Chapter Text
You were good.
You had a pretty average life (which you were thankful for given your unfortunate circumstances), and everything was going good.
You had a decent, average job, an average flat you moved into two or three years ago, average old little neighbours who'd give you baked goods whenever you visited, average friends you hung out with after work on Friday nights, (you never drank, alcohol was not favoured by you), and you had an average commute to your job on a shitty little bus that was always late, always cramped and always smelled of old ladies and second-hand cigarette smoke.
It wasn't what most people had in mind when you told them you had the perfect life. Most people would consider it painfully average, normal on a level that was uncomfortable. And that's exactly how you liked it. Normal. Good. A routine you stuck to like rodents to a glue trap.
There was safety in your routine. There was a comfort in knowing what would happen.
You weren't a boring person by any means, you were just very reserved with your personal life. While most people held their cards close to their chests (or in your bus drivers' case, he held them out for everyone to see all of his marital problems in the forms of road rage and a healthy dose of yelling at cars passing by him), you on the other hand, you held those cards so close that people often assumed you didn't have any.
It's what you preferred. It's how you liked it. You were normal, average, good . You had no secrets, no weird past, nothing unusual ever happened to you, you were just you . A normal, average, good citizen who didn't do anything out of the ordinary. You were aware of this; you had purposefully made it so that your life looked like that.
If everyone thought you were that one random person who always sat two rows behind the driver of the bus, who'd chat to old people on the morning commute to work, that random person who did everything like everyone else, then there were no questions.
It was a good system, a good routine, it had structure to it and that is what kept you safe for so long. You never got sloppy, you never got eased into a sense of security, you always had a backup plan just in case. You were as prepared and methodical as you could possibly get, perhaps you were going overboard with it, obsessively (you'd even call it desperate at this point) maintaining the sense of normalcy around your false identity.
But that is what kept you safe. An unpolished, unwaxed, unsharpened tool that sits in your shed for 'when I'll need to use it next' and never actually touched, then you cannot expect it to work like magic when you do eventually need to use it.
Except, the only difference between a rusty old tool and your carefully crafted safety-net, was that one could easily be sharpened or replaced, and the other would lead you to fall to your death if even the slightest hole presented itself.
You didn't hate it, not necessarily. Sure, it was frustrating to hide, frustrating to always be aware of any new faces that showed up, watching the smallest movement people around you made, listening for the sound of quickening footsteps behind you (only to find that it was just the student who was running to catch the bus because he'd be damned if he had to wait another hour to get home), noticing the tiniest details about the people around you, committing their habits and words to your memory.
Over the two to three years, you lived in the area, you had gotten to know everyone. Not on a deeper level, just on the surface, because people worked in predictable ways. Everyone had their routines they stuck to, even if they didn't realise it. Some might say it was weird and a bit creepy that you knew how others worked, but to you it made complete sense.
If you knew what people would do, say and think, then you could predict them. The single mother of two complaining last week at the café that her youngest was coughing? She didn't come in on her usual Tuesday lunch to buy croissants for her kids after they finish school. The next week you overheard that all three had caught a rather nasty cold.
The sweet old man who sat in the seat in front of you on the bus? He was lonely and wished that his niece and nephew would visit more often. (You visited him later in the week to ask for advice on something unimportant, which ended up with a three-hour long conversation where he told you his entire life history.)
You knew everyone, and you knew everything. You needed to know everyone and everything. It's what kept you safe. And the moment something was off? You'd know.
Everything was good. You were good.
You were safe.
Until a new face showed up at the bus stop on a random Thursday morning and your stomach dropped to the floor. The anxiety that had always been building in your subconscious now came out full force, because you could tell they weren't normal.
Not in the sense that they stood out, no, they didn't do anything odd or weird or anything out of the ordinary. But that's exactly what gave it away. He was standing next to the student who (as per usual) had odd socks on, a thermos cup filled to the brim with coffee and a rushed and dishevelled appearance (he always woke up late, thus leaving him to run to the bus).
The man couldn't have been taller than 5''8, possibly 5''10, dressed casually (too clean and put-together for someone who was catching the bus at 6:49am if you had to admit). And you had never seen him around. As you boarded the bus along with the other passengers, you could see their curiosity and silent judgement at the fact that this newcomer disrupted their peaceful pattern. Even Jim, the temperamental driver who looked like he was one more minor inconvenience away from snapping and driving into oncoming traffic (him and his marital problems often had you questioning if he was truly fit for society) was staring at the man with an incredulous look.
He sat in someone else's seat, which if you were being honest was a little funny. Nobody had assigned seats, but everyone always sat in the same spot anyway, might as well slap a name on it and call it their own at this point.
Perhaps he was a newcomer to the town? Unlikely. You would have heard the rumours by now.
Visiting a friend? Not possible. You would have heard about it by now. It was a small town, everyone talked to everyone. A visiting friend would be big news.
Passing by? Not a chance. He looked like he was going to work like everyone else . You hadn't heard of anyone being hired anywhere.
Take a closer look .
The thought made you involuntarily shudder. Nope. No. Not in a million years. You'd have to beat it out of yourself to do that.
But you really should just... take a peek .
You were becoming too paranoid. Your safety net was tight. You didn't need to look. You didn't need to see. You were living in this boring town with an average good life to not look further . To simply live as if your mind was empty instead of the cacophony of noises and pictures it was made up of.
