The news comes in the form of an obligatory phone call from a government employee with a voice like worn-down leather shoes. Black Star hangs up two minutes in as the person on the other end of the line attempts to inform him of some minor procedural details. He briefly considers crushing the phone in his hand, but the small chunk of his mind that retains a capacity for rational thinking stops him before he gets any further than clenching his fist.

The time is 4:38 p.m. on a summer evening, and the combination of Nevada sun and asphalt is starting to get to the poor bastards wasting a work break by smoking and chatting in a solar-fried McMortie's parking lot. Soul does the smoking and Black Star does the chatting, for the most part.

"Your lungs are probably on fire right now, y'know," Black Star says, shoving his phone back into the pocket of his polyester uniform shorts.

Soul rolls his eyes so hard that the end of his cigarette shifts in his mouth. "Don't get all preachy on me. What's up?"

"Huh?"

"With the phone call, dumbass."

Black Star shrugs dismissively. "Nothing important. They shouldn't have even wasted my time calling about it." There's a pause, which in any other conversation would have been filled by one party weighing the risks of entrusting the other with the truth, and in which Black Star instead contemplates which lie he ought to tell in this particular scenario. It is not his nature to lie — more often than not he's honest to the point of insensitivity — but there are subjects which require a certain level of discretion.

Lips sealed as firmly as two boards in a carpentry glue commercial, Black Star picks his sweat-stained visor off the blistering blacktop, shoving it back over his spikes of gelled hair with a jaunty determination.

"I'm heading back in."

Soul looks at him as though he hadn't sprouted a second head just yet, but it would come as no surprise if he did so in the near future. "We've still got five minutes left on our break. Since when are you so eager to get back to work?"

Black Star moves his shoulders in a gesture that's less apathy and more a halfhearted attempt at nonchalance. "Since now. Keep up, won'tcha?"

It's 4:39 p.m. on a summer evening when Black Star first realizes the benefits of emotional repression.

Inside is quiet, a word not often associated with a dingy fast-food joint, but quiet is a relative term and the employees of this failing restaurant are not used to noise. The hiss of grease and the monotone cheer of the girl at the drive-through are background static by now; he's been here more than long enough to learn to tune things out. There are no customers badgering the cashiers and no muttered arguments between co-workers, ergo, you could hear a fucking pin drop in the place if one did happen to fall.

"Your break doesn't end for another five minutes." The manager, a tall man who by all accounts appeared more at home in a Tim Burton film than in the physical plane, makes his presence known by way of an unsolicited comment with an aggravatingly knowing tone.

Stein, the person that Black Star calls 'boss', is the sort of person who reads others like an open book and leaves them with the uncanny feeling that it would be a simple matter for him to tear out a page or two. The effect is universal and unintentional.

Black Star remains staunchly overconfident in the face of perceived scrutiny. "Shouldn't you be praising my newfound work ethic, boss?"

Turning over a new leaf and resolving to contribute more to one's chosen profession is noble in theory, but they're a few miles and a small township outside the realm of believability where Black Star is concerned. A man who routinely refuses to be subject to routine and simply doesn't show up to work at least once a week does not become enlightened to the benefits of labor at the drop of a company-mandated polyester visor. Stein knows this, and Black Star knows that he does.

Men with hideously disfiguring facial scars were not meant to grin so broadly or so often, and Stein had not so much missed that memo as he had received it, read it, and marked it 'return to sender.'

"I'll consider it. So who do I have to thank for this sudden change in character?"

The phone in Black Star's pocket spontaneously increases several ounces in weight. He ignores it. It occurs to him that he may end up doing a lot of that before the day is out.

"None of your business, old man."

Stein laughs. "Give them my regards. And try to hang on to that work ethic for a day or two if you can — I hired another cashier and I need you to train him."

"Since when are we hiring?"

"Special circumstances."

That kind of comment, which typically merits a moment's hesitation and no small degree of suspicion, barely gives Black Star pause.

"Special like classified information or special like you're gonna be vague about it until I get curious and beg to know what the deal is?"

Stein whistles. "You've definitely been working here too long. But if you really want to know, you'll figure it out soon enough tomorrow. I don't need to explain."

