John
Finley had learned a lot. They'd been in Newton's Cradle for three years, and had balanced a lot more out, compared to where they'd gotten there. No more charges of felony arson, at least, had been added to their record. And he'd grown comfortable, as one could be in the paranormal and wild landscape of the Cradle. At least now they could read Swedish. 

Deep breaths, he told himself. The rec room had become something of a safe space for them - a quiet place towards the back of the campus where they could enjoy their own pace. No one could disturb them here. Not the paranormal, not the bones, none of it.

He stretched out his arms, taking a deep breath to lift onto their toes. A pirouette here, a plie there - old, familiar routines that he found comfort in, in the deepest part of their bones. 

The light spinning of classical music softly curled into the air, Fin's boney hand clutching the barre with every wobble of their weak ankle. An old injury tweaked their muscle and ligaments with each faulty step - short huffs of frustration burst through their nostrils. They muttered curses in French just under their breath. 

Fin took a few steps and started a spin, and started into a leap. They hadn't done one in years. But they had to. They had to do this. They *Could*. Stupid Victor, he didn't know what he was talking about-

*"Fuck!"*

Fin crashed into the hardwood, wincing, rolling onto their back and clutching their bad ankle, a slew of French curses spewing from their lips. Tears welled up in their eyes and they harshly blinked them away. 

"Fucking, fucking *Shit,* Goddamn it—"
Fidel
Anthony was always learning. Always. 
There was always something to pick up on, to dissect. Whether you'd been in Newton's Cradle for three years, or for three days, you could always gain more information. He, obviously, fell on the latter end of things, being present for such a short amount of time.
What he had in knowledge he lacked in regulation. There was still so much to break down. Split open.
Observe.

Today, he'd slipped into new territory. He'd only visited the Rec(reational Activities) Room twice before, when creating his ever-expansive map of the campus. He'd stepped in for a few minutes to memorize the layout, then made his way back out to face the rest of it all. Wouldn't have thought he'd end up back here. 
His dorm was definitely an apt place to spend his time, yes, but he figured he ought to capitalize off of the freedom that the Cradle provided. No small station. No cramped, sterile four walls. 
It did wonders for the sanity, truly.

He had plenty to do. He could write. Walk around. Draw. Write some more. 
Today, he figured he'd indulge himself a little. He'd practice his violin.
He was always a stellar violinist, but never properly adapted the courage to try and stand out amongst school recitals or performances. Not to mention that when he had been moved to the station, he'd lost any kind of time to hone his skill.
His instrument had sat in its case. Collecting dust.

Lucky for him, it functioned a lot like riding a bike. You never forgot how to do it.
As he rosined his bow, he noticed how slow his cogs were turning. 
No thoughts to override him. He was comfortably in the 'zone,' as it was colloquially known. This was nice.
He had his music positioned on a makeshift stand in front of him, but wasn't likely to put it to much use. He had Tchaikovsky's *Swan Lake, Op. 20* Committed to memory like it was nothing.

He began to play. Quietly, not pushing the strings to their full volume. Their full potential.
He wasn't far into the song before he heard the clatter of someone hitting the hardwood. Muffled swears to follow it.
His song halted, and his thoughts picked up speed.
*Are they okay?*
*I hope they're okay.*
*What were they doing? If they're hurt, I'll have to alert staff.*

He delicately set his violin, bow, and music to the side of the chair he'd been sitting at. Beginning to investigate. 
What he saw was a person on their back, in obvious pain, and his brow loosened with concern in tow.

**"Are you alright?"** He asked the question clearly, approaching them hestitantly. He didn't want to make anything worse.
A pause.
**"I heard you fall."**

He radiated genuine care. Empathy. As was typical.
**"Do you need help to get up?**

He offered a pale hand out to them. Not demanding them to take it. 
Offering them. Entirely their call.
Their choice.
John
Fin looked up at the figure, strange, and new - a violin set off to one side. Their brows furrowed. They reached out, and took the hand - pale, and cold, similar to their own. He stood up, trying not to grip the hand too hard as he winced to get to his feet. The bad ankle wobbled and shook under their weight, but they grit their teeth, jaw set hard. 

*"Merci,"* They said. They brushed some bright blue hair from their eyes. "Thank you. I appreciate it."

