Liberté Foncée

Change
Everybody's feeling strange
Never gonna be the same
Makes you wonder how the world keeps turning

- Jon Bon Jovi, Everyday

CHAPTER SIX: TIME FOR CHANGE

Ayden's duties to the Death Eaters and their tolls on his personal life were already apparent to him, only a few weeks after he'd joined the Dark Lord's forces. Of course, the strains on his friendship with Rayne, Alena, and Shane had started to show that first night. Even after he'd been forgiven and the matter "forgotten," Ayden would sometimes look up from his plate at one of their dinners together to see one of them looking at him oddly, as if trying to figure out what exactly was wrong. This was only intensified by the fact that the Death Eaters took up much of the time he'd before spent with the others. Not to mention that Shane's birthday was not the last event or meeting he had to miss. Not by many to come.

Other than this, the group's relations seemed fine, just as always. Alena and Shane had recently announced their engagement. In addition to this, Rayne and Ayden had recently started something of a more intimate relationship, with a kiss or two here and there, and many awkward pauses, especially around others.

Shane and Alena found this quite amusing for reasons no one was quite sure of, and the other half of the group thought it better not to ask.

*

The phrase, "No news is good news" was an extremely popular one in 2117, if inaccurate. Many people discarded papers delivered to them without even reading what they had to say. And while Shane Parker usually did this every morning, today the headline on the front page caught his attention and compelled him to spit out his morning coffee all over the table in front of him in a mixture of shock and anger.

The story itself was short and to the point: "blood type" would be added to everyone's identification tags "for their own protection." There was no need to clarify that the "blood type" did not refer to medical information that would come in handy during an emergency blood transfusion.

As if by instinct, Shane walked slowly to his bedroom and grabbed the tags off the dresser. Overnight, another had appeared.

HALF BLOOD

He scowled. They couldn't do this - if their government was truly as far out of Voldemort's control as they claimed to be, no one would be carrying the ID tags around in the first place.

He stood there for a minute, glowering, then walked swiftly to the phone. Just as he was about to pick it up and dial, it rang.

Rayne didn't bother with a hello. "Have you seen the paper?"

"Yeah. I think the Ministry should just admit Voldemort's in control and get it over with."

"You're telling me. For our own protection... the hell. Wouldn't it be easier for them to tattoo 'Mudblood' or my forehead and get it over with?" There was a pause. "Does Alena know?"

"She's not home yet." Shane glanced at his watch. "Any minute, though. She was on duty tonight; no doubt she's heard the propaganda version at work."

"Work... oh, God, do you realize we've got a scheduled meeting tonight? Weasley's going to be impossible."

Shane groaned. "I'm calling in sick."

"You did that last month when he called us in to tell us he was positive the Minster was working for Voldemort. And you still owe me ten galleons for covering for you."

"And here I was hoping you'd forgotten. Hey - have you called Ayden yet?"

"Would he care?"

Shane knew what she meant. Even since Mark's death, Ayden had made it a point to avoid all things political - magical or Muggle.

"Probably not. But you never know."

Rayne scoffed. "Rubbish. You know he hates having anything to do with these things. Best just not mention it to him."

There was quiet, until Shane finally said, "So, how much are you willing to bet we don't get to leave tonight until at least three in the morning?"

"Not much. Weasley's over a hundred, he'll need some sleep, whether he likes it or not. Five galleons say one-thirty."

"Five? Just five?"

"Yes. It happens I'm rather broke at the moment. But I'll throw in coffee on the way home if I'm wrong."

*

Alena apparated home about five minutes after Shane's phone conversation with Rayne ended. She never had been very good at it, and for a second time Shane's morning coffee wound up all over the table instead of in his mouth as she appeared two inches from him, a stray elbow knocking the mug from his hands.

Shane cursed under his breath, greeted her brightly, and then asked if she'd seen the papers this morning. Alena told him to mind his language, greeted him less brightly, and said that no, she hadn't, but the story of the tags had been all anyone discussed all night.

"So, what do you think?" Shane asked, rising to his feet and with a wave of his wand clearing the spilled coffee.

"Is it really that big a deal?" Alena looked tired. "So what if we've got to carry around another tag? It's nothing new, really. Anyway, it could be helpful. I think it's a good idea."

