A man steps up to the plate, the number forty-eight emblazoned in red and blue across his back. Thea pushes herself out of the recliner's well-worn divot and onto the cushioned edge, careful not to spill a drip of tea.

One of the commentator's voices blare out of the television's speaker. "It's Grant Stevenson's chance to shine here!"

Thea's heart beats faster with each word. She tightens her hands around her cup and draws it towards her chest. "Come on, come on!"

The pitcher's leg comes up. Then static shoots across the screen in chaotic patterns. 

Wide-eyed, Thea jumps up to her feet and sweeps her arms between the cushions, "No, no, no. Not now! Where is it?". The phone laying on the kitchen counter chimes out gentle music. She sends a pillow flying with a stray hand and scrambles to the counter. "Gotcha."

The commentator cuts in and out, "It's up! Fly-- high a-- far to leftfi--". 

Thea rips out the charging cable, slaps a thumb onto the red decline button, and turns back to the television. The static clears and cheering people in red and blue uniforms charge the field, hands held high above their heads. "--grand slam and they're into the semi-finals!"

Cold prickles run across Thea's back. She missed it. All the effort to get this awful television with this awful antenna, and she misses it.

The phone rings again. Thea clicks off the television.

The image blinks out with a crackle, leaving the sparsely decorated room dim and a single lamp choking in the encroaching darkness. She sinks into the recliner with a sigh and looks down at the phone. Same number.

A calendar notification slides down: "Tomorrow, Rent". She swipes it away, taps the pulsing green phone icon, and brings the device up to her ear. "Thea Aalb--". The phone vibrates against her head, previously serene bells blasting directly into her ear.

She jerks the phone away and presses down until she sees the display change. "Thea Aalberg, Priest-for-Hire."

A high pitched voice with a slight New York accent comes through. "Oh! Yes, hello! I saw one of your fliers at the grocery store. Is now a good time?"

Thea stretches over, grabs a black notepad off the coffee table, and leafs through to a blank page. "Yeah, what can I do for you?"

"So I understand that you can smell sin? Right? Would you be able to track down my son and have a talk with him? He's at the Jolly Day Inn on Teak, though I'm not sure on the room number."

Thea rests her cheek on her balled up hand. Another one of these. "And what's the talk?"

"*Ahem* -- A short chat about the virtues of abstinence before marriage. Maybe throw in something about respecting his parents too. You're a priest, you can ad lib it, right? I didn't think to prepare something."

"Yeah, I've done similar in the past."

"Wonderful, even better! Now I didn't see a price for your services on the flier here..."

Thea writes down the street and hotel name. "For this job... Wait, you have the flier there? You're not suppose to take the whole--"

"Is eight-hundred enough?"

Thea's voice catches in her throat. "Uh, yeah that sounds like enough. I'll text you when it's done, then?"

"Wonderful! That works great for me. Thanks Miss Thea!"

The phone beeps and goes quiet. Thea glances at the screen. No call now, just a myriad of apps against a waterfall background. She really should have gotten that person's name. Thea opens her recent calls list, taps on that woman's number, and saves a contact as "Ehhh".


---


Shadows race through the streets as the sun dips below the edges of multilevel buildings. Thea twists the throttle and rockets down the street on her motorcycle. Wind sweeps through the short cape of her cassock, sending it whipping against arms, backpack, and helmet alike.

It's nice. This whole motorcycle thing.

Music in her helmet's earpiece fades out and into the deep tones of the station deejay. "That was Caught by Circumstance performed by Ain't No Cats -- a local band if you'd believe it. Couple mandatory news announcements for y'all: A rookie is trying their luck tonight over on--".

Grimacing, Thea reaches her hand up to the earpiece and mutes the stream.

A sign with worn lettering spelling out "Teak Road" is nestled among the traffic lights at the intersection ahead. Thea's hands tighten around the handles. Almost there, and hopefully almost done.

The hotel is a classic: beige and reddish-brown brick walls, a glass entryway, too many parking spots. Thea pushes on the brake, turns into the lot, and drives past the lobby. Just inside, a receptionist stares down at a phone on his desk, tapping away with his fingers. Thea pulls into a spot. Good. She can probably walk right on in without being noticed.

