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"Wake up." A voice draws you from a night of fitful sleep. "Wake up," it commands again, this time with more force than before. "All the new ones are the fucking same. How the hell did my dad put up with this shit without pissing all over everyone in this goddamned underground shit-pen?" A hand grabs you by the shoulder, but the grip isn't exactly forceful. There's a careful tenderness to it; if you really, really wanted to, you could easily pull free. It's intentional. You can tell that much. For some reason, it reminds you of something. You've never really had much time around people-especially the sort of people who'd be touching you in such a respectful way-but you're too tired to give a damn.
"Dave?" This grabs your attention more than anything else. Very rarely do people ever call you by your first name. (It's always "Mr. Strider" or "Sir" or "Strider".)
You open your eyes, and find the man from earlier staring down at you. For some reason, you realize that their nose is crooked. It's not enough to be obvious, but it's just enough to break the symmetry of their face. Not that this is any sort of problem for you, and it's not at all in line with your interests. (You're not interested in this douchecanoe. Not one fucking bit.) As this line of thought comes to a close, it dawns upon you that they're looking for a verbal response. "Shit!" you exclaim, sitting up suddenly.
Your forehead slams into theirs.
Both of you end up reeling, but they speak before you can. "Jesus fucking Christ," they hiss, rubbing just above their right brow, "Are you trying to kill me? You haven't even known me for a day. I don't think I'm that bad."
The commentary draws a small chuckle from you, but you do your best to suppress it. It seems to work, as they don't say anything about it.
Instead, they continue, "Whatever. That was my fucking fault for leaning on so close. Strike one for Karuna. I'm on a fucking roll. Throw me a ball and I'll hit the world's most unfortunate home run." (Damn. This bastard can talk.) "I've arranged for your breakfast to be delivered, but I'm pretty sure it's cooled down by now. Everyone seems to go fucking bananas for pancakes, so I got John to whip some of those up."
"Thank you?" you respond, uncertain of whether or not they're fishing for some sort of compliment.
A lack of response on their part doesn't clarify any of your uncertainty, either. Thus, you end up eating breakfast in awkward silence, being stared at by the seemingly hawk-eyed leader of a political revolution. The painful atmosphere continues even after you've finished. He hands you a plain grey jumpsuit with the East Coast Condesce Resistance Movement logo-a solid red eagle clutching a golden sickle in its mouth-hand-embroidered on the right brest. "I'm not looking," he announces, turning his back to you as he continues, "You won't have much privacy around here, so get fucking used to people snooping around in your business."
You nod.
You change clothes as quickly as possible, and store your old clothes in a haphazard stack under your pillow. "Is this normal?" you ask. Truthfully, you're not interested in the answer; you just want to break the silence. "Do you usually give tours to the new kids?"
"It's standard Resistance Movement procedure. Not my fucking choice," they growl. The bare palm of one hand presses against one wheel of their chair as the other hand rotates its counterpart. The turn is swift, precise, and calculated. From this, you get the feeling that they're used to it.
"You're not the smoothest person down here," you comment, knowing at this point that you're grasping at soggy straws for something to talk about. "I'd think the leader of a group of take-no-shit rebels would be more charismatic."
"Yeah, well, we can't all get what we fucking want," they counter. After this, there's a moment of silence. A low hum. A muffled boom shakes the ground beneath your feet, and dust falls from the cement ceiling above you. (Clearly, this isn't the safest goddamned route you could have taken.) Unfazed by the development, Karuna gestures for you to follow them. "Drill drones. Drop one of those fuckers from a plane, let it burrow, and hope it hits us. The Condesce have the strategic skills of a sugar-crazed toddler."
You nod. (Being sealed in a run-down penthouse by your older brother for most of your formative years isn't exactly the best way to develop world-class social skills. Then again, you can't help but think that Karuna has about the same amount of people-schmoozing skills as you do. And that's a nice way of saying you're both fucking clueless.) Around you, there's little to look at. Beyond occasional, but often vibrant and colorful, chalk murals, it's just a long stretch of unadorned concrete, cement, and steel. It's also dark. After perhaps five minutes of bumbling about like a drunken honeybee, you're forced to admit defeat and remove your shades. You clip them to the collar of your jumpsuit for safekeeping.
(You already put up with enough name-calling in school for your strange eye color; the fact that a scuffle with your Bro claimed one of them didn't help douse the flames of middle school jackassery. To combat this, you started wearing shades. It became your thing.)
"Door to your left leads to the dining area, door the the right leads to the recreational room." The sudden intrusion on your thoughts startles you, but you manage to keep outward signs of this to a minimum. (You're fucking certain they didn't notice your reaction at all.) "Go straight, and you get to my little slice of this dark, flickering hell."
"You sure do talk shit about this place a lot. If you hate it so fucking much, you could always find a new part of the subway." You shrug. By now, your hands are buried in the pockets of your jumpsuit. Inside the right pocket, you found a loose thread, and you've been absentmindedly toying with it for the past umpteen minutes. "It's fucking huge."
