Rabin was lying back on his bunk, with his eyes closed. "I know who you are, green. You're Mishkin's little brother. And if you're half the ass he is, we ain't gonna be doing much talking, you catch?"

After a few seconds, Sergei seemed to realize that Rabin wasn't going to shake his hand, and so slowly withdrew it. "You know my brother?" he asked.

Rabin snorted. "Ain't many that don't. He's likes to think he's a badass at the Sim, but he flies like a veg and can't shoot worth shit. He's a scout, so that's what he uses as his excuse. Likes to show off for the greens. You like that too, Mishkin? You a flashboy, like to think you're god of the cockpit, make 'em all 'ooh' and 'ah' for you?"

Sergei might have laughed, except that he was more than a little afraid of Rabin. "Um. Not really."

"Let's hope not. Outside the Sim, you can act however you like, green. You can boast about being death on wings, you can show off for the little girls all you like, but when you fly with me you stick to what you know and you don't show off shit. You catch, flash? Outside the Sim, that's your business. But inside, you do what I tell you, you learn quick and you do good, or I end you. You follow?"

Nicolai. Sergei was surprised at himself. He hadn't even thought about his brother. Not in at least a year. Now they were in the same school again, and Sergei could go see him.

He had no idea where he could find his brother, and didn't want to ask Rabin. The older boy -- no, this was a man, Sergei knew -- seemed not to like Nicolai, and Sergei didn't want to ask him where to find his brother. He'd ask someone walking around, perhaps. Rabin had said that everyone knew Nicolai. Rabin had also said that Nicolai liked to show off. So maybe he'd be in the Game Area.

She was sore and tired and her constant state of confusion was beginning to irritate her. She still hadn't found Jor, and he hadn't come to see her. Of course, she hadn't looked very hard, just a cursory glance through most of the school on her way back to the Quads. Maybe that was it. He was done with her. She grit her teeth. Jor wouldn't...couldn't do that to her. They belonged to each other.

These thoughts passed quickly, and meanwhile she was pulling her desk out. Same model, same mail system. Nothing from Jor.

For a second she didn't know whether to hit him or laugh. The sheer audacity of his comment was overridden for a moment when she realized he was right. It was faint, but definitely there. He must have one hell of a sense of smell to get it at range, though. She could barely detect it herself.

"If you're talking about Sergei, I don't think the kid could take it," she said with a vicious smirk, her eyes full of fire as she got the rest of what she needed for her shower ready to go piled on top of her clean uniform. "Guess you'll just have to wait until your mother comes to visit again, eh?" She palmed the door open and left, but not before a small smile snuck out and ruined a good deal of her anger. At least he had a sense of humor, rough as it was.

She was good, this veg that called herself "Wick". She had fire in her. She had flame. Rabin liked flame. He liked fire.

It was painfully obvious that this Sergei stooge wasn't going to be any fun at all, except perhaps as a regular target for ridicule. And there was always the chance that, no matter how deplorably bumbling and shy he seemed now, he might grow right into his brother's shoes. The last thing Rabin needed was another Nicolai right sharing a cell with him. If that ever happened, well, Rabin was going to have to beat Sergei into a wall.

But Wick. Wick was different. Definite potential there. The banter was good. Rabin set a lot of store by how well a veg could banter. And this girl, this Wick -- there was a lot of potential there.

But then, a lot depended on her, also. And the other green, the one that had come in and dragged her away, the one who's smell was on her when she came back -- he might be a problem. Not for Rabin, of course; he didn't concern himself with whether or not a girl was already taken. He let the girls decide for themselves. And besides, this Wick was too young for him anyway. He wasn't looking for a new toy. He was looking for a partner in crime. Somebody as fantastically mad and reckless as he. And this girl had potential.

Right now his mind was working. And as always happened when his mind was especially active, he felt the need to be physically active as well. He wanted to go do something. He couldn't do his thinking while holding still, and breathing slow, deep breaths like most. He needed to be in motion. He needed to feel exertion. And as his body pushed itself, so too would his mind.

