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The blanket wrapped around Shrue’s body was thin.
When the emergency responders had finally arrived and managed to coax their pale and trembling form off the roof of the shack they had clung to throughout the night, a broad and kind-faced medic had wrapped the sheet of mylar around them, explaining that its warmth would stop them from going into shock. It hadn’t done much, but the gentle pressure of the medic’s hands as he'd smoothed the blanket over their shoulders and bandaged the various scrapes they’d sustained during that clumsy and panicked race through the woods had been a comfort, an anchor keeping them just barely tethered to this world. Shrue had stared dully at the floor of the ambulance while the man worked, letting a wave of gently murmured platitudes wash over them, their terror seeping away with each drawing out of the tide. He was good at his job, Shrue thought. He’d almost convinced them that he cared.
The medic had stopped hovering around them after a while, leaving to assist the other officers with cleaning up the scene. Shrue watched them as they worked, collecting the fleshy Love Saint shrapnel scattered in the leaf litter and disposing of them into plastic containers marked ‘bio-waste.’ The remains would be sent back to Glottage for forensic analysis they were told, to determine where the Saints had been hallowed – who they had been made of. The current theory was, of course, that they were from Nesh. More fodder for the war machine.
The medic returned routinely, no doubt according to some best-practice manual, to check in with Shrue. “How are you feeling?” he’d ask in a soothing tone. He’d kneel down to look them in the face, eyes crinkled with concern, brow gently furrowed. A perfect mask of empathy.
“Is there anything I can get you?” “You’re safe now.” “This wasn’t your fault.”
And, when they had returned enough to their body to move their leaden tongue, Shrue had answered, joining in an elaborate dance of social niceties. “I’m alright,” they said. Softly at first, and then more confidently, more convincingly.
“You’ve already done so much for me.” “Thank you.”
That last one they couldn’t respond to.
A shout came from off in the distance, and the medic stood back up, striding across the clearing to join a team of officers emerging from the tree line. Each carried one end of a stretcher, staggering under the weight of whatever lay atop it. As Shrue turned to look, a pit of anticipatory dread lodged itself in their throat. They already knew exactly what was being transported, exactly what they were going to see. But they looked anyways.
Shrue watched in muted horror as the stretcher drew closer, transfixed by the perverse intimacy of the tableau in front of them. Jeff and the Saint had fused into a tangled mass of bone and flesh; two beings transformed into an awful indivisible whole. Two pairs of arms wrapped tightly around each other, rigor mortis stiffened fingers clawing desperately at bloodied skin. Wet and dripping ribs curved up around Jeff’s chest, pulling him inside the Saint’s hollow form, far in enough that their hearts could have touched. Maybe they had. Maybe, hours later on the operating table, the coroner would open the body up to find a single mass of pulsating flesh in its chest cavity. One oversized still-beating heart, futilely attempting to sustain an already dead embrace.
Shrue crumpled up the blanket and threw it aside.
The officers set the stretcher down, brown summer–scorched grass crumpling easily beneath it, and began the process of bagging the body. The medic and another officer, a stocky blonde woman, placed their hands on its side and tugged, attempting to tilt it so that a bag could be slid underneath. It was a clumsy attempt.
Shrue sucked in a sharp breath as Jeff’s head lolled to one side on its snapped neck, hitting the ground with a dull thud. A slack and viscera-stained face, barely recognisable under mutilated flesh, gazed reproachfully up at them.
You slick, empty suit.
Then, as quickly as it had happened, the officers moved around the body, blocking it from their view. Shaken, Shrue rose from where they had been hunched inside the ambulance, staggering slightly at the transfer of weight onto their sore legs. Gods they were out of shape, they thought, and then cringed at the sheer audacity of it. This isn’t about you, Temerik.
Blinking to disperse the halo of static that clouded their vision, Shrue walked to the back of the vehicle and picked up the anti-prayer tape. It had taken a half hour of coaxing before the medic had convinced them to uncurl their fingers from it but once it had been extracted, the cassette had placed to the side and forgotten about. Now, they turned it over in their hands, staring down at its dull plastic cover.