Fuck it. Let's test this man.
Would it give away your intentions? Possibly. Probably. Most likely. Sure. Yes. Absolutely. Positively. 100%.
But this way you didn't need to look .
The next stop was coming up, just before the intersection where nobody ever got off. (And coincidentally where the bus driver's blood pressure went through the roof as he prepared to yell at whatever unfortunate soul happened to be in his nearby vicinity).
You stood up from your seat with a practiced causality that you had perfect over the past few years. To anyone that hadn't lived in the comfortable routine everyone around you stuck to, you simply looked like you were getting up from your seat to get off at the next stop. To everyone who had shared your average life, you had just broken your pattern. You had never gotten off at this intersection before. Well, that was a lie, you had once gotten off to help Mr Rewer get his shopping onto the bus (God knows that the old man cannot bend his back without breaking something).
Reaching into your bag you walked down the bus isle, if you were being honest, you were praying for whatever deity was watching over you that your hunch was correct, that this man was just a random person who was here and somehow managed to slip through your intricately woven safety net.
The gods must hate you; you've known this for a long time, but truly this was just cruel mockery at this point.
Your prayer went unanswered. The anxiety spilled from your head to your stomach and coated your entire body from head to toe.
The man stood up, hurrying and almost tripping over his own shoes to follow you. He had pressed the button to let the driver know he wanted to get off, and the bus slowed to a standstill at the stop before the intersection. All heads and eyes focused on you. Your pattern was broken.
As the rickety old bus came to a rather loud screeching halt (the wheels and cogs needed to be oiled, it was an old bus that creaked at the slightest movement and you were surprised it hadn't fallen apart yet), and the door opened.
"Oh, sorry, you go ahead. I just wanted to give Jim something." You politely stepped out of the way, pulling your hand out of your bag to extend a plastic tupperware box towards the driver, giving plenty of space for the man to get off the bus without touching or brushing against you. (You didn't want any bugs or tags to be 'accidentally' placed onto you).
Giving the man a normal apologetic smile, you turned towards Jim, who you had developed a sort of coexistence with where he just about tolerated you (like he did with everyone else on the bus. Jim was a bitchy little shit who should not have had his driver's license for this long, seriously it's a miracle nobody had died yet on his bus.)
"Mrs Ambrisio wanted me to give this to you. I completely forgot that I had it in my bag." You held the box out as the driver took it with an excited smile (nobody could say no to Mrs Ambrisios's cooking). Sure, he was questionable, and you weren't sure how the bus was still in one piece with his driving skills, but he was talkative and had a good relationship with the old lady who lived three doors down in your apartment building. Everyone had a good relationship with her. Everyone knew her.
Everyone was connected. Everyone knew everyone. Everyone was connected to each other. The guy who stood behind you was not. He was the outlier. The exception . The anomaly .
He was a professional by all standards, the way he carried himself and held his body in a 'I was trained to blend in' way that made him stand out painfully so (the opposite effect of what he wanted to achieve). Either they were getting sloppy with their training and recruiting, or you were just too good.
You'd hoped it was both.
And yet, as professional as he was, (hand-picked for the job no doubt), he almost fumbled in on himself, mouth opening to speak before shutting it immediately. Smart decision. Give nothing away. Even if he had shown all his cards to you, presenting them plainly on the table without realising you held any cards to begin with, he wanted to pretend like he still had the upper hand here.
Jim reached over and took the box from your hands, for once in his life looking like he wasn't about to pop a blood vessel from a violent fit of uncontrolled anger. And the man standing behind you gave you a short nod with a forced smile, stepping past you without brushing up against any of your belongings and getting off the bus as if he was simply getting off at his stop like any regular person would.
As soon as he was off the bus you sat back down into your seat, Jim closed the doors and the bus creaked forward, moving towards the intersection, and you watched from the corner of your eye as the man reached up to his ear, most likely to speak into some kind of hidden communication device, and honestly? You felt a little better that he was off the bus.
That didn't mean you were safe, because if they had someone follow you onto the bus, they knew where you lived and would most certainly try something later when you got home.
Kidnapping was not above these people, but causing a public scene was where they drew the line. So, they'd probably do it in your own home, where nobody would see or hear you if you tried anything.
Cute that they think you'd try something. It wasn't the first time you've run from them, and it certainly won't be the last, but realistically they'd find you again and the whole 'cat-and-mouse' thing you had going with them would restart. Honestly you were getting really tired with their bullshit. Why can they not just leave you the fuck alone?
The bus drove through the intersection with a jolt, surpassing the speed limit with a swerve that had everyone on board (as per usual) clutch onto whatever was closest to them, whether that was the seat in front of them or the handles hanging above them, they held onto those things like their life depended on it (because with the way Jim was driving it really was their lives that depended on it), and everything was back to its normalcy, back to how it was supposed to be.
It wouldn't last forever. It wouldn't even last long, possibly until the end of your day when you went home like you did every other day. Maybe you could fake being sick? Complain to your boss and get sent home early? Pack a bag and quickly make a run for it? You had a backup plan (and three more back-up-backup plans in case those ones went wrong, you were prepared for this), there was no reason for you to stay and let them catch you.
You could very easily slip from their watchful eyes, wherever they had posted men to keep an eye on your apartment building, and you could leave without any issues.
People would notice.