For once, Stein is right about that.

It's commonly accepted that there are certain people who just exude an aura of old money, as though their tax breaks are somehow palpable to those in the immediate vicinity. There are certain things that can be done to enhance this effect, of course, such as driving a car costing more than a decent college education and holding yourself like you're expecting a photo-op.

The scrawny piece of shit that introduced himself as 'the new guy' did neither of these things, but when someone wears a Rolex and more silver rings than are possibly necessary, Black Star feels safe in making certain assumptions about their lifestyle.

"You look out of place in that uniform," he informs the subject of his potentially premature judgement.

The new recruit shrugs, stiff and uncomfortable. "It's not what I'm used to, I can say that much."

"Why's someone like you working here?" Bluntness, in moderation, can be a great virtue. In Black Star, it found its strength in ruining conversations.

"Sorry?"

"Why's a rich kid working at a fast food joint?"

The soon-to-be-cashier current-pain-in-the-ass gives Black Star a withering look clearly practiced from years of prep school drama. "Nepotism, if you must know."

"Use real words."

"My father got me the job. This isn't any of your business, though. Aren't you supposed to be training me to do my new job?"

It's in this moment, with a black visor twirling around his finger and a stranger with more net worth in his expertly-manicured fingernail than Black Star has in his entire body staring him down, that Black Star realizes the power of first impressions.

But burying budding contempt in order to perform a subsect of the service you're being paid for is easy.

"It's going to take you like ten minutes at most to learn how to use a cash register — you could probably figure it out yourself, right? You being smart enough to tell me how to do my job and all."

The man's lip curls. "Pardon me if I'm speaking out of turn, but how does someone like you still have a job to begin with?"

In a moment of temporary clairvoyance, two courses of action stretch out before Black Star: the first of which entails a broken nose for the offending party, and a termination of employment for the breaker of said nose. It's tempting, but a momentary of violent satisfaction isn't worth letting his employer down, not over some new recruit with a big mouth. His fists remain resolutely unclenched.

"I like it here." There's no tension in his voice to hide. "And the old man in charge hasn't fired me yet."

The newbie keeps his Ivy League-educated mouth blissfully shut for the rest of the training session, save for the odd question about the mysterious inner workings of a rundown fast food joint.

"It's not exactly a five-star diner," Black Star says, gesturing to the fryers in back. "We don't get much business most of the time anyway. Whoever's manning the drive-through usually ends up sitting around and filing their nails." He waves to the nail-filer in question, who rolls her eyes quite pointedly in response.

"At least I get paid for it, and my nails look fantastic. Can't say the same for you, Star."

"Love ya, Liz."

"Whatever."

Insincere passive-aggression and cheeky declarations of affection were not always the norm for relationships born of proximity, but in a mutual desire for companionship, they'd eked out something resembling an honest friendship. Were Black Star to perish in some freakish accident in the near future, he'd hope that Liz would attend his funeral.

"Anyway." Black Star returns his attention to the man in front of him. "You know how to work the register, so you'll be fine, probably."

"No words of advice for me on dealing with customers?" the man asks dryly.

"Nah, that's something you've gotta work out on your own. It comes with experience."

"And how much experience do you have?"

"More than you, Mister Rolex. Next question."

"How much is 'more than me'?"

The honest answer would be that it was difficult to say, given the number of missed days and unannounced leaves of absence on his record. The unnecessarily detailed answer would be that Stein had given him the job as a personal favor, to keep the money needed for living costs in his pockets, and to hopefully keep Black Star in a position where he could be kept out of trouble, as anyone familiar with him would say.

The answer he gives is, "Around six years now. So does that wrap things up here or nah? Stein said I could head home once I was done with you, and I've got places to be."

He can almost hear the unasked 'where the hell would you have to go?' spoken in the cloying tone of long-buried anxieties. But he's had an answer to that for a long time now, and in the theatre of his mind, he spits it in the face of his anxiety amalgam, blowing it to pieces. His anxieties are weak things that couldn't fight their way out of a wet paper bag, he's decided.

The man he's dubbed 'Mister Rolex' takes a long look about the place before nodding curtly. "Yes. I think that's it. I'll see you soon, I guess."