Jeff had had children, Shrue knew. He’d kept a small, framed photo of his two girls on his desk, both of them beaming up at the camera with gap-toothed smiles. On one occasion, after a particularly tedious meeting with representatives from the Jolly King Kipper, Jeff had joked that it helped remind him “what we’re putting ourselves through all of this for.” Those kids had lost a father today, because of this whole mess. Because he’d given the little protection he’d had to Shrue, out of what – loyalty? They’d never be the same, and Shrue didn’t even know their names.
In fact, Shrue was beginning to realise they didn’t know much about their team at all. Jeff and Ana were good people, certainly; polite, intelligent, conversable. But outside work they’d never progressed beyond small talk. Shrue knew vague details about Ana’s life; a partner, a bar she’d once offhandedly mentioned she liked. Nothing real. That was the job though, Shrue rationalised. Behind a thin veneer of comradery lay an endless parade of smoke and mirrors. It was all optics; about endearing yourself to constituents and co-workers, making yourself seem appealing and masking your weaknesses so they couldn’t be used against you. You’d be a fool to expect anything different. Who would willingly roll over and present their soft white underbelly for piercing?
Still, Shrue wondered if they should have tried harder to know their aides, if being closer to them could have somehow made up for all of this. They doubted it.
As they stared out over a sea of reporters, trying not to flinch with every blinding flash of light that went off in their face, Shrue became distinctly aware of the fact that this had been a very bad idea. They seemed to be having a lot of those, as of late.
On the drive back to Glottage, they’d called their office to explain what had happened and, falling back into the familiar rhythm of their role, had over-confidently professed to their clerk that, as an Adjudicator, Shrue had a duty of transparency. That they had to maintain faith in them by addressing what had happened before Barbeau could accuse them of concealing aggressive CLS manoeuvres. But also, that they could use this to prove that they were a strong candidate, who would not, as their rival so insistently implied, roll over at the first sign of danger.
They’d instructed the clerk to set up a conference, insisting that they wanted to make a statement to the public. And they did, truth be told, want to make a statement. They wanted to speak about Ana and Jeff, to honour their brave and senseless sacrifice, and they wanted to do something, anything, that could prevent more needless bloodshed. But now Shrue could barely even muster up the energy to read out the trite pre-prepared script in front of them. Everything was too bright.
They fumbled with the paper, choking down a fresh swell of grief that threatened to climb up their throat, and continued to talk.
“And, I’d like to express my sincere thanks to the emergency services for coming to my rescue, and for their courageous efforts in detonating the final Saints without further loss of life.”
Thankfully, Shrue’s past self had at least had the foresight to schedule a short window of time between their return and the hastily called press conference, during which they’d been able to run to an empty office and successfully ignore how quickly their aides’ desks had been cleaned out in favour of donning the emergency suit stowed in theirs. They’d applied some makeup too, smearing concealer under their puffy eyes in an attempt to mask the toll the night had taken on them. Despite all that preparation, there was no way they were getting out of this without their clammy face plastered across the front page of the Courier. All the polished political pursuits and righteous indignation that had kept Shrue careening forward had fizzled out the moment they’d stepped behind the podium and felt the expectant eyes of the crowd turn on them.
They couldn’t quite place what unsettled them so much at first, why their breath had caught in their throat at such a familiar sight. It was the eyes. The constant, ceaseless watching. Heads swivelling mechanically on necks, tracking their every move like a predator sizing up its prey. The crowd’s fixed gaze was eerily reminiscent of the Saints’. Hollow and hungry, searching for any opening they could reach through to tear Shrue apart.
At least the media was honest about it though. This was not to say that Glottage wasn’t full of leeching predatory creatures who disguised themselves with loving smiles, of course. It was. Shrue wasn’t deluded enough to think they lived in some sort of utopia, they were a politician for crying out loud. But, if a Servant of the Herald was going to verbally eviscerate you, you could at least count on them to do it openly. It was one of the benefits of living in a country that valued journalistic integrity. Shrue should be able to bear a little discomfort for the sake of that.
