Finding Keefe

CREDITS TO @imangirose FOR THE BEAUTIFWUL ART
 WARNING. THIS TEXT CONTAINS SPOILER CONTENT FROM BOOKS 1-8.5. IF YOU HAVEN'T READ THEM, PROCEED WITH CAUTION
 All original characters(Keefe, Sophie, e.t.c) belong to Shannon Messanger
 Updates Tuesdays and Thursdays, and occasionally few extra times a week
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Keefe looked up at the faintly smoked sky through a window, taking in its grey-pale blue with awe.
Foster was wrong, he thought.
The Forbidden Cities are beautiful.
A soft smile crawled on his face as he thought about Foster.
Foster and her challenge. He shook his head. He couldn't think about her now, or else he would go back to the Lost Cities, and he had already said goodbye. He couldn't handle another goodbye.
What would Foster feel right now? He pictured her curled up on her bed, pineapple hair sticking all over the place, tears flowing down her cheeks as it soaked into the bed.
No, he thought, switching the image to her squeezing her fists until they were pale pink, sitting up on the bed with her pineapple hair sticking out in thirty different directions.
That's better. It was easier to imagine Foster mad. A mad Foster he could handle. Meanwhile, a sad, broken Foster...
It was better not to think about it.
Plus, he needed Foster to be mad. The madder that Foster got, the more that chance that she wouldn't miss him. And if she didn't miss him, she wouldn't go searching.
She would never find him here, at her old house.
A small dose of guilt steamed his eyes, thinking about the fact that he was staying at her old house without her permission. Even if it technically wasn't her house anymore.
But still.
He was in the living room, staring at the empty old house, remembering when Foster told him that her old stuff was moved to Lumeria when she found the sparkly notebook from the Forbidden Cities. The wooden floors had faint marks of furniture, and dust was laid everywhere. He assumed that it was a living room, and after some exploring, Keefe found a long staircase. He walked upstairs, and for a second, missed the whizzing elevator-like contraption that he had at Candleshade. It took forever to walk up human stairs. Add that to the creak they would make every five seconds and wow, you have an annoyed Keefe Sencen. But it also made a plan formulate in his brain. What if he pulled off the next Great Gullon Incident, accept for his 'dad'? Changing the zippy-do-floor-skipper to stairs! He could already picture him scaling the stairs to get to his room and seek revenge, only to get there and notice no one was there. Then he would pop out on the first floor, sweat striking his clothes damp, and when he went to tell the Councillors or question Sophie, he would---oh, right.
He wouldn't be coming back.
He was in the Forbidden Cities, and would never be coming back.
And he would never see Foster, Fitz, Dex, Biana--
Get it together, Keefe. What do you think they're going through right now?
Fitzy would throw something and go all I'm-mad-at-the-world-and-did-I-mention-I-sleep-with-a-sparkly-red-dragon?
Dex would--he wasn't sure what he would do, but something with inventions to locate him.
Biana would be emotionless. Maybe sad for a little while, but then just blocking everyone out. Or disappointed with a squeeze of lemon. Something like that.
They were all disappointed in him the last time, but this was something different.
He wasn't joining the Neverseen. He was being sure that they didn't use him as a tool to hurt—
A whopping amount of guilt pelted him as he whispered, "Foster."
He held his head, biting his lip as he remembered Alden. The last time that this happened--the last time someone felt guilt--their mind was shattered.
But maybe it was better to have a broken mind than to accidentally harm everything--everyone--he cared about.
Focus, Keefe. Foster would be so disappointed in you.
But was it possible to be any more disappointed? How many failures could everyone, not just Foster, handle before they reached their breaking point? How many runaways, how many betrayals, how many, how many, were left?
After walking down a long hall, Keefe found a pale white door that he assumed was an entrance to a bedroom. A slim outline of Sophie was scrawled in something on the door, erased but not fully out of sight.
The people moving all of Fosters' stuff weren't doing their jobs right. He thought, frowning. The Neverseen might've used this to help trace Foster somehow, through some complex, messed up system they had set up.
One of his fists was clenched tight, his knuckles whitening as he traced his fingers across the letters. The Neverseen, Foster, everyone. They were all...it was all his...he was...
