Neon Lights

-1-

The neon lights that radiate from the bustling New York street fadedly catch my eye as I stride down the wide sidewalk. It's something about those neon lights shining in the night that entrance people here. Especially on a night like tonight, just after a good rain, where the puddles in the crevices of the sidewalk and the potholes in the streets reflect the neon lights, making the whole world look like a bright, colorful house of mirrors.

But I'm not here to be swept away by the lights.

The wad of dollars in my pocket makes itself ever present in my mind.

There is somewhere I need to be.

The large garage comes into view as I turn the corner off a main road and into a smaller, dimly lit alley. Patches of moss stray across the rain slicked door, which, reflecting the mood of the alley, is half closed. It broke a long time ago, and neither my brother nor I were invested enough to fix it despite the fact that we could have easily done so.

I tread lightly under the broken garage door and eye the interior. The walls are covered in screens, machines, and an assortment of tools. None of our equipment is state of the art or high in value at all, but it works just enough to get us by. Tables take up most of the free ground space, all covered in parts or half assembled items. I see my brother standing with his back to me, his hair in a messy bun of dreads and sporting two streaks of orange and green. Some strands of his hair fall down his back, which would display enormous, intricate tattoos if not for his off-white tank top. I reach up and take off my beanie, freeing my large mass of dark, tangled, curly hair. My fingers brush past my tattoo, hidden on the nape of my neck. Preparing to help my brother with whatever he's working on right now, I pull my hair into a ponytail. Something I would only do in the comfort of my own home.

"I'm assuming you aren't ignoring me and just didn't hear me come in, Altas," I say, walking up beside him and setting the wad of money that I had acquired on the surface of a table. He looks at me and gives me a small smile. His eyes are a dark brown, and that coupled with his long lashes and cleanly styled stubble is enough to convince many of our clients that they need our help. At age 23, my brother has the looks of an angel.

"I didn't hear you come in, I swear," he replies, looking back down at his work. In his hands he holds what I recognize to be one of the newest models of the augmented reality technology glasses. He handles it so delicately as he picks up a small tool and prods something into its place in the small circuit. Atlas scoops up the glasses with great care and places them gently under one of our machines. He presses a few buttons before turning back around to me, the machine having started its job.

"This will take at least a couple hours, which gives us some free time. This is my only project at the moment." He breaks eye contact and nods to the wall opposite us. We walk towards it together. Atlas's shadow covers my eyes, as he is a couple inches taller than I am. His arms look thicker than mine, but we both know that I am stronger than him. I'm used to climbing things in the city, like buildings and fences, and having been trained in Jiu Jitsu, I know how to get myself through a fight. My muscles are lean, and I am built as a unit of speed and agility versus my brother's build of strength.

We near the wall and sit in our ugly office chairs, his the larger blue one and mine the smaller red one. Neither of us say a word for a moment. Though I don't look at Atlas, I can feel his eyes burning through my hair.

"How was the transaction?" He asks me. His version of an ice breaker.

"It went well. The client inspected your work and seemed impressed. They gave me the money and even promised to recommend us to 'friends'. It's all they said before they left." Atlas leans back in his chair, looking thoughtful.