To Hel and Back

Late

The air was thick, his heart was racing, and he was late. 

His feet carried him down the worn brick road, swiftly dodging the many potholes that littered it. He'd always been good at avoiding the cracks, his feet barely touching the ground. To the other pedestrians, he was a bouncing blue dot who stopped for no one. His hurried nature was shrugged off as just "blue sweater guy being blue sweater guy." Little did they know he was late for work... again. One more tardy and I'm sent to the pit. He shuddered at the thought. An old friend of his was taken away just a few short weeks ago. When he closed his eyes for a second too long, he could still see Mason being shackled up and dragged off. Mason's cries for help littered his nightmares, and him being the only one who noticed didn't help either. He shook his head, clearing his mind as one would an Etch-a-Sketch. He had to focus; he couldn't slow down; he couldn't be late.

He swerved his way around the crowd like a maze, an ever-changing one he knew all too well how to solve. He accounted for everyone who would get in his way - usually on purpose. He calculated their walking patterns: which way they'd turn, the length of their strides, their speed and acceleration. He was much more analytical and logical than most people gave him credit for. Many saw him only as a guy in a blue sweater, but he was so much more.

His eyes darted between each side of the street, trying to spot his office over the heads of the crowd. A quick glance at his watch solidifies his fears: five of nine. "Crap, crap, crap!" he mutters to himself, picking up his pace. He cursed his shortness; he couldn't see above the crowd and his legs were far to small for rush hour.

He spotted the building just a short way ahead. Gripping tight to the satchel at his side, he quickened to a run. Sweat was dripping down his face. The hot days around here were also not very good for his commute. He glanced down at his watch one last time, keeping one eye on the shifting crowd. "Two minutes, two minutes." He nearly passes the building, turning on a dime and rushing up to reception.

"Hi Annie," he panted with his hands on his knees. "How are you today?"

She glared up at him from her computer. "Not late. And neither are you." She held out her hand, her gaze shifting back to the screen. After a short amount of rummaging through his bag, he handed her his card. Ripping it out of his hand, Annie placed it on the desk and stamped it. Eyes glued on the computer again, she tossed the card back over to him.

"Have a good day, Annie!" he called as he rushed to the elevator.

She sighed, tired of his newfound happiness. "And a horrible day to you, Xelqua."