Chapter One: Introductions
The dulcet tones of Eminem's 'Till I Collapse featuring Nate Dogg floated out of the open window, where a young boy of about seventeen lay on his back, flicking a Zippo lighter open and closed in a hypnotic trance. He was mulling over the past few years and judging his actions, albeit a bit too harshly. He was by no means proud of his reaction to losing his scholarship to the West Point United States Military Academy last week. He'd screamed out his counselor and smashed the snow globe sitting on the desk. That incident had gotten him suspended for two weeks, considering he also threw the chair he'd been sitting in. You might be asking why he had this reaction to losing the scholarship. After all, it was just one scholarship, hardly the sort of thing that rectified throwing a chair and screaming at a counselor. What you have to know to understand is the reason he'd lost the scholarship. To understand that you'd need to know that his father was on the Board of Directors at West Point, and absolutely hated his adopted son.
The young boy was named Diemendes Carlos Esteban Raul Cortez, and he hated his name so much he changed it to DC; unofficially, of course. The young boy vilified the longer name, as he wasn't even remotely Hispanic; he was in fact Native American, of the Navajo tribe specifically, and his true name was Connor Tseyi’nii tsoh. His adopted father had changed the name to purposefully demean the boy, which only provided another reason for Connor to hate the man. “DC Cortez,” as he'd renamed himself, was an outcast at his school in many ways, as evidenced by his being alone on a Friday evening. Perhaps as a direct result of his loneliness, Connor wasn't like other teens in many ways. He wasn't self-concerned or conceited, he wasn't disrespectful or rebellious, and he certainly wasn't a delinquent. He was a straight-laced, well-off young man who crossed his T's and dotted his I's. Connor was a member of the ROTC at his high school, and captained the boy's Cross-Country and baseball teams. Connor was a straight-A student whose GPA had never dropped below 3.9 since his 6th grade year. His room was clean as was his appearance, and he took excellent care of his adopted father's Weimaraner hunting dog, Assassino (“Killer,” in his foster-father's native Portuguese), and King Cobra, Ditador (“Dictator,” in Portuguese). So you can imagine his own surprise when last year he neglected the routine cleaning and strict home work schedule and opted instead to sneak out and drink liquor with a classmate and her group of friends. Connor had of course made up for this lapse in control, but every night that year he snuck out and hung around the girl more and more. At the beginning of this month, he had a 1.8 GPA and been suspended from all of those teams and dropped from the ROTC program until he got his grades back up. His counselor was vainly attempting to reign him back in, but for the moment he was swept up in the frivolous lifestyle and relishing in the respite from being “perfect” for his “father.”
Connor swung his legs down from the bed, stepping across the room to where his skateboard lay, realizing that he could be later than he usually was if he sulked for too long. He snatched his black, fingerless gloves and pulled them on over his hands, prying the window further open to permit his escape. He grabbed the skateboard by the truck of it's wheels and pushed it slightly out the window until it balanced on the sill, following close after. He made sure to grab his iPod from the desk by the window, knowing he'd want to block out the world he'd once loved.
Connor swung his leg out first and ducked under the small gap, dropping his foot down to catch a ledge of siding that encircled his house. Scaling the side of the second story, Connor kicked off the wall and managed to land on the roof of the garage, reaching back up only to grab his faithful skateboard. This was clearly not his first time performing such a feat, as he continued along the sloping roof until he made his way down to street level. Connor hopped onto his skateboard and rolled off down the hill and away from his house, purposefully not turning around to look. He didn't want to see that place unless he had to, and as he rounded the corner he popped in his earphones, changing the track to In My Remains by Linkin Park. The screen on the iPod quickly changed to the Settings menu, and displayed a quaint little message:
Happy 17th Birthday, Connor!
Angrily, Connor swiped the screen away with his thumb, grumbling at the falsely upbeat implications that this day was something to celebrate. On top of that, he didn't want to be reminded of his birth name. The iPod was a gift from his previous foster-parent, and it was something he cherished above most of his other possessions. Connor pocketed the nightmare-black cased device, and continued to roll down the sidewalk, ollie'ing onto a small ledge whenever someone passed him. He received many a friendly grin and vivacious wave, but to each greeting Connor maintained a stony disposition, looking straight ahead and keeping a blank face.
Connor watched as people came and went from storefronts, watched people laugh and hug, or stomp feet and turn away. He watched children throwing fits and couples kissing, he observed street performers wowing their audiences, he witnessed under-aged persons drinking from a paper bag, and watched as two girls were forced bodily from an antique shop. Connor quietly dismounted from his skateboard, kicking the end so it popped into his waiting hand. He proceeded to remove his earphones, not even flinching as the noise level crescendoed to a painful level in less than a second. The black-clad teen approached the three figures before him, listening intently to the burgeoning conversation.
“I don't give a damn how long you've been coming to my store. The point is I have a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to your kind,” the owner was saying. The patrons within the store either didn't care what was happening or agreed, because no one was coming to these girls' defense. Connor listened to what the slighter girl was saying, taken aback by her choice of hair color: purple.
