CHAPTER VII:
MISFORTUNE
Thalys Saroléa, 18. District Five.
Long ago, Thalys Saroléa learned to make peace with his unfortunate luck.
It's all been one, long downward spiral since his birth; no matter the fortunate circumstances of his upbringing, it always seemed as if life had a way of getting even with him. His parents were once wealthy stakeholders of Delco Solar, one of Five's most prominent solar-power innovators. As majority owners, they ran most of the factory system— and reaped most of the profits.
He had been born with health and wealth in spades, only to lose it in equal measure. Life seemed to be one big string of mishaps; some of his earliest memories weren't fond and full of warmth and laughter, they were of numerous pets that seemed to die no matter how perfectly he took care of them. No matter what he seemed to do, they couldn't seem to live longer than a week.
No matter how hard he studied, his grades seemed to suffer. No matter how outgoing or sociable he was, friends came and went, often finding him off-putting or strange. Later in his teenage years, Thalys would discover he had health problems on top of everything else. Apparently he must've been the world's slipperiest baby with how much his parents dropped him on his head.
(At thirteen, his unluckiness became catastrophic— one morning, his mother went into cardiac arrest, whisked away to the nearest hospital. When crossing the street to visit her, his father was hit by a delivery truck, reduced to a thick red smear on the pavement. In a matter of moments, his luck had turned the sourest it had ever been. A part of him never recovered from that.)
The latest in a long string of mishaps was yesterday's… incident, sure, but every day is like a game of roulette. His chips are always on the table, and today, so far, he has played them well.
As he steps back out onto the factory floor, his ears are assaulted by the familiar cacophony of mingling voices and the low drumming of machinery. The rhythmic noise blends into a muted, distant thrum— one that almost drowns out the strange feeling of being back here every day.
Once his parents were no longer running Delco, Thalys had, for a while, belonged to the streets. The government seized control of their assets, and he was left to wander between community homes, desperately trying to get adopted. The issue? Living costs money. Money that Thalys was no longer entitled to. He's done stints in manual labor, but never been able to stay in one place for very long. The latest is back in the same place, under the same halogen sign advertising the solar-panel warehouse as what had once been one of Five's most trusted brands.
When he had applied for a job here, Thalys did everything he could to get recognition for his lineage. He'd turned the charm up to an eleven, been super-suave and as courteous as possible. For all of his charisma, the government apparently didn't give a shit. Nepotism, it seemed, was only reserved for Five's political scene. But it's fine. Everything happens for a reason, and Thalys isn't one to dwell. He considers himself doomed anyway— why bother being negative?
From the corner of his eye, he sees the heavyset overseer climbing the aluminum stairs leading to the machine overlook. Every step is precise; deliberate and weighted with purpose. There's a certain seriousness to his expression that sucks the life out of the room: voices that, just a moment ago, were engaged in lively conversation, have fallen silent.
An unwelcome chill travels down his spine when the man stops at the top of the stairs, his gaze leveled in Thalys' direction. His stomach knots instinctively. There's only one reason why he'd be here. Thalys shifts his weight from one foot to the other, dread firing through his nerves like crackling lightning. The kind of adrenaline one gets before a fight— or before being laid off.
The factory overseer straightens his tie without breaking his gaze. "Come with me, Saroléa," he barks, tone sharp above the whirring of machinery. Wordlessly, Thalys follows— what else is he supposed to do?— trying to ignore how the dread has curdled into disappointment, sitting shallow in the pit of his stomach.
When he steps inside the management office, the cluttered room seems to close around him like a vice. Precarious stacks of paper tower on the man's desk, and the steady clinical glow of the office's incandescent lighting makes him feel uncomfortably visible.
"Have a seat, Saroléa," the man gestures, his voice deep and gravelly. Thalys awkwardly shifts into the chair across from the overseer's desk, a large teak desk that has seen its fair share of scarring over the years. He folds his hands in his lap, a slight tremor in his fingers betraying the overly calm nature of his optimistic facade. There had to be a glimmer of hope in this all, right? Perhaps the overseer was going to forgive him.
(The man's face was set. Resolute, with his lips pressed into a thin grim line.)
"Well. I won't beat around the bush. I know your folks used to run this place, but there isn't one for you here," he says, eyes locking onto Thalys. "The rest of our laborers can get by without blowing up a fucking panel, but not you," he adds angrily. For a moment, all Thalys can focus on is the raised vein on the guy's forehead, like a worm trying to escape a very rotten apple.
