Untitled Project A

Originally a 250 word micro-fiction, written for the Neolomicro Challenge

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"No. No no no no no. How?"

Pi's moon-like face was a crushing mix of shock and grief. I wondered at their capacity for emotion, still so immense after all we'd seen. It filled me with... something. Pity? Envy? Running a tattooed hand through the mischievous wisps of their already tousled mop-top (an electrifying periwinkle blue, today) Pi stared at the boarded up building that had evolved from a part-time job into our full-time home: Dean's Video by day, Reparaction Now! by night.

Video stores had been inevitably depleted, and a safe place to live followed even more quickly than we thought we had prepared for. We thought we were changing the world.

If we hadn't been, Dean's would probably still be here.

The sun-bleached teal awning was weather-torn and ragged, housing a burgeoning community of local urban wildlife. Its outer walls were plastered in a motley collage of graffiti, peeling band posters, and Proprietor Advisories. The runes that Pi had spray-painted onto the window: Protection, Freedom, and Transformation, had been papier-mâché'd over, badly, with recruitment posters for the Deviant-Obligate Assimilation Corps. Subtle, I thought, squinting at the latest and final advisory.

"...to be immediately evacuated and sterilized" I read aloud.

"Doesn't look very sterile to me" retorted Pi.

They lit a smoke. I followed suit.

"Apparently the D. O. A. have deemed it a 'Potential Outbreak Source'" I continued.

"Takes a P.O.S. to know one" Pi muttered, after a deep inhale.

"Careful" I breathed out, as a 3-man wall of bulletproof blue barged past, forcing us under the awning to make overly-accommodating room. One of the officers looked us up and down pointedly, either out of condemnation or curiosity. When it's hard to tell, it's usually both... The deeper the closet, the stronger the urge.

"There's a brewery by the tracks with a vacant space upstairs. The owner's an ally." Mumbled Pi, under their breath.

"That's what you said about Dean" I tossed back. It tasted more bitter on my tongue than I'd intended.

"Dean is an ally. They cornered him somehow. They must have. He never would've sold us out." Pi's eyes had that desperate look; the same one they had the first time they locked with mine. The same one Dean's might've had, before they stuffed him into the back of a Threat Containment Unit.

If Pi was right about him, that is. I hoped as much, as I watched Pi tug fruitlessly at the boarded up door.

"All our stuff is till in there! They can't just lock us out! Mother f-"

I approached slowly, cautiously, knowing better than to spook them when they're feeling overcome. Once they'd worn themselves out a little, I placed a hand on their shoulder. They started, of course, but a little less, this time. They looked at me fearfully, apologetically, questioningly.

"We'll come back at night, when it's safer" I assured them.

"And until then?" Pi whimpered back anxiously. It dawned on me, then, that Pi had never been without before. I let out a grounding sigh.

"This Brewery, is it active?"

"Barely," replies Pi, "Nobody has access to the office but the owners. There is a young couple living above the tasting room, but Cal assures me they're good people".

"Good people?" I attempt a playful tone, but it comes out judgemental.

Pi's turn to sigh. Their eyes dart pleadingly from mine to the video cameras masqueraded as street lamps, which lined the eerily empty sidewalk. I watched them weigh our options, keeping one eye on the Consensual Obeisance Patrol officers now exiting a nearby storefront, with the shopkeeper in tow. He pleaded with them. One of them shook the man by the back of his shirt collar, spewing slurs before throwing him to the ground and pelting him with questions. The other two took a few half-hearted turns at kicking his frail body; like they'd rather be somewhere else, not out of distaste for the deed, but out of boredom. Weary of their task, they left the old man bleeding in the street and turned to march in our direction, with yet-to-be-determined purpose. Disinclined to give them one, I relented.

"Fine. Lead the way... Quickly. Quicker. "