No one else is in the parking lot, just empty cars and bugs clustered in the beams of light cast by streetlamps. Thea walks in the pockets of shadows between them, wanting to avoid those swarms now that her helmet is off. The lobby on the other side of the double glass doors has the usual furniture and a television broadcasting constant news. No people beyond the receptionist. Thea pushes through.

An electronic chime rings out.

Thea's shoulders tense up and a grimace slips across her face. Act natural, just keep walking.

A stairwell door sits open across the lobby. Thea strides toward it. The receptionist lets out a cough and his phone stops making noise. Thea freezes and creeps her head around to look behind her. 

The receptionist's head is still fixed upon his phone, his finger hovers above its dark screen. Thea stares for a moment. His head droops towards the desk, getting closer and closer. Then it shoots back up like a spring pulled too far; where it starts drooping anew. Thea's shoulder's relax and she strolls past the threshold.

The sound of Thea's footsteps echo around the stairwell's barren walls. Thea looks up and takes a sniff. Boysenberry, gooseberry, and yew with a hint of elderberry. She jogs up two steps at a time. With each landing, the smell of elderberry grows.

Thea bursts through the door of the fourth floor and bends over to place her hands on her knee. Varying shades of abstract patterns adorn the carpet; too-tiny sconces light the hall. Her lungs are on fire, her side has a stitch, and the carpet only makes her nausea and spinning head worse. Thea leans up against a wall and slides down to sit. Whose idea was it to take two at a time? And why does it only take four flights to feel all this?

The elderberry scent is strongest in front of the door to room 410, its numbered plaque hangs lopsided against the door. Thea knocks with one hand and fidgets in her pocket with the other.

Shuffling sounds slip through the cracks of the door. "One second."

Thea's pocketed hand brushes across a smooth fabric she didn't expect. A scrunchy. She takes it out and begins wrapping her black hair in a loose bun at the back of her head. Must have left it in with the wash.

The door jerks inwards revealing a grimacing young man in his early twenties. Sparkling, ever-shifting layers of translucent purple and blue float upwards from where his hair should be. "What's up?"

Thea stops with the bun, leaving hair shooting from its base in all directions. The man stares. Thea lowers her hands and reaches one out. "Thea Aalberg, I'm here at the request of your mom."

The door starts to close. "Bye I guess."

Thea holds her hands up, palms out. "Wait, wait! I'm just trying to get some money and your mom was willing to pay. I couldn't care less about the premarital sex."

The door stops. "Excuse me? The what?"

"Oh, I can smell it."

He furrows his brow and the sparkles in his hair wink out. "Gross."

Wide-eyed, Thea shakes her hands back and forth. "No, no, not like that! It's more like I can... How do I explain? Forget it. Can you just tell your mom I talked to you if she asks?"

The door begins moving again. "Probably not. But sure."

"One more thing."

The door stutters to a halt and his eyes roll, eventually landing on her. Thea slips the backpack off her shoulder and roots through the contents. She gets arm deep and finds what she's looking for. A plastic pencil box. Thea thrusts it towards the man. "Here. It's got condoms and dental dams and stuff. Got to stay safe, right?"

He stares. She doesn't move her hand. He yanks it from her grasp. "Whatever. Just go. And thanks I guess."

Thea zips up her pack, grabs a strap, and swings it back. "Yep."

Cold night air sweeps through piles of red and orange leaves, sending them scrapping against the asphalt. Mind absorbed in thought and music, Thea speeds along on her bike. Maybe it's a treat night. What ice cream to buy though? Mint, vanilla, cherry?

The music cuts to the familiar deejay's voice once again. "Mandatory update on our rookie around Willow y'all. Fights broke out. They're spilling north--".

Thea mutes the station. Gas station? Grocery store? Both have good selections. The grocery store's is more expensive though...

Everything next spans a moment: A person smashes through a nearby building, a chunk of rock slams into the motorcycle sending it flying, and Thea decides on chocolate.

The world spins as if in slow motion. Buildings, ground, other buildings, sky. Over and over. Until everything disappears into sudden blackness with a thump.