"Duh. Welcome to the crew, and see you later." Black Star throws a peace sign to the new recruit, fistbumps his favorite burger-flipper, and ollies out.

It's not until he reaches the bus stop that he realizes that he's still not feeling entirely himself. The cause of his sudden mental fog remains a mystery, one he could likely solve with a bit of time and effort, but Black Star is not one for self-reflection, and there are better ways of solving this kind of problem than sitting on his ass and thinking about his feelings.

Or maybe it's just something that he has to live with, he thinks. Either way, standing still won't do shit for anyone.

The bus arrives in a squeal of worn-out brakes and a cloud of dislodged dirt. The seats have been cleaned since yesterday, Black Star notes. He can tell because it's the same bus as ever, and the stains left from his bloody nose are gone. Their absence is slightly unsettling, and he has to ask himself why he's letting himself be so thrown by the existence of extra-strength stain removers.

It's the lack of a mark, he thinks. Of course fabric doesn't scar, there's nothing in the plastic seating to clot and there was never a wound to begin with, but with the bloodstains gone there's nothing left to show for the fight. Memories are intangible and fleeting, and with upheaval creeping up on him like vines growing at his feet, he doesn't want them to be all he has to know where he stands.

The ancient brakes screech, and Black Star exits the bus smelling faintly of mass-market fabric cleaner and public transport.

The way home is a six-block journey across residential intersections with little traffic, taking about eight minutes in total when properly traversed. Black Star runs the distance full tilt, dashing over crosswalks and up the concrete stairwell of his apartment building like he can feel the breath of some awful beast on his heels. He does it more for the showing off than anything, and out of an inability to do things by halves.

His roommate is nowhere to be found when he finally works out the mechanics of his room key and pries open the door, but there's a note on the table alerting him to the presence of leftovers in the fridge and apologizing for a regrettable absence.

Reheated mac and cheese eaten off of a dollar-store party plate is Black Star's idea of a feast fit for a king.

Tsubaki arrives home many hours later, after the feast has long since been consumed. She brings with her more apologies for the lateness, a bag of groceries, and maternal inquiries as to how Black Star's day went.

"It was okay," he tells her. "We got a new guy at work. How's your thing going?"

She groans faintly, and he winces out of sympathy.

Out of all his friends, which was at the moment a pitiably small pool, Tsubaki had known Black Star the longest, save for Maka, and had in that time shown him more than enough kindness and home-cooked meals to earn his unending loyalty. Giving him a place to stay, however, far outweighed her other favors.

Were Black Star to perish in some freakish accident in the near future, Tsubaki would certainly attend his funeral, and she would weep the longest and loudest.

There's a brief period of silence, punctuated by the soft static of a television with no cable box. Black Star can feel Tsubaki's eyes on him as they sit in silence.

"What happened," she says. Her tone straddles the line between flat and sympathetic.

Black Star inhales, exhales, and folds his arms behind his head, the chosen position for one who wants to remain casual while getting something heavy and ugly off his chest.

"It's my dad."

Tsubaki's demeanor softens. Her arm moves forward slightly, then stops as if she's reconsidered reassurance midway. She knows him well enough to keep her assurances non-physical.

"So it's decided?"

He nods. "Yep. Pops went and got himself the death penalty."

The static coming from the TV screen might form words if they listened hard enough.

"You don't sound like you care."

"That's just it." He pauses, then shrugs mildly. "I don't. It's not like I've seen the guy since I was way smaller than I am now."

"Couldn't you have visited him?"

Black Star barks something dimly resembling a laugh. "Come on, Tsubaki, a star like me's got better things to do than drag my heavenly body all the way out to a federal prison. What would I even do out there? Say hello to some mean old man in chains? Nah, Pops never did anything to earn a visit from the great me."

"What if they allow you a last visitation before the… ah…" The phrase 'execution' dies on the tip of her tongue.

"Dunno," Black Star says. "He was never much of a parent, but he's still the only family I've got. Wouldn't want him leaving this world without getting it hammered into his skull that his son's gonna be better than he ever was." It's difficult to tell how much of his smirk is forced. Maybe a fraction of the upward curve of his lips, or a few of his half-shown teeth, no more than that. He's not in the business of lying, with words or expression.

