Memory 6: RIP frittata

11/10/20 20:41
The frittata has fifteen more minutes in the oven when the sirens go off.

"Fuck," says Lumen, with feeling.

He'd been leaning against the kitchen counter with a book, but he pushes off and sets it aside – upside-down on the countertop, and isn't that going to fuck the spine, but there's more important things to worry about right now.

"Suri!" he bellows, away down the hall, as he wrenches open the oven door.

The frittata looks pretty good, considering they don't have milk or cheese. It's got an onion and their egg ration for the week, and a couple of handfuls of potato skins, besides.

Lumen's pretty sure taking it out early and finishing it later's going to fuck it up good, but there's no helping it. He turns off the oven and reaches inside – takes the cast-iron pan by the handle, the oven-hot metal nothing more than a pleasant warmth against his palm.

He crams the whole thing into the otherwise empty fridge – the pan's going to be fucked, too, from the temperature shift – but there'll be time to worry about that later.
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Memory 5: That little asshole broke my nose

6/4/20 00:31
"Hey, kid," says someone behind him, and Lumen blinks up toward the sound like he's waking from a long, deep sleep.

There's a man standing above him, staring down. His breath is fogging the air, and he's got ratty fingerless gloves on his hands.

"Hey, kid," the man says again. "I seen you around, lately."

Lumen says, "Uh." His voice is rough, like he hasn't used it for a while. His brain feels like rusty machinery, creaking back to life. "Yeah."

The man looks one way and then the other, quick and kind of furtive. He takes a step in closer. "Me and my buddies, we was hoping you could join our little club."

"Club?" says Lumen, and the word feels slow and stupid in his mouth. For the first time he notices that there are other men – two of them, loitering near the bench.

He feels something prickle at the base of his neck – something like fear, strong enough to cut through the apathy.

"Sure," says the man with the ratty gloves. "You just pay a little entry fee, and you're one of the gang. What do you say?"

Lumen says, "I don't –" and makes to stand.

A hand clamps down hard on his shoulder and shoves him back down onto the bench.
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Memory 4: In which a mattress delivery is highly ineffective

26/5/19 20:31
justfuckingtryit: (The burnt-out ends of smoky days)
The stairwell's narrow and dark, covered in graffiti, and the mattress barely fucking fits through the door on the ground floor.

It catches on the lip of the door jamb — bows back, and won't go any further. It needs a shoulder planted firmly in the side before it'll budge, and then it just droops down over his head, like a wilting plant.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," says Thorn.
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Memory 3: Could you come with me, please?

25/4/19 20:03
justfuckingtryit: (The showers beat)
The hallway’s only lit by the sunlight streaming in through the curtains down at the far end. It splashes over the floor, cheap fake wood, and over the page of the comic book spread out in Thorn’s hands. They are not especially big hands - a child’s, with bitten nails, ink smudges on the underside of one thumb. He turns the page, to a scene in which a man swathed in a blue cloak and mask and a round red creature wearing a visor are fighting monsters.

In the mirror across from the door, he’s reflected in profile: a boy of perhaps twelve, with sleek black hair that’s starting to get too long. It’s not undercut; his face is free from scars. The baggy teal t-shirt he’s wearing doesn’t have text that tells anyone to go fuck themselves.

Thorn checks the clock.

His mom's still thumping around upstairs. His dad's tucked away in the kitchen, finishing a cup of coffee.

Thorn wishes they'd just go already, so he can finish his homework. He's got a paper due Thursday.

"Five minutes," his dad calls up the stairs. "We gotta catch that train."

Thorn's mom says, "Down in two."

She's down in one; Thorn eyes the clock on the wall by the stairwell, waiting for her. She blows in like a hurricane, all wild energy, hair pulled back into an unforgiving ponytail and glaive boots newly polished. "I'm all set. Get a move on, hon."
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Memory 2: A ride at night

27/3/19 20:19
The mist is thick; it blankets the air, killing visibility and dampening sound. There’s a whole world of nothing out past the exposed bed of a truck and the road rumbling by, asphalt half-visible in the faint glow from the headlights.

Cobalt, though – Cobalt’s clear. He’s less than two feet away, staring out into the night. The shirt he’s wearing, dark and sleeveless, is shredded; one of his arms is streaked with what looks like blood.

He’s ghastly pale, even in the dim light, and he looks like he could use a good meal or three – but he’s on his feet, and he doesn’t look like he’s in pain.

“They should just set up a fucking waystation already,” says Thorn, and shifts from one foot to the other.

“Construction would be a nightmare,” Cobalt answers, tone light.

“So rig some floodlights,” says Thorn. “Roll out with enough people to do the work, stick us on guard duty, fix the power lines before we bite it. Easy.”

The truck begins to slow. Cobalt’s eyes flicker toward the road in front of them, mostly obscured by mist. “Right,” he says. “Easy.”
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Memory 1: Solstice

20/12/18 22:06
The sky overhead’s a wash of orange and violet, fading out to night, and the Wall seems brighter than usual this evening. It glimmers high overhead, a faint sheen in the coming dark like an oil-slick puddle. Up on the hill like this, the view showcases lights coming on in the city center, way down below.

It’s kind of pretty.

“This one’s mine,” says Cobalt – a version of him that’s a few years younger and sans scar – as he stops in front of one of the houses.

It’s a nice house, not like there are any in this neighborhood that aren’t. There’s a second story, and a wall with a gate, and a little swatch of yard out front, all immaculately tended grass.

Looking at it, Thorn’s suddenly sure he shouldn’t have come. This is the worst fucking idea he’s ever had.
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