We spent the best part of the weekend in a self-imposed, yet strangely cozy, lockdown. The air on the ground floor was a peculiar mix of stale beer, soldering iron fumes, and the collective musk of too many bodies in one space. With aching heads and slow, deliberate movements, we fell into the rhythm of repair. We sorted through bins of scavenged tech, our movements sluggish but familiar, our conversations a low murmur punctuated by the occasional crackle of a faulty component being tossed aside. We made plans, grand, theoretical blueprints for future actions sketched on napkins and whiteboards. But they were plans for a distant future. No one could even think of going out; the city would be screaming. The cameras, the drones, the Hounds, they'd be scouring the streets, their digital and physical senses heightened, hunting for the ghosts who had the audacity to clip their wings.
So, we turned inward. We hung out, the noise of our partying a defiant bubble in the silent, searching city outside. The crew swelled as Ant and Star managed to slip in; their arrival met with cheers and fresh rounds of toasts. For a few precious hours, the Drop Inn was an entire world, self-sufficient and blazing with life.
But all feasts must end. With a sad heart and a banging head that throbbed in time with my pulse, I woke early on Sunday morning. A pale, grey light filtered through the high windows, illuminating the scene of peaceful wreckage: bodies strewn across the dance floor in sleeping bags, empty bottles standing like silent sentinels. I moved with the quiet care of a ghost, stepping over my slumbering friends. In a corner, I changed out of my gear and into my civilian clothes, a uniform of bland, forgettable jeans and a generic university hoodie. The fabric felt alien against my skin, a costume for a role I no longer knew how to play.
I sneaked upstairs, the old steps groaning a soft protest under my weight. I needed to say my goodbyes to Marco. He knew me better than most, perhaps even better than I knew myself. He and Liz had found me three years ago, a half-drowned creature of rage and grief, and had taken me in. They had seen something in the shattered pieces, a spark of resilience, a capacity for channelling pain into precision, that I was completely blind to. It was Marco who helped me stay sane enough to stay at Uni, crafting a fragile bridge between my two warring lives. It was they who had patiently, piece by piece, helped forge the hero inside the scared, broken human.
Liz was at the door to his lair, delivering a steaming mug of tea. She took one look at my civilian disguise, her one good eye soft with understanding. "Hey, darling," she whispered, her raspy voice gentle. "You leaving us?"
"Yeah," I replied, the word feeling heavy. "My mum needs me. And I have Uni in the morning." The real world's demands always sounded so hollow here.
I stepped past her, stowing my pack, still smelling of night air and fear, in my personal locker next to the humming Faraday cage. The act felt like sealing away a part of my soul.
"Thanks, Liz," Marco said, not turning from his bank of screens. As the door clicked shut, he swivelled his chair, his clever eyes, framed by lines of perpetual fatigue and focus, settling on me.
"You've done well, Nimble," he said, and the praise, even now, warmed a cold place inside me. "But we're going to go complete lockdown until next weekend. You know the drill."
I knew the drill only too well. Marco was our resident Cassandra, forever drilling into us the fates of the careless, the ones who left digital breadcrumbs on social media or the open internet. For the next week, I would be utterly cut off. My only tenuous link would be a hidden chat function on a fake bonsai tree enthusiast website that Marco ran, a digital dead-drop. Sometimes, if I was on the right side of the city and my FM walkie was tuned just right, I could catch the faint, encrypted crackle of their voices. Occasionally, I'd pass Bites in the Uni corridors, our eyes would meet in a flash of silent recognition, but we'd keep walking. Otherwise, the others ceased to exist outside the walls of the Drop Inn.
"I know the drill, Father."
He stood up from his chair, his large frame unfolding, and pulled me into a firm, brief hug. It was a rare gesture, reserved for moments like this. "You're going places, Nimble," he said quietly into my ear. "Check out the site if you need anything."
I pulled away, my throat tight. These people, this chaotic, beautiful, makeshift family, were my lifeline. They were the only thing that made the other world bearable, the only thing that made me feel truly alive. And now, once again, I was turning my back on them, walking away from the colour and the truth, and stepping back into the stark, grey reality of my other life. Liz embraced me on my way out. I went down to the Sonic machine and retrieved my phone and watch and ventured out into the crisp morning air.
The city air outside the Drop Inn was a cold slap of reality, washing away the last warm haze of the weekend. I walked down the street, my body feeling leaden and slow, a stark contrast to the electric agility of Friday night. The bus stop was a lonely, windswept concrete island. I had a five-minute wait, a sliver of purgatory between my two lives.
With a sigh, I performed the ritual of re-entry. I pulled my phone from my pocket, its sleek, government-tracked normality a world away from the rugged, silent FM walkie. The screen blinked to life: 3 Messages. All from my mum. No one else. The silence from my so-called "normal" friends was a void, a stark reminder of how completely my life was bifurcated. I skimmed her texts, worried questions about where I'd been, reminders about chores, a passive-aggressive comment about the milk and felt a familiar, heavy weight settle in my chest.
Next, I strapped my watch onto my wrist. It buzzed immediately, syncing, updating, tattling on my location to the digital panopticon. I felt its weight like a manacle.
The bus hissed to a stop at the curb, a giant, grumbling beast. I hopped on, the smell of stale perfume, damp wool, and disinfectant hitting me like a wave. It was unnervingly full for a Sunday morning; a sea of tired faces staring at their own phones, their lives scrolling past in a silent, isolated parade. There were no seats. I stood in the aisle, grabbing a cold metal pole, and immediately pulled my hood up, creating a small, dark cave for my face. I stared at the grubby floor, trying to make myself small, trying to avoid any face-to-face contact with a world I no longer understood or felt I belonged to.
Above the heads of the passengers, a bright digital screen flickered, cycling through a jarring montage. A news anchor with a placid face spoke of stock market fluctuations, followed by a garish advert for a probiotic yogurt promising "inner peace." Then, the screen cut to a serene, sun-dappled church, the words "Find Your Path to God. Find Your Peace" glowing over a beatific smile. The hypocrisy of it was a physical nausea. They sold peace in a pot and salvation in a sermon, while the systems they upheld made true peace, the kind we fought for in the shadows, an impossible dream.
I felt like an alien, a ghost observing a species I was once a part of. Every lurch of the bus, every canned announcement, every soft chime of a notification on someone else's phone felt like a confirmation that I didn't belong here anymore.
Finally, with a sense of profound relief and deep dread, the bus hissed to a halt at my stop. The doors wheezed open, and I stepped out, the cool air a minor relief. I stood on the pavement for a moment, looking up at the neat, suburban facade of my childhood home. It looked like a picture from a catalogue, a symbol of everything I was supposedly fighting for. But standing there, with the memory of sparks and rebellion still fresh in my mind, it felt less like a sanctuary and more like a very pretty cage.