“My sincere thoughts and sympathies, too,” they stumbled onward, “are with the families of my staff, who gave their lives heroically and without hesitation to help me get to safety.”
Shrue trailed off as they reached the end of the script, hoping (deludedly they knew) that someone would take pity on them and lead them off stage before the relentless barrage of questions began. But that was never the way, was it?
A clamour of voices rose up from the crowd, like a shrieking flock of seagulls poised to pluck out their eyes and, fuck. They were all so insistent on the war; so convinced that this had been Shrue’s breaking point, that being attacked had finally made them see reason. It was as if the only possible response to violence the mob of steam-pressed suits before them could envision was more violence, as if behind each officious mask lay a ravenous snarling beast just aching to claw and bite and throw itself on a sword for the sake of its honour. But it wasn’t their honour that had been attacked, was it?
No. This wasn’t anyone’s wound to lick but Shrue’s own.
From the podium, Shrue watched ballpoints dance on notepads, leaving behind shining wet scrawls of ink as the reporters made their notes - worked their angles. Deep in the pit of their gut, a long dead fire sparked to life.
They couldn’t keep standing there, letting their own pain be turned into a pawn to be played against them. If this senseless tragedy could mean anything, it would mean an end to this relentless self-mutilating spiral of vengeance.
So, Shrue began to speak. Honestly now, for the first time in a long while. Heart pounding in their chest, they pled with the people - their people - to see reason and recognise this sentiment for the selfish, profiteering propaganda it was. We cannot drive ourselves further down this road, they said. We cannot keep lying to ourselves that there is a road in front of us, that what lies between us and the cliff's-edge is anything more than a narrow strip of soil. As they spoke, born aloft by the flood of adrenaline coursing through their veins, they began to notice the tone of the room shift, almost imperceptibly. The cavernous white hall felt a little less hollow, the crowd a little less imposing. A few onlookers, dotted throughout it, were even looking at them with something like admiration. This was working, they thought with relief. They might actually be able to win this one.
And then they were done. Silence descended over the room, thick and heavy. Shrue stood there, fire dying down, their hands shaking behind the podium. Was that it?
“If war is declared, Adjudicator, do you still think you’re the right candidate to represent the North-Western territory?”
Shit. Had they pushed too far? No no no, they could save this, they had to save this. Too much was riding on this election for them to back down now. Alright, redirect, don’t over promise. They could still end on a grace note.
“If it comes to it...” No, restart, more confidence. “If it comes to it, and I still very firmly hope that it doesn’t, I have a strong relationship with the militarised faiths of the Peninsula.”
They realised their mistake as soon as the words left their mouth, and from the frenzied reaction that followed, they knew the crowd had too. But, for some fucking reason, they kept barrelling forwards, desperately trying to claw back some modicum of dignity. From somewhere outside themself, Shrue watched with growing disgust as they fumbled and fretted on stage, digging a deeper grave with each answer.
“Well, I’ve been developing some pairings with fresh, exciting new faiths that I think-.”
Stop talking.
“Such as, such as...the, uh, the Noose of The Twin Throats!”
Shut. Up.
“It’s really, uh, clever conceptually.”
Is it? Or is it just another vacant symbol that you’ll offer up to mask the fact that you’re just like all the rest of them you pathetic, leeching void.
“I don’t have my notes with me, uh… um…”
And, far too late, they could finally restrain themself.
“I’m done.”
Shaken, Shrue stumbled off the stage, slinking back to the seclusion of the green room with their tail between their legs. Their boots tapped rhythmically against the patterned linoleum as they trudged forwards, making a soft ‘click-click’ noise that echoed through the halls. They focused on that steady rhythm, latching on to it, letting it lull the trembling animal inside of them to sleep. They couldn’t panic, not here.