The drop ceiling's white-speckled tiles are broken up by opaque glass letting off a clinical, bright light. Darkness claws at the edges of Thea's perception. She rolls her head and eyes around trying to get her bearings and takes in a deep breath through her nose. Overwhelming countless smells: Mulberry, gooseberry, mistletoe, the dentist office for some reason; And pain; And sound: wails and coughs and beeps.

The darkness gains ground amid the cacophony of stimuli, so Thea pinches her nose. The smell dulls, but that makes the pain leap forth. A groan escapes her throat, joining the orchestra of tormented souls around her. Thea lays her head back down and stares at the ceiling. Well this sucks.

A smiling figure blots out a portion of the light overhead, its glow seeps through the cascading waves of auburn hair. Thea smiles back. This is it. The answer to what lies beyond realm of the living.

The figure raises a hand and pries a blue glove off of it. Thea feels it close around her wrist, and cold shoots through the veins of her arm and down her spine. Relief floods her entire body as the pain evaporates. Thea coughs through shivers. "Why couldn't God start with that? Not a very kind welcome."

The doctor slips the glove back on and speaks with a not-quite-as-mystical-as-expected voice. "Actually, you're still with us Thea."

"Guess that whole afterlife thing is still a question, then."

"Sure is! I'm Dr. Helen. Now that you're awake, are you ready to hear the goings-on?"

"Might as well."

"So good news first: You're lucky. Most are injuries you can bounce back from with a little time. The biggest problem is your hip has a minor fracture. You've already been in surgery to patch it up, but you'll have to stay a couple nights up here before we transfer you down to physical therapy."

The numbness of Thea's body flows into her mind. "And how long will physical therapy take?"

"About two weeks."

Thea sighs. At least she has insurance.

---

Generic jazz music broken up by static comes through the phone. Thea sits with her legs dangling over the edge of the bed she was assigned in the physical therapy ward. The music stops and a practiced, calm voice speaks. "Sorry, Ms. Aalberg. I've triple checked and there isn't anything we can do."

Thea's eyes and mind glaze over, her other hand loosens around the cane resting between her legs. "Uh huh. Nothing I can do then?"

"Unfortunately not. The appropriate hero activity warnings were issued, so it was on you to heed them. The data from the stations and your motorcycle's earpiece show that the signal was received."

"Alright, thanks."

"Centra Health thanks you for the understanding! Anything else I can help you with today ma'am?"

Thea hangs up and drops the hand holding the phone into her lap. At least she has savings.

---

The apartment building's hallways are drab as always. Thea walks down them, foot after cane-and-foot. Could swear they were longer now. A window air-conditioner at the end of the hallway kicks on with a rumble; A folded piece of paper flutters with the new current and the doorjamb of unit 208 refuses to let go. Thea squares herself in front of it and rustles around in one of her cassock's pockets for the keys.

Everything inside has a thick layer of dust. The smell of two-and-a-half week old dishes permeates the space. Thea lowers herself into the recliner and unfolds the paper. A late rent notice. Grimacing, she tosses it onto the coffee table next to the stale tea.

Birds nestle together on the balcony railing, a couple mourning doves plump as can be. Thea watches them for a while, maybe nodding off here and there. A car passing -- blasting music from an unknown genre -- sends vibrations through the apartment's walls. Thea's eyes shoot open and she gulps for air. The sun is setting and the room is mostly dark beyond fiery projections filtered through the balcony doors.

Thea pushes herself up with more effort than she remembers needing and walks over to the kitchen. Tea may help. The cabinets are near empty, but there is a single clean mug and a half-used box of twenty Earl Grey tea bags.

She puts a kettle on and waits, eyes fixed on the spout. It's boring. What else is there though? Bank account is empty, the motorcycle is sitting in the mechanics yard, and her skills chock up to reciting mass and smelling sins. Back to the monastery?

The kettle whistles and steam shoots out of the spout. Thea drops a tea bag into her waiting cup and pours. No, not the monastery. There are options. Maybe there are opportunities nearby? No way they'd pay enough to cover rent though... What about a deal with the mechanic? Then she'd be able to do her usual gigs.

