02   smells like teen spirit

Illusion kicks their legs up on the dashboard of Mercy's old Chevrolet as she grips the steering wheel. Henrietta passes by in a blur; flashes of green against the blue of the skyline. The summer sun is high, perched above her head, the heat only growing as the day crawls forward. Heat waves against the tarmac, Mercy tightens her grip and leans forward, vehemently hitting play on her music. It hadn't been hard for her form an upgraded music system the moment the rundown truck's keys had landed within her palms and she'd squeezed them so tightly that the teeth imprinted into her skin.

Mouth pulled into a cocky grin, Illusion looks over to Mercy, chin tipped up to the sky in casual arrogance. "Didn't we have this discussion yesterday?" Their voice begins to meld into the sound system. "That won't work."

          "Shut the fuck up," Mercy says. She grits her teeth, pressing gnawing bone against bone. Eyes flashing, her gaze shifts to face Illusion's as they come to a stop at a red sign. "Get the fuck out of my sound system. Does the sound of your own voice like get you off or something?"

Illusion's fangs bare themselves, they snarl. Mercy grips the steering wheel harder. Neon letters cause Illusion's gaze to shift. In a vain pink and a bright acid yellow, the words read: Nino's Pizza.

They point with a crooked finger. "There. Stop there."

It's almost mindless, controlled, the way Mercy immediately flicks the indicator and pulls into the Nino's parking lot without realising. Her pickup slides smoothly into a free space. Before she can turn to Illusion to question as why they wanted her to pull into the carpark of the town's shitty diner, they're gone. Mercy's hand comes to rest on her chest, pressing against the space between her collarbones. She breathes in deeply, biting her already red-bitten bottom lip and shoves open the door, stepping out into the sunlight. Her hands twitch, itching for the weight of a cigarette.

Blue Sargent's Aglionby boys have already commandeered a table towards the back; haphazardly spreading themselves and their dictionaries amongst the grease, sauce bottles and napkin holders. She spies them, tucked carefully into the orange booth seats and groaning chairs pushed into the side's of the big table. Pulling her apron on, Blue secures it behind her back and tucks the wild curls that had been let loose when it had gone over her head. Her greased notepad finds it's place within the front pocket.

Mercy watches this sight with narrowed eyes as she enters the diner, slipping into the booth beside the boys. She knows who they are. Mercy runs a black-stained finger over the condensation. Nose wrinkling, she rubs at the black stain and frowns. However hard Mercy rubs, it never fades away. The click of a pen distracts her from the black stain.

          "Hi, can I take your order." Curly hair trapped under a myriad of colourful clips is the first thing that Mercy notices as she looks up. The waitress, far shorter than her, taps her foot against the ground with a small smile that screams: customer service! and a name tag reads, Blue.

          "Caramel milkshake, please." Mercy digs a nail into her finger, green-eyes narrowed.

          "Anything else?"

          "No, thank you." Mercy looks towards the Aglionby table. "That's all."

The redhead hears the slight huff of the waitress as she walks away, shoving the notepad into her pocket and stalking behind the counter. Mercy observes Blue as she moves through the diner with ease, leaning over the Aglionby boy's table to look closely at its engravings as she places down a pitcher of iced tea. Condensation drips from the boy's pitcher of iced tea, seeping into the greasy wood of the table.

Another waitress delivers Mercy's milkshake. She directs them a tight smile.

          "Your manners require some work," Illusion says, checking over their finger nails. They appear swiftly, lounging in the seat across from Mercy, black suit free from crinkles or marks.

          "That's rich coming from you," Mercy mutters.

          "My manners are perfectly adequate." Illusion turns their nose up.

Mercy snots, ripping apart a napkin from the dispenser.  "I'm just saying, anybody that decides to randomly pop into somebody's life of their own accord doesn't have anything to say about manners."

          "You insolent little—"

The diner door opens. Mercy's gaze moves from Illusion to the entrance. Joseph Kavinsky stands in the doorway—his white-framed glasses sitting smugly against his nose. He is restless; reeking of ignorance and something vulgar. Mercy's expression turns cold. Apart of her is curious of the reasoning behind his visit, playing with the metal straw of her milkshake as she watches him lock eyes with Ronan Lynch. She knows that there is nothing that Kavinsky could possibly need from Ronan or his gang of little friends. He has reality at his fingertips. He's one of her kind.

And yet, Kavinsky heads straight for the table at the back with the boys.

Illusion straightens with keen interest, eyes gleaming. Almost like they expected this. Illusion grins.

         "You planned this," Mercy sips her drink, glaring accusingly. "You knew this was happening."

