“Come here, Ace.”

He swallowed down a heavy surge of dread. Ace left his skates by the bleachers and reluctantly shuffled over to the teacher’s laptop. “I—I’m sorry, sir,” Ace started awkwardly. “I’m sorry for being late.”

“You’re late every time,” Moff huffed.

Ace stood in tense silence, not yet realizing it was a joke until Moff continued.

“Relax, boy. You’re not in trouble.”

The facility had cleared out; they were the only two inhabitants left. Moff shut his laptop and took a seat at the bottom of the bleachers. He looked at Ace expectantly; Ace sat beside him. “I’ve been meeting with Spade Blanc about his health,” Moff explained. “In regards to the Aptitude test, we came to an agreement on what’s most fair. Spade’s test, assuming he arrived on time, would not have been scored. Your score will include your partner trial, but Spade’s time will not be factored.”

Ace blinked. “Oh,” he said absently. “He... didn’t tell me that.”

“We also agreed it was only fair that you enter the test with the same mindset as everyone else.”

Ace was overcome by thoughts. His mind wandered to Spade. It seemed to wander there a lot as of recently. Spade had always taken copious amounts of pills, always skipped class for appointments. That was not new. He’d always been, frankly, a callous narcissist. That was also not new. But something was new. Ace couldn’t quite identify it.

“Ace.”

He looked up.

“Sorry,” Ace mumbled. “I’m just—I’m sort of distracted.”

Moff stared at him expectantly, waiting.

Ace took a sharp breath. “I’m sorry Verse got hurt. I should’ve intervened. I don’t know why he’s like this. I mean—I do know. It’s a control thing. But now, it’s worse. He just, like, doesn’t care. And he won’t talk to me about anything. And I’m...”

His mind was still racing, but he’d run out of words. Ace cringed into himself. He always told Moff more than intended. He didn’t quite regret it, though; Moff was his only truly responsible consultant. Ace first met him long before his classmates, before he’d been assigned the 2-B homeroom teacher for their senior year. Since he’d been Ace’s Statistics professor two years ago, Moff had been willing to listen to whatever ramblings occupied his thoughts. There was something peculiarly approachable, comforting about his general apathy. He never cared enough to judge Ace.

But Ace could always turn to Luca to overshare his troubles, too.

Moff sighed. There was a pause. “Spade isn’t your responsibility,” he started slowly. “You want to fix him. No, he’s long past fixing. You want to help him. Help yourself first. Stop drinking before my tests—” Ace opened his mouth to respond, but Moff continued, “and god, stop apologizing! You’re a good man, Ace.”

Moff stood up. After a moment, Ace rose as well. Moff occupied himself with the gun cart, strapping the weapons back into place.

“Thank you, sir,” Ace said, turning to leave. He started towards the hall, stopping when Moff continued.

“I’m not one to pry where I don’t belong,” the professor said, “but I do think Spade is stressed. I’m not saying you shouldn’t talk to him. In fact, maybe you should.”

Moff kept storing the guns. Ace picked up his skates and left the room.