Layto: The First Act
Chapter One: We Won't Remember Meeting Like This
Yellow line always rocked when it came to a squeaky halt along the rails. Something about a trainway in the sky above the city streets already felt uneasy, but the way yellow line specifically swayed unlike the other lines always made her skin crawl. As if it might plummet to the asphalt suddenly she'd tense her muscles and peek out the window counting down the stops until hers.
Two more.
Although most of the stops looked the same with dingy tan painted steel platforms she knew by the little details. Which flickering, moth-attracting lights were present, whose gang graffiti plastered the support pillars, and sometimes by the smell alone. Her stop also had the homeless man Danny who held a sign in the daytime asking for: helb, God pless. She'd never given him anything besides the occasional sandwich sneaked out the back of the diner she worked at. Her growling stomach and overly sore feet that were attached to her equally sore legs reminded her every night that she worked too much for too little in return. Somedays Holly could swear she had noodles for limbs after long shifts. For the last two years, she had sacrificed any hint of decent living, nearly all her money went to savings… but not tomorrow.
Tomorrow was day one of her new life.
Tomorrow Holly Kingsley started as another freshman at the semi-prestigious Gotham University. Tomorrow she would take blue line rather than yellow to campus and tour the grounds, she daydreamed a moment about getting her schedules and moving into her new housing arrangements. Gotham University had been advertising their sports teams recently, pigskin football in particular, and all the college life ads had her wondering what it was truly going to be like as a student to higher learning.
She laid her head back not caring that her frizzy hair might touch the dirty steel floor of the train. Her ankle crossed one over the other while tapping her almost falling apart, duct taped sneakers on the window above her. A pair of faded grey checkered men's pajamas under her bright red and white server work dress kept her decent. Not like there was anyone in the train car to see her behave like a mis-mannered hooligan anyway. Holly draped an arm over her eyes – the smell of cheap daisy fresh deodorant, pungent fried eggs and at least one spilled espresso lingered on her arm. In the darkness all she could see was the haze of the day flashing by. Trying to find the kid menus as they screamed in their booths, order tickets piling up on the line, endless tiny white coffee cups, dollar bills left crumpled in the plastic jam condiment containers, and the back of her boss's balding head from the kitchen as she had to ring that damn'ed brass diner bell what felt like a hundred times over because he always forgot the side toast. After another long day of being polite to customers who did not deserve the time of day she hardly cared what some random that got on the train might think of her current state. Besides, the yellow line was usually empty at this late hour. It was reserved for the rare other workaholics, drunk deadbeats looking for a quick bar hop to avoid the cops or occasionally twitchy drug dealers. All of which typically kept to themselves.
1:10am and despite the swaying of the train car it stopped at the next platform right on time. The squeaking swish of metal pulling against rubber guards alerted her to the doors opening. Clink. Tap. Tap. Tap. It was the sound of shoes against the metal floor – not sneakers but shoes – that came afterward that was unusual. So, who of the three categories just got on the train with her? She pulled her arm away from her eyes slowly letting it flop listlessly onto the hard plastic, paint-chipped bucket chair next to her. Catching only the sight of a lanky body in a deep blue sweater vest turning away from her. Sitting as far away as possible before the train started to move again. The tucked briefcase in their lap was zippered opened and she could hear the distinct sounds of a ballpoint pen scratching on paper forming words with each scribble.
Another workaholic it seemed.
Perhaps it was sheer curiosity that caused her to keep staring from the upside-down perspective spot. The other person was blocked from view all save their shoes and peeking white socks. She could see the clean brown dress shoes very clearly motionless at the end of the car and after a moment the writing paused. Their left foot tapped, just once. As if annoyed. Holly made an expression between quirking an eyebrow and furring both together. Next that foot lifted; she assumed it crossed over the other leg – while the sounds of writing resumed. She let her curiosity go with a turn of her head to look back into the darkness past the windows. Though it was different than the darkness caused by her arm over her eyes. Instead, blips of light from the high-rise buildings went speeding by every few moments and did not invoke the events of a long day to flash through her mind.
It did not truly matter who they were if they weren't bothering her. That's what she thought anyway until her stop and saw that they had stood up too when she rolled over to her feet.
