Chapter Text
“Gill, gimme the keys.”
The cold winds blow in from the south, and with it, another deluge. District Sixteen, usually dim and dry, is now bright and damp. Neon and artificial lights sparkle the buildings of the Nest, droplets striking those without cover. Thankfully, Oswald always carries an umbrella. He and his son, Gill, aren’t in a rush as they’re covered with layers and layers of clothes. But then again, who likes a wet outfit?
“Gill. Keys, please.” Oswald repeats, extending a damp hand upwards.
“Oh, right. “ Gill reaches deep into his coat’s inner pocket and hands it over to his dad. With a twist of the latter’s wrist, they’re back home.
For such well-dressed people, their apartment is average-sized, though better than most. On one half of the apartment is the kitchen, his father’s quarter, and the wall where the TV is. The other, eastern half is his own room, the washroom and the bathroom. Right in the middle is the couch, and the window opposite of the door overlooks a good sight of the nest and the streets below. The billboard has photos of popular actors and fixers, changing every other week, but the slogan is the same.
The world is yours.
As Oswald stares at the billboard for the only-heavens-knows-time, Gill makes a gesture for the hat on his head. He doesn’t even bother to look away as he hands it over, the top of his head now exposed to the chill of the night. His hairs are already starting to grey out despite being in his mid-fourties. Must be the job.
“It’s real bright tonight.” Gill comments, squinting how violently it shines upon the living room, coloring it a bright neon pink.
“If it wasn’t, who’d look at it?” Oz responds, drying off his coat and closing up the dripping umbrella, grabbing a nearby towel and drying up his hair.
“It’s not usually this bright- It’s probably the weather, actually. Speaking of, thank goodness we’re dressed so heavily. Otherwise we would have been drenched.”
“See? Told you there’s a reason for wearing them.”
“I know, it’s just that- you like to wear the suits regardless.” Oswald has always had the habit of dressing as nicely as he can for absolutely everything. Going to a diner, the convenience store, the bathroom.
“Pft, ‘cause they’re nice. Got a problem with that?” he replies, handing the towel to Gill so he can dry himself off.
“No, it’s just…don’t you feel overdressed or something all the time?”
“Why would I, they’re nice. You’re saying you feel overdressed?”
“No, I like the suits too, but it’s very sweaty sometimes.”
At the moment, however, it’s not sweat, but rainwater that he’s drying off. He was in the rain a lot longer than his father, on account of not having a hat, and the umbrella he was handed being a bit small for him. When he first met his father, he was just a couple centimeters shorter, but now he stands seven inches taller.
“You know, in the Thumb, they’ll have you wearing full gear every fucking day, marching around in a goddamn button-up, undercoat, and overcoat. All day, too, while lugging around a rifle.”
Gill quiets down, intimidated by the idea of being one slip of the tongue away from execution. “…did you do that in the Fowls..?”
“Huh? Oh, no. That’s just the Thumb. Us, we’re a lot different, we don’t do that crap. What, did I scare ya? Haha.” he jokes, a rather avian-like chuckle coming from him. "And even if we did, they wouldn't make you do it. They'll know who you are." Gill may not have his father’s beak-like nose, nor the shorter stature, nor the laugh, but the hair looks transplanted off of him. Oswald's hair is medium-length, wavy, while Gill's is a proper short-cut, also a tiny bit wavy but a darker, purer shade from his youth.
"Oh yeah. Hey, why’d we go out for dinner anyway? I could have cooked something, we got plenty of fish here.“
“You kidding me? No son of mine, however talented, is gonna beat professionally-cooked fish by a five-star chef. And it was nice, wasn’t it? Having a drink and a cheer and— the tuna, oh my! You didn’t enjoy the tuna or something?”
“I did. It was great. Sorry, I’m just...not used to it.”
“Well, you better get used to it.” Oz says, taking a seat on the couch. It’s leather, so a little rainwater won’t hurt it.
Gill doesn't reply, instead staring out the window again. “…hey, how long has this billboard been here? I swear, it’s been here since I got here.”
“Probably older than you. Hell, probably older than me.” Oz replies, taking a glance at the billboard too. It's really bright, owch. So much so, you can barely see what's behind it, which is just more buildings and occasionally the sun.
"....ah, who the hell am I kidding, it's not older than me." He lets out an exasperated sigh, getting back up from the leather to come over to Gill. He walks over to the window, the neon lights of the billboard colouring his waistcoat a bright pink. Chilly breeze tonight, he thinks.
He starts poking around his coat, head turning towawrds Gill. "My hair’s starting to grey out. My back is starting to hurt. And you just turned twenty. And still, barely anybody gives a damn about us, Gill. Nobody.” He takes out a cigarette, lighting the stick before exhaling the smoke, fogging up the window.
