He yelped, startled, but someone immediately covered his mouth.
"It's me, Kai!" Jordan harshly whispered, his breath coming in ragged gasps from the running he must have endured. "Why are you acting like a fucking kid?"
Askai simply shook his head, instantly scanning Jordan down for any injuries. A beanie cap was pulled low over his blonde hair, and the oversized denim shirt over the white vest made him look like some innocent lamb caught among the wolves. Even if the guard had caught up to him, it was hard to believe a face like that could drive a knife into anyone's heart.
An innocent face and a cruel destiny were the worst kind of joke Fates could play on Jordan.
"You seem good," he murmured quietly, breaking out of his spiraling thoughts. "Let's get the hell out of here."
Jordan nodded, and then, with the practiced speed of survivors, that's exactly what they did.
"So who do you think was inside the car?" Jordan asked, popping open another can of cheap beer. He came to sit across from him, on the edge of the other bed, his back leaning against the cool wall.
This was their ritual. After every hit, every brush with disaster, they would sit like this, with cans of beer in their hands and all the philosophical shit in the world on their tongues—a necessary detox from the brutality.
This night was different, however. They were worried about their future now, a thing they had never truly harbored any hopes of before.
"I don't know," Askai shrugged, leaning back into his pillow. "But he was definitely from the East End. That car screamed East."
"Or maybe some rich wannabe from the West who… aspires… to be a part of their exclusive club?" Jordan offered, though his tone held little conviction.
"No one can be that stupid and still be alive in the West End," Askai scoffed, taking a pull of beer. "We are not very accommodating of the flaws. Are we?"
"This is not good," Jordan clicked his tongue. "West under Moraine - would never allow the East to lord over them and the East does not tolerate when the filth of the West bleeds into it. Moraine has clear intentions of making inroads into the East. Uncle Tommie is not there to stop him anymore, and if someone from the East End is acting so openly on the streets of the West, we would never survive the resulting war."
Askai mulled over Jordan's words. The alcohol was making his thoughts slow but dangerously uninhibited. They were slipping into zones he had never earlier dared to venture.
"But who was stopping Uncle Tommie?" Askai asked, gazing through the window at the monstrous, indifferent structure which was the Central Wing of their University. "The man was wise as an owl, clever as a fox. His ambition had no bounds, but he never dared to step toward the East. He lorded over the West and kept everyone in check. What stopped him?"
"You think there is someone in the East who was reigning in Uncle Tommie?" Jordan said with a sigh, genuinely astounded at the extent of his friend's imagination. "You remember why we call the man 'Uncle Tommie,' don't you?"
How could Askai ever forget those gory details? He had almost shat his pants the night before Moraine was supposed to introduce them to the man, and he had been fourteen then.
"That makes it even more probable," Askai countered, sitting up, conviction hardening his voice. "Why would a crazy man like him keep the entire West in check? To what end? Think! The East always uses the West as means to do their dirty work, but what is making the East so indispensable to us that we do their bidding without stabbing them in their back? When did ethics and morals become our selling point? The West only responds to the Stick. We don't believe in carrots. Mark my words," Askai finished with a huge hand gesture, the beer sloshing slightly in the can. "East is holding that Stick and I don't mean the authorities. Something far more sinister, cut out from the same clothes as us."
Jordan sat back, his eyes closing for a moment as he took everything in, quietly joining his own dots. He had been with Moraine for a long time before leaving him for good, but never in those years had he ever heard him talking about any such deep organization in the East. But he did remember a certain visitor, very interesting, very demanding, who occasionally came through.
"Stay away from Vance. His family is nothing but trouble." Jordan said, his head hitting the pillow, eyes closing on their own. He was profoundly drained—emotionally, physically. The day had left him wrecked. He could barely keep his eyes open now; this conversation had to wait just another day.
"Hmm," Askai nodded slowly, the logic of his friend's warning suddenly chillingly clear.
His eyes closed on their own, and his last thought was the single, heavy truth that sealed his fate:
Easier said than done!