#or comment!

Peter allowed himself a sigh, one that the secretary wouldn’t hear or, if she did, she’d chalk it up to the understandable anxiousness of the new kid. He’d come a long way from the first time he’d stolen an apple from a stall under Mag’s careful eye.

To keep himself focused, he played a game. Peter did that a lot, he found himself uncomfortable with any time not consumed by some useful distraction. It was why he always listened to the radio as he fell asleep, no matter how many times Mag threatened to take the power brick out of it. He just couldn’t stand idle silence. So he pushed his glasses up his nose and took a quick study of the secretary’s desk to see what information he could glean about her.

His brain worked fast, plucking the bits of information out greedily. Family picture, wife, three children. Notes on her desk, the numbers of different homes for the elderly in Hyperion. Infirm parents and an upcoming heavy drain on her finances, then. Her nails were long but the polish was chipping, like she drummed them on her desk frequently. A short temper or just stressed? More likely the latter, she’d been kind to him so far. Or at least as kind as someone who worked in a place where she must see a hundred neglected, underweight kids with clear signs of poverty could afford to be without going insane. Her desk had no signs of organisation whatsoever, not so much as a sticky note to pin a flag in that riot of loose papers. So she was distracted, under pressure and clearly prone to losing track of information.

Peter thought he could drain the full contents of her bank account within a month.

Obviously, thinking that didn’t make him feel good and he’d never actually do it. But he could feel how proud Mag would be, if he brought him all of that from just a minute of observation, her whole life mapped out in a blueprint. How he’d smile at him and squeeze his shoulder and remind him of the first rule of thieving, know how to read your marks in a single glance, a glance might be all you get. Peter had mastered that one at age seven.

The secretary’s intercom buzzed suddenly and Peter didn’t need to fake his nervous jolt at the harsh, staticy sound. The voice on the other end was too muddy to make out but the secretary lifted her eyes and said, “You can go on through now. Mr Spoor is ready for you.”

Nureyev nodded, scrambling to his feet, patting himself down in a way that would look like he was trying to neaten himself up when in fact, he was deliberately ruffling his hair, yanking down his t-shirt so the frays on the hem would be visible, missing the smudge under his ear. First rule of thieving, you’re never in such a position of power as when the mark underestimates you.

The principal’s office was pretty meagre but at least had a slight edge on the rest of his run down, underfunded school. The chair Peter sat in was worn through so the stuffing poked out, the desk between them had deep gouges in it that hadn’t been sanded down, the computer to the side of them was an ancient model that Peter could have cracked with his eyes closed. That boded well for the rest of his mission.

“It’s customary to have these orientation meetings with your guardian present,” the principal's voice was cool and had no trace of a warm welcome in it, not even a greeting. It matched the expression on his craggy face, “I was expecting to meet them.”

“Um…” Peter swallowed hard, shifting uncomfortably, shrinking himself down, “They, uh...my dad...he...he was sick this morning so he couldn’t come.”

There was a lot that could be read into that, half a hundred hidden explanations that, given the catchment area of Oldtown High, Mr Spoor would have seen again and again. So he didn’t press, just giving Peter an unimpressed glance like it was his fault that his non existent father was absent, turning to the screen.

“Very well then...Peter Ransom, correct?”

“That’s right…” Peter nodded.

“That’s right, sir.”

Peter gave a little start, cheeks reddening to come off as merely intimidated and unsure rather than outwardly defiant. As fun as that would be, it wouldn’t make his task any easier, “Sir. Sorry. Sir.”

Mr Spoor likely would have narrowed his lips if they weren’t already worn down to a permanent grimace of disapproval, turning back to the screen and whatever information was on there. Most of it counterfeit, of course.

“So you were born on the outer rim...passable scores in your previous assessments…”

Peter kept his face impassive, though something roiled inside him. The grades Mag had put together for him were fantastic, he knew that for a certainty, and he could match them with his ability. But he didn’t rise, he didn’t bite. He just looked suitably shy and intimidated, scuffing the toe of his sneaker against the floor, fidgeting with the large, second hand glasses Mag had given him to replace his usual sleek, cat eye ones.

“You’ll be starting with us as a senior, given your age and...supposed ability. I expect you to maintain an acceptable standard of work, given that you’re joining so late in the year. We cannot afford for you to fall behind,” Mr Spoor continued, looking more at the screen than the child in front of him, “What is it exactly that brings someone from a place like Brahma to a Martian high school?”