They dusted themself off, glancing down at their ankle, just in case. It didn't *Seem* Outwardly hurt - not more than usual, anyway - and sat content in his pointe shoes, left alone. Fin grit their teeth again - it looked so easy. So normal. And here they were, splatting on the floor in front of strangers like a little kid. 

"You must be new," They said. They tried to gear the conversation - and their thoughts, in tow - away from the red-hot annoyance under their skin. "I'm Finley. Nice to meet you."

They certainly didn't recognise the figure.

His eyes flickered to the violin off to the side and pressed two fingers to their temple. They had no inclination to pick up their own instrument, not anymore. But the figure had been kind enough to stop and help them up, so, at the very least, he could have a decent conversation. Especially if they were new.

"What's your name, then?"
Fidel
He hoisted this new character up with all the strength he had. He'd noticed his ankle, the apparent cause of the problem, and wasn't about to set that aside. He kept a small fraction of his attention on the appendage; careful to watch in case of a collapse. Making sure to remain prepared for such a thing.

The French lilt in their voice caught his attention too, a brief thought coming to the surface about how many places Newton's Cradle pulled from. All over the world, it seemed. Intriguing. 
He nodded in the direction of their pointe shoes, acknowledging them. **"That's impressive."** He said, meaning it with everything he had.
**"Ballet is a very gorgeous art form."**
He paused for a moment, contemplating.
**"It takes dedication."**

His mind snapped back out of its own world and back to the conversation at hand. He really had to stop doing that.
He saw that he obviously didn't want to discuss his fall, so he wouldn't push it. He'd just remain... Cautious.
He gave a quick nod at the comment about his fresh introduction to the place: how new he happened to be.
**"Finley."** Finley. Finley. Finley Something. 
*Finley. Remember that. Finley the Ballet Boy. Yes.*

**"How's it go..."** He muttered. He didn't leave a gap in the conversation before saying;
**"Um.. Ravi de te..."** He paused, getting the words out slowly.
**"...Ravi de te rencontrer également?"** He said the phrase with very little certainty, but he said the phrase nonetheless.
He nodded at his eventual success.
**"Nice to meet you too."** Speaking the translation; just in case he happened to be wrong.

He was thankful for Finley's willingness to chat. 
Anthony had found himself ACTUALLY wanting to talk ever since his first interaction. Curiosity drives you to do crazy things.
Or maybe it was just the Cradle. Bringing something out of him.

Then the rehearsed phrase slipped his lips; just as it had before. As it always did.
**"My name is Anthony Solace."**
He had to cut himself before he ritualistically said 'And yours?'. Bad habit.

 His eyes drifted about, but he was still entirely focused.
**"Do you dance here frequently?"**
John
Fin, despite their weak ankle (which they on hobbled to sit down on a chair, lowering themself gently), gave a little smile to Anthony's uncertain French. Not many people (besides Uriel, who was as good as family to Fin) spoke French at the Cradle. It was nice. 

"Finley Carlisle," He said, a more formal introduction, holding out a hand, lightly dusted with chalk from setting up the barre. "All my friends call me Fin, though, so, I guess either's fine. Dancing? Um. I don't, um, actually. But I love - *Loved* Dancing. I did it for like, ten years."

Any murmurings about how they'd come to quit had fallen silent, along with their shaky posture.

He reached down for the plastic water bottle down at their side, unscrewing the cap without bothering to look at the Swedish label. Fin still couldn't read the language very well - they could understand it, a bit, from living here for so long.

"It's a nice studio," They admitted, glancing up at the place around sips of water. "I like the uh, the mirrors, and that sort of thing. They keep it up well. Wouldn't really expect it out of a place like this but, y'know, guess they gotta keep us from going insane somehow."

He sat back in his seat and glanced back over at Anthony. The new kid seemed polite enough - a little stiff, sure, but, nothing too bad. Analytical, maybe, or intelligent. The Cradle had a tendency to draw all sorts of people - Fin had learned that fairly early on. 

"How'd you get here?"

A fairly forward question, but, they were sure they weren't the first to ask Anthony that - nor would they be the last.
Fidel
*Finley Carlisle.* 
That's more like it. That was a full name, a name to CHEW on. That was a name he could really tie to something.

