#char:operator

I like to think (right now, please!) of a cybernetic forest filled with pines and electronics where deer stroll peacefully past computers as if they were flowers with spinning blossoms.

A faceless, formless voice that carries through speakers merged into city walls, Attollo's Operator has always been the eyes on the sky - and just about every other corner and alley. The most recent Operator is no different, constantly raising and dropping barriers like the city is his own personal labyrinth.

Standing as the only neutral party in the city, Operator is not sworn to anyone. Not Suha, not Dorian, nor Dreamwalker and Sysba. Operator has always believed in the impartial judgement of 'preserving the most lives', even if that means a few pieces of CI need to be destroyed. Unfortunately, the wayward traveler is not always spared his decisions.

An anxious wreck behind the screens. Operator only emerges at night, and although he is technologically gifted, he sorely lacks in actual human social skills. Between the hum of the machines and the purring of his beloved cat, he sees no need to associate with people. After all, he watches them all day, every day.

Although, perhaps it's his own personal history that's preventing him from forming actual long-lasting connections. Who knew that could happen?

Spotting Operator is like spotting a cryptid in the wild. He moves so fast he's a blur (because he's trying to go hide again), and when he is caught, he freezes like a deer in headlights. The thing is, he really is just a guy.

Standing at about 5'7 (he insists), Operator wears a black face mask, a strange pair of glasses that look more like a visor, and a ball cap that does little to contain his unruly auburn curls. His skin is bone white from the painful lack of any light he gets (screens not counting) and he has a rather lean frame. The baggy sweaters and cargo pants don't help, of course.

Touch is strange in the way that a single action can be interpreted a thousand different times. A touch of a hand on a shoulder can be one of reassurance, or one of warning. A swat on the arm can be of joy, or of anger. Even a mere glance—where contact isn't made—can still touch in a way that can be easily mistaken.

He finds it hard to wrap his head around sometimes. When people touch him, he needs to think back about how the entire conversation or interaction has been going before he can determine if the touch is good, or if it's bad. Most of the time it's the latter—that's just something that comes with the job, he supposes.

But with you... with you, it's different. It doesn't quite feel like he needs to analyze every little interaction he has with you to know what your touch will mean, because truthfully... you have never reached out to him with ill-intent. In fact, you're probably one of the few people in this city who has shown him positivity in abundance. Maybe that's shaping his perspective of life. Probably not, but saying that you make waves for his existence sounds nice, doesn't it?

He thinks so, as he lets you run your fingers through his auburn curls again. You're working to untangle the way they've twisted and knotted with each other through the hours of hood-wearing and frustration-rustling he's endured. It was a long day. It was a frustrating day, and maybe you noticed it in his eyes, and that's why you reached out to him and—upon receiving his shy nod—drew him down to rest his head on your lap.

The small bedroom you're in is quiet, with the only sounds being your breathing and the low hum of a radiator in the corner. He doesn't have a lot of luxuries considering that he lives in the Under City, but he bought that radiator for you when you mentioned off-handedly you were cold one night. He also installed better lights for you, some rugs for your feet, your favorite foods in the fridge. He was trying to build a home for you with all that he had so he could repay you for the way you cared for him.

“It’s impenetrable, which means you don’t need to worry as much as you are.” 

You feel the heat of embarrassment creep up the back of your neck as you look upwards at the tunnel arching over you. You watch as ripples of dark water swirl and pass by overhead, interrupted on occasion by a strange looking sea-creature passing by. Some of them look as though they’re neon eels, as vibrant as a star, while others with their large bodies and agape jaws remain hidden in the current. You never expected to witness an aquarium beneath the earth—and yet, here you were. It’s another reminder that you could never truly predict what Operator was capable of. 

“I think it’s hard not to be a little nervous when standing under gallons of rushing water,” you chuckle, reaching out to touch the glass wall nearest to you. It’s as cold as the water beyond, and you can feel the rumble of the current passing through, causing goosebumps to break out along your arm. You hear Operator make a sound of assent from somewhere behind you. 

“Why don’t I change it then?” 

