Kite slipped his phone back in his pockets with a slight sigh of relief. He didn't have to do much now, Keith was doing his job that Pulsar told him to, he wasn't gonna interfere with that and get involved if Keith didn't ask for help. After all, Pulsar did ask him and not Kite, so he was going to take full advantage of this situation.
Yeah I'm just gonna carry on with my life! I'm gonna go to school, become your friendly neighborhood Paladin and learn more about my powers!
He thought to himself as he made his way downstairs to eat dinner with his mom.
Dinner was a quiet affair—spaghetti, garlic bread, a side salad. They talked about the trip in broad strokes.
"So," she said, twirling a forkful of noodles, "learn anything cool?"
Kite chewed for a moment, then shrugged. "Dinosaurs are still cool. William's still a dork. And I may or may not have lit up an experimental energy reader like a Christmas tree."
Her brow raised.
"Also a joke. Mostly."
She chuckled softly. "Glad to see the sarcasm survived the field trip."
They ate in a comfortable silence for a while, broken only by the occasional clink of silverware. The house settled around them, creaking softly with the wind outside.
His mom finished her plate and stood to rinse it. Kite watched her for a second, eyes trailing to the framed photo on the nearby shelf.
His dad. Taken years ago. Younger, smiling, arm slung around Kite at what must've been a birthday party. The picture was slightly faded, tucked between a stack of cookbooks and an old ceramic mug that held pens now.
They didn't talk about him much anymore.
Kite's eyes dropped back to his plate. Later that night, after dishes were cleaned and the house had gone quiet, Kite sat on his bed, the duffel bag still unpacked beside him. The light from the street lamp outside filtered through his blinds in soft slits across the wall.
Kite then got up from his bed and walked over to one of his cupboards, pulling the chair by his desk with him so he could climb on top of it. As he stood on it he reached for the top of his cupboard, pulling off an old cardboard box.
He jumped off the chair landing gracefully on the ground. After setting the box down on the ground he opened it up, revealing a bunch of CDs and a CD player. He connected the CD player to his TV and picked a CD before putting it in and pressing play.
The CD whirred softly in the player, the old machine humming to life with a few crackles and clicks. Static flashed briefly across the TV screen before fading into the grainy image of a backyard on a sunny afternoon. The camera wobbled slightly, and then a voice—warm, familiar, unmistakable—filled the room.
"Alright, birthday boy! Say cheese!"
Kite froze, a breath catching in his throat.
On screen, a much smaller version of himself stood in front of a cartoon-covered table, paper hats askew, frosting smeared on his cheek, grinning like he had just conquered the world. Behind the camera, his dad laughed—deep and genuine, the kind of laugh that made your chest feel warmer just hearing it.
The video panned clumsily as his dad tried to zoom in, ending up catching a lopsided view of the cake before adjusting. "Hold on, hold on—look over here, Kite! There you go! Now blow out those candles before they melt!"
Little Kite leaned forward and puffed with all the effort his tiny lungs could muster. Cheers erupted off-screen. His dad whooped. "That's my knight! Four years old and already saving cakes from fire."
Kite smiled faintly, sinking to the floor in front of the TV, cross-legged, elbows resting on his knees. His fingers were loose, but his eyes didn't leave the screen for a second.
The camera kept rolling—capturing fragments of laughter, messy cake-cutting, someone handing Kite a foam sword. His dad's voice drifted in again.
"You're gonna be something special, kiddo. Just you wait."
The screen flickered again, skipping briefly before the image froze on a blurry frame—his dad's face half-visible as he leaned into the shot to say goodbye.
Then, silence. The CD stopped spinning.
Kite didn't move for a while. The stillness of the room was different now—heavier, but not crushing. Like the echo of something long gone that still somehow made you feel held.
He got up slowly, ejected the CD, and slid it carefully back into the box. After placing the cardboard lid back on, he climbed up and tucked it away again, high and out of reach—not because he didn't want to remember, but because he wanted to save it for when he really needed it.