There it was again. That annoying little voice in the back of your mind, treacherous and so goddamn right. It was the part of your brain that always stayed vigilant, that always found the solution right away (even if that solution wasn't necessarily ethical or preferred), it always gave the results you needed. The answer to your problems.
Take a peek. Have a look. People will notice. They will ask questions.
All of the things you didn't want to admit to yourself. Of course, people would notice if you suddenly disappeared. If you just packed up and left one night by the next morning everyone would be curious. You'd have to give a two week notice at your work, your friends and neighbours would miss you, and they'd ask the questions.
Where are you going? Why are you leaving?
All valid questions. None that you were willing to or wanting to deal with right now. Your first order of priority was to get to work, act like you do every single day and brainstorm a way out of this fine little mess those people were creating for you.
The bus yanked to the right, a normal occurrence when Jim was the one driving it, and finally stopped moving as he pressed on the brakes with more force than was necessary.
Everyone filed off the bus, and the woman in front of you leaned over to her friend as they got off. "Jim was somehow worse today than yesterday." She whispered loud enough for you and the student next to you to hear. His school was opposite your workplace, and the two of you often walked together, it was nice to keep company to someone who was so enthusiastic about art (seriously, you could not get that kid to shut up even if you wanted to. But that was okay with you, he always had interesting things to say.)
"Haven't you heard?" The woman's friend leaned into whisper (once again rather loudly). "Helens moved out, they're getting the divorce finalised." She whispered, and the boy next to you let out a sigh. "Good for her. If his driving is anything like his home life, I'm not surprised it's in shambles." He mumbled, sipping on his warm coffee.
"Ah, what a wonderful invention the thermos is." He spoke with contentment, taking another large gulp from his coffee. That boy was made of pure spite and coffee, you wouldn't be surprised if he had caffein in his goddamn veins with how much of it he consumed on a daily basis.
You allow yourself a smile, to slip back into your old routine, taking the regular route to your workplace as you lull yourself into your patterns and everyday systems. Going to work. Pausing at the crossroad, waiting for the sign to turn green, listen to the student talk about his newest art project.
A lovely 3D piece inspired by Greek mythologies. If you remembered correctly, he was making the wings of Icarus, kids these days and their imaginations. The light turns green, you continue your journey. Walking past the bakery that sold the best fucking bread you ever had the chance of eating (the owner was an Italian man who refused to cook anything that wasn't approved by his grandmother first), and then finally getting to the looming and yet surprisingly colourful building that was the school.
"See you later, I'll take some pictures of how the project is going to show you!" The student gives you a fist-bump, waving as he walks up to the school, joins his friends by the doorway and enters entirely too enthusiastically for someone who arrives to school so early. This boy is having a good time at school, as he usual does, and it leaves you with the impending feeling of doom.
You yourself aren't going to be blessed with such a good day today. Or for any of the days following this one.
For most of the morning you shuffle through your work, and you find that no matter how hard you try, it seems to be impossible to forget about what would eventually be waiting for you at home. The only solace you have is your co-workers and their dashing personalities.
Accounting work sounds boring and plain and mundane to anyone outside of the job, but nobody asks questions when you're an accountant (besides other accountants), and this has saved you from having to answer so many questions in your life. You chose a profession where you could easily blend in and be like everyone else around you. And you had to admit, being an accountant was the most fun thing you could do while being a regular person.
Most people would think accounting work is just paperwork, handing papers over to other people, stamping official documents with fancy looking red stamps, running around a big office building to interrupt meetings like they do in the movies.
But this isn't a movie. And the two other accountants working in the office room you have all agree with you on the fact that your lives are much more entertaining than a movie.
There was always something going on. Some kind of new and exciting thing. If it wasn't Susan from the front desk coming up to inform you that someone just came in for another meeting or someone wanted some important document that you kept filed away in the office, if it wasn't that, then it was the utterly mind-boggling emails people sent through the only three accountants in the entire goddamn building .
Why were the emails sent through the accountants and not directly to the recipient in question? That was the first question you had when you were hired, a very valid question, completely normal as it wasn't the standard procedure you were accustomed to as an accountant in your previous workplace.
Simple; the boss was a fucking lunatic.
A raging madman. A sociopath. A deranged individual. And a plethora of other names that your lovely co-workers had called him (amongst the honourable mentions were "Mad bastard" and "crackpot", or your personal favourite "an overgrown chihuahua wearing a human skin" which was said by Susan on multiple occasions, and it is your favourite to this day), and none of those names were wrong. He was a bit of a....to put it nicely, a nervous wreck with too much power and an ego the size of an entire universe (and critical thinking skills the size of a rotten walnut if you were being truthful).
He wasn't an evil horrible businessman who exploited his workers, no, you wouldn't call him that. You'd call him an evil horrible businessman who exploited the loopholes in any policy he could find. And of course you were made to deal with his antics, such as looking through emails, answering on his behalf and making sure the company received as much money as humanly possible from any new business partner he had invested into.
It was a miracle the office was still standing considering how many people he exploited on a daily basis. Although, saying that, everyone in the town knew what he did, which is why most of his clientele were from overseas or from another city hours away from where you lived.
Nobody in their right mind would strike up a deal with him in the town you lived in, but the people outside of it? They were like overfed goldfish getting their daily treats. They took the bait without so much as blinking and invested a good amount of money into his company.