He stopped himself. Keefe had a mission for being here, and he couldn't regret any of it. If he did, he would head back to the Lost Cities and have a whole lot of explaining to do. And he might hurt everyone while he was at it.
He had already hurt Dex.
A tear streaked down his face. He pictured Dex's face when he told him his brother wouldn't get an ability. Then Foster, when he gave the cache over. And Fitz. And every--
A soft click and the faint hum of discussion rang out through the living room, and fear streaked through Keefe's mind for a second before hardening to determination. He swiped at his teared-streaked face and set his jaw.
He was right.
It must be the Neverseen, but they weren't coming for Foster.
They were coming for their own child experiment.
Him.
Keefe stood at the door of Foster's old bedroom, determination drawn clearly on his face. This would be the last time the Neverseen would mess with him, his friends, and every one her cared about. He was tired of this happening over and over and over again and always being the target, always being the center of all things wrong. Being zapped with stellarlune by Tammy Boy so that he could be used in their grand scheme by Mommy Dearest. Being used when he didn't know it to track Foster. He stared at his palms, haunted by the memory of the faint red glow that once resided there, and he internally winced, giving up his guarded stance for a few seconds before pulling it back up, fists balled and forcing the memory out of his mind. He had no time to think about that now. He had to think about his chance. He was going to make Foster proud. And he wasn't going to think twice about it.
He stepped down the stairs, careful to tread lightly. If he made one wrong step--he shuddered.
He wasn't sure he wouldn't make it out of here as the same Keefe.
He shook his head and looked forward.
He was Keefe...Keefe...Keefe...not Sencen.
He was Keefe-the-prez-of-the-Foster-Fan-Club.
Keefe-the-friend-when-you-need-him-most.
Keefe-the-awesome-haired.
Keefe-the-prankster-ultimate.
And Keefe-is-angry-at the-Neverseen-for-taking-advantage-of-his-existance-and-will-not-let-them-go-unpunished-and-unpelted-with-sparkly-poo.
Yeah. That's who he was.
He took a step into the living room and pulled three goblin throwing stars from his vests.
He heard two screams and smelled a pepper-ish power drift into his nostrils before he slumped against the wall, useless.
His last thought was that he had failed before his consciousness was swept away.
Keefe sat slumped against a cold wall, iron slashing his vision as stared at long, thick bars.
"Where am I?" He whispered, tracing his fingers across the heavy metal, iron shackles weighing him down, confusion filling his eyes. He didn't really expect an answer. The place smelled like sour meat and Iggy's breath, blended together with raw sugar and salt to create the worse stench in the world. Everything was coated in metal. The walls, the bars, the floor. It was ridiculous. He couldn't see why someone would live here.
He blanched, face pale as he slapped his palm over his face to keep the stench out and the puke in, his face turning ghost white when he remembered what had happened.
Someone had knocked him out.
He squeezed his fists together, wincing at the sharp screech of metal as the chains on his arms scratched against one another. The Neverseen sure had disgusting hideouts, but this was a whole new low. His tunic and other Elvin clothing had been swapped out with a bright orange, heavily starched shirt and pants. He didn't want to know who or what had changed him into it. This was already gross enough without having to worry about that.
"Mommy dearest! If you want your puppet to bend to your will, you've got to put him under better conditions, and I say, starting now. This shirt is super uncomfortable. And have I mentioned that it stinks in here?"
"Sorry, but there is no 'Mommy Dearest' here." A rough voice barked back.
"Welcome to the prison life, spoiled runaway. I'd advise you don't get comfy, 'cause while you await trial, you'll be staying here. At the world's greatest, most dangerous underground prison--"
"No--" Keefe whispered, breaking him off.
The rough voice laughed drily. 
"You're worst nightmare,"
Keefe shuddered and pictured Exile, its spiraling design drilling straight through the Earth's core.
"Katrina's Lock."
"What?" Keefe was completely confused. Where, and what was Katrina's Lock?
"Is this anything like Exile?" He asked.
The rough voice chuckled.
"If this is anything about that 'Mommy Dearest' of yours, then no. If you mean exile, as in am I exiled, then yes. You are an undocumented runaway--we don't know who you are, where you're from, what your name is, how you had access to the place you were staying in--"
"Foster gave me the location of the keys. Under the doormat! It's her house! I'm allowed to stay there."
