In The Clear: Introductions V
Noam Steiner, 18, Ottawa ON
Noam strides confidently up the front steps before pausing at the door. He has the sudden urge to knock before pulling a face at the mere stupidity of that suggestion. This is his house, or more accurately his mom's house. He might not have visited for the past two years, but he still lives here.
He has every right to walk through this door.
Noam grabs hold of the handle and takes a deep breath. He knows by the car in the driveway that she's here, but is unsure if the school has already called. With any luck, Noam will be the one to tell her exactly what happened to bring him home three months early. He'll just have to be sure to explain away the broken nose and fresh cast. Not a problem.
He smiles as he steps forward, pushing on the door handle at the same time. Unfortunately he didn't account for it being locked. Noam's nose hits first along with a string of spat curses that are tinged with blood. Fuckin shit. He stumbles back, clutching both hands to his face. Dumb stupid shit. Noam slips into the garden just beside the stairs and swears loudly as a clay pot smashes under his back. He can practically feel the slivers stuck in his skin, but all he can do is groan as he stares up at the sky.
Who the fuck locks their door in fucking Indiana?
Noam lays there contemplating the sharp ache in his nose until a man leans into his view. He doesn't recognize him, but by the look of the dirt staining his shirt he's probably the gardener. He watches Noam for a moment before raising an eyebrow and walking away.
"Helpful," Noam huffs as he pushes himself up. To say that he expected a better welcome is a vast overstatement, but he figured he'd at least get his story out before being covered in dirt. Plus, burying him in the front garden would be way too obvious.
He doesn't bother to brush himself off as he staggers to his feet. Noam takes one look at the suitcase posed in some huge pink flowers and bursts out laughing. He waves a dismissive hand in its direction. If anyone else feels like going flower-picking, they can bring his shit to his room.
Noam looks up and smiles as his mom steps outside. She has both arms wrapped around her cardigan and as much of a frown as her botox allows. He goes in for a high five, but she doesn't even flinch. If looks could kill, he'd be back in the garden for sure.
"Ayo, mom! What's up?" Noam smiles so hard it feels like his teeth might fall out. "I just came to-"
She puts up her hand to stop him. "Save it. Brewster Academy already called me."
"Oh, so that's the name of the school," he snorts. "Good to know."
"Noam."
"What?"
She clenches her teeth. Even after the two years they've spent apart, Noam already knows what's coming. It's been just the two of them since he was nine and she decided that marriage wasn't for her. Noam's three siblings stayed with their dad in Ottawa. Somehow she ended up with the short end of the straw and got Noam.
The only thing they've ever had in common was collectively nicknaming his dad a fucking prick. Beyond that, it's hard to believe they're even related. "For once, once Noam, would it kill you to try?"
"Probably." He rolls his eyes. Noam's used to her anger, both his parents disappointment, and every other negative emotion that's kicked his way. It's not his fault they expect too much. It's not his fault that his siblings have talents in something while Noam's sole bragging rights come from the skate park. It's not his fault that they should've stopped at three kids but got greedy.
He refuses to let her words touch him.
Noam's been back in Ottawa for exactly eleven and a half days. If someone told him that spending another day here would kill him, he'd both believe it and be grateful.
He refuses to stay shuttered in his room, not because he wants to see his family but because his dad has turned it into Noah's fucking office. His older brother woke him up at the ass crack of dawn today because of some important meeting. If their dad hadn't tossed out Noam's old drum kit, he would've made it everyone's problem.
Instead, he's just sitting in the dining room with a Mass Effect playthrough blaring in his headphones. He has a copy of the game upstairs, but truth be told he has little interest in actually playing. Forcing his dad to buy it on the pretense of keeping Noam occupied, however, never gets old.
An email pings through at - what Noam can only describe as - the volume of a hundred yappy little dogs being kicked. He switches to that tab without thinking, but what he sees stops him cold. Noam pulls the headphones from around his ears and throws them across the table.
"Dad!" Noam shouts. He looks around quickly but sees no other member of his family. "Dad! What the fuck?"
He starts to move back to the laptop but stops. He knows what he saw, looking again isn't going to change that. It was his registration confirmation for The Darrow School in New Lebanon, New York.
It hasn't even been two fucking weeks.