Evening is fully set in. The usual traffic bellows up from the street, vibrating the walls once again. Thea walks back to her recliner, twists the knob on the lamp, and sits down with a nod. Yeah, that may work. Do a payment plan or something.

A pair of green, vertical slit pupil eyes appear in the darkness of the balcony, but disappear just as quick with the sound of an engine's backfire. Thea blinks a couple times before dismissing it as some cat and turns on the television. At least that works. Mostly.

Recovery

Thea

Morning sun filters through white, sheer curtains of a noiseless room. A small crack where the curtains meet sends a harsh ray flowing over the nest of covers, pillows, and limbs. Avery's brows furrow together above already closed eyes and she flops over onto her stomach. "No, professor. I left them in my room."

A phone on the nightstand vibrates and hums, then plays a ringtone full of clarinets and oboes. It starts quiet, but grows into a raucous symphony capable of waking even the most slumbering of dragons. Avery swings an arm toward the opposite side of the bed. Where is it?

The phone blares a particularly high flute note. Avery rolls her eyes open and blinks a couple times to ward off the light. Right. Home. Not the dorm.

Her bedroom door opens and an apron-clad Dad sticks his head in. "Wakey bakey little lass! Breakfast is done and that's the fourth time that's went off. Moms getting a bit annoyed about it."

Avery grasps out toward the other side of the bed, wraps her hand around the charging cable and pulls. The phone tumbles off the edge of the nightstand and into Avery's hand. She rolls over onto her back, brings the phone close to her face so its at least partially visible, and swipes the alarm off. "I'm already up."

"Yeah, yeah. Hurry up now! It's getting cold!"

Avery kicks the weighted blanket to the end of the bed and puts on her glasses. Teetering stacks of cardboard moving boxes dot the room. She weaves around a few to find the pile of clothes she set out last night. A white sports bra; a matching tank top with arm holes large enough for an ogre; and a pair of black basketball shorts. Avery puts it all on and navigates through the box maze into her bathroom.

Bed head, bad breath, and barely enough toothpaste to fix the latter. Grunting, Avery squeezes the last bit out onto her toothbrush.

*Count.*

She wets the brush, sticks it in her mouth, and begins scrubbing the outside face of her lower left set of teeth. One, two, three... All the way to thirty.

*Wrong. Again.*

Avery's chest tightens, a knot forms inside and begins to grow. Tendrils of fear shoot out from it, locking up her arms and legs. She stares into her own reflection's eyes. Don't give in. Sit with it.

*Again.*

Avery scrubs the same teeth. One, two, three... All the way to thirty again. Then silence. Nothing. Avery finishes up and spits into the sink. Darn brain. 

Her hair is a brown, greasy mess. A cow licked one side into an odd swirl and a bird is probably nesting out back. Avery claws at it with her fingers and presses down. Only for some of the strands to spring back up. She wets a thin comb and runs it through the spot a couple times, then down the center and across her crew cut.

Mid comb stroke, a notification rings out from her phone:  some dating app announcing a new match. Avery tosses the comb in the general direction of her open toiletries box and judges herself in the mirror. She looks... Good? She forgot what a decent night's sleep can do. No dark, pudgy eye circles!

Another notification.

Avery unlocks her phone and taps on the app. A yellow screen with stylized, white text reading "Humble" flashes; then grey bubbles fill the screen and disappear as real images take their place. One of those is Avery's: nestled in the top right corner. Something churns in Avery's stomach at the sight of it. How long ago did she take this? That wimp probably couldn't even deadlift one-hundred pounds.

A red bubble with the number "2" ticks up to "3". Avery opens her messages. They're all from a single person; a cute person at that. Avery's heart jumps and her eyes dart to her profile picture. No way is she replying before she changes that.

All the lights are on, the counter top is mostly empty, and the mirror is clear of blemishes. Avery raises the camera and... nothing. How do people do this? Memories of vibrant magazine covers filled with people posing in an evocative fashion flash through Avery's mind. She lowers the phone part way and grimaces at her reflection. Well, probably not like that.

Pose after pose, the mirror version of Avery follows along to her awkward dance. One foot up on the counter, an over the shoulder, a slight lean onto the wall. None of them work. Avery sits sideways on the lid of toilet, head resting on the sink counter top. Maybe just shoot one real fast and forget about it?