"And that--" He paused, and he sounded like he was pulling into view as he shook his head.
"Doesn't matter. This is where the world keeps the people they don't want to see here. You're a weakness, a mistake, kid. Get used to it."
Keefe stared up at the silver iron walls and shook his head. Was he always going to be the one frowned upon? He gathered his courage and spat, "If you have the confidence to show your face, then you can call me a mistake. If not, you can't."
The figure seemed to pause for a second, thinking that through. Then he shuffled into view.
He was tall, wide, like Mr. Forkle in most ways besides his dressing style. He wore a crumpled, yellow-red striped shirt and plain baggy navy pants. He had a hat that was dashed in red and yellow, and knitted. He looked like he had picked out his outfit a day earlier but tossed it into a pile that made everything crinkle. It reminded him of Marella's style. Caring, but carefree.
The tall figure gave something close to a smile.
"Anyone with the guts to ask me to come into view in this place is worth knowing. I'm Ron. You, Mistake?"
I stared him down, wondering if I should trust him, before giving in. I needed allies in this place, after all.
"Keefe. The name's Keefe."
Keefe stared at his iron chains, frustration clear on his face. Ron had just fallen asleep and had only left Keefe with so many questions that his head hurt. How was he going to get out of here? He wasn't a mistake, he wasn't someone that the world didn't want to see, he was Keefe. 
It was as simple as that. 
He belonged in the Lost Cities, or, now in the Forbidden Cities, not here, whatever it was. 
Suddenly, an image popped up in his mind, a reminder that he had chosen this path.
Ro. He should've listened to her in the first place. Ro had told him not to go, and he had used his powers against her. And now he was stuck in this place. The human version of Exile. It was even underground. He let out a dry laugh and ran his fingers through his hair. Another time when people had told him not to do something, he ended up in big trouble too, working with the Neverseen. He was good at getting in trouble, trying to fix things, and then just making them worse. It was just what he did. 
His emotions swirled up in his stomach, and he let them go rogue. There was no one he could hurt here. No one he had to worry about, just like he wanted. Maybe there was a plus of staying at Katrina's Lock.
He felt the energy bouncing around his cell as he recapped what he had learned. He was underground, in a prison that was a human version of Exile. He only had one guard, and from the looks of it, this floor was isolated somehow. He was still supposed to receive meals though if this was a humane prison, so he could figure out something from that. In the meantime, he had nothing. 
He shook his head and leaned his head against the cold metal, letting Ron's soft snores enter him into a single, strong train of thought.
He was going to find a way out of here, before this place took him with it.
Something dry and rough jolted Keefe awake, and he startled, his fear bubbling up furiously in his stomach. Keefe panicked, trying to freeze the emotion away, but he ended up releasing it on a tall, overhanging figure.
Ron. He was startled when he released the emotion, wasn't he? Then what was the opposite emotion of startled? 
Calm? It was worth a shot. He held his breath and released it, waiting until his heartbeat slowed and fell into a uniformed rhythm before packing up all of the emotion and releasing it.
Ron slowly went back to normal, his face turning a faint shade of pale as he slumped to the floor.
"I was about to serve you breakfast and tell you that you weren't alert, but," He whistled, staring at a dried loaf in Keefe's cell.
"No wonder the world doesn't want you to be seen. You can do magic?" Keefe stared at Ron in the eyes for a long second, waiting to see if the guard would take it back. Ron was a tough guy. Words like 'magic' didn't seem like they would fit in his vocabulary. 
But Ron didn't. So Keefe cracked up even harder than he had when he found out that Fitz slept with a stuffed animal. And then he laughed and laughed and laughed so much that he didn't stop even when Ron reached through the bars to shake his shoulders. He just laughed harder.
Ron really wasn't ok. Magic was just some human excuse--
Oh, right. 
Ron was human. 
He stopped laughing all of a sudden, at the same time that Ron held a yellowish scroll in his hands in a position that made him look like he was about to bat Keefe. He backed away from the bars, wincing.
"A second ago you were praising me, but now you're going to hit me with some sort of scroll?"
