Chapter Text
Pomni's hatred for cooking loves the support of her wallet. Her abundance of money, so abundant she wonders if she’ll ever be able to spend it all in this lifetime.
Not millions upon millions, her salary isn’t even in the triple digits, but still a big jump from her rather low class childhood.
It’s more than she knows what to do with.
Plenty is probably the correct word.
It sits in her bank account, trying to convince her to go on a shopping spree or move to a bigger apartment. But she chose this one because it was closer to work, and she doesn’t want a large house if it means she has to drive an hour to get to the office, even if she has to deal with dogs barking late at night or the occasional domestic spat down the hall.
She’s so close she could walk, if she wanted, which she doesn’t, it’s far too hot this time of season. And she prefers pants to skirts when it comes to office attire.
Plus there's something comforting in the confined space. Something bigger, more empty, where the light feels artificial and voices bounce off the walls, have always felt… manufactured. A stage, not a home. A void.
Lucky is what her mom called her when she got a job fresh out of college, still bitter from her own recent firing from the gas station down the street. Pomni wouldn’t exactly… not agree with her. She is aware few are as fortunate as her, but there’s got to be some points given to her efforts in university, even if she wasn’t dean’s list worthy, she still graduated.
The jump in salary from her first to second job was jarringly surprising. Lucky, her mom repeated over the phone, now a state away.
Although her job never particularly enthused her, she stayed. And the following 4% raises the next three years were considered pathetic by her senior coworkers, but she was already living well below her means, so it only racked up her rainy day fund into a tsunami day fund.
And today certainly feels like a tsunami.
At some point in the night, Ragatha texted her. It’s there on the lock screen of the phone. Message hidden but titled ‘Jenn’.
Pomni doesn’t read it.
Call her selfish, but she doesn’t feel like letting the others ruin her day so early in the morning. She’s hurt. And a one of a million Ragatha apologies is not going to make her feel better right now. Especially if there is no truth. The mere thought of the text reading like a nervous ramble of apologies and riddles formed sans answers in mind makes her blood boil. She doesn’t trust herself not to say something that will only make everything worse.
So, it’ll be there later. When she’s ready.
Instead she stares at her ceiling while her alarm blares like white noise, solidifying her awful neighbor status, preparing her for the day she is about to have, until her stomach begs for attention under the covers.
Waffles sound really good. Easy and fast. The diner is only a ten minute walk through the city. And it would save her the physical labor of cleaning burnt bits off her only cooking pan.
Totally worth the fifteen dollars.
A lox bagel and ridiculously overpriced coffee from Kit-Tea also crosses her mind. But when she imagines a tragedy mask held up by smooth ribbons at the register, her hunger pangs twist into knots.
She sits up, hair falling to frame her face. With an annoyed huffed she pushes it out of her eyes and turns off her alarm.
This is going to be a fine day.
A normal day.
And, damnit, she bought the eggs in her fridge, so she needs to use them before they go bad (She will not be making that mistake again).
Kitchen tiling is cool beneath her bare feet and the clinking of metal cookware is loud, even in her attempts to be gentle. The stove takes a while to heat up and she spends that time preparing the necessary ingredients to a hearty breakfast.
Eggs, bread, and butter.
Somehow, she burns the eggs while she’s distracted putting the bread in the toaster. And in her panic to lower the heat and plate them, she lets her toast burn too.
The butter glides and melts dreamily before she’s even finished swiping the knife though, so at least she did one thing right.
-
The sun shines down on her right shoulder, pushed well past the horizon by this hour. It warms the side of her face and blankets the street in hues of gold and yellow. Gorgeous, but somehow dull; like everywhere tended to look in the back of her mind the last few months.
She closes her eyes for a moment, letting the breeze play with her hair and whisk her unwanted thoughts away.
Yellow lighting turns blue and stale as she enters her work building. A massive tower, too glass to ever be misconstrued as residential. Her company takes up just one floor—the eighth floor. Above them is a military recruitment office. Below, a temp agency.
Somewhere between the 20th and 24th floor she knows there is a film studio. She always sees them carrying the most bizarre items in and out of the property, but hasn’t quite worked up the courage to ask about it.
The lobby is empty, save for the pair of secretaries that are too engrossed in their work for the pleasantries they sometimes exchange.
Pomni continues on without them, waiting for the elevator with great patience as it lowers from a dozen stories up. Just as she steps inside, she hears someone call out.
“Christine! Hold the elevator!”
