The abandoned Millfield Sugar Mill had been perfect—two hundred kids crammed into the rusted shell of industrial decay, sweat and cigarette smoke mixing with the metallic tang of old machinery. SCPK had played their tightest set yet, Dutch's drums thundering off corrugated walls while Saul's voice cut through the humid night like a blade. Even the usual police patrol had cruised past without stopping, maybe figuring the place was too dead to bother with.
Now, loading gear in the gravel lot in the back of the mill, they were still riding the high. Dutch spun his drumsticks, unable to contain his energy. "Did you see that pit during 'Downstream'? Kids were going mental!"
In the distance, an engine rumbled—too deep, too aggressive for the industrial road. Saul glanced toward the mill's entrance but saw only darkness.
"Two hundred people," Claire said, checking items off her clipboard with the precision of a field general. "That's more than half the bars in State City can hold." She grinned at Saul. "We're officially too big for the underground."
Ott methodically coiled cables with mechanical precision. "Van's loaded except for the amps. Five minutes and we're gone."
That's when the floodlights hit.
Blake's Blazer roared into the lot like it had been waiting, like someone had called in their location. The timing was too perfect—right as they finished loading, right when their guard was down. The spotlight mounted on the roll bar blazed to life, turning night into searing white blindness.
"What the hell—" Dutch started.
The first egg exploded against his chest before he could finish. Then the barrage began—dozens of them pelting from the Blazer's windows as Blake's crew whooped and hollered. "S-U-C-K! S-U-C-K! S-U-C-K!"
Dutch instinctively stepped in front of Claire, taking the worst of it. Yolk ran down his Descendents shirt like yellow blood. Lenore lit a cigarette and observed the chaos with scientific detachment. Ott kept loading gear, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a reaction.
Saul wiped egg from his face, feeling the familiar heat of rage build in his chest. But something had changed since Snake Pitt. Instead of explosive anger, he felt cold, calculating fury. He smiled.
"Well, this is very," he said, loud enough for Blake to hear over the engine.
The Blazer's occupants howled with laughter, thinking they'd broken him. But Claire caught the edge in his voice, recognized the dangerous calm from their shows when hecklers tried to derail them.
The attack lasted maybe thirty seconds before Blake gunned the engine and roared away, leaving them dripping with egg and sulfur stench. In the sudden quiet, Dutch kicked at the gravel.
"Cowards! Come back here and—"
"Look at this," Claire said quietly.
They turned to see their van. "S.U.C.K." was spray-painted across the side in dripping red letters, accompanied by a crude penis that looked like it had been drawn by a particularly untalented twelve-year-old.
"Sons of bitches," Dutch muttered, wiping yolk from his hair.
But Saul was studying the vandalism with something approaching appreciation. "They're giving us free advertising," he said. "This just proves we matter."
"Matter?" Dutch's voice cracked with outrage. "They just turned our van into a rolling dick joke!"
"No," Saul said, his mind working strategically. "They just told everyone in State City that we scare them enough to hunt us down with flood lights and breakfast foods." He gestured at the dripping letters. "You can't buy this kind of street cred."
Lenore, who had been walking around the van with her cigarette, stopped near the driver's side door. "What's this?" She bent down and picked up a folded paper from the gravel. "Must've fallen out of one of those idiots' pockets when they were spray-painting."
They gathered around as she unfolded it. A photocopied list of addresses. Lenore's house. The Belmont Building. Worm's Core. Capitol Bike Shop. Snake Pitt. All the places that mattered to SCPK specifically.
"They're not just vandalizing us," Ott said quietly. "They're mapping our entire network."
The silence that followed was different from the stunned quiet after the egg attack. This was the silence of understanding that they were no longer dealing with random harassment.
Claire watched him work through the logic, saw how he'd evolved from the kid who threw punches at Snake Pitt to someone who could transmute humiliation into victory. "We'll need diesel and some old rags," she said practically. "But first, let's get out of here before they come back with something worse than eggs."
Two hours later, they sat in Lenore's living room, the smell of diesel sharp in the humid air. The "S.U.C.K." was gone, but the ghost of it remained—slightly lighter patches on the van's sun-faded blue paint. Dutch had showered but still found bits of eggshell in his hair. Ott had his bass partially disassembled, cleaning egg residue from the pickup covers.