"You don't have anything to say to that? You're fired. I want you out of my company in the next half an hour, or I'll call the corps to get rid of you myself."
For a moment, all of the air feels sucked out of the room. Thalys had put his entire chest into working here. He had envisioned a time when, not for his lineage, but for his hard work, he could rise through the ranks. Maybe take Delco back from the government some day.
(It's a good thing, then, that he's grown used to things crashing down around him in an instant.)
(No matter how terrible things feel, Thalys has reminded him over and over again of one simple fact. Rock bottom is a place, not a lifestyle. He'll eventually find his way up. Every awful instance in his life is just another piece of his life's epic tragicomedy, after all.)
"I understand," he manages to say, fighting the lump in his throat. "Thank you so much for the opportunity to work here. I really appreciate that, sir. I'll collect my things and go."
He flashes the overseer a toothy grin, though it isn't reciprocated in kind. Thalys isn't going to let the weight of his disappointment crush him. Not today. Picking up work at Delco was just another roll of the dice. How was he to know how easy it was to accidentally destroy a panel?
As he stepped back into the factory, the muted drone of its noisiness swelled around him. Around him, all of his coworkers continue on with their tasks, utterly oblivious to his firing. There is no longer any satisfaction in a job well-done.
Every step feels heavier than the last, but Thalys keeps a small smile plastered on his face, humming a jaunty tune underneath his breath. He ignores how strange the feeling is, to realize it will be the last he sees of the break room, where he shared many laughs and smiles and dreams with all of his fellow coworkers, all of which had wanted something bigger than… this.
"Hey! Thalys! Join us for a quick hand?" one of his coworkers calls out, a table of four of them on an early lunch break. He hesitates, seeing the man's face bright with anticipation. There's no need to share the news. They'll probably forget he ever worked here in a week. His whole time here was meaningless, it just—
"Nah," he laughs. "Maybe later though. I've got some things to take care of," he adds, sliding his drawstring bag out of his work cubby. Within two days, he knows they'll take down the little plaque that says his name. A part of him is tempted to take it now, but he doesn't want to spend more time in this room than he has to. He'd rather not linger on his coworkers' concerned faces, still watching him from the table. Only once he hears the cards being shuffled does he leave.
Outside, Delco Solar's shape looms large against the mid-day sky, its shape a stark reminder of what he's leaving behind. He takes a deep breath as he crosses the road, the labyrinthine streets buzzing around him with a melody of resilience. Five is like that, most of the time. No matter the hardship, staying down isn't an option— and it's not one for him either.
(No setback will ever define him. No matter how egregious.)
(No matter how unlucky.)
There are days when Thalys realizes how lucky he is to have such good friends.
After all, it isn't his fault he can't afford his own place— that Arjun and Theia let him crash with them is generous, especially given he's only known them a few short years. Put simply, they are his only real constants in an otherwise tumultuous life.
When he walks into their apartment, a claustrophobic shoebox with peeling wallpaper and an often-broken air conditioning unit, they both greet him with smiles. Theia is lounging on their old, musty couch, her newly-dyed teal hair looking wildly incongruent with the rest of the space.
Arjun is sitting cross-legged on the floor, his back turned to a television set that's only playing a very mild static. He's currently spinning a grinder, focused on breaking apart a nug, it seems. "Making a pinner if you want," he addresses Thalys. "Our stash is getting really low."
Thalys makes a big show of sprawling onto the couch, his legs draped over the armrest and his head coming to rest in Theia's lap. They flick a stray strand of hair out of their face. "Hello?"
"Hello," he nods cheerfully. "You know, this angle isn't the nicest for you."
"Don't make me spit on you," she growls.
He splays out his hands defensively. "Chill, chill. I'm just joking." He shifts into the couch to face the staticky television— and Arjun, with his rolling papers. It sags rather significantly in the middle, likely the result of it being both a street find and the home to most of their hangouts. Thalys has slept on it more nights than he can count— he's used to how uncomfortable it is on his back, to a point where it's almost comfortable in its familiarity alone.
Arjun smirks from across the room, eyeing Thalys as he finishes rolling the pinner. "You're home kinda early, man. Don't tell me… you got fired, didn't you?"
Thalys groans, rolling over on the couch to face him. "Let's just say I'm 'in-between jobs,'" he suggests. "Sounds a little better."