Gill mimics him with his vape pen, taking a long drag of the grape-flavored air. “Haah, why do you want people to know you anyway? Don’t you get paranoid about getting a knife in the neck while you sleep?”
“We live in the City. Who doesn’t?”
“Carmine, maybe." Gill anxiously looks over to his dad. Joking about the head of the Falcones? Might as well be stepping on old landminds, seeing if they're gonna go off. But thankfully, he hears a squeaky chuckle from below.
Oswald turns to his son, the cigarette slightly coloring up his face in an orange light. “Haha, good one.”
Gill takes a heavy inhale from his cape, exhaling his nervousness out, along with another air of smoke.“….haah. I thought you were gonna get me for talking bad about Carmine.”
“A joke or two isn’t too bad. And hey, you’re technically praising him. Just, uh, don’t say that around him, he’ll gut you like a fish. Especially now that you’re part of us.”
Gill takes another inhale of his pen. "Don't worry, I'm used to it from you." Another exhale.
“…the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
Gill stutters again. “Uhh, nothing. I-it just means that I should...treat him like I treat you. Yeah, that.”
Oswald thinks for a second. “…exactly…that’s my boy.” he pats his back, exhaling a good sling of smoke into Gill’s face, making his eyes tear up. Or maybe it was the gesture.
The conversation ends with a series of buzzing from Oswald's phone. He barely even gets texts, so this is a big deal. He puts the phone up to his ear.
"Yeah? Oh, Mr. Falcone? Uh, yes, yes, we got home safe, thanks for asking. Uhuh..? Oh...right, right.....I got it, just give me a second, I gotta move to the other room..." Oswald mutters, urgently stepping over the shoes on the ground. "Gimme a sec, kid. It's Falcone."
Gill shines a look of nervousness at him. "Uhm, what's he calling for?"
"Dunno yet, just give me a-" He pushes open the door to his room, and then it slams shut. Gill is left there thinking, and it would be nothing but a sheer lie to say he was not nervous as shit.
"Carmine, I'm alone now, what? Wha- Gill? Yeah, he's fine, he enjoyed his late birthday celebration quite nicely. Yeah? Oh, what? What?! In…!…uh, nothing, Carmine. I got it. I'll tell him. See you." He hangs up the phone. He should deliver the news soon. But the privacy and the comfort of his bed calls to him, and Oswald can't help but succumb to his bed. He can't help but feel a tiny bit depressed that all Carmine called him for was business. It's always business with this family. His, and Carmine's.
These days, he doesn’t exactly know what to do. It’s the same all the time. Wake up, eat breakfast, talk to his son, go to the Falcones, do some job for them, almost die in the process, go back, get one word of appreciation, head back home, eat dinner, sleep. He’s been doing that for the past twenty-five years. He’s been in the Fowls longer than he hasn’t. But what has he gained? Nothing. But he has lost more than he can count. He doesn’t even have his birds anymore. The ones that didn’t get murdered by rival gangs are long dead from age anyways. He only has one bird left. Gill.
He forces himself off his bed, building up momentum as he goes to the couch, where Gill has just been watching a bit of TV.
"Gill. Carmine called me."
He looks up, face instantly switching from one of initial nervousness to straight up terror. "C-Carmine? What did he say?"
"You're gonna be Alberto's new driver."
Gill jumps up from the couch. "WHAT?! Alber- Carmine's kid?"
He's real fucking tense. "Yeah, but be grateful, it's just Carmine's kid. It could be worse, you could be driving around frigging Lei Heng or something."
Gill wipes his forehead. "Ah, shit.” he sighs hard, taking a heavy seat back on the couch.
“Shit? I thought you liked driving?”
“Yeah, but it’s, uh ….. it's more motorcycles that I drive. Dunno how to drive a car. And for sure not at chauffeur level.”
“But you drive me ‘round, and you do it fine.”
“Yeah, but you’re my dad and all, so I’m not at all stressed while I’m doing it. I-I usually bang up the cars I drive. I-don’t wanna make a bad im-impression.” That doesn’t change anything.
He’s starting to panic. What the hell have I been raising this kid for if he’s terrified of driving?
“So? I used to drive Carmine around in my rookie years. No big deal.” he waves, as if to physically dismiss the worry.
“Yeah, but still, what am I gonna do?! I…I…I don’t know how to drive p-properly?!”
He’s doing the stuttering again. This kid needs some fucking Xanax or something. Oz debates knocking him out with the umbrella. That’ll clear his mind. “Hey, fucking relax! Wings, you’re shaking like a goddamn newborn. How old are you again?”
