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Hero Barrett looked Jude Lawson straight in the eye, which just aggravated the I want to smack you upside the head like never before.

She had stopped running and was now jogging on the spot; when it became obvious that the blue-haired boy was not simply going to leave it at "hi!" she turned around and started stretching pointedly against a tree, as though telling him that just because he was making her be stationary didn't mean she wasn't going to get the most out of the moment. "Mr. Lawson," she said. "I'm Hero Barrett. We go to the same school. We live in the same building. I see you running most mornings. If you're experiencing any deja-vu, it may be because we attend the same institution, you know."

Hero always talked as though she were a thesaurus or a Senator or a senator who liked the thesaurus. However, when she stretched one long leg up behind her back and held it there, balancing on one foot and looking at Jude with her deep tomato-coloured eyes, she said: "But I won't scourge you for the feeling."

After a few moments she said, grudgingly: "Your running style isn't bad, but you should be doing something about your heartrate right now. Press-ups work."

If Jude had been able to see inside Hero's heart, he would have heard:

The mere sight of you infuriates me. Why do I want to slap you upside the head and talk about illegalities?

"Miss," said Hero curtly. "I'm no second-wave feminist, I'm Miss Barrett. And this may just be me, but I have this hunch you're calling me Ms out of some -- misplaced sense of trying to make a joke. So you can just call me Hero, you know, Mr. Lawson, and I'll think about whether or not I'm going to call you 'Jude.'"

The look on her face was that of somebody who had previously eaten a vinegar sandwich. "But that notwithstanding," she said, "let's go."

And they did.

Their feet beat a rhythmic tattoo on the pavement as they ran, keeping pace, though Hero seemed to keep pace in a way that said I am longsufferingly keeping your pace -- until Jude went a little faster, prompting her, prompting both of them, and they started to speed up in a way that only said 'embarrassing mantosterone competition.'

"You should watch out for yourself," she said evenly, only sounding a little out of breath as they jogged -- "if you're so worried about pretty things out alone."

The pace now was "outright running." Hero had set her mouth in a determined line: her face did a good 'determined' and also did an excellent 'grim'. She was matching Jude pace for pace, and then Jude matched her pace for pace, and thusly they were only a few steps off the inevitable 'sprint'.

"Some men, Mr. Lawson," she said, only slightly panting now, both of them rounding the corner and shooting off down the street. There were a few houses here; otherwise the campus was set in the city outskirts. "I'm handsome. You could be identified as -- pretty."

This wasn't quite true, except for the fact that Jude did have beautiful eyes -- long-lashed, vibrantly rose-pink. She also added an annoyed, "Miss," and it felt as though Hero had been annoyedly correcting Jude for a long, long time.

"That's interesting," said Hero, "because you run -- like a pretty girl."

And at that, both of them took off. They were sprinting down the footpath, running neck to neck, sometimes Jude getting the better of her and sometimes Hero making headway -- Jude was a man and had musculature and biology more suited to short-distance sprinting, but Hero had tight, neat, muscled shoulders (like a quarterback, some people said meanly) and long, long legs, and they were going at it hammer and tongs. They hurdled the pavement and both went for the oak tree at the end of the street as their goal -- Jude touched it a fraction before Hero did, both of them slamming their palms down hard like kids on the rough back, leaning against it and gasping for breath.

Hero was panting, cheeks as flamingly red as her hair, slithering down the trunk and immediately planting herself on the grass on her back -- this was no sign of weakness, however, as she immediately began (falteringly) doing sit-ups. "Not," she said, panting, "bad."

Which was gross admiration from Hero Barrett.

"Maybe if you take out that ridiculous piercing, -- ...you'll find yourself a wife."

That prompted a barking laugh from Hero -- it was more of an exhalation of breath as they squeezed themselves up into sit-ups. Just, again, to prove that they could. Every time Hero came up (and she was, he noted, struggling a little now -- they had literally sprinted, the kind of sprinting that made other people gaily puke) she stared at him through narrowed eyes, noting exactly how far he was going up, how much he was crunching. And then, finally -- they were just lying back on the grass, staring up, their breath coming in damp wet starts.

"Do you, Mr. Lawson?" she said. And that was all. He knew without having to be psychic that the feeling was mimicked in her: a long battle that had started a while back, without anyone's say-so, so fuzzy as to not be a real memory. More like an ongoing feeling.

One that, again, made no sense: but they were comfortable with the nonsensical, which wasn't like Hero either, who hated the nonsensical and everything about it.

"At this point," she said, a few moments later, "I usually go and have a juice and a black coffee down the road."

Trust Hero to maximise time by having a coffee and a juice.

Hero took it, but not in a ladylike fashion -- she grasped his wrist instead as she pulled herself up, brushing herself down. She also didn't look annoyed at the nagging and troublesome -- resigned, more like, or even a little bit contented that she had been designated as somebody who had gotten under Jude Lawson's skin. Or simply resigned, as though he had accused her of nagging years before. (If only she knew. If only he knew.)

"Just Lawson, then," she said. "And if you want juice, very well, you stick to juice." (Hero needed more than just fructose to kickstart a Hero Barrett day.) "Maybe it'll gum up your mouth and stop you from your blabbing."

Which again felt like an old accusation. But she was saying, "Come on, then," and at a much slower pace they were walking down the quiet morning street to the lonesome dairy that was the only source of really local sustenance for the Barren Pines student -- in a peace treaty.

Or at least a stillfire. It felt like they would probably be starting most of their mornings this way now.

"What's there to think?" Hero didn't meet his gaze; she just kept on walking, the usual Hero Barrett stride, pausing only to brush a red-orange lock of hair out of her eyes. "What do I think of the sky being blue? It's our school; it's Barren Pines -- I've attended since I was thirteen -- you... haven't."

She sounded unusually vague when it came to that; they both knew Jude had only attended for -- ... a year? Or something? Not liking the vagueness, possibly, Hero said: "It's our school. We have high-quality teachers. We have a well-planned curriculum. We have top-end equipment, buildings -- all save the heating in the science laboratories -- and a reputation. We have gifted students, all save Frankie Del Rockham, who I am fairly sure was streamed to us through the 'special children' satellite program." (This was not a joke. Hero did not joke. Anyway, it was Frankie.) "What do I think of it? It's a school; I enjoy my time here, Lawson."

Did Hero really enjoy anything?