Despite him knowing how to run and hide, this is all a lot more complicated. And not just on the personal level. It's not as idealistic and heroic as people make it out to be. He was aware of that. He's not delusional enough to think there is no spilled blood and tears and no casualties on every side. He's also not spiteful enough to take it as given. But he's stupid enough to think he can outrun the trouble. He's not entirely right.
He's no skilled fighter. He lacks prowess, discipline, and many other traits to make it. His only strength is he can endure. He takes physical and verbal hits again and again and somehow he survives.
He learns all of this the hard way the first night after all the lies spread through the screen and he knows he has lost the last chance to make the pretty boy turn around and get off the agenda.
It's deadly silent in the streets. He moves along the shadows of the walls, but eyes seem to be everywhere.
Small strikes, one at a time, but spreading, good old guerilla stuff, because numbers and equipment are never in their favor.
Fish boy is in the bad position to tag along with him, and Thomas is glad because alone his rabbit heart would make him cower and hide. He's so nervous he hears his heartbeat loud and clear through the silence.
"Sorry, you gotta babysit me," Thomas whispers, pressing himself in the cover. "I know you should be on the front lines."
"First night and all. Wouldn't want to scrub you off the floor. "Warren answers and Thomas feels a pang of gratitude.
"Yeah." Is all Thomas says. "Owe you one."
He stares at the sky and listens. No sound. The city has closed its eyes again, it seems, as it does when there's trouble. Like a hedgehog forming a spiky ball.
In the next second, a sound like a thousand gunshots ripples through the streets. Like roaring thunder and lightning bolts twitching over the sky. Thomas remembers the sound from the night he was getting deliberately in trouble.
And with an aching sound, the lights are out. There are three whole blocks without it.
There's red light flaring up. And then another loud crashing sound.
"I guess the eagle has landed," Thomas whispers.
"Wait," Warren says. "The eagle? I thought we agreed on code blue."
"No no, we didn't. You just said it." Thomas shakes his head and follows when they venture further.
"The horse is in the barn?" Kilorn suggests.
"Nah." Thomas scratches his chin. "But I also like The turd is in the punch bowl."
" We have a splashdown."
"Valid, dude. I never thought about it."
Everything goes straight and perfect after that. At least that's what it seems like.
From the times he tagged along with the guys smearing the walls and decorating buildings with red suns he knows it's never safe. Not even remotely. And silence can be deceiving. It can be an enemy worse than any weapon.
The air is pushed out of his lung when an arm shoves him back and Thomas freezes in the shadows, half hiding behind a dumpster.
There's a static radio noise and they both hold their breath.
The slightest sound of heavy boots down the road.
He stares at the black gun and the steel.
But then again, one side glance and he knows there will be no fight. They aren't suicidal. Well, Thomas could argue he IS, in some weird twisted way. And the other side has enough bullets to kill every one of them three times.
A pair of green eyes is signaling very clear that the danger is real.
Thomas can only agree silent, hoping he's not looking as panicking as he feels.
That's not the usual patrol. Thomas remembers the police cars creeping over the streets in the dead of night, the floodlights and the noise. This is much quieter. It's like they are waiting instead of running a parameter.
Not part of the plan, Thomas thinks.
That's when the alarm blares in the distance.
"Back." Is all Warren says.
And Thomas runs. He runs like he never has run before, not even on his rooftop nights. He sprints and huffs and his galloping heartbeat is intertwined with the staccato of his feet on the asphalt. They run until the lights fade into a blinking small point, like a star in the night sky. Though in the city there's only smoke and clouds, and the crackling electricity never lets stars shine. It cloaks the sky in too many bright spots, trying to burn it out.
He turns left, running through an alley, kicking a piece of trash when he comes to halt. The fence is at least three meters high and made of wire. He claws into it with force, feeling the breath of the danger on his neck. And also the breath of another person, for that matter.
There's the loudest of bangs. Thomas' hands pull him up. He used to climb fences and walls last summer. Squeezing through tight openings and small holes, like the rat he was. His fingers hold onto the metal weaving with ease. But then something cuts in his hands. Barbed and sharp, the metal claws and fights back. He manages to slide over, and his leg scratches over the metal too. That's when the fence shakes over the force of the grip.