“Uh…t-twenty, sir.”
“Then fucking act like it." Oswald snaps at him, pointing a harsh finger at Gill. Gill instantly quiets down, sitting quietly and looking at his legs as he stares down hard at the floor. He feels guilty for it, but it's what needs to be done. Otherwise, some random Sunday or something, he's gonna get a call about his son having to kill himself because he talked back to a Capo. Speaking of....now would be a good time to bring it up "....Gill. Listen, I got an idea for you.”
Gill looks up from his seat on the couch. He's figeting with stray strands from said couch. “What?”
“Go to Molland.”
Gill almost falls off the couch. “W-what?! Molland? In K. Corp?! What am I gonna do there?!”
Oswald sits up straighter, already starting to move his hands in an effort to visualize. “There’s a taxi company, or cab company, or whatever you call it, there’s one there. Forgot the name, but they’re usually hiring. All the time. If you’re so worried, you can go there, and get the job. Drive around people for, maybe a couple months. Capishe?”
“I mean-uh-" He thinks about answering back, but one look at Gill shuts it down compltely. "A-alright, fine, whatever. But should I really be gone that long?”
This fucking guy. I give him advice and he’s criticizing me?
“It’s just driving people around, no big deal.”
“Can’t I practice with you or something? I don’t wanna leave you alone.”
Leave me alone? Does he think I’m a senile old man? Son of a-
“Hey, shut the fuck up. When Carmine asked me to be his driver, I didn’t have a goddamn clue how to drive. Never even touched the wheel before. And even worse, I didn’t have anybody to ask, nobody, just me. But I said yes, and you know what I did? I hotwired a guy’s car and I drove around like a maniac for two hours. Broke his headlights and his taillights. But you know what? I learned. I fucking learned. And the next day, I was Carmine Falcone’s driver. So, why don’t you fucking relax. And for the love of- I’ll be perfectly fine. Do you think I’m old? Is that it? Is that why you don’t want me to leave? Huh?”
“....no.”
The look on Gill’s face instantly sobers Oswald’s mood.
“...ugh, kid. Listen, I’m not mad. Just relax, okay, you’ll be just fine. If you’re worried about me…that’s fine too. You’re a tough kid, right? You went the first eight years of your life without me. What’s a couple months?”
“Y-Yeah.” Gill nods.
“Good. Go pack your things, kid. I’ll go see if anyone’s got an idea about the train tickets.”
“...alright, Dad.” Gill heads off to his side of the apartment, though from his body language it’s obvious he’s a bit nervous still. He’ll learn one day. Maybe, he’ll even thank me for it. Who knows. He’s just leaving the nest, no big deal. Not at all.
Even in his own mind, Oswald is a liar through and through. Even if he doesn’t realize it, he’s just as nervous as his idiot son. As much as he loves being in the spotlight, he knows the risks. People know you. They’ll recognize you. They’ll hate you. And they’ll do whatever it takes to ruin your life. Especially for a guy like Oz. Who knows? There could be somebody watching them right now, waiting for Gill to be particularly alone, to strike and take his only bird away. It could be anyone too. A rival syndicate member? Some deranged psychopath? One of the many people he’s made enemies?
He doesn't want to think about it. His first year in the Fowls was fucking terrific, as he remembers. Constant fights, damn rogues and insane people doing their gimmicks, not to mention that one horrible situation-ship he had back then. He hates the word, but it perfectly capsulates his relationship with her. They haven't even talked like that in years. He hopes, prays almost, that Gill is smart enough to avoid that. And strong enough to hold his own against his own enemies.
...fucking hell. How did I mess up so bad? How did I come up with the fucked up idea to raise a kid, especially such a polite and hopeful kid like Gill, in the Fowls of all places? They’re birds of prey, gonna eat him alive….
He turns over to Gill's side of the apartment. He can hear ruffling and stuff like that. He doesn't want the fact that he's technically moving out to dig in. Ah shit, why the hell did he say that? He decides to give Mickey a call about the tickets. Mick runs a small time operation called "The Hustlers", with his brother, and a couple of his friends. He's a little goodfella under Oswald, and they are very willing to do his favors.
Bzzz. Bzzzz. Bzzzz.
Mick picks up, obviously busy with all the noise in the back. "-swald! Thanks for callin'. Whaddya need?"
"Tickets to K. Corp." He replies, still looking over to Gill's room. He's starting to play some music again, helps him feel better. Did he do that?
"T-Tickets? To K. Corp? As in, Warp Train Tickets? Are you sure?" Oz isn't sure if it's the feedback or the accent which is making it difficult for him to hear it, but is a little bit harsh where he is. But then again, it's a really heavy accent. "Donny boy 'ere was just finished tellin' me about them weird rumors about the trains."
