***ALEX***

Picture the perfect image of a teenage guy in self-imposed isolation. That's me today, this fine, stormy Friday before Labor Day weekend. I'm blanketed in my trustiest gray-striped hoodie with my Music Junkie earbuds (seriously, that's the brand name) snaking into my hood to pipe in the Coldplay, while my nose is buried in a book. J.L. Pawley's latest, freshly sent my way from the other side of the Bridge. She's one of Hell's favorite writers.

Where am I? On a bench in the administrative section of Balthazar Academy, a region where I very rarely tread. No, I'm not in trouble, although I can't help but feel like I am. Along with all the other seniors, I've been given an appointment with one of the school counselors to help plan for college. We've all had one such appointment each of our previous years, and by this point, we're supposed to have finalized our plans, our backup plans, our fallbacks, our pitfalls, etc. etc.

There are two other students waiting for counselors alongside me. Ajay Singh and Melissa Silk, I think their names are. I don't know them so well - although I think I have English with Melissa, who's currently reading the first book of the year for our class, The Outsiders.

They arrange these appointments in reverse alphabetical order by last name. (Which means that when school starts again on Tuesday, it'll be Luca's turn.) Isn't that what they did in Divergent when everyone chose their factions? Somehow, though, I doubt whoever designed this particular appointment system had that in mind.

On the receptionist's desk, a phone alarm goes off. She consults it for a second, then stands up and says, "Snow, Singh, Silk, follow me."

I'm the last one to follow her, because I have to stick my book (a heavy one) into my backpack, remove my earbuds, and shut my iPod off. And because I'm so clumsy about it, I wind up walking forward, deeper into the bowels of this dragon-infested terra incognita with my earbuds spilling limply out of my pocket. And they're threatening to drag my iPod out with them. Evil little assholes. But it beats them creeping into my pocket completely and having an orgy with tiny elves that leaves them in a tangled mess I spend hours trying to pick apart.

Three counselors' offices stand open about halfway down a hall. One by one, the receptionist directs us in. I get the last one, and when I walk in, I'm taken aback. I mean, I'd heard whispers about a young new counselor catching the attention of many a lusty Balthazar boy (among others), but I didn't realize how much she looked like Supergirl.

And then I blink and remember who she is. I barely know her, but I've seen her once, pretty recently at my Uncle James and Aunt Becky's house. "Alex Snow?" she asks, and I just stand there, dumbstruck. Like one of those lusty teenagers I was talking about earlier, but not because I think she's hot. Not that she isn't, though...oh God, she can totally hear this. Alex, you need to park your brains - both of them - at the goddamn door, okay? Please and thank you.

"I'm Jasmine Holly," she says, holding out her hand. Mutely, I shake it, then she comes around behind me and shuts the door before taking her seat. "Do you remember me?"

I blow her a raspberry as I sit next to her. "No, no, wait, don't tell me...you're Preston Holly's offspring? You must take after your mom...or should I say 'mum?' I thought you were British."

"British-American," Jasmine says. "Though my American accent needs work, which is why I'm practicing it. A little bit of method acting to go along with this new job."

"What job? Tell me you're not here to watch over me," I scoff. "It's creepy enough having Pizza Guy Russell doing that."

"The 'pizza guy'" - Jasmine even throws in air quotes - "is out of town. I'm filling in, and they figured I was overqualified to be a Three Guy...but luckily, there was also an opening here."

"Are you even qualified for counseling?" I ask.

"I spent about twelve years as a perpetual student," Jasmine says with a wink. "Another reason why I'm not my father's favorite. Trust me, I'm more qualified than you'd think. And they picked me because I've got mechanical engineering skills as well. Which, given the state of the ancient technology this place runs on..." She jerks her thumb at her desktop computer. "But enough about me. It's your hour, Alex. Or however long it takes you here today." She clicks her mouse a couple of times, then takes a deep breath before adding, "You'll probably be happy to know I'm not just here as an academic counselor, either. If you're having any other kind of trouble, need help...just ask me. Okay?"

I avert my eyes from her clinical gaze and look out the narrow, rain-lashed window behind her. "What kind of help do you think I need?"

"Let's see..." Jasmine scrolls down the screen, which already has my records up. "Oh, there's a gap here," she says. "A pretty big one. Looks like you didn't set up much of a plan for your junior-year academic appointment. No list of schools, and your only job of choice is 'writer.'"