In a momentary lapse of judgement, she rushes to stick her foot in the door.
The girl’s, Abby’s, breath sounds a mess, but she looks well put together. Outfit as crisp as her features as she steps into the machine. Makeup present, but perfectly appropriate. The only thing out of place is her purse, a soft pink handbag; Pomni's only real glimpse of the girl’s real personal style. That, and she smells somewhat fruity and floriferous.
“Oh my gosh, thank you.”
“Yea—no problem.”
It wasn’t much, but still, the girl looks eternally grateful. Her long painted nail presses the button for the eighth floor. “Dylan’s been on my case about my clock in and out times. But like, if I get all my work done, what does it matter if I'm a few minutes late?”
The doors meet in the middle, sealing away the girls' unprofessionalism. A second goes by and the ground shifts beneath them as they start their ascent.
Abby’s green eyes are bright and her expression is open as she regards Pomni, whose uniform suddenly feels stuffy and too tight. She shifts on her feet, trying to form a respectful response.
Pomni likes Dylan. She gets the office lunch every Tuesday and takes them for an optional dinner a few times a month. If she knows there's nothing to be done, she tells Pomni to go home early. And, a few months ago, she fought for their parking spaces when a new fancy law firm took over the building next door. She’s never condescending and always gives the benefit of the doubt before jumping to conclusions. If you’re late, she’ll assume it’s traffic over laziness first.
She’s a good boss and Pomni has never been privy to gossip.
“She probably has people above her that double check that sort of thing. They’re on her ass to be on your ass and whatnot. I wouldn’t take it personally…”
Abby says nothing, but looks freshly in muse. Taken aback by Pomni’s refusal to engage in how she expected.
“She’s been mentioning Tom a lot recently.” Pomni says further in hopes to help save herself.
“Oh shit.” Abby balks. “I completely forgot about that lowkey. Wouldn’t even have connected those dots.”
“I’m sure she knows you do your job well.”
That makes her crack a smile, more a smirk. “She better. I’m carrying the Chicago and Atlanta overhead departments on my back. And my back hurts, Christine. Amir thinks a dump of the general ledger transactions balancing to the ending balance of an account is a good reconciliation. It’s dogshit.”
Pomni repeats the boy's name in her head, trying to call forward a face, but nothing steps up.
“And Jacob uses chatGPT to explain what he needs to do with expense reports. It’s like a South Park episode on my side of the office, I swear. You are so lucky you’ve got your own space.”
“That… does sound pretty bad.” Maybe a private office isn’t so heinous.
“Whatever, he’s a personality hire. I guess we need a couple of those to keep things undead around here.”
Abby pulls out her phone as the elevator doors reopen and Pomni looks away from the small device like it’ll devour her whole. Suddenly, her bag feels an unread paragraph heavier.
Is it wrong of her to take this space? To not even give Ragatha a small explanation of her absence?
Abby gives Pomni a small wave and smile over her shoulder. “Thanks girl. Talk to you later!”
Pomni just stares at her leave for a second before her sense returns to her. “Yea—You too!”
But she’s already running and giggling and hugging another girl around the neck as she plops down next to her. Words spilling out of her mouth, now too far for Pomni to hear.
Her office door taunts her from across the room.
She ignores it.
-
The bell atop the gas station door is broken, sounding more akin to an empty metal cup than a chirpy musical note.
It’s quiet and she can’t remember when that changed, but the vague memory of what it is supposed to sound like plagues her as she stalks through the aisles, feeling wildly out of place in her work attire.
Dirt paints the floor and boxes remain unpacked in every free inch of available space, forcing her to shimmy around some corners to get to what she searches for. Dinner. It feels like a maze, one that she isn’t too keen on digging too deep into.
The sandwiches look sad, but she supposes there are worse options (like her own cooking), so she grabs the freshest seeming one and a soda from across the aisle. There’s two other people in line and she joins patiently, balancing her items in one hand as she works on pulling her wallet out from her back pocket. Gauging her hunger bar, she contemplates a bag of chips. Then, promptly stops everything.
In front of her is a half-wall of gum.
Grab the gum.
The thought is so intrusive she nearly throws up.
Just put it in your pocket. What does it matter?
She can hardly even hear the thought over the pounding of her own heart—like it suspects everyone in the room can hear what she’s thinking and it’s screaming in fear.
It would be so easy. The guy’s not even looking.
Discreetly, she chances a glance over at the cashier. It’s true. His attention is divided between the customer he’s currently servicing and the phone hidden poorly behind the wall of lottery scratchers. Mostly the latter.
