Black Mirror

Chapter 11 - Micro Cuts

***ALEX***

Three days in a row now, I've been meeting the Jackson sibs for coffee. But we haven't been making any kind of heist plans. For one thing, we don't exactly want Mrs. Smythe to overhear us. For another, we're not exactly the cast of Six of Crows here. Sure, we might bear certain resemblances to certain members of the group - Ty could easily pass for Jesper (especially if you give him a pair of revolvers and a belt of bullets like a cowboy), Kelly could almost be Inej (though she's the wrong race), and my prom picture makes me look sort of like Kaz without his cane. But that's as far as the resemblance goes. Appearance, not ability.

I've been waiting for another dream with either Gabe or Fionna, just to check in with them as well. No such luck. Then again, I never have shared dreams more than one night in a row. I don't know why I expected that pattern to change.

I've also been waiting for more out-of-control icing on my part. I haven't had any of that either, although I've been getting a bit more carried away in elemental combat. I figure if I cut loose there, I'll be less likely to, say, freeze up the shower again. I've explained my issues to Luca and Kyle as best I can, and as usual, it surprises me how understanding they are.

Still, though, I've found myself feeling unusually cold at night lately. I've even gone and broken out the winter quilt I keep in the closet. It's kept me so cozy that on Wednesday morning, Luca woke me up, not the alarm clock. "Sweet dreams, Jack Frost?" he asked.

I jumped out of bed, terrified that I'd be covered in ice. Thankfully, I wasn't - but then I was standing in the middle of the floor, feeling cold air all over my bare legs and arms. "Dickhead," I growled, turning my phone on for the day. I stared at the lock screen, half-expecting to see a missed call from Gabe, but no such luck. I've done that a lot since he died, wishing he would reach out to me outside the dream world. Maybe he has, and Russell or some other scriv in charge keeps intercepting his communication and blocking it from me. Maybe Fionna's done the same.

When my phone buzzes (I've silenced it so it doesn't disturb Mrs. Smythe as she makes more coffee - it's a little busier than usual today), I almost drop it while retrieving it, dying to see whatever text I've gotten from the Second 'Verse or the Terminal or wherever.

But no. It's from Prime for sure.

"The police called Ty. We're going down to the station. Wanna come with?" That's the first message Kelly sends me. A second comes in as I'm reading the first. "Also, he doesn't have your number. Can I give it to him?"

I answer the texts in reverse order. "Yeah, sure. Are you gonna get the arrowhead?"

"Not exactly," she answers a minute later. "It's better if you see it for yourself."

My affogato - I finally ordered one today - steams at me, daring me to abandon it. I almost choke downing the rest of the espresso, and then I spoon the remains of the gelato down my throat at record speed. Next time, I should ask if this can be made with chocolate gelato instead of vanilla. Hardly traditional, but someone's got to innovate in the coffee world, and I bet this place could get tons of business with mocha affogati. The lines outside the Bridge would be epic.

It's a sunny day outside, and I'm still cold. Maybe it's nothing to do with my ice issues, though. Maybe I'm just sick. Physically, not mentally. It's not really flu season yet, but you never know when something could start spreading around at Balthazar. Sophomore year, right after New Year's, someone came back to school with the flu. Two days later, sixty percent or so of the student body was feverish, sweating, vomiting. Luca was lucky. Me, not so much. Of course, that was the year I'd skipped my flu shot - it gave me a fever the previous year.