Chapter Text
The listing on the BHG’s board was ambiguous at best, and that’s how you should’ve known not to even give it a second glance. Vague descriptions usually meant that the job was going to end in a bust, so either: a) the contractor wouldn’t pay you when you killed the bastards, b) it’s a suicide mission, or c) the targets are politicians. Though you’re positive that this scenario wouldn’t fit into the final category, you’re not sure which of the other two it would be. Ahab’s Crosshairs is slung across your back, the tip of the weapon barely visible above your shock of dark hair, though you won’t need it tonight. The modified harpoon gun wouldn’t be the best idea for this hunt, your contractor told you, and gave you the finest gun you’d ever laid eyes on: a Fawkes automatic plasma pistol, manufactured by the best arms maker in the business, charged with a bolt for each of your two hits. If you’re as good of a shot as people say you are, your contractor had told you with a smirk that made his green eyes crinkle at the edges, you won’t need any more than that.
You wanted to say that of fucking course you’re a fantastic shot, but you couldn’t say that to a buck, so you’d done something that you’d only learned to do in the last two years or so: shut up.
In the present, you are somewhat regretting that decision as a green clad gentleman strolls around the corner. He’s a big person, tall and wide and carrying a fire extinguisher. Of course he’s one of your targets (no one but a Felt member could wear so much bloody green), but having him just strolling in front of you seems too easy.
Despite your misgivings, he’s hitting the floor dead within a second. The blast of the gun is near silent, and you stand in the hall, shoulders tense, as you watch for someone else to come walking by. Late enough in the game to be considered sloppy, you swipe your finger across the top right frame of your glasses, and the onscreen computer boots to life, indicating that there are no life signs in the immediate area; the closest clump of people is in the lobby a good fifty feet down the hallway. You let out a relieved breath and pad quietly over to the body.
You’d almost expected for him to bleed green, but underneath all of that neon velvet finery, he’s still just as human as you are. Squatting, you unsheathe your tiny dive knife and in one clean movement, slice off this thumb. You catch it before it hits the hardwood floor, and then slip it into a canister at your belt. If there was time, you’d clean up the blood and hide the body, but you’ve got to be out of this hotel in less than two minutes, so you carry on.
Since the first hit was so easy, you’re nearly sure that your second target is going to be much harder to nab. You make your way down the maintenance hallway, using the reflectors in the sides of your glasses to make sure the door behind you stays firmly closed. It’s your exit, and having it obstructed by maintenance workers or errant hotel guests would be all sorts of horrible. You’d get past the setback if it did get compromised because you’re fuckin brilliant, but you can already feel a migraine coming on and you’d rather not have to work your brain especially hard today. As you come to the end of the stream of supply closets and the murmur of the nearby lobby gets louder, a small explosion shakes the building.
You tense instantly, crouching as flakes of plaster rain down from the ceiling. What the hell was that? Cursing internally, you flick an ingrained button on the side of your glasses, and the scene shifts to a rough outline through the wall. Smoke shrouds part of the lobby, but just on the edge of the commotion, you can spot some figures barreling towards the ballroom.
Oh god, what the ever loving fuck is the Midnight Crew doing here? You didn’t sign up to get wrapped up in the middle of a gang war. All you wanted was a quick job to get you a few extra bucks to pick up ten pounds of shrimp down at the docks for Fef’s birthday. Instead you’re going to become a corpse.
They move out of your line of sight. Flicking your glasses back into heat mode, you clutch the gun tighter and brace yourself before dashing into the smoke.
You stumble upon quite a few dead bodies in the wreckage—though not nearly as many as you would have if it had been an actual military grade bomb instead of something they made in their garage—and none of them are the final Feltman that you’re supposed to be killing. It’s not like you were going to get lucky twice in a row.
Gritting your teeth, you slink towards the ballroom. Since that’s where the Crew went, you’re nearly positive that your target is going to be in there too, probably with some other Felt members. The rapid gunfire that blasts from the room confirms your suspicions and you brace your back against the open door and catch your breath; it’s hard to breathe with all of this dust and debris floating in the air, but you manage. Just as you’re about to switch settings again to try and see into the room, bullets cut into your shoulder.
They shouldn’t have gotten through, as your shirt is lined with lightweight bulletproof foam that cost you most of your savings, but you guess that gangsters have gotten better guns. The turtleneck seems to have stopped the bullets from going in too deep, however, so you’ll probably be able to pick them out with a pair of forceps when you get home. And you know you will get home, because instead of checking that you’re properly down for the count, the bastard who shot you continues to beeline for the ballroom.
…The bastard who is also your target. While you’d thought the first man you shot was a hulking figure, this guy’s even bigger, though he’s more tall than wide. You can tell he’s the right guy by the number on his hat and the gun he carries, which is a legend among bounty hunters for being able to spit out more bullets than any other gun on the market. Even though almost your entire shoulder is on fire, if the stories you got told by veteran marksmen when you first joined up at the BHG had any truth to them, you got lucky. Again.