Actually, a quick survey of the area tells her no one gives a shit about her presence. They look practically everywhere but her. She might as well be invisible.
She gives the gum a second glance.
Images of her running away from the police, a full sprint, a smile on her face, a revolver in her hand, and a winning treasure between her teeth, come to her in a bound of overreaction. That would never happen. At most she’d just have to hand it back or pay the difference. The dissonance of reason feels… disappointing.
The cashier calls next and she snaps out of whatever fucked fantasy is propagating in her brain. In a hurry, she throws her items on the counter, only to instantly apologize when the drink flops over and she awkwardly tilts it back up. The cashier doesn’t care. Doesn’t even look up from his phone. Just scans her items.
Beep.
Beep.
His finger moves to click the screen, scanner still in hand.
“Ah… and—“ Panicked, she bounces forward trying to catch his attention. She still needs gas for work tomorrow. “$30 on pump three.”
At first, he pans up, unimpressed. How dare someone interrupt his phone time? Then, there’s a small lift in his eyebrows. A recognition that punches Pomni in the gut.
“Hey…” The cashier replies. “You were in that computer cartoon circus, right?”
She swipes gum on her way out.
And she can’t believe she just did that.
What the fuck?
“What the fuck?” She whispers to herself, the rush of the city blowing past her.
What was she thinking?
In all her time of thinking things like that, she’s never actually gone through with any of them.
She gets her gas, one hand tucked into her pocket, clutching at the stolen property like it’ll get carried up and out and back through the front door by the wind if she doesn’t.
-
Sleep comes and goes. Pomni dreams of lands not real. Of memories. And almost like she manifested it, there's texts from Zooble and Gangle when she awakes in the morning.
Unknown numbers, but she knows it’s them. It’s a feeling combined with the timing.
She almost opens them.
Almost.
But doesn’t.
For breakfast, she fries her last egg. It’s one day ahead of its expiry date. Instead of burnt, it comes out strangely rubbery, a texture worse than crunchy edges. However, the bread is fine this time around. The butter too.
The gum bids her a good day from the kitchen counter and she runs out the front door like the plastic wrapping is a rabid loanshark she’s been avoiding for months.
When she gets in her car, she turns down the opposite road for work. Her eyebags feel perpetual and the burning in her throat itches so horribly she grabs at the sides of her throat, one hand still on the steering wheel.
Dejected on the passenger seat sits her phone. After the tenth glance it forces from her, she nearly knocks it onto the floor.
But she’s arrived at the work parking lot and throwing it to the ground would be counter-intuitive. So instead, she picks it up with haste and swallows her distaste. Stands her ground firmly as she faces the supermarket, even though all she wants to do is run and hide and sleep for a hundred years.
Certainly not work her on-site Thursday shift.
She passes few cars on her journey to the employee entrance. No one is inside when she clocks in at exactly 8am sharp. Save for the handful of workers setting up their drawer and rearranging displays.
“Christine!? Has it been six weeks already?”
She asks this every time. Pomni doesn’t fully understand how the woman loses track, as each week they take turns on who comes to the location. Gregory, Dylan, Adam, Grace, Pomni, Brianna. Gregory, Dylan, Adam, Grace, Pomni, Brianna. Gregory, Dylan, Adam—
An ordered list that does not change. Every six weeks, it is Pomni’s turn. Grace goes before. Brianna goes after.
Pomni gives a fake, dry, chuckle. “Cycled through all of us already.”
“Damn, I feel like I just saw you a few days ago.” She gives Pomni a once over, then says, “Let’s go check out your keys.”
The manager inquires on Pomni’s life and she returns the barest of details. Nothing much is ever new and although this time is different, there has been a rise of unpredicted excitement in her life, she can’t really talk much about it. So, she replies as she always does and flees as soon as the keys tuck into her grasp. All the way to the small office tucked in the back of the building.
The room is musty and rather humid, so Pomni removes her outer blazer till she’s left in just her blouse. In the corner of the room sits her desk. It’s piling at the seams, fake wood curling out of shape in hazardous points that sometimes Pomni considers running into to ease her boredom and possibly claim worker’s compensation.
Ultimately, these thoughts all end in the same. Typing numbers on the shitty desktop, that’s three issues of windows behind, in the spongy chair that’s been there since she was hired. She has work to do.