Theia stifles a short barking laugh. "Nah. You know you're welcome to couchsurf with us any time, yeah? I mean, we'll be out working most days, but you can be a mooch here."
"We'd need two more couches, and a whole lot of ocean," Thalys deadpans, his expression serious as he stares at the two of them, acting oblivious to how ridiculous he sounds.
"Sure," Theia nods sagely, rolling their eyes. "And maybe a lifeguard."
Arjun shakes his head and produces a lighter from his pocket, flicking it on underneath the head of the pinner. He takes a long drag, and exhales calmly. Holding it between his fingers, he addresses Thalys. "Do you want any?"
Thalys shakes his head. He might have dabbled a bit in his youth, but smoking only gives him a heightened sense of vertigo now. "I've got a reputation to maintain," he suggests. "I already hang out with two stoner losers… can you imagine if I was one, too?"
"You're just as much of a mess," Theia retorts, beckoning Arjun for the pinner.
"Hey!" he protests, getting loud and feigning offense. "You know I'm a delightful mess."
Arjun groans. "We'll add that to the book of stupid shit you say."
Thalys jerks into an upright position, startling Theia. "It should be a blog. A blog of all the stupid shit I say, but framed like a life advice column."
"Life advice?" Theia snarks. "Are you kidding me?"
"Not at all," he counters. "I can explain all of the messed-up shit that keeps happening to me, and end every post with 'but it's fine, I'm still fabulous!' Like, remember when I was literally kidnapped two years ago? For ransom? I turned out just fine."
"Thalys," Theia intones, "they assaulted you and left you in the alleyway behind Mr. Burger. Unconscious, might I add."
"And I lived," Thalys repeats. "Bitch."
(It didn't really matter that he viewed the gang as a chance at family, when he had no other options. Why wouldn't they find him too strange for their ranks? Too clumsy for their jobs? Thalys would have abandoned himself too.)
"I've got an excellent working title. We'll call it 'The Guide to Pretending Like Disaster Doesn't Exist,'" Arjun waves his hand as if performing magic. "Incredible blog. Thousands will tune in to hear your wisdom."
"Damn right they will," Thalys nods. "He gets it."
"Panem above. Touch some fucking grass," Theia quips, her grin betraying how amused the exchange has made her. In some ways, that's his role in their life— amusement.
(Sometimes, Thalys is like a jester to them, jingling about the world in all of his oblivious misery.)
As the thin, wispy clouds of smoke swirl up into the dimness of the apartment ceiling, Thalys leans back onto the couch, a thoughtful expression on his face. "You know, sometimes I think about shit like this. Everything that happens to us is just life teaching us lessons, yeah? Like, I could have been bitter about losing the Delco job, but instead it's a chance to grow. Like a stepping stone to a much better me!"
"I thought you were fabulous already?" Arjun asks, a serious look on his face. He gets up from the floor and disappears into the kitchen to answer a beeping timer.
"That's the spirit!" Thalys nods. "Even fabulous people can learn. If everyone really believed in that kind of thing, I think the world would be so much better."
"Same trashfire, different font," Theia rolls their eyes, amused by his persistence.
"Exactly," Thalys agrees, undeterred by her obvious sarcasm. "Even trashfires can be gorgeous in the right light. There's beauty in chaos! They keep the homeless warm. Don't act like you guys don't know that feeling. I was there."
"Sometimes, Thalys, I think you're too optimistic for your own good," Arjun calls from the kitchen doorway, shaking his head affectionately. "You're lucky we find it charming."
(The insinuation, of course, being that others find him disturbing and gauche.)
"I'm almost nineteen, now. Gonna die any day," Thalys continues, eyeing Arjun's popcorn bag as the other boy sits on the couch between him and Theia. "What other choice is there? I'm almost an adult. I might as well not be one of the ones who isn't happy to be here."
He steals a handful of popcorn from Arjun, who chokes on a piece in light of Thalys' boldness. Once he's cleared his throat, he takes a hit of the pinner from Theia. "Yes. You've got the power of hope and friendship on your side," he points out. "Practically unstoppable."
"Once again," Thalys agrees, "this guy gets it." He brushes a bruise on his arm that he can't remember getting and jumps a little in his seat when it aches. "Being a grump doesn't do anybody any favors," he declares, pointing the words in Theia's direction.
"Sure thing buddy," she grimaces, making a face. Maybe it's the face, or the weed— but that gets all three of them laughing until they're in stitches and the world outside, as unforgiving as it is, seems to fade for a little while.
