Ride or die

I tug on the fraying edge of the hole in my jeans, right above my knee. I can feel eyes on me. Not the people’s, though the train is crowded. No, I know those are my own demons watching me, crowding me, bringing forth a paranoia so potent, it makes my hands tremble. I tug and twist to busy my shaking fingers with something, all the while keeping my eyes down. Avoiding eye contact.

A movement opposite of me is what causes me to lift my gaze. Boot regards me from where he sits on the bench across from mine, his eyes unreadable as ever. He looks relaxed sprawled in his seat, his legs spread in that typically masculine, I-am-the-king-of-this-space manner, his long body taking up too much space, given how many people in here have been forced to remain standing. Anyone else might not notice the rigid line of his shoulders, the occasional tick in his jaw, the way his eyes keep darting around, despite how hard he’s trying to remain calm.

But I do. I see it all.

My eyes fall to his hands, folded in his lap. They are covered by his hoodie – seemingly thrown haphazardly over his knees, in reality neatly arranged to hide his palms from view – but with the eye of my imagination, I can still see them. Can see the metal bracelet clasped around one of his wrists, no doubt weighing him down. The bracelet marking him as property of the Republic.

The bracelet that might doom us all, any minute.

Boot lifts his brows in a silent question. Are you okay? his eyes ask me, worry shadowing them for a moment. I manage a small nod and pair it with a tight smile. Not enough to fool somebody who knows me better than anyone else in this world, but what’s the point in pretending?

I know I’m not okay. Boot knows I’m not okay. I know he’s not okay.

We can try to fool everyone else around us – and that is the plan, really – but we don’t even bother to try fooling one another.

Boot looks away with a sigh. He hates it. I can tell he hates it. No more than I do, I think as I let my eyes fall upon the small window. The world blurs by as we speed along, going at a velocity that shouldn’t be possible.

I don’t mind, I admit to myself. There’s not much to see in this world, anyway.

Scorched earth. Cracking bridges. Buildings so tall they cover up the greater portion of the sky – which is grey and covered in clouds and smoke, anyway. In some zones, the skeletons of old skyscrapers loom, their steely bones jutting out in all directions. In certain places, the Republic simply hasn’t bothered with rebuilding what has been destroyed. They left it to rot, and be slowly taken over by plants, if there are any that are capable to grow in this barren soil. A reminder.

See, the architectural corpses seem to whisper with the mechanical voice of the Superior. Look closely. Closer, still. This is what happens when you try to riot. This is all that will be left of you if you ever decide you are strong enough to unite.

Ruins and debris and chaos and ash.

Not that this stops people from living here still, I know.

Though I can’t see them, I know they are there. Calculating, watching, hating. Fighting for every passing day. Making sure we don’t see them, but oh, very aware of all of us.

I tear my gaze away from the window. I have no idea how much time has passed. In front of me, Boot’s knee has bean to jerk. Up and down. Up and down. Down and up.

I uncross my legs and stretch one of them out, kicking his ankle. He turns his accusatory gaze on me and I widen my eyes in warning. Yes, his tick might be just perceived as impatience, but still, a jiggling leg – especially one as long as Boot’s is – attracts attention. Attention is the last thing we need right now.

So I stare at Boot, non-verbally communicating to him to calm the heck down before he eventually does, exhaling. I withdraw my own leg, relaxing into my seat as much as I can.

We have made it this far. It simply cannot be over now.

While the train smooths on, I busy myself with taking in everything around me. I have never been on a train before. I’ve heard they are fast and shiny and new – the holy trinity of the Republic’s favourite adjectives – and I have seen them gliding by, but I have never personally sat on one.

I imagine people taking one to work every day. Others jumping on one to visit their long-unseen lovers. Families going on holidays together, placing their luggage on the shelves above our heads and buzzing with excitement at the thought of all the fun things they would get to do wherever it was that they were going.