Illusion studies their nails. "I can neither confirm nor deny."

Mercy huffs.

          "Hey, baby doll." Her skin prickles at Kavinsky's greeting as he moves to stand near Blue.

Mercy only needs to see Blue's uncomfortable shiver as he greets her to curl her long fingers into a fist. There's aways been something overwhelmingly troubling about Joseph Kavinsky. Everybody knows about Kavinsky—frivolously hedonistic. Always playing the short game rather than the long; always a step behind. But Mercy has never been a step behind. Not until now as she sits, clueless as to why Kavinsky would enter clear enemy territory and Illusion would encourage his escapades. Though, the sinful do always attract the sinful. The way he moves too close; eyes tracking Blue like he wants to swallow her whole. She forces herself to wait. To be patient before moving.

          "I'm not a baby doll." Blue's tone is cold, and Mercy shivers. "Table for one?"

The curve of Kavinsky's grin is sickening as he jerks his chin. "My party's already here."

          "I saw your POS out front," Kavinsky looks to Gansey. "And I remembered I had something for Lynch."

          "This is bad fucking news," Mercy mutters.

The redhead stands. She's moving before Illusion can stop her, slipping in between Kavinsky and Gansey as the former drops a cluster of leather bands to the table. They're tangled, Mercy's nimble fingers gather them as Ronan reaches towards them. She studies them carefully, looking for nicks or designs in the leather.

          "Kavinsky." She greets. Mercy looks to her classmates. "Boys."

Kavinsky tips his chin at her. There's very few of their kind—Dreamers—that Mercy has met; those with the ability to pull from their dreams and make something real from the ambiguous. But none she's met, not even the most cursed of her family, scare her as much as this Epicurean boy. There's something terrifying about those who don't fear death. Who take and take and take as they please with no consideration or self control. Kavinsky sets Mercy on edge. Gansey and Adam watch silently; Noah tucked into the corner with his shoulders hunched and head down. There's almost something off-putting about the action. Mercy shrugs her shoulders slightly, trying to free them of tension.

          "How sweet, man." Ronan pulls the leather from Mercy's fingers besides one. "It goes with everything."

Kavinsky laughs. "Like your mom."

Mercy rolls her eyes. "Very thoughtful of you, Kavinsky. Didn't know you were capable."

          "What am I supposed to do with them?" Ronan questions smoothly, relaxing back in his booth seat. His tattoo's gnarled lines poke out from the back of his shirt, black ink catching the Nino's lights. 

Kavinsky waves a hand. "Hell if I know. I just thought of you. Regift them. White rabbit shit."

          "Elephant," Gansey corrects.

          "Don't bring politics into this, Dick." Kavinsky replies, rubbing the top of Ronan's head with a grin.

Ronan's shoulders tense, body winding with the intent to harm. His eyes flash slightly, anger slithering through the cracks of his mask.

          "Very nice and all." She surveys Kavinsky. Her lips are pulled into an icy smirk, slipping on the leather band. "But you don't belong here. Any reason you're on this side of the tracks?"

What's the real reason you're here? The true question remains unspoken but Kavinsky's eyes narrow behind the dark shades of his sunglasses. Mercy's nose scrunches slightly as he shifts closer, reeking of self-indulgent tendencies and Axe body spray.

         "I could ask you the same thing, King."

          "You're in my area, not the other way around." The redhead steps backwards. Mercy raises her chin high, looking him up and down. "Too close, Kavinsky. Keep your paws the fuck away from me."

Kavinsky holds up his hands, grin curved and tongue running against his teeth. "No harm, no foul."

          "Tell that to someone who gives a fuck." Mercy snaps. She flicks her fingers at Kavinsky, shooing him away. "Leave now, I think the staff would rather this place didn't have rats."

Kavinsky taps two fingers to his temple as goodbye, brushing past Blue without word and steps through the threshold outside. Mercy resets her shoulders, turning to find Ronan watching her with piercing eyes. There's something wild behind them; more alive than she's ever seen. They flicker, and she tips her head slightly.

          "The only thing that gives me any joy," Gansey begins causing Mercy's gaze shifts towards him, "is imaging the used car dealership he'll be working in by the time he's thirty."

Ronan's eyes flicker down, fingering the leather bands thoughtfully with one hand, the other tightened into a fist, pale knuckles hardened and whiter than normal. The fire in his eyes has yet to die.

          "Lynch," Mercy calls, "stay away from him."

The Raven boy doesn't answer. Mercy bites her lip, pausing for a moment before turning away and returning to her table. Her milkshake sits alone, Illusion gone and merely a five dollar bill left behind where they once sat.