"Rod's behind this," Claire said, flipping through a folder of show flyers. "Blake's too stupid to organize surveillance. Someone's feeding him intel on our gigs."
"Rod's not just a TA anymore," Lenore said. "He's got the mayor's ear, pushing this decency campaign. Those eggs? That's just the opening shot. Probably has the whole capper network running reconnaissance."
Dutch slammed his beer down hard enough to rattle the coffee table. "This sucks! We can't even play a show without getting attacked by trust fund assholes."
"Actually," Ely said from his corner where he'd been reading a book, "this proves we're winning. You don't waste eggs on irrelevant people."
"Or coordinate an attack with flood lights and surveillance unless you're really worried," Ott added quietly. "And that list proves they're not just winging it."
The room fell silent except for the hum of the window AC unit struggling against the Gulf Coast humidity. This wasn't teenage pranks anymore. This was systematic.
Saul found himself studying Claire as the conversation swirled around them. The way she'd handled the crisis—not panicking, not backing down, but immediately shifting into tactical mode. How she'd stepped up beside him when Blake's crew was screaming their taunts, presenting a united front without being asked.
When the others finally crashed—Dutch sprawled across the couch, Ott and Ely claiming floor space—Saul found Claire sitting outside on her car hood, staring at the van. The street light cast everything in harsh shadows, making the barely-visible outline of scrubbed-off graffiti look like scars.
"Thinking about calling it quits?" he asked, settling beside her on the warm metal.
"Never," she said without hesitation. "You?"
"Not a chance." The words came out stronger than he'd intended. "Claire, after tonight... seeing how we handled that together... I need to tell you something."
She turned to face him, sea-green eyes catching the light. Something in his tone had shifted the energy between them, made the space suddenly feel smaller, more charged.
"I'm listening."
Saul took a breath. Honest directness cutting through the static. "I need to say this straight. No games, no letter, just truth."
He looked directly at her. "I'm falling for you, Claire. Not the idea of you, not because you're the cool punk girl who keeps us together. But you. The way you see through things, the way you make things make sense. The way you stood with me tonight when those assholes were trying to humiliate us."
Her expression shifted, walls coming down that he hadn't even realized were there. "Saul..."
"What I'm trying to say is... I want to be with you. Not because you manage the band or because you're part of this scene. Because when everything else feels like chaos, you make sense. You see things clearly when I can't."
Her expression shifted, walls coming down that he hadn't even realized were there. "Saul..."
"I want to know if you feel anything like that too," he continued. "Because I'm done playing it safe. I'm done overthinking everything to death. If there's something here, I want to know. If there isn't, I want to know that too."
Claire's relief was visible, tension leaving her shoulders like she'd been holding her breath for months. "God, Saul. Yes. I've been waiting for you to stop thinking and just..." She reached for his hand. "I feel it too. All of it."
The contact sent electricity up his arm. This was what he'd been trying to capture in that stupid letter—this moment of honest connection, no performance, no strategy. Just two people admitting they wanted each other.
"But," she said, and something in her voice made his stomach drop. "There's something I need to tell you first. Something I should have said months ago."
The word 'but' hung between them like a blade. Saul felt his chest tighten, recognizing the tone that preceded confessions nobody wanted to hear.
"What?"
Claire wouldn't look away, wouldn't minimize what she was about to say. Her fingers tightened on his hand. "The night of Snake Pitt, after you gave me that letter, before everything went to hell... Dutch kissed me."
The words hit like physical blows. "He what?"
"And…", she hesitated, her thumb worrying against his knuckle.
"And…?"
"And I kissed him back." The words came out steady, but her jaw tightened like she was bracing for impact.
Silence. The street light buzzed overhead. Saul felt the world tilt slightly, like someone had shifted the foundation beneath him. All this time, he'd been replaying that night at Snake Pitt, thinking he understood what he'd seen—Dutch being pushy, Claire pushing him away. But there had been more to it. A beginning he never knew about.
"You kissed him back," he said, his voice flat, analytical. Processing information that would determine his next move.
"Ten seconds," Claire said, voice barely above a whisper. She swallowed hard. "Then I pushed him away. But Dutch..." She shook her head. "He wouldn't stop. Following me around, getting pushy. That's what you walked into when you saw us together."