The next few hours are spent siphoning through tabs. Financial records, bank statements, tax compliances. She cross checks the processed sales transactions with their logged inventory to make sure their losses aren’t too substantial. Because there is always loss. People are going to steal (like her). Food is going to go bad. They make space for this in their budget, she just has to hope and pray it’s low enough for her job to be done at simply checking. It is and she moves onto her next task.
Time moves slowly. Her want to blast her brains out climbs steadily.
Normally her day would be done here, with emailing her department copies of everything, and she would spend the remaining two hours sitting, doing nothing, which is barely a change from what she was doing before, and then she would go home. Maybe people watch from her office to kill some time.
But right now she’s needed in the search for missing stock and thus she must get up. She doubles checks the shipment arrived, then ventures to the warehouse and scours every shelf she can reach. A ladder becomes necessary when those are completed. Still, nothing. She even checks under the bottom-most bracket on her hands and knees.
And when that yields no results either, there’s only one more spot left to check before she can say she significantly searched for these missing items, clock out, and go home.
Dusting herself off, she heads back onto the main floor.
She weaves past customers, cuts through the cereal aisle, then stops in her tracks near the meats section.
Right in front of the display she needs to search stands her server from a few nights ago. It takes her more than a second to recognize him. He’s dressed head to toe in some civilian cosplay that looks more natural on him than the usual stark black apron.
She takes a step back.
The man gives her a passing glance, and then immediately does a double take.
Pomni finds herself standing like an awkward emoji.
Now that he’s noticed her, would it be weird to run away? He doesn’t seem like he’s wanting to engage with her. But they locked eyes and he’s not moving to leave. He was her server, not her OGBYN.
She should talk to him.
“Hello.”
Yeah, no. He doesn’t like that. His shoulders jump and the basket tucked in his elbow clatters.
He clears his throat before speaking, “Do you need something?”
Pomni mulls over the interaction. ‘Hello.’ ‘Do you need something?’ Is she supposed to say something equally as impertinent next?
“Can you speak or fuck off? Not exactly getting paid to put up with your statue-shit today.”
“I work here.”
“At this supermarket?”
“Yes?” Pomni replies. “You aren’t the only person in the world with a job.”
“Oh. I thought you were some homeless kid.”
She cuts him off. “I’m a fully grown adult.”
“Adult, sure. I guess. Fully grown… eh.”
“I’m not even that short.” She certainly feels like a kid with how they are arguing, that’s for sure. “I’m like 5‘6. Above average.”
“Wow. Above average.” He snorts. “What a metric. Looks more like 4’11 to me anyway.”
Pomni opens her mouth to take her turn.
“I’m just ragebaitin’ you, chill out gosh.” He grins, cheating, then his eyes widen and the smile is gone. He clears his throat again, straightening his posture.
Pomni would question what the term meant, but its definition seems rather on the nose. I wasn’t even that upset, she wants to huff. It makes her a tiny bit peeved to think that he thinks he’s winning.
She analyzes his person for material. Baggy jeans, t-shirt, converse, and grocery basket. She subtly stands on her tip-toes to peer into the basket better. Pasta noodles, sauce, veggies, and a stack of many ramen noodles.
“Ramen?”
“None of your business.” He says gruff and businesslike.
Something about it makes her feel light. She leans towards him devilishly. “I mean. I am practically paying for those—dang how many is there—one, two, three, four—”
The basket gets yanked out of view mid ramen count. He guards it like his life depends on it. “Stop looking at my groceries!”
“Why?”
“It’s intimate.”
Pomni laughs. What a vocabulary choice. “Intimate?”
“Yeah.” He doubles down, “You’re being creepy. Stop it before I report you to the manager or whatever.”
“The manager here has no power over me.”
His eyes flash, swirling with something heated, then his eyebrows furrow. Displeasure takes over, pairing with hesitancy. His mouth is a firm line until he eventually asks, “Is this how you treat all your customers?”
“Look, I don’t care if you eat ramen every day. Honestly.” She throws her hands up in surrender. “I am awful at cooking. I get it.”
That pops him back to life. Negatively. “They aren’t for me.”
His tone is angry. Defensive, maybe. But his following expression is something of trepidation. Egg shells all around him. He doesn’t want to move or speak, instead waiting for what she’ll say.
“Uh-huh.” Is what she settles on, grin shit-eating.
“Oh shut up. This is why your friends abandoned you.”
For a second, Pomni freezes over and the harsh words replay in her head. But she thaws out quickly, uncaring of the strangers’ opinion of her and knowing that the sentence is untrue. They didn’t leave her because of, well… her. They left because of something that happened on their end, unrelated to her. Still her smile dies.
