C. Adams - Version 2.0

“How does money work here?” she asked, intrigued, as she walked to the shower and began inspecting the soaps.

“It’s not really money, so much as credits,” he explained, leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms. “Whatever job you work, and however many hours, goes into a credit system. So it’s kinda like bartering, in a way. Your I.D is also your credit card, so to speak. Whatever profits I make off my books goes onto my credit. The actual money goes to the government sector that funds the island. My credits are worth as much, though. Pretty much everything I need or want is covered, and then some.”

“Guess you’re books do well then,” she raised a brow.

“Not too bad,” he smirked, revealing the dimple on his left cheek. “Plus, anything I want that’s not on the island, I can bribe and transfer credits to a hunting Observer.”

“Hunting?” she questioned. “You mean when we go to fetch a Proprietor?”

“That, or when they’ve located a Defector,” he told her. “It’s rare, but sometimes they find them on the grid. They’ve gotta go pick them up and try not to cause a scene in the meantime.”

Birdie nodded in understanding. “So what kind of stuff do you usually ask them to get?”

“Eh,” he let out a breath as he thought. “Books, magazines, games, movies… or stuff they don’t quite make the way I like, here. Wish I could convince them to let me have a car.”

“Where would you drive it?” she looked at him incredulously. “There’s no where to drive and nothing to drive on. Not to mention gasoline.”

“I just miss driving, I guess,” he got a reminiscent look on his face.

“Maybe you can bribe one of us to take you on a hunt with us,” she smirked. “I’m guessing we have to drive when we’re out there.”

“I’d have to do some serious bribing. Even at the right price, they’ve gotta clear it with the big boss. Or risk losing their job by sneaking me along. Though, it would be easier for me, since I don’t report to an outside job, and I spend most of my time at home. I’d have to bribe to barista not to mention they haven’t seen me at the shop,” he laughed.

“I’m thinking this is totally doable,” she said, seriously.

“Yeah?” he got a bit of an excited look on his face. “Well, that’d be awesome. But I’d hold off a while, at least. You’re new on the job, and I can’t imagine you having to serve coffee for a living if you get canned.” They shared a laugh at that.

After they each had a shower, Birdie convinced Brian to let her stay in his room for the night. She told him it was because her bedroom creeped her out a bit. But in reality, she just wanted to be near him. She wanted to be able to just look over, if she woke up in the night, and be reassured that he was still there. He didn’t even fight her about it, since he felt the same way.

They laid there on their separate sides of the king-sized bed, Brian staring up at the ceiling, and Birdie on her side facing him. The lights were out, but the blue glowing numbers on the alarm clock beside the bed illuminated the room enough to see each other.

“Do you remember dying?” Birdie asked, quietly, after several minutes of silence.

Brian turned his head to glance at her for a moment, before looking up at the ceiling. “Do you?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she replied, thinking back. “I remember it was cold. It was raining and I was lying in the street.”

“How did you die?” he looked at her again.

“I was shot,” she told him. “Chasing a suspect,” she elaborated. “He was scared. I don’t think he’d ever shot anyone before. I remember his face just before he ran away again. I felt sorry for him.”

“He’d just shot you, and you felt sorry for him?”

“I knew I was gonna die, but I felt sorry that he’d just basically ended his whole life with a split-second decision,” she explained. “He was so young.” She watched as Brian looked back up at the ceiling.

“I remember talking to Mom,” he said.

“She called you to check in, she said.”

“Yeah,” he let out a small, breathy laugh. “She wanted to know if I was any closer to finishing my book. I told her I didn’t have time for it, with work. I’d already had a hit in my system and was too far gone to continue the conversation. I told her I’d call her the next day.”

“Then you ordered a pizza,” she added.

“I did,” he looked over at her for a moment, then back to the ceiling. “And as soon as I hung up with them, I took another hit. It made me so floaty and tired, I laid my head back on the arm of the couch and passed out. That’s the last thing I remember, before waking up in debriefing.”

There were a few moments of silence as they both thought. “Why did you do it?” she asked. “Was it because we saw Dad?”

“Kind of,” he let out a breath. “I was so… pissed at myself for doing anything at all, that night. Seeing Dad hurt, and I didn’t wanna feel it. That, and what I made you promise me,” he looked over at her again. “I felt like I’d given you a burden you didn’t deserve to have to carry. Those things, coupled with the guilt of screwing up sobriety, made me do even more.” Birdie heard him swallow. “I am sorry, Birdie. I didn’t mean to die. I swear that much. And I’m sorry I screwed up. And I’m really sorry that you had to find me like that. If it’d been the other way around… Hell, Birdie, I wouldn’t have been able to keep going like you can.”

“Brian…”

“I’m serious. Hell, Dad isn’t even dead, and look how I handled that. I wasn’t even as close to him as I am to you. You’re… You’re stronger than me.”

There was a silent moment between them as she let that absorb. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” she told him. “Everything’s different, now. Not just this place, or what we are. But you… You’re you, Brian. Not drugs. I can honestly say that I’m glad. I’m happy, even. I’m happy we’re here.” Even in the dim light, Brian could see her genuine smile. He returned it, in silent agreement.

Birdie awoke to the false sunlight flowing around the edges of the blinds in Brian’s room. It lit up her brother’s silhouette, making him look angelic, and she laughed at the thought.

She pushed herself up, being careful not to shake the bed and wake him, and made her way out into the kitchen to start coffee. The kitchen was clean, most likely because he never used it. The stainless steel coffee pot had a thin layer of dust on it, reminding her that his morning routine likely consisted of going to the coffee shop instead of actually brewing it himself.

Brian awoke to the smell of coffee, maybe twenty minutes later. For a moment, he forgot where he was. But as soon as he came to his senses, he rushed out of bed and out into the hall, searching for proof that yesterday hadn’t just been a dream. There stood Birdie, stirring sugar into her cup of coffee. She glanced over at him.

“The milk in the fridge looked questionable,” she said. “I figured I’d just go without. Good morning, by the way.”

He smiled.

“You gonna bring your brother to work with you every day?” Agent Kale asked as they walked the tunnels toward R.R.

Birdie glanced to Brian, who walked slightly behind them, then back to Kale. “Brian is currently having writer’s block,” she told her. “And I figured we could use a hand still. But if you’re opposed—”

“It’s fine,” Kale cut her off. “I was merely asking out of curiosity. He’s a decent shot, or so he proved yesterday. Unless that was luck.”

“Birdie taught me,” Brian told her. “I’m also not opposed to manual labor, if it’s needed. But don’t give me busy work. If you need to give me busy work, just send me home. I’m here to help; not out of boredom.”