Chapter Text
The government buildings smelled like someone was trying very hard to make them clean, though not actually clean in any real sense because nothing in Chicago was clean anymore, not with the rainwater still carrying rust and the metallic ghost of train tracks running through the city like exposed veins beneath the skin. But the centre of the city tried harder than everywhere else, which I suppose was meant to be reassuring. The stone had been scrubbed pale, and the faction banners hanging from the buildings looked as though they'd never once been touched by weather or smoke or human hands, which was the kind of lie I found unbearably artificial.
"Stop slouching," my mother said, and she didn't look at me when she spoke. Instead, she adjusted the cuffs of her blue sleeves with the kind of clinical precision that suggested she approached even small gestures the way someone might defuse a bomb, her eyes fixed ahead on the courthouse steps as our driver slowed the car to a stop.
I straightened by exactly one inch.
"There," I said. "Human perfection achieved."
Her mouth tightened into something that might have been disappointment, though with my mother it was always difficult to tell the difference between disappointment and contempt.
I was twelve years old and already professionally disappointing, which seemed to be the one consistent thing I was good at.
The car door opened and cold air swept in immediately, sharp enough to sting my lungs. My mother stepped out first with her posture immaculate and her dark hair pinned neatly at the nape of her neck, everything about her arranged with the kind of control that suggested she'd never once in her life lost control of anything. I climbed out after her and shoved my hands deep into my pockets, watching as she moved toward the courthouse steps with the kind of deliberate grace that made even walking look like a statement.
Above us, enormous glass panels reflected the grey sky back at itself, as though the city was too tired to come up with its own view of the world.
This was a joint Candor and Erudite governance discussion, which meant six straight hours of listening to adults politely insult each other whilst pretending civilisation still functioned as though nothing had fallen apart. Lucky me, as my mother would say, though she would say it in the way that made it clear she meant the opposite.
Inside, the building buzzed with the kind of restrained noise that only came from people trying very hard not to make a scene. The black and white clad Candor representatives occupied the halls in clusters, speaking too loudly and laughing too sharply, taking up space like they'd personally funded the entire building and therefore owned it. The air of entitlement was almost visible, like a thing you could touch if you reached out. The Erudite side of things was quieter, which made sense because they were always quieter, composed little clusters of blue that drifted through the halls like ghosts, whispering information to each other in low voices and shuffling around as though they were afraid the knowledge might burn them if they held it too long.
Everyone looked unbearable.
My mother's hand rested briefly against my shoulder as we entered the council chamber, and though it might have looked like affection to someone who didn't know her, it was really a warning.
"Do not embarrass me today," she said quietly.
"Wouldn't dream of it," I replied.
"You say that every time, Jen."
"And yet you keep bringing me to these meetings, which seems profoundly unfair when I could stay at home and read instead."
Her expression cooled another degree, and then she sighed in my direction, the kind of sigh that suggested she'd long ago accepted that her daughter was a permanent disappointment, which meant she was probably right. She moved away toward the governing tables near the front of the room, leaving me standing there feeling very much like I'd been dismissed.
I exhaled slowly, watching her go.
Then I abandoned my assigned seat completely and without any real attempt at subtlety.
There was a long side corridor attached to the main chamber that was lined with old archives and observation windows that overlooked the city streets below, and it was where I found myself wandering, dragging my fingers along the spines of dusty faction records until I found a thick political volume that had been shoved crookedly onto one of the shelves.
Ethics of Truth Governance.
Candor propaganda. I snorted and sat cross-legged beneath the window, opening the book anyway because sometimes I liked to see exactly how badly they could argue a point.
The arguments were painfully predictable. Truth creates trust. Truth creates justice. Truth prevents corruption. Truth, truth, truth, as though intelligent people couldn't weaponise honesty just as easily as lies if they put their minds to it. I skimmed over most of it, barely stopping to read the actual words.
I'd reached a particularly self-righteous paragraph when a voice said, "You're holding it upside down," and when I looked up, there was a boy standing at the end of the corridor watching me.
If his black and white clothes weren't already an obvious tell that he was Candor, I would have known it instantly from the way his eyebrows were raised and the expression he wore, which was the kind of pure judgement and arrogance that seemed to come naturally to people from that faction. Great. A snarky Candor boy was exactly what I needed right now.
"I was testing the structural integrity of the binding," I said flatly, not bothering to move or adjust the book even slightly.
He walked closer with his hands behind his back, which was meant to be casual but somehow looked controlled instead. "And?"
"Terrible. I expect more from people obsessed with truth."
One corner of his mouth twitched slightly, and I noticed it the way I noticed everything, the way that made other people uncomfortable because I was always paying attention when they thought I wasn't.
Most adults didn't know what to do with answers like that. They either got angry or uncomfortable or defensive. This boy just looked amused, which was somehow worse.
"Peter Hayes," he said, introducing himself as though I'd asked.
I stared at him for a second, which was long enough to make him shift his weight slightly.
"Well done," I said.
His eyebrows lifted. "That was my name."
"I know."
"And yours?"
"Classified."
"That isn't how introductions work," he said, and there was something in his voice that suggested he actually cared about things like how introductions worked, which was incredibly Candor of him.
"Says who?"
"The entire structure of civil interaction."
"Sounds made up," I said.
His eyes narrowed just a fraction, and I watched his expression shift from amusement to something sharper, something that looked like competition, and there it was. That was what I'd been waiting for.
