Chapter Text
“You turning in for the day?” Xisuma’s voice reverberated through the speakers of his helmet, and Pix nodded to him with an easy smile.
“About time to clock out, isn’t it? Are you going home soon?”
“Ah, I’ve got to bully Tango into finishing his paperwork first, then I’ll go.” Xisuma replied, shoulders slouching tiredly, and Pix laughed.
“Best of luck with that, X.”
“It won’t help.”
“Oh, I know it, mate. Be seeing you.” Pix waved over his shoulder as he exited the labs, boots echoing on the laminate tile of the archway before he cleared it and moved into the street.
As he did, he folded his wings in tighter against his back to avoid accidentally bumping into anyone on the commute home.
His wings were thin and spindly, four of them emerged from the sewn circular openings in the back of his lab coat. With translucent membranes stretching over the boney interior structure, and they formed triangular sails that could catch the air when fully extended. Two of them emerged from his shoulder blades, the second two from his lower back. The large joints were able to rotate up and down, giving him tremendous mobility in the air.
Or at least…they used too.
Three of his wings were able to rotate back and fold in closely, but he always had to mind his right side else he accidentally clip someone with his lower right wing.
Unlike the other three, it couldn’t quite fold in like it used too.
It was always folded up somewhat while he was out, secured with by a soft leathery brace. It was like a sling but for his wing, holding the appendage into it’s folded position without him having to put any effort to maintaining it there, which would quickly grow painful. The soft leathery interior was able to keep traction against the smooth surface of his phantom membranes, and the exterior was fashioned of several coppery-colored metal rods to give the weakened wing support, again to try and spare him some pain. His right lower wing root and lower back were always still achy and sore by the end of the day, but it was nothing compared to the pain he’d been in before he’d gotten a proper brace for the thing, and had been getting by with either an old bedsheet or nothing but a brave face. The straps for the sling were secured around his waist beneath his lab coat, overtop a pressed dark blue button-down. The padding on the straps widened over his opposite hip to ensure he wasn’t made to put to much pressure on his right lower wing.
The thing wasn’t exactly up to flying anymore.
Lucky for me I’ve got three spares.
It was such a ridiculous thought. Pix knew it.
He walked along the sidewalk of the near-surface for a minute, headed toward the closest landing platform to the labs. As he walked, his left leg took just a split-second to carry forward in his stride. His limp used to be a lot worse, thanks to the brace he’d gotten once he’d returned to working at the labs, it had been barely noticeable. Still there, and certainly he wasn’t about to be running a sprint anytime soon, but when he strolled his way along on this evening commute it was able to escape his mind. What a joy that was, after all the time it had made things so difficult for him, but then again, it wasn’t like he’d have had it any other way.
He’d had twenty-four long years to come to terms with his injuries, and that much time hadn’t even been necessary. From the moment where he’d known he’d get hurt, he was already at peace with it. Which was bizarre in it’s own ways, difficult to explain, and in all this time perhaps Pix regretted not being able to put it to words any better. Probably would’ve saved him a lot of trouble if he could’ve, but…that, to, had been a blessing in disguise.
So many gifts in the guise of anarchy and misfortune had tumbled down onto his head, back then. Figuratively and literally.
Bright blue eyes in whites that weren’t white, but gold.
He could see them with crystal clarity in his memories, fearful as the world came down around them, and he was still too young to understand.
Pix hadn’t been.
He’d been in his early twenties back then. Sure, still young, but not a kid anymore. Not a kid like they had been, like he had been.
If he were ever thrown back to those moments, he was sure he’d make the same choice all over again.
Pix had a lot of regrets.
There was plenty of things he’d done in his life he wasn’t proud of.
His solitary musing was interrupted by his phone buzzing in his lab coat pocket. A cheerful bongo beat selected years ago by the one it represented.
He pulled the device out and answered, bringing it to his ear.
“Hello?”
“Papa Pix, how’s it going!? I miss you so much! How was work?” Exuberant and excessive, the voice barreled from the speaker, and Pix felt a smile tugging up his lips. He maneuvered to the side of the street, out of the way of the flow of pedestrians, and leaned on one of the beat-up railings along the near-surface main street. Looking out at the foundational towers and the drop toward the depths, so far down he couldn’t even make out the ground, he replied. “I’m well, work was good. How about you?”
