He let Shirley escort him to a seat by the round table nearby. He folded his hands over Yeung-Sung’s as he continued to groan through the after-effects of his abuse. Shirley waited for it to subside, his face looking feeble against the rest of his muscle. Around the bar, the rest of them shook off their unease, incapable of baring it for even the few moments. He almost laughed at that.

So, they’re leaving it to Shirley; The only one with a shred of sympathy.

Yeung-Sung noticed that Woo-Yi was close to gearing up between Wil and Darnes but Aisling, back from the depths of her naptime pulled the popstar’s sleeve back, shaking her head in a way that said ‘It’s not worth it’.

But it all settled with time, the pain, the regulars, the atmosphere of the pub ringing again with another of Darnes’s lo-fi mixes; Nonchalant, chilled out hip-hop tracks about doing your best and succeeding.

The Joint Wick belongs to Darnes, after all. Even if he doesn’t want to admit the temporary nature of his ownership, even if his Anita forces him to admit that GLI owns everything, Darnes wants to have control. He wants to be in control. Here, at least.

Yeung-Sung caught Darnes’s eye once more as the barkeep poured a drink, resting his bandaged arm over the crossbar piping of the beer taps.

And yet, why do I feel that I can trust what he says? Above any of the others, anyway.

Hearing Shirley grunt broke him out of thought and he realised that he had been silent for a considerable length of time. Readying an apology, suddenly Yeung-Sung quietened himself; The Wick regular had his eyes closed, he noticed, obscured behind a gently lilting fringe. Not closed in contemplation or sadness, but…

He doesn’t like this music!

“I’ll get him to turn it down,” Yeung-Sung said, “If you like?”

He raised an eyebrow, keeping the wince on his head. “No, thanks. I don’t come here for the music.”

Yeung-Sung recognised what was happening. Shirley was staring past him, at the regulars at the bar. At his friends. He snapped his hands in from under Shirley’s.

“So why are you here then? Go be with them, stop pretending that you care about me.”

By the end of the sentence Yeung-Sung had begun breathing heavy again, but he didn’t regret bringing back the pain at all.

Shirley opened his eyes. “He saved me, Yeung-Sung.” Sitting forward, he flexed his shoulders back, causing ripples of sound as the bones awoke. He took a deep breath afterwards and swiped aside his bangs, smiling despite Yeung-Sung’s ongoing scowl.

“I was at the side of the road,” Shirley began, “Of the very town that had raised me. Shameful, it was.”

Yeung-Sung avoided his eyes now. He knew the scenario well. How many people went hungry after we ran out of rations? How many more died at the front door, hoping to be first the next day. He was just glad that he was never tasked with the clean-up duty.

“I found out how people truly saw me after the Crash, once it became about preserving yourself. I went my whole life believing -so stupidly- that I had friends for life, that would back me up no matter what. And they all told me that it didn’t matter, that they never judged me. That was a lie.”

Shirley leaned in with his smooth neck, bending it up high and holding the stretch taught with a grip on the nape.

What has he done that he is so anxious to tell?

“These are hard time for all of us. I wouldn’t judge you, we all did whatever we had to do to survive the Crash. Even if it wasn’t…permitted,” Yeung Sung said. “We might regret it, and that’s natural, but at least here in the colony we don’t need to worry about that.” As he said it, while watching Shirley stretch on, Yeung-Sung began to have this feeling that something was odd about the Wick goer, that same feeling he had when he first saw him; leaning against the wall just behind where they were sitting right now.

The thought must have made some impact on his face, as Shirley let out a sly grin and slid his chair back, legs far apart.

“No, you don’t understand at all…I don’t regret it.”

I don’t understand?

He began pulling up his shirt. “But I do, I understand myself, and I understand Jordan,” Shirley told him. Throwing it over his head in one swoop, Shirley exposed his scarred torso to Yeung-Sung.

He blushed. “I’m…I’m trans, Yeung-Sung.”

“What -What has that got to do with –”

“As I said, I understand, better than anyone, how two-faced people can be.”

Yeung-Sung couldn’t close his mouth. He turned from side to side and whispered. “Do they all know you’re a…you’re a…”

He smiled grimly. Standing above Yeung-Sung unashamed, his bareness glowing against the muddy colours of the pub he said, “Just as you accepted me before but now pale before my skin, so can Jordan be the saviour of the world, and yet at the same time be a violent psychopath.

“This; this is what I believe.”

“No, but –” Yeung-Sung frowned, “Which is he really?”

“You’re not getting it,” Shirley snapped back, his core tensing, “This isn’t an either-or choice!” Flinging the shirt to the ground, he slammed back onto his chair.

But he did not yell. Yeung-Sung even saw that he un-tensed, dropping the anger in his body like a loose robe, for which Yeung-Sung was relieved.

Shirley hunched over in front of the chair and said, quieter, “…He’s both.

“Just like me. And just like everybody else.”

He got up and swiped his jacket from the coat stand, leaving his shirt by Yeung-Sung’s feet. But before he left, the door swung open and a confused Sykes let him pass, chest bare and jacket over one shoulder. After the moment had passed and no one talked or went to chase after him Sykes thumbed the doorway, asking, “Is he alright?”