And yet it wasn't him that was keeping his own business afloat, no, no it was you and the other accountants working hard every day to keep clients and investors equally happy.
Was it fraud? Potentially (but you didn't really want to look into the legality of it).
Was it the weirdest capitalist monopoly game you ever had the chance to play? Absolutely. Seriously, it was like a game of extreme monopoly.
At least the pay was decent. Actually, it was better than decent. For all your hard-work and effort, you guys got paid pretty damn well. Better than your previous accounting job at least. It wasn't nearly as much as you should have been making with the amount of time, work and effort that went into maintaining his little board game of real people, but you weren't going to complain.
You were (for once in your life) able to put money aside, you could afford to live in an apartment by yourself (and it was no small apartment either, it was cosy but not small), and you could also afford to run away at any moment should you need to dich your life and everything you had built up so far.
You were prepared, and so were your co-workers. Even Susan at the front desk, bless her heart, was prepared for the worst-case scenario because everyone who worked for this man knew it was wise to save up in case things completely went sideways.
This time, things had gone sideways. Not in the circumstances you were hoping for, you genuinely hoped that if you'd have to run for it, it would be because the company was collapsing in on itself and you'd have to find a better job while supporting yourself, not because you'd be chased out by those people. Not because your carefully crafted life was going to turn into shambles if you stayed for even a second longer.
"You're not going to believe this." Varvara leaned over to your desk, pushing her curly hair out of the way of her glasses. "The audacity some of these men is baffling to me, do you want to know what he just wrote?" She asked, looking like she wanted to reach through the computer and strangle whoever had sent the email to her. You didn't blame her, if anything you encouraged it.
You didn't even need to say yes for her to know your answer, of course you wanted to know. Getting to hear juicy insider information of a particularly stupid breed of client was always entertaining. "Make some room, I want to see it too." Jun was already out of his seat, reading the email over your shoulder. You admired how fast Jun could be when it came to reading ridiculous emails, somehow, he always ended up with the worst ones.
It was almost like some sort of pre-planned coincidence. Jun got the emails that consisted of that special type of unintelligible, ridiculously absurd emails that were practically asking him to move the sky for them (or something along those lines). It was a usual sight to see him hitting his head (lightly) against his desk and gritting out curses that would make the most hardy military man blush.
Coincidentally, you and Varvara supplied him with various home cooked foods, and Susan would bring you all coffee during her lunch, just to help him get through the day so he didn't actually strangle any of the clients or customers.
Varvara on the other hand received emails that dealt with numbers, dates and times, log entries that dated back to long before she even joined the company, and you were almost afraid to look over to her computer to whatever monstrosity a client had sent her. She dealt with people asking for numbers, although more often than not they'd ask her for some kind of request that required common sense to figure out, and yet they had to send an email for it because somehow , they just could not figure it out by themselves.
And sometimes you wondered how she herself hadn't thrown the computer out the window. These people asked her (through the company email address, which was logged away and stored just in case) how to open a fucking PowerPoint once. A PowerPoint . A goddamn PowerPoint ! Did these people just lack a brain? Most likely. But still, it was a PowerPoint!
"-and I am writing to inform you that the money transfer did not go through, bellow I've attached a screenshot of the error that occurred on the behalf of your company-" Jun paused in his reading as Varvara scrolled down to where the sender had attached said screenshot.
It took all three of you collectively less than five seconds to start laughing. The photograph the man had attached was very clearly false, as evident by the fact that instead of your company's name, it was the name of a different company, and at the bottom of the transaction sat the date it took place.
"Damn, two whole years after the transaction he suddenly has an issue with it." Varvara laughed, hitting her fist onto the table with a laugh. Jun was sitting on the floor, holding his head in a rather weak attempt to stop himself from giggling.
It was not working.
In the end Susan had to come in to stop the chaos that was unfolding.
And just like that, your life was back to normal. And yet it wasn't.
You couldn't drag your mind away from what awaited you once you left the building. The thought that you'd likely never see your friends again. Would they miss you? Absolutely, you were their friend. Would they look for you? A close friend going missing out of the blue would make them look under every rock and look through every crack and crevice just to see if you were there.
Would they mourn you? Yes.
Did they deserve to?
No.
They didn't know anything, and yet you had managed to make such an impact on their lives that if you had suddenly disappeared and later presumed dead, they'd mourn you. And you hated to acknowledge that. Because it meant that you couldn't go quietly. You couldn't just disappear and expect them to quietly continue with their lives.
Maybe you could write them a letter? Explain your sudden disappearance so they wouldn't look for you. Maybe you could keep in contact with them somehow. Perhaps a burner phone, or an email address.
Don't drag them into this.
The pestering voice of reason was back again, and you had to agree with it. You hated agreeing with it. And yet, every single time it had been correct.
Run away. Take a look. They don't deserve this .
It was right and you hated it.
Of course, you couldn't get away with being a downer all day, because both of them immediately took notice of it. As soon as you began to retreat into your mind to plan out what to do (faking your death and forging a new identity wasn't off the table, although that's what you did last time, and you didn't have it in you to make them go to a funeral for someone who wasn't dead.
That was just cruel, too cruel. You wouldn't put them through that.
When Varvara asked you what was wrong, you simply shrugged and said it was from a lack of sleep. You weren't a good sleeper anyway, it was difficult to fall asleep, and then you'd have to be conscious of what you did during your sleep. It wasn't a pleasant experience to overhear how another one of your neighbours had found themselves sleepwalking when they had never had a history of it before.
