He's not exactly grateful his sister has gotten him a job. He hates work. That's just it. He hates it so much he wants to skip the same day he starts.
He can't emphasize how much life sucks sometimes. Especially after all the time he didn't lift a finger, laying around and eating, lazy scrolling through the internet and trying to distract himself from the problems.
First off the clothes. A personal hell of beige and white and black and grey. Not like simple is bad. He's strung up with black most of his live. But those clothes look wrong. Like they are made of paper and lethargy instead of fabric. Not comfortable like a pair of pants with holes on the knees. Or a too big sweater you can push to hands into. Work attire stinks. Worst part about it is not the way people blend in together with it. It's that you still see where people are from below the ties and cuffs.
Second? Probably that stinking coffee machine that's worth more than his life. They flock together around it like some pack of hungry hyenas. It tastes terrible. And that's not just because he hates coffee or is incompetent.
If things can taste of despair, he thinks , watching people come and go from the break room. That coffee is distilled pitiful end of all things.
There's a million more wrongs. The air is stale. It's either too hot or too cold.
It's always crowded. Everywhere. There's people and even if there's silence it's not quiet.
He finds himself burying into his drawer and find the old pair of knots that are his headphones. Blocking out as much noise as he can. His playlists are a chaotic mix of random artists and genre's . When people say they listen to anything, they usually don't mean it like this. He avoids things he knows he liked when he was younger , and he avoids others altogether because they remind him of Maven. He can't afford to get entangled again. Too vulnerable. He's in too deep again. And yes, there is the outspoken proposal , the three magic words. But not now. Not like this. He can't say that back.
Maybe it's just the fact he can't sleep in anymore, being lazy to the core. Maybe it's just he's not really used to stay put in one place . He never was particularly fond of school, caught in a room, or work. But at least he had friendly faces around the last times. Cameron had a fixed spot and he misses that. His sister is around here, but she's so busy she might as well walk through him.
At least he's used to people treating him like filth, so not much change on that front. They're not unfriendly. Even polite most times. But they couldn't care less. He's worth less than the coffee machine or the smoke breaks. He does not blame them.
Last year around this time he was black and blue and freezing. He tries to find something valuable in the efforts. It works to a certain extent.
It's the same routine everyday. Ashen grey faces in the morning, standing in line to pass along checkpoints. A robot voice announces the train. Feet shuffling in. They were are like cattle and he hates himself for even thinking something about people that have never done him harm. But that's just it. They never do anything. They look away and hope things stay in the way they know them. It's a pain they can understand and a burden they can bear. Better than uncertainty.
His legs hurt a little from the running and his neck is sore. He eats and sleeps just to repeat. His scarce free time is filled with him hanging around his friends, drawing or trying to unravel the relationship he has with Maven. He feels like it's going to bury him under the weight. There's truths outspoken, finally. And lies told to faces he wants to trust and respect.
He carries on, only because he has to.
The elevator hums when he gets in one morning. The usual day and night, eating , sleeping, listening to a voice on the phone until he falls asleep. He doesn't say good night most times, just getting lulled in by a whisper and the familiar breathing. Some helpless part wants nothing more to actually fall asleep together, close and right with arms circling each other. Waking up because hair tickles your nose or someone warm moves beside you. He squeezes into the farthest corner from the snapping metal doors.
It's pleasantly empty this time. Up until the next stop, that is. At first, a woman and a man in black enter. Thomas squeezes tightly into his corner. Because they radiate the intimidating aura of people able to bash your head in. Then there's a frame in black and blue and Thomas freezes.
He's thought he would be angry or panicking if he ever saw her again. He feels cold. And helpless. Because he knows he can't say anything. Instead he grinds his teeth behind his tightly shut mouth and glances over.
Her eyes are sharp and stinging. They are as blue and vicious as he remembers. They remind him very much of her son. He takes after her in many ways. Her hair is tightly pulled back into a knot, not braided like the last time they met. There's grey on her temple, along the ashen line of hair, only slightly visible, but there nonetheless.