There’s a clicking sound, and you watch as the tunnel that surrounds you changes from one underneath the sea to one underneath the stars. Although you can still hear the underlying rumbling of the current passing by—something that’s hard to erase, considering that you’re beneath the portion of the Atlantic Ocean that Attollo resides on—the visual is now replaced by a sea of stars that expand above you. Suddenly you no longer feel as constricted as you did beneath the ocean view; you feel as though you have a vast world beyond, that you can breathe freely without fear of collapse. 

“We’re standing in a generated version of the Horse head Nebula, which is located in the Orion constellation. I love a lot of nebulae, don’t get me wrong, but I definitely rank this one as one of my top.” You look back to where Operator is, only to see his gaze trained on the stars above you. There’s an eager smile on his lips as he points upwards. “This nebula is only 1,375 light years away from where we are, and it’s located by Alnitak, which is the easternmost star in Orion’s belt. When you look up at Orion, that means it’s the first star your eye catches when you look left to right. I always used to look up at Orion when I was younger because it was the easiest to recognize for me in the night sky.” 

You feel a smile pull on your lips as well as you approach Operator to stand by his side. Beyond his interest in computers, you also know him to have a great interest in astronomy, which is why he so often goes to the beach at night. “Is there a reason it’s so vibrantly red? I didn’t expect a nebula to be so colourful, considering what they usually show on television.” 

Operator’s eyebrows raise in delight as he lightly grips your arm. “It’s because of the ionized hydrogen gas caused by Sigma Orionis, a nearby star. The horse head itself forms because of thick dust blocking the stars—the light can’t get by, and that’s the shape that was the result.”

You glance up again at the monolithic substance above you, all while being aware of the heat coming from Operator’s hold on your arm. You inch a few steps closer—emboldened in the moment—and continue to listen to the soothing, steady words of his discussion. 

“—but everyone says it’ll probably dissipate in the next five billion years or so because of the younger stars forming within. It’ll be replaced by newer, brighter stars, and those are the one’s we’ll end up seeing. If humanity survives for that long, that is.” You look over to see curiosity still present on Operator’s face, which isn’t quite the emotion you expected given how dark his last comment was. 

When he notices your staring, he quickly averts his gaze again and clears his throat. The shadows do little to hide the faint pink hue on his cheeks, however. “After all, not everything can last forever.” 

“But we can make the most out of it while it does last, can’t we?” You retort. Operator drops his hand from your arm and wrings them together—an action you’ve noticed he often does when nervous or excited. His expression twists into one of contemplation, then slight frustration, and then to understanding as he nods his head. 

“That’s… definitely the optimist’s approach to it, yes.” A snort of amusement escapes from you at that; optimist may be a bit of a stretch, but he’s on the right track. Your sound causes him to look back over at you, his gaze landing just beside your cheek, and you can see the processing going on in his mind. You let him work out his thoughts for a moment before he subtly nods. “Thank you for listening. Most people don’t so… it was nice. It felt nice, to be heard.”  

You smile before leaning in to press a kiss on the corner of his mouth, noting just how hot the skin is beneath your touch. You withdraw only a little before offering a murmured “you’re welcome,” in return. At this, he turns his head slightly so that your breaths are mingling, so that you can feel the nerves in every movement he does. Time and time again you’ve done this, and yet every moment is like the first with him. 

“Can I…?” He asks, as he always does. He never steals, only accepts what’s freely given, as though he’s scared to overstep a line if he were to do otherwise. You smile and nod, giving him the chance to act as he sees fit. With an almost eager sort of anxiety, he leans in and tentatively presses his lips against yours.

It’s far from perfect, but if it was perfect, then it wouldn’t be him. You can feel him trembling as his hand comes out to rest on your cheek, and it’s such a gentle touch that you want to just melt. He’s always so gentle, so attentive to you, that it makes you feel like you’re someone of such value in his eyes. His thumb caresses you as he angles your head to kiss you deeper. 

The entire moment feels like it’s from a novel—standing within a sea of stars, a nebula of great beauty before you, while kissing someone you care for with such tenderness, with such love. When you finally break and you rest your forehead against his, listening to the shaky breaths he takes, you have to fight the urge to pull him into another embrace. Things need to move slow with him—things need to be on his terms.

“Do you…” He stops himself, a frown appearing on his lips as he goes to pull away. You capture his wrist in your hand and look at him, doing your best to project as much sincerity as you can in your gaze. 