Tsubaki nods and hums softly. There's something she wants to say, locked behind closed lips, but it remains unsaid, and the static rises up again to fill the silence between them.

Night comes and they say goodnight, retreating to their own separate spaces like animals scurrying back into their burrows, wary of the rising moon and the call of wolves on the wind. Tsubaki leaves her bedroom door half-open to let the cool air waft in, and from the couch Black Star studies every crack and chip in the yellow paint of their apartment's walls. The water stain above his head looks like a cartoon skull if he squints hard enough. He wonders if it's meant to be an omen of death or a McMortie's logo.

Black Star isn't very well versed in symbolism and fortune-telling, but he thinks he'd prefer the latter.

Come morning and an early shift, he reconsiders.

"You look kinda dead," Kilik says as Black Star walks in with a grimace befitting a kidney stone.

"I think I might be," Black Star groans, propping himself up on the counter with one arm as though his imminent separation from his mortal coil might finally be sapping him of his last remaining strength. Kilik snorts as Black Star lets out the most dramatically pained groan he can summon.

"Yeah, waking up early has that effect on most people. If you're gonna keel over, make sure to do it away from the fryers."

Black Star shuffles slightly to the left. "Think I'm safe here?"

"Probably. Hey, me and Soul were thinking about going to a bar or something together after work. You wanna join us?"

"Since when do you and Soul hang out?"

"We don't usually. He's been working here for a while now though, I figure I should make him feel a little more welcome." Kilik idly picks a drop of dried something-or-other off the metal counter, flicking it away once the scab's come off. "He's going through some shit, you know."

"Is he?"

The door opens, and their conversation ends. They aren't being paid to stand around and shoot the shit, and for all pretense of laziness, they do know when to switch gears and put forth a certain degree of effort into being decent employees. It's draining sometimes, and they've spent plenty of time out in the parking lot after hours grousing about the emotional toll of faking pleasantry, but Kilik's smile would earn him any customer service award in the book if their workplace gave them out. Black Star's was more reminiscent of monkeys baring their fangs as a show of aggression.

"You're really bad at forcing a smile, shorty," Liz says as she comes in a while later.

Black Star slumps, removing his visor to run a hand through his mess of blue hair. The true cost of early hours is not the inevitable crushing exhaustion or the awful stench of a bus crammed with over-caffeinated laborers, but the unsightly effect of a morning too rushed for hair gel on a man accustomed to wearing his hair in skyward spikes.

"Maybe you're just a bad judge of good smiles," he tells her.

Liz snorts. "Whatever you say." Her smiles fades, and she leans in slightly, giving the conversation an illusion of privacy. "Tsubaki told me that you're not feeling so hot. Is everything okay? You know I can cover for you if you ever need a day off."

It's an empty gesture, mostly. She knows that he's got too much pride, and Black Star knows she's too busy to follow through on the offer. Still, it's the thought that counts, and she's only trying to extend a hand in support during a rough situation.

He puffs out his chest, banishing the forced smile and bringing on another form of acting in a bold tone and false offense. "Are you saying I can't handle my job myself, huh? You should know me better than that to think some measly hurdles are gonna make my star shine any less brightly! Whatever life throws at me, I'll throw it right back!"

Somewhere between sentences brimming with confidence, the false bravado becomes genuine. He's not in the business of lying, with words or expression, therefore whatever comes out of his mouth must be the truth.

By the end of his brief tirade, there's a faint grin on Liz's face as well. She raises her shoulders momentarily, expressing not her usual doubt or fear but a dismissal of previously stated concerns.

"Like I just said: whatever you say."

There's a common way of thinking among those who do their time in food service and similar stations which states that the friendships formed as a byproduct of sharing a place of employment are built on towers of sand, flimsy and fake compared to bonds outside from first blush. It's difficult to quantify an emotional bond, to be sure, and maybe it is true that for some, coworkers will never be more than acquaintances of convenience, but Black Star liked to think that the McMortie's just off of Highway 42 is an exception to that rule.

