Community, page 2
“When you’re less busy, then,” Seren said finally.
“Deal.” Lucas’s lips turned up into a mischievous smile, and he eyed the track. “What do you think? Should we start with a hundred laps?”
“Absolutely not,” Seren said.
Lucas took this as a challenge, and he sprinted away in a burst of movement, leaving Seren no choice but to follow. She caught up only after he lapped her, and he slowed his pace to match hers. They fell into a synchronized rhythm, their feet pounding on the track in unison.
“I will do no more than thirty laps,” Seren huffed through strained breaths. Each lap was a tenth of a mile, and three miles seemed more than reasonable.
“We’ll see,” Lucas said, a twinkle in his bright blue eyes.
Seren ran sideways, nearly knocking him off-balance. He caught himself just before he fell into the man running beside him—the old guy. The man looked at her and Lucas with immense hatred before running ahead of them. This time, Seren couldn’t help but laugh.
“He’s going to kill you,” Lucas said.
Seren clutched her side as she laughed some more. They hit lap three.
“Have you considered your trade yet?” she asked through bated breath.
“It’s hard,” he said. “There are so many to choose from.” Sarcasm laced his words.
“If it’s that easy, then why haven’t you chosen yet?”
He frowned in her direction. “You haven’t, either.”
Seren said nothing. Her chest heaved as she ran to maintain their pace. Dear Warren, no matter how many times she ran with Lucas, she still felt out of shape. Lucas wasn’t out of breath at all.
“You’re not still considering applying to be a Thinker, are you?”
Lucas’ question surprised her. Seren hadn’t thought he remembered their conversation about that; it was so long ago.
“No,” she said quickly. It had been a mistake to mention it to him, even in passing.
“Good. Because no Tier Four—”
“Has been chosen for a higher position in over twenty years. I know, I know.”
“Especially not a Tier Two position,” Lucas said pointedly.
Seren ignored him. She wasn’t interested in Lucas’s cynicism. She had already turned in her application to become a Thinker in Tier Two, and she preferred to keep her dream alive—at least until she got her results. Becoming a Thinker wasn’t that lofty of a goal. She was the best in her class, after all. Who better to take a role for the betterment of Community than her?
“So, what’re you thinking, then?” Lucas asked.
Seren’s heart pounded as she considered her answer. In the corner, a young child yanked on his mother’s arm. Seren said the first thing that came to mind. “I’ve been considering becoming an Edu for Year Ones or Twos,” she said.
Lucas turned and blinked at her. “You hate children.”
The child let out a scream, and Seren cringed.
“‘Hate’ is a strong word,” she said. “I just prefer not to be around them.”
“Then why become an Edu?”
“Because I like to learn.”
“Learning and teaching aren’t the same thing.”
“Aren’t they?”
Lucas said nothing as they finished their sixth lap.
“I wish I’d been born a Tier Five,” he said finally. “I wouldn’t have to think about a trade. I could just be a farmer and get on with it.”
“That isn’t the only Tier Five job.”
“No, but it’s the only one that wouldn’t make me miserable.”
Seren glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “You could become a Tier Five, if you wanted to.”
And he could … hypothetically. It wasn’t against any Community rules to drop down a Tier voluntarily, but no one in their right mind would want to. There was no way Tier Fives had it better than they did.
For a painstaking moment, Lucas said nothing, and Seren wondered if she’d made a mistake in bringing up the topic at all. Today was the last day she should be pressing Lucas on his future. She’d been trying to distract him, but it seemed like she’d only made things worse.
Finally, Lucas shook his head. “I couldn’t do that to my mother.”
“Or to me.”
“Or you.” Lucas shoved Seren’s shoulder playfully, and she grinned.
And just like that, they were back to normal, the remnants of the bizarre conversation stripped from her mind. They continued running for twenty more unbearable laps until Lucas declared that they’d finished.
