The Long Journey Home

1: We carry the past with us, always

[ Chapter note: TFATWS episode 1x03 ]

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          It wasn't your first choice for places to be but then nothing has really felt like home since you left Novi Grad. Sokovia had been crumbling, eroding, collapsing in on itself long before the section of Novi Grad was ripped from the Earth and hurtled into the sky. What happened to the country, chunks carved out by bordering neighbor-states, was simply a process expedited by the battle that took place. Madripoor was different in so many ways, but the same in some ways, too. It was a waypoint – a place to meet, to stop and quickly accomplish goals and leave even faster. To others it held promise. A percentage chose to live there, flocked to and thrived where the rules were made – and enforced – by the rulebreakers. Criminals of all kinds. Others, still, found their way because there were no other options left. Displacement made people consider things they never dreamed they'd have to. There was a desperation to claim a place, any place, in the world that promised a bed and warm meal and roof over your head. That lure brought you, like so many others, to reside within the boundaries of the neon city.

          It had taken months to find your way beyond the ruined borders and rubble, to make your way out of the temporary camps that quickly became overrun. Your refugee status that had once garnered goodwill morphed – first pity and horror, then sympathy, then apathy as time wore on. Then came The Blip, and one people's trauma spread worldwide.

          But now you have a place, a small corner carved out of a sprawling city packed full – and maybe have a lead on a job that can translate to moving out of the hole in the wall. You might even be able to use past job experience, past employers.

          References were a thing people asked for Before, and certainly not something most blinked twice about in Madripoor. Risk calling to verify your employment history? Most didn't want attention turned their way. And then there was the problem of your references in particular, if anybody ever asked for them. It wasn't like you could rattle off a number and expect anyone to answer. You're not even sure if it's wise to claim the connection.

          There had to be, needed to be, some benefit to the faces you saw every night when you tried to sleep. Working for a convicted war criminal – even as the nanny – had to count for something in the right, or was it wrong, circles. These days it was hard to be sure of anything, particularly living where you do. One thing that has remained steadfast since the day you took up residence – the low-level hum of nerves. It made sense to be on your guard here, but damn if it's not exhausting.