“It was fantastic! Ah, the kids are just so much fun to work with, y’know? And, and get this! I’ve got two ghast mutants in my History lecture this year! Two! Oh, I’m gonna give them just the best advice they ever did hear! Keep them far away from the clans! Make sure they don’t make all the stupid screw-ups I did, you know what I’m saying?”
“And what stupid screw ups were those?”
“Wasn’t safe for dinner table conversation, Pix, sorry!”
Pix scoffed, but the noise was inescapably fond. “Sausage, you worry me sometimes.”
“Only sometimes?”
“All the time.”
“That’s better! Always on your mind, isn’t that fun?”
“Is it?”
Sausage laughed, his voice pitching upward, and Pix sighed. “You just called to say hi…or?”
“Of course, of course! Can’t I just call my dearest Papa Pix and make sure he’s doing well in his golden years?”
This time Pix laughed, raking his free hand back over his dark brown hair, longish and tied loosely in the back into a short ponytail. He also had a neatly trimmed short beard. As his fingers carding back over his head, they briefly caught over the fans emerging behind each of his ears, also of phantom membrane over boney interior structure. They could flare up and out when his emotions were running high, glamor sparking pale blue lightning through them. Right now though, they were flicked back and comfortable, relaxed.
“I’m sorry, I think I’d like to resent that!”
Sausage laughed again. “Well, I suppose I’d deserve it. How’re Fwhip and Falsie?”
“Good far as I know…haven’t seen either of them in a few weeks. Both of them are working hard, of course, so it’s to be expected. Lots to do and never enough time to do it.” Pix replied.
“How’s Oli?”
“Oh he’s good, he’s fine. He’s coming to mooch off me for dinner again.”
“I am not!”
Pix heard the voice faintly from further beyond the speaker, and he hummed. “Ah, so you two are together?”
“We work at the same school, kinda hard to avoid him.”
“Why are you talking about me like you don’t like me!? I’m only here because of you!”
“I know, I know, now calm down, the adults are talking.”
“I’m nearly thirty! Gimme the phone, gimme!”
“What’s the magic word?”
Pix could heard scuffling going on, and his amusement only grew before he spoke with a played-up tone of sternness.
“Now boys, no fighting.”
“He started it!” Oli’s voice cried out, this time properly into the phone, and Pix figured he must’ve gotten ahold of it.
“Hi Pix!”
“Hello, Oli, and how are you?”
“Oh, I’m doing just fine! If someone would quit harassing me!”
“Aw, c’mon baby brother, you know I’m only teasing you.”
Pix heard Oli’s long suffering sigh, and chuckled again. “You’re usually a dynamic duo, what, is working together too much?”
“It’s not like we see each other at school outside the break room. And besides, it’s been so annoying to try and explain to everyone that yes, Sausage is my brother, no we aren’t related do we look related!?”
“You didn’t inherit my stunning good looks, sorry Oli.”
“Sausage!”
They were fighting again, and Pix shook his head faintly. Hearing it wasn’t seeing it, of course, and he missed them dearly, but they had their own lives to live now. Both Sausage and Oli had gone through the acclimation program and chosen to live their lives in the over-city. The program had done so well for them that after they’d finished their degrees they’d both come back to get jobs within it. Sausage was a history teacher, and Oli taught art and music. They were both also apart of the acclimation program, helping high school under-city folk learn to conceal parts of themselves to live beneath the blue sky.
“Are you two on your way back from work now as well?” Pix asked, mostly just to interrupt their bickering.
“Hm? Oh, yeah! We’re headed back now! I’m starving!”
“You’re always hungry, I always end up cooking for you, and of course, I’m happy too! More than happy too! But you’re wracking up the debt!”
“You’re my brother, what debt!?”
“Coffee runs. So many coffee runs.”
“Anymore coffee and you’re gonna have a heart attack.” Oli muttered, and Pix found himself chuckling again.
They were always capable of getting a rise out of him, be it amusement, frustration, or a simple joy.
Twenty-five years ago, tell me I’d be an empty-nester one day…man, the look on my face woulda been priceless.
