The Hero Is Unchained, But Not Free

By: Fox Under Fire

Chapter 2

The next morning brought a fresh perspective on life—for about ten seconds. Once those seconds were over, however, I was right back to my fear and uncertainty from the night before, the memory of the Uni encounter haunting me like a waking nightmare.

My panic wasn’t quite so high as then, however; distance and time will dull any terror. Though I was still afraid, I knew I couldn’t stay inside and hide forever. I shivered without my blanket (I had never managed to move from the floor where I’d stumbled), took a deep breath, and made a decision.

I had to figure out a plan to move forward. I couldn’t go back in time and erase what had happened outside my door, and I couldn’t subtract myself from the equation. I knew that my next door neighbor had seen my foolish self, and, though the lighting had been dim, there was a decent chance he would recognize me up close. And even if he didn’t, he could easily wait outside until I left my apartment.

But if he wanted to threaten me, why wait until then? He was a Uni. The force he had displayed when confronting the shadow assailant meant he could easily break down my door.

Maybe he had wanted me to lie awake in fear all night. Or he was going to make me think I was safe, then strike. Or I would wake up one morning to find myself dangling off the top of a building. Or maybe—

Maybe he doesn’t care.

There were other units in this apartment building, on this floor. From what the shadow assailant had implied, it wasn’t the first time my neighbor had been attacked. Someone else—possibly a few someone else’s—had to have seen it before. Had they reported the attack, and no one took them seriously?

Why?

“That line of thought opens up a whole can of worms,” I told myself, my writer’s brain running at high speed. “Maybe I should try crime fiction or thrillers instead of romance...”

Anything that kept me from getting involved or being too curious. I would do as I had promised myself the night before: find a place to move, and keep my mouth shut. If my next door neighbor did threaten me, I would swear on my life that I had no intentions of saying anything and hope he believed me.

From now on, the incident from the night before had never happened, and would never happen again—even if it did.

Which was all well and good...save the fact that part of me was itching to put the experience down on paper.

No, Ivy.

No. No. No.

You can write, but not about that. Well, not unless you change the characters into something other than Uni, and—

Ugh...you’ve already made up your mind, haven’t you?

Alright, let’s go take the laptop for a walk and write about it.

My mental war had my teeth grinding, unintelligible nonsense muttered under my breath, and amidst the literary agony my stomach unleashed a loud rumble.

Right, food. I did need that.

I patted my stomach as if to satiate it as I cast a glance at my apartment’s ancient refrigerator, which I knew to be empty. I had eaten at the airport the night before, and had been too eager to reach my new home (read: scared of what might happen to me after dark) to wander the town looking for a grocery.

I pulled my wallet out to look at my meager savings. A collection of blue plastic coins greeted me, ranging in size from fingertip to the center of my palm, and I had to think before I could remember how much each of them was worth. I wasn’t used to carrying clearcoins, but anywhere beneath the Eightieth Sector didn’t use the clearcard, because anything beneath the Eightieth Sector was considered too poor.

How fitting, because you’re too poor now, too.

My collection of coins would dwindle fast, but my rumbling stomach refused to be ignored. I didn’t really feel that hungry, but I was dying for a cup of coffee—my one genuine joy besides writing.

“You had a traumatic night. You deserve a good coffee at least,” I fed myself an excuse before I pulled out my clothes, packed up my laptop, and yanked on my boots to head out.

I paused at the door to my apartment, anxiety creeping up my chest, hot like a desert storm. I peeked out the window, checking the area before I eased the metal door open to stick my head out. I’m sure I didn’t look suspicious at all as I surveyed the area one last time before I rushed out of the apartment, almost closing my arm in the door.

The air was cold, stinging my cheeks as I plowed down the stairs, nearly falling down the bottom three in my haste. I hugged my bag to my side, unable to walk away from the apartment building fast enough as I cast glance after glance over my shoulder. But by the time I reached my third street, I had relaxed somewhat, vaguely confident I wasn’t being followed.

Town Three of the Sixty-Eighth Sector was built from the ruins of an old-world city no one knew the name of. Carved from brick and stone, pastel paint chipping and peeling, it might have been quaint if it weren’t for the papers in the streets and the side-eyes of the passerby. I passed various shops and apartments much like my own on my trek, but half of them were closed, with the other half needing some repairs.

This town was like a dying thing that was trying to live—or maybe a dead thing that was playing at being alive. As I rounded a corner onto a new street, the venues improved, but not by much. Still, there were more businesses here, and there, in a window of a red-trimmed building, was a sign saying: coffee.

It might as well have said: heaven.

My feet moved for me, ushering me across the street and to the door of the red-trimmed building. I paused with my hand on the door, looking up to see another sign painted over the doorway.

It read: The Red Bar.

Wait...bar?

I blinked, the images of coffee and alcohol not syncing in my mind, before I bit my lip and opened the door anyway.

I entered the establishment entitled The Red Bar, a bit apprehensive. They advertised coffee, so I at least had to find out if they had any. At this point, I was getting a little desperate—not to mention, my stomach wouldn’t shut up.