He got your right shoulder, which was the sensible side to shoot for from his perspective—people usually aim for your right side, but since you’re left-handed, you can still function pretty fuckin well without your right arm. Swinging up your pistol before the man in green can blink, you blow his head off.
This, somehow, doesn’t attract the attention of the people in the ballroom, and their notice doesn’t turn towards you even when you come into their line of sight to cut off the final Feltman’s thumb and slip it seamlessly into the remaining canister. Now you’re purposely being sloppy, as for some reason your curiosity is getting in the way of your judgment since all you want to know right know is why they aren’t paying attention to you. With a glance inside the room, you get your answer. Because there, being ceaselessly shot at from multiple angles without a single bullet touching him, is none other than Doc Scratch.
You run.
The word has already gotten out about the flare in gang activity by the time you get out of the building, so no one is there to see you running for your fucking life. Your only thoughts are that you have to get away from that building as fast as fucking possible, because that was Doc Scratch, and he has an omnichip in his fucking head, and if he’d seen you (even just the tiniest glance) he would’ve known who you are.
And that could never happen, not because of what you were doing, but because of what you used to be. Or still are, most would argue. Some hair dye, personality modifications, and a fake accent wouldn’t change the fact that you’re a buck with the last name Ampora. One look at you, and your cover would be blown. Though a man like Scratch probably wouldn’t report you to the authorities (or worse, your parents) he’d keep tabs on you because a person like you would be a game to him, even if you don’t meet the female requirement. And boy, if his reputation is correct, he loves a good game.
In order to clear your head, you roll your injured shoulder, feeling a bullet that was poking out further than the others fall out and ping onto the ground. The pain that spikes through you makes your stomach curl but it gets Scratch out of your head, and that’s what you needed; anyway, the adrenaline is just starting to wear off, so the pain isn’t as bad as it will be in a few minutes. The wound isn’t bleeding very badly, and your shirt that is supposed to be fuckin bulletproof, what a ripoff, is absorbing any blood that falls. At least the shock absorption layer seemed to do its job, as your shoulder doesn’t feel dislocated or broken in any way. You know what? You’re glad you were wearing the turtleneck that didn’t do its entire job. If you’d just been in regular clothing and were lucky enough that your arm didn’t get completely blown off, you’d probably have to go in for surgery and physical therapy and shit. Everything in that last sentence is an instant turnoff, so you mentally thank Kevlar for making a product that saved you from permanent injury.
It still hurts like hell, though.
After fetching your coat from the top of a fence about five hundred feet behind the hotel, you head for the BHG to get your pay. Once you’re a few blocks away from the building, the city is alive again. You pass a club with the bass pumping so loud that the streetlights surrounding it are rattling, and the throbbing of your shoulder fixes itself so it aches in time with the beat. Even though the sidewalk you’re travelling on had been slated for repair and repaving a decade ago, it’s just as dilapidated and cracked as it’s always been; only people who have been walking up and down its length for years can navigate it without tripping. The sidewalks could summarize the entirety of the Furthest Ring: decrepit, abused, forgotten. But as rundown as they are, they always take you where you need to go, and tonight, that is the Bounty Hunters’ Guild Headquarters on the west side.
The receptionist is smothering a cigarette in the ashtray when you walk in. She hardly glances up from her computer screen, even when you approach and start drumming your fingers on the table passive aggressively. When she deems it appropriate, she says, “Collector’s in office 21B today, sweetheart.”
You grunt your thanks and tread towards the adjourning office. The Bounty Hunters’ Guild doesn’t always have a full staff of collectors, and though they employ three total, there’s usually only one in at a time. Today, it’s one that you might go as far to say you like: Rufioh Nitram.
He grins at you as you enter his office. His black eye and split lip haven’t gotten much better since you were in here a few days ago; they’re results of a flour riot down near the Furthest Ring’s Office of Price Administration building. It was a small insurrection, Rufioh had told you the day before, but hell it had got his blood going. “I thought you said you didn’t do ambiguous hits,” he says now as he props his feet up on his desk and slides a file across it towards you. You don’t look at it because you know exactly what it says, and instead of playing along, you just unhook the canisters from your belt and plop them onto his desk. He scoops them up and pops them into the microwave-looking device behind him. It confirms that your hits were the right people, and Rufioh fetches you the money you’ve been promised. “The contractor said you could keep the pistol, too,” he says, amusement in his eyes. “It takes balls to go after gang members.”
You scowl and swipe up the money, stuffing it into your pocket. You thumb it quickly, feeling the texture and counting the bills to confirm that it was the $1,000 you’ve been promised before removing your hand from your pants. It seems like a lot, but with all this inflation, it’ll hardly buy you the shrimp and an old copy of The Little Mermaid to watch on your rickety Blu-ray player. Fef had always wanted to see that movie, even though it was nearing two and a half centuries old. There had been darker remakes with real people and less singing, but your girl had always held a fascination for antiquated things.
“Did any more listings go up while I was gone?” you inquire, avoiding his quip from earlier.
He shakes his head. “Besides those two you just did, not many have gone up this week. Trying to get more money for your girlfriend, or are you just really bloodlusty tonight?”