It took you a while, but you managed to get it under control eventually. The only solution you had found was to drink as much coffee as possible before bed to be too exhausted, and then you'd sleep through the night without too many issues. Coffee sadly had the opposite effect on you, instead of giving you energy it made you sleepy. Given enough, (or strong enough coffee) and you could knock yourself out for the entire night.
"Are you sure? If you're worried about something, you can let us know." Jun replied, wheeling his chair over to where you had a small table set up in the office, it had a broken coffee machine that only worked on a Tuesday afternoon and Friday morning (specifically between the hours of 9:34am and 2pm.)
Nobody knew what was wrong with it, but nobody bothered too much with it.
"Yeah, I'll be alright. I just need to sleep more. I stayed up too late." Was the simple but effective answer you gave. Because it was true. You did stay up late, not by choice but you stayed up late regardless.
Neither of them believed you for a second. They knew you well enough by now that you were just looking for any excuse not to talk about it. And you were extremely thankful when they didn't push for an actual answer. You didn't want to talk about it, you didn't even know how you'd begin to describe the shit-show that was about to go down.
They left the topic alone, because usually when something was bothering you, you'd tell them about it later. You'd deal with whatever you were going through, and once you were over it, you'd explain what had happened.
This case was different. They'd never get to learn the answer as to why you were acting in such a way, and you were okay with that. They didn't need to know. It was much safer for them if they weren't involved.
They didn't deserve to be hurt over this.
-
The clock in the small office seemed to tick by faster than on most days. (Why wouldn't it? It was counting down your hours, minutes and seconds until you'd have to face the threat you'd been running from for most of your life.)
At least the emails weren't too bad, you'd managed to sift through all of the emails, all of which entailed new clientele. (God, how was this company going to survive without you?) While Varvara and Jun usually dealt with people who were asking for advice or had monetary issues, you were the one actually replying to people on the owner's behalf.
You had to make sure people were still invested in the company. You also coincidentally dealt with every single other email the company received, and usually it took away all of your attention, thankfully not today.
It was reassuring. You managed to draft up a small plan while you were working. An escape plan, and a way to contact your friends to let them know you've left the town and you were never coming back. You had already planned out the story -
Your sick grandmother ( who you've never mentioned once in the entire time of knowing them ) had required assistance in her lovely residence in a different country, and you just had to go help her put all of her affairs in order before she passed away and left her quaint little countryside manor to you. Where you'd have to live for the rest of your life in a non-specified country, in a non-specific little village where you didn't have internet access so you could only message or write every once in a while.
It seemed reasonable enough, a little wild and outlandish, (what can you say, you had a wildly active imagination) and if you wrote out all the details and made it seem realistic (perhaps attach a picture or two of your dear beloved grandmother, her home, maybe forge a few documents- ah wait no, they'd be able to spot forgery, just the pictures would do), then there would be no questions!
It seemed like a good plan. A wonderful plan in fact. Too good. Too perfect.
It was bound to get fucked up by something somewhere. Most likely by the very people you were trying to run from. They'd contact your friends and anyone you had come into contact with, tell them a story about how you were a dangerous criminal who could manipulate everyone around you.
That they needed any and all information your friends could give them on you (good thing you came up with a wonderful false identity about a dying grandmother in a faraway country), you didn't doubt that your friends would call them out on their bullshit, tell them that you weren't a criminal and tell them to fuck right off.
But you could never be too careful. You trusted your friends, but the less they knew the better, and even if they gave the false story to those people, they'd be fine. Because you had lied to them, and those people would know you had lied, and that's what would keep Varvara and Jun safe.
You lied to them. They knew nothing. They weren't useful to those people. They wouldn't be taken in for further questioning. They wouldn't be exposed to the truth. They wouldn't have to know. They wouldn't get hurt.
Yeah. All good. Everything would be fine. You were doing great.
You were good.
"I'll see you guys tomorrow." You waved to them as the three of you left the building, giving them a half-hearted smile and hoping to whatever deity or Godly being was watching over you that you wouldn't start crying. You were going to miss them; damn it you were going to miss them like hell. These two (three if you counted the sweet Susan by her little front desk) had been with you for three years, they'd gotten to know you, and they made you feel normal again.
They made you feel like you were a regular civilian with a regular life. They made you feel safe, welcomed, accepted.
They felt like home. And now all of that was going to come crashing down, and you could do absolutely nothing to stop it.
You weren't sure if you could ever find people who would make you feel like that again, and you didn't want to. You didn't want to run; you didn't want to become someone else again. You wanted to be you. You wanted to use your real name for once, you wanted to tell someone all about your secrets, even if it meant they wouldn't want to be around you ever again, you just wanted to confide in one person.
You'd be okay with it if they ran, if they said they hated you. You had made your peace with it. You weren't a monster, but people were judgemental little pricks who were unreasonable on the best of days.
Yet Jun and Varvara hadn't been. Sure, you didn't tell them the truth, but they were so kind, and the three of you had gone through so much shit together, that they probably wouldn't be surprised by anything you said or did. Hell, you could tell them that you were a ten-and-a-half-foot tall eldritch beast who ate children to sustain themself, and they'd be like "You know what? I'm not even surprised anymore." And that's what you missed. You practically craved it.
