Chapter Text
The heavy door of an office falls shut with an air of finality. Paper crumbles in calloused hands. Such rough hands for a young man. The noise of the warehouse and its machinery are droning, downright deafening, but right now, he can't hear any of it. Like his eardrums popped from not telling his foreman how fucked up this is. A new record; let go after five months. (For once, it isn't his fault.)
They're not going out of business, no, they're just restructuring the organization - apparently - and Jimmy got the short end of the stick. He isn't the only one by far, but it feels like fate is taking the piss. He's fuming. Tan visage bright red, still clutching the letter from the higher ups, passed onto him like some fucking curse. He wants to crush each individual fiber of the paper. Fuck this. Fuck. This.
Sweaty hands make the printer ink runny as deft fingers tear and tear and tear– until all that is left is a fucked up corpo version of confetti. A snort follows, phlegm sucked into his mouth, then spat on said confetti. Gotta leave his mark somehow.
He has an hour to empty his locker and pack his things. Great. Not like there's much to gather, anyway. His bottom lip is already scarred, but he chews the inside of it bloody as he makes for the locker room. Looking for his spot, unable to find his name. All that remains at his usual place is a locker without a name tag. There are a bunch of them without names, however. He can't believe it. They already took it off. He doesn't get why it drives him mad, such a small thing, but it seems like the cherry on top of this giant slab of pure shit on his plate. Jesus-fucking-Christ. Fuck this, fuck this, fuck this.
Jimmy sees red as he gathers his things, stuffing them into a sports bag he nabbed off a faulty shipment a while ago. Theft is normal. Everyone does it here. Even the boss. His colleagues called it "poor man's rebellion under capitalism". Maybe that's why they have to cut costs. Doesn't matter. It still hit him. It could've been anyone else but him. He needs to go. This place is making him sick. However, good ol' fate has a last fuck you to offer.
"Hey, Jim, how'd it–", a colleague asks from their spot on a forklift, leaning over the steering wheel after stopping mid-turn. Oh, here we fucking go, like gossip-obsessed vultures. They never gave a shit about him before, so why now?
"Fuck off.", Jimmy growls, his bag slung over his shoulder with force. This is all he has. Some spare clothes, shampoo if he's lucky, a beat-up thermos. Not even a lease to his name. His boss allowed him to sleep in the cafeteria after hours, but now… Well, back to the bridge it is, then. He sure looked forward to showering with contaminated water and the rashes that come with it. "I won't come back, so leave me the fuck alone. Feel free to tell everyone. I don't fucking care."
Jim leaves with a dismissive wave of his hand.
His former colleague cares not to call out a second time.
Jimmy does what he always does after losing his job. The young man starts to ask around. By the docks, the local trade flotilla agency, near the commercial transit hubs. Usually, he finds someone who needs dirty work done by someone who doesn't ask unnecessary questions. If he's lucky.
Turns out he isn't. Not at all.
And when he tries to get some food from a vending machine with his credit chit– the fucking thing declines it. Great. Fucking great. Fuck. He's gonna be fighting over trash with the rats tonight.
He briefly considers breaking the thing open with the nearest available piece of scrap, but ultimately decides against it. Jail isn't an option, as tempting as it may be.
Rats it is.
A week goes into the land.
It's never been this bad.
Jimmy is dumpster-diving for packets of nutri-paste that went out of date. Imagine that. That shit is upwards to fifty years old. Yet, still edible, he finds. Perfectly fine. Yeah. That's what he's telling himself as he squeezes a satchel of re-hydrated mashed potatoes down his throat. The texture makes him gag. The taste itself is… Okay. It's edible. Fuck, it's just edible. That's the important part.
He wipes his face and especially the corners of his mouth, gets rid of powdery clumps from badly mixed nutri-bullshit. Still swallowing it. It's thick. He should've used more water, but he was so fucking thirsty that he had to drink most of the distilled water he found. Fuck.
The ghostly howl of a monorail sounds, followed by a harsh draft, pulled forth by the train as it rushes past, high up above the street. Faint sizzling from the rails can be heard as Jimmy sits down on the stairs of an overpass, allowing pedestrians to cross the busy street underneath. He wonders if they'd fry him instantly if he touched them.
Honestly, on that topic– he might as well just use the elevated position to his advantage and jump. Or use one of the many, many wires for a noose. He'd rather do all that than eat slop to survive and do all the shit no one else wants to take care of. Worst of all, the thing with finding a job isn't going well. People are starting to look at him weird when he speaks to them. He hates it, but not in a way that makes him miserable. Jim was close to decking a guy in the face for offering to transfer a few credits via direct deposit. He isn't some fucking beggar.
The young man tears open another packet, something something fruit-nut-bar, and squeezes the dubious, brick-shaped bar out of its plasticky confines. It does smell fruity. And a little… Booze-y? Must've fermented inside the pouch. Oh, fuck yeah. It wasn't bloated, so it'll be fine… Hopefully.
Jimmy digs his teeth into the thing, having to pull it apart like a predatory mammal would tear into a kill with sharp teeth. He certainly eats with the fervor of one, but perhaps it is more than he bargained for. Just as he can fully enjoy the berry-nut-bad-cocktail taste, it happens.
The tip of his canine snaps, now stuck in the mass. Fuck. The fucking thing made his tooth splinter. He's bleeding, but he doesn't care. He just keeps eating.