She sneaks a hand into her pocket, running the tip of her finger over the glass screen. “They actually texted me this morning.”
The server only looks accusatorily, pretending he wasn’t the one to bring it up in the first place.
“Should I text them back?”
A slow blink, as though she’s stupid.
“No.” He states, a finality in his voice. Because it’s that simple. “Fuck them.”
Laughter escapes Pomni without her consent. Short and surprised. Her smile doesn’t leave when her laugh fades, even as the scowl on the server’s face disperses.
The blunt negative not the answer she was expecting. Quite the opposite in fact. Most people would tell her that all friends have their ups and downs. They had their reasons! Talk to them! The staple, standard, tried and true script for these sorts of situations. The exact thing she would say to someone in her shoes.
Not, ‘no’.
Another dry laugh escapes as the answer replays in her head.
No.
What a stupid reply. What a grave overreaction. A leap in a situation he has no context for. Even though she was just asking for his advice one moment ago, she now knows the answer clear as day; she should text them back. At least hear them out.
To just say ‘fuck them’ after one incident that she already categorized as out of character. Just because she is hurt. Would be comical.
“I probably should.”
His left eyebrow raises, appalled, “What’d you ask me for then?”
“Guess I just… wanted to hear someone say it.”
Both eyebrows collapse. “But I didn’t say it.”
“Yeah.” She snorts. “But I wanted you too.”
Deep down, she already knew her own answer.
Pomni catches his wonder-filled gaze, a mixture of confusion and annoyed disbelief. She matches it, confident. Happy to have settled some of the turmoil inside her.
Neither speak for several seconds. Customers drive by with their carts. Overriding the faint tune playing dozens of feet above them with harsh rattling and unoiled wheels. Without her blazer, the chill of the meat cooler climbs up her arms and she rubs at them to try and keep it at bay.
“You’re weird.” He says.
A new voice joins them. “You’re one to talk.”
The silence returns with the girls’ arrival. A pre-teen at the youngest, teenager at the oldest. Her hair is a soft, dark brown, that mingles with stripes of vibrant purple. If Pomni had to guess her hobbies off pure aesthetic, she would say skate boarding.
“Hey.” The girl says.
“Oh, um. Hi.” She cringes at the rise in her voice. Pomni has never been good with children. Especially ones old enough to form their own opinions and sense of self. How does she treat them? Like their age? Or like someone that is going to make a mistake if she doesn’t support them heavily enough? She always hates when people treat her like a child, but this is a child.
“I’m—“
Her introduction is short lived. Knocked away with a shove to the space between the girl’s shoulder blades. “Leaving. You’re leaving. We’re leaving.” The server insists. He turns to Pomni, still ushering the girl in the opposite direction. “I would say it was nice talking to you, but… ya know. Lying is a sin and all.”
Distantly she hears the girl ask, "What is wrong with you?”
That gets her a hand covering her entire face, pushing her away and muffling her shout. She kicks his shin and he thrusts the basket of groceries into her arms with a distinct lack of grace.
“I got your stupid noodles.”
Brown hair disappears around the corner, but not without one last fleeting fwip in her direction.
Pomni watches the interaction with no prior experience of having, what she assumes is, a sibling, ponders if that was normal, and then goes back to work.
Guess the noodles actually weren’t for him.
-
On Friday, she opens the messages.
Ragatha sent a mountain of texts. All apologetic. Kind. Sincere, which makes her feel bad for not replying sooner. But, unsurprisingly, all attempts at placating Pomni without actually giving her any answers, which make her feel justified. By the time she reaches the end of the paragraphs she’s annoyed, and annoyed at herself that she feels annoyed because she’s sure Ragatha means well.
Gangles are rather sweet. A series of apologies followed by hopes that Pomni enjoyed the ending of the movie and wishes that she could have been there to see her reaction. An endearing optimism that falls into a small bout of self-depreciating humor towards the end. Pomni rereads it, unable to form an opinion. Unsure if she should take it how it reads: a joke. Or if the pit in her stomach is warranted.
Zooble’s text is blissfully casual. hey got ur number from jenn. that was super fucked up of us and im really sorry. something urgent came up. let me know when and if you feel like being around again. ill be here.
The shortest. The simplest. Yet, it strikes her the hardest. It almost makes her cry, which is so dumb. She hears Zooble’s voice and sees the color pink and remembers the fondness they have for Gangle and realizes that some of that is being given to her too.
