Antumbra - A Lost Cause

Last-minute Adjustments - Chapter Ten

Arva jogged up the hill into the city. She didn't want to fully run in these shoes, but didn't want to be late, though even at a light jog she found she still needed to stop and fiddle with her footwear. She'd all but begged on hands and knees to Elia to borrow them, desperate to look her best for the interview. Everything had to be perfect. The Cut Cloth was one of the first stores she applied to, fairly close to the outskirts but in-city enough that she still felt its high-class air. Arva needed to make a good first impression, and it pushed her to continue up the incline and onto the flat streets, where she finally took a breather. She also didn't want to be sweating through her dress, and had debated holding the interview later but decided it'd look better if she seemed more available. That, and as she looked at the general vacancy of the streets, she deduced an ulterior motive for the early time chosen: a Hybrid walking into your shop wasn't always good for business, and they likely didn't want her coming when it was busy. Arva understood, the mere fact that they considered her at all meant they at least could accept her, and that felt pretty good by itself. Now all she needed to do was not blow it.

Arva looked for any sort of clock, hesitant to ask another passerby for the time, and saw from one hanging from a lamppost that she was still fifteen minutes early. Too early, given the store wouldn't be open for another ten, and decided to take a rest. She popped the ration bar she'd taken from home into her mouth and reclined on a bench. It was getting near the end of the month, which meant real food was running low, and Arva was already getting sick of the tasteless, dried stick of processed nutrients people in the slums were given. Arva had always hated them, especially since they could sometimes be quite hard, and as a young child she had to sometimes soak them in water. Gramma had to do the same, which Arva always felt bad for. Once her snack was finished she balled up the wrapper and looked for a trashcan. There was one at the base of the pole the lamp was on, not five meters away, and she lined up her shot. She went for it, arching the ball in a perfect curve, only for the wrapper bounced off the side of the can. She was never any good at basketball, too short. She got up from the bench to pick it up when a boy not much older than her placed himself between her and it, plucking the ball from the ground.

"This ain't the Lows, 'Brid," he said as his friends joined him next to the can. "You can't just throw your garbage wherever you want!"

"I was aiming for the can-" Arva was hit in the face by the balled up wrapper, much to the amusement of the boys. She felt like she was in school all over again, except the boys who teased her in school didn't do it because she was different. Maybe that's why, in a moment of spite and serious lapse of judgement, she picked the wrapper up and beaned it back at the boy. It struck him in the eye, even though it was only paper, but he still recoiled slightly with a yelp, which in turn amused Arva. Until, of course, the bullies stopped laughing and advanced towards her.

"I'm sorry..." she pleaded, realizing the mistake she'd made, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean... I mean I just..."

"You little freak," the lead boy said, grabbing her by her arm. Arva gasped and squirmed as she tried to pull herself free, the boy taunting her all the while.

"You think you're funny?" He said with a seething tone. Even his friends seemed put off by his violence, though none of course spoke up, instead he just kept squeezing her arm, "you're gonna wish you stayed in your hole-"

His bluster was all but drained as he released her, clutching between his legs, unable to stand as he fell onto the wall of the building next to them, suffering from a well-placed kick. Arva followed up her initial attack to the groin with a shove, knocking him into the path of the other boys. Then she ran, full sprint in the opposite direction. She didn't even look to see if they were following her or not, she wasn't about to wait and risk getting beaten up. Over the last week she was becoming more acutely aware of why she or any Hybrid tended to stay away from the city, though her panic was mixed with the thrill of finally hitting back. She eventually made her way to the Cut Cloth, still intent on making her interview despite her heightened state, and with a few minutes to spare. She reached for the door, but hesitated at the last moment.

All she'd wanted was to get a good job in the city. Someplace where she could make enough money for all three of them, but at what cost? People talked about the slums like they were the bad neighbourhood, but it seemed she only ever got grief in the city. And now she was committing to a daily routine of that. She hadn't noticed, but her hand was shaking. Her whole body was, from exhilaration and fear. She felt something roll down her cheek, and realized she was crying. Was it worth risking her well being each day for this? Was it worth feeling like an outcast for them?

Arva rubbed her eyes on her sleeve, took a deep breath, and counted down from ten. On one, she turned the door knob and entered, shutting it behind her gently, a small bell ringing with each swing of the old door. The store inside was rustic, quaint, and reminded her a bit of home. Very much embracing its eclectic nature, bits and bobs were arranged by the windows, with fabrics and some clothing taking up the majority of space, and all manner of sewing supplies near the front counter. A lady, close to the age of Silva's mother, stepped out from the back.

"Ah, you must be Arva," she said, approaching her. Arva brushed her hands on her skirt and offered one to shake. To her surprise the woman accepted with no hesitation "I'm Deborah, but you can just call me Deb."

"Thank you so much for letting me come in!" Arva said, and immediately regretted her enthusiasm. She was still buzzing from the encounter, and spoke louder than intended.

"Not a problem," said Deborah, leading her into the back. There wasn't much in the way of furniture, but they each took a stool at Deborah's behest.

"So," Deborah began, "what made you want to apply here?"

"Well," Arva resisted the urge to simply admit to needing work of any kind, "I've always had an affinity for stitching and sewing." This was no lie. In the slums, clothing was a commodity. You mostly relied on hand-me-downs or donations, and if things didn't fit or got ripped, you couldn't just replace them, you had to fix them. Even the outfit she wore now had stitches in inconspicuous areas. "I know my way around materials. I'm also creative and love to personalize my own clothes," Arva continued, though Deborah didn't seem incredibly overwhelmed, "and I'm a hard worker. I can lift stuff, take inventory, and I can work back here in the stock room," Arva motioned around them, the majority of the large space was taken up by boxes and stores of product, "so I won't be out where people can see."

"And why wouldn't people want to see you?" Deborah asked in a not entirely insincere way, but Arva nevertheless felt at a loss for answers.

"Well," Arva found herself getting upset again. She started to tremble, the act of putting the fact into words, saying it, was never something she'd done. "Humans and Hybrids don't always get along, so I wouldn't want to start trouble."

"Would you start trouble here?" Deborah went for the jugular. Arva threw up her hands in defense.

"No, of course not," she decided not to mention the altercation she just came from, "I just mean, you know, I wouldn't want to upset anyone because of the way I look."

"I see," replied Deborah. She interlocked her fingers and leaned on the table next to them, suddenly quite serious. "I don't hate Hybrids, you'll find plenty of people who don't, but you're not wrong about there being people who do, and they can be quite horrible," Arva winced slightly at the fresh memory being poked yet again, "and even a Hybrid working here could be bad for business. So you know I'm confident in your character when I say I'd love to have you come in this Monday to see how you do."

"I... you mean-?" Arva was awestruck, she didn't entirely grasp what the woman was saying.

"I'm saying you got the job, kid," Deborah smiled, "as long as you can cut it. No pun intended."

"I'll slice it straight down the middle!" Arva tried to sound clever, but she was really just happy. She leapt with excitement to shake Deborah's hand, "Thank you! Thank you so much! You won't regret this!" Arva continued her display of gratitude until Deborah practically had to kick her out, but she was beyond thrilled. She couldn't wait to get home and tell everyone. It wasn't exactly Claude Vella Evo, but it was income she didn't have before. For a day that started so poorly, Arva couldn't have been happier at the moment, and she almost didn't notice the people around her cooing and gawking at the sky. She looked up, and once again she saw the shadows of higher beings scurry about their own day-to-day lives, whatever that may entail. They were showing up more and more, almost daily, though their dance in the heavens seemed particularly punctual today for Arva. Maybe there was more to the superstition about God showing his love than she realized.