“Do I what?” You ask, and he shakes his head. There’s a flush on his cheeks that you can see travels down the length of his neck as well. He averts his gaze back to the nebula. 

It’s snowing outside. 

He’s there, kneeling by his window, his elbows propped on the sill as he watches the ash-coloured flakes fall to the ground below. They don’t linger long; the conflict of march’s rising heat against this unexpected cold snap kills them before they even get to live. But to a six-year old child, it looks like they just vanish into the white when he blinks. 

He breathes on the glass until it’s misted and begins to draw a smiley face on the frame. He only manages the circle and one eye before the sound of footsteps thudding up the stairs causes his head to turn towards the door. There’s a terrible shuddering noise as it’s pushed open, and then moments later, the familiar face of the Directress appears. Her pinched expression and dark eyes indicate disapproval about something, and he can only sit here and hope it isn’t something he’s done. 

“Why are you hiding up here? Breakfast was called ten minutes ago.” She pushes the door open further until she can be fully seen. One hand rests on her hip while the other holds onto the frame. He balls his hand up and shoves it into his sweater as he stares just past her, mute and wide-eyed in response. The Directress' gaze slides to the picture he drew before it softens, ever so slightly, and she sighs. “You’re usually quite good at sticking to your routines. Is it because it’s your birthday?” 

His birthday. That’s right, he isn’t six anymore—he’s seven. But he doesn’t feel any different.

Is he supposed to?

He pushes himself up from his knees and shuffles over to where the Directress stands. Although he doesn’t look into her eyes, he feels her hand hover above his head before she quickly withdraws it, noting the way he moves back at the pending touch. 

“Well, if you’re not hungry, why don’t you put on a coat and join me outside? You can help with the feeding rounds,  if you’d like.” She turns then, and he watches as she vanishes back down the wooden steps located directly outside the boys hall door. The Directress' promise of possible outside adventure is one far too tempting for him to ignore, and he hurries back to his single bunk bed before she even reaches the bottom floor. His coat is always shoved beneath the bunk—a benefit of the bottom—and he pulls it out, ignoring the holes in the sleeves that are allowing the goose-feather stuffing to spill. 

It isn’t uncomfortable to share a room with several other boys, but it does make getting new things like coats a struggle, especially when the older boys often get first pick of what’s donated. Not to mention that the proximity to others means having your clothing items stolen also isn’t an unusual occurrence. He needs to guard his items like a dragon and its hoarde.

He wrangles up his zipper as he hurries out of the room and down the steps, his boots making thudding noises far too loud for a boy his size and weight. When he finally hits the bottom floor, the Directress comes sweeping out of an adjoining room, her long coat buttoned up and her mitts firmly tugged on her hands. She gives him a once over, squinting at the frays in his coat, before nodding in approval and opening the front door. 

The snow is only temporarily blinding, as the gray skies above do little to let the sun pass—although it never does—and his footsteps crunch as he walks alongside the Directress. The dreary stone building that is the orphanage grows smaller and smaller the farther they walk, and he begins to feel the underlying tension that’s always present in his gut begin to ease up. Still, he flicks his fingers as he walks, taking solace in how the rhythmic motion calms his mind from this change in routine. 

“I think we ought to start with the chickens. I’ll check to see if they have any eggs for us if you’d like to just throw the feed at them?” The Directress looks down at him while he continues to look out at the forest around them. The animals are kept a short walk away from the orphanage, but because of how remote the area is—being just within Islingcier—it can feel significantly further. He doesn’t get to go out too much (truthfully, none of the children do), and so to see the forest so close is a rarity he takes interest in. 

“Chickens.” He finally murmurs, his voice curious as his other hand comes up to grasp the Directress’ sleeve. “We don’t get to see them much.”

He doesn’t see the way her expression briefly flashes of guilt, nor the way she looks back to the orphanage building. “Well, today’s a special day, so we’ll make an exception.”

He doesn’t reply, and she doesn’t carry on the conversation, allowing them to both walk in silence until they reach the coop. The clucking of birds alerts that the hens are awake, and he can see them bobbing their heads back and forth as they make their way along the pens perimeter. The Directress opens up a plastic container and scoops a portion of the feed up with a jug-like device, before handing it over to him. “Toss it carefully—you don’t want the feed to pile up in one place.” 