"It's paper, and yes, I was," Ron replied, shaking his head. 
"I really didn't think you were ok. One second you're talking, the next--" He mimed an explosion on his head.
"Plus, you did do magic. I could've sworn time slowed down for a second, you're pupils turned this wonky shade of teal, and then, all of a sudden I'm frozen in time." 
Keefe stared at him, jaw slack. 
"My eyes turned teal?"   
"Yeah, why?"
"Just..." He looked at the floor, hugging himself tightly.
"Just?" Ron questioned.
A memory slid into Keefe's head, and he remained silent, freezing his sadness inside of his heart. He was void of no emotion. He was nothing, no one, nobody. And he certainly didn't "look like a Vacker" because he wasn't one. Della might've said that when he was light poisoned, but he didn't look like one that time either. He refused to believe it. He didn't have a family, as far as he was concerned. And it was better to pretend he had no friends, too, so that he could have no one to hurt. He would get out of this because he needed to. Because he was Keefe.
That was it.
It was for no one else but himself, because he had no one here.
He was alone.
Keefe stared at the starchy dry loaf that sat on the floor, trying to ignore the way Ron was gaping at him. It was ridiculous. He knew the question that Ron was going to ask, but if he answered honestly—
Boom goes the cannon, poof goes the Elvin secrets.
He pulled his knees tightly to his chest, fear building up deep inside him, like butterblasts one atop of another, ready to be bursted. He chewed his lip and decided to resort to jokes. Maybe he could fool him into thinking that this was some sort of prank?
It was worth a shot.
Keefe smirked his signature smirk, looking anywhere but at Ron.
"Magic—" He paused for an extra affect.
"Magic is what I saw! You can't lie to me, Magical Mistake Gone MIssahappen! Even though you try, you can't! I literally saw you. With my OWN EYES. I'm not THAT easy to fool—"
"Annndd... that's where you got it all wrong," Keefe cut him off. He sorted through his brain for some excuse when it hit him. His smirk grew as he ruffled his hair and winked.
"I'm Batman."
"Nice try, Bruce Wayne. You're too young and obviously born a liar."
"Why thank you," Keefe tipped a salute at Ron, and he rolled his eyes in response.
"Now," Ron paused and pulled a hammock chair out of the corner.
"You are going to tell me what happened when you freezed me, and what that was if not magic. Now."
Now it was Keefe's turn to roll his eyes. Ron couldn't just make empty-minded commands like that and expect him to listen. It was absurd. But maybe, just maybe...
"I won't tell you—"
"And I'll stop providing this bread--breakfast-- for you." Ron raised a brow, checking to see how far Keefe would go to protect his secrets.
"Let me finish. I won't tell you--unless you tell me a way out of here." Ron looked at Keefe for a good, long second a burst out into laughter.
"Are you kidding?" His stomach jiggled with his laughter, and he stuck the words in between giggles.
"There is no way out, and no one knows how to get in. I'm only you're guard after serving 13 years of sentence, and that only after they decided I was harmless. I don't know what I did wrong, unlike you. You are a case of an obvious mistake, my Mistake." He smiled, then lowered his voice to a whisper.
"They are always watching. They are never watching. They brought us here. They will never bring us out."
"Who is They?" Keefe asked, leaning forward.
"Governments? People? Aliens? Alicorns?" Keefe snickered at the last one. Glitterbutt was not an imprison-er. She would drag people in the dirt, sure. Not imprison people.
"Now do you see what I mean?" Ron gave Keefe a sharp gaze.
"There are no secrets here. There are never secrets here. This is Katrina's Lock."
Keefe's heart dropped. Tears welled in his eyes, but when he looked a Ron, something about the glint in his eyes said that he was lying.
"What are you keeping from me?"
Ron looked at the ceiling and fiddled with his hat. Keefe's gaze narrowed, the extra tears spilling out involuntarily. He heaved a heavy sigh before whispering.
"There might be a way to get out. A deadly way. And it has something to do with why Katrina's Lock is called Katrina's Lock."
Keefe gaped at him, absorbing what he had just told him.
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that there is a Katrina, and she might be our ticket to getting free."
Keefe's eyes glimmered with hope, and Ron glared at the ground.