Acceptance and love were seldom given to you, and you wished so hard for it to stay in your life as a constant, rather than showing up once or twice (like a rare songbird thought extinct only to be spotted somewhere deep in the rainforest) and leaving without a trace.
Susan was still by the front desk, she had a few things to sort out before she got to go home, that woman never stopped working. You wouldn't be surprised if it turned out she slept in the office.
Jun waved at you first, but soon his hand dropped, and you couldn't look at either of your friends. They knew you were lying. They weren't sure what part or why, but they could tell. They had gotten used to you. They knew you. And they knew they wouldn't see you tomorrow.
Or ever again. They didn't know that yet, but you did.
You took in a deep breath, debating if it was a good idea.
Do it. You won't see them again, might as well give them a proper goodbye .
You hated the voice in the back of your head. It was so goddamn right, and for what reason?
Taking a step towards them you held your arms out, enveloping them into a tight hug and giving them a squeeze.
You were glad when they didn't ask why, because you knew you would have broken down right then and there. You hated goodbyes. They were the worst. Especially when the people you were saying goodbye to were so important to you.
"Thank you...for everything." You breathed in, and out. In, and out. Deep breaths to keep yourself grounded. "I'm going to miss you guys. I just-" You finally let them go, looking at them with the best apologetic smile you could pull onto your face. "I want you guys to know I care about you, a lot. I love you both, you mean the world to me. And I-" You swallowed the lump forming in your throat.
"I don't want to go."
Fuck. You really did hate goodbyes. They were messy, and they left you devastated. It didn't take both of them too long to piece things together. Their friend was leaving for an unknown period of time, and you didn't want to.
They looked at each other, confusion and worry clearly displayed on their features as they both pulled you in for a bone crushing hug. "I'm not sure what you're talking about, but whatever you're going through, we're always here to help." Jun patted your back, letting you cry into his shoulder.
"If it was that bitch of bus driver Jim, I will break his knees in for making you cry." Varvara knew it wasn't Jim's fault, but you appreciated the notion that she'd commit violence against the bus driver. You couldn't help but laugh at that. It was a half-laugh, half-sob mixture that came out rather than the nonchalant laugh you had hoped it would be.
"Whatever is going on, whatever you're going through, and whatever you're going to do, we will always be here. You have our numbers; you can always call us." She added, squeezing you in her arms. It was the most comforting pair of hugs you had received in a while, it made you want to stay like this forever.
"I don't know how long I'll be gone." You spoke quietly, leaning away from their embrace and wiping your eyes. You hated crying in front of people, although with them you didn't mind. They were just so...comforting. They didn't judge, they didn't care.
They loved you for who you were and goddamn it you needed to stop thinking about all of that because you would not be able to stop crying if you didn't.
"We'll be right here when you come back." Jun gave you his signature big goofy grin, and you felt the weight of his words affecting you more than he knew they would. He didn't say ' if you come back ', he had said ' when ', because they still thought you were going to come back.
Now that's just cruel .
"Thank you." Was all you could say, breathing in and out, calming your heart and mind down as best as you could. "Whatever anyone tells you about me in the upcoming days or weeks, please don't believe them. Whatever you hear about me, it doesn't change the fact that I love both of you. You are both amazing people, and I'm really glad we had so much time together-" Varvara cut you off this time.
"Stop making it sound like you're dying. Please, you're not that old yet." Her words received a snort from Jun and a strangled laugh from you. God, you really were going to miss them. You made it so difficult for yourself to let go of them.
That's what happens when you make bonds with people. You get attached. You get comfortable. And then you take the trust and love built up over the years, you hold it tight, and you tear it out by its roots.
As much as you hated that voice, it was right. If you don't make any connections, there is nothing to lose. That was the rational part of your brain, and you were going to say " GET FUCKED " to it every time it spoke. You weren't going to live your life in fear, you were going to make connections.
You were going to keep trying. You had to otherwise you'd go insane.
"Well...I guess, we'll see you, umm, when we see you?" Jun gave a vague shrug, giving you one last pat on the shoulder. You could only nod in response, waving a little as you watched with a growing pain in your chest as both of your friends (who you had grown incredibly close to in the past few years) walked away from you for the last time in their lives.
You lived on the other side of the town from them, (well, it wasn't a town, it was like a mini city, so a town basically), every day after work you'd bid them goodbye and watch as they left in the opposite direction to you. You never imagined it would be so terrible to watch them go.
The bus ride home was uneventful, you watched from the window as the sun began to set, the student who usually caught the bus around the same time wasn't there, which you were thankful for because you couldn't handle another goodbye. On the bus you overheard that he was hanging out with a few of his friends by the beloved Italian bakery, and you couldn't help but smile.
He was having a good time; he was none the wiser to what was going on. He would wake up the next day, eager to show you his newest creation only to find that you weren't on the bus, and the next day would be the same, and so would the next day after.
If you don't stop thinking you're gonna have a breakdown. Stop it, you can't lose your focus .
You were going to throttle that voice to death. You didn't know how considering it was just a voice, but you'd find a way.
The journey home was surprisingly uneventful, no shady people getting on the bus to follow you home. They probably realised it was useless to try that tactic after you tricked them in the morning, such a smart decision. Actually, they were being a bit pathetic here.
