Petey Greekname (argyropoulos) wrote in theinvincibles, @ 2015-09-11 22:55:00 |
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Dimitrios works in management consulting in the Loop, only a few blocks from the Lock but a different world. Corner offices, client meetings, business trips -- stuff I'll never understand. His schedule is almost as crazy as mine is, but he's close enough that he stops by when he can. Sitting across from each other, we don't look like we belong in the same establishment, let alone the same table. His suit is clean, his collar crisp, his tie clipped, but anyone who glances at our two-top at Brewed Awakening would know we're brothers by our matching long noses and heavy brows. He shaves more often than I do, but he can only hold off our hereditary hirsuteness for so long (hell, even the women in our family can't escape it), and his five o'clock shadow echoes mine. We even take our coffee the same way -- black -- though he can drink his like a normal person, while I have to slurp mine through a plastic straw. "How's the family?" I ask. He lives in Winnetka with his wife, two kids, dog, and mortgage. Another part of my brother's life I'll never understand. But who understands Winnetka anyway? "Cristina's good," he says (you'll note that's not a Greek name). "She says hi. The kids are doing alright too. Started school last week." "Damn," I exhale. September snuck up on me. It always does, and I can't tell if my warped sense of the seasons comes from getting older or from living at the Lock for almost fifteen years. Maybe both. "That time already." "Yeah," my brother agrees. "Nico's in first grade this year. Big change." "And Dora is…" I'm shooting blind here. "Fourth?" "Mmhmm," he grunts and nods to confirm. "Bet they're already missing summer camp." "Hell, we're already missing summer camp. Kids run around at camp all day, they're wiped out by bedtime. Sit at a desk inside for hours, not so much." He laughs. I take it as my cue to laugh too, even though I've never put a kid to bed. "Hold on," he adds, holding up a finger. "I have some pictures from Parents' Day." Dimitrios loads an album on his phone and passes it to me. I pull off one of my gloves. By now my brother knows better than to flinch, despite all the dumb news coverage about that kid in California. Besides, I'm doing Dimitrios a favor. The smudges on the glass screen dissolve into nothing as I swipe through the photos: archery, canoeing, tug-of-war. Theodora and Nicolas, my niece and nephew, look older and tanner than they did when I last saw them, and that was only Easter. I slide the phone back across the table and tug my glove back on. "How about Mom and Dad? Seen 'em lately?" "Just the other day. You'll hear from them soon. They wanted to know when you were free next week." The house where we grew up isn't that far from the heart of the city, but our parents don't like taking the L, and they refuse to pay for parking in the Loop unless absolutely necessary (I don't blame them -- it's a fucking racket). They're not the type to come and visit me out of the blue. "What are Mom and Dad coming downtown for?" "Financial consulting." Called it. "They're thinking of selling the family business." Didn't call that. "What?" "Calm down, Pete." I'm already calm. No need for him to act superior. "You had to have guessed it could happen. It couldn't stay in the family when none of us were ever going to work there forever." We both know he's trying to spare my feelings. Even before I got locked up and before I couldn't touch the inventory without destroying it, I was never destined for b-school or an internship or a capital-C Career. Not like him. No one expected me to fulfill the American Dream and rise above being a fruit salesman. Still never even made it to college. "It's just weird," I explain. "Olympic Produce was like our ninth sibling." My brother goes on, "You know, Mom and Dad are barely involved in the day-to-day at this point. Practically retired already. Might as well just make it official." "I thought Dad was still --" I stop when I realize how very little I actually know about my parents' daily lives. "Not with his leg." Dimitrios shakes his head. We're thinking of exactly the same thing. The whole family knows he plays it down, especially in front of his three metahuman children, but this might be the first time I've heard any of my family acknowledge it out loud. It suddenly occurs to me that I don't see him enough to judge just how much he does it. "If they sell," he continues. "They'll get a good sum of cash, and I'll help them invest, and they could live comfortably the rest of their lives." "And if they die prematurely, more for the rest of us to fight over?" I can't help it. "Pete. Come on. You know what I mean." He pauses to twirl the wooden stirrer in his cup. "I wanted to talk to you about retirement