"Did you forget that I said that this is deadly?" He emphasized, kicking the floor sharply. He winced, stubbing his toe through his threadbare shoes. Keefe smirked.
"Actually, I know a lot of people who are almost besties with death, so I can handle it."
Foster's face appeared in his head, hollow and blurred, and Fitz spritzed the remedy by her nose to make her slowly come back. He thought no one was watching, and would whisper to her, even though she would never hear. But Keefe always was watching, trying to catch tidbits to hear if he--nope, not that. He wasn't going to think about that. His eyes misted, and a swarm of emotions--which ones, he couldn't tell--tried to erupt themselves unto Ron, probably to do something worse than freeze this time. He bit his lip, focusing on feeling nothing, seeing nothing, being nothing. He guessed his smirk faded, because Ron's gaze softened, and we whispered, "Do you want to talk about it?"
Keefe glared through the iron bars. "Unless we're going to be talking about Katrina, I don't want to talk."
Ron's gaze remained soft as he seemed to probe him for details, trying to soothe him out of his shell to talk about Foster. And Fitzy. And everyone else that almost died here or there. But the only person he would talk about that stuff with would be Ro. She would always figure it out anyways. And she was in the Lost Cities, probably finding some virus to attack him with if he came back because he betrayed her.
Keefe tightened his grip unto his legs until pain settled over them, using it to block out the huge ward of anger—sadness—disappointment? that he felt coming inside of him, ready once again to charge at Ron, except this time with a fiery-hot emotion, something stronger than anger, softer than sadness, rawer than disappointment... Gee, for an empath, he was really so good at pinpointing emotion. He finally got enough of the questions before giving Ron a look that was so tough it could probably even skewer Grady.
"Are you going to tell me about Katrina, or are we going to talk about my past all day?"
Disappointment crawled clearly unto Ron's features, and he seemed to gain a facade of stone as he stared at the walls.
"Fine," Ron's voice sounded dry and papery.
"Katrina—Katrina was the world's super-weapon experiment. She was powerful, able to teleport across the world, fight battles and leave the opponent squirming on the ground, sometimes thinking about someone negatively, she could send them into a spiral of pain, even if she was a world away." He paused, his voice cracking for a moment as he sent a word flying through the air, so feather-soft that he could barely hear it.
"And she was also my little sister."
Keefe's jaw dropped instantly. Katrina was--she could--she was just like--she might be...
"Katrina's an elf." He blurted.
Ron looked at Keefe with two pale, curled fists, his thin lips curling into a snarl.
"You think this is a joke? Is everything a joke to you!? Katrina's not an elf! Does it sound like she wore green and red, has pointy ears, and delivered gifts to you on Christmas Eve or something!? I thought you were better than this. Turns out you really were made to be a mistake."
Keefe's eyes glazed over. He thought he was a mistake. Just like everyone else, he thought he was a mistake.
A tight wad of emotion balled up in his chest, and this time, he released it.
Ron was like everyone else. No one needed him. He only hurt, and hurt, and hurt...
Why couldn't he do anything but hurt? Why?
He punched the wall, iron chilling his fingers, and he thought he felt...numb. He had been really angry before, but numb? That was something new. And it was a numb that he... liked.
He would never have to feel broken and battered, smashed and shattered again. He could just be. He could have friends again. He could live his life without worrying about everything, everyone being hurt. And only with the small price of feeling no emotion again. And within that moment, something inside of him shifted.
The power he felt bubbling inside of him felt hollow, fragmented inside as a frozen-in-ice Ron suddenly thawed, leaving him slumped against the ground and with fear blazing fiercely in his eyes. Ron looked him in the eyes, surprise flickering to replace the steaming fear and anger that was once there.
"Keefe--that shift--Katrina, she felt--you--you lost your power, didn't you?"
Keefe stared at the ceiling, blank. How would he know? The power only came when it wished.
"Keefe? Are you there? Keefe!?"
Mistake. Blank. Numb.
"Keefe? I'm sorry for calling you a mistake, I'm sorry, I'm--"
"Mistake, blank, numb."
His mind was ice that had already shattered.
"Keefe, are you--"
"Numb! NUMB! Numb, numb, numb, numb..." He mumbled, pulling his legs to his chest and rocking himself back and forth.
