For Tomorrow - what led to Cad and Dom meeting (Short story)

Disclaimer! I am not yet sure of this is 100% canon; as in: I might want to continuing editing this, but as none of the other characters know the details of what happened in this scene, it shouldn't matter much. Enjoy.


Rays of sunlight crept in through the blinds, dispersing the dimness of the small bedroom. Somewhere, in an adjoining room, water was running; the squeak of the pipes and the gurgle of the drain seeping out from under the door, mixing with the muffled noises from the street below. Belonging to a different world of honking and yelling and clamouring, the cacophony of city life was playing out lazily, too far away to penetrate the Leeside bedroom, tucked neatly beneath the roof. Here, the only noise was the regular breaths of someone still asleep and the crunch of the bedding when he shifted, leaving the skin of his back exposed to the warmth of the sun. As if he felt the heat, he stirred, blinking awake.

The occupant of the bed, now sitting up, was a young man, early twenties at most. He was looking around the room, taking in the slanted walls, scarce furniture and white walls with an odd mix of exhaustion and bewilderment, which seemed to suggest both a boyishness; making him younger than he looked, and a fatigue of the soul belonging to someone thrice his age. The movement drained his face of colour. He leaned back, rested against the headboard and took a couple of shallow breaths, eyes closed. When he reopened them, he caught his reflection in a gilded mirror on the opposite wall. In the relative darkness, the person who looked back at him might as well have been a stranger. But when he touched his hand to his face, the figure in the mirror did the same. He needed to shave, he needed a haircut, he needed to sleep, and he needed to eat. In the bathroom, the shower turned off, reminding him that he probably needed to get dressed first.

Dust particles danced as he staggered out of bed. Ashamed, he realised, picking up his clothes, to have forgotten both the name of the woman who lived here, and the name he had given her last night. Today was already turning out to be an embarrassment, and it was barely ten – the wristwatch he fished out of his jeans, along with the last of the yellow pills, told him as much. His throat was dry but he somehow managed to swallow, and as always the relief was instant; his head cleared and the nausea disappeared. He had a half plan drawn up on how to secure more, and was buttoning the wrinkled shirt of yesterday, with steady fingers, seated on the edge of the bed, when the bathroom door swung open.

He looked up as the occupant of the apartment entered the room; a tall, blonde woman in her early twenties, wearing a bathrobe more than when he had last seen her. The notion made him cringe, but the smile he greeted her with was unwavering. “Good morning.” His voice was hoarse, and he wondered if she had expected him to be gone by now. Of course, he should have; slipping out with her memories before she was up, leaving her to wonder how much had been dreamt.

But she did not look surprised or annoyed at seeing him seated on her bed. “Good morning,” she simply replied, sliding past him to roll up the blinds. Allowing the sun to bathe the room in bright light.

The man on the bed blinked, eyes adjusting, watching the woman’s lips as they curled into a smile, and it was this peculiar expression; half amused, half quizzical that finally brought back her name; Nathalie.

“Did you sleep well?” Nathalie asked, pushing open the window, holding onto it as she looked out. She didn’t see her guest nodding, too focused on the view of cranes looming over rooftops down at the docks, air flimmering with heat. But he heard him reply that he had. She did not tell him that he had looked like he had needed the extra half hour, saying instead that so had she, and did he want something to eat?

So, they ate, seated at a small table in an equally small kitchen, which he remembered passing last night, taking note of the door that led to the stairway.

Nathalie noticed this as she noticed how he darted what should have been harmless, small talk questions, but she didn’t bring any of it up; filling him with equally vague information about her own life, until their plates were mostly empty and he was refilling coffee in their cups. Then there were no more reasons to stall. “So–” She began, with a sigh, breaking what had been a short pause in their conversation and fixed her eyes on the man in front of her, “You’re a Nachon.”

His hand twitched, and he quickly set down the pot, wiping a few drops from the table. Looking up, he tried to sound casual. “That’s a dangerous allegation.”

“For me or for you?”

He stared at her. She had taken up her cup, and was sipping from it with a casualness so removed from the topic of conversation. His own body was not as calm; heart in throat he was considering how best to get out of the situation, if he should just make a run for it, and risk running into a team of Godias on the stairs. Or had she yet to turn him in? Would he have to hurt her? He really didn’t. Perhaps she was simply bluffing? But he had already given himself away, it was impossible to pretend otherwise.

She broke his thoughts with a; “Oh, relax.” Setting down her cup. ”So am I, how do you think I would know? Come on, try me.” And she held out her hand.

Hesitating for a second, he reached over, took it, and felt her consciousness tug on his in response. He recognised the familiarity of it, and knew she was telling the truth. He sighed, in relief or annoyance, he wasn’t quite sure which and let go of her hand again. “Why?” He asked, “Would you say it like that?”

