The Run-In

‘Variance is not identity. Ability is a condition, not a self’

— Second Doctrine of Classification

Ivy tangled with boxwood and ancient stone as the tires crunched along the gravel drive.

Shuck Freezer, ever the artist, felt instantly enchanted. The scent of damp moss mixed with the perfume of age. A canvas of secrets from the past. The scene begged to be captured. Etched, written, or painted. Every detail of the old English manor whispered stories waiting to be told. The fountain in the motor court splashed, its uneven gurgle bubbling with mystery, while the mansion stood watchful and silent. The chill of the weathered stone seeped into Shuck, blending with his. Children clustered on the steps, their bags strewn across the lawn, as the deep, silent forest pressed close to the brick giant. This would be his home for the next chapter of his life. Nerves prickled, but he sensed he would carve out a place for himself, a haven of solitude and peace. The chatter around him faded. It left stillness. The wind paused, the gravel settled.

Silence enveloped him completely. The place he always found. In the quiet moments of his childhood, he would retreat to the corner of his room, a place where sunlight danced, and he could, too. Those memories clung to him like the scent of old books. A refuge from a confusing world.

The car halted amidst the busy arrivals, tires crunching over gravel and slicing through the chatter. Mr. Freezer shifted into park, his fingers drumming a jagged rhythm on the steering wheel. His gaze flicked to Shuck, then away, landing on the dashboard as if the radio might save him. The leather creaked under his grip, knuckles blanched, jaw tight. A silent battle playing out in the small space between them.

"I'm sorry your mother—" The words snagged, brittle and unfinished. He dropped his eyes, voice trailing into the heavy hush. "All your things were forwarded. You should have everything you need."

Shuck pressed his forehead to the cool glass, the world outside warped and distant. His father's reflection wavered beside his, two figures that never quite came together. He wanted to bridge the gap, say something that would close it, but the right words never formed. He remembered the summer they'd tried to build a treehouse, his sketches scattered on the grass, his father's tape measure slicing the air, their ambitions at opposite ends of the composition. Boards remained uncut, ideas left unfinished, both of them drifting apart on different currents.

Then the truth came out —who his father really was—the day on the boat.

He traced the condensation on the window, fingers leaving faint trails. In his chest, a hollowness twisted tighter. He remembered the art contest, the cold anticipation as he hung his painting. A riot of colors, strokes bold and strong, a jaw of steel and hair of night on the profile of the young man. He stood at the back, waiting for his name, feeling smaller with every round of applause that engulfed someone else, shoulders dropping towards the floor. Applause that washed over but never touched him. Like mineral spirits cleaning his brush, the smell lingered but soon faded.

His father gripped Shuck's shoulder lightly. "Your accent, son," he murmured, attempting a casual nod. "It's... well, maybe it's something that girls..." His words trailed off, a slight tremor betraying a hint of vulnerability beneath his composed facade.

Shuck felt his shoulder tense under his father's touch, the unsolicited advice igniting a storm of emotions. His stomach twisted in knots as memories of laughter and mockery replayed, freezing his breath. He tightened his grasp on the strap of his bag, clutching it like an anchor as he instinctively touched his throat, unspoken words against his fingertips. The fear of being singled out urged him to escape. He opened the door, eager to leave the uncomfortable conversation behind.

“I hope it goes well— keep things in check,” Mr. Freezer said softly, turning back to the wheel. “We’ll see you at home at semester's end.”

Shuck closed the door, slinging his pack over his shoulder, and watched the car disappear, the crunch of gravel echoing through his bones. The sound chilled him. He pressed his thumb into his palm. Alone and adrift, he walked toward Divergent Academy, ready to begin. Using the tip of his shoe, he gently smoothed over the car tracks in the gravel. Anger lingered about his dad, but his parents were not experts in this world. This was uncharted territory for all of them, including himself. Was this the place where he would finally feel seen?

He was about to find out.

He mounted the massive marble stairs. Silence settled as the surrounding students became still, all eyes were on him with every step as he headed towards the ornate oak doors. In a new direction on this journey called life, perhaps holding answers to why he was here. The groan of the ancient wood echoed through the air, urging him forward.

As Shuck stepped into the mysteries of a new path.