Yes, I imagine a train can bring forth a well of positive emotions, if one is lucky enough to be able to experience them. For me, right now, this is a cell, a claustrophobic tube I cannot wait to get out of before its slowly enclosing walls squeeze me until there is nothing left of me.

Somebody pulls me from my thoughts when he passes through the alley in the middle, a man. He is squeezing in between the people, making his way through the wagon and to the door at the end of it. Leading to another section of the train.

Somewhere, in some of these wagons, Afro and Quinn are waiting. Hiding. Squeezed in between the ocean of people, trying to stay afloat. To not let the waves take them over, drown them.

It is better to stay separated, I know. If something… I cross my legs again. Begin abusing the frayed hem anew. If anything goes wrong, it is better to not be found all together. To do whatever is in our power to buy the others’ the time to run.

I regard Boot, his eyes closed now, head tipped back against the seat. The angle his neck is bent at looks comical, considering how this bench has been made for someone much shorter than him. But then again, most things were, so he has had no other choice but to get accustomed to it.

He would not separate from me. Not ever. This excruciatingly logical person has forgone logic the moment the rest of us tried to explain to him why it is better if each of us stays in a separate wagon, far from each other. Why it is extremely important to isolate him from the rest of us, given how he is the one in the most danger. The ticking bomb that could get us all killed, but that each and every single one of us would kill and die to protect.

Boot was having none of it. He stuck by me, period. If I didn’t like it, I could… Well, in full honestly, there wasn’t anything I could do about it because he still would follow me.

So that was that.

I must doze off at some point – impossible, given the state I am in, but also the only logical explanation for when I wake up to Boot’s leg nudging mine. I blink my eyes open, find his wide open. I automatically jerk up in my seat, my body on full alert despite having been asleep just moments ago, my hand automatically flying to the waistband of my trousers, caution be damned, where my trusted pistol rests –

But Boot shakes his head. Slowly. His eyes soften, and for a moment, I don’t understand what is happening, why his eyes have been wide as saucers just seconds ago when now they are devoid of fear, looking softer than ever, and shining with what looks suspiciously like… excitement?

No, not excitement. Wonder. Excitement might be a shade of what I can see in Boot’s eyes, but it is not the main emotion there. Wonder emanates from him, he practically exudes it, Boot, this man who is allergic to tolerating other people’s feelings and even more allergic to showing his own.

His gaze darts to the side, getting caught on something there and I lean forward, following his line of sight.

The moment my own eyes settle on what his have been focused on, I understand all that wonder.

Trees. They are there, right outside this window that has previously only shown ruins and debris and destruction, just… growing. They are short and tall, sturdy and lean, their tops stretching out to the sides or reaching up, up –

There is so much green, so much brightness, for a moment, my eyes literally cannot take it. I blink, wiping away the sting in them, take a moment to compose myself. When I reopen them, I’m half afraid this all might have just been an illusion, that maybe I have not actually woken up yet and am dreaming, that when I look again, the trees and the sun and the grass will be gone.

But they are there. Ancient, fresh, and steady. Beautiful.

I look over at Boot, find his face practically glued to the glass of the window. When he feels me staring, he turns his head, that overwhelming emotion still there, brightening his eyes. For once, they are so full of life, of hope and joy, it is almost too much to look straight into them.

But I do. I hold his gaze, and there, in the depths that I know so well, in the irises in which I have seen misery and anger and helplessness, never exhilaration and delight and awe, I see it. I read the message.

We did it, Boot says without actually saying it. We’ve made it.

I tear my gaze away, once again looking out of the window. There is a shape in the sky, barely recognisable with the speed we’re going at, but I realise it is a bird, hovering over the trees’ branches, zooming past them.

Yes, I think as I feel the first tear slide down my cheek. I wipe it furiously away with the sleeve of my jacket, the annoyance at letting it escape tainting my happiness a little. But I smile as I look back to Boot, smile a real smile for the first time, as I nod in agreement.

Yes, we did make it.