"You can add 'blogger' to that," I say. "And 'librarian.' And 'film director.'"

"But what about what school you'd go to, to study any of those fields?"

I scratch my head, trying to remember last year's academic appointment. "Check the date."

"Huh?"

Gotta love those little moments when her professionalism slips. "The date," I repeat. "It has to be listed there, doesn't it? The other counselor I saw, she was pretty meticulous like that. I think she had OCD?"

"Yes, Dr. Solo..." she muses. "Oh, so your last appointment was...December 3rd? Huh, that's exactly nine months ago today."

"And I know you guys have more detailed files on me than anything Solo ever did," I say. "So you remember what happened the month before that appointment?"

"I wasn't there," Jasmine says sadly. "But I'm aware all the same. That was...that was right after the Aqua Killer incidents, wasn't it?"

"Incidents," she says. "After Fionna died," I say.

Jasmine brings up that mostly-empty record, then says, "Solo recommended that you come in more often and get some emotional help...but you declined?"

I shake my head. "I don't believe in therapy."

"Well, you had to get some help, somehow," she says. "Otherwise..." Her voice trails off.

"Otherwise what? I'd go crazy, psycho killer, qu'est-ce que c'est, and suddenly we need to talk about Alex?" My hand reaches for my earbuds. If I were a little more of a borderline masochist (I say while devoting a tiny portion of my brain to the tattoo I'm planning to get over the weekend), I'd wear a rubber band on my wrist and snap it against my skin every time I had an inappropriate thought about wanting to put on my tunes. But as Gideon's told me from personal experience, if it's no good for eliminating sex thoughts, what good will it do for thoughts of a different color?

"You're not that mentally ill, I don't think," Jasmine says. "But again, if you need help..."

I cross my arms and slouch in my seat. "I've got a shit-ton of shit wrong with me. I don't get help for it; I help myself. I manage." Jesus, did I really go there? I sound like such a boy. And right now, I look like one, too. Overgrown, but in this position where I'm liable to give myself some kind of swayback eventually...hell, my wings are starting to droop out the back of my hoodie. I sit up again, forcing them to realign in their normal resting position. As soon as I can, I'm going to stretch them. If only I could go outside and do it, but the rain's getting heavier every minute. Even a water elemental like me can't handle this level of Zeus' wrath. (Or is it Poseidon's? There's no lightning in this storm. Yet.)

"What, exactly, is wrong with you?" Jasmine asks.

And now she had to go there too. "Where do I begin?" I ask the ceiling. Turning my eyes back down to her, I add, "Most of it's undiagnosed, but browsing my Psych textbook gives me some ideas about what I've got. ADHD, but I knew that for years - I'm too restless to focus or sit still on anything. Depression, 'cause I can go for a long time feeling alone and unwanted and abandoned. What can I say? All the best cowboys have daddy issues."

"Isn't that a Lost episode?"

"Please, don't tell me my business. Future writer, remember?" I laugh bitterly. "So. ADHD, depression. Or maybe that combines to make bipolar? Wouldn't surprise me." Another laugh, even more bitter and fake than the last. "Oh, oh, and before I forget..." I pick up my earbuds again, but not to listen to a cheery Coldplay song at odds with my current mood. "I wear these MJ's for a reason," I say. "I really am a music junkie. Musical dysplasia, I think it was called."

"Bullshit," Jasmine says. "If that were a real disorder, I'd have been diagnosed years ago." She minimizes the window on her monitor so my records don't distract her. "Russell warned me about this," she says. "That you like to hide behind a sarcastic shell. It's your standard defense mechanism-"

"The one good thing Gabe and I inherited from our dear bio dad," I say, fully aware that with these prickly words, I'm playing right into her hands. "The snark gene."

"But if you really have these issues," she continues as if I didn't interrupt her, "don't make light of them. Depression and bipolar, especially, though I'm gonna go out on a limb and guess you're more likely to have the former. Either way, you could be exacerbating a very serious condition."

"As long as I don't get medicated into a vegetative state for it," I say, "I'm good." I put my earbuds away, all the way in this time. Remember, Pocket Elves, no means no!

"Alex-"

"We're not here for my mental health," I say sharply. "And besides, I don't talk about my mental health with people I don't trust." Jasmine twitches, but then she slumps slightly, and the thoughts in her head tell me she's accepting that I'm right - she hasn't known me long enough to earn my trust. "We're here for my college prospects, so can we focus on that, please?"

