Labor Day

Chapter Two

Orion watches his breath puff out in front of him as he walks briskly down Westchester. It's early fall, the time of year where it's warm during the day but bone chilling cold at night. He takes a turn on West Farms Road, his pace quickening as his destination is just in sight. He stops in front of an old industrial building, the brick walls are worn, but unscathed and Orion grins, sizing up his unconventional canvas. He had scouted out the place last week when he and his mother had gotten into another one of their fights. He had walked out and let his feet take him wherever they felt like.

He swings a duffel bag off his shoulder and kneels next to it on the pavement. He unzips it to find his black spray paint. Yes, street art had been outlawed even before the Embassy and Labor Day had been put in place, and technically if he was caught he would have to deal with the firing squad. Still, nothing brought him greater joy than being a pain in the Embassy's backside.

The feeling begins to come back into his fingers as he grips the can tightly and begins to paint the words Labor Day in bold and simple lettering. He then pulls out his red and yellow paint, creating a scene of a hospital room where a mother hold her newborn child. Underneath he paints the words: Removing Individuality Since 2020.
When he's finally happy with his work he signs it off.
-Concio
It means awakener in Latin, a language his mother insisted on him learning from a young age. Not everyone knows what his pen name means, but all who see his art know its message. The Umbras, the police force of New York, have been on his tail for years but they never catch him. They don't even know who he is.

    By the time he had finished, the sun was beginning to rise over the Bronx River. Orion packed his things quickly and jogged back towards Westchester, he didn't want to be caught next to his work when it was discovered. After he was decisively far enough away, he slowed to a walk.  He pulled off his paint-stained hoodie and put it in his bag-no need to provide evidence for
his arrest- Then stopped again, in front of a small coffee shop. Hot Shot's Espresso, the place that supplies the sleep he misses during the night. He walks in and sits down at the counter. Orion is a regular here and the owner, Clara Sabu Putnem-he just calls her Sab-, had memorized his order long ago.
After a few minutes of waiting a large mug of plain black coffee is placed in front of him.
"Morning, Sab." He says to the woman who had set the mug in front of him. She smiles and Orion can't help thinking that she's pretty for a woman of her late forties- tall and slim with pale brown hair and stark blue eyes-she had aged well.

"How's work treating you, Mr. Mentior?" She asks, giving him a sly look, she is one of the few people who knows about his painting.

"It's been a bit hazardous lately, but nothing I can't handle." He replies, shortly, taking a sip of his coffee. It's nice and bitter, just the way he likes it.
"I'm sure it isn't. Astraia is in the back room if you'd like to see her when you're done." Sab replies, knowingly. Her daughter, Astraia, is 16-the same age as Orion-and she happens to be his source for painting ideas.

"Thanks."

    "Took you long enough." Astraia says, scowling, though the twitch of her mouth gives away her amusement at Orion's arrival.

"So what I'm hearing is that you were waiting for me." He replied, smirking as he closed the back door of the shop behind him. She walked around the counter and took off her apron.

She isn't pretty in the same way as her mother. Her blue eyes are piercing and her caramel hair is always pulled back. Her steps are sure and she stands tall. The only word to describe her is strong.
"Are you just going to stand there staring at me, or are we going to get going?" She asks, impatiently, grabbing her bag from the counter. Orion feels heat rising in his cheeks as he thinks it's a good thing people can't read minds.