-
On Saturday, Pomni explores an abandoned convenience store she scouted a few weeks ago.
It’s something small. Quick. A tiny thrill to jump start her back to life for the upcoming weeks. Have her bright-eyed and happy until she starts sagging and spluttering and needing another rev.
And right now, she needs a rev. The gum wasn’t enough.
She brings her camera. A hand-held camcorder she bought in passing at a random yard sale for a twenty dollar bill. There’s a viewfinder that helps her set up shots without hurting her eyes. The quality reminds her of childhood and makes her adventures seem spookier than they really are.
On the corner of the road there’s a limp street sign planted in an unseen ground. Castle Rd. hanging by a singular bolt, green background fading white. She makes sure to get a shot of it before waddling down into the little hollow where the main road disappears, overgrown with grass. Purposely avoiding the groupings of cattails, for the last time she parted them to pass an inescapable rash burdened her legs for an unrecallable amount of nights.
Through her lens, the building looks grainy. The color slightly askew. Pixels become countable as she zooms in, trying to capture inside from what she assumes was once a small-scale parking lot. If she had to guess, there would only be enough room for 4 or 5 cars. It’s dark and there's a red-brown smear on the window, but she can still see shadows of items on the shelves.
Grass tickles her thighs as she moves closer. The front door is locked. She wiggles it so the camera knows she isn’t lying and then rests it on the rusted ice box off to the side. She leaves it rolling, footage can always be edited, and cups her hands around her eyes to peer into the window better.
It’s rather orderly. The half-full shelves organized and the fridge doors still on their hinges. There’s a lack of graffiti which excites her. Untagged. Untouched. It’s hers to explore.
Off to the side of the room she sees a stream of light and rushes back to her camera to show it off. Her finger takes over the automatic focus as she taps her index finger on the window pointing it out.
“That’s our way in.”
A crack in the roof. Kind of tough. She isn’t exactly the pinnacle of height. Or the master of climbing. Or anything athletic, really. There’s also the small complication of getting out. Worst case scenario she can always just smash the window and jump ship, so she doesn’t let herself worry too long about that.
After a surveying loop around the building, she comes up empty handed. Finding no obvious answer like a ladder or key. Chain and padlock keep her out of the employee entrance. No problem. She’ll just have to get a little creative.
Exploring abandoned buildings, you pick up a few problem solving skills. While this one is dicey, there doesn’t seem to be any other options. She grabs all the stackable objects she can find: the ice box, a few bricks, a flat tire, a plank of wood, and a dented trash can.
She doesn’t want to have to come back down after creating her way up, so the view of the camera is by her foot, one particularly placed step at a time. It’s not cinematic, but it’s authentic, and no one is going to watch but her anyway.
Here and there the stairway wobbles, but she never slips. Slowly but surely she tops her enemy. The roof is coated in a thin layer of pebbles and all the metal vents are rusted. She marches over to where the hole should be and finds a sloping section that seems weathered down. It’s mushy beneath her feet and the hole in the center is big enough for maybe one and a half of her. She records a shot of it before tucking the device into her bag and rolling her sleeves up.
An angle of her going inside would be cool but isn’t plausible.
Directly beneath the opening is the tops of dozens of expired chips. Fuck it, she decides. A deep breath and she dangles one foot into the hole, holding her upper body with arms and second bent leg.
Once she feels secure enough, she shifts to her stomach and drops the other leg. She lowers and lowers, a strain contracting in her arms. She swishes her feet around hoping to find some purchase, unsure how much further she needs to go, unsure if she’s aligned properly. The sharp point of rocks under her hands and arms dig into the skin, growing increasingly in discomfort until it’s downright painful. Surrounding pebbles cascade down around her, clanking as they land and then echo off the enclosed space beneath.
Her heart throbs with terror. A relentless anxiety that steals all her breath.
Her feet kick a little more wildly. To the right, she feels a small resistance and hears the crinkle of a wrapper. She wiggles that way, jaw clenched, until both her feet are knocking snacks around no matter how they move. With great strain, she peers under her armpit, double checks she’s lined up fine, and drops.
Landing starts on her feet but instantly transfers to her knees. Her hands barely make it up in time to catch her upper body. Chips crunch under each of them, the sound stark in the otherwise quiet room. Her arms weep. Shaky as blood rushes back into them.
After a moment of stability she lets out a breath. An exhilarated, unbelieving breath. Then she toes down the shelves like they are a ladder and digs the camera out of her bag.