They kept pacing forwards, steadfastly ignoring the figures that blurred past them in their peripheral vision, stopping only for a moment to throw the crumpled and sweat-stained script in the trash before continuing doggedly on. At the end of the hall, a wooden door stood solid and steadfast in the white expanse that stretched out before them They kept their gaze glued to it as they moved. Once they were behind it, Shrue would be free of the watchful stares drilling into their back.
Reaching the door now, they paused to collect themself, stomach sinking as they realised they wouldn’t be alone in there. Some of their team had volunteered to come with them, assuming the roles that Jeff and Ana had left behind. Through the heavy wood, they could make out frantic whispers, snatches of sentences spoken in low, accusatory tones. Even their own staff couldn’t twist this failure in their favour.
Shrue hesitated at the threshold, taking the time to straighten their tie and wipe their shaking fingers on their jacket. Its fabric readily absorbed the moisture, leaving faint water-colour trails where their skin had touched the suit. They were among allies here, Shrue reminded themself. They could find some solace in the presence of people who actually cared about them, if only for the status Shrue’s position brought them by association. They breathed out slowly, fixed their hair, and forced a smile. And, if it didn’t quite reach their eyes well, who were their team to pass judgement? Shrue was still their boss, after all.
They opened the door, and the room erupted with noise, Shrue’s small group of remaining employees rising from their seats around a small table to greet them. Someone strode towards Shrue, her mouth set in a thin worried line and, for a heartbeat, Shrue thought that she might reach out to engulf them in a hug. They froze in place, visions of wrenched-open ribcages flashing before them. Inside their body, that momentarily soothed beast of terror reawoke with a vengeance and began clawing its way back through their gut, shredding their insides to fine pink ribbon.
“Adjudicator, if we’re going to move forward on The Noose of Twinning Throats-”
Of course. Business as usual. Shrue mentally slapped themself for their childish expectation of comfort. It had been hours since the attack, and after that disaster of a press conference their team obviously had bigger problems than how the Adjudicator was feeling. With resolve, Shrue grabbed that pathetic animal inside them by the scruff of its neck and shoved it down, papering up the holes it had torn in their painted facade. The beast whimpered and snarled as they forced it into submission. Some small part of Shrue agreed with it and prayed to anyone, any thing that was listening for an out. They didn’t want to be here. They were too tired to do this dance.
“I- uh- no that’s alright,” Shrue interrupted, forcing a self-effacing smile. “I don’t think-”
And then, like divine intervention, the door swung open to the tune of a singsong, “Gift delivery!”
Shrue would recognise that uncannily jovial voice anywhere.
They turned in shock and watched as Carson sidled casually into the small room, unfurling to his full looming height as he cleared the doorframe. The Press Secretary wore a pale pink suit and a grin so white that Shrue was reminded of the time they’d almost run themself off the road to avoid hitting a deer. Entranced by the blinding light of their car, the poor creature had frozen in terror, allowing Shrue to get close enough to see its wide-open eyes reflecting brightness back at them. They wondered if Carson knew he had that effect on people, or if the man simply had an over-zealous dentist.
Pinned to Carson’s lapel sat a small gold icon of the wealth creator, a constant fixture in the Press Secretary’s wardrobe, though Shrue had seen him combine it with several others depending on the corporate composition of his crowd. So far, so normal for Carson. What was throwing Shrue was the item he held in his spindly and neatly manicured hands, a ribbon festooned wicker box.
“Is that a… gift basket?” They asked weakly.
“Oh yes, it’s from the HA’s office. Show of support and solidarity. Baby’s first assassination attempt and all that.”
Carson strode over to Shrue and held the box out expectantly in front of them. For a good few seconds, Shrue just stared at it, wondering in dumb amazement at how surreal their day had become. Then, they flushed with embarrassment and took the proffered offering in their hands.
“And,” Carson continued emphatically, breezing easily over the awkward silence, “it’s just chock full of goodies too! I mean, you really scored with this one Adjudicator.”
“Well then,” they joked bleakly. “I suppose it’s a good thing the Saints didn’t find me that appealing. I would have missed out.”