When they held out their hand, he gave it a quick, but firm shake, with unprecedented strength. 
It wasn't like he was hurting him. It was more like you just... Wouldn't EXPECT someone like him to have any kind of physical prowess, even for a handshake. 
He proved that sentiment wrong as fast as he could.

At the proposition of a nickname, he smiled a little. 
Anthony didn't *Have* Friends, to put it lightly. Social ineptitude did that to you.
He hadn't called anyone anything less than 'Sir,' 'Ma'am,' or other formal titles in the past whoever-knows-how-long. This was nice.
He wasn't even sure if he was ready.
**"Yes. Fin."** 

He nodded along to their comments, listening closely and blinking in time. Engaging: silently.

He noticed the tense change and simply filed it away for later use.
Information was stored that way.
**"That's what I mean."** He offered, innocently. **"Dedication."**

He continued to nod and follow along, as if he were reading them like a book. 
Maybe he was trying to.

He laughed at the prospect of 'going insane.' 
*It's entirely plausible.*
*I hate it.* 

He made his way over to sit down properly, taking a seat next to him. Already growing closer.

When Fin glanced at him, their eyes met. 
He studied them.
He seemed.. Easygoing. Friendly, even. He clearly had a past to uncover, too.
Everyone did. Not everyone was so vocal. 
He watched him.

Then came the million-dollar question. 
*How'd you get here, Anthony?*
*Oh, god.*

He went from pale to a slightly flushed pink in a second. 
**"Well, uh—"**
He fought with himself on how much he should say, the eye contact severing as he was magnetized to the floor.

**"I worked with a local police station."**
Bold start.
**"I didn't do anything super important,"** He said, lying. **"But it was ability-related."**
He sighed deeply. 
**"It messed with me, I guess."** Hesitation. An unfamiliar beast. 
One that devoured him quickly when it got the rare chance.

**"It messed with me."** He said, more concretely, nodding strongly as he spoke.
He turned back to face Fin. 
**"I'm here so that doesn't get worse."**

*I'm here so I don't completely lose it.*
*I'm here so I don't act on the things my brain tells me.*
*I'm here so I don't become a public danger.* 
The list carried on within his brain, and all he could do was smile gently.
John
Fin nodded, slowly, taking the words in. They didn't expect a full story from Anthony - nobody at the Cradle told theirs very often, hell, not even the Deans themselves. So you took what little you were offered and built from there. Fin was sure the only people who *Knew* Him - really, and entirely - were Ares and Owen. 

But that was okay. It just meant he, and the little bit he knew about Anthony so far, could work with that.

"That's fair," They finally said. "I'm here because I set a school on fire."

Only a bit of a lie. Like, ten percent. Maybe.

They stretched out in their seat, taking another sip of water, holding up their free hand. Jumping arcs of static leapt from their fingertips, the buzzing sound low in the air. Fin let them trail off before dropping their hand back to their lap.

"I'm like a fuckin' Jolteon Pokémon, really – you like Pokémon Go, by any shot? There's some great Psychic types over in town." 

He started untying his pointe shoes in exchange for a pair of clean socks and some sturdy platform boots.

"Hope you don't mind – the shoes are just uncomfortable."
Fidel
It was good that Fin wasn't expecting a full story, because he wasn't going to get one. 
Anthony preferred to keep to himself, always, without *Fail.*
The fact that he'd opened up this much, this QUICKLY, was astronomical. 
He was unsure whether to consider this a prideful growth or something to be ashamed of. Falling back. Losing his edge.
I mean, his parents always WANTED him to be more sociable. The station wanted him to be less of a freak.
This was a good thing, from all perspectives. 
Maybe... Except his own.

Being so frank and open felt alien. Like it wasn't correct. 
There was something nice about opening up, sure, but was it HIM? Would ANTHONY speak to a stranger so openly? 
He didn't know.

He was quickly pulled from his train of thoughts by the quick nature of Fin's response, the bright and blazing form that their comment took.
No pun intended.
It was when they said this that he was reminded of how many of his peers were criminals of some sort. Causing some kind of incident. 
As someone who worked with law enforcement, you'd think he'd look down on such a thing. 
He didn't. 

