Michael was happy he’d missed the holidays in Preya. Christmas? Not his favorite time of year. He liked the lights though, had fond memories of his grandma driving him around to look at all the lit up houses with their blow up Santas and their wooden reindeer on the front lawn. He remembered one particular house, bathed in red and green, a herd of painted deer and a speaker that played Hark! The Herald Angels Sing. Constance had stopped the car so he could get a better look, and the song had slipped in through an open window, and Michael had instantly hated it, had wanted it to stop.
The speaker had blown up, a cloud of sparks and dying voices drifting off into the night. The reindeer had gone up in flames, one after the other. Rudolph burned the fastest. Michael had marveled at the flames, his eyes bright and lit from within, and Constance, poor Constance, the ever suffering grandmother, had driven away as fast as she could. On their way home, she had refused to stop at McDonald’s for him, but he knew her so well, and he knew that if he hung his head and said that he was sorry, she would give in and forget (or at least pretend to forget) that she was angry with him. She’d chosen to forget what he’d done that night, and after they’d stepped into the house, they’d immediately stepped back out, on their way to get hot chocolate from Starbucks.
Michael Langdon was used to getting what he wanted. Maybe that’s why it was so difficult for him here, where all he was given was a means of escape and nothing more. He was a new arrival with nowhere to go and nothing to do. He hadn’t thought that far into the future, hadn’t planned this out like he should have. He was just a kid who had wanted to give his deadbeat dad the middle finger by running away, to a place dear old dad hopefully wouldn’t be able to find him.
He was aware that he wasn’t looking his best. His black dress shirt was dirty. His maroon tie was askew and wrinkled. He had dark circles underneath his eyes and unwashed hair. He needed a shower and a hot meal, but instead, he got some guy who didn’t like the look of him. It probably hadn’t helped that Michael had backed into him, that he hadn’t apologized, that he’d glared instead.
Kids these days, right? A bunch of rude little bastards. The guy said as much, loud enough for anyone within a two mile radius to hear. Michael wasn’t in the mood. Not right now. He reached out, grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket, and threw him away like a piece of trash.
He toppled to the ground, but not before brushing against Moriarty.
While he scrambled to regain his footing, too stunned to speak, Michael stepped in beside the man the asshole had briefly made contact with.