☾ nice to meet you [story]

With the chill of the air comes a shiver, not caused by the cold but instead by the prickling sensation of someone watching. The museum should be empty, as Rhyme has checked many times, but the feeling persists. Then, she sees the familiar silhouette.

Core.

Or at least, that’s what they all call her.

The mysterious figure that is occasionally spotted in the academy has barely a page in her public file, and the only information listed states her name, Core — which Rhyme is mostly sure is a sobriquet, anyway — accompanied by a low-quality image of her captioned by a bullet-point description. Rhyme can say, with near one hundred percent certainty, that there is something strange going on. It is odd, she decides, that no one has questioned it yet.

Rhyme turns, playing oblivious as she continues her leisurely stroll through the darkened halls of the building. She estimates Core’s position relative to hers, mentally watching, then stops abruptly when she feels the other’s close proximity. Core says nothing, though she surely knows that Rhyme is aware of her presence.

“Core.” Rhyme keeps her voice casual yet blank, refusing the urge to turn the word into a question.

The name “Core” is somewhat well-known throughout the academy, even in the lower years’ wings of the large property. The higher years introduce whispers of rumors to the lowers as soon as they enter the academy, making sure that myths live on for years; this means that most don’t actually know that Core exists. Rhyme, unlike many of the other lowers, was all too intrigued by the stories and their many variations to believe without checking. In her first month at the academy, she had already compiled a document of the most commonly passed-around word and began to search the school’s public files for more information.

Rhyme knows Core steps forward, though she doesn’t hear a thing. The only indicator is the growing sense of paranoia that is beginning to drown her as she holds herself still, continuing to face away from the other.

“Rhyme,” mirrors Core in a neutral tone, and Rhyme takes note of the unfamiliar voice, eyes flicking between the spots of moonlight flooding in from the windows and sliding over the concrete floor. This is when she realizes she’s never heard Core speak.

Rhyme finally turns around, coming face-to-face with Core. Rhyme hesitates before remembering to plaster on her typical half-smile, corners of her mouth slightly turning up in her practiced way. “What brings you here?” It’s almost a joke, albeit one that isn’t very good.

Core’s mouth is set in a flat line, eyes a little distant yet focused on Rhyme at the same time, and her body posed in a basic stance with arms down by her sides. The cold bluish-gray wash of the night’s light has removed the color from the scene, which overlays each of them in flat, surrealistic grayscale. “Exactly the same as you.”

Ah. So they were both locked in those four hours ago.

“I didn’t know you were interested in 18th century paintings,” says Rhyme, glancing to her right at a barely-visible baroque piece, only the base lit up by the moon. “Rococo? Neoclassical?”

“Most people don’t know much,” Core replies, still staring, and Rhyme struggles to discern whether it’s an insult, compliment, or humorous quip.

“Most people don’t appreciate art enough,” comments Rhyme, eyes coming back to Core, “and I’m not talking about just this kind.” She gestures to the darkened walls around her, which she knows are lined with currently invisible painted works. As she begins to speak again, her mouth rises up a bit further in one corner. “I personally enjoy engaging in the undervalued art of repartee.”

Core smiles a sliver, and a gleeful rush of victory washes over Rhyme. Core’s head turns, changing the angle at which the rays of light fall over her. The gentle flow of glowing luminosity entering the room from the large floor-to-ceiling window to her right catches itself in her eyes, which Rhyme notices are rare glasz — warm orange-amber at the center that fades out to a gray-blue at the edges.

Rhyme will have to put that in her document. The image provided on her public file is too blurry to make out smaller details, and this sort of information isn’t written in the caption.

“Any plans?” asks Rhyme, a tad more relaxed now. She and Core begin walking together in the original direction she had been going.

“Stay stuck in this building,” says Core quietly, a smile in her voice. “Probably sleep somewhere, since there isn’t much I can do.”

“Phone?” Rhyme suggests laconically. Rhyme’s phone has been long since out of battery, which she unfortunately discovered only after she was locked in. She had clicked the home button on her phone to light up the screen — multiple times, in fact — before she had realized.

“No signal and low battery,” Core responds in a similar manner, strides confident but not too over-the-top.

“How low?”

“Two percent. What happened to yours?”

“No battery at all.” Rhyme sighs. “I guess I should sleep in the room with the chairs, which is up ahead if I’m remembering correctly. When are you going to?”

“I suppose I will do that now as well,” says Core. After a pause, she adds, “It will be easier to do things in the morning when there is more light.”

That’s when they reach the “room with the chairs”. They find two beanbags in a corner and sit down. Core pulls a small backpack off of her shoulders, which Rhyme hadn’t seen yet. Rhyme wonders how she only notices now. She’s distracted from that, however, as she remembers a question that she’s been holding in her mind ever since her entry to the academy.

“I don’t expect you to answer,” she begins, “but what’s your real name? It’s not really Core, is it.” It’s not fully a question, but mostly a confirmation.

Contrary to Rhyme’s expectations, Core meets her eyes and smiles in a way that shows her teeth just a little. “You noticed,” she says, and Rhyme knows exactly what she means.

Rhyme remembers going back into records and finding traces of a person called “Core” from years ago, always described as a mysterious class 6 upper. The details are similar in each story, but there are always minor differences and inconsistencies. Sometimes, the hair was curly and skin dark. Other times, the hair was straight and skin pale. This “Core” has medium-toned skin and hair that was ever-so-slightly wavy.

“The alias ‘Core’ is traditionally passed down each year, so that the name always refers to a class 6 upper,” says this year’s Core. “I think if you’re observant enough to notice, it should be safe enough to tell you. You would find out some way, in the end. My name’s Sielle, and for the record, I appreciate the rococo style. You guessed right the first time.”

Oh, this is definitely going in the rumor document, Rhyme thought as she extended a hand. “Nice to meet you, Sielle.”

Sielle takes Rhyme’s hand, grinning now, but doesn’t shake it. Instead, she opts to continue making eye contact.

“Nice to meet you, Rhyme.”