Carson stared down at Shrue for a moment before smiling reassuringly. “I guess it is.”
And then - oh Gods- and then, Carson reached out and patted them on the head and if Shrue hadn’t been a deer in the headlights before, they most certainly were now.
Why the hell had that felt good?
The moment the Press Secretary’s hand touched them, a rush of warmth had swept through Shrue’s body, leaving them light-headed. A swell of traitorous emotions rose in their throat, threatening to drown them under a tidal wave of longing. Somehow, beyond all logic and reason, some pathetic, mewling part of Shrue wanted to fall to pieces in front of this man, to be comforted, and held, and told it was all going to be ok.
They sucked in a sharp breath, choking down the strangled animal cry that threatened to spill from their lips, and flinched away from Carson’s already retreating hand. A pit of shame sunk in their gut like a cinderblock tied to the ankle of a drowning man and Shrue could only hope that their frantic thrashing was disguised by the river’s steady ebb and flow, that, as they struggled under the surface, the water stayed still.
“Well would you look at the time! Now I have got to rush off, but you hang in there, champ. We’re all here for you.”
Shrue barely registered Carson’s words as they wrestled with themself, trying desperately to resist the urge to crumble to the ground at his feet. In the end, all they could manage was a rough nod at Carson’s retreating form, exhaling shakily the moment the door closed behind him.
What. The fuck. Was wrong with them.
Were they some sort of fucking dog?! A pitiful, starving mutt scavenging affection from any hand that offered it, from Carson of all people? They were an Adjudicator for gods’ sakes, they were supposed to be better than that.
A pit of black rage swelled in Shrue’s stomach, and they slammed the gift basket down on the table, sending a packet of water crackers tumbling to the floor and, as soon as they did, all that energy vanished, leaving them feeling profoundly empty. They stood there, hunched over, fingers clenched tightly around the woven container, and breathed heavily; a hollow, burnt-out wreck of a person sending smoke curling up into the air around them. Their team was openly staring at them now, expressions twisted with barely disguised pity and embarrassment.
“Sorry… sorry,” Shrue sighed. They took a deep breath, releasing their white-knuckled grip on the box. “I’m going to go.”
Before anyone could stop them, they darted for their bag and began striding away from the table.
“But Adjudicator! What about your gift basket?” someone called after them.
“You can keep it,” Shrue snapped back, letting the door slam behind them. They made their way quickly to the exit, gaze fixed on the linoleum, pointedly avoiding eye contact with any stragglers still lingering in the halls.
They stepped through the sliding glass doors, bracing themself against the bitter evening chill and, as they walked alone through the rain-slicked streets of the city, Shrue muttered to themself, petulantly and under their breath.
“I don’t even like crackers anyways.”
They couldn’t go home.
Shrue had flagged down a cab as soon as they left the conference, fully intending to return to their apartment and collapse in its comfort. But they’d barely travelled three blocks before they thought better of it.
People would be waiting for them at home. Their wife would comfort them, and console them, of course. Of course, she would. But then, Shrue would be expected to uphold their side of the bargain. They had to bear the burden themself. They couldn’t collapse under its weight, not completely. It would scare the girls.
And, gods, the girls. How could Shrue face them after what had happened? How could they look into their wide, beseeching eyes without being reminded of that photograph on Jeff’s desk? Without shattering like glass and raining the shards down upon them? Abruptly, Shrue turned to the cabbie, leaning forwards from the taxi’s shadowed back seat. They asked him to take them somewhere else.
The driver’s brow rose at the request, but if he had an opinion on the sudden change in direction other than mild annoyance, he didn’t reveal it.
“Sure,” he responded after a moment. “Where’d you wanna go?”
“A motel, maybe? I just- Somewhere quiet.” Fuck that was pathetic. But there was nothing Shrue could do to pull those words out of the air now.
“You got it.”