In their little bubble of chaos and camaraderie, Thalys was more than just an oddball with a penchant for disaster— he was their beacon of hope, however misguided it might be.
(And for now, that was enough. It had to be.)
Nova Sonata, 17. District Six.
The tip of the needle slips easily into her skin. A pop, nearly inaudible, tells her she's gone deep enough. With a clinical precision, she retracts the sliver of metal from the top of her wrist.
Nova winces. She used an isopropyl solution to disinfect the area before beginning. Running in slow, lazy circles, the overhead fan creates a menthol coolness against her skin that feels almost delicious, if it weren't an equally uncomfortable sensation.
Sitting cross-legged on her bedspread, she carefully straightens up for a moment to ease the ache building in her lower back. She stretches, hyper-aware that disturbing the open capful of ink resting on her thigh would permanently stain the linen.
It's not something she's keen on doing. For as much as Nova often wishes she weren't living in a house entrapped with the misery of her youth, leaving it behind to become a haven for squatters and junkies doesn't feel like much of an option either. Once, there might have been four of them beneath this roof. In time, they've all left. Somehow, she feels responsible for ensuring that the only pieces of them she has left are preserved.
Nova never knew her father. Never knew her mother, either, besides a face that's fading with the years and that she juiced up enough on the couch that her half-sister had a neighbor help her bring it to the curb when Nova was six. Celene argued it wasn't safe to let a six-year-old play on a couch that might have discarded syringes stuffed between the couch cushions.
Her mother had been unhappy about it, of course. Addiction is rarely nice. Nova can't quite remember if the trashed couch is what made her get up in the middle of the next night and leave, but she knows the blame rests on her shoulders. She can't imagine how hard raising a child must have been in this hellscape.
Still, her heart aches with the emptiness of the house. Their claustrophobic one-bedroom hovel feels as though its empty spaces yawn wide-open without another person filling them. It's practically a platitude to say she misses Celene, but the thought still lingers, reflected in the next insertion of the needle going just deep enough to cause her pain.
She holds it between her index finger and thumb, blotting the tattoo with a paper towel. It looks fine— not that she's ever had much luck in her life, but with any, it shouldn't cause problems.
At seventeen, Nova's old enough now to understand the weight her presence had burdened her half-sister with. She can't find it in her to blame Celene for being distant and displeased with her. She had only been a proper adult for a year before she had been saddled with that responsibility. She'd been overworked, tired as all hell, and embittered by the hand she was dealt.
Six does a lot of that, Nova figures. Dealing bad hands to good people. She only wishes that there was a way to find Celene— and apologize— but it's all-too-easy to get lost in the urban sea. She doesn't know where her half-sister might have gone. Where would she start looking?
Nova was fourteen when Celene walked out the front door and never came back. The layer of paint they had applied on it together has since mostly peeled away. Nova knows that redoing the door would only make the ache worse; the neighborhood is run-down enough that a fresh coat might attract unwanted attention, anyway.
(If she wasn't such a burden, her mother wouldn't have left them. If she wasn't such a burden, Celene would have stayed. Faced with the kind of poverty they lived in, who wouldn't choose themselves? Who could have stayed?)
(Deep down, she knows she would. Given the option, Nova might always choose someone else.)
She sighs. The noise sounds too loud against the silence of her house. The thoughts rest at the back of her head, starved for attention and still influencing her every action.
Rewetting her fast-drying needle, Nova traces a smooth line across her wrist that exists only inside her mind. The needle is simply an extension of her fingers, the ink an artistic expression of her own painful liminality, blossoming into black flowers against her skin.
Self-inked tattoos litter her forearms. She's experimented in tattooing other areas of her body, but returns to the empty space on her arms more often than not. When Nova isn't wearing her biker's jacket, she likes to think the ink makes her look less approachable.
Erratic in placement and design, the ink dotting her limbs brings her a certain kind of comfort. Though a few of her earliest amateur tattoos have begun to fade, the myriad of flowers, stars and various miscellanea are borne of a quiet rebellion. She isn't a prodigy, by any means, but it gives her peace to indulge in a passion. It gives her a crutch, with which she can escape.
When Nova was still enrolled in school, she used to lift all sorts of art supplies, fascinated by the brightness of their colors and what she could do with them, so different from the overwhelming bleakness of Six's cityscape. Art is a passion she's formed behind closed doors— not that anyone else would be around to see her practice it anyway.