He takes the scoop in both hands before approaching the pen. The hens, seeming to sense that feeding time is near, increase their clucking and hurry to where he stands. A small smile appears on his lips at the sight of the many birds bobbing around below, and when he shakes some food down onto them, this smile turns into a laugh. 

The Directress observes the scene with a familiar sombre look. Despite best efforts, he had never really integrated well with the other children, seemingly struggling with understanding the social cues and hierarchy within the group. His isolation didn’t bother him—in fact, he seemed to enjoy it—and so when she received a letter from the Crowes requesting a specific individual for specific purposes, she had put his name down first in hopes of allowing him a greater opportunity than what could be given here.

It had been a mistake. Now, five years since that correspondence, his obliviousness to her actions has a black guilt sitting heavy on her heart. 

“How would you like a home?” Her voice rings clear from the short distance away that she stands. He looks back at her, and with his clear blue eyes and auburn hair, he looks akin to painting—a fantasy character in someone's dream winter. 

“A home?” He repeats, looking back at the hens and shaking free some more feed. They continue to cluck in their frenzy and he smiles again, already forgetting the words the Directress said. She clenches her hands into fists behind her back.

“There is someone looking to possibly adopt you,” she continues, “to give you a home. You wouldn’t have to share a room with anyone again, and you could have all the toys that you want. You could move to an actual home, and be free to do what you’d like. Every day would be a special day, just for you. Wouldn’t that be nice?” 

He shrugs; perhaps he doesn’t understand what she’s saying, or perhaps he just doesn’t care. Sometimes it’s hard to know for sure. But she doesn’t miss the way he starts flicking his fingers again, or how his brow furrows just slightly at her tone. He’s adverse to change, and moving to a new home with an absolute stranger is a big change—even if the man looking to adopt him is probably the most qualified for the task. 

“Can we feed more?” He holds out the empty jug towards her. “They want more.” 

She blinks, then sighs in resignation. He doesn’t want to talk about it; she’ll have to bring it up again later on, when he isn’t distracted by the animals, or the outdoors. The Operator will be coming within a few days to get him—which means she has a few days to reassure him that the change will be a good one. She just hopes that he’ll warm to the idea. The thought of him being distressed after leaving does little to ease her guilty conscience. 

“Perhaps not the hens, but maybe the lambs? We still have many more animals to feed and collect before lunch. If we finish and the hens still seem hungry, we can give them extra then.” She carefully takes the jug from him and sets it back in the bin. He watches it with neutral interest before nodding, seeming to adhere to her suggestion, and taking her sleeve in his hand again.

“Can I feed them tomorrow, too?” His question causes her to look back down, and for the first time since they came out here, her gaze meets his own. It only lasts a second before he’s quick to avert it again. She studies his expression, how small he seems beside her, with his ragged coat and unruly curls, and she feels herself crumbling again. He only has a few more days left here; it’s the least she can do. 

“Backup, backup.” His fingers lightly press against his keyboard keys as he squints at the screen in front of him. Although the slowly progressing waves of static that glide up and down the screen would typically invoke a headache in anyone watching them, Operator is reluctantly proud to say that his many, many years on the job has permitted him an immunity to this. A pro to the many cons, he supposes.

“Backup where? I’m literally against a wall right now.” Detective Ross’ stress-filled voice filters through the other side of the line that he and Operator are on right now. On the screen he is, indeed, pressed against the wall right now with his de-escalation weapon in hand. Around the corner from where he’s positioned stands Voltaic—looking marginally less impressed at the detective’s sudden vanishing act.

Where Voltaic is, Malachi isn’t far from. Operator bites on his lower lip as his fingers nervously dance across the keys. He has three options here; permit Voltaic to find Ross and encourage Ross to use that fancy new de-escalation weapon he has, trigger the security system and force Voltaic to make a tactical retreat—but risk Ross getting caught in the crossfire, or use a diversion to draw Voltaic away but risk Malachi finding Ross. The situation is terrible—and it’s very typical of what Operator usually deals with.

“Fair enough,” he finally murmurs, hitting a certain sequence on the keyboard. “I’m going to trigger the alarm system in the warehouse nearby. Voltaic and Malachi aren’t dumb—as soon as it goes off, they’ll know that they need to get moving, lest Pariah or another of the Triumvirate arrives. This should buy you enough time to get down to the first floor and out the back entrance.”