Thank the gods for minimum wage-induced apathy. The man’s gruff disinterest was a kindness, intensely refreshing after hours of half-honest sympathies. As they drove on in silence, Shrue sat numb in the passenger seat and mutely stared out at the lights that swam across the raindrop coated widow of the car. The thousands of flashing signs plastered across the Glottage city streets, promoting gods and restaurants and hookers in even number, blurred into a single stream of colour before their eyes, made hazy and halo-like through the water skidding down the sides of the vehicle.
The motel he left them at was a dump, a squat little building at the edge of town squished right between the airport and the highway overpass. It was the sort of place that you could only imagine having been kept alive out of pure spite, by some property owner who’d held out against the Slag King’s offers out of a misguided attachment to the small plot of land they’d built their life on. Belligerently persisting, even as the walls closed in on either side.
It could have been worse though. Distantly, Shrue realised that the cabbie could easily have taken advantage of their dissociated state. They’d put their trust in a total stranger to deliver them to safety, too frazzled to even consider the danger they may be inviting in. If he’d felt inclined, the driver could have strung them up in some dank abandoned warehouse and carved the marks of some back-alley god into their skin. Honestly, if he had, they weren’t even sure they’d have had the strength to fight back.
So, yeah. It could have been worse.
They checked themself in with a practiced smile, going blessedly unrecognised by the woman behind the desk, an olive-skinned fifty-something who, judging by the cigarette that remained clenched between her wrinkled lips the entire time Shrue had spoken to her, had checked out years ago. She barely looked at them as she handed the keys over, jerking her thumb over her shoulder with her other hand to point them down the hall. “Fifth door on your left.”
A rectangular patch of yellow light spilled from the hallway onto the dusty carpet of the room as the door swung open with a creak. Shrue tapped the light switch and stepped inside, closing the door firmly behind them. They set their bags down. They sat on the bed. Its springs squeaked under their weight.
They were supposed to break down now. This was supposed to be the moment when the floodgates burst, when all of the horror and grief that they’d choked down over the past day forced its way back up their throat and poured out of them in a messy but cathartic deluge. Instead, Shrue felt empty. Sad, sure. Mildly queasy. But mainly, they just felt empty. Like their body was a vacant shell; a stitched-up façade of skin and hair that could be easily unravelled to reveal the black and endless void it concealed.
They curled in on themself like a small child, wrapping their limbs around their body tightly, as if the pressure alone could quell the nauseating aching hollowness that radiated up through their core.
Unconsciously, their hands began to move, running gently up and down the length of their arms. With shame, they realised what they were doing. Simulating another’s caress. From deep inside themself, some biting bitter voice spoke up, reminding them of their run-in with Carson, of the attendant that had walked towards them, of the medic. All the trappings of love, none of the care. This is all you’ll ever get.
Dimly, Shrue began to wonder if it was right. They’d spent a full night on that roof with that Saint singing up at them, playing the tape over and over, praying that each time they rewound it would be the last. No one had come running. No one had realised they were gone. The rise and fall of their chest began to accelerate, their breaths coming short and sharp. Did anyone ever care, really truly care, about Temerik Shrue? Not their team, not the government certainly. That honour was reserved for the Adjudicator. And where had their wife been at the conference, why wasn’t she there? Their throat tightened. Why didn’t anyone care? Were they truly so pathetic, so embarrassing, that they’d ended up here sitting alone in some dilapidated wreck of a motel? They just wanted someone who actually cared, that’s all they ever wanted – someone to hold them close and love them true and – oh Gods.
Shrue threw themself off the bed, bolting desperately towards the small bathroom annexed to the left-hand wall of the bedroom. The vomit splattered against the sides of the toilet, hot and acrid. They retched into it, once, twice, their head spinning, the image of Ana reaching out to a trapped saint burned into their mind. The tears came quick, hot and heavy, as they heaved, holding themself up with shaking arms, hands rigid and claw-like against the sides of the toilet. Frantically, they yanked at their tie to relieve the choking pressure around their throat. How could they be so selfish? How depraved must they be to twist even the horrific deaths of their aides into something that could serve their own wretched narrative?