Many in Six stick all kinds of synthetics into their bodies. She's seen the streets turn respectable enough people into hollowed-out husks of their former selves, drifting mindlessly like phantoms in search of a fix. She knows firsthand what the drugs do. Perhaps it is a rebellion of sorts, then, to take a needle and make something beautiful with it.
(It's nice sometimes, to create rather than to destroy.)
Besides— after the tattoos clustered enough to become noticeable, Jiyana complimented the way they looked. In her life, compliments have been so far and few between that they tend to stick with her far longer than she'd ever care to admit.
(Her best friend's favorites are the flowers. Maybe it's why Nova inks so many.)
She finishes the last petal, a simple night-black line curving back into the circle in the center. She's spent more time inking flowers that are more complicated than this one, but she's at peace with the handiwork. It fits in with the rest of her tattoos, as it is. Satisfied, she stabilizes the capful of ink and leans back against her headboard for a moment.
She and Jiyana are going to spend the night dealing. As such, she's been in desperate need of an outlet all day, something to ease the pressure that's been building inside her chest. Their dealings are a great source of money. She's finally stable. No longer on the brink of eviction— that alone should make it easier to ignore the guilt that tears through her stomach anytime she thinks too hard about the life she's fallen into.
So what if she's feeding the same machine that destroyed her mother from the inside out? If her mother were to show up on the doorstep today, Nova would let her in. Would she do the same for her, if she had even bothered to raise her herself?
Perhaps, then, it's easier to think she died, in some back-alley gutter with a needle sticking out of her arm. It's a bitter thought, but here in Six, it's just a part of life. Usage and trafficking are both so rampant that the Capitol funds special patrol units dedicated to sniffing them out— and collecting those who overdosed so that the morticians can do something about their bodies.
Without Jiyana's offer to work with her, Nova might still be working a mile's walk from her neighborhood at the local manufacturing plant. After Celene left, she hadn't known what else to do but assume a laboring position working the night-shift after school. It was misery, in its purest form. Nothing could have redeemed working there for her, alongside all the other dead-faced deadends of their sector. What was her only friend at school became Nova's lifeline.
Jiyana saved her from riding the fast track to nowhere. Plain and simple. For better or for worse, the streets have been her life for the past three years. The peacekeeping garrison in Six is thinly spread, and none seem to pay teenagers a second glance, should they seem unproblematic. As distributors, it makes them a uniquely efficient asset for various cocaine druglords around Six. Should they get into a scrape involving the law, they're far more likely to be dealt with evenly.
Should things take a turn for the worse— as sometimes their clientele are prone to doing— it's typically Nova's responsibility to keep them safe. It's a responsibility that she fears as much as she craves it. She fears being incapable of keeping Jiyana safe.
Thankfully, such fears are easily assuaged by an overwhelming desire to prove herself useful, so strong that it makes her feel sick in her desperation. She can try to pretend she's nothing like the coke-fiends they deal with, but Nova knows she's built the same way as everyone else circling down this drain. All she's really looking for is a different kind of fix.
At sixteen, when their school's administrator found drugs in Jiyana's locker, it had been without a second thought that Nova took the fall for her. She had never really cared for school, anyway— Jiyana had always been the better student, more intelligent and far more popular among their peers than Nova would ever be. The school expelled her. She hasn't been back since.
It doesn't matter. School wouldn't have helped her amount to anything.
As the peacekeepers had cuffed and removed her from the school, all Nova could think about was the gratitude on Jiyana's face. In sacrifice, she had become useful. She had done good.
(She finally wasn't a burden.)
During her three-week stint in jail, it was the only thing she could think about.
She groans and steeples her fingers against her temples for a moment before hauling herself from the bed. She carefully drains the remainder of the ink into its bottle, twisting the cap on ever so slightly too tight. Once she's finished taking care of the rest of her makeshift tattooing kit, Nova switches off the lamp on her dresser and yanks back the curtain covering her only window.
Nova waves her hand in front of her face to combat the sudden surge of particulate dust floating in the air. Watery light from a dying day filters through the blinds on the window, dappling the room in amber hues. The window has retrofitted bars running across it to prevent break-ins. Its blinds are damaged with age and yellowed by the sun, but it's another thing she can't be bothered to replace. She's made enough money selling to be able to finance it, but it wouldn't be practical. She prefers to spend money outside of bills on things that are.