"Dad!" Noam shouts again. He doesn't know exactly what he plans to say, but mostly he just needs to yell right now. This is the first time he's visited his dad in four years. Less than two weeks and he already can't handle it. Eleven days and Noam's already going to be shipped off again. "Dad!"
"Noam!" He spins around to find his sister, Tamar, staring at him. "He's not here, what's going on?"
"You said you'd fucking talk to him!" Noam accuses. He knew his dad would pull this shit eventually. He said as much to Tamar after their first blowup at dinner number uno. She said she'd do what she could to tie their dad's hands into letting him stay.
"I did," she says calmly. For all the shouts and screams that've always surrounded Noam, his sister is the picture of tranquility. She's the most reasonable of the family, which makes it almost laughable that she also seems to be his only ally in this house.
His oldest brother took off before Noam got expelled. Frankly, it's the smartest thing he ever did. The second oldest, Noah, on the other hand, is so far up their dad's ass Noam bets he couldn't leave without some major surgery.
"Clearly," Noam huffs.
Tamar steps around the table to collect the discarded headphone. She places them on the table and gives him an apologetic look. Noam looks away so he doesn't have to see it.
Can anyone really blame me?
As Noam speeds down the empty streets, that's all he can think. He's been at The Darrow School for just over three months, but it was only a matter of time. He wasn't about to turn down free drugs nor the free money that came with them. Call him an entrepreneur. In fact, that probably runs in his family along with being pretentious, egotistical, and generally fucking boring.
Well, his ingenious business launch hit a bit of a bump in the road a few hours ago. Naturally, the only thing Noam could do was steal his roommate's Volkswagen and make a break for it. At least he doesn't regret that yet.
What he does regret is not bringing some kind of map with him… or bothering to learn how to use a map in the first place. He continues down another highway he doesn't recognize. Noam never went very far off The Darrow School's property let alone explore any other city in New York state.
Can anyone blame me?
There's not much around, but the hours pass so slowly that Noam half-considers pulling off the road just for something to do. He approaches a set of lanes, each with a white arm blocking his path. Noam squints as he gets closer, but he's practically on top of one before he realizes. He swallows but, as he approaches, it opens to allow him through.
He breathes a sigh of relief until it hits him. He's somehow driven back to the Canadian border. They're not going to check him on the American side, but on the Canadian one which is coming up fast.
Noam pats his pockets but of course he doesn't have his passport. Not to mention the fact that there's at least three bricks of crack and a gun on the seat beside him. He barely remembers the stolen car until he's already tossing a brick out his window.
Fuck. Noam watches the toll booths get closer. He can't just turn around, he's on a goddamn one-way bridge. He slams his fists against the steering wheel, but that surprisingly doesn't solve anything.
He swallows. He doesn't see anyone outside…
Noam pushes the gas pedal to the floor before the thought can even manifest. The Volkswagen flinches but obeys, lurching forward with the same pitch of a dozen angry cats. He crashes into the arm and the front of the car crumples. Noam doesn't remember being suckerpunched by the airbag, but suddenly the air is filled with a grainy powder.
He sees two men running out of the toll booth. Noam isn't thinking, and he can't even truly blame it on whatever concussion he no doubt just sustained. He reaches across the seat and flips the gun into his grip. He doesn't check to see if the gun is loaded, in fact wouldn't know how even if he thought to do so.
Noam fires twice. He sees one of the men go down, but the other doesn't stop. He sees him pull something from his belt and then the window shatters in front of Noam's face. Noam shoves the broken door open and the gun clatters on the concrete in front of him.
He joins it a second later as electricity shoots into his back. Noam screams as every muscle pulses and his face slams into the ground. A combination of tears, blood, and snot fills his sinuses. Noam is pulled from the ground by an entirely new set of officers as more sirens wail in the distance.
"Hey, hey," Noam says as they slam handcuffs around his wrists. He's half-dragged to a cruiser as it pulls up beside the toll booth. Another shove from behind and his forehead slams against the car's roof. "Easy."
"You're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent-" The officer continues to drone on, but Noam doesn't hear most of it. He looks at the crumpled Volkswagen and the flashing lights still approaching. When Noam looks behind them, he can still see the bricks of crack sitting halfway up the bridge.
Wow, I can't believe they're really blaming me?
