as kindred should

seventeen

Whoever had let the kid through had been inhumanly swift. Dorian had barely made his way around the first grey wall before the same woman from earlier caught up with him, declaring that they had arrived. Norwood had sent her this time, she said. Dorian was to meet with the kid in Norwood's office, where the walls were not as depressing and there were places to sit that weren't made of metal.

"Are errands a part of your training?" Dorian asked. The woman snorted.

"Evidently so."

"I suppose things change in twenty years."

He passed cubicles and men branded with the Elite diamond, a kaleidoscopic material dyed azure, bluer than the sky and falsely inviting. It fell into the same category as the Union Jack, as Old Glory, that of relentless patriotism in the face of a slaughter. Dorian looked at it and felt the tickle of blood spatter on his cheeks. His hand came away from his face clean, only scars marring his skin. The kid would not find comfort in that shape.

Norwood leaned against his doorframe, grey-clad arms folded over his lean chest in an image of quiet, haughty confidence. He gestured at the door with his head. The glass warmed beneath Dorian's fingers, and Norwood's broken title stared up at him. Lieu-ant Eu-on Nor-od.

Compared to Bayard's office, Norwood's was a gift to the eyes. As many bookshelves lined the walls, but they were not jammed with political novels, with recollections of Elite history as mandated by the Elite itself; books of all colors and all genres decorated Norwood's shelves, placed so that their heights aligned the way grass did, uneven and carefree and natural. The wood was lighter. Norwood's desk was clean but for the center, where a thick folder sat bearing a bright pink sticky note.

The kid sat in one of two chairs before the desk, his frame impossible to distinguish from the rest of his hunched form. Light hair, a pimpled neck, thin shoulders. Dorian had not had time to memorize the figure, but he recognized it anyway.

"Your name was Ritter?" He asked, dragging his fingers over the top of Norwood's desk. The chair squeaked as he plopped into it.

"Noah Ritter," the kid replied. "Um, you remember me?"

"Of course I do. Christian Bowles yelled at you."

Ritter wiggled in his seat. The setting didn't help, but Dorian doubted that the lad had ever looked comfortable in his life. Perhaps he had never been comfortable. What a sad thought. He hoped it wasn't true.

"I sort of wanted to talk about that, actually. I- I mean, not Christian, exactly. Harry and Elizabeth."

Dorian perked up.

"How well did you know them?"

The half-shrug he provided inspired about as much hope as it did frustration. "Not very. I'm pretty new to the- the-"

"I'm not going to arrest you," Dorian said gently, tapping the pads of his fingers against the desk. Ritter watched his scarred hands with a frown that shifted into a trembling smile, there only at this angle. "Unless you confess to murder, you're fine, kiddo. Have a go. Tell me what's plaguin' you."

The poor kid looked like he might faint, all the color drained from his face and a thin film of sweat building on his brow, slowly dragging locks of hair to his skin. Dorian made a sound like he would to a cat, half a hush and half a whisper. Noah Ritter looked at him as if he were crazy, but seemed to loosen, if only a fraction.

"W-well I'm sure by now that your body guy's told you that Harry didn't smoke? And if he didn't then Christian told you, right?" Ritter began, a stone cast into cool waters. Dorian huffed, then nodded.