"You know," he says, dropping his arms to his sides as he relaxes, "Me, Soul and Kilik are going out to eat together after work tonight. You wanna come along?"

Liz shakes her head with a sigh. "Wish I could. I promised Patty I'd help her move her stuff into the new dorm, and — well, you know she's too stubborn to postpone the ordeal."

"Oh, she got in?"

"Yeah. It's a few years behind schedule and all, but better late than never, right?"

The back door swings shut, and Liz seems to jump ever so slightly at the sight of Stein slipping back into the restaurant's sole office space.

"—Anyway, we'll talk later." She whisks herself off to her assigned station with a small wave and without another word.

By the time Black Star and Soul finally pile into the back of Kilik's Honda Civic, Liz is long gone, having clocked out some hours ago to go help her sister. The sun is just beginning to go down, and generic pop music on low volume drifts out from the rolled-down windows like a dime-store swan song for the daytime.

"And why can't I ride shotgun, huh?" Black Star asks, reaching up front to jam the 'increase volume' button a few times.

Kilik swats his hand away. "Because I don't want you guys squabbling over the seat. Put your seatbelt on."

"How do you know it's not on already?"

"You shoved half your nasty sweaty body up next to me just to make sure that Katy Perry was basically screaming in my ear. Sit down."

Black Star does as he's told. A moment later, following Soul's pointed glance, he buckles his seatbelt for once in his life. The light changes, and Kilik accelerates down an empty street.

"So, are we just driving around, or are we planning on going somewhere tonight?" Soul asks after the belted lyrics of another tired top 40 smash hit fade into the evening air and Black Star finally closes his mouth.

Kilik shrugs, switching the station as an ad comes on. "Kinda. We usually drive around for a while so Star can get his yelling out of his system, and so I can 'unwind' by getting road rage in the emptiest parts of the whole city. You never hung out with Star outside of work?"

"He has a few times," Black Star interjects, "but you can't blame him for not having experienced one of my famous live car performances yet. Sorta hard for me to drive anywhere without a license, you know?"

Soul blinks. "You don't have a license? How old are you, twenty-one?"

"Twenty-four, thanks, and what's wrong with that?"

"Nothing, I guess, but—"

"Don't worry, if I ever miss the bus, I can just run to work! I've got strong legs and a strong heart, I'll be just fine." Black Star flexes for emphasis, earning him a roll of the eyes from the bored hipster next to him.

Kilik squints at the rearview mirror. "Is he flexing back there?"

Soul nods. "Yep."

They pull into an Ocho Burger parking lot as the sun sinks beneath a cityscape of apartments with the lights left on and office buildings where someone works far too late. Kilik's phone rings before he can even get a foot out the door, and as he's picking up he gestures for the other two to go on in with an apologetic smile.

"It's the government, probably," Soul says when Black Star asks who Kilik's been talking to for so damn long.

Black Star raises his eyebrows. "You think he's leaking my workout routine to Obama?"

"Definitely."

Kilik slides into their booth with a soda and a doubledecker as Black Star's taking the last bites of his meal. "Sorry that took so long. Grandma forgot that Fire and Thunder are at a sleepover tonight and got worried because I never brought them home."

Soul lets out a snort. "Hope Granny didn't have a heart attack over that one. You wanna earn my eternal affection and share some of that burger?"

"Man, you already ate. You'll live. Now if you'll excuse me—"

Black Star cuts Kilik off just as he's about to bite down into a well-deserved and much-craved meal. "You're still living with your grandma? I thought you moved out ages ago."

The burger in Kilik's hands remains sadly uneaten, a fact which Kilik appears to be contemplating as he gives it a longing stare. After a moment's internal deliberation he gives a small sigh and lowers it from his mouth's immediate vicinity.

"I did move out, yeah, but my roommate flaked out on me and I couldn't afford rent on a McMortie's paycheck. So I moved back in." Kilik pauses for a moment to snatch his soda out of Soul's reach and take a long, smug sip. "But… it's starting to look like I might be moving back out again real soon."

The news is nothing jaw-dropping on its own, but Black Star does him the courtesy of acting like it is, extended 'WHAAAAAT' and all.