Jor's loss ate at her soul.

She couldn't do for long without him, she knew. She felt faded and dull already. He was her match. Without him she was as as useless as wet wood. Eventually she would be forced to release the fire or risk complete burnout. She'd gotten too dependent on him, and now it would cost her.

What the hell was she going to do about the Angel?

She stripped to her undershirt and skivvies and slipped into the sheets of her bunk. A faint scent of Jor still lingered here from his visit this morning, and she closed her eyes and tried to sleep.

It was a long time coming.

Sergei came back first, making all sorts of noise bumping around and finally settling into his bunk and beginning to softly snore. The other vet followed shortly after, relatively quiet after Sergei's tornado.

Rabin came in later, padded silently to his bed and presumably went to sleep. She could hear nothing specific from his bunk at all.

She sat up, dressed, pulled on her boots and laced them up. The others were beginning to move around too, but she just ignored them. She ignored almost everything. She had to find out a great deal of information about Nathan today, and wouldn't have much time between classes. Then she had to figure out a way to get him iced for good that wouldn't put her or Jor in danger. It was strange, her lack of nervousness or enthusiasm, thinking these thoughts.

She felt almost dead without her match.

His first class of the day was Basic Electronic Maintenance, which was a waste of a perfectly good hour. Rabin rarely went. The extra sleep was nice, and nobody ever bothered him about being absent from it. The adults watched him in the simulator. They knew that this particular student wasn't going to be a wrench-turner. Rabin was going to fly. If not for the IF, then for whoever wanted him. So they let him have an extra hour, because what he learned in Electronics he would never, ever need.

He'd spent time in the Sim, putting greens in their place, but that had been utterly boring. A few vets had challenged him, but none had provided even the slightest challenge. He'd donw some running, and even visited the gym. He hadted using the equipment there, but he still had far too much anger in him from recent events, and he needed to work that out of his body. Rabin knew what happened when he didn't, and couldn't think of anyone here at this school that deserved it, with the possible exception of the probie green that had torched wick. Rabin would have loved to make that boy pay, but it wasn't his fight, and as long as the probie stuck to the rules Rabin had set for him -- as long as he never touched a hydra again -- then Rabin wouldn't raise a hand against him.

She was tired, but not tired enough to pass up the chance to taunt him. She still owed him from their encounter in the laundry room, anyway. He'd caught her at a bad time, there. She had catching up to do.

The Storage Bay. He'd been there, just after she'd...left, followed her to the infirmary...and then gone to see Jor. She swallowed quietly. Jor had already told the doctor where he was when she was attacked. She was about to ask him what Jor had been doing when the second part of his statement struck her.

"You..." She couldn't continue. He'd found Mode? He'd probably been hurt. No wonder he was in a bad mood. She narrowed her eyes. Why would Rabin choose to hunt down Mode on her behalf? He'd been nothing but rude, and she'd returned the favor. Maybe he'd just been curious.

"Right." She scratched her fingernails against the bottom of his foot, not enough to hurt, but enough to make him jerk away reflexively, and jumped down from his bunk, careful to put most of her weight on her good ankle. A shower sounded nice. Maybe she could hit the Game Arena on the way back.

Watching Nicolai getting flogged was fun. Watching Dominic do it while pretending to be Donovan was better, and watching Dominic punch him was right over the top of amusing and into enjoyable, especially with Jor there to enjoy it with her. If her match had thought she harbored feelings for the stuck up flyboy, she'd disproved them this afternoon, and that felt good.

She and Jor had returned to his cabin after dinner and spent a pleasant hour or so together before lights out encroached too closely and she had to shower and return to her Cell. Sergei was already asleep, and the other one as well. Rabin was there and awake, and they'd shared a look of common mischief before the lights died and she crawled into her bunk.

Today had been a good day. Jor had been sweet, Nicolai had been humiliated, and Mode had been completely absent.