"You... what?"

*

Ayden was skilled at tuning people and things that he didn't want to hear out. (Living under the same roof as Mark for several years had helped him with this immensely.) But even he was having a hard time ignoring all the people loudly discussing the news of new identification tags with varying degrees of enthusiasm. He could only image what his friends were saying about it, and he felt very thankful he was working an early shift today. It spared him listening to quite a bit of initial reaction ranting, he was sure.

He had to admit, he liked his job, though for someone who had spent five years avoiding any and all political discussion, a bookstore was not a very sensible place to work. But hey, he got free drinks and food from the café; even if he wasn't big on eating, you don't turn down free pastries. You just don't. There were definitely some perks.

Now that he had joined with an opposing force (which was just his fancy way of saying 'Death Eaters' because he really didn't feel like thinking of it as it was), however, eavesdropping on the people sitting together and discussing current situations (even some Muggles joined in; the Wizarding world hadn't been a secret to the non-magical community for some time now) gave him some idea of what was happening the way others thought of it.

"Outrageous!" a white haired, seemingly blind man was saying to a redheaded young woman who looked about Ayden's age. The two sat at a table some ten feet away from the magazine rack Ayden was reorganizing. "Absolutely outrageous!"

The young woman offered a slightly pained smile and nodded. She stirred her coffee with a thin, wooden stirrer and sighed. Clearly, this had been the man's conversational topic of choice for quite a while. "Yes," she said, as though she'd repeated it fifty times in the past hour already. "Outrageous. I know exactly how you feel."

Ayden smiled slightly. The girl sounded like he did whenever Shane and Rayne began one of their long, heated conversations about work and anything related. He imagined himself later today. Sigh.

He felt a sudden pang on his inner arm. The dark mark. He groaned inwardly, starting to feel sick. Not today. Not now. For God's sake...

Thankfully, the moment passed. Ayden had learned by now that occasionally, when the Dark Lord was feeling particularly excited or angry about something, the mark might burn slightly. Just as it sometimes got darker, near black, though Voldemort hadn't called his followers to his side.

The slight pain was gone, but Ayden still felt ill.

The bookstore's bathroom was small, with white walls and dim lighting. Ayden leaned against the bathroom counter for a moment, catching a glimpse of his face. He looked pale, as though he hadn't slept for several days. Not far from the truth. And he looked stressed, too. Not far from the truth at all. Dead on, as a matter of fact. This whole 'secret life' business was hard work.

*

DECEMBER, YEAR 2116

Braeden McKay stood outside a flat on the fourth floor of a large apartment building. The paint on the red door was peeling. A browning Christmas wreath hung from a rusty nail. The window beside the door was dirty and covered by a white curtain from the inside.

Braeden knocked for a third time. He didn't really want to be here. It was cold, snowing - that wet, miserable type of snow that melts as soon as it hits you - and he really should have been home trying to think of someone to spend Christmas eve with tomorrow. Preferably someone other than his cat.

Finally, the door creaked open.

A young witch stood there. Braeden knew her face, but of her name he wasn't certain. She went by many names.

"Yes?" she asked wearily.

Braeden quickly introduced himself, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. The woman looked at him suspiciously. "We work for the same people," he explained swiftly. She blinked at him. He shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. "Can I come in?" he asked finally.

She studied him for a moment, then finally nodded, stepping aside to let him inside the apartment.

In the background, an old Muggle radio was playing Christmas carols. Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow. How appropriate. Braeden had never understood that song. It's not like you stand a chance of stopping the snow once it starts. And anyway, snow made the roads bad and --

"How may I help you?"

"I... er... We've never met, personally..." he began, though that was really quite obvious. "But we had - have - a common acquaintance." He cleared his throat. The woman waited.

"And who would that be?" she inquired. She was watching him closely, as though trying to figure out where she might have seen him before. It made Braeden uncomfortable, but this was important to him.

"Your sister."

"Mr. McKay, my sister is dead." She spoke calmly and sincerely, but her eyes flickered. With interest? He couldn't be sure.

"She's not. You know she's not."

"She passed away four years ago. Who are you? What do you want?"