Rumors? What the hell are you talking about?"
"I-I-You know! The ones about how legitamate the whole "ten second ride' gimmick is? That really, it takes thousands and thousands of 'ears and the passengers go fackin' cray-cray, yanno?"
"They're just fucking rumors, Mickey. Shut your trap." Though, it still seeps deep into his head. Oswald has always been a listener when his parents would tell him scary stories before he went to bed, especially to his mother. That was more than fourty years, though. ".....get first-class tickets for him."
"First class?! It's a bit late, Oz, I'm not sure if-"
"You're the one who went on yappin' and yappin about some goddamn fucking train rumors or whatever bullshit! And it's my goddamn son we're talking about here! Get me those tickets!"
"Y-yes, Mr. Cobble! Right away!" Mick responds, instantly hanging up to get the job done.
Oswald thinks about taking another cigarette out of his pocket when the music stops in Gill's room. A second later, his door opens. Gill's dressed in quite an outfit, a white jacket with orange stripes along with a grey undershirt. He either found that online through rigorous searching, or got that personally tailored, because how on earth did he get that? He looks like a seagull. Oh, shit, that's why they call him that. Oh shit, this kid really is mine.
"Quite a outfit you got there, Gill. Really living up to that name that?"
Gill blushes a bit, tiny bit embarrassed that he caught it. "Y-yeah. I mean, seagull fits me real well. Y'know, cuz I'm from U. Corp..."
"Yeah, yeah, I get it kid." Oswald waves his hand in the air, before using it to tug Gill closer. “Look, I already told Mick about the tickets. He'll probably have it by later tonight.
"Oh, thanks Dad. I appreciate it." Gill cautiously approaches Oz, face obviously filled with anxiety. "H-hey, Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"I-I'm sorry about earlier. I didn't mean that, I was just a bit....nervous."
Oswald looks up at Gill. What a handsome kid. Looks just like me. "I-it's fine, kid. Don't worry about it. Ya need help bring those suitcases down?"
"No, no, it's fine. I'll be fine." Gill exhales hard, as to physically dispell the worries out of Oswald. It doesn't entirely work, though.
"Yeah, you will. You for sure will. A-actually, just, you should wait downstairs. It's a long elevator ride up."
"U-uh, really? Are you sure you don't want me to-"
"I don't want you to do anything, Gill. Just...." Come on, Oswald. You never do this, you could give your kid a little bit of love here. "...stay.....safe, alright?"
Gill exhales, chuckling a bit. "Are you worried about me?"
"W-what? No. I'm not. Get the hell out."
"Yeah, yeah, I totally believe that. Yes, sir!" He enthusiastically salutes. "See you later, sir!"
Oswald takes a last look at him before saluting back. "Yes, soldato. Dismissed." At that, Gill gives him a little hug and a wave as he drags his suitcases out the door. When the door slams shut, Oz regrets making him leave so soon. But it could have been worse. It could always have been worse. He prays that it doesn't get worse.
.…
….
Gill nervously taps his fingers against the railings of the elevator, suddenly conscious of the weight of his suitcases and the texture of his coat. The last time he lived alone, without his father more specifically, was when he was an orphan. He regrets remembering.
The elevator finally clicks open, and Gill steps out. He waits in the lobby, the chill of the AC and the night combining to assault his senses. The jacket does its job to warm him, but still he shivers. Eventually sees a certain short, big-eared man with slicked-up hair. “Hey boyo. Got ya tickets.” He says, sticking out the first-class ticket out of a tightly-clasped hand.
Gill nods, trying his best to look friendly. And social. "Thanks for coming all this way, Mickey. My dad and I are very grateful.” Oz didn't say anything about being grateful, but it would help his reputation.
Mick scoffs, obviously knowing it’s a bunch of crap. ”Not like I got much of a choice anyways.” He gestures outside to a car parked outside the entrance of the apartment building. “Get inna car, we'll take you there. I brought along Donny boy and Willie."
Gill is just about to follow along when he remembers his motor. "Oh, yeah, Mister Mickey? Can you do me a favor and help bring my motor there too?"
"Ah, sure, why the hell not. More deadweight at the back." He starts ahead towards the exit. "Bring it over there, we'll wait. "
As Gill jogs towards the parking lot, eyes darting around to search for his motor, his mind again starts to wander. He must really known for his driving, seeing as it got him a job as the driver of the head's son. He's not sure if it's the best choice, however. He digs into his pocket and pulls out a key, unlocking the safety and starting to roll it over to where the Mick's car, or should I say pickup truck, is. They all raise eyebrows to the interesting colour scheme of the bike, being a now dirty-white and orange. At first glance, you'd think that the colors are how he got the nickname of the "Seagull", but actually it's the opposite. He blushes in embarrassment as he realizes they're staring at it, straining a bit as he lifts it to the back and squeezes between Willie and the right door of the truck.
