I don't own Young Justice or any of the charaters. I'm just borrowing them for my own entertainment.
It's strange, always being so cold, but not knowing how it feels. To be so similar to everyone else, but completely different.
I glance at the steel watch on my wrist. It reads the same time as it did ten minutes ago.
All my life, I could never tell the time unless I was looking at a digital clock. But watching the unmoving hands behind the frost-covered glass of this wrist watch, I make out the hour of the day. Somehow.
12:34
It's always a reminder of that day. A reminder of the exact second I pulled the watch off the limp arm it had once been on. It stopped ticking when it felt my touch. A lot of things break from my touch.
The inhibitor collar prevents me from using my powers, but it doesn't stop me from being me. I'm still cold, inside and out.
A group of people walk past the dim alley, loudly, and I pull my hood up, covering the snow-white hair on my head. I exit the alley and follow them, far enough away to not be noticed, but close enough to fit in. As they cut across the street, I slip away around the corner, and start down a mostly empty block.
I've been wandering all night. Not settling in any one place. It isn't smart to be so open in front of people, a hoodie only hides so much, but being cooped up all day in that musty apartment was driving me crazy. A little fresh air never hurt anyone.
The rent was due a week ago, but I don't have a dime to my name. I steal canned food and laundry detergent from the other tenants, and I don't remember the last time my teeth were brushed. There's a simple fix to this problem. A job. It's what normal people have to make money. But – and I find my eyes drift to the pale purple-grey skin on my hand – I'm not exactly normal.
I walk by a hunched woman on a stoop. She glances up at me as I pass, making a confused face, her eyes drifting down to the glowing red around my neck. I tuck my head down and stuff my hands in my pocket, quickening my pace. I concentrate so much on hiding everything else; I always forget that the metal collar sticks out like a giant beacon, bringing more attention to myself. Letting everyone see that I don't belong.
As I continue down the cracked sidewalk, the pungent smell of dirty motor oil envelops me. I look across the street and find the source of the smell. It's an auto repair shop. The sign out front is off, but through the windows I can make out a light in the back of the building. I cross the street quickly, and peek inside.
The interior is your run-of-the-mill office space; a row of desks with computers, a waiting room, and potted plants. The light is streaming out from one of the back rooms, down a narrow hallway, casting an eerie glow on the room.
The glass under my palms starts to grow a thin layer of frost. I back away from the window, and with one last glance at the dark room, I continue my aimless wandering.
It's 12:34 when I open the green door to my one-bedroom apartment. I remove my black hoodie and toss it on the musty leather couch, the only real piece of furniture in the entire place.
On my second day in the Trailside apartment complex, the manager decided to clean out the vacant rooms and dragged all the left-behind furniture to the lobby, where it all sat for over a month as the pile gradually got smaller each day. Along with the big couch, I took a card table and three lawn chairs.
I slump down onto the couch after kicking my shoes off, and pull the knitted blanket over myself. Sleep is a beautiful thing. You just close your eyes and the whole world goes away…
…Waking up, on the other hand, isn't the highlight of my dreary life. Reality, the only thing scarier than any nightmare, comes back at full force when my eyes groggily open and take in the purple walls and stained carpet that is my living room. I move to sit up, and feel the never-ending soreness in my neck due to months of sleeping without a proper bed. I pop my neck before rising from the couch, and stumble over to the door.
The pounding on the other side of the wood gets heavier, and then stops. "Look kid, I know you're in there," a snippy voice shouts, adding in yet another pound on the door, "I don't want any trouble, so if you'd just open up…" he follows up with two more heavy pounds, the last one rattling the door.
I stand quietly, one hand on the dead-bolt, an eye looking out the peephole. The manager, a short doe-eyed man, stands only inches away from the door. My distorted view of him enlarges his temple like a funhouse mirror. He taps against the door and sighs heavily, shaking his head. Soon, he turns around and walks down the hall slowly, giving fleeting glances to my room.
Leaning my back against the door, I close my eyes and let out a sigh of relief. The manager was snooping around for rent. Pretty soon, he'd be slipping an eviction notice under my door, and I'd be back out on the streets again.
