three wheels and it still drives! javi & wolf.

The first thing that comes to mind when Wolf looks across at Javier is that their entire class would loathe her if she killed him.

Not that she could. Even if she tried. Not out of guilt or hesitation, nothing like that. It was just a logical, unchallenged fact of life that a scrawny little thing like Wolf Turing could never take down someone built like Javier Macedo.

He could probably break her arm without straining. Straight in two, hands twice the size as hers and a dozen buddy-boys in tow. (She hears the crack of her bones and jumps in her seat -- no, just the train-tracks beneath their feet.) Charm isn't exactly a strength of hers. It'll be a miracle if Wolf makes one ally from the crop of twenty-two other options. A dead-easy bet to solo. But Javi? He's the type of guy who will have the pick of the crop.

"Fuck," she sighs underneath her breath. The weight of this reality is crushing, sitting on her hands to stop them from shaking. Stop-start, Wolf's limbs have been at it all afternoon. Nails bitten down to near-flesh, her knees jiggle with nerves - her body curls in on itself, she straightens up immediately in defiance of her anxiety. Can't look small. Smaller. Not in front of Javi, golden boy.

Huh. Some golden boy he'll be, buried right next to her corpse in the dirt back home. That was mean, she scolds her own conscience. So what. "So what?" So now you're talking to yourself, ah, "Shit."

Wolf looks up, trying to conceal her slip of tongue underneath a cough. She ends up choking on her own spit, grasping for a glass of water. Some of it spills from the sides and runs down her mouth, sleeve of her cardigan arms wiping it clear.

Great start, shut up. "Sorry," sputtering, regaining composure. "I'm fine. This water fizzes?"

Dirt caked on her Mom's old boots, six feet under already. And she had to be buried next to fuckin' Javier Mercado.

She smiles, forced and unconvincing, at her district partner - who no doubt thinks her a disaster if he didn't already from the whispers of teenage assholes.

Well, at least she'll get people at her gravestone. Even if they're only gathered to visit her eternally pretty neighbour in the dirt.

[ coding by griffin ]