Okay let's be honest, they were being extremely pathetic. Either they were messing with you to get you to drop your guard, or they were the least prepared people that have ever been sent after you. Come on, these people got tricked by you giving Jim a goddamn box!
You were starting to worry now. Because either they were horrendously awful at their jobs, or they were trying to spook you into running. You weren't sure what they'd gain if you ran, so you hadn't considered the possibility. They'd pretend to be bad at their job to get you paranoid, to make you think they were getting sloppy. They wanted you to run, they wanted you to try and escape.
Your safety net wasn't woven as tightly as you thought it had been. And now you were going to pay for it.
As soon as you got off the bus you were on high alert. Sending a quick "Thanks." To Jim as he closed the bus door behind you, you set off towards your apartment. There was nobody around. Suspicious thing number one. Usually, your neighbour was out walking their dog. Suspicious thing number two; everything was quiet.
Take a peek- fuck off.
Somehow that managed to shut the voice up for the time being. You just had to keep calm and get to your apartment. Get to your home, grab your shit and go. Simple and easy. Surely nothing bad would occur while you were doing that.
The cooling air did little to ease your mind, and the setting sun (which had painted a beautiful, picturesque painting across the clouds) was now so low that the darkening shadows gave plenty of hiding spaces for anyone who didn't want to be seen. It was the perfect time for an ambush. And you had forgotten to bring alcohol with you.
Not that you'd try anything, you made yourself a promise. A very stupid, irresponsible and dangerous promise. You wouldn't even be capable of keeping it, but you had to try.
Feeling the familiar smooth cement steps of the apartment building connect to the bottom of your shoes gave you little relief, if any at all, and you made your way inside, trudging up the old stairwell that always smelled of tobacco and old people. You had nothing against old people, they just had a certain musty smell about them (as if they had been chewed by moths).
You reached into your coat pocket, fishing out your keys well before you reached your door. Just in case.
You got up to the seventh floor (13 floors overall, four fire exits, one each side of the building. One fire door at the back of the building, and finally the front doors), walking down the hallway to your apartment. Past all of your neighbours who were non-the-wiser about the fact they were going to have one less neighbour by the time the morning rolled around.
Nothing suspicious inside the building so far. Although, you could hear footsteps following you up the stairs. You hadn't run when you heard them. No, not yet. You were going to pretend that the even and practiced steps a few stairs down were just one of the residents.
You opened the door to your apartment, entered your home and flicked the light on. Everything the same as you left it, nothing had been touched. Good. They hadn't been inside your apartment. Your curtains were drawn, just like how you left them, your safety bag (containing essentials you'd need if you ran) sat by the doorway where it always did.
Placing your work bag down by the door you took in a deep breath. You didn't want to go. But running was the only option now-
A knock on your door had you freeze in your spot. You hadn't expected them so soon, but then again, that was their speciality. Arrive unexpected, leave no trace if they could help it.
Taking in a deep breath you smoothened out your clothes, put on your best customer-service smile, and you turned towards your door. Your hand didn't shake when you opened the door, and your body complied with what you needed from it. You had to be calm, composed and you had to keep yourself sane for whatever lay on the other side.
It was a well-dressed man in his early thirties, possibly late twenties. Clean shaven, black hair slicked off to one side, dark brown eyes sitting behind grey rimmed glasses. He was dressed in a suit and a tie, a clipboard stuck in one hand, a pen in the other. Squeaky clean shoes and a look of pretentiousness on his face.
If you didn't know any better, you would have thought he was a salesman.
Or a Jehovah's witness.
Either one was a terrifying force to deal with when trying to tell them to leave you alone (no, you didn't want a flyer about your non-existing car's insurance. No, you didn't want a booklet telling you about how you should go to church and sit through hours of nonsense. No, you didn't want to sign up to their monthly subscription. No, no, no.)
"Hi there, I'm Patrick Wankens, I'm Mrs Ambrisio's social worker and I was wondering if you could answer some questions for me." He introduced himself, and you almost snorted at that. You had misheard him and thought his name was Patrick Wankers, and honestly it was fitting.
You decided to humour him for a moment. Because there wasn't much else you could do. They knew you were there, and if you had to make an educated guess, they would not let you escape this time. At least they were trying a new approach instead of kidnapping you from the street or breaking down your door. That was somewhat commendable.
Could try the sewer tunnels. I doubt they'd catch you there.
Rolling your eyes at the voice, you took a deep breath and nodded. "Sure Patrick, what do you need?" You asked with a practiced smile, leaning against the doorframe to appear more casual. You weren't going to get out of this, they wouldn't let you slip through their grimy little fingers. Not like you hadn't escaped from them before; it'll be easy to do it again.
Go with them quietly, and then escape the first chance you get.
"Wonderful!" Patrick Wanker-sorry, Patrick Wankens exclaimed, clicking his ballpoint pen and placing it to the paper on his clipboard to start writing. "Could I please have your name?" He didn't look up from the paper.
Oh? So that's how they were going to go about this. They wanted you to either accidentally spill your own name or give them a fake name.
"Anthony Dickingsby the Third."
You had an amused look on your face as Patrick paused in writing your name, looked up at you with an incredulous look, blinking to see if he was just imagining your words for a second.
Then he gave you a smile that said 'haha, very funny ' before his face dropped into an unimpressed expression.
"You don't look like an Anthony." It was clear that Mr Patrick Wankens was not happy with your choice of false name.