“Thank Warren,” Seren breathed, collapsing to the floor with an exasperated sigh. The coolness of the ground refreshed her, and she sprawled out in a star shape and waited for her heart rate to return to normal.
Lucas dropped down beside her and began doing push-ups.
“You’re a machine,” Seren breathed, her chest heaving. Lucas laughed and continued the push-ups: up, down, up, down… It was painful to watch. “I don’t get why you always work so hard. You act like you’re training for something.”
Lucas did another push-up, and a small grunt escaped his lips. “Maybe I am.”
Seren rolled over to watch as he continued.
“You could do a few push-ups too, you know,” he said. “A stronger upper body wouldn’t hurt.”
“No, but the push-ups would.”
Lucas pushed out a laugh as he went down. He finished his daily bout of torture with one last grunt and rolled onto his side to face Seren. Beads of sweat dripped from his hairline and down his sharp cheekbones.
Ignoring her protesting legs, Seren stood and stretched her arms above her head. Lucas didn’t follow.
“I’m not ignoring my trade,” he said finally, his eyebrows furrowed in deep thought. “I just think there are more important things to worry about than our placements.”
Seren frowned at him. “What could be more important than the job we’re going to be doing for the rest of our lives?”
“I don’t know.” Lucas looked like he wanted to say something else, but he just shrugged. “I should get going. My mom expects me to come home for breakfast.”
Seren nodded and helped him up from the floor. She squeezed his hand before letting go. “Tell Jean I’m thinking about her and that I love her, okay?”
“Okay.”
Seren felt an overwhelming desire to wrap her arms around him, the way she had eight years ago today when his father had passed. But Lucas didn’t like her to talk about Henry’s death, and she didn’t want to push him. She also didn’t want him to smell her right now.
“I’ll see you later?” Lucas didn’t meet her eyes.
“Yeah. I’ll see you then.”
They said goodbye before heading their separate ways, back through the drab halls of Community.
2
ZAIDEN
Zaiden Warren woke up feeling like shit. His entire body ached. The moonshine he’d knocked back the night before still lingered in his system, leaving him with a dry mouth and a pounding headache.
The Community anthem only served to make the pain worse. Its agitating melody brought to mind a knife on glass, providing an effectual punishment for the previous night’s idiotic behavior.
Why the hell do I drink? Zaiden asked himself, as he did every morning after he overindulged. As usual, he was unable to provide a satisfactory answer.
At 7:30, Marcie’s peppy “Goooood morning!” resounded through his apartment, and Zaiden buried his head in his pillow. Her sharp voice cut through with ease. He moaned and rolled over, tossing the comforter over his head for good measure. He’d nearly found sleep again when another familiar voice came over the speakers. Zaiden sat up so fast that dots spun in front of his eyes.
“Shit,” he muttered. “Shit, shit, shit!”
There on his wall was the smiling projection of his father giving the annual Creation Day speech. Next to him was an empty space—where Zaiden should have been.
Zaiden swore again.
He was supposed to be sitting beside his father, smiling, dressed in the dapper suit that had been provided for him. Instead, he was still lying in bed, hungover as all hell, once again proving that he was nothing but an irresponsible disappointment.
Shit. He’s going to kill me…
How had he slept through all the alarms he’d set? He’d set four of them. He was prepared for this. Zaiden lifted the clock from his bedside table and shook it. “Piece of crap!” he yelled, throwing it against the wall. It hit his father’s image with a crack and broke into pieces, littering the floor with wires and bits of black plastic. He buried his head in his hand. “I’m a dead man.”
If Zaiden had thought his father was mad when he’d come home drunk at 3:00 a.m. two weeks prior, imagine how angry he’d be now that Zaiden had missed the most important day of the year. Why can’t I do anything right?
A knock sounded through the room. Zaiden lifted his throbbing head and cracked open an eye.
One of his maids, a Tier Five by birth, stood hovering in the doorway. She held a steaming hot coffee in one hand and a vitamin packet in the other.