Vasilisa "Vasi" Zhukalova, 18, Montreal QC
As Vasi comes slowly back to consciousness, their first thought is that they've gone blind. In the darkness, the memories come tumbling back - a crouched figure over their bed, a hand clamped over their lips. Perhaps that's the reason for the terrifying visit. Perhaps all along they planned to scoop Vasi's eyeballs out as part of some sick organ parade.
Thankfully, opening their eyes resolves the situation pretty quickly. The cellar that they find themself in is dark, but they can make out some shadows. Their eyes are still firmly in their skull as far as Vasi can tell.
There's also a man watching them from a couch in the room's corner.
Vasi's heart pumps in their ears as he approaches. His clothes are dirty but untorn, his face aged but curious. "Good morning, Vasilisa."
And within minutes of meeting them, he's already said exactly the wrong thing.
"Call me that again and you'll wish you scooped my eyes out, you fucking weirdo." The words tumble out without time to turn them over. It's not like Vasi would've said any differently with time to think about it, but they might've lowered their voice.
Who are you kidding? Point taken.
The man's brows furrow as he watches them. He seems surprised in more than a few ways, which is actually comforting. He might know their name, but he so clearly knows little else about them. The only people that call them by their full name are their parents, and that's not for lack of trying on Vasi's end.
The Zhukalova still believe that whatever cave Vasi crawled out of as a baby actually granted them a normal daughter. There are countless photos of a tiny, frill-coated child framed all over their estate, but nothing past the age of six. Apparently that's when they first took the back end of a hammer to their dainty little dresses.
Still, their mother tried everything. If she put even a single percentage as much effort into actually meeting Vasi that she put into perfecting her daughter… maybe things would've been different. Maybe Vasi wouldn't have woken up in this cellar with equal parts fear and morbid curiosity because at least it's not home.
Maybe they wouldn't be a bit relieved not to be laying under a canopy of fluffy tulle.
Hours go by and that feeling only strengthens. He hasn't hurt them except by practically boring them to death. He seems to have a certain fascination with their parents, but truthfully Vasi doesn't know a whole lot of what he's asking. Vasi knows they work in real estate. They know they're involved somehow in provincial politics because they're always being thanked for their generosity.
That's… about it.
Finally, Clement seems to have had enough. He stands towards the direction of a single door and sighs heavily. "You'll only be here until a ransom's worked out with your parents. Make yourself comfortable."
Vasi practically snorts in response. They can't imagine their parents paying any sort of price to get them back. More than a few times there have been discussions about paying to send them away to some boarding school. The only thing that stopped them is how it would look to their wealthy friends.
Heaven forbid the Zhukalova family be anything but perfect.
"Good luck," they say finally. "I probably have thirty bucks in my pocket and that's still more than they'd give you."
Clement pauses. He watches Vasi for long enough that the sneer finally melts from their lips. Instead a lump forms behind their teeth. He looks at them with the same pity as their teachers but none of the condescension. He looks at them like, for whatever reason, he understands.
Vasi skips between the others in their cluster. It's far past curfew, but the streets of Ottawa are filled with chants and spotlights. Half of the protestors have glow sticks wrapped around their throats or threaded into their clothes. Vasi, of course, chose a mixture of green and yellow that looks positively radioactive against their dark clothing.
In a crowd of dozens running through unfamiliar city streets, Vasi has never felt more alive. It's been nearly two years since they've been anywhere close to Montreal. According to Clement, their parents rejected the ransom but Vasi's convinced he never even sent it over. Though he's never admitted as much, he wanted them. He kept them because he wanted to.
This is where Vasi belongs. They're not some rich mother's doll or a teacup dog to dress up. They're a person. They're fed up. For the first time since birth, they're free.
No one can take that away. By the looks of the odd newspaper articles that circulate regarding 'Vasilisa's' disappearance, everyone's practically stopped looking. Vasi's watched a few of their parents' interviews over the years and laughed. They didn't even look genuinely upset. They'd been more distraught when Vasi's knocked over their expensive vases.
Good riddance.
Everyone's happy now. They can pretend that Vasi never existed, that they never failed to have a child as perfect as they believe they deserve. Vasi can travel the country with The Children of Cizeron, fighting against the very things their parents eagerly fund.