Ron slipped his fingers through the bars, clutching Keefe's shoulders and shaking them hard.
"KEEFE! Listen to me, you are here! You are here. You. Are. HERE! Keefe, stay here, you're not numb, you can FEEL! KEEFE! "
But Keefe kept rambling. He was numb. He was a mistake.
Mistake, blank, numb.
"This is all my fault." Silent tears stroked down Ron's face, and Keefe didn't get it.
It wasn't Ron's fault.
Keefe was a broken mistake from the beginning.
So it made even less sense when he heard Ron whispering, "I'm going to go find Katrina. She was broken. She was fixed. She can fix you. Forkle didn't know, didn't care that she existed, that she was his sister, my sister. He wanted his own little token, but I ran away to keep her safe."
Keefe heard the shuffle of Ron standing up and the sound of dry loaves landing beside him before he heard one last whisper ring out through his cell. He peeked one eye open, and Ron stood, confident with a bag slung over his shoulder.
"I'll fix you, Keefe. I promise, I'll fix you."
Ron's POV
Ron pressed his rough palms across the walls, searching for a soft spot that would be the ticket to his exit. It had been a little while since he had to search for it, so his memory was a little rusted, but he was pretty sure it was on this wall. His gaze occasionally flickered to Keefe, assuring him that the sedative he had given him was working fine, and not harming him.
He was asleep, murmuring numb, numb, numb, over and over and over, mixed in with Foster here and there.
Keefe's mind was broken, but not in the same way as Alden's or Pretence's was. His mind was more...lost. It needed to be retrieved by someone, and he knew the only person who could bring him back.
Sophie. It had been a while since he had seen Sophie, crying about him dying from the sword's wound by that Neverseen member. Sure, it had hurt a whole lot. And what had hurt even more was that the Neverseen had gotten their way, especially after all the taunting he did. But after a trip to Glimmer, he was all good. Forkle knew he wasn't dead. He brought him there, even after he was so sure he was going to die...and then Forkle wanted to use his 'death' to his advantage. But he was tired of being used, tired of being the undermined brother, the one that would feel but say nothing. All those times he wanted to speak out, to tell Sophie who her parents were, or to help Keefe push through his grief, or to tell Fitz that he wasn't dreaming, that Sophie was transmitting to him and that he should go already and save her, all those times he was blocked out.
The only one time he had let his inner-self out was to help Pretence and check his consciousness, and he knew he could do it. His mind was stronger than Forkle's. He was the one who knew how to strengthen Sophie's mind to emotion, just like he knew how to bring Keefe back. Forkle though, he took the most painful methods and made them an option first, just like he did when he reset Sophie's abilities. If he had been here, he would've put Keefe to the side, and not let him do his work and fix him. It was always, 'It's not safe' and 'for your own protection.'
Running a rebellion always meant making the hard choices, but Forkle never wanted to make them. He wanted to shy away and wait it out, like talking to Gethen, for example. If he had been the one making the decision...
Let's just say a lot would've been done, a lot quicker.
Just then, his fingers pushed into a soft rubber, and he felt a raw circle around it, pulling it out to reveal a secret lever. He pushed it down, and a door opened in the iron wall, screeching and wailing as the old metal met rusted iron. A small, determined smile curled on his lips as he swung his small red satchel across his shoulders and pulled out a yellow scroll.
It was time he showed Forkle that he had his place in the Black Swan.
And this time, he would do it by finding Katrina.
Sophie's POV
Anger sharpened Sophie's gaze as she flung a pillow across the room. She was tired of this. Keefe leaving, Keefe coming, Keefe saying sorry, and her forgiving him, just because Keefe was hurt. Keefe was always hurt. His upbringing with Lord Cassius and Lady Gliselia left him as an angry boy inside, that hid under the shield of jokes and laughter. And though Sophie sympathized with him, she wasn't all that sure that she could forgive Keefe so easily this time. But no matter how many pillows she tossed, no matter how many times she drew Keefe and stabbed her pencil into the drawing, no matter how many times she searched and wiped out anything, from a desk to a piece of paper, that reminded her of Keefe, she just couldn't. But she didn't want to stop, to risk feeling something else, something that would make her soak into a pillow with tears and... Nope. She wasn't going there. She would never, ever feel that again.