Maybe it'll kill him.
Hopefully.
Jim wakes, sweat-drenched. Still on the stairs. The street lights are on by now. Cold beads on his forehead. His breaths come shallow. He shouldn't have eaten that fucking nutri-brick. His throat feels full, like a solid rod of lead, red-hot like the surface of the sun. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He manages to stand, stumbles. Sweaty hands glide across the handrail on his way down, catching him barely in time so he doesn't fall flat on his face.
His ankles are still asleep, however, eventually causing him to tumble. Palms on concrete. They feel raw. Road rash. The almighty nutri-slop has him on his hands and knees, panting like a mutt, silently begging for any god to take mercy upon him and prevent him from turning his guts inside out on the pavement–
But his silent pleas are just that. Silent.
Therefore, no one hears him out.
A mop of unruly brown hangs between shaking shoulders. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. His nose burns on the inside. Saliva gathers under his tongue, then on it. And then, it finally happens. Jimmy utters a guttural shout, garbled by half-digested stomach contents forcing themselves out of his gullet nigh violently, splattering on the pavement in a foul streak of bile and red paste. Definitely the nutri-brick. However, he could compete in a projectile vomiting contest with that range. He manages to breathe once, twice, then another forceful retch follows, this time more watery than anything else. Was the water bad too?
He can't help but whine when his body gives him a break, letting himself rest against the half wall that divides the ascend of the overpass from the side street he's currently painting with his various… Fluids. And he's loud. He expects to be hit by cold water out of a window very soon, to be honest. This absolutely wonderful but sadly very brief respite is interrupted by a convulsion so mighty that Jimmy groans in pain. Balling his fist, his calloused fingertips dig into torn skin. Fuck. This is gonna make him stop dumpster diving for a while, holy shit.
Jimmy writhes in his spot, clearing his throat and feeling the acid burn it further, as if the vibration worked it deeper into his mucosal folds. Jesus. This is fucking awful, but, oh, it gets worse.
Steps in the distance. He almost doesn't register them as such, only hearing a dull thudding in tune with the awful throb of his splintered tooth. Yeah, that happened too. Fuck. All in the same goddamn day. Jimmy hopes the stranger takes him as some drunk homeless dude about to succumb to his alcohol poisoning and just leaves him there. Not far from the truth, actually, but still.
No such luck. Of course. The footsteps grow louder and he finally recognizes them as such. Hurrying towards him. Did he think fuck yet? Because fuck. Fuck, is also what his stomach is thinking, since it begins to cramp again, causing him to gag.
Upon reaching the wreck Jimmy made of himself, the stranger begins to speak frantically, puts a hand on his shoulder blade. The contact burns. "Oh, shit, hey– hey, do you need an ambulance?"
"Can't… Fucking pay for it.", is all he can reply in between panting. Debt is the last thing he needs, especially with his credit chit on lockdown. Can't even overdraft like that.
"Fuck, I'll– uh. Hold on, can you stand?" The temperament and pitch of the other's voice becomes apparent. A guy, warmth in his tone. Worry. He hates it. Hate, hate, hates it.
"Nuh-uh–" Jimmy was going to say something else, but finds himself unable because his body is hellbent on ridding itself of the expired space food. He gags. Loudly. Then, full-body convulsions. More splattering. Warmth on his skin. It gets on his hands that time, runs between his fingers, seeps into aaaaall the little cracks in his calluses. Fuck's sake.
"Jesus Christ– I'll just hold, uh, your hair back."
"Th–" Again, he can't get any further. Dry heaving. Retching. He can't do this anymore. His vocal chords are raw, blistering from the acid. On the upside, though, the other does as he offered; deft fingers pull at his scalp, doing their utmost to sort his mussed hair into a messy ponytail just before a barrage of bile spills from his tongue. Jimmy spits, tries to rid himself of the taste. Somehow, he can still taste the berry slab. And the fermentation alcohol. Hell, he can smell it.
Speak of the devil. Cue a sniff, followed by a scoff. "Too much to drink?", the other asks.
Jimmy has to cackle in reply. This guy's funny. "Nah. Ate something I shouldn't have." God, he wishes. That would make this entire situation bearable, because he wouldn't fucking remember tomorrow.
"Ugh, can't imagine what that was.", the other seemingly can't stop himself from commenting. He's starting to piss Jimmy off. "Think you can stand now? I want to get you cleaned up, at least."
"I'unno if I can stand yet.", he slurs, almost putting his head into his hands, before realizing that he spewed over his hands, immediately aborting that course of action. Last thing he needs is to give himself pink-eye.
So, he opts to look up at the kind stranger, willing to lend a hand. Blonde, blue-eyed, tall. His size, but broader. His age. Something… Something is off. He's familiar. Too fucking familiar.
"Wait–", the other man stalls as well. Seeming at a loss. Staring at him for ages and ages on end. Cogs turn. Full lips part as he sucks in a sharp breath. "Is that you, Jim?"
"... Curly."
Baby-blue eyes light up at that, as if surprised that he recognizes him.
Ah. Jimmy remembers the other all too well. Goody-two-shoes, can't grow a pair, easy to persuade. He won't have to worry about food, shelter, and clean clothes if he can get under his skin. He smiles at his own thoughts, glossy-eyed and bile-stained, which the other mistakes for joy over their reunion.
What an outlook. Lady Luck - that old, scorned whore - graces him with her blessing once more.