"In extraordinary times, the ordinary takes on a glow and wonder all of its own."

- Mike A. Lancaster, 0 .4

12:12 p.m

13 days earlier

He left the Barber's just past noon with a fresh change of clothes he kept at the household whenever he stayed over; something which he has been doing with increasing frequency. Clay kept his rifle on the promise that he'd return it the next time they met. In black shirt and cargo pants, he was thankful that the day was cloudy and that the wind had returned.

“Tim!” Stella called out as he crossed back onto the walkway. She jogged up to him and hugged him. “Thanks.”

“For what?” he asked, returning the hug.

Pulling apart, she gave him a peck on the cheek. “For saving my brother,” she said and ran back inside.

As the door closed behind her, he wondered if he really saved Clay as she had said. His friend was still affected by the Vashmir Pandemic; Tied to a time bomb ticking away to his death. Tim walked away from the house and headed in the direction of the city. He wanted to do a lot of walking. And thinking. Walking and thinking. And not to forget the brooding.

XXX

05:37 p.m.

13 days earlier

Even before the park entered his field of vision, Tim could hear the commotion that resonated from the place, echoing and reverberating through the concrete jungle of high-rise and skyscrapers of the city centre. Vehicles honked and blasted verbal assaults across the road as the traffic refused to budge. A Ridge Valley Police Department blockade of cars and plastic barricades blocked the cross junction to the city hall. Traffic jams were rare sights in a small city like Ridge Valley, the line stretching pass the junction behind him; disappearing into the maze of buildings. The late afternoon sun reflected blindly across the skyscrapers' windows.

A crowd had gathered at the blockade. Though noisy, they were not the main source of the commotion that had first captured Tim's attention. He made his way to the pedestrians. As he neared, their voices became more distinct. From the pleas of 'wanting to go home' and the curses thrown at the police, amongst them the common misuse of the phrases 'human rights' and 'free people'.

Tim approached a lady in a black-white skirt suit who stood a short distance away from the main group, apparently concerned to past the road block but still sensible enough to not mix herself into the troublesome fray.

“Hey,” he greeted when they locked eyes. Hers were brown through her thin oval glasses. “you know what's going on here?”

The Caucasian brunette replied with a small shrug. “Some kind of protest is going on in the park and city hall. Cops has the whole forty third up to Golden Heights blocked off.”

A loud roar of dissent from the park captured their attentions and the group at the blockade were temporarily silenced, though resumed their shouts and swears at the police soon after.

“Not gonna make it back to the office at this rate,” she turned around to leave, but not before a final advice to Tim. “I wouldn't stay here if I were you. Might be trouble round the corner looks like.”

“We want the truth! We want the truth! We want the truth!” the protesters began to chant in unison, their deafening demand amplified through the alleyways, rumbling windows and bursting eardrums.

Curiosity was both a blessing and a curse. He had lived in Ridge Valley his whole life, exploring many parts of the city, suburbs, and outskirts with Clay. Including parts of the underground sewage tunnels. He dodged into a nearby alley and located a manhole cover. A steel bar jutted out from a dumpster. He used it to pry open the cover and climbed down the ladder into the sewers, taking the steel bar with him. The stench of a city’s wastes and run-off burnt his nose.

It was in the darkness of the sewers where he was grateful for his cheap phone with the inbuilt one-bulb LED torch. Though nothing as bright as the camera flash in most smartphones of the day, it served its purpose, lighting up a couple of feet of path. He readjusted his bearings towards the direction of the park and followed the angling raod, taking slow steps to avoid slipping on the mossy patches on the concrete. The sewage stream flowed and slushed down the channel, sided by pathways on both flanks.

Dust fell from the ceiling as the protesters let out another loud cheer. The ground trembled as the group above began stomping their feet in unison, drumming their stand into the concrete. He found a ladder opposite a cross junction stream, probably emerging out into the streets of the protest; if his sense of direction proved right. Crossing the metal beam bridge, he climbed the ladder with his phone in his mouth. Jamming the steel bar into a corner niche, he leaned his weight into it. The opening process was slightly harder from below ground and by himself. He broke a sweat just as the metal cover popped open. He pushed it aside and climbed up into the light of 43rd Street.

Most of the main roads were empty, with the few parked cars and bystanders who came out from the surrounding buildings to view the commotion. The protesters were gathered in the park, spilling off the walkway onto grass patches and some even to the streets, all facing the marble-white City Hall building and courthouse across the other side of the park from where Tim stood.

“Fucking curiosity,” he seethed to himself as he faced the sheer magnitude of protesters, noting that it might have been prudent for him to run.

