This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. This work contains mature themes, including violence and sexually explicit content, and may not be suitable for all audiences. It is only intended for readers 18 years and older. Reader discretion advised. 

Additional TW: Struggles with mental health, trauma 

Alexei Lastra hated his floors. He'd spent far too much time face-to-face with them recently. The well-worn grooves that ran along the hardwood swayed and danced in a nauseous rhythm as he pressed his forehead against the backs of his hands for balance. Such a prostrate position wasn’t unfamiliar to the former priest, but presently he had no prayer to offer up aside from a desperate plea for a steady breath. The ticking of the grandfather clock in his living room droned as if pressed against his ear, and the constant rattle of his air conditioning unit vibrated up his wrists and into his ribs, setting his teeth on edge. The harder he tried to breathe, the harder the act became, and like clockwork, the little voice in the back of his mind returned to remind him that he would surely die this time. Being a rational man, Alexei wagered he wouldn’t die from a simple bout of panic, but when had rationality ever held sway during one of these attacks? He wrangled another gasp of air into his lungs and felt the stars behind his eyes lessen slightly. Today was just another day. Nothing bad was going to happen. 

At the front door came a loud knock, followed by the familiar voice of his neighbor, Cora Katsaros. She’d lived down the hall from Alexei most of his life— even as far back as his childhood, when his mother and father still lived and this had been their apartment, rather than his. Cora had never married, and while she had nephews close to Alexei’s age with wives and children of their own, she still doted on Alexei with a familial type of smothering love. 

“You open this door, Alexei,” she called, still rapping her knuckles against the wood,  “You said eight o’clock. I’m here at eight o’clock. You have places to be.” Alexei staggered to his feet with considerable effort, groaning loud so his savior could hear a sign of life from the other side of the door. The sudden movement knocked him off balance, however, and his vision swiftly tunneled. “Give me a second,” he managed, leaning against the back of his couch, his head drooping against his chest.

The rapping stopped, and moments later the sound of jangling keys were heard, maneuvering into the lock. Alexei smiled softly, watching a bead of sweat drop onto his crisp black shirt and disappear into the fabric. He’d never given Cora a key to his home directly, and to this day he remained unsure as to how she’d acquired it. His mother, perhaps? Regardless, he was inclined to let her keep it. It had come in handy a few times already with his condition being what it was, and with the Center’s raids lingering as an ever-present threat, one could never be too careful. Alexei hated the raids. They were loud, disruptive, and purely unnecessary in a neighborhood like Masonville that had already seen so much devastation from the gates. No one moved here and no one with any sense had children here. Masonville was a dying neighborhood. There were no new awakened to be found in a place like this. 

Ten years ago, when Alexei was a priest at the Masonville Parish Church, the neighborhood had been on the brink of success for the first time in decades. Deemed inconsequential to the larger metropolis of Oclesa, Masonville had risen from nothing by the work of its own hands, neighbor helping neighbor. Those times were long gone now, as was his job as the neighborhood’s spiritual guide. The first gate stole everything when it opened— hell, it almost took out the entire square, and despite Oclesa’s military response managing to close it, the damage had been done and Masonville would never recover, fading back into irrelevancy, broken and forgotten. 

That devastating day was the same day Alexei became the owner of this cramped and cluttered apartment on Anthurium Street, and it was the last day he’d stepped foot outside the building. 

As a priest, Alexei owned few possessions, so the apartment had remained mostly untouched. His father’s fraying Oclesa University sweatshirt still draped over the recliner in the living room, and his mother’s collection of Pre-Raphaelite prints still hung in faux-golden frames along the hall— Boreas, Circe, Narcissus. He did clean the place, of course. He was a tidy person by nature. Though he had little passion for design, and the encapsulation of a safer, more stable time brought him an undeniable sense of security. 

There was another reason he left the apartment untouched, however, and that was to ensure his safety during the raids. Center raids were random and typically came with very little warning. An old bell on the front door of his building would chime a bit too many times in succession then be followed by the screams of his neighbors as masked agents stormed into their homes searching for a freshly awakened guide or esper who sought to avoid their mandatory enlistment. For ten years this system had worked. Just enough time to slip out of his unit and down the hall to Cora’s apartment and into her safe where she’d lock him inside, hidden and out of the way. Officially, Alexei’s apartment had been unoccupied for the last ten years, so when the raids came, it needed to appear unoccupied. “Apartment 3A? No, no one lives there. Their son moved out of state. He’s just holding on to the spot til the market’s right.” That’s what he had Cora tell them, and it’s what she told the Bishop too when he came looking after the incident with the first gate. After the horrors Alexei saw that day, he had no desire to return to his parish. What use was a priest without his faith? 