Like her motorcycle, kept just inside the front door. Most of her neighbors— the ones with jobs anyway— either don't need or aren't allowed to register personal vehicles. They simply walk, or use Six's shoddy public transportation. None of the homes on her street are built with a garage, so Nova has had to improvise to keep the bike safe. It's unregistered, though legally bought. It might just be her most prized possession, if she put much emphasis on material things.
Or, like the gun she keeps in the top drawer of the dresser. Just as Nova trained herself to ride and steer a bike, in time she also learned to point and shoot. The presence of armed muscle is typically a fantastic deterrent— most aren't willing to risk inciting a firefight.
With any luck, it will do just the trick tonight.
It only takes moments for them to notice the smell when they arrive on scene.
Trying to ignore it, Nova sets down her kickstand and engages the killswitch. She then slides off the motorcycle in tandem with her friend and groans, cracking her knuckles as she surveys the scene. The alley before her is a festering wound, a darkness full of nothing but grime and the rot of societal failure.
The walls are scarred with old graffiti; the busted pavement beneath her shoes is full of litter and lingering puddles of stagnant water, the contents of which she's fine with never knowing. Further into the alley, the sickly glow of the streetlights— and the neon liquor store sign across the way— have less influence. Shadows create strange shapes out of common objects.
Their client, standing fifty paces away under a rusted fire escape, seems far more ominous than he has any right to be.
"Ah," his harsh voice sounds from deeper inside the alley. "The Kobra, at last."
"Mhm," Jiyana nods, lazily strutting across the pavement to meet with him. He looks tired, and rather unwashed. Not unlike most of their clientele. But there is an unusual sharpness to his eyes and the way he carries himself. He doesn't seem disoriented, in any manner.
If Nova had to guess, the man has endured a recent fall from grace. Naturally, one without a future in sight could contemplate turning to drug usage.
"Who's your friend?" the man asks, motioning to where Nova stands, hanging behind in the mouth of the alleyway. Her face is an implacable mask. She makes no move to acknowledge his acknowledgement of her presence; rather, she keeps one hand on the handlebars of her bike and stares straight ahead at the deal, quietly absorbing all the information she can.
(The other remains in the right pocket of her jeans, a reassuring reflex away from the gun, which she has tucked into her waistband.)
"Don't worry about it," Jiyana answers smoothly. A muscle in the man's jaw twitches. He seems as though he isn't pleased with her manicured evasiveness. It might be paranoia talking, but Nova's grip becomes a white-knuckled on the handlebars. She keeps her breathing even; nothing is going to happen to Jiyana. Or herself. They've encountered clients far more out-of-control.
Jiyana continues talking, seeming unperturbed by his dismay. "All the best dealers carry a little protection, don't you agree?"
The man grunts, but doesn't otherwise engage with her statement. Nova can practically hear Jiyana rolling her eyes from here. "Riiight. Now, I've been told that you're looking to make a rather big… investment, right?"
"Damn right," he nods, a little too forcefully. "I didn't come all this way for nothing. Been making a scene of myself, asking around. People don't want to talk. It's rather hard to reach you," he adds through a thin-lipped smile.
"I don't usually strike deals with people new to the game," Jiyana offers. "But yet here you are, waving around your money saying you want to buy a hundred grams of the Kobra's coke. I'm surprised you haven't been mugged. Or worse."
"I also carry protection," he says evenly. "I'm here to strike a deal, not to move in with the locals," he spits.
"Okay, hotshot," Jiyana laughs. "I'm going to need you to show me the money. Then I will show you the product. We transact. It's pretty easy. If you play nice, and you keep sourcing all of your product from me, we form a little buyer-seller relationship. You get better deals. We network. Yes?"
Nova tenses, on high alert for any indication of a disagreement.
"Yes," the man agrees. "A hundred grams." He takes a thick wad of dollars out of his bag, held together with a thick blue rubber band." Nova can see Jiyana grinning as she turns slightly to produce a series of portioned baggies out of her faded leather satchel. She wears it cross-body to reduce the chances of someone getting smart with her— and never looks down at it for too long.
"A hundred grams," her friend confirms, holding both hands outstretched. In one, the cocaine; the other, she beckons for him to pay her.