Another notification pops up. Another message from them.

Avery steps in front of the mirror, flexes an arm with a smile, and snaps the picture. Don't look; just upload.

The upload progress bar crawls along. Conflict plays out across Avery's forehead in peaks and valleys. Her finger hovers over a red "X", ready to pounce if she stops resisting for a moment. The screen goes green and fades into the usual app interface. A sigh of relief escapes. Not half bad, actually.

Dad's voice comes from the direction of the dining room. "Avery?"

Avery slips the phone into her shorts pocket and rushes out the bathroom door. "Coming!"

*Did you turn the sink off? Check.*

Invisible tendrils of fear shoot from her chest again; they wrap around Avery's arms and legs to freeze them in place. Her chest rises and falls with the rhythm of her heart, each breath more effort than the last. She turns her head to the side and listens. No sounds of running water. The tendrils recede, seemingly abated by the lack of sound. She moves to take a step into the hallway --

*Not good enough. Check.*

Ice runs through her veins and a weight settles on her chest again. Then her body pivots, tendrils lifting and lowering her legs like a helpless marionette stumbling along on strings. They carry her past the maze of boxes to stand squarely in front of the sink faucet. Gritting her teeth, Avery looks down with her arms stretching toward the silver sweeping handles.

Not a single drop of water.

Sweat beads around Avery's hairline. She holds her hands back and forces a sick chuckle through her mind. The whole place is going to explode if she doesn't do this? Is that it? Yeah... It's going to explode! It'll be horrific and fiery and deadly!

*Avery?*

Tendrils double back, piercing Avery's heart and mind. Overwhelming pain, can't b- breathe. Faces of mom and dad blur together with her vision. She pushes each handle, punctuating each thrust with a count. "One. Two. Three. Four."

Pain and crushing weight disappear at once. A heavy sigh expunges stale air from Avery's lungs, then she breathes in: letting her stomach expand as far as possible before pushing it all out. Guess that exaggeration technique her therapist just taught her doesn't work for this one.

The tinniest drop of water falls out of the faucet. Another heavy sigh slumps her shoulders and she walks to the hallway. Asshole.

---

Mom sits at the table with her legs crossed and a newspaper spread in front of her, blocking her view of the breakfast laden table. Her brown hair set into the usual low bun to keep it off the recently pressed blue blazer and black knee-length skirt.

Smiling, Avery pulls out the chair beside Mom and sits down. "Anything interesting?" Dishes clatter on the other side of the still swaying kitchen door. Avery stretches her neck out, trying get a peek through the crack. "Morning, Dad!"

Mom glances at Avery over the edge of the paper, bushy eyebrows coming together. "Unfortunately. There was an incident with a rookie last week where he got a bit overzealous. Some debris flew out of the mandated area and insurance claims keep rolling in."

Avery plucks a hard-boiled egg off a serving dish, taps it on the table a couple times, and starts peeling. "What does that have to do with the paper, though?"

Glaring Avery's way, Mom folds the paper into her lap. "Put that down. We waited for you: you can wait for Dad."

Avery puts the egg down on her empty plate amid half the shell already in shards. "So... Newspaper?"

"The rookie is running around fixing things and paying out of pocket for damages. So I can't tell which claims actually need review. Only a few people have canceled theirs with mentions of him, but judging by the front page article today there are a ton that haven't. Not to mention no one ever answers my calls to begin with."

Avery's head drifts toward the kitchen door and her stomach shifts, letting out a grumble. "Sounds frustrating."

"I just wish the standards for these first timers were higher. The licensing agency should be requiring them to read policy instead of letting them loose to do whatever their hero hearts desire after messing up."

Dad bursts through the kitchen door with a flourish of his hands, apron no longer protecting his plaid flannel shirt and sweat pants. "Good morning! Sorry about the wait, thought I'd wash a few dishes while you did your thing."

Avery's eyes return to the feast in front of her: pancakes, maple syrup, diced fruit, orange juice, blueberry muffins, toast, quiche, and that half-peeled egg. "Can we start then? I've missed this. The cafeteria sucks."