While they drive off to the station, Gill takes some last looks around the city. It’s tall and bright, but he’s grown used to it. Almost sick of it, how fake all the glamour is. Advertised as a get-away from all the crime of the City, all of it is just a cover up for the fact that it’s just another front for it. He’s seen countless Capos, Maestros, Great Siblings and even the Godfather himself in here. He’s sick of how beautiful it is. If a city is gonna be dirty, might as well look like it. Or maybe something in him is just perpetually used to, or maybe even yearning for, with the old views that he grew up with in U. Corp. He never liked the motions of the waves below his feet. Sometimes, when he's zoned out or unfocused, he swears he can feel the ground below him shifting, as if he was right back there.
"Here we are, Gill. Now, here's that ticket-" Mickey digs around his pockets for a bit before fishing out a first-class ticket. "-now, get the hell out. Just kidding, you take care of yourself, boyo. It's a big world, don't get eaten alive."
"Or chewed like a piece of gum!" Donny continues, swaying a finger towards Gill. Donny isn't actually his name, it's Sullivan, but everybody calls him Donny.
"Or swallowed whole like shrimp to a whale!" Willie continues. That's actually his name, sadly.
"Alright, bye! Thanks for the ride!" Gill again struggles to drag the motor off the truck, trying not to make quite a racket just getting it out. It's a cold night tonight, but when is it not in P. Corp? He signs the forms to bring it, trying to not make eye contact with too much people as he drags his motor behind him. He presents his first-class ticket, and instantly service gets a thousand times better, people even offering to personally protect his motor on the travel. Strange offer, since it's only supposed to last ten seconds. It’s really cold in the chambers, just like in the lobby, but it’s better than whatever rumors Oswald heard. He tries not to stress about the temperatures dropping as the chamber closes. Not such a good time to be mildly claustrophobic.
Once he gets out of the station of K. Corp, kindly refusing all the cabs and strange offers to take him to the hottest tourist spots, he gets on his motor and starts the drive to Molland. It takes a while, being about two hours away from the main city, but once he gets to the outskirts, thirty minutes away from the suburbs where the Vitis live, he takes one glance at the city ahead of him and realizes something.
This is not at all like P. Corp. This isn't even like K. Corp at all. This is Molland, and by god is it beautiful. He thought Molland was the size of a small town, thought it could hold maybe fifty thousand people at best, but no. This city can hold a million.
He arises from his motorcycle seats, arse very sore from the ride. It took half an hour to go from the station to the edge of the Nest of K. Corp, an hour for the drive to the edge of Molland, and thirty minutes worth of roadstops, but it was so fucking worth it.
While the P. Corp and K. Corp nests are clean and organized and safe, Molland has life. You can smell the rain on the streets, the dirty subway stations with harsh graffiti stating “KILL YOUR LANDLORD”, the steam coming from the rooftops and the potholes, the garbage irresponsibly tossed to the streets that nobody can bother to clean. It’s not as full as the Nests, but there’s people. People with lives, stories. You can smell all the cheap and expensive perfume, cologne and sweat of every single person who’s been in this city.
It’s only June, but it’s so, so warm, you can barely feel the night chill. Feeling hungry enough, he scans the buildings and sees a neon sign for a bar. There are hundreds of neon signs in general, but this one looked gentler. He heads into the establishment, which is cold and noisy, filled with various people. Drunk people, especially. And people he’d rather not make acquaintances with. He takes a quick look at the menu and orders a tuna sandwich and an orange juice. Lousy choices, but it was either that or starve to death.
He called it a town, but it's more like a city in a video game. The buildings are tall and wide, but a good portion of them are empty. Not to mention rotting away, the concrete chipped, moldy, and the paint already fading away. Oz gave him a quick history run. It used to be a great place, a bunch of steel works, almost a Nest actually. But with the Smoke War, they had to use all the steel and the people with it, and the city lost what made it so valuable. And so the mighty have fallen. He feels a vibration on his phone, which reminds him to give his dad a call to update him.
“Hey Dad, I just got to Molland. It’s pretty nice, actually, it’s way bigger than I expected. Oh, of course, I'll get right to it, I'll just have some food before I get started. What’s that? Oh, uh, just at some random dive bar. I don’t really know what’s going on. Alright, I gotta go, the food’s getting here. Bye.”