Fef isn’t your girlfriend and Rufioh knows this; he just makes comments like that to get under your skin. Though he’s normally a pretty amiable guy and you know he likes you, playful barbs are usual treatment from him. Maybe it’s because his subconscious keeps trying to tell him that he should be casteist towards you; he hates bucks with a white-hot passion of glowing irons in the fire.
You shrug before realizing that’s a horrible idea. Your teeth clench and you emit a small squeak because fuck you should’ve known not to move your shoulder. Rufioh comprehends the situation immediately, and his eyebrows shoot up, a saccharine smile gracing his face. “Fucked up your shoulder, huh? Just the other day you were boasting that you hadn’t been hurt on a job since you exited the novice stage.”
After flipping him the bird, you turn dramatically and stride to the door. Within moments you’re out of the stuffy office building and heading for the docks. You only have to show your Hunter’s license once on your way, because a police officer spotted the harpoon gun, and weapons bigger than a knife are very, very illegal. Unless you have the proper permits, of course, but those are really hard to get; you’re fortunate that you had enough connections to get some paperwork foraged and bing bang boom, you got yourself a license.
Sunset has rendered the sea and sky spectacular shades of pink and purple and orange, and you allow yourself to appreciate the splendor of it for a minute or two, hands tucked firmly in your pockets as you gaze out over the water. You imagine that it must have once been much more beautiful, because all of this pollution has really fucked with the entire ecosystem, and no one knows that better than you and Fef. The ocean is completely saturated with trash and oil, remains of old barges skeletoned on the ocean floor (as they were abandoned when fossil fuels became a thing of the past), and schools of fish with strange mutations from all the poisonous materials that got dumped after the great Toxic Scare of 2057. Feferi makes a habit of “diving for treasure”, as she puts it, since they’ve got a scuba tank and a desperate need for money, and despite the fact that it’s dank and dirty Fef’s had an awed adoration for the ocean ever since she was conceived. You abhor what she has to do, but you know that her contributions really help you two survive, bringing in an extra $15,000 a month, give or take a bit depending on the season.
You wander the docks for a good twenty minutes before you find a captain selling shrimp, caught yesterday about fifty miles north and offshore enough that it’s past the gulf stream and toxins can’t mess with their taste and health as much. Since it’s yesterday’s catch, you’re offered a discount so you manage to get twelve pounds. You’re able to leave the docks with an air of smugness to you because Feferi’s going to be so happy she’ll be bouncing with energy and chattering constantly, and though you find her constant need to babble when she’s excited kind of annoying at times, you love her to bits.
The Little Mermaid is harder to find than the shrimp, though you do discover it in a ratty old video store that stinks of mold with bars on the windows and an electric blue tat working the counter. You hand over a crisp bill and are out of the store before the structure can collapse or you experience another gang war.
Waiting at the bus stop is always tense. Once you got your weapons permit, the sight of your harpoon gun usually kept any assholes at bay, but in the months before you had it you’d been mugged three times, and got the upper hand against five others. Now no one bothers you, and usually no one else at the stop gets bothered either. Since the workday is ending for most, the stop is crowded, and there’s standing room only when you set foot on the bus.
Night has fallen by the time you return to your apartment, and you hope Fef hasn’t been worrying about you, as she tends to do if you don’t make it back by dark. After heading up three flights of stairs, you’re at your floor and burrowing around in your pocket for your wallet. When you get your key, you stick your wallet in your mouth as you slide the card into the slot and the door unlocks with a soft click. Nudging the door with your foot, you step inside, putting your key away as you do so.
She’s humming over a pot of boiling water in the kitchen, about to pour some ramen in. The tune is familiar, being an old ballad from a movie with actors long dead, and though it’s slightly off key it’s endearing. She lights up like a firefly when she sees you, and her grin widens further when she sees the bag of shrimp in your hand. “Eridan, you didn’t have to get dinner!” she exclaims, rushing forward to take the seafood and kissing you on the cheek once she gets in range. Your stomach does a backflip. “We haven’t had good shrimp in such a long time, this is going to be fantastic! Thank you!”
You can’t help but smile a bit; she’s the only one that can coax anything but a smirk out of you. “Happy birthday. One more year until you’re an adult under the law.”
She rolls her eyes, which are a vivid sapphire without her contacts, and unties the knot around the top of the plastic bag before dumping half of its contents in. The rest you can save for tomorrow. As she puts the bag in the freezer, you dig in the cabinets for some vinegar, which you add to the mix; Fef’s grandmother used to do that when she boiled shrimp, and they always turned out great. Feferi slides up beside you to stir, and she lays her head on your shoulder. Luckily it’s the one that didn’t get shot up, so you put your head on top of hers and stand there until the shrimp is cooked.
As she drains the pot, you leave for the bathroom, saying you’ve gotta take a leak before dinner. Fef nods to let you know she heard, and you walk around the corner to the tiny restroom. It’s got a sink with a cracked mirror above it and a shower that only runs cold, but after an adjustment period it turned out to be enough for either of you. From under the cabinet below the sink, you rummage around and find a pair of tweezers and a cup, as well as a bit of gauze. If all goes well, you’ll be finished up in minutes and Fef won’t get suspicious.