Back in bed, Kite pulled the blanket over his shoulders and lay on his side, watching the soft slits of light stretch across the wall. The wind outside rustled the trees, and the house creaked again, like it was breathing with him.
His eyes fluttered shut.
——
The next morning Kite woke up a bit earlier than usual, he was motivated for some reason. Maybe it was that early morning motivation that would fade away as the day went on but it was nice. He went over to his cupboard and took out a pair of black baggy jeans and white t-shirt and a dark blue cardigan.
He got dressed before going to the bathroom and brushing his teeth. He made his way downstairs and saw his mom already getting her keys so she could go to work. She was a nurse.
"Have a good day at work mom!" Kite said as he walked over to her—hugging her before she left.
"Have a good day at school." She said as she left the house, closing the door behind her and getting into her car before driving off.
Kite slung his backpack over his right shoulder and shoved the last corner of toast into his mouth before heading out the door. The morning air was cool, the sky a soft gray, and the sidewalks buzzed with the familiar shuffle of students on their way to Blackstone High.
The school loomed at the edge of town like a big brick hive—three stories tall, modern enough to have motion-sensor lights and busted vending machines, but old enough for the radiator in the science wing to hiss like a dying snake.
Inside, the halls were already alive with chatter and the squeak of sneakers against polished tile. Posters for clubs and spirit week battles decorated the walls, and someone was arguing with a vending machine that had stolen their dollar.
Kite navigated through the crowd with practiced ease, nodding at familiar faces and ducking around a couple making out like it was the last day on Earth.
He spotted William near his locker, already mid-rant with another student and a granola bar in his mouth.
"—I'm just saying," William said, pointing with the half-wrapped snack, "if you go through a time-travel arc, and you don't punch a future version of yourself, did you even do it right?"
Kite leaned on the locker beside him. "Good morning to you too, Doctor Paradox."
William grinned and he fist bumped the other student as he left, turning his attention to Kite. "Hey, man. Sleep okay?"
"Define 'okay.'" Kite yawned. "If dreams about spaghetti monsters count, then yeah. Fantastic."
"Sounds like you've got unresolved pasta trauma."
"I was force-fed lasagna at my aunt's birthday once. That explains a lot, actually."
They both chuckled, then turned toward the first bell's shrill ring echoing through the hallway.
As students funneled toward homeroom, Kite weaved through the crowd, his sneakers squeaking faintly as he sidestepped a spilled coffee cup and barely avoided colliding with a kid balancing a stack of books taller than his head.
First period was U.S. History, taught by Mr. Walsh—an aging warhorse of a teacher who somehow made every event in American history sound like it personally betrayed him.
Kite slipped into his seat by the window, one row behind William. He dropped his backpack and pulled out his notebook—mostly empty, aside from a few doodles and a to-do list that just said:
1. Don't die
2. Homework (maybe)
3. And again Don't die
Mr. Walsh started rambling about the Cold War. Kite's eyes drifted out the window where a crow was hopping around on the soccer field like it had somewhere very important to be.
He leaned toward William and whispered, "Hey. About that tattoo."
William kept his eyes forward, pretending to listen to the lesson. "The one on that guy's arm?"
"Yeah. I tried looking it up last night, but got nothing. Just a bunch of Pinterest moms getting flower tattoos."
William scribbled something in his notebook that looked suspiciously like a crow in sunglasses. "Maybe it's local. Gang-related?"
Kite arched a brow. "Do we have gangs in Blackstone?"
"We have a biker bar named 'The Rusty Wrench.' Anything's possible."
Before Kite could reply, Mr. Walsh turned around mid-sentence, squinting suspiciously through his thick glasses.
"Mr. Connors," he grumbled. "Since you and Mr. Fletcher are so invested in today's topic, perhaps you can explain the Bay of Pigs invasion?"
Kite straightened and cleared his throat. "Uh, yeah. It was a whole... bacon situation. Very greasy politics."
The class burst into quiet laughter. Mr. Walsh just sighed and pointed his chalk at the board.
"Sit down, Mr. Connors. Less comedy, more content."