Kilik grins. "Chill, that's not even the exciting part. Remember how I majored in engineering way back when?"

"Two years ago."

"An eternity, in modern terms. The point is, it's looking like I'm finally gonna be able to get some use out of it. I put in my two weeks with McMortie's today, and since the pay's better when you're not flipping burgers, I'll finally be able to afford my own place!" He's smiling, which is the worst part. "Pretty great, huh?"

Soul grins and holds his hand out to Kilik for a fistbump, offering a 'Congrats, man' as their fists touch, and Black Star has a moment to wonder how Soul can be so goddamn casual before the magnitude of Kilik's announcement sinks in.

It feels like a bad transition from Windows movie maker, everything stretching and distorting around him in a botched version of a zoom effect. The rug hasn't been pulled out from under him; he's been standing on his own two feet for as long as he can remember and he's proud of that, but someone's come in and rearranged all the fixtures, and he doesn't know how to adapt to such a rapid change in scenery.

The question of 'why are you fucking doing this' burns a hole through his tongue and falls through before he can let it touch air, and the words that spill out in its place are weak and watered-down.

"Oh. Yeah, dude, that's great!" Until this point, Black Star had almost forgotten that he avoids lying as a rule not only for reasons of morality, but because he's incredibly fucking bad at it. He doesn't believe in any god but himself, so he thanks coincidence and a lucky star for the lack of observance demonstrated by two of his closest friends. The smile on his face is a rubber mask, warped and uncomfortable, but willpower alone is just enough to keep it from sliding off.

Black Star wants to be excited for his friend, but a hole is already forming in the restaurant off of Highway 42 and there is a premature weight making a home on his chest, dull and heavy like a sinking stone.

This is the point where those well versed in social niceties and bottling things up would find an excuse to exit the conversation, flee to a bathroom or to a cigarette break and lick their half-formed wounds. He doesn't; he stays and he lets Kilik see right through him, because deep down, he'd rather let his distress over his friend leaving ruin the night than spend the next few hours playing a part.

Kilik's smile is wiped away by burger grease and the cold backdraft of intense loyalty.

"You can just say you're not happy about it, you know."

The tension now forming prickles with all the promise of an oncoming storm, and Soul looks for all the world like a confused pedestrian just now realizing that he's left his umbrella at home.

Black Star's expression moves from feigned passiveness to genuine anger with impressive speed.

"Am I supposed to be? You wanna just leave with no warning and—"

"I told you, I put in my two weeks."

"You didn't tell me!"

"I'm telling you now."

"That's not good enough!"

There's a silence, one lasting long enough for Black Star to recognize the expression Kilik's wearing as not anger, but hurt. He drops his hostile glare and picks at a loose seam in his jeans, pretending to not notice or care what he's done.

Inhale. Exhale. Keep moving forward.

"I just think," Black Star says in a tone not so much measured as estimated, "you could have told me sooner."

Kilik lets out a sigh, and the look he gives Black Star when their eyes meet again is enough to both plant and grow a seed of guilt. "I could have, yeah. But you can't blame me for putting it off when I knew you wouldn't be happy to hear it."

This is the downside of knowing someone so well, after all. Black Star is no stranger to doing stupid things to protect someone else, regardless of how they might feel about it, and he's intimately familiar with the fallout of a found coverup as well. He's never been on this side of these things before, and he's quickly deciding that he'd rather be misguided than a fool.

Kilik swallows, and whatever comes out his mouth next is obscured by a loud and pointed cough from their party's nigh-forgotten third member.

"Maka's visiting this weekend," Soul says.

Black Star blinks. Kilik rubs the back of his neck. "Really?"

Soul nods, and reaches for Kilik's soda. Kilik makes no move to stop him from taking a long, satisfying sip.

"Yeah, she texted me this morning to ask if she could camp with me instead of spending money on a hotel room. Dunno how long she's staying, but I doubt she's gonna want to spend more than a weekend in my place."

The statement is met with an uncomfortable silence.

In their time running in the same circles, Kilik and Black Star have become accustomed to certain people stepping in to minimize conflict, and to certain friends knowing just what to say to diffuse an argument or distract from tension. Soul is not and has never been one of those designated as damage control.