“Who the fuck do you think you are, you d#ckless sh#t?! That's discrimination on a level I know is illegal!” she shouted, and some passerby took the liberty to look closely at the two girls, noticing how their fingers were tightly intertwined.
“Scootaloo, just let it go, 'kay? We'll find somewhere else, sugar,” the apple-red haired girl beside her spoke gently, clearly holding back strong emotions of her own. Her voice had a charming country twang, and he guessed she was from the apple orchard outside of High Pointe. As a survival skill from living on the streets most of his life, Connor knew how many levels of patience people possessed, and while the girl named “Scootaloo” had almost zero patience at the moment, the country one still had an impressive quantity of it.
“I will not let it go, Apple Bloom! You've been coming here for your grandma since you were 10, and this backwater hick thinks he can just tell you to f#ck off because you don't like guys? F#ck that, I'm not going to stand for that!!” The wild-haired one was understandably distraught, and this topic was clearly a common recurrence in their lives. If he had to guess, Connor would say they'd only been together about a year, now, and that clearly had left some unresolved issues.
“Yes, you will. Get out of here, and don't never come back,” he glared at both girls, clearly trying to intimidate them as he drew himself to his full six feet, towering over both adolescent girls. It was at this moment that Connor approached, coming at the group from the side and clearing his throat. In unison the three turned to face the black-clad boy, and while the shop owner looked confident the purple-haired girl, Scootaloo, was clearly waiting for Connor to agree with the shop owner.
“You can't throw people out for not meeting your own requirements, and as it's illegal to say, 'NO HOMOS ALLOWED' in the shop window, the most you can do is politely find an excuse to which they have to leave, or swallow your self-righteous whining and let them be the paying customers they obviously want to be. They don't have to come here, but they do because they obviously find it companionable.” Connor spoke matter-of-factly, and both girls' eyes shot wide open while the shopkeeper's narrowed like a venomous snake, and he approached Connor threateningly, rolling up his sleeves and putting his hand to his side, where a knife sat along with keys on an AC/DC key chain. At this distance, Connor could smell the alcohol wafting off the large figure.
“Faggot-loving traitor -” was all he got out, because at that moment Connor stepped forward and jabbed his elbow into the larger man's jaw, pulling down on his collar and kneeing him in the groin before shoving him back and onto his backside. The man scrambled back up to his feet and charged, flicking open the knife and slashing madly. Connor took the slices to his arm, wincing as he felt the pain. The knife bit deep and ripped through Connor's sleeve, pulling out the seams and revealing the set of four deep cuts from a different kind of blade. One slash got through his defense and slashed his chest. Connor recovered quickly and his hand shot out straight in front of his body, the heel of his hand connecting with the man's nose and breaking it with a satisfying CRACK. The shopkeeper came at Connor again, breaking Connor's own nose and catching him under the eye and on his other cheek. Connor put a stop to this onslaught by punching the man in the trachea, sending him reeling back and choking. This, of course, didn't stop the shopkeeper, and with blood pouring from his nose he charged once more, but this time at the two girls who'd backed away in horror. Connor moved to intercept, catching the man in his jaw, breaking it easily and then stomping on the man's knee as it buckled, and watched the man pass out. Connor was beginning to get a bit dizzy, but he had the presence of mind to call 9-1-1 in case no one else had, explaining the situation in slurred speech as blood loss took it's toll, and he fell back in the midst of his call.
“Easy there, sugar. Y'all just relax, I'll finish yer call, 'kay?” The country twang was a bit fuzzy, but Connor nodded and let the grip on his phone relax, realizing now that someone had caught him as he'd fallen. Connor's mind went straight to his arm, where he knew the scars would be showing like white paint against the tan skin. It was the purple-haired firecracker that mentioned the scars, causing Connor to flinch at the accusatory tone in the stranger's voice.
“You're a cutter? Knew there was something about all that black.”
“Skylar, don't be rude. Wait an apple-pickin' minute Ah've seen ya bufore......you're DC Cortez, ain't ya? I have ya in Ecology, fifth period, right?” The country girl was employing a tactic used by first responders and paramedics when dealing with still-conscious patients: “Keep 'em talking and distracted.”
'She must have been paying attention in school,' he thought. DC merely shrugged helplessly, not able to think very clearly.
“Hang on....yeah, I know you! You used to hang around Snips, Rumble, and Snails almost everyday outside Al's Game Center!” Scootaloo exclaimed, adding a little wistfully, “You used to tutor me in Math.” Those words were enough to pull Connor out of his torpor, and feelings of reproach overwhelmed his conscious. From the tone in Scootaloo's voice, Connor had obviously been a great help, and she'd gone back to struggling. Here was proof that Connor's failing himself was affecting others as well. He felt guilt in suffocating quantities, and looked at the purple-haired girl.
“Shcoota-loo....I'll help you 'gain...” he said weakly, nodding slowly and painfully. Connor smiled a little as he spoke, though it looked more like a painful grimace.