* * *

Shuck pushed open the door to his new home, his belongings tucked into a quiet alcove by the desk. Among his collection, a slightly worn sketchbook lay on top, its edges dog-eared and pages filled with charcoal landscapes and imagined worlds. The room stretched wide, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous space, which smelled of leather, melted candles, and time. Scents that stirred emotion and longing to belong.

His heart stuttered. It felt like home.

A directory for The Divergent Academy rested on his bed. He flipped through its pages. Forty-one professors, four thousand one hundred twenty-two students, sixty-one set to graduate this year. Six hundred and sixteen new arrivals. An unlucky number. He felt a sudden twist of anxiety in his stomach. What if this number foretold trouble or rivalry, a sign that things might not go as smoothly as he hoped? The thought crossed behind his eyes as they landed on a face from his past.

Fletcher Reed.

Fire-Man.

Fletcher, in all his blazing glory, was here too. Embarrassment surged through Shuck as if a coat of ice had formed over him. He dropped the book, pressing his thumb into his palm, feeling the cold bite. Icy tendrils crept over his fingertips, his breath clouding the air in faint misty puffs. He couldn’t dwell on Fletcher. How could he be here? Shuck wanted a fresh start, a chance to meet new people, but now his past threatened to freeze his intentions before they could thaw. As he began his breathing exercises, warmth gradually crept back into his skin, melting the frost. The ice's grayness began to crack; a calmness returned to him.

He could focus again.

Absently, he hung up clothes, sorted shoes and personal belongings, and lined his shelves with books he couldn’t live without. Soon enough, his world would be altered by school, but until then, he wanted the ability to dream. His eyes traced the spines of some of his favorites, artists he admired, as he reverently placed them beside the others. Pulling the final book from the box, Shuck cradled it in his hands, a treasured gift made by his mother. The answer to his anger. Growing up, Shuck never felt he fit in. Always shorter, not your typical look or what he felt was perceived as handsome, it made him turn inward, towards resentment, which forced his feelings to explode.

The only place it ever quieted was when he created.

His mother compiled a book of portraits Shuck had rendered, including paintings and drawings. Portraits of handsome men. Colors used: expressive, powerful, strong. Saturation that described beauty across the linen. Bold lines, hatching and crossing the paper's surface, revealed piercing eyes, angular faces, and jaws of steel. Everything he felt he lacked. His anger made him bold. It armored him with a false sense of strength and confidence. When painting or drawing these men, he felt a bit more normal, less angry, which led him to false bravado. Perhaps not a bad thing, he felt no fear. He approached people, men and women alike, with a business card in hand. Dropping it in theirs, smiling and turning, always led to amazing experiences and interactions. It made life exciting.

It simply read: “Can I paint your handsome face?” on one side, with the letters a sharp contrast to the card's softness, while the other showed a portrait of a man in striking detail.

His face lit up as he reflected, gazing at the images contained in this wonderful gift. As he placed it with the others, movement through the glass caught his eye. He hesitated, then approached the window. He opened it, gazing out at a world more beautiful than he had imagined. The gardens were enchanting. Whispering promises of transformation, just like he hoped for himself. Gravel paths invited him to explore new directions, weaving between boxwood shaped into intricate knots. Reflecting pools mirrored the potential within, tranquil and deep. Blossoming trees released earthy, sweet, and spicy scents that enveloped him, an awakening to new beginnings. The scene was a living Winslow Homer painting, an inspiring backdrop for his own story of change.

Looking out, he understood why his parents had chosen this place. They must have hoped he’d be safer here. Warmth, gardens, and sunlight—everything to melt away the ice inside him. For now, all he felt was warmth. He needed to explore, to touch the beauty, to breathe it in up close. Grabbing his bag and slipping his phone into his pocket, he dashed for the door. He craved adventure while he still could. Maybe he’d find his quiet place in the garden. Maybe this would turn out all right.

He hurried down the grand staircase, feet barely skimming the polished wood, the scent of wax teasing his nose. Sunlight from the transom spilled across the floor, a golden beacon drawing him outside. The doorknob shuddered as he turned it, releasing a sigh, as if the old house exhaled. Sunlight split the darkness, momentarily blinding him. Outside, students clustered by the rails, chatting in groups. He squinted, then slipped on his sunglasses, the world softening to half-light.

Until he saw Fletcher.

And Fletcher was smiling at him.

