Interlude [h.s]

one hundred

The boy is sitting at the table in the middle of the living room. The empty apartment spans around him, still and cold. The windows are closed; the yellowish light above his head flickers incessantly.

The boy's fingers tap over the metal of the table insistently, his eyes drawn to the screen of his laptop, open in front of him. It's an old model, a creaky thing really, but he's fond of it. He's had it for over ten years, and holds it with the same regard he would an old friend.

Tap, tap, tap.

His eyes follow the shape on the screen, his recreation of an old game from the past. The shape eats a little white circle, and then another. His eyes narrow, dark eyelashes in his line of vision. The reflection of his piercing blue eyes stares back at him from the black screen—an annoying family trait he shares with his perfect, aggravating brother. His teeth clench. The code-made shape hits the corner of the screen and dies.

Tap, tap, tap.

He's late.

The boy's leg bobs up and down in nervousness. He doesn't have a lot of time left—soon life back home will go back to normal, and they'll notice he's gone. He has to go back before that happens. He wouldn't want to make his brother suspicious. He's like a dog with a bone—if he latches onto something, he never lets go.

Tap, tap, tap.

A look at the time in the corner of the screen. It's a little past midnight—his time left is trickling down the drain at an alarming speed. He should've never agreed to come here. He starts the game again, but his mind is running too fast, and it's not enough to distract him.

Tap, tap, tap.

Maybe he should add a few obstacles, enemies, more levels? He tuts. The possibilities are endless. He exits the game. If he adds a few extra walls—

The front door opens, but he's so focused on his task that he only notices when a voice rings out.

"Playing with your laptop again?"

The boy looks at the newcomer. The man stares back at him, eyebrows raised. It's not the first time the boy sees that look on the man's face, that relentless staring, like the world is made of layers and he's an expert in peeling back each one. "You made it," he says. "I didn't think you would."

The man shrugs, takes a few steps into the apartment. "So little faith. I told you I would."

"Has anyone seen you?"

"Don't think so, no. The city is remarkably unsettled today. I think I saw at least ten Palace cars speed down the street coming here."

"Yeah, well." The boy clears his throat and turns off the laptop. "The Palace is taking over a few things here and there today."

The man nods understandingly. "I see. Now I get why you called me here."

"What better moment?" The boy stands, deep blue eyes sliding over the room like the walls hold instructions on what to say next. His fingers fidget with his black sleeve. "Do you..." His voice dies out. "Will you stay here awhile?"

The man considers the question for a long moment. "A while, yes. There are things to settle here."

"What about..."

"The Greenside A cover is blown. We're to stay away from there from now on. Do not trust any message that mentions it."

The boy frowns. "I didn't hear talk of it around."

"It was Larson, not the Palace," the man replies, crossing his arms. There's tamed irritation in his movements.

"Ah," the boy replies. Larson is like his brother—also a dog with a bone. They just never let go. "That's messy. Did they get into your hotel room in Dacran? So much for having trusted hideouts."