Shell Games

And to his parents, those were the only two professions worth mentioning. Noah had tried to reason with them, making them see that he was still the same smart kid that they had raised. He just had different passions and motivations then them. This apparently wasn’t the answer they were looking for. 

Noah’s dad didn’t want for his son to turn out a faggot, which he was sure Noah would if he played the violin. Noah had been gay before he played the violin, but he figured it would be best for him to not tell his father that. 

But now…He didn’t have to worry about that. They were both dead, and he was alive. And he had his violin. But this man…He didn’t want him here. His music was like a diary. All of his emotions were poured out into it when he played…And he didn’t like the thought of someone seeing him so…Weak. 

But he didn’t want to start a fight either, especially when he knew he couldn’t win.]

…Okay…

[He wasn’t going to put up a fight. But he wasn’t going to let this man win either, Noah told himself. He wouldn’t let the man ruin his day. So he closed his eyes and set his violin in place, and began playing once again.]

Instead it just seems like he’s crumpled at the first sign of pushback. Like weakness. Like a stiff breeze is enough to blow him over, all stuttered words that don’t even make up sentences, trailing off into each other like a whisper instead of a shout, like they’re barely there at all.

It’s more than annoying, it’s intolerable. It itches at him, makes him feel like a bully when all he really wants when he pushes at people is for them to push him back. 

He huffs in frustration. There’s something stirring in him: life coach Pryor, coming to the fore. It’s been too long.]

Really, kid? [He asks, voice pitched over the sweet sound of bow gliding over strings. Pryor, when he speaks, is declarative. His words pierce the air, punch through it. Like his piano playing: assaulting eardrums.] You’re gonna give up that easily? Come on, ask me to leave again. Say it like you mean it.

Thankfully – and honestly he ain’t even surprised – the question is met with a small uptick. His feelers get a little happy. It’s a better reaction than he’d expect from asking how he can be lazy as fuckin’ possible.

If Tommy’s security class wasn’t upped and if he hadn’t already been kicked out of his last Colony – it’d be a risk worth taking. But it isn’t. He kinda likes a roof over his head that isn’t in ruins, crumbling or leaving him open to angrier, more violent men. He wasn’t cut out for the world before but those were easier streets to live on. This world? Tommy’s not built for any part of it.

He’s not going to go sharing this, though. Dumping his personal shit sounds about as pleasant as dumping a literal one on him.] Ai, nap time always sounds like a solid idea. [He flashes a dry grin.] Guess I’ll have t’ration out the skips. Sounds like more hassle havin’ a talking-to than havin’ t’ mop a floor.

He toes a carefully drawn line. When ashore, he gets points deducted for tardiness, for his smart mouth. But it’s never enough to get his position stripped from him, just enough to remind them that he’s much more tame when he’s allowed this small freedom, the privilege of turning his face to the wind and putting the Colony behind him. 

Maybe he likes having one thing in the Colony’s miserable routine existence that makes him special, that sets him apart. Maybe, in spite of how much he’ll swear he hates his father, he just likes to sail, something he’d learned from him. But the Colony keeps him within a certain set of lines by giving him something he’s afraid to lose. 

Most people don’t know it, and most people won’t, because it’s totally fucking lame. Nothing sadder than thinking about Pryor Hendricks: semi-rule-abiding-citizen. Pryor Hendricks, going soft in his old age.]

Suit yourself. [He shrugs.] I like the talking to, personally. Nothing better than someone in a self-righteous tizzy when you really couldn’t give less of a shit.

The familiar sound relaxed him. Just about any type of music did. There was something about the beat and the…The purity of it that called to Noah. Even if some songs talked about sex and drugs, they were still pure. Pure happiness…

Noah’s bow stopped as he sensed the eyes on him. He hadn’t noticed that he had an audience. His music was personal to him…Especially on this horrid day.]

U-Um…Can you p-please leave? 

Pryor, on the piano. Erik, the violin. Pryor had been a trainwreck, no discipline and no finesse as his fingers stuttered over keys. Erik, however, had been an angel, and when he put bow to strings the sound soared over Pryor’s clumsy playing and turned it into something passable.

Pryor had quit playing the piano as soon as he could get away with it. Erik had kept with the violin, though, and had only gotten better. It’s a sound, then, that will always remind him of his brother. He drifts towards it, however in the doorway of the music room like he’s scared somehow to walk over the threshold.

It’s more vulnerable than he cares to be, most of the time. And over such a stupid fucking little thing, like his brother was the only person to ever play the violin and be good at it, like some other dark-haired, snot-nosed kid is enough to make him—feel something, something other than the peace that’s radiating off of him as he plays.

And maybe that’s why—(as if he needs an excuse)—when he turns on him with a stuttered request, he only sneers, responds with one elegant syllable — ]

No.

Of course, it’s always when you first think things are going well, that they start to go badly. 

Not that Donovan should be surprised. 

A girl—a small one, fragile and about fifteen pounds underweight, easily—trips over something—a rock, a vine, who knew, but something—and she flies face first into the dirt with a scream. Alex slows; turns around on the spot. 

