“You know that the stars aren’t right.” The staircase is dark and overgrown, a relic of a time gone to rest. I can almost see them now, briefcase in hand and hand on heart, running up these stairs back when it was as it was, travelling to menial places in our childhood toys. Did we ever think that there should have been more? Looking back, I’m not so sure I did. Hindsight is a curse in trying times. In hindsight, it was obvious. We’re creatures of habit, bound by the steps that others take and cling to the pattern like a life buoy. We feel powerful when we align with what we choose. I tend not to listen to the background chatter anymore. As a child, I lived near a hospital. It wasn’t an emergency one, and at times I truly thought it was abandoned. It was used mainly for mri scans and x rays, but I only found that out after I moved away and needed a checkup on an old wound. I was a nervous child, convinced the would was trying to kill me. I’d beg the universe to spare me, say a million good nights to my father in case I died in my sleep and never saw him again. I was scared of what happened to my brain after dark. The slime of disturbed thoughts, of death and teeth that bite. A lone ambulance siren would drift into my ears, distant and crackled. It’d continue, never getting closer, until I fell asleep. And in these moments, I still cannot figure out if the siren was real. An eternally distant, immovable object of questionable origin. It wasn’t only sirens. Quiet beeping, enough that I couldn’t tell whether it was organic or mechanic. It’s silence that brews it, something I am in no need desperate for any more. That is my stance on the background chatter. I begin up the stairs, engulfed in the darkness. A slight glow is at the top of the stairs, the light at the end of this tunnel I suppose. I run my hands along the cool stone walls, damp and covered in something I cannot see. Something rushes past my feet and I trip, hands and forehead slamming down on the steps. The darkness is blooming red, the colour of danger as I scramble to my feet, sprinting up the last few steps. Light suddenly blinds me, but my vision isn’t right. My head stings and as I touch my forehead it is wet. I may have reached the end of the tunnel, but where I am now is not much better than before. I feel eyes on me, but my own left eye will not open. The station is bathed in the full moon, the glass ceiling like a shimmering portal. I resist the urge to glance around, instead stumbling half blind towards the old station book shop. A cry knocks me out of my daze and I look down to see a bearded man curled up on the floor. I mumble an apology, face blooming the same red as my forehead. The station falls silent again, and I continue, making sure not to tread on anyone else. The book shop bared the scars of the decade. There was no glass in the windows, gunshots littered the rusted blue sign. Somewhat fresh red streaks led away from the shop towards the train tracks, and I shudder like a goose has walked over my grave. A woman with one eye stares at me from behind a makeshift till. “I’m uh... sorry. Someone told me to come here, uh,” my voice rasped from weeks of disuse. She rolled her eye, a sour expression spread across her face. “You’ll have to be a bit more specific, kid.” “Percy-“ Her expression changed into confusion, and then nothing. “If Percy told you to come here, he’s dead, isn’t he?” she spoke softly, her face giving nothing away. I closed my one eye, the other still sealed in searing pain. “It didn’t work out.” “That damned fool should have listened to me-“ “He listened. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?” I grumbled. “I need a gun.” She pursed her lips, eyes narrowing. “What happened to his violence-free sanctuary?” “He died. That’s what happened!” I clutched the makeshift till tightly, my knuckles going white from the pressure. My palms screamed, the injuries making themselves known in my anger. The woman stared blankly at me, before putting a small pistol in front of me. I sneered, swiping the blood from my forehead. With another roll of the eye, she put the pistol away and replaced it with an assault rifle. As I reached forward, a cold hand grasped my wrist tightly. “I may have thought his idea was damned stupid, but avenging his memory with violence is the furthest thing he’d have wanted. That’ll be 300 credits.” Her eyes seemed to see beyond my skull and deep into my brain, probing and flicking through my darkest parts. I nodded silently, unable to speak while she stared at me. I flung the metal coins, raining down on the scrap metal like hailstones and clutched the gun, her hand no longer on my wrist. A bright red print remained, glaring as I backed away, fearful of turning my back on her as she continued to stare. I didn’t turn around until I was engulfed in the familiar darkness of the stairs, the walls breathing as I stumbled back down, the ghost of a tail sweeping past my ankles in the darkness.