"So when I found you two..." Saul stopped, pieces falling into place. "You'd already kissed him. And I spent months thinking Dutch was just being aggressive."
"Yes," Claire said quietly. "And I let you think that because it was easier than admitting I'd made a choice I regretted."
Saul's mind raced through the implications. "After reading my letter."
"Saul, we weren't together. You'd just given me this letter that felt so—"
"So what? Safe? Fake?" The edge was creeping into his voice now. "Right. Well, Dutch was definitely more authentic than my bullshit letter."
"That's not what I meant."
But it wasn't just Claire—it was Dutch too. Sure, Dutch didn't know about the letter, didn't know Saul had been planning to make a move. But he'd seen the way Saul looked at her, knew there were feelings there. Should have stepped back then, but couldn't handle losing.
"So everyone knew but me?" Saul asked quietly. "How long have I been the pathetic joke who doesn't know his girl kissed his best friend?"
"You're not a joke," Claire said firmly. "And I'm not anybody's girl. I make my own choices, and I chose wrong that night. But I'm choosing different now."
"Are you?" Saul slid off the car hood, needing distance. "Or are you just picking the safer option now that Dutch is temporarily out of commission?"
Claire's eyes flashed. "You think I'm telling you this because it's safe? I'm telling you because you deserve the truth, even if it hurts both of us."
"How considerate."
"Saul, don't do this. Don't turn into some bitter asshole because life got complicated."
But he was already walking away, hands shoved deep in his pockets, mind spinning with images he didn't want: Claire and Dutch in the shadows at Snake Pitt, her hands in his hair, the taste of beer and cigarettes shared between them while Saul sat alone somewhere, probably tightening the trucks on his skateboard and thinking about the stupid letter he'd written.
"Where are you going?" Claire called after him.
"I need to think."
"About what? About whether you can handle someone who isn't perfect?"
He turned back, voice cold and precise. "I can handle imperfect, Claire. I'm having trouble with dishonest."
"I was never dishonest. I just didn't volunteer information that would hurt people for no reason."
"No reason?" Saul's voice rose despite his efforts to stay controlled. "You don't think I had a right to know I was being played by both of you?"
Claire's jaw tightened, but she didn't argue. What could she say? He was right. She'd seen the hurt flood his face and hated herself for putting it there.
Saul walked the empty streets of State City, his footsteps echoing off closed storefronts and abandoned lots. Without conscious direction, his feet carried him past the courthouse plaza, past the Belmont Building, until he found himself standing in the Taco Bell parking lot where everything had started.
The scene of the original theft. The riot that brought the crew together. Ground zero for this whole chaotic journey.
But it wasn't the empty lot that drew him—it was the half-pipe behind Capitol Bike Shop, visible through the chain-link fence. The weathered ramp where he and Dutch had spent countless hours, where the crew had first formed around shared rebellion and stolen skateboards.
The gate was unlocked. It always was.
Saul slipped through, approaching the ramp that looked smaller than he remembered. Eight feet of plywood and rust, but it had been their temple, their sanctuary from the world that didn't understand them.
He didn't have his board.
That stopped him for a moment—until he spotted an old deck leaning against the shop's back wall. A beat-up Powell Peralta with worn grip tape and loose trucks. Someone had forgotten it after a session, who knows how long ago.
The deck felt foreign under his feet as he dropped in. Rusty, out of practice. He'd been so focused on the band lately that skating had become secondary. The first few runs were sloppy—missing the transition, over-shooting turns, wheels protesting against plywood instead of flowing with it.
But muscle memory began to surface. His body remembered what his mind was struggling with: how to find balance in motion, how to use momentum instead of working against it.
Drop in. Carve. Kickturn. The rhythm came back gradually, wheels finding their groove against weathered plywood.
Each trick became a thought, each run a way of processing what Claire had told him. The anger in his chest began to burn itself out through sweat and motion.
Dutch kissed her.
Frontside carve, wheels grinding plywood like grinding teeth.
She kissed him back.
Backside kickturn, coping sparking like the flare towers on the horizon.
Ten seconds before she pushed him away.
Small air, catching space above betrayal before dropping back in.