Fletcher’s smile turned into a sneer. “Hello, Iceman. Been freezing anyone lately?”

Shuck wanted to thumb his palm.

The stare off grew. Shuck looked away and began descending the entry steps, heading towards the gardens. Suddenly, the air shifted around Fletcher as he stuck out his meaty arm, halting Shuck's forward motion. Heat shimmered, blurring the surroundings, while an acrid scent began to rise. The groupies gathered. Their eyes wide, all too aware of the confrontation unfolding.

“Whoa, whoa there, ice tray.”

Their eyes locked again. Shuck’s hands felt the cold, the color draining to gray.

“Still short, I see.”

A laugh came from Fletcher’s followers. Shuck lowered his glasses and looked over them. “Short can be as powerful as arrogance, Fletcher,” he replied calmly, his voice smooth and confident. He remembered the last altercation so long ago. Fletcher, in the ice. Exploding out, ice flying. The shame he felt for being scared. The darkness on his jeans. He wanted to be strong, not live in fear. He was determined to take his anger and use it for good, not a weakness. He pushed his thumb into his palm.

The groupies let out a chorus of ahhs, then silence dropped, heavy as the air before a storm. Shuck sensed the temperature shift as Fletcher clenched his fists and moved in.

“You want to feel me?” he asked, eyes becoming embers, smoldering anger towards Shuck. “I'd evaporate you.”

Shuck exhaled, determined to defuse the moment. He only wanted to reach the garden, not to rekindle old conflicts. He drew on his anger. For the first time, he could see it as a strength. It empowered him. "Let it go-- jeez. Why is this still here?" he asked, meeting Fletcher's gaze without fear.

“Could it be that possibly, you’re just mean?”

Expression drained from Fletcher like a valve opening, his fists balled tighter, growing larger as flames licked their surface. Memories of an overheard conversation rang in his ears as color drained away, and his anger rose.

Shuck turned away and started down the steps again, heading to his destination. “Maybe all this showing off is just you compensating,” Shuck said, holding his fingers a fraction apart. “Grow up, Fletcher.” It was out. In the air. And Shuck knew it was a mistake. He couldn’t go down this path. He was becoming what he didn’t want. He was becoming Fletcher. His eyes darted to a nearby sign, flickering in the pattern of dancing shadows, ‘No unauthorized use of power—-’ He was afraid it foretold the events that were yet to come.

The groupies snorted, returning their eyes to Fletcher. His hair ruffled as if a breeze danced through it, his brow crinkled, making his eyes menacing. His lips quivered as his thumbs dug deeper into the sides of his hands. Blue flame ignited over his right fist, sounding like the ignition of a gas stove; the smell of butane lingered. The temperature climbed as he brought his arm to bear on Shuck’s back.

“Temper leads to danger, Fletcher Reed," a voice sternly spoke. "Do not turn me into the lord from whence your power hails." The voice cut through the tension, precise, sharp, cold, and calm, from the shadows unseen. Each syllable fell like the rasp of a file. Professor Ferox walked out of the shadows as Shuck and Fletcher turned towards the voice.

Silence drowned out the tension.

Fletcher dropped his arm, the flame guttering. The crunch of the gravel broke the silence as another car arrived at the Academy.

* * *

​

The building rose into view as the car rolled onto the gravel. The same crunch was heard by both Shuck and Fenton.

Fenton Snow pressed his head to the glass. It was cool against his skin, his breath fogging a small patch as he tried to steady himself. Sights and sounds tumbled over each other. The chatter outside, the sharp scent of exhaust, the girls' energetic laughter nearby. His hands trembled as he brushed his sleeve and peered out. On the steps, a knot of students encircled a professor, tension flickering on their faces. He lowered the window, letting in a gust that ruffled his dark hair and made the world sharper, clearer. Raising his camera, Fenton snapped frame after frame, each click a small act of control. The professor’s mouth moved, but the words blurred into the crowd’s noise. Gravel grumbled beneath the tires, in a low growl. His glacier-blue eyes caught a boy at the foot of the stairs. Short, suited in gray. A lonely beacon amid the chaos. He pressed the shutter again, then as he watched, a snowflake spiraled, settling on his sleeve. A cold spark, a mystery in miniature.

His heart stuttered.

The boy felt oddly familiar.

It started snowing in the car.

* * *