He rapidly flips through a few of the camera’s on the property until he finally spy’s Malachi by one of the storage sheds. The property Ross found himself on was an old farmhouse by the Wastelands—allegedly abandoned, until Ovo took an interest in it. Ross has been trying to find out what the organization wants with a place that’s practically rubble for a while now, and just when he believed himself to have a lead, he ended up in this situation.

Fortunately Operator owes him a few favors, and although he often tries to play the neutral party, a debt is a debt in the end.

Ross lets out a soft swear as he leans his head back against the wall. After a moment, he subtly waves one hand at the camera, indicating to Operator his consent for the plan. Voltaic is already beginning to move closer to where the detective resides; and given how brightly their eyes seem to be glowing, they aren’t lacking in charge right now. If he intends to do something, it needs to be done now.

Years of training display themself in how rapidly he sets off the alarms, all hesitation now absent from his movements. Within seconds of Ross’ consent a high pitched wailing noise can be heard from the other side of the line; Operator watches as Voltaic’s body stiffens at the sound before they spin on their heels and bolt down the steps. Ross’ hands are covering his ears as the triggered alarm continues to sound out. Operator quickly activates a few more security systems—locking the warehouse's gate and setting off the emergency lights—as he watches Malachi move to join up with Voltaic. As quickly as they arrived, the two of them depart, leaving Operator convinced that whatever Ovo wants with the farmhouse must not be as critical as initially assumed.

He continues to watch the camera focused on where Voltaic and Malachi departed from for a few moments more before finally hitting the last few codes to shut off the alarm systems. Despite this, he already knows the C.A.P have been dispatched to investigate the area; the police radios are going absolutely ballistic.

“Ross.” His voice is curt as he flips back and forth between the detective’s camera and the camera focused on the warehouse, watching as two squad cars pull up. “It looks like the C.A.P are at the warehouse and your two companions are gone. I reckon you should head out.”

Ross’ hands drop from his ears as he peers around the corner towards the now empty hallway. He nods to himself, as if satisfied that Operator’s being honest, before waving another hand at the camera.

“Cheers,” he grumbles, deactivating his de-escalation device and sliding it back into his pocket. “Also… sorry you had to do this on your birthday.”

Operator feels his jaw tighten at the comment and, in response, he rolls his neck and shoulders to force it loose.

“Well. Work never stops, yeah?”

_____________________________________________________

He has a routine of sorts. It’s the only thing that keeps him sane, really; if he didn’t have a routine and he just lived day to day, he’d probably forget what day it even Is, and time would become nothing but a river that he continually drowns in—save for the few occasions when he remembers to raise his head above the water and breathe.

Wake up at 4. Feed the cat. Get the first cup of coffee. Check the cameras and messages to see what he missed. At 12, get the second cup of coffee and maybe whatever leftovers he has. Play with the cat. Continue checking cameras and documenting events. Meeting, meeting, meeting. Maybe get dinner. Third cup of coffee. Go for a walk. Feed the cat. Check the cameras. When it hits 1 am, maybe try to get a few hours of sleep.

At one point his birthday was a day that he looked forward to, a day where his routine would change. His father would often prepare a celebratory breakfast, or spend a few minutes longer with him in the morning before he went to work. It was small but it was still incredibly significant to Operator. After his fathers passing however, the concept of celebrating his birthday lost its appeal, and now it serves as just another date on the calendar.

Or at least it did serve as such. Then he had to go and associate himself with people.

The harsh chime of his ringtone going off jolts him out of his write-up for the Ross incident, causing him to misspell several words in the process. He clenches his jaw again as he grabs at his phone to see who on earth is calling him at this time, only to see ‘Crowes Court’ written as the caller I.D. The pit of dread he feels forming in his stomach at seeing that name can barely hold a candle to any other traumatic event he’s experienced in his life. Getting ripped apart by Markos Crowe over the phone was not on his bingo card today, and yet.

Well. Ghosting one of his contacts probably isn’t the best method of practice, but that doesn’t mean he has to enjoy this conversation. He sucks in a breath of air between his teeth as his thumb moves to lightly tap the ‘answer’ button. He holds the phone away from him like it’s an explosive for several seconds before finally pressing it against his ear.