Even though luck was on your side tonight thus far, it seems that it wasn’t going to continue that way. You go through hell to get off your shirt one handed, and the wound opens up again, starting a small trickle down your torso. You get a towel that’s already stained with old blood and oil to put on your lap so none of it gets on your pants and get to work, sitting on the toilet lid. After five minutes, you’ve bitten a hole in your lip and only three bullets are out, despite the fact that they’re all mostly sticking out of your skin. That’s how long it takes for Fef to come looking for you.
“Eridan?” she asks hesitantly through the door. “It’s going to get cold.”
“I’ll be out in a minute,” you say, trying to cover up the pain in your voice with a layer of excitement for the oncoming seafood. You think you do a good job of it, but Feferi comes in anyway. When she sees you her eyes go wide, and she sighs before crouching in front of you and taking the forceps before you can protest. She’s fixed you up countless times before, and she’s got a much better angle and an extra hand, so she gets to plucking out bullets smaller than her pinky nail faster than you had been. “Why didn’t you tell me you got hurt? Usually all you do is carp and moan.”
It’s not said with venom, but it’s condescending, and that’s pretty much the same thing coming from her. “It’s your birthday,” you say awkwardly, wincing as she rips out one that was in deeper than the rest. She murmurs an apology. “You hate doin’ this, so I didn’t want you to have to.”
“The only thing I hate about this is that you got hurt in the first place,” she says as she plucks another one out and flicks it with ease into the glass cup. It makes a pinging sound as it hits. “You need to be more careful.”
You don’t say anything else, and neither does she. She only tells you to be more careful every fuckin day of your life.
It only takes her a few minutes to get all of the bullets out of your shoulder—you count fourteen total, including the one that fell out by the hotel—and she bandages it up like a pro, having to wrap the material all the way around your chest in order to get it to stay. She frets about making a sling, but you disregard that notion immediately, saying that you don’t need a fuckin sling because it would ruin your aesthetics. Fef obviously disagrees, but before she can say anything else you remind her about dinner and head out to the kitchen (after painstakingly pulling your shirt back on, of course).
After you fetch a bowl from a cabinet over the stove for the shells, you go about setting the table while Feferi drains the large pot. The shrimp are peel ‘n eat, which are usually eaten cold but you and Fef both have a preference for hot seafood, and you bought them with the heads already cut off. Anyway, it’s easier to do it this way than peel them all before hand, which takes “FOR--EV-ER,” as Fef would say.
The atmosphere brightens considerably when you start digging in. You’d put on the radio before you sat down, and a peppy pop song plays faintly, painting the bit of silence that crops up from time to time. Fef seems pleased with your purchase, and that in itself is enough to make you preen, but goddamn you missed seafood. She isn’t the only one getting a special treat tonight.
“You know, I was doing some thinking about schoolfeeds today,” Fef says as she squeezes the last bit of meat from the tail of one of the little bastards. “Today would’ve been the day I could finally have access to the Heresies. I’ve always wanted to browse that collection.”
Huh, she’s right. You haven’t thought about continuing your education in ages, since you and Fef finished your basic schooling right before you ran off and now have no way of going higher on the ladder. Coming from the families you did, the pair of you had access to every book and material in the system, except for the Heresies. As their title suggested, the cache of information yielded a vast collection of ideas and histories banned by your leaders until the young are “capable of reasonable thought” (Fef always told you that the phrase was synonymous for “brainwashed”; you never believed her until recently), and it was only available to people born into a level nine clearance and above. “It’s not really that important now,” you say. “Different doesn’t mean better.”
“But just think of what could be in there, Eridan,” she emphasizes, and she’s got that shine in her eye that she gets when she talks about reforming the system. It makes her fiery and alive and even if you don’t entirely agree with her ideas, you love her for her passion. “I’m not hopeful enough to say that there’s a step-by-step guide to recreating a corrupt government, but maybe there are success stories or biographies of people who tried or, hell, maybe there are fragments of history that fill in the missing pieces of what we were taught, and maybe it’s beautiful.”
You put down the shrimp you were peeling so you can make your usual grand hand gestures without creating the possibility of a seafood projectile. “Fef, I know you’ve always been an optimist, but me, I’m a realist (“You’re a cynic, Eridan, there’s a difference,” she cuts in). I highly doubt that there’s something in those files that would prove useful to you in the long run. It’s probably just a lot of stuffy tomes about, oh I don’t know, communism or something.”
“The world wasn’t always like this,” she says firmly. “I won’t believe it. Why would the bucks spout so much bullshit about freedom and equality if they were something that was never present in our society? I just want to bring it back.”
Huffing, you break her gaze and look down at the huge bowl between you. “…Are you trying to say that you want to go home? So you can get access to files that may or may not help you?”