“Yeah.” Pomni says, pointing it at the hole. “I did that.”
They’ll just have to take her word for it.
She turns the camera around to face her. When she does the same to the viewfinder, she is surprised at how happy she looks.
-
On Sunday morning, she responds to Zooble.
Are you free tonight?
-
On Sunday night, Zooble invites her over to their apartment.
Pomni leaves her shoes by the door, a strange custom never upheld in her own homes, but she respects nonetheless. It’s bigger than her own apartment. A one bedroom rather than a studio. Blackout curtains are pulled back to frame the view of the busy, bustling, city below them. Rows of twinkling structures and moving advertisements. It’s pretty, but Pomni understands the need for the curtains.
“Want anything to drink?” Zooble calls from the room over.
Pomni trips over her own feet. “Water is fine!”
“You sure? I just bought a new bottle of tequila.”
“Maybe later.” Pomni replies truthfully, rounding into the kitchen just in time to see Zooble shrug.
“Suit yourself.” They say without any malice and pour themselves a mixed drink and then Pomni a glass of water.
She pads over in her socks, feeling way too exposed, and takes the drink offered to her. The water is cold down the back of her throat.
“I have to ask.” Zooble starts and Pomni nods for them to continue. “Jenn has reached out to you a few times already.” A pause. “Why agree to meet up with me?”
Pomni frowns, not liking the conclusion she’d already come to when she asked herself the same question.
It’s not right for her to be more mad at Ragatha than she is anyone else. They all abandoned her. They all refused to explain to her. They all hurt her. All three of them. But she is. She can’t help it. Somehow, Ragatha hurt her more. And Pomni’s trying not to hold her own shortcomings against the other girl. It’s not fair.
She doesn’t want to talk to Ragatha. Ragatha will be positive no matter what, which will ultimately only set Pomni off and she’ll say something she doesn’t feel like dealing with the consequences of.
They don’t mesh well when it comes to emotional issues. That is something they will have to work on.
“I trust you won’t bullshit me.”
They look put off by Pomni’s admission. “I see.”
After a small pause, Pomni adds, “And… I don’t trust myself to not get angry at Ragatha right now.”
“So… you are protecting her.” Zooble comments. “Is that not the same thing she is doing—for you?”
“She is protecting me because she thinks I cannot handle it.” She places a hand over her chest. “I’m—I’m being selfish. I am protecting myself. Not her.”
Zooble does not answer.
“I’m angry. And, honestly, a bit hurt. I would have understood if you guys just communicated to me. I don’t expect to just be in the group right off the bat. I understand you’ve had months without me, and you already had months without me before that too. I was just getting to know all of you. And I am just getting to know all of you again, but—ugh—I don’t know—something would have been nice.”
Zoobles gaze softens. “That has nothing to do with it. It was urgent. We didn’t plan to leave you there.”
“But you did.”
Zooble falls quiet at that.
“I am sorry for that. Genuinely. Everyone is. It’s… not an easy situation. But it’s not a conversation we could have had in the moment.”
“So have it now.”
They look off towards the living room, a contemplative thought branded in the burrow of their forehead. “I told Jenn I wouldn’t tell you.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Look.” They let out a heavy breath. “I was pissed at Jenn when she dragged me into it. Really pissed. Probably unrightfully so. I didn’t want anything to do with the circus. None of the fucked up memories. Or the public. Or the people. Not Kinger, not Ragatha, not even Lily. I just wanted to be left alone and pretend everything was normal. Obviously, that didn’t happen. I met with everyone. I got dragged into this stupid fucking mess. Whatever. But I was even more pissed when she sucked Lily into all of it too.”
“I’m not your girlfriend.”
Zooble sighs again, frustrated. “I know you aren’t. And, for the record, Lily isn’t either.”
Could’ve fooled her.
“Jenn is acting off our reactions. My reactions. She doesn’t want to make you mad.”
“Well it’s not working.”
“I can tell.” Zooble remarks. “Just because you think I won’t bullshit you doesn’t mean you have free reign to say whatever you want however you want to me.”
The words slap some embarrassing sense into her. “I’m sorry. I’m really upset. Not that that’s an excuse. Just an... explanation—I guess.”
“You’re fine. I understand how you are feeling. She is trying to please everyone. You included.” They lower their voice to a side-whisper. “She’s somehow worse out here than in there sometimes.”
Pomni flitters her gaze over Zoobles face, trying to find any unspoken information. All she gathers is that Zooble is doing the exact same thing to her.