anyway, you know. Now that Mom and Dad are, maybe they'll have some peace of mind if you -- well, you thought about it any?" "What?!" I'm lucky I'm not drinking when he says it, otherwise I might have shot black coffee up my nose (and that's worse for me than for you, since my powers would catch it on its way out of my face). If he told me to calm down this time, he'd have a case. "Retire? Me? I'm not even thirty, man." For another month and a half anyway. "Not like retire-retire," he backtracks. "Just... doing something else. You've been at the Operative thing for a while now. Maybe it's time to think about your other options." The hell is he getting at? "You give Annie this speech too?" I don't care if I sound aggressive. "She's been doing this ten years longer than me." "Annie lives in Minnesota." "So?" "So she's not getting hit by crazed metahuman terrorists every other week up there." "Oh, so it's fine for Antonia because Minneapolis is too cold for terrorism, but I have to think about my options?" "Look, I'm not trying to make you do anything, but you've got to admit it's dangerous," Dimitrios explains. "That kid died just, what, a month ago?" "Two," I correct. "Alright, two months." The distinction means nothing to him. "That wasn't a normal thing," I point out, like it'll help. "And even if it was, I'll be fine. I'm good at my job." Debatable, but close enough for the purposes of this argument. "I'm not --" I realize then that I don't know how much of the situation has been released to the general public, how much my brother would know. "I'm not going to be in that situation. I'll be fine." "You can't say you'll never be in a situation like it," Dimitrios says. Like no one's ever died at a business meeting before. I've never been run over by a lawn mower on the job, and that happened in the office on Mad Men. "Just... think about it, okay?" He doesn't get it. How could he? Mr. Corner Office, Mr. Wife and Two Kids, Mr. Picket Fence. Mr. Human. "What else am I going to do? Sell arts and crafts on Etsy? Sling lattes and write sad poems like Elias? Transfer to Bumblefuck where APEX won't hit?" I shake my head. The idea of me doing anything else is ridiculous. "No. This is what metahumans do. What's the point of having these powers if we just -- do nothing?" "A genetic mutation means you're obligated to make a martyr of yourself?" I want to punch him. "That's not what this is fucking about, Dimitrios. Annie gets it. That's why she's been an Operative for so long. Orpheus and Olympia get it. You bet your ass their names are on that Greek petition." "The Greek petition is entirely different. Annie is entirely different." "Annie has a kid!" I slap the table, and my coffee threatens to spill. I'm almost shouting. I don't care if I draw attention to our conversation. "If anyone should be thinking about getting out of this, it's her." "Her last big fight was shouting at a bank robber. A human one." Dimitrios talks slowly, like I'm a child who just doesn't get it. "Yours was Zenith." "And we kicked his ass," I grumble. "So you have him in custody here?" He always had a talent for being a shithead. I glare at him because, for a moment, he got me. "I'll be fine," I repeat. "Will you?" I can't stand the smug, knowing way he says it. Dimitrios doesn't know anything about my job. This whole conversation proves it. He's not the brother I talk to about metahuman things, let alone Operative things. He doesn't even know when I have patrol. I don't think before I blurt it out. "Why the hell are you pushing this so much? Did Elias tell you about March?" The look on his face says it all. Elias did not tell him about March. Shit, shit, shit. I fucked up. "Petros," he says after a pause, stern. He turns my given name into an admonishment. In that moment, he sounds eerily like our father. "What happened in March?" "Fuck, Mitsos." I throw his old nickname back at him, like it'll bring him down. It does not. "It's not a big deal." "Did you kill someone again?" I don't answer. Basically as good as answering. "Jesus," he swears. "Why didn't you tell anyone? You know what you were like after the first time." "You had to have guessed it could happen." Throwing his own words back at him isn't as satisfying as I'd hoped. "You'll be the first to hear about number three." Because I ain't quitting. He's not impressed. I no longer give a fuck. "Look, I got a shift starting at midnight tonight, and I gotta go get ready. Visiting hours end at nine. You can let yourself out." He's been visiting the Lock for more than twenty years. He knows where the door is. I stand and walk out, leaving my brother to take care of the half-empty coffee mug I left sitting on the table. More likely, one of the baristas will get it. I'll tip extra next time. Dimitrios doesn't get up to follow, but he calls after me. "Remember to send Mom and Dad your schedule!" |