The MPs were dressed in their finest riot gear - all the better to intimidate with, von Starnburg thought wryly - dressed in black full-body armor with stun batons at the ready, they looked more like sinister alien beings than men. Starnburg himself was in his best uniform: Jet black slacks with a crease upon which you could cut steak, tucked into equally black knee-high boots. He wore a high-collared jacket that came up to just below his chin, black of course, with silver buttons running up the middle and sporting black and silver shoulder boards, engraved in the crest of the IA. For the occasion, he had decided to wear his side arm, even though it was technically against regulations. All in all, he had thought before heading out, a rather fine figure of a secret policeman.

The senior MP glanced at him questioningly, and the Colonel nodded. They could go in. They did.

He locked the door open, and the MPs rushed into the room, silent. Two to the left side, two to the right. Starnburg himself stood framed in the doorway, a halo of light streaming in around him, a menacing specter of darkness.

"Wake them. Find me the girl." He couldn't help himself; the desire to have the other children see what was happening, to make them conscious and fearful, was too powerful for him to resist. With savage prods, the MPs forced each cell member awake.

When he saw what he supposed to be a female shape start up, von Starnburg nodded in satisfaction, reveling in the fear and confusion.

They spread out once they entered; two came to Rabin's side, and two to Wick's. One man gripped Rabin's bicep and hauled roughly, and Rabin could see the other doing the same to the worthless bender tha bunked above him. The man that grabbed Rabin got quite a shock, however.

The same arm that the MP grabbed flexed suddenly, and Rabin's fingers locked around the edge of the man's breastplate, and Rabin hauled him closer as his other fist arced across from the far side of the bunk and smashed right into the faceplate of the man's helmet. It did not actually hurt him, but it was enough to make the man let go and recoil, and that was all the time Rabin needed.

He'd braced his feet against the bare wall that his bunk lay against, and now he shoved off, making use of the powerful muscles he'd built up back in Battle School's null-g combat and had maintained through his years here at Command School with his running. He spun atop his bunk, with his shoulder as his fulcrum, and he kicked out into the stunned MP's chest, sending him sprawling back. He is spin continued right through the MP reaching up to the bunk above, sweeping the man's legs right out from under him.

Rabin was up on his own feet in the blink of an eye, and he kicked out at one of the two MPs still standing. The man had turned, and deflected the kick, and so Rabin shifted his center of balance, and raised his fists. In the dim light, a glimmer shined in his eyes.

The boy blocked him easily, but he had not been meant to succeed, merely to distract. By now the other two were up, and as their comrade went down, they renewed the attack. One came up behind the boy, grabbed his shoulder, and spun him around. Not wanting to actually damage him {these command school brats were expensive, after all}, the MP slapped him full in the face and the force of his gauntleted hand was enough to spin the boy back around. Back into the waiting arms of his comrade, who proceeded to savagely beat him about the body, yet remaining careful not to hit anywhere that would leave a visible bruise. Seeing that the boy was about to retaliate, the first MP waded in, and brought him down, still struggling. The two then pinned him to the floor, helpless, and turned back to von Starnburg for guidance.

The Colonel nodded again to the two unoccupied MPs who each grabbed an arm of the stunned Wick, and frog-marched her toward the door. As they were passing, von Starnburg stopped them, and looked down into the face of his quarry. Scarcely more than a girl, he thought, and yet, all this trouble, just for her. Breaking her will be… amusing.

"No more wasting time," he told her, "We have much to discuss." Johan motioned the guards to lead the way back to the detention center.

As he turned to follow, von Starnburg paused and turned back to the room, to see the remaining MPs hauling up the boy, ready to detain him as well.

"No," he told them. "The boy is irrelevant. Teach the whelp some manners, and then catch up with us." Von Starnburg turned on his heel and strode after his prize, ears ringing with soft music of a careful beating.