That made her vulnerable.
And the more likely Sophie was vulnerable, the more likely she was to end up giving them an advantage.
So when Sophie remembered when Keefe stunk like vermilion breath and had plopped onto the floor, tracing the indents in her notebook to find Alvar, and when she saw the petals left crunched from him walking in to leave a message, it didn't take a second thought before she called the gnomes to remove the carpeting.
She didn't need anything or anyone distracting her from the Neverseen's twisted game of chess. Even Keefe.
Especially Keefe.
If Keefe left the game of chess... well, he would...leave.
For some reason, her heart felt that thought was twisted, wrong in some way.
So when she plopped herself into her seat to eat breakfast, ready to start her day and move past Keefe, she wasn't surprised when her Mom looked at her with question.
The only thing that really surprised her was the look on Grady's face when she took her first bite into a gooey sauce and whispered, "Dad, you were right about Keefe."
Update complete!
Sophie's POV
Grady's eyes seemed to pop as he spit out some sort of milkshake he was drinking. She could've sworn Sandor's green skin tinted pale, and even Edaline's concerned smile turned stunned as she stared at Sophie.
"What do you mean, Grady is right?"
Sophie fiddled with her tunic's hem as she answered, "I shouldn't have been too attached to Keefe. He's dangerous. And he'll never stop..."
"Sophie..." Edaline trailed off, cut off by a booming voice.
"Stop what? Sophie, whatever I had said in the past applies to the past." He paused, looking Sophie in his eyes with a fiery passion. Somehow, something about the way he looked suggested that he wasn't just talking about Keefe.
"I've gotten a lot wrong. I thought wrongly about so many things before, because I'm too quick to judge. Sophie, you've given people a chance. And look where they are now." He pushed out of his seat, swiping off the remains of the milkshake from his face as he fastened his cape with his family crest.
"Follow your heart, Sophie. Don't hide under your anger for too long. Or else, the wrong people will get the blame."
Sophie wandered in the halls of Foxfire, deep in thought.
What if Grady was right? What if...
Nope. She wasn't about to think like that. Doubt had no place in her mind anymore. If she was going to make a decision, she was going to stick to it. She was the Moonlark, and she had no time for this anymore, no time to feel. She had a mission. She was the Moonlark, and she wasn't about to let anything, even Keefe stop her.
And that was the moment that life decided to lead her to where they had first met.
At Keefe's ditching spot.
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Sophie's POV
A soft, stubborn smile blossomed on Sophie's face as she remembered the first time she met Keefe.
A start of a friendship, allies, and a connection.
And jokes, of course.
But if she hadn't met Keefe, then what would she have been like today? Would she have been different? Maybe less caring? Or would she have cared more?
She...didn't know. She shook her head, tracing a silhouette of where she imagined Keefe would've been if he was here.
The bell rang, and she shuffled off and out of her hunched position, bumping her fingers across the wall.
A slight jolt of electricity zipped through her fingers, and she automatically pulled her palm back, wincing from the pain. She knew she should probably run off to Elwin now, but if Keefe were here, he would've made fun of her for it. After all, she had enough time to run there and blame her lateness on seeing Elwin. But Keefe would've—nope. Not. Keefe. She was not going to...
On second thought, maybe it was just better to think about him for one last time before she shut him out of her life forever. No more distractions.
Just her, rising and becoming, and fulfilling the destiny set out for her.
She pressed her palm unto the spot that she felt the jolt at and the floor fell, sending her into an endless oblivion of darkness.
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Sophie's POV
Sophie awoke to a ceiling of polished silver. She quickly sat right-side-up, groaning softly as a sharp pang of pain hit her head.
Where was she? She rubbed her forehead, looking around and trying to get a gist of her surroundings.
Heavy metal bars inclosed her, a beaming silver amongst occasional strokes of chrome. The floor was ice, and a pile of bright orange cloth sat crumpled in the center. Sophie scooted herself towards the orange clump, trying to get a closer look, when she noticed.
It moved.
The clump wasn't just a pile of clothes.
It was alive, and muttering numb, over and over.
