It was almost eleven. Matt and Jane sat in silence, the cold from the roof where Ed had jumped, from the whispering wind, seeping into their hands and legs. The world had faded to black, to grey and blue – the only light the glow from odd windows, hints at warmth interspersed amongst frozen stone, and the crescent moon, its shape intermittently obscured by thin patches of cloud, a flock of wisping sheep herded before a shepherd’s half-closed eye.

“He’s wrong,” Matt murmured after a while; his chin resting on his hands, his knees tucked to his chest. He gazed out across the grounds, at the fields of cold grey snow, once teeming with activity, now quiet and still. Jane didn’t respond.

“You know he’s wrong. You know Ed didn’t do it.”

“I don’t know Matt,” she sighed. A loose strand of her bronze hair, broken free from its usual tie, fluttered silently in the breeze. Jane rubbed a knuckle into the bags under her eyes. “I don’t know what I think anymore.”

They lapsed into a dull, painful silence, their words swept up in the gentle rustling of the wind. They’d come up here- well, who knew really. Ostensibly to look around again, in case darkness revealed something. But of course there was nothing visible in the daylight that was not less so come night. And so they’d just ended up sitting – watching, waiting, contemplating the cold world go by. It was a beautiful, lonely view; a sad place for a man to die.

“I know he didn’t do it,” Matt muttered again. He said it quiet-like and Jane didn’t know if he was saying it to convince her or himself. “I know he didn’t kill himself. I just know it.”

“How?” she asked, rolling her head over to look at him. It wasn’t a derogative question, but she wanted to shake his persistent faith a little, to see if it was grounded in reality or a dogged, grief‑born delusion. “How do you know?”

Matt fell silent, staring straight ahead. His eyes shone slightly, but he didn’t cry. “Because it’s stupid,” he said finally. He shook his head, still gazing out over the fall. “Maybe Ed got rejected. Maybe he was depressed. But he wasn’t stupid. Above all, if nothing else, he wasn’t stupid.”

Matt paused and pulled his knees in closer. “And suicide is stupid. Fundamentally, at its most basic level, it’s a stupid, stupid idea. Life can suck, sure. Life can be horrible, painful, miserable. But no matter how bad it gets, no matter how bleak things might be, there’s always the possibility – no matter how tiny – that it’ll get better.”

“But once you’re dead, you’re dead! It’s over, hope extinguished, and that possibility is gone. No matter how miserable you are, choosing to die is picking an eternity of nothing over the chance of life improving. You’re swapping something for nothing. And that’s not a smart choice.”

He shook his head. “I don’t care how low Ed got. I don’t care how many girls rejected him. He was the smartest guy I knew, and he would’ve realised this was a stupid choice before he got halfway up the first staircase.”

He turned away slightly and fell silent, resting one cheek upon his knee. Jane didn’t know how to respond. She thought it might not have been as simple as all that. But her thoughts were the kind that didn’t go easily into words, and she didn’t know if words would be any help. So she just sat, looking up at the stars.

It was getting late. They had a funeral tomorrow.

*****

It was a big funeral. Probably bigger than Ed ever would have anticipated, had he given the topic any thought. He hadn’t left a will – just some old clothes, several boxes of robotics scraps and soldering irons, and a top-of-the-line computer tower whose digital contents had now automatically liquefied into a useless slurry of 0’s and 1’s. Another indication that he hadn’t planned on dying, Matt thought. Another glaring oversight by a so-called suicidal genius.

Matt almost didn’t go to the funeral. Going there, putting on a black suit and sombre face and listening to some priest drone on about life and death and tragic loss while Ed’s real killer was still out there felt like a manifest betrayal of their friendship. Matt could imagine Ed standing there, shouting at them for being so stupid, demanding to know how they could think so little of him, wondering why nobody could connect the dots. Except he wasn’t, of course, because Ed wasn’t saying anything. Because he was dead. His corpse was right there, forty feet away, in a mahogany coffin. Apparently, the healers had done well repairing the body into what could be considered good condition – apart from the whole death thing, which remained incurable – but the casket was still closed. That was fine by Matt.

Most of the Academy had turned out – less, Matt thought, because of who Ed was and more for the part of their institution he had been. To Matt’s eye, they all looked stricken with an appropriate level of grief – solemn and sombre, with the occasional sniff or damp eye – with the exception of Natalia, who looked bored, and Wally, whose thousand-yard stare marked him lost in his own thoughts. Only Ed’s mother, a squat, dark-haired woman, and his father, a pock-marked, rigid man, seemed genuinely, heartbreakingly upset. Matt had to mentally block out the sight and sound of them breaking down as the priest prayed over their son, for risk of losing control and falling into his own grief.

The only notable absence was Giselle Pixus. Matt had overheard on the walk over that the speedster had barely left her room in days – though out of guilt, grief or some ridiculous fear people would blame her for Ed’s death, he didn’t know. A large part of him wanted to bring her into the fold, let her know what they’d found – but a smaller, sharper corner of his brain knew that the more people knew about their suspicions, the harder they’d be to confirm. Giselle’s pain, however awful, would have to wait until they had something more.