Mom taps Avery on the shoulder with the folded newspaper. "Don't say sucks."

"Sucks."

Dad lowers himself into the chair across from Avery, rolls up his plaid flannel sleeves, and rubs his hands together. "Let's eat!"

No one talks. Mom maneuvers food with grace, avoiding any potential stains. Dad and Avery shovel fork fulls of every dish into their mouths.

Dad's eyebrows raise briefly in the middle of a mouthful of food. He pushes himself up, flashes the "one second" finger, and walks over to the cabinet near the entrance. Back at the table, he swallows the food with a sharp inhale and reaches a brochure across the table to Avery. "They're hiring an apprentice aquarist right now. Thought it'd work for your mentorship thing."

Pain appears in a band around Avery's head. She takes the brochure and slips it into her pocket beside her phone. "Thanks, I'll look it over after my run."

Already. Not even back for a day and already pushing.

Avery

Uneven bricks line the sidewalk, hinting at where the roots of evenly-spaced mature silver maple trees wander. Cracks between the bricks are filled with fallen yellow leaves and an inordinate amount of cigarette butts. A frown tugs at the corners of Avery's lips and she slows her jog to a walk, each step more calculated.

A grey haired cat appears directly where one of Avery's feet are about to land.

Avery becomes a wobbling top desperate to stay upright. She searches for purchase with her raised leg and lands in an odd standing splits. "Eugh!" -- Where did that cat come from?

A German Shepherd blasts through the arc of her legs in a full sprint, head held low and even. A leash flapping in the furry bullet's wake snags bricks and launches them into the air. Careful regard for sound footing gets cast to the wind and Avery bounds forward, shifting her awkward stance into a practiced run.

The dog careens around a corner and disappears from sight. Avery pumps her arms willing herself to go faster. A boutique's door opens into the sidewalk, filled with calligraphy hard to make out while sprinting. The face of a man freezes with a wide-eyed expression on the other side of the glass.

Avery darts around. "Sorry!"

The man waves his open hand in the direction of the corner. "Control your dog!"

Her face twists, her voice comes out in a defiant whisper. "Not my dog..."

Around the corner: the dog sprawls out, belly up, twisting this way and that with legs kicking into the air. Some sasquatch of a man lacking hair only upon his head kneels over the playful squirming form; his giant hands dance across the furry chest. "Whose a good doggy!"

Avery's brain sputters and she grinds to a halt. The man's head turns upward with a smile tucked under a well-oiled curly mustache. "Avery! Back already? Could have swore the semester just started a week ago."

Her brain catches up, recognition dawning and her twisted face relaxing. "Barclay!"

He scratches underneath his short-sleeved turtleneck's collar with one finger and pats the dog's side. "This lad your's?"

"No, I was trying to stop him so he didn't get hurt."

Barclay stands up with the leash in his hand. "Can't have that. How about we look for whoever he's lost together?"

Barclay's smile is infectious, so Avery beams back at him. "Yeah! I'd love to catch up."

They turn back the way Avery came. The German Shepard weaves between people, trees, and fire hydrants ahead.

Avery nods down towards Barclay's outfit. "Not patrolling this time of day anymore?"

Barclay tilts his head and points a finger at his ear, indicating a black earpiece with a blinking blue light. "Of course I am! You don't want some out-of-town licensee coming in, do you?"

"Then what's with the outfit?"

"Dry cleaning taking too long. Are you done with school now?"

"Almost. I still have to do a mandatory work-study to complete my degree."

"You're doing biology right? What's the requirements for the work-study?"

"Biology. And I have to work under a scientist in the field."

Barclay raises a thick, oiled eyebrow in Avery's direction. "Would the aquarium work? I know Valarie is hiring."

A cloud forms in Avery's mind. "Yeah, I talked to my parents about it earlier today."

The dog's tail wags and his mouth opens into a pointy-toothed smile; a woman stops in front of the three and heaves breaths. "Oh my god, thank you so much. I had his leash tied to my chair and he pulled it out from under me trying to chase that cat."