It caught her off guard when he looked her way, paused just a fraction of a second, and rolled his eyes before exiting the car. As if he thought she was the weird one about to be following him! Holly had paused mid-stride staring after him and nearly missed exiting the train, slipping out as the doors started closing. Gotham was full of weird ones and she supposed no one could be too safe, but she wouldn't lie to herself, she felt a tad insulted... In truth, it was not her intention to follow him. He was just ahead of her as he trotted down the multiple sets of stairs to ground level. And ahead of her as they walked down the street in the same direction. And ahead of her as they both were going to the same twenty four hour corner mart...
Fuck.
Perched on the very edge of an intersection was: The FOURWAY, some mom-and-pop ran corner mart. They had only stayed in business because they sold diesel and imported cigarettes through the spike in popularity. Holly lagged behind the lanky man several paces before leaning her back against the brick and mortar of the building. She dug around in her jean-jacket pocket and took out an opened pack of cigarettes; a cheap orange Pic lighter was packed inside the worn box. Taking one little white stick between her fingers and placing it to her lips Holly lit it up casually taking a long drag. She held the smoke briefly before blowing it out into the night air. The nicotine rush flooding her senses calming everything into shades of murky grey.
1:27am, while there was certainly less traffic it was still an adjustment for Holly to see cars passing by the intersection at this hour. The city was very much alive and awake unlike a sleepy small town - though perhaps awake as much as any drunk deadbeat dad might have been. One wrong move, one turn down a dark alleyway was all it took to find yourself in a world of trouble. Taking her mind from the nasty metaphor she watched the dive bar across the street as she smoked. Sober men and women went in and drunks came out. A mix of neon and traditional bulb lights lit up the front and she was certain something akin to rock n roll was blaring from within the walls. A couple minutes after finishing the smoke seemed an appropriate amount of time before going into the corner mart. Leaving the sight of the dive before she became too tempted to spend her money on beer instead of books seemed a wise course of action anyhow.
Holly flicked the orange filter end into a parking lot puddle while looking through the large panel windows to the inside of The FOURWAY. Not spying her train mate she opened the chiming door - Blrring - then turned an immediate right into the nearest aisle. One lined with single-serve canned soup, off-brand boxed mac n' cheese, Invisi-clean toilet paper, Meteor powder cleaner, cheap pain killers and an assortment of miniature soaps. She picked up the bottle of painkillers by her fingertips and gave it a disinterested rattle as if trying to see how full it really was. Silently looking at the three choices of canned soup she'd place the bottle of painkillers back.
Blrring.
The store door chimed again as someone else walked in. It caused her to lift on her tippy toes to curiously peek over the aisle. They had been some disgruntled looking man with a scratchy beard going straight to the liquor case on the opposite wall. One whom had likely been thrown out of the bar for drinking too much in the first place. Lowering back down she rounded the cap end of the aisle, looking down the next row of colorfully bagged chips and chocolates. Her hand plucked a bag of green pepper Jay's - always a new weird flavor with the brand - before she set them back in place. She could afford something for dinner tonight, right? Holly turned her head back towards where the canned soup had been shelved, soup and maybe a donut even? She had to stretch her last five dollars for the week and cigarettes had gone up yet another dime. Her hand reached lazily for another bag to examine... chips or a donu-
"That's horseshit!" The sudden volume cut through her inner thoughts and startled her. Her hand nearly crushing the bag she'd picked up to look at, "I'm obviously over fuckin' forty." The disgruntled man was at the front counter with his voice raised but not quite slurred, "Not gonna sell a man booze cause he ain't got no fucking ID with him, I told you man I left it in the fucking bar over there." Did he just spit on the countertop? Holly could hear his boots thudding out as he stormed red-faced to the doors, "Fuckin' asshole."
Blrring.
Gently putting the chips back into the same place on the shelf Holly rounded the cap end again and scooped up a can of condensed chicken noodle. With a turn of her head she could see out the panel window to the angry man as he jaywalked across the dark not-so-busy intersection towards the bar and darker alleyway beyond.
Just another normal night in this city.
As she neared the front counter with the can of soup in hand Holly picked up the distinct sounds of a ballpoint pen writing on paper. Her focus turned from the disgruntled jaywalking drunk and her eyes befell upon her awkward train mate instead. She could feel the sheepish pout form on her face and it took what was left of her willpower for that night to continue to the counter rather than walk out the door empty handed. There was a nametag neatly pinned to his deep blue vest and an attempt of hair pushed back, though it was slipping back toward his face now. He did not look up when she set the can on the counter, his left hand took it and scanned deftly as he continued to write with the other. Only briefly did his gaze flicker up to the register to confirm how much she owed, "Fifty seven cents."
