On the pitch, a guy was taking off his shirt. Elliot supposed Trigon wasn’t all bad.
Then he noticed something much more important. There was someone lurking at the back of the Trigon stands, and Elliot was amazed and thrilled to see that they were taking pictures. He had given technology to this world. He was an industrial revolutionary!
“Hi,” he said affectionately to the camera-wielding stranger.
“I’m from the newspaper,” said the stranger. “I have permission to be here from the commander.”
“That’s awesome,” said Elliot. “The newspaper. That’s so awesome.”
“I’m doing a piece on the Sunborns,” he continued.
“No,” Elliot said faintly. He felt betrayed.
“With a particular focus on the young Sunborn champion!”
“Oh my God, so quickly I see the problems with a free press,” Elliot moaned.
The shirtless guy on the pitch was Luke, he realized suddenly, now he could see his hair. Elliot made a face. Everything was terrible. Now he came to think of it, his options were actually no greater than they had been, because what guys were there who liked guys in the Border camp? Luke, obvious emotional suicide, and Dale, obvious violation of the bro code. Maybe there was someone in the council-training course. That would work better for Elliot anyway.
“Do you know Luke Sunborn at all?” asked the worst journalist of their time.
“I don’t,” Elliot said firmly. “But I have heard that nobody likes him, and he is dull. And he has an unhealthy and morbid attachment to lettuce. Write that down.”
The journalist didn’t write it down. Elliot looked back at the pitch, where Luke had just viciously fouled someone. Elliot was sad a third time that he knew so much about Trigon, and also sad because of wantonly violent warrior ways, but wantonly violent warrior ways meant Luke was turned in the right direction. Elliot waved, so that Luke would know he was there. He figured Luke could tell Serene. He’d talk to them both later, and unpack now.
He pointed at the reporter and repeated sternly: “Write that down!” Then he headed for his cabin.
He was only about ten steps away from the Trigon game when he saw Myra, walking through the gate of the enclosure around the tower, and she saw him. She started and then ran right at him, smiling all over her face: Elliot caught her as she came. She was small but sturdy, and he was somewhat amazed at how easy it was to lift her off her feet and swing her around. She felt light and he felt light, too, all over.
“Elliot!” said Myra. “You’re back! We didn’t know what was going on. It’s been crazy. I’m so happy you’re back.”
She eased back a little and he let her, and looked into her sparkling dark eyes. He’d never thought before of how nice dark eyes were, how warm and welcoming.
“Yeah?” he asked. “You’re really glad?”
Myra punched him in the shoulder and eased away, entirely too soon. “Of course.”
“Well,” said Elliot, and put an arm around her shoulders. “Good. Because you’re going to be seeing a lot of me this year. I’ve decided we need outside-the-library quality time. What do you want to do? I want to do anything you want.”
“Er, I’m going to be working on the school play,” said Myra, looking puzzled but pleased. “Painting the sets and setting up the props. You’d be welcome to help out if you want, but—are you sure you’re a behind-the-scenes kind of guy?”
“Absolutely! I’d love to be behind the scenes with you.”
Elliot grinned at her and winked. Myra shook her head and laughed. This play idea seemed ideal to Elliot. He wasn’t going to do anything right away, he’d broken up with somebody this morning, but here Myra was—smart, kind, happy to see him—and here was an opportunity to get to know each other better and view each other in a different light. He’d be a fool not to take it.
He wondered whether he should ask her to grab something to eat now, discuss this play, but then they were both distracted by the commotion on the Trigon pitch. Elliot turned and looked where Myra was already staring, her mouth open: the sound was that of a crowd protesting, people spilling off benches and off the pitch. There was the click of a camera under the rising storm of mutters and shouts.
Luke emerged from the crowd, shaking off people as a dog might shake off water droplets, and ran at Elliot. It was not nice, like with Myra. It was mildly alarming. Luke shoved something at Elliot, then grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. Luke was a mannerless barbarian.
“Where have you been?” demanded Luke. “Where did you go? I thought—I don’t know what I thought, you stupid, selfish, irresponsible—”
“Hey, loser, why are you bothering me?” asked Elliot, happy to see him also.
“I’m going to kill you,” said Luke. “I am literally going to kill you.”
That seemed excessive and mean to Elliot. He pulled away from Luke so he could study what Luke had shoved at him. It was the Trigon ball, its glass surface slick with grass.
“Thanks for this disgusting object I didn’t ask for and don’t want, by the way.”
“What?” said Luke.
Dale Wavechaser left the turbulent throng to join their little group. Summer was always good to people who looked like Dale, who burnished while Elliot went all red and peeled after twenty minutes in direct sunlight.
“Hey, Dale,” said Elliot, for Luke’s sake. “Great to see you. Had a good summer? Hope so.”
Dale looked upset as well as burnished. “Luke,” he said. “The game—”
“Get lost and don’t bother me,” Luke snapped.
“Whoa,” Elliot exclaimed. “You do not mean that! He doesn’t mean that, buddy. He’s overwrought by—winning or losing the—game, I suppose? You know sports. Adrenalin run mad, emotions running high. Sports.”
“We didn’t win or lose the game!” Dale snapped, proving Elliot’s point. All these people, driven mad by sporting events.
“You have to have done one or the other,” Elliot informed him, kindly and patiently.
“We didn’t, because the game is not over,” Dale shouted.
“Oh,” said Elliot, and looked at the ball he was holding. “Oh wow, you probably need this, right?”
“Yes,” said Dale. He eyed Luke unhappily, and then his unhappiness eased slightly into appreciation. “I brought you your shirt,” he offered.
“Why would you go and do a thing like that,” said Myra, the minx, and Elliot glanced at her and grinned.
“Also, you should know that guy with the picture machine took your picture,” Dale continued.
“Why would he do that?” Luke demanded. “I told him after the game, when I was cleaned up.”
Luke emerged from his shirt, aiming a venomous glare all around.
“Why is everyone behaving in a ridiculous way that makes no sense? Why are you banging on about Trigon when nobody cares? And you! Where were you, what were you doing, why didn’t you come on registration day, why are you wearing those terrible clothes? Get rid of them! Come with me, I need to talk to you.”