---

Sputtering cars of every make and model drive by, their sounds mix with the rustle of wind-shaken leaves and the chatter of passing strangers. Barclay lunges forward to the intersection's crossing button and taps it. "Park, right? This'll be where we part. My patrol path is down the opposite way."

A smile mixes with regret in Avery's eyes and she wraps her arms around him in a hug, his hulking frame making her well-toned arms look like toothpicks. "Right. It was nice talking again, Barclay. Can we get together soon? I want to hear about all your cool crime fighting."

Barclay's arms tighten around Avery too and he barks a laugh. "Of course! A new restaurant opened a couple blocks down that has a ton of meat alternatives. I think you'd like it. The owners are good people. I also stop by the aquarium a bit to have tea with Valarie if you end up working there."

The cloud in Avery's mind grows thicker and she lets go. "Okay, I'll text you later about planning."

Barclay turns to walk away and waves an open hand behind him. "Talk to you soon!"

Avery wanders across the street into the park. Why is everyone pushing?

The wind picks up, the gentle swaying gradient of orange, red, and yellow shifts into a storm of colors. Avery lifts a leg behind her and pulls with her arm, the familiar feeling of warmth from stretched tendons spreads up her calf and thigh. Time to actually run.

Time blurs. Not from anything supernatural or superhuman; that's just what happens when Avery runs. Her brain quiets down, her breathing and posture now the primary focus. And She flies; each foot contacts the dirt path for but a moment and the wind roars around her.

A water fountain lies along the path ahead. Avery's heart thumps along to her heavy breathing and she slams a hand onto the fountain's push button. Ice cold water shoots out in an arc. She drops her head into the stream and lets it run all over her head; then she gulps it down.

Sweat is every where. Avery sweeps her mind over her body, focusing on every bit of uncomfortable moisture clinging to her: left over water on her chin, sweat stains on her clothes, and that pool inside her shoes fall through her silhouette and splashes around her -- almost as if Avery stopped existing. Her nose wrinkles as the musky odor hits her. She slumps far away, collapses onto a bench, and stretches herself out on her back, legs dangling at odd angles over harsh metal edges. At least she's clean now.

The clouds are still there in her mind, not outran or blown away by heavy winds. Avery's eyes dim and she pushes herself up onto her butt. There's only one real decision. Everyone expects it.

Paperwork, paperwork, paperwork. It's spread across every surface of the plush study: the credenza, lounging chairs, coffee table, desk. Waylon
thrusts his legs out from one of the chairs, raises a form up, and lets his body slide until his butt peaks over the edge.

He tosses his head back into the cushion on every other word. "Why — is this — so difficult!"

A door slams downstairs.

Waylon jerks, throwing his head back into the cushion again; harder this time. Hard enough to feel the wooden frame under the velvet, green upholstery.

Surroundings distort and spin with the pain; Waylon searches his hands over his scalp, shifting shoulder length black hair around. A hard knot sits right at the top near his crown. Knuckles white on the armrest, he scrambles up from the chair and hangs out the door to yell down the stairs. "I told you not to slam the door, Phil!"

Phil's unseen smile fills his words with a tender mirth. "Sorry, it's windy out there."

Waylon bounds down the stairs and into the entry way. "We live in an apartment, Phillip."

Knelt down, Phil fiddles with the laces on his shoe. He glances over his shoulder at Waylon. "Which form is that?"

The paper pops back into Waylon's mind, its weight now fully felt in his hand. He flashes the blank side and lowers it back down. "Name change."

"Still can't decide?"

"No."

Phil kicks his shoe off, turns, and wraps his puffy, winter coat covered arms around Waylon. "You don't have to, you know."

Waylon lets his head settle onto Phil's chest, the warm cotton sweater soft against his cheek. He slips his arms around Phil's back under the open coat. "I know."

Phil kisses Waylon's head. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Waylon brings his eyes up to meet Phil's. "It's just that —"

Something's not right with Phil's face. Features blur together, vibrate out of place, or just don't exist. Mouth agape, Waylon tips back on one foot and lets go of Phil's arms. What is this?

Phil steps closer, hands stretching toward Waylon. "Is something wrong?"

Then the world falls. Waylon's body tumbles end over end in utter darkness and he flails his arms around trying to find... anything. Phil's words echo back from non-existent mountains. 