From outside the crowd, he tried to make sense of the shouts and picket signs, but none of the signs were facing him; the voices combined into a slurred roar. That's when he saw the familiar golden hair, standing a short ways into the the main crowd. Charging into the protesters, Tim pushed aside men after women without hesitation nor difference, a sudden rage swelling up within him. He reached the golden hair man, grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.

“What the hell?!” Joshua exclaimed as he was turned, only to be doubly surprised to be faced with his son. “Tim? What are you doing here?”

“I should asking you that, dad,” he punctuated the end of the sentence with sarcasm. “You're supposed to be working. But you're here doing what? Wasting time on some hipster protest?”

“It's not like that-”

The shriek of a woman filled the air, drawing the attention of father and son. They turned to the direction of the source and saw smoke rising with the flickering of flames in the reflections of the windows of the buildings around them.

“Run,” Joshua said, grabbing his son by the hand.

Tim pulled away from his father, flicking his wrist violently. “I don't need your help.”

They stood facing each other as more shouts and screams erupted from the main group of protesters, a few of which had started to scatter past them. For that moment though, their world went silent and felt infinitely small, consisting only of themselves and the space between them. The world around them non-existent. Joshua was shocked, his face contorted in a disfigured mixture of sadness and rage. “What did you say?”

“I don't need your help,” Tim enforced. “Never will, never did.”

He turned away from his father and ploughed into the crowd, Joshua calling out behind him but Tim ignored, the noise from the outside world pouring back into his ears the further he went. Police sirens were turned on, roaring above the commotion but did nothing except add to the noise. Tim made it to the streets where the less violent protesters were escaping into the alleys. Riot police moved in from the extending junctions where the blockades were, riot shields and batons in hand, tear gas flying into the crowd, leaving trails of smoke as the mob turned violent, eager men and women charged head first into the oncoming law enforcements; clashing body with plastic sticks and polycarbonate shields.

Tim decided not to stick around for the aftermath and made his way with the other fleeing protesters, disappearing into the concrete jungle as the setting sun bathed the streets in a sea of red.

XXX

09:13 p.m

13 days earlier

His head buried in his arms wrapped around the playground swing set, Timothy Kleve pondered on the fragility of life and the suddenness of changes to his otherwise familiar day-to-day before reprimanding himself for being an 'emo fuckwad'.

“Have you seen the news?” the sand did not shuffle as Stella approached, almost as if she floated across to him. “Riot at City Hall.”

“I know. I was there,” he replied, not looking up. “And so was my dad. Not working.”

“Did you know what the protest was about?” she did not sound shocked at his presence there and Tim had long since given up on figuring what made her as calm as she was, unwavering in composure in almost any situation.

“Nope. The riot started when I got there. Didn't really have the time to find out. Does it matter?”

“Aren't you curious?”

“Curiosity is bad. For all I know, it's just about getting a pay raise.”

“Maybe it's a plot to overthrow the government.”

“Maybe they were shooting a movie.”

“Maybe everyone were actually terrorists trying to start a war.”

“Maybe it was nothing at all.”

“Maybe they were starting a violent revolution or uprising.”

He chuckled. Their exchanges, though weird, were always fun and uplifting for him.

“Hey Stel?” he asked.

“Yeah?” she replied, her voice soft and caring.

He thought for a moment on how to phrase what he wanted to say. “I don't know what normal is for me.”

“Your life is pretty weird,” Stella replied. From the corner of his eyes, he could see her settling down into the swing set next to him.

“My mom died because of my dad; And he's a useless bum now. My best friend gets into a fight every other day with people older and stronger than him. I'm barely an adult and yet I spend my free time exploring sewers and back alleys instead of, I don't know, shopping; And we just stood up to armed-to-the-teeth gangsters and drug dealers twice our age with nothing but baby powder, sparklers, and a toy gun. And got away with it as if we just went out for breakfast or something. I walked straight into a protest turned riot and I don't feel like it was anything out of the ordinary for me. And you are well, you.”

“What's that suppose to mean?” she pouted.

He laughed. “It means you're unique.”

“Oh,” she sounded less surprised than happy. “Well, you're pretty unique too, don't you think?”

Slightly stunned, he took awhile to respond. “Never thought about it like that. But I don't think unique is the word to use here.”

“Another thing then,” she said.

“What?”

“Has it sunk in yet?”

“What has?”

“That we have Sin?”

As if she could read his mind from the silence in the air, she stood up from her seat, dusted herself, and floated off before he could answer and he realised he did not know what he would have said either way. Tim looked up and watched as she walked away into the darkness of the park, never once looking back to him. He buried his face back into his arms.