Chapter 51
Ezra
Proctus has some getting used to. It feels like the real world but better, and far more inclusive.
Smiling faces herald us wherever we go, and I can’t help but sense a fakeness to them.
Rich coming from me, the actual faux. The entirety of this place is a front.
If I searched hard enough, I’d find weaknesses in the cracks, the crevices that threaten to expose them for what it truly is: a masquerade to distract these people from the outside world’s threats.
Maybe I’m just paranoid.
On the next day, we’re collected from our apartment and shown around what was once the town of Dunsmuir.
Proctus is in northern California near Mount Shasta.
Dunsmuir fell victim to one of California’s many wildfires years ago.
The entire town was evacuated, the outskirts burnt to the ground, but what remains is purely thanks to the Angelics’ leader, Esther Brown.
She restored what could be salvaged, paying the local government millions of dollars in hush money, so no one would pry or give up their locale.
Essentially, she bought the entire town.
California is one of the more accepting states—Scarlet Letters aren’t mandatory, but that doesn’t completely abolish abuse or prejudice.
Many have sought refuge in Proctus to get away from the constant vitriol, but there are just as many people from all over the country who have come to wipe away their past for clean slates.
Conin, Atlas, and I are amongst those people. And Conin, like others, is here because of family and loved ones they couldn’t part with.
A rotund woman with a bob of red hair arrives to retrieve us. She was so unbearably congenial, that ripping both ears off so I wouldn’t have to listen to her acute, upbeat falsetto any longer didn’t sound half bad. Put a wrench through both my eyes while you’re at it.
We follow the steps down to the street below our apartment building.
Dunsmuir Avenue this early in the morning is devoid of human life, though I hear the echoes of voices from farther ahead and see the hint of canopies.
The woman introduces herself as Sandra, then promptly leads us toward Town Hall, which happens to be on the same street as my and Conin’s new apartment.
Sequestered between an old pizza shop and the town’s community center, the Town Hall is an unremarkable two-story brick and stucco building with a stone staircase leading to a set of glass doors.
Sandra smiles at us, then gestures to follow her inside.
“Alright,” she says while we trail after her into a small meeting room, “first we’ll assign you occupations and then I’ll have Matt show you around Proctus. He says that he was one of the Angelics to extract you from Eureka. Terrible what happened there.”
Conin slaps me on the shoulder.
“You’re frowning. Stop it,” he whispers to me. Sandra doesn’t take notice. I arrange my face into something hopefully impassive.
My fingers grip an imaginary bottle, an amber glass of tequila, and its phantom memory.
The numbness creeps forward—the want solidified.
Conin nudges me again gently and I reel myself back to reality, focusing on Sandra and the file she’s just procured from somewhere.
The hems of my long sleeve ride up, exposing scarred flesh, and I’m swift to lower them to the wrist.
Sandra opens the manila folder and leafs through its contents before settling on a select few pages.
“Ah, here it is.”
Sandra taps a page. She drives her finger down the column, murmuring to herself.
“Mr. Gray,” she says kindly, offering me a look. “How does horticulture sound?”
“Horticulture?” I question, vaguely familiar with the term, “What does that entail?”
“You would be cultivating our crops here at the fields. Tending to the fruits and vegetables, gathering them, proffering them to our sellers at the Shop. Would that be alright? We could use all the hands we can get.”
“What are the other options?”
Sandra blinks, grins, and returns to the page.
She lists off the occupations available, but they all sound as mundane as the last. I finally settle on horticulture and let bygones be bygones.
Truthfully, I don’t have the energy to argue, nor is it my right to.
The Angelics have already done us a major service by bringing us here, despite my dilemma of facing a false sense of security.
In an abrupt change of pace, Sandra turns her attention to Conin.
Her mouth twitches, but she locks the smile into place. I’m partial to kicking her teeth in.
“Now, we don’t allow significant others to hold the same position, so we’ll have to assign a different job unless horticulture sounds interesting to you, in which case it’s up to you both to discuss who will take what. But do any of the occupations I listed before strike any interest?”
Conin is silent for an uncomfortable length of time. I count the seconds in my head while he peruses the list Sandra passed over with obvious disinterest. He looks back, adjusts his position on the chair.