Braeden frowned at the question. He wasn't quite sure who he was anymore. He wasn't sure what he'd been to Adrienne either. To tell this woman he had been her boyfriend would be stupid. Even in his head it sounded trivial and pathetic, as though he was some idiot that couldn't accept the fact that his lover was dead.

But Adrienne wasn't dead. He was positive. Her death had been too well timed, too convenient. Too unreal. He just needed this woman to understand. He needed her to believe him, and he needed her help.

*

He walked home a mere ten minutes later with a promise that all he had to say would be listened to, just not at the moment. He thanked the woman and set off for home.

And what have you got at the end of the day?

That was when he started noticing. Noticing everything - the beggars in the streets, the streets themselves, littered and dirty. Shop windows were barred and broken, garbage bins overflowed on corners and into the roads. The finding of dead bodies in the alleys was a normal occurrence not even mentioned by the papers anymore. It just wasn't news nowadays, something that belonged in the 'Duh' file.

What have you got to take away?

Had things been this way before? Even just five years ago, the streets were cleaner, the world was more colorful. It hadn't been just the bland gray and brown of brick and stone and concrete. Or was he forgetting? Was he just dreaming of a better world where there was no hope for one? Where there never had been? Braeden sighed, bending his head against the falling snow.

A bottle of whiskey and a new set of lies,

"Spare change for food?" an elderly, crippled woman called to him. She sat on the edge of the sidewalk, wrapped in a grubby woolen shawl, holding out her hands hopefully when he looked down at her. He dug a hand in his pocket with nothing in it but a bit of gray lint. He tossed it into the wind and shrugged helplessly at the woman. As he continued on his path, he could hear the woman cursing him under her breath. Nice old lady.

Blinds on the window and a pain behind your eyes.

*

YEAR 2111

"He's a kid! I'm not taking him out on assignment with me! I can't look after him while I'm working!" She threw a glance toward the young man standing at the other end of the room, out of earshot but watching her intently just the same.

"Cassada, you're out of line. You were younger than him when you started working with us. "

"I was mature for my age! And anyway, he's an American," said Adrienne huffily.

"I don't care what the hell he is. It's your job to show him around and get him accustomed to working for our Lord."

Adrienne glared at the man standing in front of her. Thirty-two year old Robert Dumont had been the proverbial pain in her ass ever since she'd joined Voldemort's forces at the age of sixteen, dropping out of school to do so. Dumont was just like Adrienne, which annoyed her more than was normal; he knew when he had the advantage of a situation and he loved to torment those who didn't.

"What, it's not your job anymore?"

"It is, but I've got seniority in the matter--" he allowed himself a smirk "--and that means I can tell you to do what I don't want to do myself. Now go baby sit the American and be a good girl," Dumont said.

Adrienne scowled. "I spoke with him earlier today; his grammar is atrocious," she said, apparently as a poorly aimed, last-ditch attempt to get out of this.

Dumont laughed. "Bad news for a Grammar Bitch Queen like you, eh?" Adrienne stuck her tongue out at him. "You say you were mature when you joined us?" Dumont said under his breath as he walked away from her.

Adrienne watched him go glumly. She sighed and walked toward the dreaded American.

"What did you say your name was?" she was asking him a few moments later, still looking just as discouraged.

"Conlon," said the boy. He was tall with light brown hair and eyes that seemed to judge your every move to see if you were up to his standards.

"Any last name?"

"Yeah, but you don't really need to know it, do you?"

Smart ass. "And you're from...?"

"The colonies," he said sarcastically. Adrienne rolled her eyes a little too enthusiastically. "Brooklyn. New York," he added, as though it were an after thought.

Ah, so that's where the annoying accent comes from, Adrienne thought. Note to self: avoid ever going to Brooklyn.

"Right. What are you doing here?"

He shrugged. "Things started getting bad back home. Friends, family... They don't get it, you know? These days anyone with a wand is supposed to be a wizard."

His last sentence sounded to the brunette Death Eater like 'Deez days anyone wid a wand is s'posed ta be a wizad.' She cringed. How could people speak like this without driving one another mad?

Bad news for a Grammar Bitch Queen like you, eh?

Adrienne had just decided she was going to brutally murder Robert Dumont. Possibly while singing "The Hills Are Alive" just to make it more excruciating.