Finally, Rabin's grin was too much for the man doing the hitting, and his foot lashed out, catching Rabin in the gut. Rabin doubled forward, but he had no breath with which to cry out, and he was glad of that. The blows stopped then, but the man holding him from behind did not let go. The MP before Rabin was trying to look imposing and stoic, but Rabin could see it in the lines of his body, see the shame. Didn't think you'd have to do anything like this, did you, boys? Just thought you were gonna swoop in in the night and drag some girl from her bed without a fight?

With great effort, Rabin straightened up, enough so that he could raise his head again to look at the MP in front of him. He grinned, again.

The MP roared, and backhanded Rabin. With gauntlets like these boys were wearing, a slap was no laughing matter. Rabin's head hung forward, as though he didn't even have the strength to lift it. But they could hear him. It started as a soft chuckle. But it grew. It got louder and louder, until the man slapped Rabin again. Then the laughing stopped.

Rabin could not lift his head. If not for the man holding him, he would not even be standing. His mouth was red inside, and blood ran down his jaw and dripped onto the floor.

But Rabin was able to turn his head, just a bit, so that his eyes could find a line of sight to the MP before him. And he grinned. "Someday," he said, blood leaking from his mouth, "I wanna be a soldier like you guys."

He was tossed to the ground, and the MPs left.

It wasn't long before he felt hands lifting him. Consciousness never left him. He was far too stubborn to fall unconscious. They sat him on his bed, and it was Sergei that knelt down in front of him, looking up into his face. Even with vision as hazy as his was, he could see the expression on Sergei's face easily. Awe. Simple, dumbfounded awe.

"That was the bravest thing I've ever seen," Sergei said, his voice barely above a whisper.

But Rabin did not want Sergei's admiration. What good had his violence done, if Wick had still been taken? It might even be worse for her now; those men might be looking to work out some of that shame they felt on someone who couldn't fight back. Rabin planted a hand against Sergei's face and shoved, knocking the boy back on his ass and sending him sliding. Rabin's hand then flashed out and gripped the undershirt of the cell's other vet, Wes. If "vet" coudl be applied to a worm like him. Rabin pulled himself to his feet using Wes as his brace, and then shoved him out of the way as he stumbled toward the door. When he got to it, he half-turned, to look over his shoulder at him. "You miserable fucking cowards," he said. "What if it had been you they were coming for?"

Sergei whined, but closed down his desk and took it with him as he left.

Rabin knelt down beside his bunk, and pulled the gear out from beneath. "Let's see what we got," he said.

There was more than he'd expected there to be, actually. Aside from the armor and uniform, there were three sets of sturdy cuffs, a metal combat knife, a stun prod, nylon zipties, a canister of mace, an asp, and several teargas grenades.

"Nico... I'm really sorry about what happened, I never wanted to fight... so please don't be mad at me, I just want to be... friends... again like we used to be before Dominic and all this fuss. Meet me in the library after lights-out? I'll make it up to you, just like old times... please forgive me. I'll be waiting there for you, baby. Miss you something awful, my scout. Kisses from Roxy."

Rabin shrugged and shoved the assorted gear underneath his bunk once more as Rox pulled off the armor and let him put it away. She did, however, shove two pairs of handcuffs into her side pocket, smiling as Rabin tucked the combat knife into his belt. What a partner. He climbed into his bunk, and she slid into the one opposite, borrowing the desk that had been left on the pillow and logging in. It only took a few moments for her to type in and send the little note to Nicolai, and she giggled wildly when she finally did, throwing her pillow at Rabin. "Sent, baby! Nico's goin' down!"

Even if she couldn't see his face, Rox knew exactly what Rabin's expression would be. They were two of a kind, her and Rabin, pranksters at heart and mischievious to the core. They still had some time left until lights-out, and she lounged lazily on her stomach now, her feet waving idly as she played around on the desk, just looking through random files.

Finally, though, enough time had passed, and Rabin hopped down from above and motioned to her. Rox snapped off the desk screen and pushed it away, rolling from the bed. When he nodded toward the door, she grinned widely and followed him out into the corridor. Ten minutes until bedtme-- enough time for them to reach the library and for Rabin to hide himself before night came and Nicolai would face their games.

