On Friday, they are gods.

On Saturday they have no practice, no trophy, and no captain.

Each one of these alone is unthinkable; together they are unbearable. The Ravens try to practice anyway, but their coaches have locked up the equipment rooms and their court is full of strangers who watch them when they emerge from the tunnel in restless and unnerved pairs.

The press, looking owl-eyed from too much caffeine and too little sleep, scramble from their hard plastic chairs near the team benches and clamor for statements. The Ravens do not have permission to speak to the press without scripts or supervision, so they stare back in unmoving silence until their coaches round them up and send them back into Evermore’s black belly.

Tragic is the word they hear the most, a whisper that echoes off the walls as if intentionally mocking them. The only loss it applies to is the championship–their reputation, pride, their winning streak, their unquestioned place atop the Exy hierarchy–but that is not what these people are using it for. They are talking about the King, but Riko’s death is not tragic. It is terrifying.

They do not dare speak it, but they all think it. It is plain in their too-blank faces and the way they collectively tense every time the door opens. Riko’s death is no suicide, but do they dare blame the master even in the questionable safety of their minds? They remember what he was like after Kevin ran away. Riko was more bruise and blood than skin, unconscious for a full day, on the edge for three more. He’d survived, somehow.

He didn’t survive this.

The master has not been by to see them, not yet, but they know it is coming, and the constant fear of it has left them numb and weightless. If the master would kill Riko for losing, for trying to kill that upstart unworthy Fox in front of everyone who mattered, what will he do to them? They are his Ravens, but they are no King, and they are expendable in a way the perfect Court aren’t.

They must practice. They must show their contrition. They must show improvement. They must not falter, must not misstep, must not give into the fear or the rage or the panic that break in their chests like hurricanes. They breathe through it like they’ve breathed through every pain and injustice before and they do not think, do not think, do not think. Thinking will come later, after the punishment, when reality starts to make sense again. For now they must act.

But none of them can pick the locks to get to their gear, and every time they approach the court too many eyes chase them back into their shadows. Eventually the coaches guard the exits to keep them where they belong, and there is nothing they can do but wait for the reckoning to reach them.

 .

They are not invited to the press conference, but the coaches round them up and turn on all three TVs. There are strangers in the Nest where strangers shouldn’t be, fifteen or sixteen men and women standing along the walls in beige suits and white blouses. They don’t stand like cops and don’t have the gnawing interest of the press, but they meet the Ravens’ challenging stares with calm expressions and knowing eyes.

The Ravens look away first because they must, because Riko’s portrait is on display on the screen. Tragic, the man at the microphone says again, as he gives his official statement on the previous day’s disaster. Tragic, unthinkable, unexpected. He talks about pressure and expectations, and a rivalry that drove Riko to madness. The words are stones churning in uneasy stomachs. They are speaking of the King in past tense when Riko cannot truly be gone.

Then the master makes his first appearance and takes over the stage. The Ravens have seen him lie a hundred thousand times, and they look for the lies now in the thousand-yard stare he points past the camera, in the white-knuckled grip he keeps on a cane he does not actually need, in the slack line of his shoulders. They are looking so hard for the fury that must be beneath the surface that they nearly miss the words he says:

Tetsuji Moriyama is stepping down.

He calls it personal responsibility; he calls it guilt. He says he cannot return to the Nest when he will see the memory of his nephew in every room and corner. He apologizes for his abrupt exit, defers all decisions regarding Ravens’ future to the university, and congratulates the Foxes on their unexpected victory. He speaks for a minute or a year but the words stop making sense only a few words in, and the anxious and excited questions the press hurl at the stage are a roaring white noise that fills the locker room like a gathering storm.

Jasmine is the first to break. She launches herself at the nearest TV with a scream and throws it from its stand, snapping its cord from the wall and sending spiderweb cracks through the now-dark screen. A shoe to the web breaks the glass wide open, exposing fractured hardware, and she keeps kicking until one of the coaches hauls her away by her arm. She is crying before she even makes it through the doorway, nearly howling in her grief, and one of the strangers watching from the back wall peels away from the black paint and follows.

The door slams behind her, and oppressing silence fills the room once more. Finally a stranger steps forward to introduce himself and his team of psychiatrists. The university has brought in counselors, he says. The university has called their parents.

The university is closing the Nest.