He considered as he let his eyes keep trailing around the under-city, foundational towers, redstone circuits flashing and flickering lights that offered just enough to see by, but not nearly enough to mimic sunlight. A pale imitation of bright moonlight, maybe.
“Well if you’re so hungry, go eat. I’ll talk to you again soon.” Pix said, and Oli cheered. “Let’s go! Bye-bye, Pix, love you!”
“Bye, kisses, love you!” Sausage piled back on.
His heart flickered and swelled.
It was still so hard to believe. Hearing words like that tacked onto the end of a phone call, always expected, always given a reply.
“Love you boys too, be careful up there.”
“Always are!”
“We’ll try to come visit soon, promise!”
“Certainly, but don’t worry to much about me. Enjoy your time. Bye.”
He hung up and slid his phone back into his pocket with a smile now inescapably pressed upon his face. Not like he’d try to get away from it.
This was his life, and he was happy with it.
Growing up he’d been like so many others of his generation, capable of compartmentalizing, willing to do whatever it took to take care of himself, survive to see another day.
He continued his walk, arriving at the landing platform. He stepped out onto it, the concrete slab with interior support, no railings, for winged under-city folk who preferred an easier landing or were perhaps carrying someone else, and also for those who found take-off a bit more tricky than they used too.
Pix found that phrase coming up a lot, in his mind.
Not like I used to be.
There were a lot of things that could apply too. Not like he used to be, a fast flier and a strong runner, not like he used to be, young and cynical, not like he used to be, selfish and alone.
Not like he used to be.
Pix wasn’t what he used to be.
Thank stars I’m not what I used to be.
He took a few steps till he was right on the edge of the platform. Adjusted his sling so his lame wing was safely laced into place, folded tight, and then spread his other three open wide.
He couldn’t fly very well anymore, but he was lucky that his subspecies, phantom mutants, had four wings and not two.
It wasn’t perfect, but he was still capable. Leaning forward onto his toes, he dove forward off the platform like he was diving headfirst into a swimming pool. His wings opened wide, phantom membrane caught the air like sails, and he glided along. The first few seconds he wobbled, always did, as he found his balance. Dropping his lower left wing back further than he would’ve if his fourth wing were capable of helping out. The wobbly start would turn into a graceful swoop, as he began spiraling along the outside of the cavern. He wasn’t great with changes of direction anymore, so he wouldn’t fly through the center around the foundational towers, not wanting to accidentally crash into anyone because he wouldn’t be able to turn quickly. The wind generated from his flight teased through the flyaways from his ponytail, and he let out a contented sigh.
This was his life.
Pix, a young phantom mutant with an eye for constructive design who’d been one of the architects of the rail cart system used by so many today. The idea for the various stops, transforming the system from something strictly used to transport goods into a two pronged railway maze that ran like clockwork and, despite the annoying requirements such as the carts being unable to stop, saw shockingly few major injuries thanks to safety protocols he’d worked up. He’d begun that work thirty years ago when he was only sixteen, already jaded and discontent with the world he’d been born into, and he’d worked his way up the ladder.
The labs back then hadn’t been somewhere to be proud of. Pix hadn’t worked in the biotech wing, he hadn’t been directly in service to the previous Director, but…he’d known what was going on. He’d been complicit.
What was he supposed to do, anyway?
A kid who’d been given a job, he put his head down and got it done, knowing his rail cart systems would at least make the under-city more accessible, and that was all…besides, he hadn’t cared one way or another.
So long as he was alright, the rest of the city could burn for all he cared.
Or so, that’s what he’d tried to convince himself. And he had been convinced, for a very long time. Till a wayward encounter had started changing his mind.
This was his life.
Pix L. Riffs, forty-six years old, father of four adult children who were all off in the wide world making their way. With a lame wing and a slight limp, and about fifteen pounds of braces on him between his sling and his leg brace, coppery-colored metal and straps over his thigh and around his knee.
Sailing home to a cramped apartment that had once felt far to small for a cobbled together family of five.
Yeah, this was it.
He couldn’t be happier.
Twenty Four Years Ago
Pix figured he’d done alright for himself.