“God, Eridan, no,” Fef accentuates, seeming almost revolted that you’d suggest such a thing. “No way, not after all this. I just…” She sighs, propping her chin up on her elbow. “I’m curious. About what all those people had to say.”
Silence stretches between you two, only broken by the radio announcer making an obscene joke in the background. You finish peeling the shrimp you’d put down a minute ago, but can’t bring yourself to eat it just yet. “Look, Fef, it’s not that I don’t get what you’re saying,” you start, “and if I had access to the schoolfeeds, I’d want to take a look at the Heresies too. But we gave that up. Best not to dwell on it; chances are there aren’t going to be any big revolutions anytime soon, and like you said, we’re not heading back upstream in the near future.”
“Let’s just drop it,” she interrupts, mouth twitching at the corner. “I don’t want to argue anymore tonight.”
Frankly, you aren’t in the mood for it either—you’re not even the least bit fired up—so you nod and start eating again. Conversation moves on to lighter topics, and by the end you’re both laughing your asses off because Fef’s balancing a shrimp on her upper lip to make a moustache and you’ve pinned one by the tail to your ear. It’s held in place by your earring, and it’s super heavy and may just tear your ear in half and give you some diseases. Anyone who walked in would think that you two are on some kind of drug, but hell, at least you’re amusing each other.
After dinner, you lead her into the living room, which is separated from the kitchen by no walls; the only difference is that the linoleum switches to abrasive carpeting. You turn on the TV and pop in the movie as she sits, watching you with interest. Once everything is set up, you hit play, and the title screen appears.
“You got it!” she says excitedly, twining her fingers together and bouncing a little bit.
“I did,” you affirm. “Happy birthday,” you say again, and when you sit down, she throws her arms around you, wary of your shoulder but still determined to crush you in her embrace. She’s strong, maybe even stronger than you. “Love you,” she says into your throat.
You kiss her hair. It’s not completely the way you’d like her to love you, but you loved her as a friend first and you still do despite the layer of romantic adoration that coats it now, and since her loving you even a little bit means she’s less likely to abandon you you’re willing to take it. You stopped whining about the friendzone a very long time ago because you did a lot of growing up when you left the Burbs (...perhaps “a long time” is a bit of a stretch; you’d abandoned that attitude no more than a year ago, and you only admit this now because you don’t want to get a reputation as an unreliable narrator). Sliding your good arm around her, she snuggles into your side and you curl drop your head onto hers and press play.
When it’s over, she disentangles herself from you and stretches, arms thrust towards the ceiling and back arching. You take a moment to admire the curve of her spine under her tight camisole and the wiry muscles in her arms, averting your eyes as she starts turning her head towards you. “Did you like the movie?” she asks.
You shrug, and then cringe awkwardly when your shoulder reminds you that it recently had fourteen bullets in it. “It was alright,” you say, which is probably better than she was expecting, since you’re more of a fan of movies with explosions and history and heroic figures (this doesn’t keep you from liking some classic Disney movies, however). “You enjoy it?”
By the way she isn’t grinning like a mirthful messiah, you can tell that it didn’t quite meet her expectations, and you hate to have disappointed her. That seems to be all you can do. “I did,” she says, sounding earnest, though you can hear the but before she says it, “but I wish I could’ve seen it when I was a kid. I really would’ve loved it then. But nooooo, it was just all of those shitty educational films and propaganda.” She perks up a bit. “But Flounder was ADORABLE. I would just love to have him as my best friend!”
A corner of your mouth quirks up, and with a self-deprecating air you say, “What, I’m not good enough for you?” and she quickly responds, “Of course you are,” and that’s the end of that.
Though you're starting to feel tired, Fef still seems pretty awake so you stay out in the living room. You don't have cable, but the antenna built into the TV is able to pick up a couple of channels, and you watch a news program and half of an old sitcom before you're out.
When you come to, you are still on the couch but laid out horizontally, with your cheek pressed into the armrest and your feet in Fef's lap. Squinting in the darkness, you manage to make out your glasses abandoned on the floor. Reaching down, you grab them and put them on, blinking a few times to try and wake up a bit.
The clock on the oven across the room says it's a bit past three. Glancing over at Feferi, you see that she's still sound asleep, mouth partially open and passed out over the other side of the couch. You smile—just a little, for no one but yourself—and stretch. Then, you get carefully off the couch and move towards her, quiet as can be. You slip your arms around her back and under her knees, lifting her as carefully as you can. Your wound protests, reminding you of its presence, but you mentally tell it to fuck off; you can carry her the twenty steps to the bed without keeling over. Her head falls onto your shoulder (your good one, thank god), but she doesn't wake.
Your feet make very little noise on the carpet, so it's quiet enough that the girl in your arms remains undisturbed. However, when you try to get into the bedroom, you accidentally hit her foot on the doorframe, and she stirs. "Eridan?" she slurs, butchering your name to sound more like Erdin. It’s so fucking cute you might die.
"Go back to sleep, Fef," you say as you walk towards the bed. She makes a little humming sound and snuggles into your shoulder. Your chest feels lighter than it has in a while, because you love her and when she's asleep, you don't have to deal with her looking at you differently than you look at her.