I had come to Palo Alto with a pocket-full of cash, and what I had hoped was a clean slate. It's been a year now, the slate is still blank but the money is gone.
I push away from the door and walk to the bathroom, running a hand through my disheveled hair. It's greasy. When was the last time I showered?
I stare at myself in the mirror over the sink. I could do with a haircut and a shave too. I open the medicine cabinet and push around the various items, looking for a razor.
There isn't one.
Heaney's Garage.
The green and blue words are painted right on the brick on the front of the building. There's a neon 'open' sign with an arrow pointing to the entrance hanging in the window. The building, for whatever reason, had caught my attention the other night, so when I found myself wandering the streets this morning I wasn't surprised to see I had ended up on this street again.
I cross the street and head into the building, sidestepping a huffing man pushing through the door roughly. The gas odor outside is somehow nonexistent inside, instead smelling strongly of coffee.
I walk past the front desk, ignoring the stares from the two large women behind the counter, and look at the pictures they have hung up. Everyone is in some kind of uniform displaying the company logo. It's hard to tell if the people are models. Their smiles seem impossibly happy. Almost fake. But I've never had a real picture taken, so how should I know?
"Excuse me, sir, did you need something today?" I glance over my shoulder at the two women, both looking right at me. I'm not sure which one had spoken.
"Uhh," my voice is hoarse. It's been awhile since I last said anything out loud. I clear my throat and turn myself to face the counter fully. "I just um," I approach the counter, placing my gloved hands on to the smooth surface, "… I'm looking for a job."
They must realize I'm blue at this point, because both of their eyes widen and jaws drop simultaneously.
"Oh, well," the red-head with oversized earrings replies, "uh hang on." She turns her back on me and rummages through a nearby file cabinet. The other lady, with dark hair and glasses, just continues gaping at me. I scowl at her. The red-head waddles back over with a hand full of papers. She places them on the counter in front of me.
"Here's an application. Just fill it out and bring it back." She even offers a small smile. I reach out and take the papers, giving them a quick glance.
"Thanks." She nods her head, and then returns to her computer. I look back at the wall of pictures, all the smiles, and chuckle.
"Well," and he glances quickly at the application, "Mr. Cooper, everything looks good." His wide, brown eyes look intently at me. "Very good." I glance away nervously. His desk is cluttered; the only distinguishable thing is the nameplate displaying his full name.
James T. Mackles
I had gone home yesterday and completely filled out the application. The minute I woke up today I showered and snuck out of the building, walking straight to Heaney's, where I had to wait for this man for over an hour.
"So I got the job?" I ask tentatively.
He chuckles, and shakes his head. "Not exactly how it works. We'll call you and let you know if you got it before Wednesday."
"And if no one calls by then?"
"Then I don't suppose you got the job." I narrow my eyes at him. He, for some reason, finds this humorous as well and laughs again. I roll my eyes as he wipes away imaginary tears, chuckles finally dying out.
"Heh, I guess we're done here." He rises from his seat and starts heading toward the door.
"You 'guess'?" I mutter, spinning in my seat to see him holding the door open for me.
"Good luck, son." He gives me a wide smile, waiting for me to get out of his office. I look at him for a minute than slowly get up and walk out into the narrow hall. He stands in the doorway, smiling, and as I turn and head to the waiting room, I hear the door shut.
Working in a garage isn't what I saw myself doing one day, but I don't have a lot of options. Auto shops generally hire anyone, no matter how shady looking, as long as they seem able. I can't exactly see a hospital hiring me as a receptionist.
I pass the red-head – her name was Sam, I discovered – behind the counter, and she gives me a wave as I walk out. I bump into a short blonde messing with a cell phone. She walks into the building, only mumbling a quick 'sorry' without looking up. I stand outside the door and watch her approach the counter.
She stands to the side of it, typing rapidly on her phone. Sam doesn't look up from her computer, and doesn't really seem to be aware of the blondes' presence. She suddenly slips the phone into her back pocket and circles the counter, lifting up the divider, and walking behind it. She sits in the vacant chair and turns on the computer.
I turn on my heel and walk away from the building, suddenly feeling a wave of nostalgia.
How was it? Let me know if you'd like to read more.
~Just Look Up