He stumbles and his bloody hands can't hold on. With a crashing sound, he falls, half expecting to break his neck.
All that happens is that he plants face down on the ground. He blacks out for a moment and there's a pain shooting through his leg, confusing, because why the leg and not the head or his bloody hands?
An arm pulls him up, and Thomas balances dangerously on one leg because it freaking hurts.
„What did I say about not wanting to scrub you off the floor?"
There are the slightest amusement and relief flowing through them and Thomas smiles a little. The pain reaches his face through it. A burning sensation.
Good thing my face is ugly already, he thinks to himself, wondering how many times someone has punched him or how often he'd had it like this.
„But maybe I just like being picked up," he says and really can't believe it. It reminds him of the bold senseless days before his heart was black and blue, beaten to a pulp.
„You make it too hard for yourself if you have to sail down like a dying swan."
„I'm open to suggestions." Thomas huffs and treads carefully on his ankle. It feels like someone has bent it the wrong way. He limps through."Cause judging by the long list of lies piling up on me I am pretty sure I have No good taste when it comes to that shit."
That night stretches until people return to the hideout, and Thomas is relieved to find out he's having it the worst of all. He knew there were no casualties, but that doesn't mean every one would be in one piece. Lightning has a scratch on her cheek, but it's nothing bad. At least not physically.
His ankle is sprained, but at least not too bad. Jumping and running is still not in. So the first night is the last. For now.
He still crawls and limps around, restless and feeling useless. Hanging around other people's places and the hideout. He never stays longer than a few hours a day, watching grey clouds and dying leaves on the way back home.
He's part of the core, just not in any vital way. Thomas is like that intestine no one really needs but still has stuck in their body.
Despite his nervousness, people remain friendly and civil, even when he's making the worst jokes and not helping his case with his never closed mouth.
Maybe it's just because he says what everyone thinks anyway.
Some people make it painfully obvious if it was up to them they'd not let him even do that. Maybe out of care, maybe because they are still pissed he kept running to Maven. Bad news spread fast. There's sympathy too because he's clearly as fucked over as any of them.
It's irritating him, and he feels like people watch him with pity now.
Not like anyone would dare to say anything except some few exceptions.
He promises to be smarter and Farley lets him off the hook for now. He doubles his efforts to impress her. Because there's enough punishment for him already.
Lightning and Cameron have some jabs but they are mostly pointed in the other direction. Especially Cookie Cameron.
"Told you, asshole."
"You hate silver people in general. And you had that selfie idea."
"That was before I knew you were mooning over that..." She searches for the right word in her inexhaustible well of slurs. " You never said his name. Pretty Boy is a debatable term."
"Dunno," Thomas shrugs. "he's chiseled out of evil marvel. Have to give him that."
"Don't have to give him ANYTHING." She scowls.
"Yeah, I get it." And he does. Kind off. "You were a loyal cookie. You deserve that tattoo if I survive all this shit."
"You better, moron. " She rams his shoulder hard and he laughs.
He watches the careful steps, the bruised faces, and tired eyes and he hopes, when this is over, this people won't have fallen. That's not what any of them deserve.
He's particularly worried for Lightning and a little for whatever it is with her and guys.
It's a little Cal sprinkled with a mix of Warren and a big fat portion of unhealthy bullshitting Maven.
People like us, he thinks bitter, don't mesh so well. We can try, but in the end, who's to say we choose the same road?
As someone who was in love and still feels the strings pulling him inside, onto someone telling lies about him, he is an expert for unrequited love. Poor Warren, This is at least not as unhealthy. There's some respect for it. And clearly, there's some other feelsy stuff involved. He thinks of his platonic infatuation for Cookie Cameron and their protective ways. It's just the same with those two. A thunderstorm attracts attention, Thomas guesses, feeling easy around Lightning because she's got the spine he lacks.
Maybe that's just the tied knot of heartache talking.