"And you don't look like a social worker. Yet here we are." You spoke with a light tone, because damn it if you were going to be taken in, you'd at least have fun with it.
He certainly looks like a Wanker .
For once you'd have to agree with the little voice, and you let out a quiet snort at its comment. That was poorly received by Patrick Wanker-Wankens. His name was Wankens- as he clicked the end of his pen and pocketed it in one swift motion, setting his clipboard under his arm.
"Well, you must know why I'm here then. Protocol states that-" You cut him off before he started reciting his entire protocol book to you. You knew their protocol book by heart at this point, and quite frankly you didn't have the patience to have it be recited to you like a child reciting a school play.
"Yeah, yeah, I know, I know." You waved your hand in his direction lazily, leaning away from the door frame with the most casual and bored tone you could force into your voice. He looked taken aback, leaning backwards from your waving hand, as if you would hurt him with a simple wave of your hand.
You sighed and ran a hand down your face. "Alright, I'll go grab my things. You're welcome to come inside while I get everything. Just so you can make sure I won't escape." You turned towards your apartment and paused. "Oh, wait no, that's rule number three-hundred-thirty. Don't be alone with me unless you have another person with you, blah blah blah, yeah I remember." You opened your door fully and walked inside.
The amount of hatred and frustration these people brought to you was indescribable. They had a four-thousand-page book on how to deal with you. Four thousand ! You weren't some kind of rabid animal! You were not some eldritch monster that would feast on their flesh! You were a perfectly average human being!
You hummed a little tune to calm your nerves down, because while you looked calm, collected (and even bored) in your predicament, that was all a lie.
You weren't calm. You weren't collected. You weren't bored. You were holding yourself together like a deck of cards being held together by someone's hopes and dreams, desperately trying to not show how terrified you were.
Nothing was certain with these people. It could be days, weeks or months before you got the chance to escape again. You didn't know whether they were going to stick needles into your arms or if they were going to pop your skull open like a bottle cap and prod at your brain while your corpse remained on an operating table.
You didn't know, and that's what terrified you. You didn't know whether you were going to live or die, and the face of amusement you were putting up was more for yourself to feel some semblance of control over the situation. If you forced yourself to be calm about this, then everything would work out fine.
Everything would be just fine. It would be all okay.
You'd be fine.
You would be good.
Nothing bad would happen.
You reached over to the emergency bag, placing a few extra things from your home into it. Small trinkets that you had no doubt those people would take from you the moment they'd search your bag. Little memories like the little bird plush Varvara had knitted you, or the bird skull that Jun had found (and cleaned up to put it onto a necklace for you).
Items that you wanted to keep close to your heart and never lose. Those items would be what would keep you sane while you plotted your next escape.
"Are you ready?" Patrick hadn't stepped foot into your home, he was standing directly in the doorway, staring at you almost without blinking.
You didn't answer him, instead you simply chose to turn back towards him, tugging the zipper on your bag closed, all your essentials safely tucked inside, and you took a step towards him.
Almost instantly he stepped out of the way, making sure to put a good distance between you and him.
It was strange. You couldn't help but wonder why.
You locked your door behind you and pocketed the key, not that you'd need it again. During the entire walk down the staircase you were slightly confused. This wasn't at all what you were used to and as much as you'd hate to admit it, it was freaking you out a little more than you'd like.
These people weren't the type to use quiet measures, they would have never sent Patrick to do his whole spiel. They would have dragged you out of your office, thrown you into the back of a van and point a gun to your head.
Another thing you couldn't fathom was why Patrick seemed so jumpy around you, as if your touch would be the thing that hurt him.
You paused as you reached the front door of your apartment building, Patrick (who you had been following this entire time) paused with you, glancing back towards you figure. "Is everything alright?" He asked, and that sent a shiver down your spine. These people didn't care if you were alright, they didn't ask questions from you.
Which only meant one thing, and you didn't like where it was going.
All of the signs point to it. There's no need to deny it .
The voice chirped in unhelpfully. They didn't use tactics like the ones you'd seen today. They didn't get on the bus to follow you, they wouldn't send a 'social worker' to your home, they didn't ask you questions. And most importantly, they knew what you were capable of. Or at least partially. (They had a vague idea of how it all worked anyway)
"You don't work for them, do you." It wasn't a question. You were stating a fact.
And Patrick could only give you a vague shrug in response. Letting out a long, tired huff, his breath creating a small cloud for a moment in the cold air. "It's a difficult situation." He said, and for the unknownth time today you felt an indescribable worry because his stoic expression shifted to a more understanding one.
Just what in the hell was going on?
"It'll take a while to explain everything, but we would prefer to explain it before they show up to take you." He glanced over to what looked like a military truck parked on the other side of the street from the apartment building.
"We don't work for them. That's the simple answer." He cleared his throat, urging you forward with a small motion of his head. "We didn't want someone as valuable as you to fall into the wrong hands, that's all I can say." He began to walk, and you followed after him without a complaint.
"We will explain everything to you once we have you in a safer environment." He was now walking side-by-side with you, still maintaining a good distance between the two of you as he led you to the truck.
You had no way to respond to that, because you were tired, scared and you wanted to be left alone. You made no arguments when he opened the door of the truck for you. You had no words to say as you climbed into the empty truck, and you had absolutely no complaints when the door was shut behind you.
Just what the fuck had you gotten yourself into this time?