2-B—even Camie, to her vocal dismay—were held by FCPD officers for four hours. So was Rust. They were questioned as a group, although Ace took up role as spokesperson, carefully relaying each piece of evidence they’d uncovered. He’d sat through plenty of interrogations in the Institute as a secondary detective. Four years ago, when he’d finally returned to Alerion to investigate his father’s death, he was the lead. Now he found himself at the other end of the table, subjected to the very mental tactics the Institute had taught him to employ. The primary questioning officer attempted an emotional approach before quickly realizing it was not the correct way to handle an Institute agent; he abandoned that idea and allowed Ace to say his part, nodding along and scribbling a few notes. He and Ace were on the same page. The officer just didn’t realize it.

It was long past the designated lunch break by the time they were released. Ace was made acutely aware that he had not eaten anything all day. He was starving, but it didn’t outweigh the persistent nausea; he’d already thrown up once that morning and suspected any food might trigger a second wave. He didn’t know what to do, or what to think, or how to feel. Uncertainty seemed to be the biggest constant in his life as of late.

And so, rather than seeking food, Ace followed Spade back to their room. They were both silent the entire way, far too afraid to speak to anyone at all, as though a single overheard breath might compromise them. Once they finally reached the protection of solitude, Ace immediately dropped onto his bed. He was hungry and sick and exhausted; he hadn’t slept the last night. And he had a stabbing headache that persisted even when he tried closing his eyes to block it out. A generally miserable feeling. The overwhelming adrenaline high had worn off, and fatigue was rapidly settling in. Spade, despite being in a similar state, was somehow more alert than ever, pacing the room.

“What now?” Spade said, breaking the silent vow.

Ace had no idea. He’d been mercilessly thrown into this mess so abruptly that whatever semblance of a plan he’d devised was purely for the short-term. The remains of his excuse for a “plan” were stacked on Spade’s desk—on a safe, untraceable cloth, as Ace had insisted, which would be disposed of with the other items: a switchblade, pair of gloves, shirt, and pen. He would burn them all in a few hours.

“Now we wait,” Ace said simply. “See how things play out.”

Spade paused. “It was hardly a closed case. They could have inquired the most minute detail, and we’d have no answer,” he said anxiously.

“But they didn’t,” Ace muttered.

Spade continued. “The letter. The key card. The stolen blade.”

“But they didn’t.”

“I’m saying, the scene is very much incomplete.”

Ace sat upright. “And I’m saying that it doesn’t matter!” he snapped. Then he sighed. “It doesn’t matter,” he repeated, “what the school or the Legion or anyone takes away. They’ll accept an easy answer if it shuts the drama down quickly and quietly. In public eyes, at least. You think the school wants this kind of attention?”

“And 2-B will let it go if the FCPD sets our answer in stone,” Spade conceded. “But it just feels...” he gave up the thought and sat down on his own bed. As he did, he curled in pain with an audible whine.

Ace jumped and rushed over to Spade. “Hey, are you okay? Let me see it,” he ordered.

Releasing a slow breath, Spade unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged it off. His pale skin was laced with faded scars, most small and scattered, a few larger in coordinated lines; the most prominent stretched straight down his chest, down the center of his rib cage. But Ace was far more concerned with the open wound at Spade’s side. It was hastily patched, and the unraveling bandages were speckled dark with permeating blood. Ace ran to the drawer under his bed where he stored an assortment of medical supplies. He stuffed his hands with gauze and tape and returned to Spade. “I evidently rushed this,” Ace mumbled as he stripped the existing bandages. The wound was raw; it wasn’t mortally deep, more a slice than a stab—but a significant slice nonetheless. It still bled steadily. “Shit, Spade. You need to get help. I mean, you’re sick.”

“Was it not you who convinced me against that?” Spade hissed.

“Well yeah, but I’m paranoid. Don’t listen to me.”

Spade lay down, which was a bit inconvenient, as Ace had not yet finished taping his bandages. Spade dug his palms into his eyes and groaned wordlessly. Ace sighed. He’d accomplished enough that it wasn’t worth an argument. “Try to rest,” Ace said, exhaling. He stood to leave Spade alone.

The evidence board on the wall burned into him, the name OMERTA BLUME unshakeable from his mind, printed there in its highlighted-circled glory. The name’s corresponding face hung just above it, a smarmy exo man with a stupid little white mustache. If the Legion was predictable as he’d anticipated and hoped, Blume would soon be arrested. The trial would be a façade at best and nonexistent at worst. The Legion was not known for its democratic court system, not for anyone either poor or insulting enough to their image. Blume fell into the latter category. Wasn’t that what Ace wanted? He wanted Blume denounced and arrested and possibly killed, or at least hurt a bit. That he could not deny. But he’d cheated. Blume’s reputation would be immortalized as the killer of Sithius Moff. He’d get off free for Colt and Lyra of Alerion. Ace would eventually tell Vector and probably Luca and maybe some acquaintances at the Institute. None of them would care. Because they’d died over ten years ago, and no one really cared “how” or “why” anymore.

In an impulsive instant, Ace tore the picture and the name off the board and threw them both onto the “To Burn” pile.

“You need rest, too,” Spade muttered.