“Come in,” Zaiden said, trying to keep his voice steady. He attempted a smile, but it felt more like a grimace.
Unfazed, the maid stepped over the shattered alarm clock and set the coffee and vitamins down beside him. Zaiden eyed them wearily. He wasn’t sure whether he could stomach either in his state. “Thanks,” he said anyway.
She nodded and clasped her hands behind her back. “Governor Warren would like a word with you when he returns. In the sparring room.”
Zaiden leaned his head against his headboard and sighed. He should have expected as much. “Very well,” he said, and with a nod, he excused her.
The news, though unsurprising, sent a rush of anxious energy through him. Zaiden couldn’t deal with his father’s wrath this morning—not in his current state. Hell, he could hardly deal with it sober.
Pushing the anxiety aside, Zaiden stood, his body unusually stiff. He had a vague memory of taking a tumble down the stairs towards the end of the night. If memory served, he’d spilled his drink on the woman in front of him. At the time, he and his friends had found it hilarious, but now he felt a pang of regret.
Oh, well. There was nothing he could do about it now.
Zaiden sipped his coffee as he dressed, allowing the bitter warmth to wash over his taste buds. The caffeine resurrected him, and he finally felt well enough to turn on his bedroom lights without wincing. As the stark fluorescent light brightened his room, Zaiden caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looked horrendous. Dark circles rested heavily under his eyes, and his hair stood up in every direction, like the top of a pineapple. Cringing, he turned his lights back off. He didn’t want to deal with his own shameful reflection this morning. He pulled on a T-shirt and shorts and attempted to smooth out his hair before making his way through the penthouse he shared with his father.
Their penthouse was magnificent, especially by Community standards. It spanned four thousand square feet—nearly ten times the size of the living spaces that the lower Tiers shared. The walls were predominantly simulated windows, portraying an overview of a city from old Earth that Zaiden’s father was obsessed with. Such “windows” were a rare luxury in Community, reserved only for those in Tier One. His father had the ability to change the images projected, but they’d been the same for as long as Zaiden could remember.
The penthouse’s slick mahogany floors and white brick walls were another rarity in Community. Along with the golden chandeliers and twirling glass staircase, they were cleaned by maids daily and always seemed to sparkle in the simulated sunlight.
When Zaiden passed the kitchen, sweet wafts of raisin bread toast hit his nose. The usually pleasant smell made his stomach heave. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes until the nausea subsided.
Did his father really expect him to spar in this condition?
I shouldn’t have gotten so drunk, he thought bitterly. Maybe then he wouldn’t have missed the most important day of the year.
Zaiden soon arrived at the sparring room. His father was already waiting in the center. He stood up straight. His eyes narrowed as Zaiden entered.
“Zaiden,” he said, barely keeping the disgust from his voice.
“Father.”
Governor Warren wore a suit that mirrored the one still lying across the chair in Zaiden’s bedroom—the suit he should have been wearing this morning. Though Zaiden stood taller than his father, he still felt dwarfed by him, especially on days like today, when his expression was so condescending.
His father removed his suit jacket and placed it on a coatrack in the corner, taking great care to smooth out the creases before rolling up his shirt sleeves. He motioned for his son to meet him in the center of the room. Reluctantly, Zaiden did.
The sparring room was the plainest room in their penthouse, frequented only by Zaiden and his father. Apart from the large, heavy mat in the center, the room was empty, leaving nowhere to look but your opponent’s eyes. Though it was the least impressive room, it was perhaps the place Zaiden had spent the most time growing up, except for his bedroom or the Simulator. His father had expressed to Zaiden since he was very young that every man should learn to fight. Zaiden didn’t really understand why, but he never argued. Apart from fearing what would result from a debate, he didn’t mind this use of his time; fighting was the only time he and his father spent together. When Zaiden was growing up, his father was aloof at best, but things had only gotten worse after Zaiden’s mother passed. His father engulfed himself in his work, emerging from his study only to sleep. Zaiden was lucky if he saw him once a week, so he was grateful for any time they spent together, sparring or not.