Holly set down two dollars and slid it into his view next to the notepad, "Pack of red slims too." Then she put her hand back into her jacket to fish around for a quarter.
In silence he wrote a couple more words on the notepad then turned briskly around to the wall of cigarettes. Taking not but a moment to scan over the selection. Plucking out an off-white box with a thin red line down the right side he turned back around just as methodically. He set it next to the can of soup and for the first time Holly got a good look at his eyes behind a pair of plastic frames he wore, "ID-"
Blrring.
That disgruntled man had stormed back in, arm held out at length and between white-knuckled fingers a pistol haphazardly pointing at Holly. She'd turned just her eyes at the door's chime at first and after a short pause suddenly the ground was failing her, as if sinking away, or was the ceiling getting further away - was she shrinking? The hardwood floor said No to those preposterous thoughts. She'd fallen over herself, having subconsciously backed away and tripped over the duct taped shoes. Meeting her rear and palms of her hands on the floor she let out a squeaked noise from the impact. Her legs were pinpricks of novocain unwanting in any part to move sensibly now, knees bent inward trying to touch and her stomach twisted like a giant fluffy moth was attempting (and succeeding) to gnaw its way up and out. Holly could not remember how to breathe for a split second, willing it consciously in the next and all the pain catching up right after as her legs and stomach returned to normality.
Swiftly - as or perhaps just before she'd fallen, Holly was unsure - the barrel of the gun was turned from her to be upon the man behind the counter instead... All she knew was that the abyss of that dark barrel was no longer pointed at her by the time she could focus.
"Beer. Now." A motioning flick of the firearm was made in the direction of a case that was sitting tucked behind the counter.
Nevertheless, First Impressions Are Everlasting
Jonathan pinned a little white name tag that had his name in bold black onto his vest and smoothed back his hair. Staring at himself in the single restroom mirror he vowed he was never going to cover for someone's shift ever again; especially after pulling an all-nighter the previous night. But...
He needed those textbooks, and picking up an extra shift at this temporary job was not going to stop him. It was merely a bump in the road - an insignificant pebble - in the grand scheme of things. It would serve to put money in his pocket that his scholarships lacked. He could simply write notes during this grave shift, it was not as if he did not stay up studying until four in the morning on some nights... what was two in a row? How many ways did he require to convince himself that he was going to do this? He felt a yawn trying to claw its way from his lungs and up his throat.
Blrring.
For the textbooks, Jonathan told himself firmly as he heard the front door chime. The yawn let out unceremoniously and another deep breath taken in before exiting the restroom. Quietly Jonathan made his way to stand behind the front counter.
That girl from the train car was in the store - he could see the blurry red and white diner dress in the dingy ceiling mirror. Had she stalked him? Unlikely. Going to the same place, especially a twenty four hour business establishment that sold a variety of things, was no cause for alarm nor proof of a crime. Jonathan brushed off the thought. Instead, his hand reached under the counter grasping the leather handle of his briefcase, pulling it up onto the countertop. Unzipping it then pulling out the yellow college-ruled pad he had been writing upon Jonathan neatly set it out before fishing out a blue ink pen. Staring at the notes there was no mistaking his handwriting, yet he could simply feel his eyes straining to read after having been at it all day long. He let out a long sigh, refusing to let himself yawn, then rubbed his eyes under his glasses with the tips of his fingers.
Blrring.
The chime of the storefront door went off again and he pulled his hand away in time to watch a disgruntled man stalk past him toward the liquor case. A waft of cheap booze followed in his wake making Jonathan scrunch up his nose and narrow his tired eyes. The selection made by the man was quick. A cheap case of beer set on the front countertop, crushing his notepad and nearly his fingertips underneath.
Jonathan stared at the case for a long moment then silently pulled it closer - sliding out the notepad too - and set the case out of reach from the man, "ID sir." He was not hired for having good customer service tones. His voice was flatly disinterested, annoyed he could not get back to something vastly more mentally stimulating and worth his time. If this was any indication of how his night was going to go – dealing with drunks until the morning shift, he may as well just lock up and go home. To hell with the extra hours on minimum wage, he could find another way to get those books.