“I know you, Christine. We may have never been super close in the circus but I know you well enough to know that if I tell you about this, you are going to get involved. Even though I know you don’t want to.”
“So it’s—it’s something to do with the circus, right? You keep mentioning it. Is it Kinger?”
“Christine.”
“Is he okay?”
“I’m not getting you involved.”
“That’s my choice to make.”
“I don’t want to be the one that facilitates that decision.”
“I’m not going to hold it against you.”
“Yeah, well. Guess I’m the selfish one now.”
Pomni’s rising emotions falter at that. The reflection of her earlier words give her a glimpse of clarity. Of self-preservation that Pomni knows all too well. Softly, Pomni reassures, “It wouldn’t be on you, Alex.”
Zooble’s chin tilts down and Pomni spots the tips of their ears, lined with piercings, as they peek out, their hair rustling with the movement. From this angle, the purple in the under of their eyes and the inklings of undyed roots on the crown of their head are clearer.
“Why did you ask about Jax?”
That surprises Pomni. “What?”
“Answer.”
“I…” Pomni thinks over her words. “I… I don’t know. I mean—It was mostly coincidence that stuck us together, in the circus. And as much as he always pretended he was some cartoon villain, he felt the most real to me. No offense—wait, maybe that was a bad word choice.” She tries again. “He—I—felt the most… connected to him. Because of that, even though he was a huge asshole, I feel sick thinking about him being left in there alone. Anyone being in there. He was a person to me. Is a person. Same as Kinger. I guess I just want to know he’s okay.”
Silence. Pomni plays with her fingers.
Something a lot like defeat crosses over Zooble, erasing any remaining evidence of their resolve. “Ah fuck it.” They whisper resignedly. “Caine is in jail.”
Pomni bites down on her tongue to stop from shouting what the fuck are you talking about. Instead, she breathes, watches as Zooble downs the entirety of their drink, and says, “Okay.”
She needs to remain level-headed.
“That’s why we left the other night. Kinger found him.”
That doesn’t make any sense. “I thought he was AI or, like, not real?”
“Yeah.” Zooble’s agreement is clipped. “We thought so too.”
Relief trickles in beside the confusion. “That’s why Kinger’s been… ‘busy’?”
“Yes.”
“He’s okay?”
“He’s fine.” And the relief floods as soon as the brief is said. “A bit crazy about the whole thing. But he’s healthy and his memories are better than they were.”
Okay, Pomni repeats in her head, allowing her shoulders to sag from where they had gotten bunched in worry. He’s fine. He’s healthy. As her nerves settle with the small comfort of her new knowledge, her head wanders and wanders further, digesting.
Caine’s in jail.
Not in the circus.
He’s a person.
A human.
Since when? How did they not know? How do they know now? How did they figure that out? Idle thoughts of Caine were uncommon, but not rare. There was a lot of time to think about a lot of different things in the circus in between fighting for their lives, interpersonal drama, and restless sleep.
Time didn’t feel linear. The sun and moon danced in unreliable tempos, coming and going as they pleased. Schedule more related to their personal relationship than the actual place they were needed in the sky.
There were no clocks. No seasons. No holidays.
And if time were counted in terms of adventures; she definitely lost count.
It was hard to pinpoint exactly when thoughts started and when they finished. Sometimes they felt like they just slipped from her mind, but then she thought so hard about it she realized that's just how thoughts work.
At some point in the first dozens of adventures, she asked the others: What is he? Referring to Caine. And Jax had responded: one of those 2006 laptops that sounds like a jet plane taking off as it boots on. And at her blank blink he spoke again: He’s AI, genius. God, not the smartest jester in the bunch are you? Ragatha had defended her and Zooble had rolled their eyes at their antics. But, they all agreed. And Pomni never thought differently about it.
Pomni’s thoughts of Caine were more along the lines of: Why was he coded this way? Who coded him? Not: I wonder what Caine does in the real world.
They seemed to have all been in agreement. For however many units of time had passed.
So what changed?
“Why?”
“I don’t know how the circus coding magic shit worked—”
“No, no. Why has he been looking for Caine?”
There’s a shift in Zooble instantly. A rigidness that seeps into their every limb. A jumpiness as their gaze breaks off to skim aimlessly around the room, jaw setting off to the left, eyebrows pooling towards the center of their face. They are stalling, or, no, they are bracing themselves and Pomni finds herself unknowingly doing the same.
“Kinger’s wife is missing.”