The tuna sandwich is about as he expected, and the orange juice comes in a can, but it's enough. With nothing better to do, he munches on his sandwich and looks around the bar. There are all kinds of people in the place. Office workers, syndicate members, fixers for associations, fixers for offices, and just the residents of the city. For example, a huge man at maybe three hundred pounds is eating some meatloaf with a comically small spoon, at least in comparison to his size. He guesses that he’s a construction worker of sorts. Another, a smaller (though anybody would be smaller compared to that monster) skinner man, with big ears and a thin face nibbles on a huge chocolate raisin cookie. Reminds him of Mick, the face shape and all, but Mick would never indulge in raisins.
Then another one, a darker man with more scars than he can count. Especially on his face, with one of them cutting through his eyebrow, Actually he has scars cutting through his entirety, from some spots on his chin to the edges of his elbows and forearms. It's like he fought against a huge blender, with how much the scars are spread out and vary in size. He wonders how he got those scars. Was he in a syndicate? Was he tortured? A freak accident? Well, whatever it was, it must have messed him up, because he’s staring into the void, thinking, not doing anything. Not even taking a sip of that alcohol he has. Oh, scratch that, he’s eyeing a woman. Some random dark-haired woman, can’t tell. She's not even that much of a looker, but hey, each to their own. Though, he can really do better than that.
The second the man gets up, he doesn’t even bother to pay more attention. If a guy wants to get some, who’s he to judge? Not like he’s been good with girls himself. Or guys. Or anybody, for that matter. While the rest of his years with his father gave him some manners and allowed him to talk to all kinds of people, maybe even really socially too, as much as any normal person, but he knows very well that he’s still awkward, especially to anyone he sees…like that. As such, he tends to just watch people at a distance, out of fear. Compared to actual, real people, he’s a mess.
Sometimes, he doesn’t feel real. He spends as much time as possible doing anything for his dad. To make some kind of effect on this goddamned world before he gets shot up by rival gangs. Before he gets his throat slit after being tortured for hours. Before he dies in a horrible car crash. He thinks about home, flipping a coin between his knuckles. One of these days, I’m gonna be dead. When is that gonna be?
He looks up again to see both of them missing. Must have scored. Lucky bastard. Feeling bored enough, he flips a coin to see what to do. Heads, he stays and watches TV. A local team is playing hockey. The way they move on the ice is really fascinating. Tails, he heads out and looks for that cab company. He doesn't want to delay it any longer.
Ding…..
It’s tails. He pays his bill and gets out of the dive bar, squeezing past the huge man and getting a whiff of that cookie the skinny one was eating. His eyes dart to the bathroom. He sees a glance of the scarred man before quickly looking away. He'll at least give him that decency, he's not a voyeur of any sorts.
It’s close to midnight, and he should really be finding that cab company. Pretty sure taxis run until midnight or something, right? Or is it all the time?
The city is violent. In all sorts of ways. Violent to the eyes, where neon lights blare at you to grab your attention at something you couldn’t care less about, violent to the nose where the smells of the dried out streets hit you right in the middle like a boxer, violent to the ears where you can hear the sirens of the local police, the honks of cars driving around, and the voices of half a million people. And that's not even mentioning the actual violence that he's had to avoid noticing. Fixers returning to their offices covered in blood, amatuer Ring artists stringing up their newest pieces. They take their own glances at him, but pay him no mind. Not even deranged freaks want to use him as material, great. Another reminder.
After navigating the city for what feels like three hours (it was thirty minutes), he eventually finds the cab company’s address. A sizable building, with a garage on the side that he assumes contains the taxis, and a logo that says "K. Corp Cabs, Molland Branch." It's the prettiest thing he's seen today. He takes a second to picture it with his phone's camera, the quality of it not doing it proper justice. He rips off one of the company’s “help wanted” posters and goes up to the front desk.
The inside is even older than the buildings outside. The walls are a sickly mustard yellow, windows stained by years of raindrops and bird droppings. It's obvious that somebody's attempted to clean it, with rags and a bucket of what he presumes to be soap-water in it nearby. Only one section of the windows are clear, and it's the one near the door. The inside is empty, save for a man at the front desk doing sudoku on the newspaper from this morning. Doesn’t even bother looking up from it when Gill walks up to the front desk. He looks up to Gill, a look of shock and tiredness as he registers the presence of another human being in the room.
He clears his throat before greeting him. “Uh, ehm, hey there. Whatcha looking for? A cab? We actually have a website for that now.”
Gill politely nods no, “I’m actually looking for a job, sir.”