They've learned about that too. The only reason Clement kidnapped them in the first place was to intercept some of the wealth that would be going to The Cut. That's the group's focus right now. They're going to put an end to the daycare death match. They are the only ones who can.
Poster bombs and picket signs aren't going to cut it.
The Children of Cizeron will not be silent.
Soon, everyone will have no choice but to listen.
Vasi's become absorbed in all of it over the past months. They've done everything Clement's asked of them and more. There's no need to strip themself of their morals because they were never there to begin with. Vasi doesn't care about the people they're fighting against. They don't care about the wealthy people prospering off the inequality.
They.
Don't.
Care.
They're angry but the Children have channelled that into something wonderful, something that Vasi can be proud of. The only thing they accomplished before this was not getting kicked out of their fancy private school, but even that was barely on them. This is something Vasi can do and they're not going to miss a beat.
Lost in the crowd they can't help but allow the adrenaline to rush over them. It's intoxicating, everything they never knew they needed but can no longer live without. They look around and all they see are ski masks staring back at them, but they've never felt more connected. It doesn't matter that they left their own mask back at the bunker. They feel safe in this crowd. These are the people Vasi was meant to meet. This is where they should've been born.
And they're never going back.
Vasi stares in the mirror many minutes longer than they're supposed to. They ignore the plush room, the pink carpets, and white drapes that frame the divine garden view. The only thing they want to see is the person looking back at them. The only parts they want to acknowledge are the ones that so clearly don't belong in this posh place.
Their shaking hands reach first for their lobes. Vasi's nails are still jagged and filthy, another thing that should be enough to bring an errant smile to their lips. In this unfortunately familiar place, however, nothing does and nothing will. They'd rather die than smile in this house. Vasi would never give their parents even that miniscule satisfaction.
They don't know why they even wanted them back. It's been two years and their parents barely looked for them. Maybe it's wrong of Vasi to blame them for that, but when you call the thing staring back from the mirror your daughter and you don't even try-
Vasi doesn't believe they have any right to them anymore.
Unfortunately the thin-browed judge overseeing their bail hearing begged to differ. Despite the filmed proof of Vasi's involvement in terrorism when they forgot a mask, money is enough to free them. No doubt, money was involved in the raid on the Children in the first place.
Now, they want Vasi here just long enough to remember what they're losing. Their parents want them to experience the culture shock of having everything and then nothing. Only then will they throw Vasi back to the only place they belong - a concrete cell.
Tears quiver in their eyes but they're not the sad kind. They're the defiant, the angry, the fuck-you-for-ripping-my-happiness-away-again kind of tears. They're not the ones that fall, but the type that sit in their eyes and make everything look like it's drowning. In fact, that's what Vasi feels like is happening in this place.
The exorbitant mansion, their polished parents that won't leave them alone, the tailored white dress waiting on the bed behind them. It feels like they're drowning in all the things they've never once wanted.
And all Vasi really wants are things they'll likely never see again.
"We should've gotten the doctor in to do this." They hear their mother chatter behind them, the loudest whisper that Vasi's sure they're meant to hear. "It'd have been faster."
"Can you just shut up?" Vasi shouts. They grip the counter so hard that the single grey earring atop it bounces. It'd be too generous to call it silver at this point.
"Language." Their father's warning tone doesn't strike the same nerve that it used to. In fact, it strikes an entirely different one, one that makes Vasi want to flip the entire vanity on its side just for daring to be in front of them.
"Fuck you," Vasi murmurs. They consider stopping and demanding to leave the piercings in but there's no point. Their parents will get them out one way or another. It might've been years since they last stepped foot in this house but they remember that much. The piercings will come out even if they have to put Vasi under to do it. At least they can be gentle with the ones that haven't healed yet if they do it themself. Hopefully they'll be able to shove a wire or something through the closed ones once they're in prison.
Prison - strangely enough the place they can't wait to go because at least it'll mean they're away from Westmount. It'll be another shining star on their parents' record. Not only did they lose their daughter, but now they're a felon.
Now that Vasi thinks about it, the term has a certain ring to it.
A/N: Back again! I hope you all had just as many laughs reading as I did writing this pair. We're now just over halfway done with these intro chapters and then we'll move along to pregames. If you have the time, I'd love to know what you think of Noam & Vasi.
Up next will be Omar & Madigan!
~ Olive