two machines appear in town within days of each other. one, a bright blue with illuminated butterfly wings and MORPHO in bright bold letters at the top ; the second, black, blank. the only illumination coming from the screen tucked behind a curtain — it felt like stepping into a photo booth going through its goth phase.
hugo had seen both. hell, the blue one was hard to miss considering it had turned up in the old borders-turned-cvs that sat neatly next to that one bagel place with the thin-sliced taylor ham; his fave. in a matter of days, he’d had to start taking the long way if he wanted breakfast. traffic down that street was a nightmare — worse than usual and that’s saying something.
he decided he wasn’t gonna buy into that crap, though. a matter of principle, he’d claimed ( though he’d probably misspoken ). what did he care that some stupid machines were telling people’s fortunes? he’s content where he is, anything else needed work or schooling and when would he find the time for that?
it eats at him, though – subconsciously plagues his dreams. especially when he finds tony’d gotten his done. ❝ ey, 'ugo, lookit this shit. ❞ the blue card is shoved under his nose and hugo squints at it, narrowed eyes darting upward to meet tony's in the space of a breath.
❝ i thought we thought this shit was bull? ❞ to which tony shrugs, tucking his potential back into his pocket. ❝ you do the death one too? ❞ gaze averts and hugo holds out his hand, ❝ cuh'mon, tone. you holdin' out on me? it's me. ❞ but tony won't let him see the card and hueg don't like the feeling that settles in his stomach because of it.
a couple of days later, he follows his feet to breakfast but he ends up in front of that damn blue machine. his tummy grumbles — he ignores it.
sweaty palms are pressed to the glass when prompted. he almost leaves the stupid butterflied blue envelope that pops out.
he doesn't read the card for a week.
there’s nothing he can rationalize as to why he’s so nervous for it, only that he’s been disappointing people since he was born. what if this card finally means he’ll be disappointed in himself? what if it means tony’ll expect him to change? what if he don’t like who he’s supposed to become?
he knows the thoughts are silly. especially when he gets the call from eloise because she’d gotten her blue card and she wanted to jabber about some conspiracy theories she’d read online that the potentials aren’t what you’re supposed to become, only that they’re supposed to show you a path forward. maybe she won’t become the next picasso, but now she knows wendy doesn’t have a leg to stand on when she criticizes lu’s choices. if she hadn’t gotten an artistic path, she says, then she’d be able to explore what that might mean.
it bolsters him. at least enough to slide the card from his envelope. a cold sweat breaks out when he reads the word.
hugo flips the card over to see the silver embossed butterfly on the back before rereading those three little letters. fuck.
a rat? his life's potential is to be a fuckin’… nervous gaze darts to the empty spot on the couch, half-relieved that he’d chosen to read his card when tony wasn’t home.
a wave of anxiety shoots through him as he stands, throwing on the green jacket he’d commandeered from tone ages ago. thoughts spiral with each step out the door — who the hell would he rat on? how’d they get him cornered enough to get him to squeal? what if it’s tony he gives up? god, he’s sick to his stomach until he looks up and finds himself at the blue machine, again.
maybe it's a mistake. yeah... yeah. hugo wipes his hands on his jacket, looking over his shoulder to make sure no one was tailing him. laundry quarters are slipped into the slot and he goes through the motions to get another card.
❝ fuck! ❞ he jumps out of the booth and slaps a five on the counter. ❝ can i get change? ❞ is his voice cracking? he clears his throat, voice dropping half an octave with the follow up demand of : ❝ quarters. ❞ hands are clammy, again, as he punches in his social, again, to draw another card.
he sits in the booth, this time, world crashing down around him. how would lulu spin a card like this? his phone is in his hands as he hovers over her name, hesitation stalling him until there's a knock on the booth that rouses him from his panicked thoughts. a mumbled apology falls from him as he pushes past the person waiting their turn and he shoves the three identical cards into his pocket, as deep as they'll go.
he shoulda never read the card. he shoulda dumped it or maybe never tried it in the first place. how're you supposed to come back from this? is he just supposed to give up crime in favor of a boring-ass nine-to-five? you can't be a fuckin' rat and not expect to get got because of it.
he doesn't realize where he's going until he walks into a dude at the end of a line and almost gets himself punched because of it.
he’d heard the news label it the machine of death. hugo swallows thickly, stepping gingerly behind the dark curtain when it's finally his turn. he’s gotta know if they’re related – is he gonna pull cement shoes? is he gonna get whacked just for pulling RAT? the white card slips into the slot and hugo all but rips it out in his fervor.
❝ wh... what the fuck is that s'pposed'tuh mean? ❞