She’s fallen at the back of the group, Hendricks nearby. Dry dust has sprayed her face, shot up her nose. By the way her eyes are squeezed shut, she’s probably got dirt in those as well. From Alex’s vantage point, he thinks he sees blood, but it looks like it may just be from where her teeth bit into her lip. 

He tells the others to stay where they are, and slowly starts to pace back towards Pryor and the girl—Brink, he realizes, as she gets closer, Katy-Something.] 

She okay? [He asks as he gets within range.] 

A scream splits the air, and they all pull up short. She goes down hard and she stays down, hands and knees in the dirt. There’s blood. Now they have to stop, they have to waste time. Would they have gotten there more quickly if they just did a little power-walk—(maybe a prancercise)—? The world may never know.

He feels it like a blow: that moment of shock and flailing panic, the way it redoubles into something both dazed and embarrassed at the moment of impact. And despite that echoing feeling, almost like there are pairs of cartoon birds circling around both their heads, he stoops down next to her and he murmurs stupid nonsense words, and he helps her to her feet. 

There’s blood running down her chin as she brushes the dirt and tiny rocks off her hands where they broke her fall, but other than that seems fine—no broken wrist, no twisted ankle, nothing to stop her from completely the rest of this fucking mad dash to safety. 

If he’s comforting, he can’t quite tell. Whatever’s wafting off of her seems just as panicked as before, nothing he can make a dent in by shushing her like a frightened bunny rabbit. It’s liberating in its hopelessness—when the situation is this dire, then he literally can’t make things any worse. 

But if he’s not comforting, then Alex isn’t comforting. No questions asked, full stop. He allows himself to feel smug at that. At least he’s got a (maybe comforting) hand on her shoulder, supporting her as she stands. At least he’s addressed words to her, like he knows that she can speak for herself. 

—he turns to her now.] Can you keep going? [She nods almost immediately. He can’t blame her, can only imagine what she must be thinking: if they all die, it’s her fault for tripping and holding them up. Fucking sucks. That’s why Pryor had never hooked up with another clan, once he left the other one. Whether he lived or died—(and, yeah, he almost fucking died)—it was all on him.]

Okay Rambo, let’s move. [And that, of course, is to Alex-of-action-hero-fame.] I’ve got this one. 

But anyway, Pryor sometimes makes Lake feel like he’s in a whole other world. Like he’s someone else, because Pryor is this caricature of  a certain kind of dude, and Lake had never really been privy to guys like that before. Even Ryder, with his shameless vulgarity, has a darker, broodier side that’s different than Pryor’s outlandishly grotesque charm. He just wishes he were better at knowing what to say back. At being just as cool in this otherwise cool conversation.] 

Well… that’s weird man, not gonna lie. [He tries for sarcasm, anyway, and it’s easier when he’s in a good mood—WHY he’s in a good mood now of ALL times, he doesn’t know, considering the sky was just like, on FIRE, but he stopped trying to figure out his mood swings a looOOOOOnng time ago. He throws the blond a grin.] 

So, wierdo, they shoved me into your room for a while. Not gonna draw dicks on my face while I’m asleep, are you? 

So many years later, he’s perfected the performance. It’s real, most of the time, feels realer than whatever stunted shriveled thing he used to be when he was still in the business of contorting himself to try and fit into other people’s—(read, predictably, his parents’)—expectations.

It’s not real now, but it’s pride that keeps him acting like it is. It’s pride that’s an essential part of Pryor Hendricks as he is now, right up there next to not-giving-too-much-of-a-fuck-about-anything.

He compartmentalizes: sarcasm, out; feeling-like-he-might-be-dying-a-little-bit, in. No one has to know. Least of all Lake, who seems to buy into everything that Pryor sells him hook, line, sinker.

Bless his heart. ]

Maybe one day you’ll understand. [He grins, like he holds all the secrets to the universe, like they could all be found at the bottom of some adrenaline-soaked fuck. If they could be, Pryor might have been raised up as some post-Apocalyptic God, with all the sage wisdom he would have soaked up.]

Wasn’t planning on it, no, but now you’ve given me ideas. I could—[and now: the thinker, brow furrowed, finger tapping on his mouth until the genius idea strikes]—put your hand in a cup of warm water while you’re sleeping. That’s supposed to make you piss, right? Or is it cold water? I can never quite remember, but when I figure it out, you’re gonna pee yourself.

Yes, it’s no secret, that Alexander Donovan is a control freak. He knows it, and he knows others do as well, but it comes from a place of concern, not of mal-intent. The oath he’d taken to serve and protect felt like one that applied to his life, his entire existence, not only his job. A job that doesn’t exist anymore, but continues to live in his veins, in the outline of a his position at the Colony, which has always been substantially less clear. A community’s feeble attempt to appear more democratic. To have the lines of it’s control be more transparent. It didn’t work, but they continued on as if it did. 

His mouth twists a bit, though he shouldn’t be surprised that the forthright Torren is the first to question his authority—to offer another solution, which he sees as more fit, rather than simply obey because it’s been asked of him. And Donovan has to admit that although it unsettles him slightly to be argued with, Pryor is right, and Alex had, after all, posed it as a question. 