Only for a tiny fraction of time their eyes lock. There's recognition and spite and Thomas feels his teeth grinding so hard he could be chewing rocks.
If she feels anything at all she is not letting it show. Why would she? She made her opinion on him so very clear.
And he's nothing. She told him that and he will never forget.
He wonders how much she knows. If she is going to be a problem. Until now he avoided even thinking about her. Maven had it covered, it seemed. Finding excuses to stay out or leave, answering the phone in a perfect manner not letting anything show.
Now he's in her gaze and she is a vulture. He thought of her as a bird of prey the first time he saw her from afar. It hasn't changed a bit.
He can't stop staring at her, merely an arm length away. The elevator rumbles upward and it seems to take an eternity until the doors open again and she steps out, with her usual stride, heels clicking.
He stares after her, catching a whiff of her perfume. It burns in his nose.
His hands are tightly clasped at his sides. The day is ruined.
"Does your mother know we meet again?"
"I didn't explicitly tell her." Comes the pondering answer from the other side of the call. "But I am sure she notices discrepancies in my usual schedules."
"So that's a yes?"
"I don't understand your concern. You didn't care until now."
"Did I ever tell you she casually waited for me in that summer to threaten me?" It runs in the family, he thinks. Pretty mean. He banishes that thought into a dark corner of his mind.
"I am certain you never mentioned that." It sounds stifled and Thomas can imagine the muscles on the neck twitching in an effort to stay without showing any reaction. "But it does sound like something she would do. She always was persistent."
"Not what I would call it." Thomas huffs. " But okay."
"I suggest you let it go." Maven ends the discussion with mildly displayed coldness. Behind that, Thomas is sure, is a lot of hurt and anger. And much more problems than he is able to handle.
He can't let it go. His sister finds him in the middle of the night like she often did since they moved in, on a chair in the kitchen with the laptop. Taking on the bad habit of staring at the screen again. Like it holds the secrets of the world. He looks at Elara Merandus face. At the lines in her face.
If he had the chance, what would he even say? He's not a good talker. She'd always have the upper hand. But if there isn't a load he wants out.
If anyone ever tried to keep the old ways it is her. She seems like a driving force when it comes to all this mess.
And doesn't it fit?
He remembers the night of the bombs and presses his eyes together when the images come back. The flames and the smell, the burning car and the smoke. A head smashed into the asphalt next to him, red blood sprinkled over the ground.
"Tommy, you're doing it again." She says, blinking confused and hazy, dragging herself to the sink.
"I know. I just.." He studies the face on the screen one last time, her eyes and the way she holds her head like she is indeed the queen of the world. "I met her yesterday. At work?"
"She owns half the city, including that company. And Blonos is a bootlicking flatterer."
He hums, in agreement or discomfort , he is not sure.
"I am sorry you had to go through with it." She says, touching his shoulder slightly.
"Nah, not your fault." He holds onto her hand. It's warm and smooth, nails polished white and clean. His are calloused and rough in comparison, nails dirty half moons ."Was just angry."
"You know people work hard to change things." She says, hair flowing wild around her face. She looks young and fragile in the small cone of white light.
"Yeah." He wonders what she sees when she looks at him. If he's still the same boy that his father insists he will always be. A failure and a fraud.
"No, really. " She blows a strand of hair out of her face. "It takes a lot organization and work to keep the lot together. Don't underestimate that. People are scared. Building their courage is hard. Politics are not just protests."
"Probably." He agrees. He knows she is right. It's the reason he sees his friends not as much as he wants. And never really gets to keep them.
"Go to bed, Tommy. It's late." She whispers, pressing a small kiss on his tousled hair. He breathes the touch in. It's the most comfort he has felt for a while. He's more glad than ever he decided to take her offer and move in with her.