After the Bishop left defeated, a few other priests from neighboring boroughs followed, all inquiring about the location of their missing brother. Cora fielded their questions with aggravating ease, boring them with stories about her nieces and tales from the old country— so much so that after about two years, they stopped their visits altogether. Alexei was finally free. As free as any man can be cloistered within the confines of 850 sq feet.

His kitchen was a mismatch of styles. Sturdy, lacquered cabinets with glass doors lined the far wall— a signature of Masonville’s prosperous pre-gate era, brass light fixtures hung under the shelves, and a retro kitchen table sat against the window, complete with the faded, red cushioned chairs you’d find at any local diner. Here, the worn hardwood from the rest of the house took on an even more weathered look, peppered with scuffs and divots from years of dropped silverware and countless trips from the stove to the table. Alexei popped open one of the windows, and sat down in his usual spot. It had a great view of Anthurium Street, and on most days, it was the only way he was able to interact with the world around him in relative comfort. To Alexei, watching the world from his window was like watching a play. His neighbors comprised the principal cast, operating on a mostly-fixed routine, whereas visitors and strangers provided a reprieve from the monotony as the chaotic supporting cast. He furrowed his brow as he watched a young couple share what was, in his opinion, an inappropriately-long kiss before parting ways, their long workdays undoubtedly ahead. 

Cora slid into the chair across from Alexei, taking the freshly lit cigarette from between his lips with a pair of gnarled, but nimble fingers. “This is your answer to a panic attack?” she teased, bringing it to her lips to inhale a drag. “There's still time to call the courthouse and pay the fine if you don't feel up to going.” The dark-haired man across the table shook his head, “Can't take that chance. The cops treat parking infractions like first degree these days, anything can get you locked up. "Everyone must do their part," or whatever bullshit the Center is always spewing to get people to work hard and not ask any questions."

Cora hummed, leaning back in her chair to look out onto the fire escape where a few withered plants wilted in their pots. “Well,” she continued, “I’m proud of you, for whatever that’s worth. Ten years and you’ve never once used those muscles of yours to get this old lady a gallon of milk or a carton of eggs, but you're going for jury duty. High time you left the house. I expect a souvenir from the city.”

Alexei lit another cigarette, realizing definitively that his companion had no intention of returning the one she’d taken. He knew Cora was simply teasing him and that she knew better than anyone his mental state wasn’t a choice, but even still, there were more than a few days where he did feel that very way. Ten years is a long time to go relying on the help of your neighbors while giving them considerably less in return. “It’s just for the day. I’ll barely have to interact with a single soul— just go in my booth and vote at the end. Piece a’ cake.” He smiled at her, his voice maintaining its familiar dulcet tone, but his hand trembled slightly as he took another drag. 

Where the borough of Masonville remained rather analog— most shops still using paper receipts and manual data entry methods, Oclesa had swiftly moved into the future in the wake of the first gate. Militarized patrols, security drones, and elite squads of espers were funded and dispatched without so much as a special election due to the unprecedented civil unrest that stemmed from the increasing rifts. Masonville had been hit the hardest, but there wasn’t a borough in the city that felt safe. That was simply the nature of living alongside the gates. One day you're here, the next day you're beast meat. 

“Everyone must do their part.”

It had become a rallying cry for The Center, and you would be hard-pressed to find an area in the city that didn’t have those words displayed in some form or fashion. Officially known as The Lamb Center for the Awakened, The Center was an organization overseen by the Church, and it came to be after a series of human rights violations caused citizens to question the methods in which newly awakened espers and guides were trained. The government, unsuited to handle such specialized individuals, had simply tried to integrate them into the existing military which lead to disastrous results. Accidental casualties within the ranks of the unawakened skyrocketed, and it became obvious that the awakened needed an alternate form of management. 

“The briefing packet said he’s an awakened,” Alexei continued, “That’s why they’re boxing the jury. You suppose he’s got one of those powers where he’s gotta get eyes on a person to influence them?” Cora shrugged, “You’ll have to tell me. If he was, wouldn’t it be easier just to put him in a hood?” Alexei pictured the accused in one of those leather hoods they put on hunting falcons, complete with the sparse sprig of feathers shooting straight out the top. It didn’t matter that he had no idea what the man looked like— whether the man was tall or short, frail or portulent, the visual was enough to have him smiling into his coffee as he took a sip.