He's tired of it. He's tired and very, very pissed. If Maven was to walk the same road, he'd probably punch him straight in his face.
His fingers curl into a fist at the thought.
The problem is, he'd feel bad for doing it in the aftermath because the part of Thomas that always regretted leaving can't get over it.
Get over it. What a thing. Tell the ocean to back off or the rain to stop cause you don't have an umbrella.
With his leg injured he returns to his pencils and to his surprise there's so much bottled up inside he can feel it needs to come out.
There's a flaring red light in the sky over the city, and another image of Barrow, all hard lines, and sharp edges.
No more monsters. Only people.
„Seriously tho," Thomas says on evening on that grumpy old couch he spent the hangover night on. He leans back and gnaws at his lip. "how can you say that? It's the better movie?"
„I feel I shouldn't have asked you a question about movies." Barrow answer, drinking from her bottle, shaking her head and sending some longer strands flying.
„Yeah well, it's not Empire strikes back, that's for sure. But that's only cause I haven't seen it as much. „Thomas continues unfazed by the way she shrugs it off. "I have seen this movie so often I can't say if there's anything I won't notice."
"Did you know," Kilorn says from the other side, crossing his legs. Thomas looks up, oddly and painfully reminded of his movie nights with Maven and the unearthly amount of trivia that boy's head used to hold. "Darth Vader is Luke's father."
"Nooo," Thomas exclaims with as much disbelief as he can muster. "Now you SPOILED it, Fish boy."
"I am so sorry."
Thomas rolls his eyes. "As if."
He puts the phoenix down the wall.
Then he takes the ruined shirt and the one with the comic image on it that he got to keep. He stuffs it all in a bag. The last thing that gets in there is a maroon colored book. Bought by another Maven for another Thomas. For a while he thinks he's going to lose it, curling together in a tight ball. In the end, it's just a bag full of things disappearing in the drawer. It's not even the memory. That stays regardless of a picture or a book. Like the pain in his chest.
After a while, there's no more Thomas the addict talk at least. People will remember, he's sure. But one punch was apparently enough for Maven, just making sure Thomas understands he's going to purge him if he ever threatens or attempts to stop him again.
Thomas understands very well.
You win. I give up. I hope you celebrate.
Is all he writes and turns the phone off.
In the end, all Thomas would have to do to see Maven's face is to tune in on one of the streams or maybe just the news, seeing him lurk behind his mother while she stands straight and vicious in front of a camera.
There'd be an endless well of those, but he doesn't want to listen to the words anymore.
They are disturbing and well chosen. People eat it up. People find it discouraging. Sometimes he remembers how she threatened him. He can imagine she would be overjoyed to know he was miserable. He was worthless in her eyes. Some part of Thomas gladly believed what she said and engraved it deep in his head.
He doesn't want to look at this face. Because he knows every crack and every line, every little bit of skin under his fingertips. And he still is not sure if he knows anything. All in for self-hatred, he said to Cal and Lightning, but somewhere, he draws the line. It's time, finally.
It's not only the city. It's everywhere. There's ash in the air and dead tired gray faces on the streets the further this all continues.
Doesn't help there are raids again and his friends have to move every once in a while not to get caught.
No one bothers with a lowlife like him. But that only means that no one will really care if he dies too.
The first time he holds a gun he's seriously freaked out.
"I'll shoot myself, Diana. I swear."
Her eagle eyes are the only reason he hasn't shot himself in the foot in the attempt to NOT shoot himself in the foot. "It's safe."
"That's not making it better." He breaths and his scarred fingers grip the hilt like it's a fragile baby kitten. "I know I asked. But I am fucking scared right now."
The second time is a little better. He's still staring at his hands like he can't believe he's actually doing this.
The first time he actually pulls the trigger he puts the weapon away like he just burned his hand.
"Not too bad." Farley says. "Hold it a little higher. And don't look at me like I want to cut off your head."
He doesn't attempt to shoot a lot. He doesn't take it with him. He's not too keen to keep a gun close. But should he ever need one , better to know how to use it, isn't it?