He makes a conscious effort to reign in his own ego. Choke it with a sure tug of a leather collar, because even he’s aware that being right is less important than making the safest choice. 

It makes sense, he supposes, but his concern had been that he’d wanted to be the one in the back, should any trouble arise behind their backs. Should there be any kind of attack, or should the weakest trip and fall and need assistance. But it makes sense for a leader to lead, and Hendricks is offering to take up the position—with unsurprising cheek, of course. 

He takes a beat or two to consider, before giving a curt nod.] Fine. Good then. [He only spares him a humorless glance at the joke, but otherwise ignores it. He’s not as well equipped at being light hearted in times of emergency. His old partner on the force had been that person, actually. He’d been the one too serious, always. Perhaps they’d evened each other out.

He lowers his voice—] Just— [but not wanting to be heard by all, the whisper isn’t quite enough, because the group quickly gathering around them are listening intently, stricken with fear. He switches to telepathy.] Thanks. Just mind the stragglers. A couple of these kids look about ready to pass out. Keep an eye on them for me. 

[A look, and then he turns to the group.] Alright, [he says, raising his voice.] We’re about ten minutes from the nearest safe haven. A house off the edge of the old town. But we have to run. Keep up. Hendricks here will take the rear. If you need anything, shout, but do not stop running. [He glances up] I don’t know how much of that will make impact, but it doesn’t look more than fifteen minutes away, tops. Let’s move. 

[Another nod at Pryor, and he takes off jogging through the trees, waving for the others to follow.] 

His sarcasm is like a whip, it wants to lash and crack. What does Donovan think he’s going to do? Trod the fallen underfoot and leave them as a sacrifice for some kind of Old-Testament God? It’s almost funny, and by that he means it’s resolutely not-funny, how little he seems to believe in anyone other than himself. Or maybe it’s just because it’s Pryor.

He reins it in. He’s pissy, because that’s how he best keeps everyone’s emotions at bay. He builds an insulating layer of anger around him and lets everything else bounce off. He’s pissy, because the sky decided to fucking fall on everyone’s head on an ordinary summer day. He’s pissy, because he’d rather be watching the show from within the Colony instead of playing action hero with Alexander-fucking-Donovan.

Alexander Donovan, who squints at the sky and starts the Doomsday Clock ticking, like he’s—a meteorologist, or an astronomer, or—whatever the fuck that would be. Pryor doesn’t know, but he quickly diagnoses it as bullshit. Designed to scare everyone around them into running faster.

A mean trick, that is.

And then he’s off like a fucking gazelle, bounding through the undergrowth, barely enough time for Pryor to return that stoic-man-nod, not enough time for him to get a quip in. He settles for a steady drip of narration in his head.

He shoos them like chickens, the other survivors who turn to gamely trot behind Donovan. To their credit, whether they’re crying or snotting or whatever it is they’re doing, they’re all running. For now.

Ten minutes running must be a mile, probably a little more, considering the size of their group. Can they run full tilt for a whole fucking mile without someone breaking an ankle, falling on their face? It seems unlikely, especially with that panic nipping at their heels. Is it an unnecessary risk or a necessary one? Only time will tell. Pryor didn’t have to make the call, so it’s not his fucking problem. He won’t have to take any blame.]

Bloody fucking fuck. [He mutters to himself. And then, as promised, takes up the rear.]

Even a few years at the other Colony and he wouldn’t really have considered himself a proper part of the place. Tommy could easily point out the best spots to hide out or bunk but that’s not really the same as belonging, is it? He was just a nuisance. A very not-harmless sort of nuisance.

Tommy smiles along like he’s got a fun little secret. (It’s not fun, but it’s still a secret.)

 Something to set Tommy even further apart. Like he’s watching this conversation rather than being a part of it.] Aren’t you just the right guy t’hand out smokes to, then? [He flashes a dry little smile.] So. 

Where’s the best place to skip out on chores and such? Not that I’m planning’ t’do that. Obviously.

Pryor: ambling into classes five minutes late with no explanation, taking his seat in the back of the room. Pryor: rinsing and repeating for training, chores. Giving the glaring Elite a smirking “carry on” or “a wizard is never late” when the whole class stops to look at him, like he’s doing them some kind of favor.

Small pleasures. It wouldn’t do to think about the fact that he’s a grown-ass man, now, and that it’s demeaning to forever be treated like a truant child. That the time he spends to himself is a gift rather than a right. That he’d do a lot more and a lot worse to be able to stay in safety. Not because he’s a coward, but because he’s smart.]

You’re shit outta luck, man. Wherever you go, your PDD goes with you. But, on the bright side, they don’t have enough Elites to spare to chase you down when you skip. They’ll just deduct points. If you make too much of a habit of it, maybe get a strike. [He shrugs, like he isn’t one strike away from being thrown in correctional. Like he isn’t afraid of it. Lies, all of them.] So really, skip wherever you like. Personally, I say, you can’t beat naptime.