"You've been doing a lot of overtime, Bastian." Chester had mentioned as I walked into his office on a perfectly breezy Thursday morning.
I couldn't disagree with him. There was no doubt in my mind that I'd been pushing myself to fill my days with work, and anything else that would keep me feeling productive; I'd taken up a gym membership, joined a few classes at the local library and offered to babysit for friends. The moment I stopped moving and even contemplated resting was the same moment my hands would shake, and my mind would run wild; images of death and destruction flooding over.
I even tried to avoid going home because as soon as I saw Hannah or Timothy, the images of my real parents would flash in my mind. A constant reminder that I had abandoned my past life and replaced it with one I didn't necessarily deserve.
Chester was currently flicking through the dark red planner he kept on his desk, of which he actively looked in and added to every morning. Yet it was only now he was taking a highlighter and striking through every shift I'd completed recently. Some of those pages had more highlighted sections than not.
"Actually... now that I look at it, you've done more overtime in the past two months than ever before. Everything all right at home?" He asked with genuine concern, looking away from the book and up at me. I shifted uncomfortably against the carpet of his office, unsure which of my planned lies to tell him. It wasn't necessarily my home life that was the true issue.
Of course, even without the reminder of what happened eleven years ago, I still felt uncomfortable around Hannah and Timothy. That was especially true now that I knew the exact circumstances of my real parents' death. It had only gotten worse when I'd found out about Allison. I didn't know how to stomach it at first, not even being able to picture her face making it difficult. I could try to picture my life before and force her into the memories like a misshapen puzzle piece but nothing ever felt right. The only thing that triggered anything were those damn ballerina slippers on the stairs. Is that all I had left of her?
The information had eventually sunk in after a few days sitting on the floor of my room and clinging to my knees as I squeezed my eyes shut and tried with all of my might to imagine that little girl and what became of her. All I could truly feel was a mesmerizing amount of anger; and with no true outlet for it, it had fallen on my 'mother', Hannah, to deal with.
I had lashed out more in these past two months than I could really comprehend, but she didn't hold any of it against me. Part of me wished she would, the other, the more rational side of me, knew that she still thought I was her son. Her real son. I didn't have it in me to take that away from her and replace it with pure tragedy.
She continued to look at me with eyes of love. The eyes a mother can only give to their child. Tim on the other hand would give me a look that expressed a sense of sadness with no true explanation. It was like there was always something on the edge of being said, waiting on his lips like a threat.
"Yeah..." I said, swallowing hard. As he stared at me with unmistakable compassion, I couldn't help but decide not to lie. I couldn't tell him any whole truths, but I didn't want to make anything up anymore. Any lie that escaped my mouth lately, had felt ill-shaped and painful to say.
"I think it's the only true distraction I have," I admitted, as I realised that my life had indeed been turned upside down. I felt uncomfortable in my home and around my friends. Every singular moment that I spent with a friend felt like an eternity nowadays, because every one of those moments I wanted to spill everything. I wanted to remove the weight from my shoulders and pass over the burden. But always thought against it, because there was an unfathomable feeling that none of them would be able to handle it. And I would not be responsible for any more hurt.
My work life felt the least tainted of the three despite the images of Henry popping in my mind every so often. There was an irrational belief in safety while I worked; as though I had complete ignorance that I had been attacked within the walls of a building that I spent many shifts. Even now, I was scheduled every Sunday evening to patrol the sixteenth floor and pretend one of my closest friends wasn't meant to be too.
"I don't know what's been going on with you lately, son. You were always someone who worked well, it's the only reason I put up with your incapacity to get to work on time and precocious playfulness. But you might be going overboard." He was still flicking through pages, and every so often would write down some scribbles on a notepad to his right; the pencil he was using looked close to snapping as he pressed it roughly into the page.
Eventually, he had let out a clenched-up breath and released the pencil from his grip. He brought his hands together and rested his chin on them. He stayed silent for a moment as his eyes scanned my frame almost as though he was looking for a weakness, "If something happened that you don't want to talk about, that's fine. Just take care of yourself, all right?" I nodded aggressively.
"Thanks, Chester. I promise I'm fine." I didn't want to talk about this anymore and mentally pleaded he'd move on to a new topic. It seemed those pleas found their way to his ears, as he soon stood up from the desk and passed a file over to me.