A slight smile was on her lips, an unconscious remnant of her time with Jor, but her reverie wasn't deep enough to keep from noticing Wes looking at her with wide eyes from across the room. He was looking at her bruises. Her small smile turned into a frown of distaste and she looked at him and narrowed her eyes, catching his gaze too fast for him to turn away.

"Daze elsewhere, taper. I'm not in the mood." Sergei looked up when she spoke, and she glared at him too, and in near unison the boys turned away, doing whatever they could to have something else to do, something else to look at.

How pathetic, she thought bitterly. Before she'd been taken, she wouldn't have expected any of her roommates to fight for her, not against armed MPs and an IA official, but Rabin's actions made them look disloyal and cowardly by comparison. Sergei had never been high in her esteem. She'd felt sorry for him more than anything else. Wes didn't even have that going for him, and she doubted her opinion of him would improve.

And then there was Rabin.

She was watching them.

"Evening, green," he said, still grinning, and touched his fingers to his forehead and drew them away as if tipping his hat. "Usually girls at least ask before climbing into my bed. Whatsa matter? Your veg ain't earned his wings yet?" That earned a fresh bout of tittering from the girl still leaning on the doorframe. The light hit her face properly and Wick identified her. Roxy. One of Dante's friends. Her grin didn't get any smaller, but her eyes narrowed a bit.

It'd taken them forever to make it back to the barracks, finally staggering into the Hydra cell like two drunks who'd had a little too much fun. Rabin managed to get over to his bunk, but she had to stop and lean against the doorframe, gasping and giggling uncontrollably. She glanced up when someone stirred, and Rabin started talking to some girl that she had to squint to see; but in the gloom she couldn't make out anything more than pale features, and gave up trying, snickering more as Rabin teased his cellmate.

"And you're gonna teach me how to fly, Rabin? You didn't really seem like the flashboy type." The girl turned to look at her, and Rox flashed her a brilliant smile just as she continued to speak. "But it looks like it might get crowded. Want me to come back later?"

Rabin was big. Bigger than Jor. Muscles crossed his abdomen and chest, bound his arms like iron clamps. Wick felt physically insignificant next to this powerhouse. Yet he was not invincible; samples of his vulnerability were still freely scattered on his visible skin, no doubt far worse elsewhere, and Wick experienced a rare moment of softening, but quickly shielded it. Soft was not something Rabin would appreciate.

Hydras stick together," Rabin answered. "You for me, me for you, to the end. I'll expect you to do the same for me when they come. And they will, sooner or later. But you got fire, green. I don't doubt you'll do what's gotta be done when the time comes."

Jor and Rabin were far too similar to get along. They both had oceans of stubborn pride, they both defended their territory with zealous effectiveness, and they both had the same appreciation for spirit in the people they chose to surround themselves with. And, through some strange twist of fate, they were both eager and willing to protect her.

There are worse things, she thought to herself with a smile.

She touched cool fingertips lightly to Rabin's forehead before moving over to her bunk. Her face and body still ached fiercely, but her limp was nearly gone. Another few days and she would be much improved. Maybe a light workout tomorrow would be tolerable. She lay down and looked up at Sergei's bunk above her. She kicked it. He jumped and made a gasp of surprise, and she grinned and then turned to her side, her eyes falling closed on Rabin's dark silhouette.

But he'd somehow managed to respect her request for solitude... at least, for about an hour or so. The observatory had quickly become intolerably dull, as had the cavern, commons, and game arena in turn. Normally, he wouldn't have had much of a problem finding something to do, but today was different. Quite frankly, the past few days had been more different than any of their previous two years together.

Jor couldn't decide why, and quickly gave up trying.

Who cared, anyway? Not he. He was happy, Wick seemed happy, and if a few hours separation kept that peace, he was content. It wouldn't last for long, and he knew it. It never did. That was one reason he loved her so much; she made him angry, she made him protective and jealous and possessive and raging, she made him fight for her. Anything less and his interest might have waned. Anything more, and he would have felt too trapped. As it was, Jor was in love, and decided to leave it at that.