Shame coursed through them. “I’ll take that injustice on,” they had said. As if it was only about them, as if they were they only person affected by this tragedy. Never mind the children, the families torn irrevocably apart by a single selfish act of survival. It was always about Temerik Shrue and the fucking angles they had to work. They collapsed on the floor in a trembling heap, a strangled animal sob tearing from their mouth.
They didn’t deserve to be alive. They knew that. Shrue was not a good person. No matter how hard they tried to convince themself otherwise, all they ever did was stand on the backs of others, parasitising their talent and skill and passing it off as their own. They’d alienated their family, turning their childhood into a byline to boost reliability. At any chance they got, Shrue would bend over backwards to please others, bones snapping as they writhed, eel-like, contorting into whatever shape was most appealing. Anything to keep Temerik Shrue in the spotlight, to keep that steady stream of praise flowing as they lapped it up like a spoiled dog.
And, it had never even been enough. No matter how much they sucked into themself, they remained empty; a gaping black hole, incapable of satisfaction. And still, despite all that, some sick, childish part of themself still cried out for consolation. As if they deserved it. Another mournful wail escaped their throat, a gut-wrenching noise that carved through the air like a knife. Instinctively, they clamped their hand over their mouth, biting down hard on the soft flesh. Shut up.
White hot pain seared through their palm, and they wrenched their hand away from their mouth with a cry. Panicked, Shrue scrabbled against the tile, flailing limbs pushing them out of the open, away from the prying gaze that still followed them. They pressed themself up against the wall, making themself small, wishing the drywall would open up and swallow them, and trembled, disgusted by their own lack of control. Limbs twisted and wrapped around each other as Shrue rocked back and forth, clawing at their face as they futilely tried to staunch the flow of snot and tears that poured from their face like blood from an open wound. If anyone walked in at the moment, Shrue was sure they wouldn’t even see a person anymore, just a miserable crawling knot of shame fucking hiding behind peeling laminate. They needed to get themself under control. They needed to get themself under control and stop being so fucking pathetic and self-centred and disgusting and selfish and lonely and – they couldn’t breathe.
They couldn’t breathe.
The walls of the motel shook as cars roared across the overpass outside. Pale morning light streamed into the room through the thin slit of a window high up on the wall, scattering and twisting as it refracted through the textured glass.
Shrue awoke, cold and disoriented and with an aching back. Sore eyes not yet open, they reached an arm to the side, fumbling gracelessly and instinctively for the covers that had no doubt fallen off them while they slept. Their hand hit porcelain.
Right.
They were so glad they’d had the foresight not to go home.
They had come back to themself enough that the realisation their face was pressed up against the grimy bathroom floor prompted immediate disgust. Sighing wearily, Shrue pushed themself off the ground, gripping the cabinet for support as their vision doubled and blurred. Shame swept through them, sinking into the empty pit of their stomach and threatening to pull them back down.
“It’s fine,” they muttered to themself. “You’re fine, you’re safe. Just keep moving.”
They dragged themself to the mirror and winced at the haggard wreck reflected back at them. Bags hung under their bloodshot eyes and their once neatly gelled hair had tangled and stuck up in all directions, like great black thorns twisting from their skull. Pale pink lines creased across their puffy face where it had stuck to the tile. Their eyes darted back down to the sink. A coffee coloured stain circled the rim of the drain.
They had to get a hold of themself. Hurriedly, Shrue gripped the rusted tap with shaking hands and twisted. The pipes shrieked in protest, but then relented, sending a torrent of iron tinged water streaming into the basin. Shrue cupped it in their palms and splashed it on their face, relishing in the ice-cold shock as it hit their skin. Some of the water they took into their mouth, swishing it around before spitting it back out to wash the acrid taste of stale vomit from their teeth.
Finally, they began to massage their puffy skin, repairing the damage that the night had done to it. The movement was practiced, a routine they’d adopted in their late-20’s in a - if they were being honest with themselves - desperate and rather failed attempt to ward off the premature aging associated with their chosen life of long hours and the substance abuse that accompanied it. In a way, it was ironic. Growing up, Shrue had always wished they looked older – always too baby-faced, too soft to be taken seriously– but as soon as time caught up to them, they’d found themselves desperately scrambling to turn back the clock.