Nathalie shrugged, got up, and started gathering the dishes.

He kept seated. “What gave me away?”

“Apart from the zeal?”

“The zeal? What zeal?” He thought of the yellow pills, but pushed the thought aside.

At the sink, she turned on the water, explaining; “The rune? That mark on your back, whatever that is, it acts as a zeal, or, I suppose you do? Zeals are not really my specialty, but can I recognize one when I see it, and that? I’ve only seen it on people associated with RNR, so I figured…”

“Who, or what is RNR?” He asked, getting up to help her.

She handed him a towel. “The Radical Nachon Rebellion?”

He shook his head, “Never heard of them.”

“Yeah, excuse me if I don’t believe that.” Nathalie side-eyed him and handed him a wet plate, before returning her focus to the sink. “Someone marked you – makes it impossible for digital cameras to capture you, sort of– blurs you? RNR uses it when – oh.” She had looked at him again, and went quiet when she saw his face. “Shit. Sorry. Forget about it.” She dried her hands and took the plate from him. “Look, I just want to know what your plan is: why you are here, and how you had planned to erase my memory of you– who are you?”

That was a lot of questions, and he had no reason to trust this woman, apart from the fact that no one had shown up to arrest him yet. And she was a Nachon. That accounted for something, right? “I’m looking for someone.” He said, which was the truth. “She’s supposed to be somewhere in IC.”

"Does she want to be found?"

"I don't know yet."

“Alright, and I guess someone else is looking for you too?”

He nodded.

“Do you still want to leave the country?”

“How–”

“The rune”

“Oh. No. I’m–”

“Looking for someone, yeah.” She resubmerged her hands in the soapwater, “I was just thinking…” Scrubbing the other dish, and handing it to him, “Maybe we can help?”

“We?”

She turned to look at him. “Say, what do you know about the EFA?”

He frowned, “The terrorist group that was dissolved a couple of years ago?”

She winced at the word ‘terrorist’ – compared to someone like the RNR? What a joke. “It’s not a terrorist group, and it still exists. We help people out of Ilomar. Fight for Nachon rights, that sort of stuff. Mostly non militant.” She cleaned the cutlery and handed it to him.

“Mostly?”

“Well, you know…”

He didn’t, but he also didn’t care, so he kept quiet, waiting for her to continue.

“I am trying to offer you a place to stay.”

“To stay?”

“Yes.”

“Why? What makes you say–”

“Well, why else are you here?”

“Have you seen yourself?” He asked, “Why would any man want to spend the night in your bed?”

She laughed, gave him the last cup and drained the sink. “Last night was fun, but don’t lie to me.”

“I wasn’t… Wait, why am I here?”

“You’re a Nachon.” She said, leaning back against the countertop, watching him.

“You’ve already made that point.”

“And you didn’t have anywhere else to be.”

He sighed, slowly, with closed eyes. “Don’t say you pitied me.”

“Alright, I won’t.”

“But you did,” He placed the towel on the counter, hiding his embarrassment. “And here I thought I was getting by fine on good looks and charm alone. Am I really that obvious?”

“No,” she said, but she hesitated. “I’m a Nachon, remember? I know what to look for.”

He cleared his throat. “So, the EFA wants to help me? And why do you think I need your help?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe you would like your own bed? A hot shower and a roof over your head? Security? People who remember you? A better place to store your things than the central station?”

“How do you–”

She blushed, “while you were sleeping–”

“–How much? What did you see?”

“Not much. Current worries I suppose; shoplifting, a storage box, new bed every night? Yes? I mean, for Iosta’s sake, I don’t even know your name.”

He looked away. And she let it go.

“Well, what do you say?”

“Where’s the catch?”

“The catch?”

“What does your organisation want in return?”

“Nothing! Not everything is a transaction.”

“Sorry, but I am not sure I believe in charity. You must want something, right? Money, time – I am not killing anyone.”

“Well, I am not asking you to! Trust me.” As they spoke she had been cleaning the rest of the breakfast away, replacing plates in the cupboards, wiping off the table. “I mean, I’ll have to clear it with Dominic… But I can’t imagine he would say no. You’re nice enough.”

“Thanks?”

“Look, we both know that you want to say yes, so why don’t you go take a shower – there are towels under the bathroom sink, and I’ll text him that we are stopping by.”

Which was how, after a shower, a text sounding something along the lines of:
Hiiiiiii Dom, stopping by around noon. Bringing someone. You still have empty beds, right? Sorry about last time. Started doing background checks. Don’t ask questions. And be nice!!!! - N.
And car trip to the storage box to collect the few things he owned, he ended up outside the door of the not-really-terrorist-group, preparing to meet some of the people who shared the space of the ‘wanted’-lists of the country.