His skill with redstone and eye for constructive design had gotten his foot in the door at the labs, and sure, the Director was frightening to say the least, but she didn’t bother with anything that didn’t interest her. Keeping the under-city running was a secondary concern, she only really did what was necessary to keep her various biotech experiments going. One of those things was an issue cropping up with transportation. The rail cart system needed a serious overhaul. Pix had been selected for the job despite having worked at the labs barely a year as an assistant, and was made an officer at the age of 17.
But Pix was different in a lot of ways. The under-city didn’t raise naive children. So he’d set his mind to the work, kept his head down, ignored the horrors he knew was going on behind closed doors.
So long as he never opened them, he kept his own hands clean.
Right?
His rail cart overhaul was in it’s finishing stages. Setting up stations on the various levels, reorganizing to rename the different sectors of the under-city so it was easier to discuss locations and get to different places, rerouting carts in order to lay new track, figuring out the exact necessary of powered rails and the spacing required, keeping travel times short, the list went on. It had been pretty much his sole focus for the past four years, since he’d been made an officer.
Wake up, eat, work, go home, eat, sleep.
Rinse and repeat.
Pix lived in a small apartment in the mid-levels with a cramped bedroom and an office, a narrow galley kitchen and a living room. His dining table was covered in bleed-throughs from marker and scratches from needle and compass work. The beaten up piece of furniture, compressed laminate that imitated wood, had come with six chairs, but Pix left four of them stacked in the corner of his office. Honestly, he probably could’ve done well to make some friends, but being alone was simply easier. In the under-city, the tension was known every time you opened your mouth. It wasn’t an easy place to live. The mid-levels were safer than the depths, sure, but they were nothing compared to the near-surface. It was a dangerous place, through and through. Pix had just finished shoving a piece of stale toast half-slathered with preserves he’d gotten from a market in the near-surface when he’d gone up there for work. It wasn’t easy moving between the levels unless you had wings, and even then people gave you the side-eye. Now with the rail cart system nearly completed, Pix figured that would change, not like it really concerned him one way or another.
If he gave some claim like, well, he was doing this work to better the under-city, help people get connected, make it easier for supplies to reach the lower levels, it was a passion project…he’d be lying.
Sure, that was the point.
Did he actually care that much?
Not really.
Pix was getting what was good for him. He was getting paid, receiving resources, and the labs were a shield against anything too terrible happening to him, so long as he was careful. Sure, if he’d been asked to work in the wardship program or the biotech wing, he might have hesitated, perhaps even refused…but he couldn’t say for sure. Luckily that never happened, Pix didn’t specialize in those areas, he was exactly where he was meant to be, doing what he was good at. He turned a blind eye to everything else. This city was broken long before he was even born. There was no reason for him to shoulder the burden of trying to fix it. Maybe if it had mattered so much, his predecessors ought not have so irreversibly screwed it all up in the first place. Then again, it wasn’t their fault, either. Only so much you could do, in a place like this, with a bedrock ceiling above and snaking tunnels all around. So many different subspecies of people trying to live together, honestly, it was enough to give anyone pause.
Pix tried not to do much pausing, though.
He finished his toast and headed for the door, grabbing his white blazer with his I.D card dangling from the pocket. He slid it on and leaned forward slightly in order to fold in his wings in tightly and then work them out one by one through the slits along the back. He rolled his shoulders as his four wings beat out a couple times, as best they could in the tiny entryway. Then, Pix stooped to unlock his door. The door was tiny, a little over three feet high, with a rounded arch. Considering Pix’s entire apartment was carved out of a tunnel wall in the mid-levels, it made things both easier and safer, smaller door, easier to board up.
What a world to live in.
Pix’s apartment did have one perk, in that it was the first along the tunnel, so it had windows along the wall looking out over the sheer drop into the main cavern. These windows lined the galley kitchen and the living room wall, while the two small rooms of the place, his cramped bedroom and the larger room he’d decided to use for his office, considering he spent more time in there working than he did in his room sleeping, were on the interior, no windows.
Bending his knees, he shuffled out through the little door and shut it behind him, leaning down to lock up. The redstone security system he’d installed when he’d first moved into the place a few years ago was armed and ready. The entire apartment could go into lockdown at the drop of a hat, because Pix knew exactly what sort of place he lived in. He was used to it.
This was his life, after all.