The Roads of Rome, Ober 1

A boy is walking through the Urban Rec.

Slowly plodding along at three in the afternoon. He should go home, all the other kids have gone home. But all the other kids, he muses, probably do not go home to what he does.

He is quite young, small enough to be dwarfed by the plentiful trees.

He goes to school where the Sprawl meets shopping. Upper-class.

Every morning he crosses the Urban Rec, usually by bus, and every afternoon he crosses it yet again, more often than not on foot.

He has no real fondness for the natural splendor around him, only rarely is he gripped by the majesty of it all. His eyes are usually transfixed on the path in front of him. Be it dirt or asphalt.

Cobblestones or gravel. He has developed a way to always tell if he’s about to walk into someone. He also knows what routes are the least populated at any given time of day.

A lot of his few years on this planet have been used in the Urban Rec. Going to or from.

Whatever.

Without looking up he instinctively knows that he is now next to the last pond before the last field. He is almost home. Instantly he starts replanning his route, starts measuring pros and cons. He ends up giving up on the lengthening bit, home is beginning to feel right.

Even if it won’t be when he gets there. Right.

His left foot steps idly on a thick twig hidden by some leaves. The right kicks it by accident, breaking it with a barely audible snap. Followed by a sound that causes the boy to look up.

A flock of seagulls have been spooked by the sound, two dozen or so of them. Now they’re departing, post hast. But still in perfect formation. The boy looks at them for a while, follows their trajectory, craning his neck to see them disappear in the unusually low clouds.

On its way down to his feet his stare sees the open field. One square mile, the smallest of the open spots. Bordering up to the high-class end of the Sprawl.

The field is known as Festival Place, being used for festive occasions at least three times a year. The boy knows that whatever else may be true about his life and his situation, he is lucky to live right next to not only the Urban Rec but also Festival Place.

The fog has not lifted, wafting over the field, turning something previously very open into something ambiguous and mysterious.

Considering how much the boy has tried to stall in his homecoming, he runs with quite a bit of speed across the oversize lawn. His small legs carrying him with little elegance but much acceleration.

He reaches the front door, exhausted but happy at his display of speed.

Unlocks and opens the front door, walks through with caution.

Before the boy has even had a chance to yell out ‘mom, I’m home’ he knows everything is wrong, that this will not be a good evening.

“Is that you Ober?” a voice slurs. “I’ve been waiting for you”