[sylvanSpider]

Aren cocked an eyebrow to the older brother, “What's so funny? I mean it. Most of good writing is being able to come up with a good story. The rest is all words and you can be as poetic or forward as you want. Take Hemingway, man. He was considered a classic once upon a time and his shi---stuff is so dry it makes my eyes water.” Pulling from the bottom of his little stack of books, Aren handed Tristan the thickest of the books. “Based on what you've shown me today, I think you're ready for this.” The book, while thick, had fairly large print, an invigorating story-line, and simple words. Technically, this one was geared towards middlle schoolers and Aren had long graduated from this level of reading. It was time to pass this on to someone else.

Aren faced the men in uniform with a face of stoicism that was in direct odds with everything in his heart. He'd been called “Mr. Reizian” a grand total of two times: the present moment and once two weeks ago. The memory was as fresh as it was yesterday, but then, it was quite recent.

“Mr. Reizian? Am I correct?” the man's voice said, gentle, full of pity. Aren could remember the pit that had fallen in his stomach; he could do nothing but nod meekly, pressing his lips into a thin line in an attempt to steel himself against the oncoming news. He already knew why they were here. Serj was gone for three days on an expedition – he was supposed to be gone for two. The man cleared his throat, “I understand that you are assigned to these quarters with your brother Serj Reizian.” Again, Aren nodded once, gulping.

“I'm afraid that I must inform you; Serj won't...well, Serj won't be coming back,” the words were anything but hollow. This man knew Serj. Was likely on the expedition with him. Probably saw him bitten, maybe eaten. Aren stared at the man, trying to read his emotions. The uniform was clean, pressed, likely only used for diplomatic purposes. His skin was dark, like Aren's and like Serj's. His hair cut close to his scalp, but Aren could see from the roots that if it grew it would be kinky, also like his. It was apparent by the lines underneath his eyes that he was more than one simply delivering the news of a death. Aren could tell that he hated this part of his job, but he was here because he loved Serj. He was one of his friends.

Of course, Aren never knew anything about Serj's friends, only that he had them. The man standing before Aren likely knew more about Serj than even he did, and now he was the one delivering news of his death. “The city is providing a service for him this evening for friends and family if you can think of anyone else that might like to attend. Further,” Aren could tell that this part was part of the script, “With you listed as his dependent, the city will now be taking care of your needs. Rations are paid for three times a day, up from the one your family was previously granted, and you are allowed access to the bathing facilities once a day.” Aren bowed his head, eyes open and staring at the floor processing what he knew was already coming.

The man sighed and placed his hand on Aren's shoulder, “I'm sorry, man. Reizian was a good man. Name's Thompson and I'm in 106 if you need anything. Thanks for your time.”

Aren stayed staring at the ground as he heard the footsteps walking down the hallway, frozen where he stood until some noise from one of the apartments shook him from his train of thought . Instead of retreating right back into the apartment, he made his way to Celia's. She deserved to know.

“Y-yeah that's--” before Aren could finish the word “fine” the men left. Aren sighed and looked at Ian, hoping his face was as stoic as he was attempting. Hoping his eyes weren't as red-tinged as they had been the day that he found out the brother he barely knew was now gone.

“Thanks man, I appreciate it,” Aren said, finally, “Once the lockdown is done I'm going to have to prepare for my new roommate, but it was fun hanging out. I can teach you at any time. And I have materials you can use to get better.” Here, Aren attempted a smile, but it was weak at best and could barely be recognized as genuine.