The man nods stiffly. He rubs a hand over his jawline, rubbing the deep stubble covering his face. On the inside of his wrist, there is a set of thick black numbers. It's almost like he's a product, branded with a serial number. Her disquietude grows. It gnaws ferally at her stomach. She can't quite seem to place the importance of the numbers. Perhaps he's an ex-convict?
Too late, it clicks with her brain that such numbers belong to a registered soldier.
Too late— he whips out a gun of his own and trains it at Jiyana's forehead. "Don't move," he advises. Behind her, Nova can hear the low grumbling of another engine. The noise sends a shiver down her spine.
"A stick-up? Seriously?" Jiyana spits.
"You're under arrest," the man concludes. "I work for Narcotics, and we've been tracking you for a while, Koba," he explains, his voice dangerously low. "I know your friend is packing heat. You call her off, and we'll consider lessening your sentence. The last thing we want is for this to be harder than it has to be."
"Fuck you, narc," she hisses, suddenly lashing out at the man and kicking him in the groin. Then, she turns and sprints for the bike. Simultaneously, Nova's slid back onto the seat and revved up the engine, her firearm entering her in a standoff with the peacekeeper's lackey. "Let's go!"
She quickly ends the stalemate by firing a round just above the other man's knee. He shouts, crumpling to the ground. It gives her enough time to spin the bike around, and, in a matter of seconds, kick the bike into gear and accelerate down the street.
"Shit," Jiyana curses, shoveling cocaine back into her bag. "This is bad."
Nova nods, increasing her speed when she hears an engine fire up in the distance behind them. Her own motorcycle is alive; thrumming with life beneath her thighs. Adrenaline has shot through her nerves, making everything feel dangerously electric. If Jiyana is the Kobra, then she is the fangs. She taught herself to shoot— she won't make apologies now.
Nova hasn't been given a moniker by the druglords; perhaps in part because she's never met them. She's always resigned to the non-places, standing just a step outside the metaphorical door in case Jiyana needs her. A gunshot rings out behind them, the bullet whizzing past Nova's head.
She frowns, locking in on the street before her as she wrenches the handles left, bringing the motorcycle close to the pavement on a hairpin turn into a different street. "This is bad," she agrees, through gritted teeth.
For a moment, everything becomes a neon blur of labyrinthine streets and nightlife lights blending into an unfocused sensation of nothing but reflex. She leans into each turn, heart pounding in sync with the thunderous roar of the engine. Blood rushes in her ears, almost loud enough to compete with the sound.
"Give me the gun," Jiyana demands, her voice pulling Nova from the blur.
"Take it," Nova grunts, wheeling the bike to the side. "Shoot straight."
She tries to ignore the way her heart races in a different way as the other girl's slender fingers slip underneath her leather jacket and into the front of her waistband, closing around the handle of her firearm.
Suddenly, Jiyana hooks her other hand beneath Nova's left arm, and leans. Nova nearly swerves compensating for the unbalanced shift in weight. At the speed she's going, every correction is dizzying. Nova grips the handlebars tighter. For a moment, she can no longer hear Jiyana behind her. Then, a loud crack reverberates through the street until it melds seamlessly with the throbbing of the engine.
Time stills for a second as the recoil from the firearm drives Jiyana closer into Nova's back. A handful of seconds pass before she fires the gun again. It makes the same noise, this time with an uncomfortable finality. Then, Jiyana shifts back to the middle of the bike, disentangling herself from Nova. She slips the gun back into Nova's jeans, and the ghost of her friend's touch against her skin leaves behind a wistful ache she can't quite place.
In the end, their luck held. They were fortunate enough to make it out of this one alive.
(Perhaps some day, she'll be fortunate enough to be loved, too.)
Been a while… I'm sorry y'all! Didn't really intend to go offline for as long as I did, but such is life. Had one of the worst summers of my life, but I'm back in the saddle. A graduate student, now. Yay me.
Moving forward, I'd expect to see an update once or twice a month. Holding myself to the expected standard of fast content isn't realistic. Always had bigger dreams for this genre, but I've never felt the most congruent with this community, I guess. In a stable place of life at the moment, so I will do my best to remain in touch. Should I need to go offline for a bit, I'll at least post a short explanation beforehand.
But, I'm not planning on abandoning this. I'm determined to finish one of these.
A massive thank you to submitters ladyqueerfoot for Thalys and amadeussss9 for Nova. If anyone's around, let me know what you think about these two. I hope they were portrayed well. Next chapter will be an overview of all the Reapings, so get excited for that?
—David