HERO

6 / Secrets and Revelations

"I need to go," Thomas said.

He avoided Bren's stare while frantically trying to think of a way not to tell her the truth about him. He silently cursed, something he did allow himself to do. If it wasn't said out loud, it wasn't swearing. Why did she have to go spoiling it?

"Hey, just a few more minutes. I've been enjoying talking to you. You looked like you needed a friend."

"I've got lots of friends, thanks."

Thomas didn't sound convincing to himself, so doubted she'd believe him. Once, the statement would have been true. Once he'd had plenty of friends. As each one gained their abilities and he didn't, they left him behind. Who wanted to be friends with someone who was so obviously a Nomad in waiting?

Bren sucked her breath in. He could tell the inhalation was laced with disbelief. She didn't dwell on it, though., Instead she showed that she, too could be honest.

"Well, I don't. So I figured you might be mine."

Thomas couldn't help the widening of his eyes or the quickening of his heartbeat. He yearned for a friend. One he could talk to about the fears he couldn't discuss with his father. One who could understand what he was going through. But Bren wasn't that friend. She couldn't be. She'd never understand. She was a Chameleon, whether she like it or not.

But... Maybe... If he could avoid the obvious questions and the need to prove he had something he didn't, it might work? Was he that desperate to be liked? No, but he was desperate to feel normal.

He was surprised that she admitted she didn't have friends, both at the admission and the fact.

"You don't? I'd have thought you'd be popular."

"'Cos I can change what I look like?"

"And 'cos you're..." He searched for the words. Eloquent, in her own way. Captivating.

"Hard and cool?" she said, one eyebrow raised.

"Yes!"

"It's not the fun you might think," she said sadly.

"It...? Oh."

"Yeah. Most of my friends are dead."

Thomas gulped. Was she a murderer looking for her next victim? He mentally shushed himself. Don't be stupid, kid. She'd have killed you already. He was aware he was calling himself 'kid', but guessed that's what he was. A child. Just as she was.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said. He meant it.

"It's OK. They got too carried away with what they could do. They didn't take the time to learn like I did. Those that are still alive have got in with the wrong crowd, so now I don't really want to hang with them."

Thomas knew of, but had yet to experience, wrong crowds. He knew there were gangs who went around using their abilities to steal or to hurt or kill. And they did it for fun. He'd heard them late at night. The shouting. The screams. The laughter. The explosions. The sirens. He usually turned over and pulled the covers over his head. He'd sing to himself, too. The old songs. The ones his mother used to listen to. It didn't drown out the sounds, but it allowed him to sleep.

"I really do have to go," Thomas said, suddenly remembering his purchase. "My dad's waiting for me."

"Mine is waiting for me, too," she said. "That's why I'm staying here."

Thomas didn't know, and didn't really want to know, what she meant. Her words were weighted with a meaning he didn't grasp, but that weight still dragged his stomach down with it. He thought about inviting her to go home with him, but wasn't sure his father would like it. Besides, the longer in her presence, the more chance of being discovered.

Thomas wasn't sure how to respond. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, but was afraid of saying the wrong thing.

"Don't worry, Thomas. Like I said, the world's gone to shit. My dad just likes to scrape me off his shoe."

Thomas, again, nodded. Silence was a better response than saying something when he didn't entirely understand what she was talking about. He guessed her father beat her. Maybe more. He wanted to know, but didn't. Knowledge meant he'd be expected to know the words to comfort her. It meant they'd have a connection – not that Thomas was being abused, but he knew she was.

"You gonna show me what you're hiding?"

"Hiding?" The change of subject took him by surprise.

"Yeah. When you finally stopped running, and I tell ya kid, you ain't slow, your hand went straight under that jacket. You was checking on something. I just wanna know what it was."

"Why?"

"Well... Because you don 't want to tell me."

"How do you know that?"

"Because you would have done by now. And if you wasn't hiding it, it wouldn't still be under your jacket."

Both were valid points and Thomas couldn't see a way of denying either. He liked the girl. She seemed to be... solid. Besides, if she knew and ran, would it matter? Did one more rejection or abandonment matter on top of all the others?

He reached under his coat. Bren leaned in. His hand touched his prize and paused. Bringing it out into the open could shatter something that he was genuinely enjoying. He didn't want to put her off him.

His hand moved slightly, took hold of the bag that shared the only inside pocket, and retrieved that. It was old. A black leather bag with his initials embossed. It had originally held a ring, the first gift his father had bought him after they lost his mother. It was meant to be a way of the father telling his son he was loved. It did say that, but much more too. It told Thomas his father did think about him. The ring was as home, under his pillow. He didn't feel safe visiting Oscar with anything other than cash. The Fixer might have wanted to include that in the price.

The bag, now, only held money. When Thomas had left his home, there'd been much more in it. Oscar, surprisingly, had given the boy a discount and this left him with more than he'd expected. Not enough to erase the theft, but at least enough to minimise it. To reduce, maybe, the anger. Though, theft was theft. Did it matter whether it was a small or large amount? It was all the same in the end.

He showed the bag to Bren. She took and opened it, pulling the notes partially out.

"Money?"

"Yes."

"So why so secretive?"

"I didn't want it stolen. I just saw a..."

"A murder, yeah. With those two muppets, it was bound to happen at some point."

"You knew them?"

"I knew of them. I'd seen them about. I think they used to be mates with my dad, back before the Outbreak. Prats, the pair of 'em."

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh. I gotta say, I don't think it'll be long before the other one pegs it. It'll be such a shame."

"You like him?"

"No. I'm a sarcastic bitch and if you're gonna get by, you need to learn it."

Thomas was offended. He was fully aware what sarcasm was. He just preferred straight talking. He and his father never used sarcasm when speaking to each other. They said what they wanted to, the openness growing rapidly as their relationship strengthened.

"I'll remember that."

"Do."

Bren handed him back the bag, her curiosity seemingly satisfied. Thomas took it and hid it back away. He smiled and stepped away. It was fine saying he needed to go but still standing in the same spot. If he was really going to get away, he needed to go through the motions.

"Go, Thomas. Maybe I'll see you around sometime."

"I think I'd like that," he said, smiling.

She answered his smile, then:

"Oh, kid?"

Thomas was walking away. He didn't stop, but turned to her.

"Yeah?"

"That thing you're hiding. I hope it works out."