Peter swallowed, “My dad got a job on Mars, sir. He said things would be better for us here...that I’d be able to go to a good school and make friends…”

The principal didn’t even try to hide his snort of disdain, deepening Peter’s instantly formed dislike of the man. He must have thought this new student of his was blind, that he hadn’t seen the graffiti covering the front of the building, how the chairs didn’t match in the classrooms he’d passed, how the books were dog eared and the floors permanently scuffed. Did he enjoy seeing these children clearly born just after the war, with their tattered families and nightmares of a time they could only half remember, crossing the galaxy for something close to a life worth living, coming through his school and being ground down just like the rest of them? Did he find it amusing, seeing a boy who’d grown up scared of the sky itself daring to hope that things might be better here?

Again, Peter repeated his mission in his head.

“We might as well take you on,” Mr Spoor said, as if he didn’t particularly care one way or the other, “I’m sure you’ll fit right in with our other students.” The way he said it made it sound neither reassuring or like a positive.

“Thank you, sir,” Peter feigned a mix of relief, excitement and fear, “I promise I’ll work really hard and do really well.”

The look Mr Spoors gave him made him wonder how he’d like a plasma knife at his throat but, thankfully, it was brief, soon replaced by dismissal, “You’ll begin classes after lunch. Go wait outside again and my secretary will give you your timetable.”

With more breathless, slightly panicked enthusiasm, Peter retreated, looking forward to rewarding himself with a momentary, bitter scowl in between the door closing and approaching the secretary.

But, as it happened, he never got the chance. Because there was now another student was occupying the same chair he’d been sitting on. And Peter’s heart stopped dead for a moment, for a number of reasons.

One, their face was covered in blood. Splatters of it radiated out from a nose that was now swollen and tender, from a lip that was messily split, and Peter knew enough of basic field medicine to know their left eye would be black and purple and swollen nearly shut the next day. The fists angrily clenched in their lap had split knuckles too, just to complete the image.

Two, the face beneath the gore was beautiful.

Peter steadied himself, swallowing hard and taking the seat next to his new schoolmate. Almost immediately, the uninjured eye fixed a glare on him so sharp and vicious that Peter promptly shifted to the next chair along.

He knew the over eager, overcompensating new student he was supposed to be playing would immediately try to make friends, stick his hand out in the gap between them and introduce himself in a too loud, too sunny voice as Peter Ransom. Probably to be met with another glare and possibly a punch to the face, given how much they were twitching with what was clearly post-fight adrenaline. But for some reason, he couldn’t quite manage it so they sat in a frosty silence, punctuated only by the secretary's nails tapping on her computer keys and the steady drip of blood from their nose to the floor.  

Still, Peter had a thief’s curiosity. He stole enough glances at the other kid to glean a little bit about them. They were his age, though shorter and stockier by nature, with an anger naturally set into their face that poor newbie Peter Ransom would never feel. Their hair was a mess of black curls, piled on top of their head and shaved underneath, their ear held numerous piercings they were clearly too young to have acquired legally or hygienically. That surely wouldn’t be permitted by the dress code Peter had studied avidly along with the schematics of the school, the faculty list and every other piece of information he’d been able to get about Oldtown High, determined to do a good and  thorough job. The code would probably have had something to say about their combat boots that were a size too big, their fishnet tights and short skirt, their sleeveless shirt with, incongruously, a picture of a cartoon man on it and the bright, bubbly text reading ‘Turbo!’. There had probably been bigger misdemeanours to think about at the time than a dress code violation.

“What the hell are you staring at?”

Peter jumped at the rough, angry voice, realising the kid was scowling right at him. Their face was clearly made for that expression; Peter had faced down armed guards, lasers from the clouds, jobs that would have landed him in jail for ten times the years he’d been alive but he’d seldom felt so intimidated.

And people didn’t normally notice him looking. After all, first rule of thieving, your eyes are your greatest weapon, don’t be obvious when you use them.

“I...nothing, I’m not…” he searched for a response, glad it was in Ransom’s nature to be easily put off.

“Do I look like the kind of guy you want to mess with right now?” the scowl deepened, sending a fresh line of blood running down their chin from their broken lip.

“Um...no,” Peter decided it was better to give simple answers.

“Yeah,” they gave a dry snort with no humour in it, “So keep your eyes to yourself or lose them, pal.”

Blood, angry tones and threats didn’t scare Peter Nureyev but they weren’t the reason he looked away hastily and was glad of it. It had more to do with dark eyes, holding depths he knew he’d never open up with just a glance, a faded white scar across a flat nose that he thought he’d like to trace with the very tip of his finger, full lips that looked soft somehow even as they were curled in anger.

Peter gave himself a mental slap, repeating his mission again, louder and firmer. He could practically hear Mag laughing at him all the way from Brahma.

First rule of thieving, stop mooning after every pretty boy who so much as glances at you, Pete! How many times do I have to tell you?