The thing was, Claire was right. They hadn't been together. Dutch had legitimate feelings too—had been pursuing her before Saul ever worked up the courage. But Dutch knew it wasn't just physical for Saul, knew those lingering looks and careful questions meant something deeper. That's when it crossed the line—choosing his own desire over a friend's heart.
But knowing something intellectually and feeling it emotionally were different animals entirely.
But she told me the truth.
Another air, higher this time, arms spread for balance.
She could have kept it secret.
Frontside grind along the coping, sparks flying from the trucks.
She chose honesty over safety.
And while I was obsessing over who kissed who, they were mapping us like targets.
The revelation about the address list cut through his personal hurt like a blade. Rod's network wasn't just harassing random punks—they were systematically documenting and attacking SCPK's infrastructure specifically. While he'd been lost in relationship drama, a coordinated campaign was trying to destroy everything they'd built.
By the time the eastern sky started bleeding orange through refinery smoke, cutting through chemical haze like truth through lies, Saul had been skating for three hours. His legs burned, shirt soaked, wheels worn smooth against weathered wood that had absorbed the sweat and fury of countless sessions.
He'd landed tricks he'd never been able to do before. Not because he was a better skater now, but because he wasn't working against himself anymore. The anger had exhausted itself, leaving only understanding.
Dutch had messed up. Claire had messed up. He'd messed up by writing that letter instead of just talking to her like a human being.
But the band—SCPK—that was real. That mattered more than teenage drama and hurt feelings. Especially now, when they were facing organized opposition trying to kill the entire scene.
Saul climbed out of the ramp, legs shaking from exhaustion. He left the old board where he'd found it. A small gesture of... not forgiveness exactly, but acknowledgment.
The walk back to Lenore's felt different. Not the aimless wandering of someone running from problems, but purposeful stride.
Saul found them all crashed in Lenore's living room exactly as he'd left them—Dutch sprawled across the couch, Ott and Ely on the floor, Claire curled in the recliner. They'd waited for him, worried despite his need for space.
He stood in the doorway, studying their sleeping faces. His crew. His band. Whatever else had happened, this was real.
"Band practice is still Tuesday," he said quietly, just loud enough to wake them.
Dutch stirred first, blinking in confusion. "Saul? Where the hell—"
"We've got three more shows booked," Saul continued, his voice carrying that quiet authority he'd developed since becoming SCPK's de facto leader. "I'm not letting some teenage drama kill what we built. And I'm sure as hell not letting Rod's surveillance network destroy the scene."
Claire sat up, hope and wariness warring in her expression.
Saul's eyes moved to Dutch, then to her. "But everything else is off the table until I figure out what's real and what's just more of the same bullshit."
Dutch tried to sit up, guilt written across his features. "Man, I was wasted that night—"
Saul cut him off. Cold precision. "I don't need your confession, Dutch. I need your drumming. Can you handle that?"
The question hung in the morning air like a challenge. Dutch nodded slowly.
"What about..." Claire started.
"What about what?" Saul's tone wasn't cruel, but it was distant. Professional. Like she'd been demoted from friend to employee. "You're still the best road manager we've ever had. You want to keep the job?" Claire's throat worked silently before she nodded.
The hurt in her eyes was obvious, but she nodded.
"Good." Saul grabbed his guitar case from where he'd left it by the door. "Because Rod and his capper friends just declared war on the entire scene, and we're going to need everyone focused if we want to survive it." Dutch studied his shoelaces with sudden intensity, shoulders curved inward like he was trying to disappear into the couch cushions.
He headed for the door, then paused. "Oh, and Claire? Thanks for telling me the truth. Even if it sucked to hear." Claire's eyes went bright for just a moment—not quite tears, but something that caught the morning light before she blinked it away.
The screen door slammed behind him. Dutch started to rise, mouth opening like he had more to say, then sank back into the couch. Claire's fingers worried the edge of her clipboard. Ott methodically wound cables that were already perfectly coiled.
None of them looked at each other.
Outside, Saul fired up his car and slipped Bivouac into the cassette deck. Jawbreaker's "Chesterfield King" filled the humid morning air—Blake Schwarzenbach singing about smoking away the hurt. Saul understood now. Some pain you don't heal, you just learn to carry it without letting it kill you.
Some things, he was learning, you had to swallow whole. Especially when you were being hunted by people with lists and coordination.
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