“...Hello?”

His voice sounds incredibly meek as he waits to hear the raspy, low voice of the Crowe Court leader filter through from the other end.

“Oh, Operator, have I caught you at a bad time?” Instead of the dreaded tones of Markos Crowe greeting him, Operator is surprised to hear Suha instead. Her soothing voice quickly causes his jaw to unclench and his shoulders to relax as he blinks dumbly in response.

“Mm, ah!” Then, realizing that she’s waiting for him to speak, he quickly straightens himself up in his seat—not like she can see him, anyway—and clears his throat. “No, no no. Not at all. I’m just surprised—um, you usually don’t call me on this line…?”

“Oh, well. I’m finishing some paperwork for Markos right now and so I took the liberty of using his private line instead, considering that I’m here. In his office. Doing work that he failed to do before the deadline.” She punctuates each sentence with an air of irritation as the sounds of papers in the background can be overheard. “However, I received a curious notification earlier today that I wanted to call you about.”

“Oh?” Operator’s voice seems to raise in pitch as he squirms uncomfortably in his seat. His mind runs a mile a minute trying to figure out what Suha could have possibly been notified about pertaining to him; did detective Ross say something? Did something happen when he triggered the warehouse alarm? Did Ovo do something in response?

“Why didn’t you remind me it was your birthday?”

Suha effectively shuts down the train of anxiety that Operator was riding on in nine words. His expression falls flat as he stares at one particular chip in his computer screen; he should really get that fixed.

“What do you mean?” He finally asks, deciding that playing dumb is the best method of handling this. Suha clicks her tongue in irritation as more shuffling from her end can be overheard.

“Don’t ‘what do you mean’ me! I had to find out via our synced calendar that it’s your birthday! You already know that we have a policy permitting employees to take birthdays off—so, pray tell, why are you not taking some time for yourself today?”

“Technically, I’m a contract worker for you.” Operators quick to the defense as he shifts the phone to his other ear. With his free hand, he reaches out to absently scratch Lily’s chin, hoping that the familiar sensation of his pet's fur can act as a de-stressor for him.

“Contact still means employment, Operator. What are your plans for tonight?”

Plans for tonight? According to his routine, tonight involved going for a walk, feeding Lily, checking on his league, checking the cameras, and then going to bed. But that sounds incredibly lame to say out loud, so instead he decides to go with:

“Stuff, I guess.”

“Stuff.” Suha draws out the word. “Stuff. Stuff doesn’t sound all too important to me, you know. Why don’t you and I grab dinner together? There’s a new restaurant that opened downtown—quite the rarity, these days—that’s been drawing in absolutely rave reviews. I’m very interested in checking it out.”

Dinner. She’s asking him to dinner—asking him to go out. Suha is a woman who is very established and very sure of herself; doing something as simple as attending a dinner is little to no concern in her eyes. For him, however, it means being thrown into a crowd of people and into a situation that he needs to carefully navigate, lest he embarrass himself in front of his company. Despite knowing Suha now for many years, he still doesn’t feel comfortable enough to relax around her.

But what happens if he says no? He’ll spend another birthday in a dark room with nothing more than a cat and a bunch of virtual friends to keep him company. Nice, sure, but also not as nice as a paid for meal. Operator chews on his lower lip as he looks towards Lily. She blinks slowly, as though questioning why he’s even waiting, and he sighs in subtle defeat.

“... Okay. Send me everything you know about the restaurant, the dress code, the price range, the exit and entrance points, the bathrooms, and the nearest hole I can crawl in.”

His fingers fly across his keyboard as he begins searching for recently opened establishments in town. Suha lets out a soft chuckle in response.

“Sure, I’ll forward you the website. You can do your open source gathering for a while, and I’ll pick you up around eight, alright?”

He hums in acknowledgement—now utterly engrossed in his search—and Suha laughs again.

“See you then.”

_____________________________________________________

It’s as he’s standing outside of the restaurant that he begins to regret his initial agreement. The car ride to the location was as uneventful as he hoped it would be; Suha’s driver had picked him up from the entrance into the Under City—considering that Crowe’s employees refuse to go down there—and had driven him in silence, allowing Operator to stew in his thoughts for a while.