There had been a short pause as the man gave a lackluster pat down to his pants pocket for a wallet, "What the fuck you mean ID?" His head snapped up and face brimming with stupor bewilderment.
"If you do not have an ID I cannot sell you liquor." Selling the beer to the man without an ID was only half the issue, he was not supposed to sell booze to obvious drunks either.
"I must have left it over there," a thick calloused thumb jut towards the front door and supposedly to the bar across the street, "just sell me the damn beer."
"No ID, no sale." Jonathan lazily waved in a shooing motion towards the door. If the man wanted to drink he could keep doing it at the bar where he left his ID.
"That's horseshit! I'm obviously over fuckin' forty." The waving motion from Jonathan riled the man up more. His voice raised along with the red in his face getting brighter from anger. Jonathan could tell he was the type that was used to getting his way and if he didn't then he would bully or intimidate others into getting it. Not Jonathan however, never again was he going to let people like this drunkard do that to him. The man carried on ranting, "Not gonna sell a man booze cause he ain't got no fucking ID with him, I told you man I left it in the fucking bar over there."
"Then go get it." He spoke low and pointedly, motioning towards the door again.
A wet plop of saliva was spat at the countertop, throwing more of a tantrum the man gave Jonathan the nastiest gaze he likely could make, "Fuckin' asshole." His boots thudded out as he stormed red-faced to the doors.
Only when the man left did Jonathan roll his eyes, he felt the action happen more than consciously do it. Normally he would scold himself whenever he rolled them, especially in public, it was a nasty habit that reflected an ego he did not wish to feed nor project. The last time he rolled his eyes in mass public he got punched in the face by the local jockstrap – yet, in this case it had been the second time he had tonight and Jonathan did not give the action a second thought. Instead, he retrieved some paper towels from under the counter. A handy spray bottle of green, pine-scented cleaner next to it and he sanitized the countertop.
Swiftly he went back to his notes… 'who are affected by chronic fear should try to escape the state to avoid threats to their well-being'… where was his train of thought again? He was making observations about chronic fear and courage in the face of lifelong phobias… An Ah-ha moment of clarity washed over him as he picked up his pen tapping it on the notepad before writing again.
That woman had been silent coming up to the front – or maybe he was just lost in the noise of his own thoughts – and she'd placed a can of condensed chicken noodle soup in his vision. He did not need to look away from the notepad to pluck the can and swipe it against the scan gun, his long fingers could pull the trigger as he held the barcode to the red laser. Only did he take his eyes away to glance at the register (it would have been an impressive waste had he memorized every item's price and tax total), "Fifty seven cents." Jonathan carried on writing out his thoughts, making footnotes on his notes.
A pair of wrinkled one-dollar bills were slid into his vision next to the notepad followed by, "Pack of red slims too."
In silence he finished out his thought and then turned briskly around to the wall of cigarettes. At least every third person asked for cigarettes during a normal shift since he had been working here, while he may not have committed them to memory on purpose, Jonathan knew where each brand got stocked at. Plucking out an off-white box with a thin red line down the right side he set it next to the can of soup, "ID-" He began, however, words escaped him. Dare he say he had become starstruck for a moment as her eyes had turned towards the chime of the door when it opened again. He watched as spine-thrilling horror overtook the woman. Pure fear, dread, and panic even, washed over her face like a blanket of color draining white. Her eyes were widening and her breath hitched, swelling in her lungs. Flight more than fight response showing by the tensing in her features and limbs while leaning away. Muscles ready to surge and respond to the flood of adrenaline, all in that split second to run. In the next moment, the mousey woman stumbled backward over her own feet, letting out a dumb squeak as her rear hit the hardwood floor.
His focus had to leave her as much as he wished to lean over the counter and keep watching her fall to pieces. It had to go to the man who had caused the chime instead. The disgruntled fellow having come back now had a gun that was pointed at Johnthan's eye level and he was fast approaching the counter. The two dollars on the counter were gruffly pocketed by the man as he spoke, "Beer. Now." Ire mingled with narcissistic superiority for a volatile bomb of a man. His gun haphazardly waved towards where the case was still set behind the counter. Languidly Jonathan picked up the case from the floor. Giving it a light shove to the other side of the counter.