But as it turns out, I'm not really in much of a mood to focus on college prospects either. Jasmine's attempt to get through to me has really turned me off, and in any case, is there much of a point looking into four-year colleges at this point? I haven't even taken the SAT yet, which probably means any chance I've got of getting into a good school at this point is all of kaput. Community college, here I come. Not that that's a bad thing - Gideon's going to one, and Luca's older sibs, and even Luca himself. But it'll still probably sidetrack me for another few years, getting my gen ed crap taken care of...

...and I really don't need these worries flooding my mind. Not now.

At the very least, Jasmine leaves me her number, and tells me to call her if I need any help, ever. Don't count on it, I think on my way out the door.

When I come back to my room, Luca's lounging on his bed, intently focusing on what I'm pretty sure is a spirited round of Marvel Puzzle Quest on his phone. I didn't know he owned a tank top that read "Supah Supah Dope," but I guess it's a recent acquisition. It's a sign that he's finally taken my advice (and Gabe's, for that matter) and is expanding his wardrobe. That slogan, though, I wouldn't have recommended it myself.

"Thought you were going to the game room." I leave my iPod on the bedside table, tangled earbuds and all. Those fucking Pocket Elves.

"All the games are taken, and I'm not about to abuse my senior privilege. I'm too cool for that. Besides, this one level's been kicking my ass for a week."

"The assclown who looks like Wolverine?" I laugh. "Or whatever it is Hawkeye says to Fury."

"Yeah. That. You got any tips?"

"I've tried everything. That level's practically unwinnable. I'd suggest you spend your time doing something a little more worthwhile."

"Like what?" He shuts off the game, the rousing music dying away in an instant, and sits up, pulling his knees to his chest and hugging himself. Maybe he should cover his arms if he's feeling cold on a day like this? But that's Luca for you, always challenging himself to bare his skin in the face of what passes for cold around here. If there's ever a reason why he tends to run around our room on winter mornings, it's because he's freezing his balls off wearing only his underwear for a ridiculous amount of time.

"I was gonna get a tattoo."

"Another one? On the other arm this time? Or, what, your chest?" He covers his mouth, not that it stops me hearing his laugh in response.

"No, just my arm." I reflexively look at my upper right arm, where my hoodie sleeve obscures the cross tattoo I got for my and Gabe's seventeenth - we got them matching. Today's ink will go on the left. "Wanna come with? You could use another few badass points for your image."

Luca bursts out laughing. "What the hell would I even get? Probably some fandom shit I'll eventually outgrow."

"Fandom's for life, dude. And I'm getting a Teen Wolf tat. Scott McCall, double armbands-"

"Oh, 'cause you think you look so much like him?"

"It'll help my cosplay game." I scratch my head. "What could you get, though? Maybe a Shadowhunters rune?"

"How about nothing?" He reaches for his phone, but stops just short of picking it up again. "Alex, are you okay?"

"Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"

I say it way too quickly, and Luca picks up on it too. He stands up to his full height - still a little shorter than I am, but he's had his final growth spurt over the summer, so there's not as much difference between us as there used to be. "I can't say I know how much it weighs on your mind, Gabe's death, but-"

"That was months ago."

"Yeah, true, but still. You saw it happen." He reaches out and grasps my shoulders. "Listen, Alex, I know you've had self-harm issues before, but it's helped you before to talk about them with someone-"

I pull away from him. "I'm fine, all right? You wanna come with me or not?"

His eyebrows rise, almost disappearing into the lowest-hanging parts of his curly hair. Not for nothing did Gabe used to call him "Ravioli JoBro." "Just...don't let yourself spiral, okay?"

"Sure, sure." I shift into a Scottish accent to say goodbye with a favorite Lost line. "'See you in another life, brother.'"  

I set off outside, head bowed against this unseasonably early storm that's turning day to night. By the time I get down into town, all the streetlights in Coldfire Creek are bathing the place in stark white light. Did Jasmine use her scriv powers to enhance the lights or something? I feel like she did.

On the other side of the Bridge, where there's wind but no rain, I walk into Jackson's Ink and Piercings and wave hi to the tall, brown-skinned girl at the front desk. It's Kelly Jackson, an old friend of both Gabe's and Fionna's. "Back so soon, Alex?" she asks me, her brown eyes glinting as they reflect the much less harsh light coming from overhead.

