Page 118 of The Atom Between Us

A runner, maybe ten years old, weaves through the crowd and snags Maven’s sleeve. Maven twists, scans the hall, and spots us. They break from their pack and make a beeline, carrying two cups sloshing with foamy, yellow fluid. They reach us and thrust a cup into each of our hands.

“Diana! Kang!” Maven booms, all teeth and red cheeks. “You look like a pair of spies who wandered into a wedding.” They lean in, close enough that their breath tickles my nose, and add, “Relax. If anyone here was going to knife you, they’d wait until you finished your drink.”

I eye the cup: stamped aluminum, stained with old oxidization. The beer inside is almost luminous, the bubbles rising thick as blood. I take a sip, and it’s like swallowing battery acid mixed with mildew. The bitterness climbs the back of my throat, and I have to force it down.

Kang takes his in one motion, barely a wince.

Maven hoots, delighted. “Told you she’d hate it,” they say to Kang, then wink at me. “You never could handle the good stuff, doc.”

I cough, wipe my mouth on my wrist. “You call this good?”

“It’s pre-war,” Maven says, proud. “We found the stash in a warehouse— Authority thought it was floor wax.” They slap me on the shoulder, right next to the fresh bandage, and I grunt at the shock of pain.

Kang tenses, but I shoot him a look: Don’t. He lets it slide, though his jaw works, silent.

Maven raises their cup, gesturing to the room at large. “To making it another month,” they declare. “To the dead who still owe us money.” A few in the crowd overhear, and raise their own cups in reply, voices swelling in chorus.

“To the fucking future!” Maven crows, and drains the beer.

I clink my cup to Kang’s, the sound tinny and hollow, then take another swallow. This time the burn is almost pleasant.

Maven leans in, their voice pitched low. “You’ll want to find seats before the music starts. Rosie and her crew have been practicing— it’s going to get loud.”

Kang nods, scanning the hall. His posture is more relaxed now, but I can tell he’s counting heads, noting exits, clocking every potential threat. I find it reassuring, in a sick way. If I’m going to lose control, I’d rather have someone nearby who knows how to fake it.

We move along the perimeter, Kang’s hand never leaving my back. The crowd ebbs and flows, parting sometimes for no reason, then closing behind us like water. A couple of faces turn to watch us pass, but there’s no hostility in it—just curiosity, maybe even hope. I let myself believe it, for now.

At the far wall, we find a pair of crates set as a makeshift table. Kang drops into a crouch, his knees popping loud enough to hear over the din. I perch on the edge, back to the concrete, scanning the scene through the haze of sweat and beer.

For a second, I let myself watch. People laugh, shout, slap each other’s shoulders. Someone at a side table juggles three oranges, to the raucous delight of the children who were climbing Kang earlier. Another pair dances with reckless abandon, spinning so hard they nearly wipe out the snack bar.

It’s almost… normal.

I look at Kang. The light makes his eyes shine green and glassy. He’s still, always still, but there’s a softness at the corners of his mouth that I’ve never seen before.

“You okay?” he asks, voice so low it vibrates through my ribs instead of my ears.

“Yeah,” I lie. “It’s just… a lot.”

He nods. “You get used to it.”

I snort, nearly choke on the beer. “Doubtful.”

He doesn’t smile, but the tension in his shoulders drops by a millimeter.

Maven reappears, somehow already refilling their cup, and plants themself next to Kang. “You’re missing the best part,” Maven says, nodding at the stage where Rosie and two others are untangling microphone cables. “First song’s always for the newcomers. You two are the headliners.”

“Do we have to sing?” I ask, horror blooming.

Maven grins. “No, but you’ll want to listen.”

The crowd hushes as Rosie grabs the mic, taps it twice, and waits for the room to catch up. “Alright, shut up, you animals,” she shouts. “We’re live.” Laughter ripples through the hall, and then the band launches into a cover of something old and punky, the lyrics rewritten to lampoon the Authority’s most recent failure.

I let myself relax into the sound, the chaos of it. Next to me, Kang’s fingers tap the rhythm on his thigh, perfectly in time.

Maven raises their cup for another toast, voice ringing over the music: “To the freaks who survived, and the bastards who couldn’t kill us.”

I clink my cup to theirs. This time, I mean it.