“But I was close, Vecky! I was close!”

Luca whined indignantly through sips of rice wine. Ace had bought it for her; sometimes he wondered if she only dragged him out to buy alcohol. Under the table, her bag held three cans of Silvertooth. Luca’s pace was admirable.

Or maybe she just had a problem.

“You were not close,” Ace retorted without glancing up from his plate. He scraped the bottom for the last of his spicy noodles. Every time they went for Kantan takeout, he ordered the same thing. Luca called him “mundane.” She was much more in-touch with the foreign culture. Her race, the lumux, were native to Kanto. But she was born on Hepton; the result was a fluent understanding of three vastly different languages. Ace sometimes wondered if she’d placed all of her intelligence into linguistics.

“You’ve never come close to passing,” Mali sighed from across the table. His voice carried an almost breathless tone with a certain metallic huskiness to it, which kept it perpetually at a low volume. Or maybe Ace had just never seen him raise it. Mali’s placemat was empty. Ace never figured out how Mali could be so strong without ever seeming to eat anything. “I’m not sure you ever try.”

“Well, excuse me, mister aim-bot,” Luca huffed.

Vector exhaled wordlessly.

Four students occupied a booth at a small Kantan takeout shop—the Emo Squad, their group chat was named, a title which Ace had once fought but ultimately accepted as Luca’s will. Post-Aptitude clarity was settling. It felt easier in the company of others. And Ace was still caught on his confession to Moff; he needed a distraction.

“You’re salty that you came in last,” Ace said through a mouthful of noodles.

“I wasn’t last,” Luca shot. “Spade was last.”

“Spade didn’t run.”

“Exactly.”

They were the only patrons present in the shop. A single worker watched from behind the bar in silence. He almost certainly knew Luca was below drinking age. He didn’t confront her. They’d been regular customers for a couple years, Luca even longer. The squad brought two designated drivers; that was responsible enough, probably.

One of said designated drivers was scraping her leftovers into a box. Vector passed a second box to Luca, who similarly stored her food. Vector slid out the booth beside Ace. He stood with his cane and backpack. The latter had distinct weight, one of the only clues that he was armed with an Institute-issued handgun. It was loaded with bullets not designed for lethality—a tool for incapacitating criminals—although enough shots in the right place could kill a person nonetheless. Not that it was much use to a blind man either way, but he figured one of his friends could take it in a messy situation. Preparation went far in Falset city.

A can of Silvertooth added a little weight as well.

Luca chimed cheerfully in Kantan to the single worker as they left the shop. Two motorbikes awaited outside; it was a small parking lot on the side of the street, in middle-Falset, at the heart of Auran’s capital. Starforce Academy was a fifteen minute drive west. But they were not going to the academy.

Ace followed Vector to her bike, climbing on behind her. He folded his cane and strapped it to his backpack. The bike rumbled to life under them. To the right lit a second motor. “Race you?” Vector asked, a slight degree of smugness in her tone. Her voice was muffled under a helmet.

“Need to pick something up,” answered Mali. He did not bother with a helmet. “Meet you there.”

Vector sighed softly. They merged onto the main road, parting ways with Mali and Luca. Sharp wind tousled his hair as they soared southwards through the city; Ace held his glasses with one hand, clutching tightly to Vector with the other.

“I’ll pay you back,” he said into her shoulder.

“360 credits, you owe,” Vector mumbled. “Now 380.” She often covered his costs; Ace was next to broke—the Institute’s monthly “survival” allowance did not exceed its name. Vector had means of making money that he didn’t pry into. She had parents, too, Ace supposed. After the Legion reclaimed his late father’s business, the remaining family funds were quickly sunk into a trip back to Kaminari—the start of a ten-year investigation. If only the Institute taught less sleuthing and more financial advice.

The city rushed past in discordant sound around him. He had no reference for where he was, an undeniably unsettling sense, but there was something oddly peaceful in the cacophonous void. Consumed by a flat wall. Nothing tangible but himself and Vector and the bike. White noise, Verse would say. Static. Sometimes Ace understood them. Not usually, but sometimes.

It was certainly better than a car. He despised cars.