"The other parts are either too hazardous or blocked by wrecked train cars. If you want to be the fucking doofus to pioneer a salvaging operation that our team couldn't handle when we were twice the size we are now, then be my fucking guest." Again, there's a pause. The conversation lulls, sliding back into the valley of painful awkwardness. This time, though, Karuna quickly pushes the conversation back into the realm of tolerability. "Whatever. Just follow me."
You're led onwards, through a shoddy plywood door, and into a small room. There's just enough room for you and Karuna to move, but not enough for it to be done in any way that could be considered comfortable. A hospital-style bed, complete with all the adjusting bells and whistles, is against one wall. Opposite this is a desk with some basic broadcasting equipment set on top. A microphone, some dials and knobs, and a stack of papers.
"We couldn't find much of a space for you to work with, so you've gotten to honor being shoehorned into my room. I guess it's for the best, though, since I'll get to monitor you. For all I know, you fucking love the Condesce." Here, Karuna rolls their eyes. They approach the desk, thumb through some of the papers, and pull out a small stack of them. After setting these aside, they back away. "Your first broadcast is today. Starting now."
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Your first broadcast was simple. You read some shit, and vouched for disbanding the Condesce Cleansing Coalition movement as beloved radio personality, DJ Stride. It wasn't awful, but it wasn't exactly the most riveting thing you've had to say on air. Then again, you figure you'll be allowed to wing it, as you often do, eventually.
For now, your focus is on getting out of this room. You've had enough time with the grumpiest fucker in this subterranean bunker.
Fate, however, has different plans.
In the time it took for you to say what you needed to, Kandice entered. This effectively crowds you into your corner. If you move, you'll just knock her into Karuna, and you have a feeling that this isn't something you should do. (You saw a needle come out, at least, and it seems to logically follow that whatever is happening right now is going to be a delicate fucking operation.) Neither party really acknowledges your presence. This doesn't bother you; actually, it fascinates you. Right now, you're privy to what you're guessing is an interaction no one else gets to see. If you don't get any dirt from this, you'll at least have a better understanding of your new boss.
You don't want to be too obvious, though. Turning around will only alert them to the fact that you're snooping, so you've got to keep a low profile. Instead, you remove your shades and use the reflection to guage what's happening. It's not very useful, but you can see enough to tell that there's some sort of minor medical procedure going on behind you. To keep your front from turning into a sham, you set your shades on the bridge of your nose and take a great amount of fake interest in the spots of rust on the desk.
"One milliliter," Kandice says, articulating the word with a pointed sort of carefulness. "Four to go."
"I feel fine," protests Karuna, shifting slightly in their chair, "I don't see the fucking point in draining this shit out every other goddamned month." Their voice is hesitant-or, perhaps, it's better described as uncertain. You've only known them for a short time, but you get the impression that this sort of tone isn't very common coming from them. (You're used to a more aggressive, assertive, in-your-face, will-fuck-you-up-without-second-thoughts attitude from this guy, not this somewhat docile ambivalence.)
Kandice, though, you know little about. So, her responses intrigue you. They tell you more about the people you're working with, and that's something that you'll need to know in the blighted reality you live in. "We both know it doesn't hurt, Una. Just shut up and relax."
"It's annoying," is the response, said in a tone similar to that of a whining child. "I have five-fucking-thousand better things I could be doing, and one of those is shoving my hand up my own goddamned ass to look for the black hole that is my soul. Can we just get this fucking over with?"
"Two milliliters," Kandice answers cooly. (You hate to do it, but Rose has rubbed off on you. You're not as good as psychoanalysis as she is, but you'll do in a pinch. From what you can tell, this Kandice character is a sort of vengeful mother hen. She cares, but she cares in her own unique way.) Some more time passes before she speaks up again. "Three milliliters."
"Hmph." Karuna lets forth an indignant huff.
Kandice clicks her tongue. "If you whine any more, I just might consider leaving you here like this for a while."
"I'll shut up now." Karuna's response is swift and decisive.
Kandice, meanwhile, simply snickers. "We're almost done." A few seconds after saying this, there's a soft symphony of movement. Fabric brushes against fabric. Items rattle against cardboard boxes. A single, sharp click-presumably something made of hard plastic being pressed against another, similar material-acts as the conclusion. "You did wonderfully." As Kandice brushes past you, you're hit with the aroma of pressed flowers and freshly mown grass. (These are odd scents, and you haven't smelled them in the ten years since the bombs dropped across the country, but you recognize them. You know them.
They bring to mind a memory-a vision of another of those grey-faced creatures. She stands before a hulking, undefined beast, a bloody chainsaw in hand. The world around her seems to be made of nothing, yet the weight around you feels equal to that of the universe.)
"You did lovely, too, Dave." She says this in passing-it's a comment said after the fact, and thrown in as an aside. And, as she leaves, you eagerly follow.
Karuna doesn't comment.
(Perhaps he forgot you were there. Or, if you're being honest with yourself, he probably just didn't give a fuck.)