The man looks even more astounded when Gill replies. Maybe it was the gentle accent. Maybe it was the fact he looks brand new in town, with a nice smile and hope in his eyes. Or maybe he’s just surprised as anybody that a guy like him wants to be-
“A cab driver? You wanna be a cabbie?” The man combs back his hair, still wiping his eyes to assure himself that he's not having a dream or hallucinating.
“Yes, I-I do. I need the experience and the money. I actually just turned twenty, sir, and this seems like a... a nice entry-level job."
He almost doesn't reply, mouth slightly agape with shock. “Y-ya serious? There are tons of better options than this. You’re young, you can probably get a decent office job as a pencil pusher. You could even get some studies and be in an association.” he says, doubtful eyes scanning Gill. Tall, lanky, and standing like a little kid who’s growth spurt hit like a train wreck and doesn’t know how to act like an adult. At least, that's what Gill assumes he's thinking.
"I, uhm, just moved into town, and I don't really know anyone here, and I don't know the place well enough to get a good job. So I thought, if I become a cab driver, I'd be able to learn the layout and the people before I start with that."
The man takes another second to process his words before straightening his posture. “Well, just, fill this out and we’ll have someone give you a quick interview, ‘kay?” He searches through under the receptionist desk, handing over a standard job application, the paper dried out and stiff. The pen takes a couple of inkless scribbles to work as Gill fills out the blanks. Some stuff, he may have to lie about, though. For example, where his dad works.....
About thirty minutes later, he finishes the application and hands it over to the man, who tells him to go sit around somewhere, which he does. The building is reigniting his mild claustrophobia. Maybe it’s the lack of windows, the only ones being near the entrance. Or maybe it's the yellow walls that are starting to give him a headache from being too bright, despite being one shade away from brown. Or maybe the smell, smoke, mold, steel starting to hotbox into the room, all the undesirables stuffed into a-
“Cobble?” A voice calls out, snapping Gill out of the ensuing headache. It’s the interviewer, who's just read his name off of the application. Wait, Cobble? Shit, why did he lie about details about his dad and then proceed to put his real name on there? He gets up and follows the lady into the room. It’s very simple, with just a table and two chairs arranged facing each other. Actually, it’s probably the break room, judging from the water cooler, the ashtray, and the single window that lets you see outside. Nothing but pitch-black skies.
The interviewer is a blonde lady with about medium-length hair and thin square glasses. She looks irritated already. She looks up at him slightly, eyes peering past her spectacles. “Okay, let me just…” The interviewer starts to read off the application as she takes a seat across from him. “We are very glad that you have decided to join us here in K. Corp Cabs…..” She doesn’t look very enthusiastic. But then again, who would be? “You are applying to be a cab driver here, correct?"
"Yyyeah."He drags out his answer a bit. Now that she's saying it out loud, it does sound quite stupid.
She gives him the same look-over as the man of the front desk did. Her eyebrows furrow with the same confusion as well. "Huh. Alright, let's get this over with. First of all, do you have any prior experience with driving?"
Gill hesitates on answering. "U-uh, I usually drive a motorcycle. But I do drive cars sometimes.”
She nods and scribbles down something. “How experienced would you say? Like if you had to say a number?”
“Uhh, at least…..since I got my license, so four years? I drive around my dad a lot.” Easy questions. Okay, I can handle this.
The interviewer continues reading off her clipboard, not much engaged with the boy in front of her. “Do you have any outside references that we could contact?”
”….my dad, maybe?” I sound like a sonnovabitch right now.
Her pen stops writing. She stares back, through her glasses this time. "....is your dad in any particular position where that would be relevant?"
He's the right hand of a Thumb subsidiary. But he can't just say that, that's either gonna sound like complete bullshit or just expose himself completely. "H-he's....important, where he works. I can't say, it’s private."
She gives him a funny look before replying. "Privacy. Okay." He sees her roll her eyes slightly as she continues. "Why do you wanna be a cab driver?” She finally looks up from the paper and at him. Gill suddenly grows conscious about every facial feature he has.
“Actually, why do you want to be one? It’s quite the choice, especially in the Backstreets.” she asks, interrogates almost, with a tired and grumpy look on her face, though a slight look of curiosity is in it too.
“I-I need the experience, and the cash. Rough living these days, you know.” he states, looking out the window still, as if there’s something out there to look at. He’s had a bad habit of looking away when he lies. Probably from being in the Thumb, but he can’t do it when looking at somebody. Some truth would be nice to add in too. "Uh, I did just move in town, so it would be pretty difficult for me to get a better job, so this is what I'm starting with." Was that good?
She scrutinizes him for second before she nods at his answer. “Good point. I mean, it is pretty obvious that you’re new around here, so it would be hard to get a job.”