“I want a guard position,” he says bluntly.
Sandra blinks with that persistent fake grin of hers.
“Come again?”
“I want a guard position,” he repeats. “I want to do my part to protect Proctus.”
My heart somersaults, soaring to the skies. I would do so many things to him right now if fucking Sandra wasn’t in the room with us.
“Ah, well . . . I’m afraid it’s too dangerous for someone without special abilities to take up a guard position. The liabilities . . . the repercussions. I’m sure you understand.” She swallows.
“I’ve seen guards armed with guns man the walls! Are they recidivists with defensive powers? Not everyone possesses offensive abilities, you know—”
“We prefer not to use the term recidivist here. Angelic will do.”
“My bad, I’m sorry. Who are the Angelics with the firearms, then?”
Guns are not something I believe in, but if it’s one thing the past week has proven time and time again is that we need methods to protect ourselves, no matter how rooted in controversy or the dangers they’ve presented.
Conin’s seriously going to fight for this.
It’s only right that I let him, though the idea of his potential endangerment terrifies me from head to toe.
“They are indeed Angelics without offensive abilities. It is rather unorthodox for a normal individual to hold a guard position. It’s simply for their safety,” Sandra says, congenially.
“Bullshit,” Conin says and there’s fury in his azure blue eyes—fury I haven’t seen in a while. Sandra’s aghast. She sputters a few words, though nothing concrete, then purses her lips. Nothing can be said to placate a heated Conin. Good luck, bitch. I’ve tried.
“So, people are ostracized here, too? Love to see how things haven’t changed.
I’m not justifying the blatant xenophobia around the world, but I had believed Proctus would be different.
I believed everyone here would be a unified front, not rooted in ableist ideologies.
There are people here who have lost so much, who have sacrificed everything to ensure their loved ones’ safety.
People like me—without any powers of their own.
I’m just as capable as those without the ability to attack.
Give me the means to protect myself and I’ll be just as effective as anyone else on the line. You have my word.”
I could kiss him.
Get the hell out, Sandra.
She swallows again before standing.
“Stay here,” she mutters. “I’ll speak with the council. It’s not up to me to decide, but I will ensure they consider your proposal.”
Proposal. I almost scoffed.
She’s out of the room in a blur before I press tight into Conin and kiss the ever-loving fuck out of his mouth.
He groans, then sighs, but leans forward, my entire body aware of his presence.
We part and he must see the wild hunger in my face as a mischievous glow sprouts over his own.
I’ve been deprived of Conin romantically my entire life, the least we can do is kiss as if the world’s going to end. In my defense, it very well might.
“Christ,” he says under his breath.
“You and me. Tonight,” I whisper.
Conin bites his bottom lip. His Adam’s apple bobs.
“What the hell’s gotten into you?” he asks.
“You,” I say. “I don’t think you understand what it means to be me. I don’t like people, Conin. And I don’t just mean that I hate people—”
“I know what demisexuality is, Ezra,” Conin chuckles.
I’m not sure why I’m choosing here out of all places to discuss this with him—to lay my feelings bare on the table.
We discussed it briefly after our first time having sex, but we were so caught up in the heat of the moment that there wasn’t much I could say.
Something’s gotten into me, something good.
A boost of confidence, maybe? Hopefully, Sandra will stay away for a little while longer.
“I know you do. What I’m saying is . . .
there’s been no one, not until you . . .
and then, it’s always been you.” I don’t know how to articulate this.
I’m not as eloquent as Conin is. “Everything you’ve done since the night at the party .
. . until now with not backing down on what you want, wanting to protect the people here .
. . I love you so fucking much. Shit, you really make this impossible. ”
His stoic facade crumbles for a moment—a brief moment—before Sandra inserts herself into the room, Matt in tow. I hate this woman. Fuck you too, Matt.
She hands me the paperwork I’ll need to begin my occupation, with the proper job description and the pay detailed toward the top.
The Angelics have a currency exchange system in place here.
Admittedly, this comes as a surprise. Sandra focuses on Conin and plants a faux smile onto her mouth, a smile that doesn’t quite reach the rest of her face.