Chapter Text
It always rained in Pandora, so much that by the time November came around, the streets were covered in a thin layer of frost. Christmas was loud; colorful signs and wreaths raised above the door. Sometimes, when crime wasn’t the main issue, children would run around neighbourhoods in costumes, dragging their parents’ through bustling streets to meet their friends.
He never got to experience Christmas like that since high school. The last time he did, Jophiel had dragged him back to their house with a frightened look in her eyes, and he had never tried since. Mainly because of college—and work.
Dragging a hand through his messy hair, Silas sighed. The sun would be setting soon, drowning Pandora in molten gold that never reached his windows. He had work, a crappy gas station convenience store, with walls yellowed by years of nicotine and grime. At least it paid well, or that was what he told himself.
He didn't need much money; university was over and he was lucky Jophiel and her husband helped him pay for it, but things were still expensive. Silas was happy with enough to make a living, even if the pay was humiliatingly low for a late-night job.
Mustering up all the willpower he could find, the blonde lifted himself off of the couch, stretching his sore muscles.
“I should really buy a new couch,” Silas mused, too bad they were too expensive, and the second hand ones had stains he refused to live with.
For a city that blistered in their wealth, it sure had problems. More often than not, you'd see children with scraps for clothes sneaking into stores, getting their hands full with anything they could get away with. Silas had learned to pay attention, to watch where they stole more and where they didn't, if push came to shove, he'd know who to steal from. He wanted to help—he did, at some point—but it wouldn't do much; couples never wanted children freshly picked off of the streets.
It was sad, but Silas had other things to worry about now. Making a run for the bathroom, he stopped in front of the mirror. It was weird to catch his own eyes, deep bags casting shadows over a face his mother had deemed “divine”, his hair was cut at the nape now, not the curtain of white spilling over his shoulders. Part of him missed it, but it was impractical.
The shower didn't last long, but Silas thought it did. His mind had gone too far away during it, drowning in the ever-flowing stream of his own doubts. He had enough time to shrug on a faded hoodie and his favorite jeans.
“Thank god the uniform isn't mandatory, or else I'd quit,” Silas laughed bitterly, stomping his feet to get the sneakers to fit right. “What do you think, Joseph, do I have that shit on?”
As expected from a cat, Joseph blinked at him only to lay his head back down, returning to his lazy lounging. If he had more time to spare, Silas would've annoyed Joseph until he moved to another spot. But he was close to being officially late, and that wasn't ideal.
Silas was almost jealous of the families walking hand in hand. Almost. His family wasn't bad, they weren't evil or crazy, just… misunderstood. Jophiel had left because of Micro’s death, mom had found a new purpose as a translator overseas—and a new family, new children and a new husband. He, on the other hand, was still here: stuck in his hometown, walking on streets he walked on 15 years ago.
More specifically, he was jealous of them leaving. They just- had the opportunity to. His sister had met a man that supported her in every decision, Mother made a living in another country with no regards to her other children. They could leave things behind, and he couldn't.
Tightening the hold on his keys, Silas slipped seamlessly inside an alleyway. Shadows covered his body as he slid down the wall, holding back tears from years ago. They'd mellowed out into quiet rage over time, but sometimes, they bubbled up again.
He always shut them down.
The gas station was gloomy, snow piling outside in blankets, a chilly breeze slipping through the glass doors and into the store. A shipping truck with Yggdrasil’s emblem plastered on each side rolled by at some point, but only for a gas refill. The clock ticked eleven fifty with a chime, echoing through the store with a solemn tune. It felt pathetic. In one hour, it’ll be another lonely Christmas day he spends working.
A part of him wished he could quit, throw the scratchy apron over his boss’ shoulder and walk out, but it wasn't ideal. Jobs were hard to find in Pandora for a city bustling with high-end businesses, especially those that paid well.
“God, this is pathetic” Silas mumbled, bringing a hand to rub his face. “I should eat, they won’t mind if I steal a sandwich… right.”
They wouldn’t, and if they noticed, they never said anything. Rising from his seat with a groan that could pair an old man’s, he walked out, squeezing himself in the awkward squeeze between the counter and a doorknob. Look, the store lacked infrastructure and everything else, but it had some fire sandwiches.