With a bit of fumbling, you manage to get her under the covers. You head to the dresser so you can finally get out of your tight pants and shot up shirt, grabbing a T-shirt and cozy sweats to change into. Even though Fef is most likely already asleep again, you make sure to have your back to her as you change (at first, you’re not sure if you’ll be able to get your shirt off, but you manage, coming out of the situation with your teeth sore from clenching them and teary-eyed) and head over to the bed. The apartment came furnished and included a double bed, and you two really didn't mind sharing so you decided not to try to pawn it off to get money for two smaller ones. Now, neither of you even think about it; it's just part of a routine. Despite the lack of general misgivings, you're careful not to touch her under the covers.
You settle in yourself, sliding into place on the left side. It's closest to the window, and you like that because you can stare out of it when you can't sleep (which is, sadly, often). Tonight, though, despite your aching shoulder, you have little trouble falling back into slumber.
Before it’s actually time to get up, you wake up twice, once for the bathroom and again because an ambulance went by the apartment, sirens blaring. This final time, Fef is poking your cheek. “Get up, sleepy head, we need to make pancakes!”
You groan, rolling onto your stomach and burying your face in the pillow. Anyone who watched you two live would be doing a case study on contrasts; to add to your list of differences, she’s a morning person while you’d sleep till noon, though she never lets you. She likes anchovies on her pizza and you like pineapple. She’s bubbly and you’re a buzzkill. At least she doesn’t wake you up at whatever ungodly hour she first rises. “I hate Sundays,” you groan. It’s muffled, but she still can make out what you’re saying.
“Oh, they’re your favorite,” she laughs, grasping your wrist and tugging until she remembers you’re injured and decides that dragging you onto the floor wouldn’t promote healing. “Now come on, the Maryams and Vantases are expecting pancakes.”
She flounces out of the room, off to mix up the batter. Feferi always does this part when it’s your turn to make the pancakes, and you do the cooking part. It took you weeks to figure out how not to burn them or make them run together, but now you can fit four in the pan and do everything from pouring to flipping without trouble. Struggling, you pull yourself into a sitting position, wiping the sleep out of your eyes and stretching before heading off to the shower.
The bandaging is waterproof and red isn’t showing under the linen, so you figure that your shoulder is well enough to leave until later. Scrubbing at your hair and shaving the bit of stubble that cropped up overnight is awkward with only one hand, but you’re out of the bathroom only a minute or two behind schedule. “Do you need me to redo your shoulder?” Fef calls from the kitchen as you cross the hall from the bathroom back to your bedroom. You tell her that you’re good for now and go to get dressed.
Today, you decide to keep your outfit relatively simple: black slacks and shoes, a white dress shirt, and a dark purple sweater vest are all you’re in the mood for today. Breakfast at the apartment directly above yours is a weekly, casual affair, and if Karkat Vantas can lumber out onto the couch in his fucking pajamas, you figure you don’t have to be in full formal wear.
When you emerge, Fef is already buttering the pan, humming jauntily along with the radio. You swoop in beside her, taking the batter off the counter and stirring a bit more before putting four dollops into the pan. It sizzles as it hits, and your stomach grumbles in response. The tips of your ears turn red as Fef giggles.
She goes to get dressed as you monitor and flip pancake after pancake, and you take the opportunity to change the radio station to something more cultured. The classical station is the least popular in the city (even though there was a revival fifty or so years back), but it’s your favorite because it doesn’t need words to convey emotions. Fef says you only like it because listening to it makes you feel superior to other people, which it totally not true.
Twenty-four pancakes later, you’re picking up a large tin tray filled with them and making your way towards the front door. Fef offers to carry them, but you do the chivalrous thing and say that you’ve got it. She rolls her eyes and mutters something about your shoulder taking twice as long as it should to heal before she grabs a bag of fruit off the counter, picking up the house key, and opening the door for you.
The door locks automatically behind you, but Feferi checks to make sure it’s secure; there’s nothing wrong with being careful. Since the elevator in this building has been out of commission for forty years or so, you take the stairs up. It’s not a long climb by any means, and soon Fef’s knocking eagerly your neighbors’ rickety door. You’re standing slightly behind her, trying to rearrange the tray without dropping it, when the door opens.
Karkat is revealed, looking tired and annoyed—his default expression. “Hey,” he greets monotonously, stepping aside to let you two in and then slamming the door behind you. “You know where to put them,” he says to you, and you head off to the kitchen as Kanaya pats the spot next to her on the couch. Feferi puts her bag on top of your tin and plops down, wasting no time in engaging the taller girl in conversation.
Kankri welcomes you cordially and Porrim nods to an open spot of counter. “Need any help cookin’?” you ask, feeling generous. It’s a rare thing for you, especially this early in the morning. Your eyes flit towards the couch to see if Fef noticed your act of charity, but she’s engrossed in conversation with Kanaya.