Because right now all they had were straws to grasp at. All through the funeral – while the coffin was telekinetically floated down the aisle, while the priest gave his commiseration and discrete reminder of the need for love, while Ed’s parents bade their tearful farewell, while the terranmancers split open the earth, while two hundred black-clad voices rose together in ‘Amazing Grace’ – Matt stood amongst the Acolytes, staring straight ahead, turning the pieces over and over. The footage, the photos, the paparazzi and the blue-eyed child, Cassandra, psychics, ‘Dawn’ – individually, they were suspicious. Together, they were too much to be a coincidence. But together they made no sense. If Ed had been killed by a psychic then why message about Dawn? If a psychic hadn’t been involved, then who killed him? And how had they done it? And what had the point of his ambush been? And where did the kid fit in? Was he trying to help or mislead them?

He tried to think – to force himself to ignore his friend’s face on the projector screen in front of them, the hot, clutching pain in his chest; the coffin being lowered into the ground. His best… he drew a deep, shuddering breath. His best theory revolved around an exceptionally powerful psychic – a prodigy, able to (to hell with what Wally said) remotely assault another person’s mind. ‘Dawn’, then, could be a warning from Ed that Captain Dawn was in danger, or maybe already under this mysterious assailant’s control. After all, all the power in the world meant nothing once the fight shifted to the mind. The only problem with this theory was that it seemed strange (and, he was perhaps a bit uncomfortable to admit, a little uncharacteristically selfless) for Ed not to name his attacker but another potential victim. And as Jane had immediately pointed out when Matt had suggested this theory, Captain Dawn had been taking Psy-Block to protect against this very threat since the late eighties – the stuff had been invented with him in mind. So it just seemed odd that Ed’s final act would have been to worry about psychics on Dawn’s behalf. And it still left the mystery of the clairvoyants and the kid.

Or maybe there were no psychics. Maybe the photos were fakes. Maybe the paparazzi in the woods had been there to throw him off. Maybe it was all meaningless.

They entombed Ed in a small, non-descript grave beside the Monument, marked only by a black marble headstone. Then one by one, of their own accord, the Acolytes turned and left, forming a steady stream of mourners that grew less and less mournful the closer they got back to Morningstar. Matt walked alone in the middle of them, following the wide path the pyromancers had cleared through the snow – head bowed and quiet, not really listening, as respectful silence gave way to the usual whispers, questions and chatter of the crowd.

His friend was dead. And he was no closer to understanding why.

After a few minutes, a shadow fell over the ground beneath his feet and Matt looked up to see the huge figure of James Conrad lumbering alongside him. They walked together for a while in silence.

“Sucks, doesn’t it?” the giant said eventually, without any prompting, “Losing one of our own.” He paused and glanced down at Matt. “Really sucks.”

Matt just nodded mutely. James glanced back down again.

“You hanging in there alright?” he asked.

“Yeah,” lied Matt, who didn’t feel like having this conversation right now, or ever. The strongman’s blank gaze lingered for a few seconds, but eventually he must have realised Matt wasn’t going to say any more. He gently rested a gigantic, plate-sized hand on Matt’s shoulder.

“Well if you ever need to talk,” he said, “Let me know. I can find someone.” His hand lingered for a few seconds, only removing it after Matt gave a short, sharp nod. They continued on in silence.

“Of course, now we got a world of trouble for the Academy,” James sighed after a while, “Have to find someone new to take care of IT. Not to mention security. Cameras, firewalls, scanners. Ed ran half the systems in this place. Geniuses,” he added mournfully, with a slow shake of the head, “You never really appreciate everything they do until they’re gone.”

“Ed was a great person,” Matt replied stiffly. James Conrad nodded, not really listening.

“Yeah, definitely. Real shame he’s gone.” Suddenly, the big man smacked his palm to his forehead, making a sound like two raw steaks slapping together. “Ah nuts. That’s what else he was doing. Damnit.” He looked down at Matt. “Don’t suppose you’d do me a favour? Ed said he’d organise it, but, well…” James’s voice trailed off.

“Sure,” Matt sighed heavily, too weary to care, “What is it?”

“Not much. Just a little party. I figure, hey, you’re the party guy, you’ll probably do a better job anyway and-”

“Wait,” said Matt, a little confused. He looked up. “Ed was organising a party?”

“Well more of a reunion really,” replied James, peering over at a group of girls, their black dresses fluttering in the breeze. “Just whoever you can round up. And then I don’t know, some cheese, wine, canapés, I don’t know, whatever old people like.” He tore his eyes away from the girls and glanced back down at Matt. “So can I count on you?”

“Um, sure,” mumbled Matt, not really sure how else to respond.

“Excellent.” James threw him a quick smile. “Thanks man, I really appreciate it.” He turned back to the girls and his pace quickened. “I’ll catch you later.”

“Hold on,” interjected Matt before James could lumber too far, “What was Ed organising? Who’s the reunion for?”

James Conrad stopped in his tracks and barked a short, meaty laugh. “Right! Ha! That’d probably help,” he guffawed, smacking himself on the side of the head and grinning. “It’s a surprise party. Sixtieth. For the Captain. Captain Dawn.”