He'd caused his own fair share of problems. Hell, he spent his days understanding the psyches of people far worse, and even found himself holding out hope for THEM. *Sympathy* Alongside the empathy.
There was no reason to treat the people of Newton's cradle any differently.

**"I see."** He spoke softly, taking it in. Questions bit at his heels as he tried to outrun them — and succeeded for the time being — not saying anything more. 
Then they used their *Ability.* So... CASUALLY! Like it was nothing! 
He was struck by a pang of envy. Short, but present.
*I want to be able to show off, too.*
*I want something people can see. Have their OWN questions about.*
*I want something that isn't what I have. Anything.*

Then he spoke about Pokémon, of all things, and he had to smile at that. Something so normal amongst people that were anything but.
**"I've uh.."** He cleared his throat. **"I've never played."**
Big, interested eyes tracked Fin's. **"You should tell me about it sometime."** The classic tactic to keep someone talking. It slipped out before he realized.

When they started to slip off their shoes, he gave a small nod. Quietly saying: *Not a problem.*
**"Is your ankle okay?"** A VERY blunt inquiry, one he could hide no longer.
**"You don't have to answer that,"** He added, even though it was clear what he wanted. **"I'm just worried that being on pointe isn't helping very much."** 
Making a MUCH longer string of thoughts that concise was a skill. There was so much more he could say. That he WANTED to say.

He left it there, anyway.
For now.
John
Fin looked up at the idea that someone, did not, in fact, play Pokemon. His brows furrowed, and he pulled out his phone, rapidly flickering to an app, as they began to explain (tangentically) the game and how it worked (in somewhat lacking detail). 

"My favorite's the electric types - duh - but my boyfriend likes the fighting types. He's like, convinced the red team is cool."

Their rambling was interrupted - gratefully so, Fin, put your shoes on - by Anthony's question, and they startled. They passed their phone to their side and resumed tying their laces, starting, oddly enough, with their wobbly ankle.

"It's not great," They replied. They almost laughed. The damn thing might not ever recover. "Dancing really isn't - it's not the best idea, but, my friend Danica and I, we've been kind of getting back into it. Nobody else here does a ton of ballet that I like."
He made a slight face after he finished, putting something together behind his eyes. He let out a little sigh, and kept tying his shoes.
Fidel
He listened to each and every word intently and with purpose. It wasn't incredibly specific, no, but it did the job. Anthony could fill in the blanks. He always liked to fill in the blanks.
Absorbing all the words about Gyms, Typology, Evolution.. His mind wandered along the edges of the syllables like a pet following its owner. He was owned by the promise of knowledge. No matter how seemingly trivial.

When Fin mentions their boyfriend, he's snapped from one logical trance into another. 
*He has a partner.*
*Has to be here, doesn't it?*
*I wonder who.*
*I wonder if I know them already.*
*I wonder if I can meet them soon.*
*I wonder if—*

Then he responded to the question he practically didn't even realize he'd asked. His train of thought changed courses once more.
He took note of the name (*Danica.*) for later usage, and looked over Fin as he spoke. Analyzing. Formulating what to say.

**"Well,"** He started, cautiously. **"I'm definitely not a dancer myself."**
His eyes wandered away. Thoughtful. **"So I can't say I relate."**
Snapping back. **"But I appreciate the craft. I think it's magical."**

He paused as he battled with himself on what to follow that with.
**"...If you enjoy it, don't stop."** He shook his head a little, getting himself back on track. **"Once your ankle heals, of course."**

He was beyond intrigued. 
He hadn't forgotten what Finley was here for. Or his interest in the video game. He was itching to scribble down everything he could, and soon.

But for now, he'd just enjoy the conversation.
Look at him. *Enjoying* A conversation.
John
"Thank you," Said Finley, quietly. They flexed their sore ankle. *I don't know if it will ever get better*, said the pessimist in the back of their mind. But everything else had. He met Ares. He met Owen. They had a band. That had to count for something. 

"I'm in a band now, though," He said, lightening their tone. "I'm a drummer in a punk rock band. We're called Hysteria - I think we're pretty sick."

Unconsciously, Fin started tapping out little beats on their leg, a song he'd been practicing.

"It's nice to have something to do, you know?"