He still hasn't shown up at home and rarely calls or shoots a message. She's the only family he has at the moment. Which makes some things unbearable.
He catches her sight at work sometimes, but she is mostly busy and he doesn't try to interrupt. He doesn't need to ruin chances for her too.
One day he catches her again in the hallway, but she's not alone. There's an elderly man next to her and they talk. He looks faintly familiar, and Thomas remembers his face because he's one of the higher end. Blonos. Silver.
His sister is grabbing papers with both her hands like they are a lifebelt.
Blonos looks at her like she's nothing better than some pretty jewellery, or furniture. Definitely not like a human being. It's creeping right under his skin.
His hand remains inappropriate long on her shoulder. Then it wanders down even further. It moves slowly over her back.
To his surprise his sister doesn't do anything. He thought she'd hit him, but she doesn't even step away. She's lowering her dark eyes and waits until he moves away.
If this was about him he could be able to shrug it off, play it down and bury it with the rest of all the ballast. He's used to the cuts and burns. But not her. Not his sister. She always cared. Sure she could be mean and bossy as older siblings can be but she always cared. Always looking after him.
Anger is coiling under his skin. It's gripping him tightly. He's not one to start a fight. Or win one. But he wants now.
"Hannah," he musters to say, jaw clenched. "Does he do that often?"
"Tommy, stop." She tries to brush it off. " It's nothing."
"You're preaching about equality and rights, and now you take some dude in your office treating you like THIS?"
"He's harmless." She tries again. It sounds weak. She's clearly uncomfortable with it.
"You're not meat." He mutters. "You gotta complain or shit."
"I can't afford to get fired."
"Why would they fire you?"
A strand of hazel hair has escaped the knot in her neck. She brushes it behind her ear.
For a second Thomas and Hannah are standing in the hallway and he thinks they are kids again. The way she stares him down, not wanting to tell him things that could harm him. Scolding him for doing something stupid. But he's not a child anymore. And he isn't irresponsible . This is another wrong on the list.
"Do I need to get someone you are actually listen to? Like Farley? Or even Cameron?"
"I think Cameron has enough on her plate as it is." Hannah says, sympathetic.
Thomas furrows his brow. "What are you talking about? She's good. She has a home. She makes friends."
"Do you actually know anything about the girl you call your best friend?" Hannah says, voice hard.
"We don't do past and shit." He avoids her eyes for a moment. " She hates talking about that."
True enough, he knows nothing about her. She doesn't talk. The scars and her crooked long fingers tell tales, but he never dared to ask. When he does she blocks and he knows she won't say a word.
Her brother has always kept along that line. And they aren't as close.
"Visit her." She says. " And ask where her brother is."
Thomas grabs his sisters hand not ready to get distracted by her words.
"Next time," Thomas promises. "Next time I see him treat you this way. Or even breath in your direction. I'll not step down."
Hannah is silent. But she presses his hand for a friction of a second before letting go.
The house is creaking and bending, as most in the neighbourhood. There's cracks in the street and loose cobbles. Water gurgles down the gully. It has been raining non stop the last day. There's still fog clouding the world. He shivers in his coat as he makes his way down the road, keeping an eye out. If there's any place screaming to be robbed or mistreated, it's this part for sure. Oh does it feel like home. It even smells the same. Garbage and rubble, dust and dirt. Rain and river.
He expects the elderly woman opening the door. Nanny, Lightning called her when he tickled the information about Cameron's whereabouts out of her.
People always know more than he does. Like he can't be trusted. It's probably for the best.
"Hello. I was looking for Cameron?" Thomas says, mustering all the politeness he was taught.
"That's stupid." He hears a sour voice say. "And bullshit."
Nanny looks back. "I am sure you've guessed she's here. Come on in. Down the hallway."
"No mistaken in that rudeness." Thomas smiles a little. He feels a little less nervous.
"It's her superpower." Nanny says, following him through the hallway like a trusted guard.
Thomas chuckles. "Accurate."