"Now that you're here, I need you to make your way to the centre of the city. There's been an outbreak of a riot and the government has called our detail in for extra support." He muttered matter-of-factly. I could see now that he'd been squaring me up; he wasn't sure I was physically, or perhaps emotionally, ready to go out and actively deal with something like this.
"A riot?" I asked. As a company we didn't tend to venture into things like this; but Chester himself had close ties with government figures, who in turn, had close ties with the police. Therefore, as a company, we were always an option when they needed outside help.
"I didn't get the details. I've called ahead and you and the rest of the guys must report to Sergeant Spencer, he's expecting you outside Heather Plaza." The name had intrigued me, like a neuron itch, but I didn't get time to ask any further questions before he had shoved me out the door to his office and left me to wrangle the members of the team I was often in charge of.
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The officer who had first approached me after I'd woken up outside of my home stood before me, far more decorated than he was then. A sergeant no-less. I couldn't picture that officer, the one who looked as though he'd seen the worst horrors in his life going on to be promoted from a regular officer to a sergeant.
But now as he stood in front of me, directing a group of his own officers to their designated jobs, I could understand why. The level of confidence that he showed to this entire room as he kept everyone calm and on task was astronomical despite the heavy task it seemed to be. I'm sure those horrors must have made him grow into a bigger, and better man. Something like that can only really do two things to a person; make you shrink, or make you grow, and quickly at that.
"We don't want to get too involved with the riot. We are trying to minimise damage and violence and contain it to a singular area. If we do that, the people involved will feel boxed in and leave on their own. So, again, I'm emphasising here, that we do not want an escalation" He'd declared as we gathered around to listen to him. He was pointing to the map of the city that had been folded out on a table in the centre of the room.
The Heather Plaza was usually a beautiful room that was the destination of a great deal of weddings. When we entered, I almost didn't recognise the white and gold hall, as it had been turned into what I can only describe as a warzone. There were employees of the plaza itself, rushing around and moving furniture, with the help of uniformed officers. Bulletin boards had been placed around the room with maps and paperwork that concerned the riot, and people were gathered in front of them, highlighting information and adding notes. The ease I felt on the journey here seemed misplaced as I stood within the region of this hectic group.
He'd waved a finger over the group I oversaw and spoke directly to the ten of us, "We just need you guys to stop any violence or vandalism in the outskirts of this area. Bring anyone too out of hand back here, but for the most part, the surveillance cameras around the city will pick up the faces of anyone we miss."
"So, it's mainly damage-prevention detail?" A member of the team asked; his name escaped me even as I looked him directly in the face. He looked disappointed, he was possibly one of the ones who had gushed about the prospect of pushing over rioters as we drove here, much to my dismay.
"You could call it that," He had agreed, proceeding to go around the group and hand out positions in the city for them to manage over, carefully plotting out points on the map to avoid confusion. When he'd gotten to me, he took a breath, clearly not appreciating the task he was about to give me.
"Brady," I nodded slightly, "I'm setting you up in the west quadrant here," He pointed to a district of the city that was known for its rich shops and fragrant people. If I was to take part in looting, this is where I would go. That just meant I'd be busy tonight. That excited me.
I couldn't help but notice that he didn't recognise me, which for some reason, made me feel better. I didn't necessarily want to be the boy who survived. I didn't want that label from anyone. He had moved on from that scene and progressed as a person, I couldn't be upset that I didn't come to mind.
He continued, "It's busy, but your employer says if anyone can handle it, you'd be the best fit. At least you look like the type of man I could rely on, so I hope you live up to that." He leant over and clasped his hands over mine, before turning his attention to another group of his men. I directed my group to leave the building and make their way to their own zone. The fact I'd be both alone and busy was the best news I'd heard in a while.
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Considering the level of noise in the city, and the sounds of explosions both big and small, there were very little people for me to deal with; it was disappointing. When I first heard a Molotov being thrown when I first arrived in my zone, I thought it'd be more exciting – but here I was, out of the action and walking down quiet alleyways.
I'd decided to read up on the riot on the car ride here, one of the officers handing me a file before he started driving. Apparently, a few policies had been put in place that directly affected a number of citizens, reducing their funding and causing redundancies. There were a number of ignored petitions and protests that the Government refused to acknowledge, leading to anonymous postings on various websites culminating in a large-scale riot the entire city knew about.