He had decided to forego his usual mask, glasses, and hoodie for a marginally more dressed-up appearance. It had taken a painful amount of digging through his closet, but eventually he had found a nice dress shirt and pants that remained untarnished by electrical grease or other such substances. He had even taken it upon himself to tackle his unruly curls into a much more suitable look.

When he looked in the mirror afterwards, he felt like he was staring at an absolute stranger. It was him but it also wasn’t him and his mind felt unable to process it. He didn’t look in a mirror after, didn’t check his appearance in the rearview of the car or even in his reflection on his phone. He had sat in the backseat as rigid as a corpse and dug his nails into his leg as he watched the buildings go by. In an attempt to ease his anxiety, he had mentally tracked all the areas with security cameras as they drove past them, but even this did little to help.

Then the driver had stopped, and Operator had stepped out of the car, and now he was here: standing outside of a restaurant that looked like it would take several paychecks worth to buy just a glass of water. A prickle of heat breaks out across his cheeks as he looks between the sign above—L’amore—and the window showing the patrons within. Dreamy classical music filters out onto the dark street that he stands on as he finds himself torn between the desire to flee and the obligation to enter.

He has never gone out for his birthday, let alone to a place like this. Places like this were fleeting fantasies in his mind growing up—he never had the money to imagine himself dining here, nor had his father. It was take out or nothing in the young Operator’s home.

He picks at his dress shirt sleeve, shuffles his feet, and chews on his lower lip some more. He’s pretty sure it’s probably bleeding at this point from the amount of biting he’s done.

“Sir?”

At the sound of a voice, his gaze snaps towards the door and his expression shifts to a guilty surprise. A young man in a server uniform is standing with the door partially open, looking at him with a vaguely curious expression in his eyes. Upon noticing he now has Operator’s attention, his lips pull into a warm smile and he tilts his head. “Are you waiting to come in?”

“Ah…!” The sound is a mere whisper as it escapes Operator’s lips while he looks between the server and the restaurant. He can feel his cheeks burning in embarrassment—god, he hates how awkward he can be. “I was meant to meet a friend, but I’m not sure if she’s in or not yet…”

He fumbles to pull his phone out of his pocket as he checks the screen. There are no messages from Suha, despite it being the hour of their designated meeting time. He hears the server shift and push the door open some more.

“Why don’t you step inside and we can check to see if she has a reservation?” When Operator glances over, the server’s eyes are focused on the dark sky above them and his warm smile holds a more wistful touch to it. “I believe we’re set to get rain tonight.”

He stares at the server for a moment, listening to that dreamy classical music continuing to play, before finally letting out a shaky breath.

“That’d be great, actually.”

_____________________________________________________

It takes a lot of confidence to go out on your own, and this is something that Operator is keenly aware of, alongside the knowledge that his anxiety debilitates him more than he cares to admit. His hands are shaking as he follows the server inside and to the small podium containing the reservation book. Operator diligently parrots off Suha’s name without much concern, and after a moment of checking, the server nods with a smile.

“She does have a reservation, and she left a message informing us to tell you that she may be a few minutes late.” The server closes the book as his smile shifts to a more sympathetic one. “She says to put the blame on her brother, in case you were curious.”

Operator grimaces in response, but even still, he feels his nerves begin to calm at the server's words. A reservation exists, he isn’t going to be stood up, and he isn’t being looked down on for standing in a place that’s painfully above his budget.

“Why don’t I take you to the table in the meantime?” The server tilts his head again and gestures for Operator to follow. The two of them traverse through the restaurant—allowing Operator to get a good look at all of the Elite’s sitting in the dark booths—before they come to a stop at a small table by the window with a single candle burning in the middle. It’s a beautifully set up space with a perfect view of the misty rain that’s beginning to fall.

One can tell that it’s March in Attollo when the rainstorms begin.

“I’ll get you some water in the meantime.” The server taps the back of the chair twice before turning and marching towards the kitchen, leaving Operator to settle into his seat on his own. He rests his elbows on the table and looks back towards the window, allowing himself to become engrossed in the sight of the rain outside.

On the bright side, this is oddly therapeutic for him. On the down side, it means he fails to notice the other person approaching his table until they collapse in the seat across from him, nearly causing him to have a heart attack in the process.