"It's only been..." I count on my fingers for two seconds. "Seven months?"

"Feels like less," says Kelly. "And you look a little..." She stops short, but I hear it coming from her head, even as she averts her gaze and tries to keep it quiet. A little lonely without Gabe.

"I'm not here for Gabe today," I say. "I'm here for me. I just...I can't explain it, but I really wanna get more ink."

Without further ado, Kelly opens the book of designs. "I'd suggest something tribal," she says, "but you're not enough of a douche to pull it off."

"One of my best friends had tribal," I say.

"Oh, sorry. Forget I said it," she laughs.

I make a show out of flipping through the pages until I find the design I've had in mind all week. "Still a popular one, huh?" I say, pointing at the twin black bands, one wider than the other.

"Now that one, that suits you." She cycles through her phone and calls up a picture of the same design, which she texts to her mom, who must be waiting inside. "The Scott McCall tattoo? Has anyone told you you look sort of like Tyler Posey?"

"Not for a long time."

Kelly's face clouds over like the sky in Heaven. "Don't tell me Gabe was the only one who ever said it."

"Thanks to our little resemblance, Scott was the only guy in the cast he didn't have a crush on. Well, that and Gerard Argent."

"Ugh, don't remind me of that old limpdick." Her phone dings with a response from her mom. "Lucky for you, angel, it's a slow business day today. Mom's ready whenever you are."

"Cool." I give Kelly a quick hug before moving into the design room itself, where Coldfire Creek's favorite retired-punk tattoo artist sits, loading black ink into the machine. She and her daughter don't look alike at all - Mr. Jackson's black, and Kelly takes after him, while her mom is white with blonde hair always done in this floppy Flock of Seagulls style.

"Alex?" She looks surprised to see me. "Well, I figured you'd be going for this werewolf look sooner or later. Anything to add authenticity to your cosplay, huh?"

"Maybe, yeah." I sit in the chair, taking off my hoodie and shirt.

"This one's looking good," Mrs. Jackson says, looking at the Heaven and Hell symbol fusion on my upper right arm. "So the Scott McCall bands...you'd want those on your left arm, right?"

I nod. "That's how Scott does it."

"Thought so." Mrs. Jackson quickly draws the guidelines for the (simple but cool) design, then gets the needle close to my arm, but first starts swabbing the skin with some kind of disinfectant. Or maybe anesthetic, not that it stops the application from hurting like hell. "Huh. You know, when Kara did the tats for you and Gabe before, she said you had these scars on your other arms. They looked almost exactly the same. Like hash marks. Now I can see them-"

Oh crap.

My scars.

"No!" I pull my arm out of Mrs. Jackson's grasp, but it's too late. The needle, already a hair away from my skin, slips and tears across my arm. I scream, jumping to my feet and inspecting the damage.

There's a thin but noticeable black line cutting across the seventeen scars on my left arm. Black, then red as it starts bleeding.

"What did you do?" My voice comes out as a hoarse whisper.

"Oh God," Mrs. Jackson says. She starts rifling through the drawers next to her. "Alex, I...I'm so sorry. Look, look, let me-" She reaches for a bandage.

"No, don't touch me!" I tear out of the room, my wings unfolding slightly behind me in anticipation of a fight-or-flight decision. Kelly tries in vain to call me back, but I run out the door and out about a hundred feet until I'm back on the Heaven side of the Bridge.

On the Heaven side, where the wind drives the rain through the open-air segments on this level.

I put my back to the nearest wall, leaving my half-naked front exposed to the elements. Then I look at the ugly new scar that's just joined the ones I made with Gabe, biting back bitter tears. Some tough guy I must be, huh?

"Alex?" I look up to see Kelly coming up to me, my clothes in her arms. She kneels in front of me, holding them out until I stand up again and take them. When she sees the ink-scar, she winces and says, "I'm sorry, Alex. Were you just...too many Gabe memories?"

I look her in the eye for about two or three seconds before I give in completely to my emotional Chernobyl. She doesn't even wait for me to get dressed again - she wraps her arms around me, holding me tightly.

It's so sweet of her that it makes me cry even harder.

And I don't even think she knows the full reason why this hurts me so much.