And then it was staring at her, right in the face.
Sophie backed off, shock scrawled clearly on her face for a second before she swapped it out with her poker card.
It must be the Neverseen who did this, maybe hoping she would go insane while staying with some clump of a person so that they could get to her friends.
Something in her wanted to say Keefe, so that they could get to Keefe.
But another something in her recognized the clump, and a second later, another shock wave hit, sharp and painful this time.
It was Keefe.
What was he doing here, in a prison, of all places, dressed in a prisoner's clothing? Sure, Keefe was a troublemaker, but this?
This wasn't Keefe, it was some sad excuse for him. Even when he looked at her, she realized, he wasn't really looking. His eyes seemed misted over, like he couldn't recognize her, like she was nothing, no one to him. And that wasn't true.
She rested her palms on Keefe's shoulders, ready to shake him out of his trace and snap him back to the present when something clicked.
What if...? No...
Was Keefe's mind broken?
And if it was, was it because of her?
Update complete!
Or he was...confused.
When she slipped into his mind, she didn't expect...this. 
Memories glowing yellow, green, brown, and all sorts of colors danced in his mind to a piece of invisible music, not organized like the last time she had been there. It was beautiful, but also not Keefe. And something in the back of Keefe's mind kept whispering that, kept whispering, "It's me, Sophie. Help."
But it might've just been her imagination. Keefe's mind...
Keefe was...she didn't know what he was, but he defiantly wasn't Keefe.
And it was all because of her. 
Guilt pounded and twisted her gut, torching in three different directions.
The head, mind, and heart.
Exactly where guilt loved to hit before it shattered.
She withdrew from Keefe's mind before any more guilt could strike her. Something about being there just wasn't right. It was like hiding under the covers and reading after your parents are asleep--a twisted enjoyment, but almost rushed, and the knowledge of trouble at your heels makes you want to stop until you finally stop reading, just to stop feeling guilt.
Or at least, that was what it was like for her, when she read at night and Edaline told her to finally get some rest and clear up the dark shadows under her eyes.
But there was no time for rest now. She rubbed her eyes as a yawn tried to take over, stopping herself mid-stretch. She was not going to sleep until Keefe was fixed.
How she had broken Keefe, she had no idea. But it was obvious from the occasional "Sophie" he was muttering that she was a part of this.
But what she did know was that she was going to fix him.
So when she pushed her fingers against his temples, she was surprised to feel a guard around Keefe's consciousness, and a whisper in Keefe's voice that blew by like a cold wind.
"Don't fix me, Sophie. I'm better broken."
Sophie's Perspective
Keefe was broken.
Or he was...confused.
When she slipped into his mind, she didn't expect...this. 
Memories glowing yellow, green, brown, and all sorts of colors danced in his mind to a piece of invisible music, not organized like the last time she had been there. It was beautiful, but also not Keefe. And something in the back of Keefe's mind kept whispering that, kept whispering, "It's me, Sophie. Help."
But it might've just been her imagination. Keefe's mind...
Keefe was...she didn't know what he was, but he defiantly wasn't Keefe.
And it was all because of her. 
Guilt pounded and twisted her gut, torching in three different directions.
The head, mind, and heart.
Exactly where guilt loved to hit before it shattered.
She withdrew from Keefe's mind before any more guilt could strike her. Something about being there just wasn't right. It was like hiding under the covers and reading after your parents are asleep--a twisted enjoyment, but almost rushed, and the knowledge of trouble at your heels makes you want to stop until you finally stop reading, just to stop feeling guilt.
Or at least, that was what it was like for her, when she read at night and Edaline told her to finally get some rest and clear up the dark shadows under her eyes.
But there was no time for rest now. She rubbed her eyes as a yawn tried to take over, stopping herself mid-stretch. She was not going to sleep until Keefe was fixed.
How she had broken Keefe, she had no idea. But it was obvious from the occasional "Sophie" he was muttering that she was a part of this.
But what she did know was that she was going to fix him.
So when she pushed her fingers against his temples, she was surprised to feel a guard around Keefe's consciousness, and a whisper in Keefe's voice that blew by like a cold wind.
"Don't fix me, Sophie. I'm better broken."
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