Kite slouched back into his seat, a small grin on his face. "That went better in my head."
William smirked. "You're definitely gonna survive high school. Just maybe not the Cold War."
They both went quiet again as the lecture continued, but the thought of the tattoo lingered like background static in Kite's mind. The rest of the first three periods went by in a flash and before Kite knew it, the bell signaling lunch had already read rung.
——
The cafeteria buzzed like a hive—plastic trays clattered, someone tried (and failed) to rap over the speaker announcements, and the smell of reheated pizza and mystery meat filled the air with vague culinary regret.
Kite sat at a round table near the back, poking at a wilted salad like it had insulted his family.
William plopped down across from him with a dramatic sigh, tray stacked with pizza slices and a small mountain of curly fries. "If I die from sodium overload, tell my mom it was worth it."
"She'll probably say 'I told you so' and eat your fries," Kite said.
William grinned. "Yeah, that tracks."
A moment later, Ava slid into the seat beside Kite, setting down a smoothie and a protein bar that looked like it was made of compressed regret.
"God," she said, brushing a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. "Has the pizza always looked like it was printed on a fax machine?"
Kite smirked. "Don't disrespect fax pizza. It's part of the Blackstone experience."
Ava rolled her eyes. "Pretty sure it counts as a health hazard."
"You love it here," Kite said. "You'd miss the charming cafeteria mildew if you transferred."
"Mm. Charming. Just like the guy who tried to trade me a vape for my math homework this morning."
"Blackstone's elite," William added, raising a slice like a toast.
Before Ava could reply, another figure dropped into the seat beside William—tall, sleek haircut, silver watch, custom sneakers that probably cost more than Kite's entire wardrobe.
"Ugh," he groaned, setting down a tray with a water bottle and a very suspicious-looking quinoa bowl. "My driver forgot the extra lemon vinaigrette. Again."
Kite leaned back, smirking. "Tragic. Shall we call the UN?"
"Shut up, Kite," said the boy, though without heat. "Some of us have standards."
His name was Julian Vale—heir to ValeTech Industries, son of one of Blackstone's biggest corporate moguls, and somehow the most tolerable rich kid Kite had ever met. Mostly because Julian funded half their weekend snack runs and had no idea how to use public transportation.
"Still slumming it with us commoners, Jules?" Ava asked sweetly.
"Someone has to keep your fashion crimes in check," Julian said, sipping his overpriced mineral water.
Kite snorted into his chocolate milk.
They settled into their usual lunchtime rhythm—half-roasting each other, half-venting about classes. Ava talked about her photography elective and the teacher who thought Instagram filters were "the devil's lens." William ranted about gym class dodgeball trauma. Julian complained about being forced to take chemistry with "the great unwashed."
It was easy, familiar, normal.
Until Kite leaned in a little, his voice dropping just a bit.
"Hey... so, random. You guys ever seen a rose tattoo around town? Like, black ink, stem spiraling around the arm?"
Ava frowned. "Not really. Why?"
"Just... saw a guy with one during the trip. Thought it looked familiar."
Julian raised an eyebrow. "Like... gang stuff?"
"Could be," William said. "Or maybe it's just a really committed florist."
Ava gave him a look. "William."
"Hey, I'm just saying."
Kite glanced around the cafeteria instinctively. No sign of anyone shady or out of place. Just Mason laughing at something with the football team, someone doing backflips for clout on the far end, and a lunch lady aggressively scraping meatloaf off a tray like it had wronged her.
"Probably nothing," Kite muttered. "Just stuck in my head."
Ava tilted her head slightly. "If it's bugging you, look into it. You've got good instincts... for a guy who still wears mismatched socks."
Kite looked down at his feet.
"Dang it."
Julian shook his head. "You're hopeless."
"But lovable," Kite said, raising his milk carton like a toast.
"Barely," Ava replied, clinking her smoothie against it with a tiny smile.
The bell rang a few minutes later, and the table started to scatter—books grabbed, trays ditched, and the buzz of student voices rising again as everyone filed out for the next class.