Shadowville

Chapter 2: Vaughn

Blake woke to his 6 AM alarm, feeling absolutely miserable after a night of restlessness. It wasn't ideal; he had a lot of work to do today and he'd rather not be nodding off in the middle of it.

He retrieved a beige-plaid suit out of a dry cleaning bag and made himself presentable as best he could: a bit of concealer under the eyes, grease in his almond hair, a whitening strip for his teeth after an extensive brushing routine. With his red leather briefcase in hand, he was the editorial picture of the perfect businessman. Through it all though, he couldn't help but hope the day passed quickly. An afternoon of chatting and exploring was so close he could taste it. He didn't know what had come over him, but he felt so desperate for it it was painful.

Blake's breakfast was oatmeal with chopped apples, which changed with whatever was in season. He ate quickly, then grabbed his keys and headed out the door. Despite the chill in the air, he felt his eyes drooping.

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The way that Shadowville was structured, the houses were in winding, approximate rows to the east and west of a central passageway containing HOA-funded attractions. There were the typical things: a gym with a pool, an event space, and a playground, but there were a few clusters of shops he had yet to explore.

He walked the few hundred feet to the coffee shop, cheekily called Insomnia Sheep with a drawing of a lamb nursing a coffee mug for a logo, and pushed the door open.

A bell sounded, and two of the people behind the counter looked at him, and they looked...he shouldn't be rude, and maybe he was just seeing things due to exhaustion, but the one's skin did not look like a natural color and the other seemed to be wearing ram horns and ears. That person jumped up and grabbed the other, pulling them into the back of the store and out of sight. Blake's brow furrowed. That wasn't quite stellar customer service.

He approached the violet counter regardless. The sole person behind it had feathery bright pink hair and glossy black lipstick. She had been pressing at something on the register screen, and when she looked up, Blake was startled by her dual-colored eyes. One was an average brown, but the other was a very pale yellow. She wasn't startled like the others.

"Excuse me for asking, but what's your house number? And do you have any identification I can see?"

Blake relaxed a bit hearing that. This community took its security very seriously. Maybe there was a protocol for a new arrival, and everyone but the manager had to head to the back in case it was a dangerous outsider. If it was him running the shop, it was something he would implement.

"816, and of course." He pulled out his wallet and showed her.

"Thank you Mister Reeves. I hope you weren't offended by those two, Avery gets skittish."

"It's not every day they see an unfamiliar face around here, is it?"

"No sir. If they let us know that there would be an unfamiliar face beforehand that would be nice, but we can't have everything, now can we."

"No, it's a shame. I'd like an iced black French roast, by the way."

"Of course. Medium or large?"

"Medium, please."

"You got it."

The register was a modern thing, requiring nothing more from the cashier than turning the screen for him to tap his card and sign his name. The cashier, who wore no name tag but had a garishly pink collar reading "BOMB" in mirror letters, set about pouring his brew. Her back was strangely covered in feathers, underneath of which the apron strings were tied–what exactly was the dress code of this shop? "Bomb" wore an apron and polo shirt, but the rest of this was just puzzling.

"Are you headed to work today?" she asked, clinking the cup on the counter for him.

"Yes, going to tour a new factory. Meet the locals, as it were."

"I hope that goes well for you."

"Thank you. Have a good day," he called as he left. He didn't hear a reply. She must be jaded, he diagnosed.

The day did go by fast, even if the work was tedious. The regional manager showed him around a massive factory, and at each stop, he introduced himself with a smile and a handshake to all assembled. Some he could tell would be out in a month, and others he saw hopeful potential in.

By one o'clock the concrete floors had taken their toll on his feet. He noted that to the regional manager, reminding him to remind workers about the value of comfortable shoes. Few things were more worth spending a hard-earned paycheck on.

He returned home and had a lengthy virtual meeting with advertisers. Everything would be alright for his newest product launch, they assured, and they went through every detail.By the time they were done it was 3:15. His workday was over, and he set himself an alarm for 4 before curling up in his bed. Sleep came easily to him this time.

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So easily it was jarring to wake up. He had to remember where he was, where were his things from his flat? Why was his room so big?Someone was knocking on the door. He looked down in disgust at his wrinkled shirt.

"I'm coming!" he called, but he had no idea if he could be heard.

Most of his clothes were still packed, so he frantically looked through his things to find the most pristine-looking pieces, before throwing them on and running downstairs.

His ears were on fire when he opened the door and Vaughn was there, looking disheveled in a far more attractive way.

It was clear he'd been running, from the sweat dripping off his bangs to the sweatpants and the water bottle hanging off his hips.For a moment they stood looking at each other, each panting to some degree or another.

"I can wait out here if you're not ready," Vaughn spoke first.

"No, that's okay–"

"I-I'm sorry if I'm underdressed–"

"You have to understand, I only moved in yesterday. I don't know where half of my clothes are, I only bothered to keep track of the formal ones."

"Clever. I'm sorry."

"No, don't be. Just give me a moment to put shoes on, and then I'll be ready."

"You may want to run a comb through your hair too, friend."

"Shoot, you're right," he responded, catching a look at himself in the mirror by the door. "Please come in. I'll be ready in a few minutes. And forgive the lack of decoration, I left a lot of my art back home in favor of buying new pieces down here."

Vaughn stepped inside, and whistled. "I like what you've done with the place, even if it's a work in progress."

As Blake combed his fingers through his hair, trying to make it halfway presentable, Vaughn went around examining the antique couches and empty display cases. "There's an import store just outside that sells genuine sake sets, if you're looking for something to put in here. They're nice and small, but eye-catching. Functional too."

"Are you a sake man?"

"I actually haven't tried it. I found this one whisky I like in college, and I haven't drank much of anything else since. But most of my intake is smoothies, boba and coffee so when do I have the time for that?"

"Really! Are you a social drinker?"

"I don't like the taste of champagne at all, and that's usually what we're socially drinking, so. Well. I've learned to let my sister drain it and fill the flute with water instead. With the poor lighting of these events, usually no one even notices."

"I respect that. Do you think that's easier than just acquiring the taste?"

"For sure."

By this time Blake had tied his shoelaces, and configured himself into a decently formal man again. "Are you ready to go?"

"Of course."