"If you push the button," Thomas threatens. " I swear, Fish boy, you'll regret it."
"What?" Warren asks innocently enough. "This button?"
"You're last and can't win! Lemme have this!"
"You kicked me off last round."
"That was the heat of the moment." Thomas looks over to his right, were his fellow contestants sit on the bed. His sister's eyes stick to the screen, highly concentrated. Warren's finger lingers over the button that will end his feeble head start. "We need to stick together, Fish boy. Don't let her win. She's the enemy."
"Everything is fair in war and racing games." His sister glares at him with too much mockery.
"Pretty sure that's not how the saying goes, but ok. Just- Nooo!"
A blue thunder erupts on the screen and Thomas curses.
He could almost taste the triumph. With a defeated moan he throws the controller on the bed.
"Don't be a sore loser, Tommy." His sister balances the controller in her hand and smiles when her figure races in the finish with a cheer. She wins all the time. It's unfair.
"Boys, one of us has to work." Hannah gets off her edge of the bed. " See you later. And please let Tommy win once. Or he pouts."
"Wait, you let me win on purpose?"
"Sometimes." She says and kisses his head. " Cause I love you."
"Ugh." Thomas throws himself back and stretches his legs. It hurts only slightly. "My life is a lie!"
Nothing about some dramatic exclamations once in a while.
For a while, Thomas just stares at the ceiling listening to the blaring sounds. WHen he looks over he finds Kilorn watching.
"How's your ankle?"
" Fine, really. But thanks for asking. And..." He feels wrong all over. There's weight piling over the hollow of his chest and with as much disdain as surprise he recognizes he actually enjoys the attention. He remembers the puppy love street rat Thomas held for a boy in a blue sweater. The weeks of pursuing and following on the promise to talk and not let go. He's realizing he might never feel it again. But that he enjoys himself nonetheless. There's something normal and casual. It doesn't need pursuing. It just happens. He's always going for the lost cases, it seems. Cause after that first jokes Thomas is sure enough about himself to know he's somehow interested in a way he hasn't anticipated. At least there are no sneering and dirty fights. And it's not like there is any indication there could ever be something. They have it friendly and punny. It's easy. Thomas takes the laughter and the time and doesn't aim for anything. He's not sure he can take another rejection. How could someone ever be remotely interested? He remembers the feeling very well from all the months he was sneaking in places he didn't belong to be with someone he could never keep. How could a galaxy ever care for one tiny star? He used to ask himself. Some things stick. Even when they shouldn't.
"Thanks for stopping by."
It's not a sun eruption in his chest. But it doesn't have to be. His heart is a bruised and battered old veteran. It will always hurt. He's not willing to let go of the memories, the sunshine, and the kisses, he's even welcoming the remainder of a mouth on his and hands desperately clutching. If only because it tells him a story how not to do things. Maybe sometimes things aren't meant to be. It's no like in movies with things wrapped up neatly after the third act. It's confusing and frustrating.
Get over it, people say. Well, that's not really happening. But maybe someday. Maybe if this is all over and he's finding a happy place. Maybe then he'll call and someone will pick him up, and maybe they'll just spend a normal evening. Or maybe he'll just stay alone. Who knows.
There's something normal and casual. It doesn't need pursuing. It just happens. It happens with Fish boy but it happens with Lightning and Cameron and all the others too. He's part of something. Thomas feels strange acknowledging that. He's never been part of a group. He was the loner. He was the dude dropping out. He was the one holding back, running or refusing. Even when people fed him and treated him like a stray cat, trying to lure him in, he never ever really stayed despite his admiration.
Yeah, life is shitty. Yeah, he's heartbroken and clinging to a crush that'll never happen just cause it makes things a little different. You know, when you can't have something or lose someone, you cling to something that could distract the pain. Rebound or whatever people call it.
Yes, people suffer. And it will only turn worse with every waking hour.
There's still a grain of good things in everything, isn't there? Has to be. Somewhere.
Thomas picks up the controller once more.
"Come on. Revanche. If you let me win on purpose I'll be pissed tho."