“Thanks, Eridan, but we’ve got it,” Porrim says, cutting up a banana that falls into a large blender. Sunday smoothies are the best part about these breakfasts, in your opinion, even if none of the fruit is fresh and they just use juice instead of ice cream and a bunch of delicious artificial stuff that you grew up with. You’re tempted to grab a blueberry out of the mix, but last time you tried Porrim almost cut your fingers off, so you refrain.
Feferi and Kanaya don’t even notice when you enter the room (unlike your apartment, their kitchen is semi separated from the living room by a wall and a half), but Karkat gives you a nod from where he’s sitting on the armrest and glowering. Instead of interrupting the conversation, you go and sit by him.
“Dude, where the fuck were you last night?” Karkat groans. “I needed a fifth person for Dota. We had to use Tavros, and he fucking sucks.”
“Come on, you know Tav’s better at the Minecraft stuff,” you say, trying to give the kid a break. Though you never thought you’d be sticking up for a cripple, you like his brother, so you try your best to stay on good terms with the younger Nitram to make sure Rufioh never tricks you out of a deal. “And Sol was on; he’s a decent enough mage, even if he’s a fuckin asshole in real life. Though if you tell anyone I said that, I’ll deny it and then shoot you.”
Karkat snorts, letting his head tip back and hit the wall with a dull thud. “He was on the other fucking team, along with every other decent player but me! Well, we had Kanaya, and Nepeta’s okay, but two and a half people can’t carry a team when they’re fighting a whole bunch of fucking OP assholes!”
“Language, Karkat,” Kankri chides, walking into the room while untying his bright red apron. He really didn’t need it for anything; the guy takes everything too seriously, and you’d bet a large sum of money that he puts it on every time he enters the kitchen, even if he was just getting a glass of water. “It’s ready, you may now come to the bar.”
Feferi jumps up from her spot on the other side of the couch and says, “Great, I’m starving!” before trotting over to a stool. The half wall you made note of earlier is a few feet high, and has a countertop that lets it act like a table. The wall itself has scuffmarks all over it from people’s feet, even if you all take off your shoes. Kanaya repaints it at least once every month or two, but within days it’s already messed up again.
You take a seat to Fef’s right, because then there’s a better chance of getting to touch her since your ongoing lefty-righty war causes you to bump elbows more than once during every meal. Karkat plops down on your other side, and the rest of the group settles on the opposite side of Feferi. It’s incredibly cramped, as it is every other Sunday of the year, but you’ve managed before and you figure that you’ll continue managing until they kick you out.
Everything tastes wonderful, from the delectable smoothies to you and Fef’s pancakes. You’d think that having the same Sunday breakfasts with very little rotation on who cooks what would end with everyone getting sick of the food, but it’s honestly the best meal of the week, since all of you pick out the nicest looking fruit and cleanest cups of flour and sugar from your rations. Sometimes you make your own butter, if it’s a heavy cream week, and once there was a shipment of cocoa powder that Fef managed to get into so you had chocolate stuff for the first time since leaving the Burbs.
By the time everyone gets to the clever conversation part of the morning, your plate is clear of every crumb and you’re trying to get the last bits of strawberry flavored ice out of the bottom of your smoothie. Kankri is nattering away about something that you’ve been ignoring up until this point. “—cutting down on rations for people level four and below, which is another example of the blatant classism displayed by our oh-so-gracious buck rulers.”
“Well, there must’ve been a reason for it,” Feferi breaks in, trying to be sensible. “I admit, it is incredibly unfair that only a segment of the population has to suffer the consequences of such a cut, but something must’ve happened to prompt it.”
No one responds to that. Kankri shifts his shoulders and sips on some shitty tea while Porrim slips out of her stool to gather plates. As she takes yours, you remember what Rufioh told you a few days ago. “Wait, was it wheat products that were affected?”
Karkat sighs and throws up his hands. “Oh, so just because you’re sitting high up in the fifth level you think you can not listen to the bulk of the conversation. Yes, bitchweasel, the rations that were affected were the flour related ones. Here, have a gold fucking star.”
You make a face at him, wondering what he’d think if he found out you weren’t a level five like your fake ID said, but an eleven. Out of twelve possible levels. “What I was going to say was that maybe what affected it was a riot. A pal of mine was part of a group that started throwin’ shit at the borough’s agricultural building because of the shortage of wheat-related rations. Even though it got shut down pretty quick and the media got censored by the police or some shit, maybe the authorities were pissed and cut the supply for the group of people they thought would be involved.”
Feferi looks incredibly interested, but the Vantases look like you slapped them. “Eridan, who did you hear that from?” Kankri questions.
“Um,” you say, blinking. “A guy down at the BHG. You probably don’t know him.”
Kankri sighs, reaching up to his forehead to rub his temples. “It wouldn’t happen to be Rufioh Nitram, would it?”
You suck at lying like this, though you’ve gotten better at it since having to hide your identity and hair color and everything about you. Part of you wonders how the hell a guy like Kankri knows a guy like Rufioh. “…Maybe?”
The older Vantas shoots up from his seat, startling Kanaya from a book she pulled out from god knows where and heading off towards one of the bedrooms. “Where are you going?” Porrim calls from the sink. Her posture is completely casual, but something in her voice tells you that she’s a bit uneasy too.