A slight hue of red colors his cheeks. “W-what? Was it that obvious?”
“It’s a pretty small town. I’m pretty sure I’d remember hair like that. And anyone who lives here would know to do anything but drive people around.”
“Huh? Why not?”
She side-eyes him. “Seriously? It’s the Backstreets, you could end up picking up a serial killer. Or worse, a Finger member.” Gill’s really starting to feel his privilege, since he didn’t even consider that. “But beggars can’t be choosers, I guess.” She places down the application on the table. “Okay, off the record, I’m just curious. Seriously? Taxi driving? Do you just like driving or something?”
Gill feels his face burn with embarrassment. “Y-yeah-I mean, no! I also.....” He tries to come up with a lie, but there’s something about lying straight to her face that makes his mind run dry. “….just like driving. Yeah, you’re right, I do.”
She looks at him straight, a slightly shocked expression as she sits up straighter on her seat. "Really? You like driving?"
"Y-yeah, it helps take my mind off things. It’s just peaceful to see the town flying by. Oh, sorry, I’m talking from seeing it on a motor.”
The interviewer’s head creases in thought, before she seems to realize something. “I-it’s fine, you don’t have to explain yourself. TMI. I actually don’t really care either.” She confesses, pushing the application further away from her. “I'm supposed to read your form and interview you, but honestly they hire anyone with a license regardless of how this goes, so we can just stop. I got a bit talkative, so just forget what I asked.” She sighs at herself before continuing. “I’ll let you leave after a couple of minutes, and then we're done.” She ends, staring off into the nothingness of the window for a second. She's got some eyebags, and her hair is sticking out a bit in some places. She looks really tired.
Gill can’t help but ask. “Uhm, are you alright?"
She glares back at him, before her expression softens with realizing the intent of his question. She exhales heavily. “It’s just a lack of sleep. We usually do night shifts here, but I haven't really gotten used to it yet.” She leans back on the metal backrest wiping her eyes under her scratched glasses. "Not to mention when I try to sleep in the day, the honking gets so loud, so I can't get any. And it's just been a long day for me."
Gill softens up a bit upon hearing the last part. “Do you wanna talk about it?" You’re pushing it, Gill. You met her, what, twenty minutes ago?
She doesn't reply for a second. "T-talk? Like, talk about my day?"
He scratches the back of his neck. “I mean, you look really sore. Bad day?” He thinks about trying to look friendly with a smile, but he immediately dismissed it. He’ll just look creepy.
She looks at him for a second, processing the words he just said before replying with…something in her voice. “N-no, not really. Thank you for asking, but I'll be fine." She pulls the application form from the table, standing up rather quickly. "I-I think enough time’s passed. Good interview, Mr. Cobble. See you around.” She pushes up her glasses and disappears into the backroom, shoes clacking against the tiles as she leaves nothing but the memory of an awkward chat for Gill. He mentally cringes at himself for the past twenty minutes.
...she was quite pretty, though. He can’t deny that.
He waits an half-minute before walking out the backroom. When he gets to the entrance, the desk man is still there. “Oh, hey there kid. How was it?”
”Fine. A bit….awkward, though.”
”Oh yeah, you were with…yeah, that would end up awkward. Don’t sweat it! I’m pretty sure I’ll be seeing you soon, eh?”
“….yeah. See you, mister.” Gill waves bye ar him before pushing through the front door. His motorcycle is, thankfully, untouched. He takes a second to breathe in and out before reviving it back up.
After driving and wandering around the city for another half-hour, searching for somewhere to spend the night, he comes across an apartment in a taller building near the river. Doesn’t take much to rent a room for cheap. At least, cheap in terms of how much allowance he had to spend, allowance that Oswald was very generous in giving. The room stays empty, however, since Gill only brought two suitcases. One for his outfits, cash, and basic necessities, and the other with his…well, other stuff. He doesn’t think too hard about it, simply leaving it next to the door as he drifts off on the twin-sized bed.
It’s two in the morning. I should be asleep, he thinks, but yet he doesn’t. He stares out the window. It’s just buildings, buildings, and the clouds. The rain seems to follow him.
He knows why he can’t sleep. Because nobody has said goodnight to him. Good night Gill, he thinks. But it won’t work, and he thrashes and spins and twirls all around his blankets. He knows it’ll never work, because nobody ever says good night to him. And nobody will. So he’ll stay awake forever.
It’s freezing in the apartment. It reminds him of the nights he used to sleep alone in the metal containers of U. Corp, freezing half to death on the steel floor, no body heat to keep him warm. At least here, it’s warmer, with his blankets and layers and layers of clothes that make him itchy. Sometimes, though, he can still smell the rotting bodies.