“Hey, um....why'd you stop in the first place?” Scootaloo asked, biting her lip before looking up at Apple Bloom and shrugging her shoulders at what he perceived to be Apple Bloom's reproachful gaze.
“Dad....he shucksh....” Connor smiled sadly at the girls beside him, shrugging his shoulders weakly, trying not to care so much.
“What? Last I heard, you and your father were getting along fine.” Scootaloo meant to sound concerned, but to DC it sounded like false pity. He wasn't looking for pity (in fact he despised it) so his ever-present anger boiled over.
“Oh really? And what the hell do you know about it?” He snapped, forcing himself to stand upright and expertly hiding his wince. The girls tried to calm him, but he wasn't having it. Connor grabbed his skateboard and popped in his earbuds once more, “See you at school. You're welcome.” With that he pushed off and was gone.
Apple Bloom's eyes met Scootaloo's, and the purple-haired girl got a look of exasperation on her face, “You can't fix everyone, Bloom,” she began, but Apple Bloom's gaze remained resolute, “Okay, go ahead.”
* * *
Connor found his friend at the usual place near Ford's Avenue, and greeted her with a fist bump. Their other friends had already arrived, Connor being the last.
“You're late, Cortez,” the girl said, her violet eyes boring into his. Her hair was purple, but was nothing like Scootaloo's. This girl's hair was vibrant purple riddled with green streaks, and cascaded in two ponytails down to her middle back. Her leather studded boots made her look a bit like a dom, but if this put DC off he certainly wouldn't tell her about it. Her legs were clad in purple and green tights, with a black skirt being worn over them. She wore a purple top and black leather vest, also studded.
“I know, Ari, but I...I ran into a complication.” Connor tried to dodge her unspoken question, grabbing a cigarette from the boy beside him. “Ari” wasn't buying it, however, and forced Connor's hood back, gasping at the bruises on his face and the broken nose.
“Connor Tseyi’nii tsoh!!” Ari shrieked, taking his chin and jaw in her hand and gently maneuvering his head to get a better look, “What the hell happened??” Connor had winced as he'd heard his true name, something only Ari knew.
“I...had a disagreement with someone, Aria,” he said weakly, not meeting her eyes as he tapped his finger on the top of his skateboard.
“No sh#t, Sherlock, I can see that. Who was it with, and why?” Aria demanded, stepping forward and lifting his head with surprising gentleness. Connor found it impossible to lie to her, and held up a hand to stop the oncoming tirade, only succeeding in revealing his damaged arm to her, “WHAT THE SH#T, CONNOR?!?!” She shrieked, her voice rising to a pitch painful to the human ears. Connor flinched away, trying awkwardly to hide his arm, but she was like lightning and grabbed it tight.
“Yeah...did I mention it was with the Gram from Gram's Antique Emporium?” Connor asked, entirely cowed. Aria's eyes widened even more and she rolled up his sleeve, quickly bandaging the wounds with some gauze from Pip's pack. Pip was a registered medic after having spent two years taking special classes, and never went anywhere without a First Aid kit in his bag. Aria and Pip went to work taking care of the wounds, and Pip gave Connor and a nasal strip to straighten his nose.
“Connor Tseyi’nii tsoh, why in God's name would you ever get into a fight with Gram Yuri? He was Russian Spetsnaz for 20 years! Are you daft??” Aria was genuinely worried for him, something he hadn’t known to be possible. Connor found himself unable to lie to her or hide the truth, so he took a deep breath and explained it all, exempting his daring escape from his second-story bedroom. Aria, Pip, and the other kid were good listeners, and after Connor finished they were all quiet for awhile, letting his words sink in. Unsurprisingly, it was Aria who first spoke.
“Are you gonna be okay?” the question was meant to be of many things, sort of a general question that enveloped both physical okay-ness and mental okay-ness.
“Yeah...I think so. I don’t know if I would really say ‘okay’ or anything like that, but...I don’t know. I think I will be, eventually...once I get out of that man’s care.” Connor sighed and sat down on the curb, Aria sitting beside him and handing him a paper bag with a bottle of alcohol in it. Connor took a grateful swig as Aria took a draft off his cigarette.
“I know what’ll have you out of this funk,” Pip piped up, his accent showing through as usual. The foreign exchange student had a gleam in his eyes, and his eyebrows wiggled at his implications.
“Triple dog?” the unnamed kid asked hopefully.
“Dude, who are you, even?” Connor cut in over the last part his question.
“Spike. That’s my name. Happy?” he yanked the bottle out of Connor’s hand and drank from it before handing it back.
“Spike? You’re Twilight’s little brother, right?” Pipsqueak asked, sitting on Aria’s other side. Spike nodded but said nothing.
“I don’t have anything against Triple dog,” Aria supplied, nudging Connor playfully. Connor smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
“Neither do I.”
“I’m game,” Pipsqueak smiled and bounced on his heels happily. The group of teens sat around for awhile longer, sipping the alcohol and smoking their cigarettes. Spike’s demeanor didn’t change from the angry one he’d adopted.
Author's Note
Here ya go.