I stepped into the questionable establishment and inhaled a scent that certainly smelled like alcohol—though not the overwhelming, I’d-like-to-vomit variety of alcoholic scent. The shop was devoid of customers for the moment, but an employee stood behind a seeming endless wooden bar that was polished to perfection, glass rack after glass rack of liquor bottles lined up behind him.

Yep, this is definitely a bar. One hundred percent.

My hopes plummeted, and I began to wonder if I would turn into a coffee-depraved zombie as I dared to ask, “Um...do you actually serve coffee here?”

The employee finally looked at me, turning his attention from the glass stein he was currently polishing to a perfection nearly matching the immaculate bar. I could only somewhat see his eyes through his metal-rimmed sunglasses, and my gloom, fueled by possibly not finding coffee, turned to annoyance as I wondered why on Earth he was wearing sunglasses indoors, even though it was obvious he could see.

Also, why he hadn’t said hello when I’d first entered? It was only polite.

“Oh,” this was the first thing to leave sunglass-man’s mouth as he turned his head towards the sign on the window. “Yeah, that was a new idea the boss wanted to try. You’re the first one who’s asked about it, though.” He shifted his gaze back to me, and I felt my ire rise since that wasn’t really an answer, and—I just wanted a cup of coffee, come on.

“Well, do you have a menu, then?” I (hopefully) kept my tone free from venom as I crossed over to the bar, noting how decently sized the place actually was with its barstools and windowed front and random wooden tables (though still nothing compared to my fancy coffee shops back home).

“Sure.” Sunglass-man didn’t seem fazed by my attitude. He set aside his polishing and searched behind the bar for a menu, wavy raven hair falling against his glasses. He was fairly tall, dressed in black and grey attire befitting a somewhat traditional bartender, and he might even have been cute was I not so irked with him.

It wasn’t really his fault, though. The frustration of my situation was just getting to me. I was living in a rundown apartment, had practically no money, and I hadn’t slept very well—and I was, you know, worried that my neighbor the Uni would try to strangle me to death or something.

“Here you are.” Sunglass-man handed me a simple menu, and I tore my gaze from his sort-of-cute face (with those stupid sunglasses) to look it over.

There was food on the menu as well as coffee, so I decided to splurge just a little more to shut up my needy stomach. “Alright. I’ll have some quiche and a mocha.”

“Mocha?” The employee stared at me blankly (or at least, I think he did) as I practically shoved the menu back at him. “Which one is that again?”

The poor guy looked lost, and a tinge of regret pricked my heart even as I said, “You don’t drink coffee, do you?”

Sunglass-man took my menu as he answered my coffee inquiry. “I do drink coffee. Just coffee.” He said breezily, unfazed.

So, he liked it black, huh? I wasn’t sure whether that was a sin, or if I should be praising him.

“Mocha has chocolate and steamed milk,” I explained to the poor soul who would never have survived in my home city’s coffee shop.

“Right.” Pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, he turned towards a little espresso machine I had completely missed. “I’ll make that for you. You can have a seat anywhere you’d like.”

I chose a seat near the window, the wooden table’s top painted a glossy red chipping just like the rest of the paint in this town. Staring out the window, I felt my nerves settle as a sense of peace washed over me, brought on by the familiarity of sitting in a cafe (well, bar...coffee bar?). The street was quiet, but the people walking down it appeared to be genuinely happy, though not posh like the ones I was used to. I spotted a grocery nearby, along with a small used bookshop.

Speaking of books, I had to at least try and write something.

Waiting for my (hopefully decent) coffee, I pulled out my laptop and opened a new document. I tossed several ideas around, finding none I liked, before I gave into my earlier temptation and started to describe the scene from the night before.

I was nearly to the part about my neighbor’s eyes beginning to glow that icy white color when sunglass-man appeared with my order on a tray. He set down my plate and a steaming mug, and I almost wanted to cry from how good it actually looked and smelled.

“Let me know how it is,” Sunglass-man said, tray folded against him as he waited for me to take a drink.

I obliged him—and nearly choked.

I swallowed my first sip of coffee and turned towards him, heart suddenly hammering. “Th-this is the best cup of coffee I’ve ever had!” I said probably a little too intensely, hugging the mug in my hands as if it were my boyfriend. “What are you, a coffee god?” My opinion of him changed instantly, all thanks to that cup.

Sunglass-man laughed, the sound a bit awkward. But the small smile that curved his lips made him just a little bit cuter, and as his head bent, I caught sight of two very blue eyes. “No, I’m not a coffee god. But thank you.” He frowned, looking down. “Actually, I love making drinks, but I was afraid coffee might be too much for the business. Guess maybe I was wrong.” His tone dipped as he spoke of his fears, and suddenly my heart began to hammer for another reason.

I froze, the warmth of the mug not reaching me as my mind added images and sounds together, and I felt all of my terror from the night before return. I hadn’t noticed the similarity until his voice dipped, though it wasn’t nearly as dark as it had been when he’d confronted the shadow assailant. And those eyes—they weren’t the same icy white, but they still seemed to stare into my soul.

Uni! My mind shouted with alarm as I fought to control my panic.

Sunglass-man is my next door neighbor!