The walk to the snack aisle was a little funny, his legs cramped with each step and his spinning vision didn’t help, but he made it. Silas snatched two sandwiches without checking the dates and turned on his heel back to the register, maybe he could do his boss a favor and pay for these ones—they weren’t that expensive after all.
He only stopped because someone was standing in front of the counter, covered in layers of black and purple. Silas’ eyes scanned the figure for barely a second before the person turned in his direction. The purple glass of a helmet stared back at him, gleaming under the fluorescent lights. He knew that helmet, the colors of his clothes, and most of all: the man's reputation.
Architect, Pandora’s infamous villain, who brought misfortune to Yggdrasil while letting Pandora thrive. The man who sunk the bridge between the twin islands, and the same man who took children off of the streets.
“Tell me that's a cosplay,” he blurted out, brain not catching up to the speed of his own words. “I mean-”
Silas breathed, lowering the sandwich from his mouth. He needed to get his thoughts together- what was the protocol again? These are the kind of things he should remember, to have them pinned on a corkboard. But the blonde’s brain felt like chaos, much from staying up late and whatever… this was.
“It's not”
If he'd been more sane, Silas would've flinched, panicked and yelled. But it was already past human-friendly hours, and the only answer his brain could come up with was:
“Cool. But what are you doing here?”
Way to go, Theria. He snarked to himself internally, but from the way the Architect's shoulder twitched, it was obvious he said it out loud.
“Not to rob, that's for sure” The man drawled, or it sounded like he did behind the heavy voice changer. “Just food- and some necessities.”
Letting his eyes drift to the things the villain had placed on the counter, Silas raised his eyebrows. There was a considerable amount of food neatly placed; varying kinds of sweets were arranged in a pile, some tea packets and a gallon of bleach.
“Right…”
Part of him feared Architect, to fear the mind behind the helm, to be aware of his uncanny wittiness. Saparata was dead, buried ten feet under rubble, and the villain would never learn the truth as long as Silas was alive and kicking.
He took a sour bite of the chicken sandwich and slid behind the counter again, setting the rest down to pat his hands clean. It was clear that Architect cringed at his manners, but who even was he to come here out of all places? Silas' hands moved on autopilot, skimming over the products and picking the easiest to scan first, a minute barely went by and he was done, muttering the price like second nature.
Architect slid the money quietly, much to Silas’ surprise. He didn't expect the man to pay, but he took it anyway. Pandora was weird in its own way, even if it meant late night inconveniences like these.
“You should go home,”
The blonde froze, a coin fell from his fingers as he counted the change out. Architect didn't give him a chance to ask why, continuing his speech slowly.
“Things are happening in Pandora, around this part of the city” The villain sighed, distorted and choked. “Things civilians, people like you, aren't meant to see”
Silas said nothing, he raised the change and waited for the man to cup his hand to catch it. The clinking of metal felt too loud now, what was once awkwardness and exhausted acceptance turned into weariness.
“And why should I believe you?” He asked, glaring.
The villain turned back to him slowly, and Silas feared he'd die right there.
“Have you ever heard of the ‘Director’?”
Director. Silas snarled despite himself, furrowing his eyebrows. He knew that man, very, very well. He didn't hate him, far from that, but he hated what the Director had him go through. The blood, the excessive healing, studies after studies. In the end, it helped, but the name still felt bitter in his tongue.
“I take it you do.”
“You talk as if half of the world isn't aware of who he is” Silas huffed, pushing hair away from his eyes. “All people talked about was ‘Director this’ and ‘Director that’ for almost two years, and you think I haven't heard of him?”
The villain’s shoulder's dropped into a slouching position before straightening again.
“I know you do, Silas. You're not as free as you think yourself to be” he drawled, the cockiness was real, then. “Just be glad I know you don't associate yourself with with him anymore”
He turned, dragging the groceries off the counter with a flourish of his coat. Architect turned the handle and faltered to leave behind one message:
“Merry Christmas, Theria”
That night, when Silas got back home, he slid down the door of his room. His intuition never failed, never mistook something meaningless as crucial. But something in heart told him something was really, really wrong.