He had to admit, he’d been hoping for a smoother start on his first off planet solo mission.

Fortunately, the secretary spoke up not long after, “Peter? Peter Ransom?”

He jumped to his feet, receiving a few papers from her. A class schedule, a map and an outline of expected behaviour. Peter had seen all of this and far, far more in his research but he made sure Ransom looked at it with apprehension, as if it was written in another language.

“And for you, Mr Steel, another detention slip,” her voice took on a kind of fond, bemused exhaustion, “Add it to the collection.”

The other student jumped up and swiped the pink piece of paper from her hands, stuffing it carelessly in the pocket of his skirt, “Thanks, Brenda.”

She rolled her eyes and turned to Peter, “It’s lunchtime at the moment, I’m sure Mr Steel here would be happy to show you to the cafeteria.”

Instantly, Mr Steel stiffened and shot her an exasperated look which she soundly ignored, turning back to her computer screen in a manner that suggested he could stand and look at her like that all day, for all she cared. Eventually, he gave a growl and stomped out of the office, down the corridor. Peter followed, pausing in the doorway to give him a chance to storm off and leave him behind.

There was no hiding his surprise when, after a few seconds, he snapped, “Are you coming or what?”

Peter did.

Nureyev knew every inch of the hallways but of course Ransom didn’t, so he fixed an expression of wary awe on his face. There were some things that didn’t take a lot of effort, like the swear word carved into one locker that he’d never even heard of or when the sound of a muffled explosion shook the floor above them where the science rooms were. They passed other students, who shot unsurprised looks at the state of Steel and appraised him like a piece of fresh meat in a butcher’s. Peter would have loved the chance to try his knife or his wits against one of them, he’d long ago learned to make up for the scrawny appearance that made them look at him so hungrily.

Stick to the mission. Follow the instructions. Do your job.

Abruptly, Steel stopped, without turning around, “Cafeteria’s down that way. See you.”

Peter blinked, glancing at the double doors he was indicating with a thumb, which were practically shaking out of their frames with the sound of what had to be a riot behind them, “Aren’t you eating too?”

“What’s it to you, pal?” Juno did turn then, just enough to fix him with an incredulous look.

Before Peter had to come up with an answer, they were interrupted by a loud shout of, “Juno!”

Peter thought his eyes were playing tricks on him for a moment, an exact copy of Steel was bounding down some stairs to their left. Except this one was smiling, a hundred kilowatt grin, and wearing leggings, an oversize sweatshirt and sneakers that flashed when they hit the floor.

“Oh god, Juno, your face is a mess,” he grimaced at the sight of his twin’s face, “Jones did a number on you, huh?”

“‘Bout half the number I did on them, they got carted off to the emergency room,” Steel, now Juno, grunted, still stiff and awkward, throwing glances in Peter’s direction.

“I’m sure they deserved it,” the other Steel shrugged, turning their grin on Peter, “Hey! I’m Benzaiten, you can call me Ben or Benten. You new?”

“Um, yes! I just started today actually, I...I’m from off planet and…”

“That’s cool! You can tell us more over lunch,” Ben’s tidal wave of positivity bowled over him, reaching out and squeezing his shoulder.

Both Juno and Peter froze.

“Over what now?”

“Uh, that’s kind of you but...um, I don’t know if I…”

“He’s new, Juno, of course he’s coming to sit with us!” Ben shrugged, like the matter was obvious.

Juno was staring daggers at his twin, looking ready to throttle him, “The guy says he’s fine, so he’s fine.”

“Come on, Juno, don’t be a bitch,” Ben laughed fondly, like he didn’t see that his twin was gritting his teeth hard enough to shatter, “We’d better get moving, Mick and Sasha will already be waiting…”

He turned on his neon flashing heel and bounced down the hall in the complete opposite direction to the cafeteria, not waiting for them. Juno groaned and pressed his fingertips to his temples like he was trying to ward off a migraine. After what was clearly him counting backwards from ten, he frowned and set off after his brother.

“Come or don’t come,” he growled over his shoulder at Peter, “I couldn’t care less.”

For a moment, neither Nureyev nor Ransom really knew what to do. He repeated his mission again in his head.

Blend in. Sneak in after dark. Find the evidence. Upload the malware. Send it to Mag. Run.

Nowhere in that list did it say follow a beautiful, angry stranger and his bubblegum brother god only knew where. In fact, Peter was pretty sure they fell squarely under the definition of a distraction, something he knew to avoid. He knew what the sensible choice was, the decision someone who could be trusted with missions like this, who would work tirelessly to be the best thief he could be, would make.

But...wouldn’t this count as blending in?