Dark Currents

1

The air tastes different since the world fell. A constant bitter tinge of ozone clings to the tongue, branding the constant reminder of the fragile fabric that remains between realms in the aftermath of corporate pillage and plunder. Boston is a remnant of the old world, a pocket of crumbling buildings and infrastructure coated in brine and exhaust. Slowly sinking into the sea with the rest of the east coast, the lower floors of the tenement houses are salt crusted, while the raised roadways and foot paths reek of dehydrated seaweed and unfortunate fish.

At the crumbling edge of the world, it's business as usual. People strive to make livelihoods within the new system, a bastardized combination of trade and capitalism that is neither successful or viable, but a placeholder between the surviving masses of the fall and the corporations that have partitioned the land like warlords in strongholds of glass and steel.

Boston sits at the fringes, a self-regulated barnacle of a city. The perfect place for me to hide, though in the nine months I've been here, I've failed to impart any sort of personality to this shoe box of an apartment. Nearly a year here, and my skin still itches every time I set foot outside the building. Luckily, this aviator jacket covers up my goosebumps, and lends an appropriate amount of freelance badassery.

Whistling, I jimmy the lock to my front door. There's nothing worth stealing aside from a pile of well-used clothing, but it's the principle of the matter. Bypassing the temperamental elevator for the stairwell, I nod to the tenants coming in from various night shifts and find myself accosted two floors down by a pair of pigtails. Rail thin arms latch around my waist. I look down into Tru's too serious face, returning the squeeze.

"You're momma home yet?" Tru nods, her dark face too thin and smudged in shadows. If her mother's home, she's likely passed out, leaving her daughter to wander the building in self-exile. Worry is a constant drain on Tru's young body, from sleepless nights and wandering days, but there is more at play than her mostly absent mother and only so much I can do for her. "Want some breakfast?"

Another small nod, while those big, brown eyes that see too much, too deep, watch every movement of my face. Sighing, I give her pigtails a tug. "Come, little bit, let's see if Gemma has any muffins left."

Tru stays silent, attached to my hip, her gaze taking in everything until we reach the main floor. The moldering carpet in the lobby still reeks from the last flood, the floor tiles left in cracked disrepair. I've seen abandoned buildings in better shape, but the rent is cheap, and the hot water still works.

Directly outside the pungent odors of the city are held at temporarily held at bay by Gemma's Brew & Breakfast cart, catering to those coming off night shifts and going out for day shifts. The cart boasts a perpetual line, but we've hit a sweet spot between waves. There are only a handful of customers in front of us, which means I might make it to the office before Kinami starts frothing at the mouth.

"You want your usual?" Another answering nod, her gaze now fixated on the stack of muffins on display, calculating the odds her favorite will still be available when we reach the front of the line. I bite my lip with a smile, knowing Gemma saves a ruby chocolate chip muffin for her every morning. Letting my mind wander to the day's list of tasks, I'm mentally prioritizing when there's a light tap on my shoulder.

"Excuse me miss, do you know how much they charge for a cup of Brew here?" The voice is a low baritone, even and polite. I glance back at the speaker and my brain stalls.

The sharp planes of his face are softened by the round curve of his chin and tip tilted nose, giving him a trickster's appearance. Brown eyes so pale they border on copper toned, framed by a thick fringe of dark lashes, peer down at me beneath a set of brows almost too thick for those elfin features. A faded scar slashes through his right brow and carves a tract over the bridge of his nose that ends in fractal pattern, like a Lichtenberg mark beneath his left eye. The imperfection shifts him from handsome to striking, a rumpled fallen angel in dust coated denim and worn leather.