“Please tell me you weren’t waiting long.” Suha’s expression is pinched as she shrugs off her raincoat and hangs her purse on the edge of her chair. Her glasses are slightly fogged up from the transition to the inside, but even still, Operator can make out the way her eyes are narrowed to slits in frustration. He clasps his hands together and shakes his head.

“No, no. I just arrived here myself—the server was nice enough to pass on your message.”

Suha shakes her head as the very server in question returns to their table, setting two glasses of water down. When he questions if they want any other drinks, Suha orders herself a green tea while Operator declines the offer. When the server departs once more, she turns her attention back to him.

“I ended up running into Markos before leaving and I had to discuss with him the paperwork I completed. You would not believe how strangely organized he keeps his office, you know. There were so many locked filing cabinets in there I—” Suha cuts off abruptly midway through the sentence and stares at Operator with an odd expression. “... Are you okay?”

“Hm?” Operator’s eyes widen in surprise as he stops chewing on his lip. He hadn’t even realized he had started doing that again until Suha pointed it out, and now he can feel the heat of embarrassment creep its way along his cheeks once more.

Suha presses both hands palm down on the table as her expression shifts to a look of concern. “Is everything okay? You seem a bit anxious. Did something happen on the way here?”

The taste of metal fills his mouth as he realizes that he has caused his lip to bleed from chewing. He hastily grabs a napkin and dabs the open cut as he stares down at the white table cloth; in the mood light of the room that they’re in, it seems to glow, almost as bright as the barriers dancing their way through the waters outside. He then looks at Suha—at the genuine concern in her face and the way the candle light dances across her features—before slumping in defeat.

He can trust her, and he can trust the fact that she has no ill intent behind her question.

“I really appreciate you taking me here but, to be perfectly honest with you, I don’t feel the most comfortable here…?” He quickly straightens up and moves to explain further before Suha can jump to conclusions. “The people are wonderful, and the area is nice, but this isn’t my usual haunt and I just feel like I can’t relax properly. I’ve never gone out for my birthday—truthfully, I haven’t even celebrated it in almost a decade—so I just,”

He trails off a bit before adding; “I don’t know.”

Suha is silent for a moment at his confession before she reaches up to push her glasses back up the bridge of her nose. “... I didn’t even consider that, honestly. I didn’t consider how you’d feel about this place at all, and that was poor of me, especially since this is meant to be for you.”

“You didn’t mean any harm by it,” Operator shifts nervously in his seat, torn between not wanting to make her feel bad for doing something genuinely nice, and also wanting to affirm how he feels about everything. After another moment, Suha shakes her head and grabs her purse and smiles at him, her eyes glimmering with something akin to mischief.

“This is your birthday celebration—what do you want to do? If it’s something you usually can’t, I’m more than happy to put my credentials to use.”

What does he want to do? It’s been a very long time since anyone asked him that question. If he wasn’t following his routine, he was often following the instructions or requests of those that he worked for—he was following the commands of the city. Despite the fact that this newfound autonomy will only last for the evening, the fact that he has the opportunity in the first place is already making his tongue tied. He looks between Suha and the world outside, at the way the misty rain still falls and the barriers glow in the distance.

What does he want to do? Where does he want to go? There’s really only one place that comes to mind, and although he can feel the prickling of anxiety running through his body, he steels himself to look at Suha and speak.

“The drive in theatre on Park. It’s abandoned—but the projector still works. There are some old noir films I’ve been wanting to see but… haven’t really had the time to.” He forces himself to not chew on his bottom lip again as he adds, “If you want to join me, I think I would really like that.”

Suha stares at him for a moment before her smile softens into genuine happiness as a chuckle escapes from her. “I know that theater—Alexander and I used to sneak out to go there and watch the late night shows. I remember they showed an old film—Frankenstein, I think?—and Alexander ended up having to sleep with me for a week because he got so afraid. I would love nothing more than to visit it again.”

Operator can’t help but scoff in his own amusement at the image of Alexander Crowe cowering beside an irate looking Suha at the theater. He watches as she throws on her coat, sets down a handful of ventacoins to pay for the tea and tip, and then slings her purse back onto her shoulder before he rises as well. She links her arm with his as they both begin to move to the door.

“Do you have a copy of Casablanca on hand? It’s not quite noir, but I’ve always had a soft spot for those tragic films.”