly, as Micha takes a hit. As Keith rises to take the bong from Micha, Clint rises as well. He turns away from the fire, and I realize that he's undoing his fly.

"Oh, ew, dude!" Jeremy yelps as he realizes what's going on two feet away from him. Keith turns.

"Hey, Clint?" he asks, "You wanna do me a favor?"

"What, you want me to face the fire so you can get a good look?" Clint jabs.

"Just the opposite actually," Keith responds flatly, "I thought maybe you could walk to the edge of my lawn, so as to not leave a giant piss puddle in the middle of my party."

"You expect me to walk all the way out there?" Clint protests.

"It's like, a five second walk, dude," Keith argues.

"If you're scared or whatever," Jeremy grins, "I could come with you."

"Fuck off," Clint mutters as he sullenly trudges away.

"So," Keith says, holding his own hit as he waits for Clint to walk away, "How long has this been going on?"

I notice that, even in the held-breath tone, he seems to be whispering.

"Has what been going on?" I ask.

He gestures between Micha and me.

"I don't know what you're--" I lie.

Keith answers that with a raised eyebrow, and it's enough to tell me that I have no deniability. He knows.

"Uh, pretty much just since this evening, I guess," I whisper to him.

"I see," he nods, "Well, right on."

"How did you know about it?" I ask.

"Well, y'see Chase, the cool thing about those kitchen windows..." he gestures towards the trailer, "...is that they're transparent."

"Fuck," Micha mutters.

"Yeah, and it sounds like maybe Jeremy got an eyeful too?" Keith asks.

"Yeah, but listen, don't tell--"

"Hey, Keith, puff-puff-pass already," Clint hollers as he approaches the fire, "You hogging the weed, man?"

Keith looks at Micha and I.

"Duh," he says, and I get the feeling it's in response to us, not Clint.

Keith holds the bong out, and Jeremy rises to take it from him.

"It seems like it'd be hard for me to hog the weed," Keith says, "On account of it's my weed in the first damn place. So even if I smoked it all, I wouldn't be hogging it."

"Yeah, but I thought you said Ahoa is all about spreading joy and sharing," Jeremy responds, "So wouldn't this count? Isn't this, like, communal?"

Keith grins and shakes his head.

"It's crazy how fast people become commies when it's someone else's weed," he grins.

*****

A few hours later, the fire is dying as we pass around an ice-cold, flask-shaped bottle of Hellfire whiskey. Heather passes it to me, and I take a hesitant sniff.

It smells pretty much exactly like I expect it to, and yet somehow still manages to catch me off guard. I shoot a quick, unsure glance at Micha, who grins at me.

"Just don't think about it too much. It's like the beer from last weekend, just get it down," he smiles.

I take a quick swig, and manage to swallow a mouthful.

Then, somehow, I choke on my own breath, which wasn't something that I knew you could do before now.

"Jesus," I sputter, leaning forward in case I throw up. "Fuck."

Micha snatches the bottle out of my hands before I can spill it, then gently rubs my back.

"You gonna be okay? You can puke if you need to," he offers.

"Jeez, thanks," I laugh. "No, I'm just fine. Just caught me off guard, is all."

"Always does," Micha grins, before taking a swig himself. He doesn't gag like I did, but a clenched fist pounding on his chest a couple of times tells me that it didn't go down easy for him, either. He passes the bottle to Keith.

"So, Keith," he says, as Keith takes a swig. Keith, either actually enjoying the shot, or just wanting to mess with us, starts swishing it around his mouth like mouthwash. "It's about time to head home, huh?"

Keith swallows and nods sadly.

"Yeah, I suppose you're right," he sighs, "I always wish Ahoa could go on forever though, you know?"

"Don't we all," Micha nods, "Well, hey, some day, it will be. When we're all out of high school, we'll win the lottery or something. Then it'll be Ahoa every night, deal?"

Keith smiles at Micha, misty-eyed. Then he stumbles backwards, and I realize he might be more drunk than I had thought. I glance at the Hellfire, and it's definitely lower than it should be, between when I handed it off to Micha and now. I don't know when Keith snuck his additional shots, but he definitely did. Then again, like he said, it's hardly hogging it when it's his stuff to begin with.

"So I guess..." Keith casts his gaze at the Milky Way above us, "...It's time for the benediction, huh?"

"Benediction?" I ask.

Keith rises, and slowly strides towards the smoldering logs before him. The others follow suit, and Micha grabs my wrist and leads me to the fire as well.

Keith stoops to set the Hellfire down, and I'm shocked to feel Micha's hand in mine. I'm about to ask him what he's doing, when I feel Heather's soft hand find my other hand, and realize that everyone's holding hands. They all bow their heads, and, while it's been a while since I went to church, I still recognize group prayer when I see it. I bow my own head.