Take the Ravenshire family line. They had old, old roots, and depending on who had been at the head of the house, they had risen and fallen accordingly. Her great-grandmother had been a fool and a wastrel. She luxuriated above and beyond her inheritance and left her eldest son with very little beyond the family estate and a mass of hungry creditors. There were many petty nobles who had been left in better condition that had quietly washed away into obscurity.

Mathias Ravenshire had other plans.

He had no monetary capital to draw on, so instead he used what he did have in abundance to offer; his four children. His oldest, Penelope, married into a noble family of considerably higher current stature. That held their position. The second child, his son Adrian, he sent to an earthside military academy, let him serve until he attained the rank of Captain and then found him a suitably subservient bride in the younger daughter of a noted politician. That held their notoriety without bringing them too far into the unwelcome public spotlight...and if the girl died shortly after her first son was born, what of it? They still had the blood tie in the child.

His youngest, Lilliana, was a purely fiscal investment. It was a brilliant maneuver, even if Mathias hadn't been primarily responsible. His wife had arranged it in his absence, had the girl delivered and the money in the accounts several weeks before he returned. Jadis Ravenshire had never cared much for her younger daughter, who took entirely too much of her father's attention. Her marriage to Richard Callenstrom brought enough into the family coffers to clear up any last lingering hint of debt and gave them a solid base to build upon for future generations, and Lilliana was willing, if not quite happy, to make the sacrifice.

Wick had never been clear on what happened between her grandparents when Mathias returned, but she got the impression it hadn't been pleasant.

Her reading was interrupted when her desk was shoved aside and someone pounced on her. Irritation and shock melted away to pleased relief when she felt Jor's lips against her throat. "Missed you, spark," he murmured against her skin, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and enjoyed the strength and security of his embrace. "Missed you too, match," she said in his ear, and kissed his neck gently, nipping him far too lightly to mark before she pulled back to meet his emerald eyes. Such a beautiful boy, her match. Her mother's family had cast her off before she was born. Someday she would shed her father's name and be free of him completely, and belong to only herself and one other.

He held her tightly as she nipped at his throat, his eyes muting to quiet jade as she drew back to smile at him. Jor returned the smile, closing his eyes to kiss her as with strong arms he rolled them over on the bunk until she sat perched on his hips, and he could stare up into her lovely face.

Those short silky black strands slid across her cheeks, and he lifted a hand to brush them aside, cupping her chin and leaning up for another kiss. He placed his hands on her shoulders, ran along the length of her arms, until an unfamiliar stiffness in the crook of her elbow stopped his exploration.

Blood. Dried blood on her uniform.

His eyes widened as they met her glacier blue ones, and for once, his intial anger was lost in his concern. Jor unzipped her uniform jacket, tugged it off roughly as she gave him only mild resistance, and with gentle fingers touched her wound.

"Spark? You alright?" She didn't answer, and he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her down to lay against his chest. He sighed, closed his eyes, and stroked her back soothingly... more to comfort himself than to comfort her. She'd done something again, and he knew it, and he only hoped that Mode hadn't been involved.

Her analysis would not be put aside so easily, and shifted from him to herself instead. Why had she done that? Self-injury had never been an interest for her. There were differences between destructive tendencies. If her love for fire carried a death wish with it, so be it, but she had never seen the point of piecemeal measures.

The answer was surprisingly easy to discover. It hadn't caused any pain for her, and was not mortal, and so her mind hadn't catalogued it as self-injury. It was just another tool. In some ways, that made her feel...free. She would never have to suffer any pain, on that one part of her body. It was blissfully free of the rules that bound the rest of her, and that meant she had gained new versatility, and that was good.

In all other ways, it terrified her. Those ways she didn't care to analyze, and her mind agreed with her this time and obediently shut down.