He crossed the corridor and leaned one shoulder against the bookshelf beside me, glancing down at the open pages of the book in my lap.
"You disagree with it," he said, and it wasn't a question.
"With what?"
"With Candor."
"Oh, deeply," I said, and he laughed once through his nose, which wasn't warm so much as surprised.
"You're Erudite," he said.
"And you're observant."
"You sound disappointed."
"I usually am."
That got another tiny smile out of him, and I thought suddenly that there was something dangerous underneath all that controlled arrogance, something sharp and tightly wound.
Peter nodded toward the book. "So what's your problem with honesty, exactly?"
"I don't have a problem with honesty," I said.
"You just said you disagreed with Candor."
"I disagree with building an entire faction around acting morally superior because you enjoy saying rude things out loud and then pretending it's virtue."
His expression sharpened immediately, and I could see that I'd hit something, which was interesting.
"And Erudite manipulates information constantly," he said, which was true and also irrelevant.
"Yes," I said. "But at least we're intelligent enough to know we're doing it, which seems like the bare minimum for a faction that prides itself on wisdom."
Silence stretched between us for a moment.
"That might be the most Erudite sentence I've ever heard," he said finally.
"And?"
"And it's arrogant as hell."
I shut the book slowly, turning it over in my hands. "Truth without intelligence is useless," I said.
"And intelligence without truth is dangerous," he replied.
"Dangerous things are useful."
"Not always, they're not."
I stood up then because sitting suddenly felt too much like surrender, felt like I was accepting his position as standing whilst I remained below him, and he straightened automatically, the way people did when you changed the spatial dynamic between you.
Neither of us moved away from each other, and the corridor suddenly felt much smaller than it had before.
"You think Candor people are better than everyone," I said.
"We're honest," he said, as though that answered the question.
"You're loud."
"At least we say what we mean."
"Most people who brag about honesty are just cruel."
His jaw tightened, and I knew I'd hit something real then, something underneath the arrogance that actually hurt.
"And most Erudite people think intelligence excuses everything," he said.
"It excuses a lot."
"You actually believe that?"
"I believe stupid people destroy things faster than cruel ones, and intelligent people just do it deliberately and with forethought, which makes them worse."
He stared at me for a second, and the look on his face wasn't shock so much as it was measuring, as though he was trying to figure out exactly what he was dealing with here.
"You talk too much for someone built like a pencil," he said finally.
I blinked at him, which was apparently the reaction he was looking for.
"What?"
He folded his arms across his chest. "I'm saying I could beat you in a fight if I wanted to."
"Oh, absolutely not."
"You're tiny."
"You're smug."
"I'm also correct," he said.
Something hot and immediate sparked through my chest then, something that was challenge more than it was anger, and before I'd fully thought it through, I shoved the heavy book aside onto the bench between us and planted my elbow on top of it.
"Arm wrestle," I said.
Peter looked down at my hand and then back at my face, his expression shifting from confident to something more uncertain.
"You're serious?"
"Terrified?"
His eyes lit instantly, and God, there was that dangerousness again, that thing underneath him that made it seem like he was capable of anything if it meant winning.
He stepped forward without another word and slammed his elbow opposite mine, his hand closing around my hand and his grip was warm and strong. I shifted immediately, adjusting myself to find better leverage.
Neither of us smiled.
"Ready?" he asked, and his voice was quieter now, focused.
"No," I said. "Go."
We both shoved immediately, and the force jolted through my shoulder hard enough to sting. Peter's expression flickered with surprise for just a moment, and I knew he hadn't expected to find resistance, which was good.
The book beneath our elbows slid slightly across the polished wood of the shelf as we strained against each other, and my wrist shook and so did his, but neither of us gave an inch.
"You're cheating," he muttered.
"You're losing," I said.
"I'm literally not."
"You sound worried," I said, and his mouth twitched despite himself, and I hated that I noticed it.
Footsteps echoed suddenly from the far corridor, and adult voices, which made Peter glance sideways instinctively. Big mistake.
I twisted hard, and his hand slammed halfway toward the table. His eyes widened, and then he narrowed them with furious concentration and forced us back to centre, and oh, he hated losing, I could see that clear as day.
I grinned up at him.
"Peter!" a sharp voice cut through the hallway.
We broke apart instantly.
A tall Candor man stood at the corridor entrance watching us with visible disbelief. My mother appeared moments later, and her expression was already exhausted in that way that suggested she'd known exactly what I was doing.
"What exactly is happening here?" she asked coldly.
Peter stepped back first, composed again in seconds, which was annoyingly impressive.
"Debating," he said smoothly.
I snorted.
My mother's eyes landed on me, and there was a warning in her voice that could have sliced steel.
"Jen."
"What?"
Peter glanced sideways at me, very slightly, and then he looked back at her.
"Jen," he repeated, and there was something in the way he said my name that made my mother's expression shift, just barely.
I folded my arms.
He tilted his head, studying me with the kind of infuriating calm that suggested he wasn't done with this conversation yet, not by a long shot.
"You argue like Candor," he said.
I smiled before I could stop myself.
"You cheat like Erudite."
Something flickered across his face then, something too quick for me to name and too sharp for me to dismiss, and for one strange suspended second, standing beneath the pale government lights with our parents watching from opposite ends of the corridor, it felt like the beginning of something. Something I was too young to understand and too proud to admit wanting to understand, too irritated and confused to make sense of it.
The kind of thing that ruins you, probably.
But not yet.