"Tonight we thank the Allfather for this moment. For each other, and the joy we brought each other, and the joy we brought ourselves. We thank each other for the love and the joy we've experienced here today, and are thankful for both old friendships, and new loves. Now let us go and take the spirit of Ahoa with us, like torches lit from the same fire." He pours what's left of the liquor over the remains of the fire, "Amen."

"Amen?" I offer hesitantly, before nudging Micha. "Is 'amen' really part of the Mesetan tradition? And did he say 'Allfather'? I didn't think that was a Meseta--"

"I don't think it is either," Micha shrugs, "Keith's interpretation of his own religious beliefs is a little... loose? I mean he's not like, an accredited priest or shaman or whatever. He kind of wings it sometimes, I think."

"So you're telling me he just makes it up as he goes along?" I ask.

Micha ponders for a moment.

"Kind of?" he offers, "But like, he's still usually right. His advice usually ends up being wise, even if even _he_doesn't know it at the time."

"Huh," I hem, unsure what to make of that.

"So Chase," Keith hollers to me, "What did you think of Ahoa?"

"It was... It was fun," I say, "But how do we know if it worked?"

"Well, are you happy right now?" Keith smiles.

I think about that for a moment.

"I think so?"

"Then it worked," Keith nods.

"But I mean--" I start to protest.

"You're wondering how to tell if it's magic, or if it's just normal, mundane happiness. _Good vibes_and such," he interrupts.

"Uh, yeah," I confess.

"Does it matter?" he asks.

"Doesn't it?" I argue, "I mean, if it's meant to drive back the Hum, then--"

"If you were upset before, and you're not now..." Keith grins, "...Then I'd say it _did_drive back the Hum, didn't it? At least a little?"

I sigh.

"I guess. But I'm not sure what the point is then," I hum glumly.

"You mean, the point of being happy now, if you're gonna be sad later?" he asks.

"Yeah, exactly," I nod.

"The answer, of course, is _because_you're going to be sad later. But you already knew that," he opines.

"I did?" I ask.

"Okay, so like, you know about Heather's home situation, right?" he says hesitantly.

"I... I think so, yeah," I nod sadly.

"So then, because of that, would you argue that she's better off just always being miserable? I mean she's going to be some of the time anyway, right?"

"Wh-- No! Of course not!" I insist.

Keith grins, and I realize that he was planning on me saying exactly that.

"It's the same for all of us, you know? Clint, or Jeremy, or Micha, or you..." Keith hesitates for a second, and his gaze flicks towards the trailer, "...or me... Or anyone, really. The fact that we're gonna be miserable is exactly _why_we deserve to be happy. The pleasure is what makes life interesting. The joy is what makes the suffering worthwhile. The scars are what make us beautiful."

"Scars?" I ask, "Isn't that, like, the opposite?"

Keith grins, and I can tell another sermon is incoming.

"Chase, what do you think scars are? What do you think they represent?" he asks me.

"I mean, they're injuries," I say.

He shakes his head gently, smiling.

"Nah, a wound_is an injury," he sighs, "A scar is an injury which has _healed. A scar is a bad time that you came back from. A scar isn't cause for mourning, it's cause for celebration."

"Is this more of that 'restorative justice' stuff like you were talking about earlier, with me and Clint?" I ask.

He laughs softly to himself.

"I like having you around, Chase, you're sharp," he grins, "But you should be getting home, we'll talk more about it at the _Bastion_sometime."

"Oh, um... Alright," I shrug, "Thanks for having me. I'm really glad I came."

"I'm glad you came, too," Keith nods, "Now get the hell out of here. I get the feeling you and Micha have some talking to do."

*****

Contrary to Keith's suggestion, Micha and I spend the walk home in silence, just enjoying the cold night air, the stars above us, and each other's presence. Finally, in front of my house, Micha stops under a streetlight, and turns to face me.

"Well, uh, this is your stop," he smirks.

"Yeah, I guess so," I hum softly.

"Chase, is everything alright?" Micha asks.

"Yeah," I sigh, "I just... Don't want to go, I guess."

He nods gently.

"I get that. Listen, about tonight..." he starts, but trails off.

"Yeah?" I ask hesitantly.

Please don't try to take it back.

"I just..." he starts, but again trails off. "I just don't know... How do we know if... what we did... was a mistake or not?"

We stand in silence for a moment.

"I guess..." I finally respond, "...if we did it again, then we could know it wasn't a mistake, you know? Because we each kissed the other once, right? So you could just call once a mistake. But if it happened _again,_after the fact... Then that would mean we really wanted it, right?"

Micha thinks for a moment.

"Yeah, I guess that makes sense," he says softly.

We stand in silence for a moment more.

This time, it's not the sunset or the fire-- it's the flickering streetlight that plays in his eyes as our lips meet.