“I’m going to call Meulin,” he responds, coming out of the room with a shitty prepaid cellphone in his hand. He’s about to walk out the door when something seems to occur to him, and he about-faces and strides over to you and Fef. “Tonight,” he starts, “there’s a meeting of sorts down at Midnight Runners at nine. Karkat, tell them what goes on,” he turns to his brother. You’re surprised that Kar doesn’t automatically reply with an enthusiastic, ‘Fuck no!’ but just grumbles in compliance. “I’ll be back in a little while.”
With that, he’s out of the apartment and slamming the door behind him. The first sound over the running water of washing dishes is Kanaya turning a page in her book.
Feferi leans around you to get a good look at Karkat. “What does he mean?” she asks excitedly, a shine in her eye akin to the one that was present when she was talking about the Heresies the night before. “What kind of meeting?”
“It’s—” he sighs, looking up at the ceiling. You don’t notice now, but Fef’ll tell you later that Porrim was throwing you a wary look from the sink. You didn’t see because she wasn’t in your line of sight, but Fef took note of it. “Kankri has this weird equality club thing. I think it’s just an excuse for him to preach about his ideas and shit to a whole bunch of idiots who just stare at him and nod, but—”
“Karkat,” Porrim cuts him off. “Your brother is a very gifted speaker, and he believes in what he’s doing. People wouldn’t listen to him if there weren’t any sense in what he’s saying, and you have to admit that you bitch about being oppressed all the time.”
“At least I’ve never used the word ‘triggered’!” He starts gagging.
The water shuts off, and Porrim snaps the dishtowel at Karkat before drying her hands. Kanaya closes her book, setting it on the counter and folding her hands over it, adding, “No matter what Karkat says about it, tonight is a serious affair. Though the atmosphere is quite comfortable, a lot of things that are… discussed aren’t very legal.”
Technically, censorship of any medium is banned, but everyone below knows that free speech is a load of bullshit. You meet Fef’s gaze, and she’s looking at you like she wants to explode from sheer excitement. ‘Treason, Eridan, actual TREASON!’ you can imagine her bursting later. This is the sort of thing she’s always been interested in, and she’d kill to be included in anything that had the word ‘equality’ in it. “We’re going!” she exclaims, clasping her hands together under her chin. “We’ll definitely be there, right Eridan?”
Though it could sound like she’s asking your permission, you know it’s not like that at all; if anything, she’s telling you that she’s going no matter what and the only thing you have a say in is whether or not you’ll be carting your ass down to the shoddy bar with her. “Yeah, Fef, I’ll go.” Midnight Runners is technically Crew territory, and though you’ve seen enough of them for a while, it’s unlikely that you’ll run into them twice within two days. Anyway, if any gang violence did break out, you’d want to be there to protect Fef. She doesn’t have a weapons permit like you do.
“Fucking great,” Karkat groans, trying to be sardonic though in actuality he doesn’t sound very disappointed. “Now I’ll have at least one more person to add to my corner of sanity.”
Porrim scribbles out some directions on a napkin and hands them over the bar to Feferi, who thanks her and carefully put it in her pocket. This time, you do see the look she throws at you—it’s like she’s trying to see through your shirt or something. You quirk an eyebrow at her in confusion, and she mirrors your action with one of her pierced ones as she tries to intimidate you. She used to be able to do that all the time: with tons of piercings, green-streaked hair, and tentacle-like tattoos covering most of her body, there’s not a lot of people Porrim Maryam couldn’t intimidate. You’re only safe now because she likes you.
The brief standoff is broken when she looks down at the dripping plates. “Don’t be late,” she says, going back to putting away the dishes.
You guys hang out there for the next hour or two, and Kankri gets back somewhere in the middle, though he just trudges through the living room and back to his bedroom that he shares with his brother. Karkat breaks out an old gaming system, and you, Fef, Kan, and Kar play an old shooter zombie game until Porrim kicks you off the TV to watch some fashion program that comes on at one.
When you and Fef are heading down the stairs to go back to your apartment, she’s nearly vibrating with anticipation. “I was right!” she exclaims, skipping ahead of you.
“Don’t skip on the stairs,” you tell her, and she rolls her eyes and sticks out her tongue. “Right about what?”
“There are people who actively want change!” she says, getting off the staircase at your floor. “People down here aren’t just passive, downtrodden masses that are content to be herded around like mindless drones. They’re ready to do something about their oppression! Isn’t it amazing?”
“I guess,” you grumble, watching Fef dig the house key out of her pocket. Slipping it into the lock, she waits until the small bulb above the door lights up green before retracting it, and you hold the door open for Fef to go inside. “Don’t get your hopes too high, though, because all it sounds like is a bunch of friends getting together at a bar to rail against the government. People in the Burbs did that all the time.”
She plops down on the couch, propping her feet up on the table as she switches on the television. “But all they had to complain about were really tiny tax increases,” she argues. “This actually means something! You’ll see.”
For her sake, you hope it does.