“You look unwell,” his father said, stretching his well-chiseled arms across his chest.
“I’m fine,” Zaiden said. His reduced ability to fight today wouldn’t change his father’s view on whether they should. Admitting weakness was futile.
When Zaiden was young, the sparring was far from fair. His father was of superior size, speed, and experience. He used to take him down in a single swipe, knocking Zaiden’s tiny legs out from under him. But things had changed as Zaiden grew. He began to match his father’s height and strength, and the fights became more equal. Zaiden still rarely won, but now he could at least defend himself. He no longer walked away from the fights with the welts and bruises he’d endured as a child. Rather, he walked away stronger, faster, more resilient. Today would be no different, despite the pounding in his head telling him otherwise.
“Ready?”
“Ready.” Zaiden got into position: feet spread slightly wider than his hips with equal weight distribution, fists up to protect his jaw. His father did the same.
“You disappointed me this morning,” his father said without even meeting his glance. The words cut through Zaiden; his father’s disapproval hurt every time. “The members of Community would have liked to see their future leader today.”
He threw a punch, and Zaiden ducked, just missing the impact of his fist. They circled around each other, maintaining eye contact.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
His father skimmed over the apology. “You are going to be inaugurated into the council in a week. You cannot continue gallivanting about. You’re a man now, not some idiotic boy, no matter how hard you try to prove otherwise.”
Zaiden flinched and advanced towards his father with more force. He kicked, and to his surprise, his foot made contact with his father’s side. Governor Warren stumbled backwards, regaining his balance just in time.
“Sorry,” Zaiden said automatically. The word tasted dishonest in his mouth.
His father took a step forward, his eyes darkening. “Do not say ‘sorry.’ Only weak people apologize. Are you weak?”
Zaiden recoiled. “No.”
They continued to stalk around each other, maintaining a safe distance between them. Zaiden waited for an opportune moment to attack, but his father was quick. Pluto moved blindingly fast, and before Zaiden could register the movement, his father punched him hard in the jaw. The impact knocked Zaiden sideways, and he fell to the ground. Pain spread from his jaw to his eye as he looked up at his father in surprise. Pluto Warren was a man who fought hard and dirty; Zaiden knew this about him, but today’s fight went beyond that. He was angry—more so than usual. Reluctantly, Zaiden got back to his feet and lifted his chin.
“Be better,” his father growled. He kicked, striking his son in the side. Zaiden stumbled, his stomach heaving for a moment before he regained his footing and returned to an upright position. The alcohol shifted sickeningly in his stomach, threatening to come to the surface. He and his father stared at each other, neither blinking.
Zaiden’s reflexes were weak, impaired by the hangover. He was in no position to be fighting; his father knew that. Zaiden suspected this early morning spar had been planned purposefully. His father was using it just as he had when Zaiden was young: as a way to punish his son. Zaiden had been just a kid when his father used to leave him crying on the sparring room floor.
He straightened up, a new resolve setting in. He would not allow his father to prey on him just because he was weak. He’d done that for too many years.
They circled each other, and Zaiden’s breaths quickened. He ignored his pounding head and focused on his opponent’s quick and meticulous movements. His father regarded Zaiden like an animal stalking its prey, ready to attack at any moment. Zaiden tried to predict his next move, watching for any twitch or flex in his muscles, but his father betrayed nothing. Governor Warren was too experienced.
Grunting, his father hooked a foot around Zaiden’s legs and yanked him back, knocking him to the ground again. A moan escaped Zaiden’s lips as pain shot through his body. He stayed on the floor; he didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to do anything. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift back in time, imagining lying in bed with his mother, reading a book over her shoulder. The memory momentarily comforted him. If Ivory were here, she wouldn’t let this happen.