Kilik opens his mouth, and then reconsiders.

Black Star grins, and in doing so discovers that he actually means it. "Dude, that's great! Why didn't she tell me? Me and Tsubaki have plenty of space in our place, she could have totally bunked with us!"

"Firstly, you sleep on a couch because your place only has one bedroom, and secondly — well." This time it's Soul's turn to rub the back of his neck as a physical indication of mild discomfort. "Actually, I wasn't supposed to tell you guys. She was gonna surprise you by showing up at McMortie's while you were on duty, so you've gotta act shocked and excited when that does happen. Promise?"

A pinky promise is about as antiquated and childish a solidifier of agreements as is possible, but there's an odd security that comes from touch, and a reassuring trust that follows it. As they leave the restaurant with stomachs full of grease and hearts burdened by the undue stress of arguments between friends, Black Star bemoans having been shot down on his suggestion to 'spit on our hands and shake on it, like in the movies.'

"Give it up, dude, it's gross and not nearly as cool as the movies make it look," Kilik says, buckling his seatbelt and shoving his keys in the ignition.

Soul raises a pale eyebrow. "How would you know?"

Kilik jabs a thumb towards Black Star, and pulls out of the parking lot without another word.

The drive home is quieter without Black Star's backseat serenades and the light-hearted critique of his vocal range. It's summer still, but the air feels colder rolling in through their open windows, crossing paths with the final reprise of a summer pop hit's earworm chorus. The radio turns to static as the music crescendos, and Kilik switches to another station.

Black Star has Kilik drop him off two miles away from his apartment without reason or excuse, as if they both don't know their geography and the respective location of his place of residence. The walk home is long, but three-quarters of a mile with an wounded driver would have somehow managed to be longer. There's no comparable past experience that lets Black Star know this — it's an instinctive guess carrying the dead certainty of a man who's nearly been shot, telling the police how close the bullet came to his eyes.

The apartment is empty when he forces his way through the unlocked door, and his father's face is on the late-night news.

They're still using footage from fifteen years back; he can tell by the grain in the images and the face in the photos and the way that his father looks exactly the same on the flickering television screen as he does in Black Star's blurred memories. The anchor's eyes glaze over as she straightens the papers before her, reading out a history of violence with all the emotion of a cardboard cutout.

Black Star does not consider his father a part of his life or his identity; he has not viewed the man who brought him into this world and into this country as more than a criminal with too much blood on his hands since he was smaller and more easily fooled, but the surname beneath the mugshot is still his, and the man on the screen is still his father.

The anchor tells the camera that this mass murderer is succeeded by a son, and Black Star turns the TV off.

A small voice rises up from the dark recesses of his mind, slipping through holes he'd thought he'd plugged up long ago and whispers in his ear with a voice like black oil — why does it bother you? Black Star wills his consciousness into the form of a middle finger, and lets the pull-up bar on the kitchen doorframe become his escape from a conversation with himself that he's not prepared to have.

The problem is not him caring. The problem is that no matter what he does, or who he choses to be, his family is still his own, and even if by some miracle of lies and repression he finally manages to stop giving a shit, there will always be people who do.

Black Star's muscles ache, but the sweat on his brow is still only droplets. He keeps going.

"You look tired," Tsubaki tells him when she returns to fill the empty spaces between the blank TV screen and the traffic lights. She lets the question of why he's still up go unspoken, and retrieves two portions of week-old leftovers from the depths of an empty fridge.

Black Star accepts the cold meal and frowns. "I'm never tired. You know me, Tsubaki. You could run this whole country off my raw energy for months if some brainiac scientist would just figure out how to harness my star power. I could stay awake for days if I wanted!"

And maybe that is true, but he finds himself wanting to close his eyes soon enough. He lets his body fall horizontal when Tsubaki steps outside for a late-night call, telling her that it's fine, he doesn't mind the interruption, knowing that their conversation will have to wait until the morning. Sleep comes as a flood, trickling down his brow with a deceiving gentleness before sweeping him away and swallowing him whole. The din of a living city and the swan song of a broken fan are Black Star's last lullabies before his eyes slide shut.