I'd heard a few snippets from friends, each one in turn expressing a mild interest in taking part. Even then, I hadn't expected it to genuinely lead to anything. As we drove through the city, I had to watch buildings being raided and set alight, unable to do anything about it. Even when they dropped me in the area I'd been designated, I had to disappear from the crowd where most of the action was taking place; only able to hear the sound of breaking glass, flesh meeting fist and small explosions.
It took a while before I found someone taking part in the riot in my quadrant. A man, who made no effort to cover their face was holding a metal baseball bat and holding it against the glass of a local store. It dealt in bespoke and luxury goods; a reasonably good target for a riot.
"Sir... put the bat down." The man turned sharply to look at me, the bat almost slipping from his hands. He was hesitating in his actions; I could probably stop this without much effort. But I knew there was always the chance that wasn't the case, so I stayed on guard, "Nothing good will come from breaking into that store, will it?"
"Shut up, old man." He muttered, raising the bat again.
"How old are you, kid?" I shouted as he was about to bring the bat down. It tapped the glass lightly, not enough to do damage, thankfully. The man had contemplated for a little, before turning to me.
"Seventeen." I closed my eyes for a second; that was both a good and bad answer. At least the consequences to his actions wouldn't be that severe if he did go ahead with this.
"Do you really want something like this on your record? What about jobs in the future, your parents? Is this the path you want to go down because this one action you're about to take might make it irreversible." The boy sighed like a child being scolded by a parent, but I realised it had worked because he slung the bat over his shoulder and began to walk away from the store, and me.
"I get it. Buzzkill." I chuckled; I don't think I'd have to mention this one to anyone.
Though, that kid was the least of my worries of the night because it didn't take long for the riot to escalate. As much as boxing in a riot seemed like a good idea when I'd first heard it, I soon realised it also meant people would find ways to get themselves out of the box, and into the areas beyond the main riot. This meant that the west quadrant I'd been assigned to had become a bigger target.
The more I travelled, the more broken glass and blood I found. The one saving grace in the situation was that theft was not a priority of these people; they'd break the window of the shop and then seem to run as soon as they had. With the heavy police presence in the area, perhaps they thought they were less likely to be caught if they didn't take anything.
For the most part the violence was at a minimum; a few thrown punches, and a couple kicks to the face. All of which I dealt with in a matter of seconds, drunken apologies and dashes home tending to be the solution. I wasn't an officer of the law, so I didn't feel obligated to turn anyone in on assault charges; that wasn't what I was here for.
At least, that's not what I wanted to be here for. My attitude shifted when I saw a knife lodged in someone's shoulder blade; screams of agony flooding the street the victim was sat on. The man who had pierced him with the blade was standing above him with a victorious expression on his face. I watched as he raised the leg and floated his foot above the knife handle; that made me yell out at him to stop – he'd already done enough damage to this man as far as I was concerned.
I go forward to apprehend him, but he takes off running down the nearest alleyway. I put a hand to my shoulder to use the radio but take off running.
"I need medical assistance in the west quadrant, outside of Mary's Boutique. A man has been stabbed in the shoulder blade." I hear a confirmation followed by questions from the team that was leading the riot prevention squads. I couldn't respond; all my focus was on the man that was running ahead of me.
Apparently, that was too much focus because I found myself running into the gut of a woman as she crossed an alley that ran across mine. A woman who struggled to her feet immediately, rubbing her face against her jacket. This was a woman I knew; a woman who had experienced me doing this to her before; a woman that had a scar that ran from the top of her neck all the way down her shoulder. It had only been on display for a moment as she raised the jacket to her face.
As the fabric fell away as she dropped her grip, I realised who she was; the woman that was missing when I'd visited the base, apparently hidden on a different floor according to Franklin. As I looked her in the eyes, I just felt guilty. I know that her injury wasn't necessarily my fault, but I still felt responsible for the marks against her body.
She grunts out, "Watch where you're going, man. For..." A pause. She looks at me a second, and then back down the alley she was originally running down.
A turn back to me, "Why do I recognise you?" She asks, before shaking her head, "Don't answer that. Forget it! Damn it."
She takes off running again, and I find myself having to decide between two options; run after the man that had just committed assault or run after her; the person I felt more obligated to than anyone else on the planet.
Almost instinctively, I chose her.
phthartic (a) - deadly, destructive