Regardless, the decade’s worth of practice they’d put into this habit had paid off. It meant that they could rely on muscle memory while they worked, steadfastly avoiding the mirror. They started at their cheeks and began methodically working their way out, along their jaw line, down their neck. The familiar feeling of skin on skin grounded them, slowly but surely bringing them back to reality. They ran their wet hands through their hair, slicking it back into place, and then patted their face dry. Almost human again.
They pulled a small tube of concealer from its place in the inner pocket of their jacket to complete the look. The heavy cream hid the worst of the damage, masking the bruised shadows under their eyes and smoothing out their complexion until it was something resembling skin. As Shrue turned to face the mirror, they rolled their shoulders back, placed their hands on their hips, and forced a smile. The pose mirrored the campaign posters that had just begun rolling out across their territory: confident, charming, air-brushed Adjudicator Shrue.
Slick, empty suit.
Their smile crumpled like wet tissue paper as they stared at their reflection. They looked fake. Fake and plastic and utterly purposeless. Defeated, they turned their head to the ground once again.
What were they doing?
They’d spent so much of their life building themself up, maintaining a perfect painted façade that would get them where they needed to go. They’d made connections, made concessions and danced around like a gods-damned circus clown because they had wanted to help people and because they’d known that it was the right way, the only way they could be taken seriously and ever hope to make change.
And all the while they’d withered. They’d grown lazy, satisfied with their own success and complacent with the status quo as long as they could stay on top. The performance had taken over, spilling into every aspect of their life until they couldn’t recognise the person in front of them.
The muscles of their arms seized up as Shrue balled their fists, fighting back the embarrassingly juvenile impulse to strike out at the mirror and shatter the hollow-eyed figure reflected within it. It coursed through them, urging them to destroy that painted façade and be done with the manipulations and machinations inherent to their position. Let someone else take up the mantle, it said. Shrue battled with themself, jaw clenched, nails digging into their palms, nerves singing with self-hatred and shame. Then they slumped, unclenching their hands.
Shrue lifted their gaze, looking once more upon their pale reflection. They studied the sharp lines of their suit, the power and authority it commanded.
They couldn’t give it up.
Not now, at such a crucial moment in history, when so many people were depending on them to keep their families safe.
Shrue may have failed in the past, they may be failing now, but they could still turn things around. Their aides – no - Jeff and Ana didn’t die for Shrue to keep sitting back and letting others do their job for them. How selfish would it be if they’d sacrificed themselves for Shrue, only for them to give up now? They couldn’t just keel over and let Barbeau waltz in over their bloated carcass, let her lead their people to their deaths. Not after everything that had been lost. They needed to keep going. All those senseless deaths had to mean something.
And this performance, this role that they’d cast themselves into? Well, it was the only thing they knew that worked. Temerik Shrue was something small and frail, but as the Adjudicator they actually had the power and privilege to do something good. They had to believe that, that they could actually convince people to change, that they could turn the tide before it was too late. Otherwise, what was the point of any of it?
Inhaling deeply, they gritted their teeth and forced the calm, self-assured mask back on. Their smile was a trembling one, not quite masking the manic desperation behind their hollow eyes, but it was convincing enough. They could return to the office like this and be confident that the few employees remaining in its empty rooms wouldn’t ask questions. Gently, they smoothed out the fine lines of make-up that had creased under their eyes, glossing over the dark bags that had begun to peak through. Good enough.
Shrue nodded curtly at their reflection and made to exit the room, striding out into a new day. But then they paused, realising something was missing.
Of course.
Shrue’s hands went to the strip of cloth hanging slack around their neck. They’d almost forgotten about their tie. Deftly, they straightened it, pushing the loop up towards their collar in a single practiced move. The last piece of their polished mask slid into place as the knot settled securely around their throat.