"Do you want to talk about it?" — "You don't have to, you know." — "Is something wrong?"

Then the world exists again, though far less. Grey. Waylon lets his head list to the side and pokes an arm out from under a tucked blanket and onto the empty side of the bed. His eyes close and he lets his hand rest there; its warmth seeps away into the cold pillows and blankets. Just a few moments longer.

The sun rise peaks through blinds. Waylon lets it warm his back and grabs a fistful of the blankets on Phil's side of the bed. Still cold. Distorted bubbles creep into Waylon's vision and his eyelids droop with the weight of tears.

And they overflow onto his pillow.

The corners of his lips tremble and he clenches his eyes tighter. Lamps and overhead lights flare to life; observing their unfeeling schedule and sending warm red and white speckles dancing behind Waylon's eyelids. He lets out a deep breath and rolls onto his back. "I suppose you're right, hun."

Waylon dredges himself up to the edge of the bed and glances toward a small mirror on a dresser. Waylon's head sits in the center: dark bulges underneath his eyes strike out against his pale skin and his tumbleweed hair is in desperate need of brushing. Tiredness narrows his eyes. He looks awful, he can't go see Phil's mom like this.

---

Nurses file in and out of the spacious lobby of the hospital. It's too orderly. People typing away at computers, printers spitting out paperwork, and a giant accursed analog clock ticking away, making sure everyone knows just how long it's been. All of it acting as a mask for the life and death struggles on the floors above.

Waylon observes the activity from a set of chairs tucked into a corner. His eyes dart back to the clock every few ticks and he bounces his heel. Twenty minutes. It never takes this long.

Just then, a nurse makes eye contact from across the room and beelines toward him. "Mr. Ishii? She's all set to see you now."

Waylon leaps up. "Finally. Was there a problem?"

"She's a little less cooperative today..."

With a heavy sigh, Waylon follows along behind the nurse.

They travel up a barren elevator, through a many-doored hallway, and stop in front of a door that's no different than the rest except for the whiteboard having "Gina" written in uneven blue ink.

A woman's voice booms from inside. "I said let me see him! I'm perfectly awake enough!"

Waylon shoots a wild-eyed glance at the nurse and bursts through the door. "I'm here, everything is oka—"

"And quit sending more nurses in here!" A metal tray smashes against the wall near Waylon's head and jello and beans spray in all directions.

Waylon's hands shoot up to shield his head. "I'm here! Stop whatever that is!"

Silence settles in and everyone exchanges glances. Waylon lowers his hands and Gina speaks. "Sorry. They kept saying I needed to rest and wouldn't let you come up."

His forehead bunches up and he glares at the doctor standing near Gina's bed. "I thought you all said visiting was fine?"

The doctor's steps towards Waylon. Dr. Crawford going by the silver name tag on his coat. His shrew-like eyes peering out from behind circular lenses; he gestures toward a clipboard and keeps his voice low. "She just got out of some physical therapy and she needs rest. Sleep would be best. You can always see her a little later, it's easier for patients to sleep right after."

Waylon shakes his head. "You'd rather me leave then?"

"Not now. Maybe show up a little later next time so she has a chance to sleep. She'll start doing physical therapy around this time every day."

Gina lifts herself up further in the hospital bed. "Don't talk about me like I'm not here. What's he saying, Waylon?"

Dr. Crawford raises the clipboard in a wave, "I've got other patients to see actually, so I'll be stepping out. Sorry to get in the way and please enjoy your visit."

Waylon waits for the door to close and glares at Gina. "Was all that necessary?"

She lowers herself back down in the bed with a snicker. "Of course it was. You were already here, makes no sense to send you away."

Waylon picks a chunk of jello out of his hair and flicks it at her. "The plate whipping was a bit dramatic."

"Drama is all these nurses and doctors understand. They all talk to me like I'm a child anyways so I'll throw a tantrum if that's what it takes."

Then Waylon gets his first good look at her. She's a living breathing skeleton: Her hair is sparse, her cheeks sunken, and the bones in her arms form hard edges just under the surface of her loose skin.

Waylon forces a smile and wraps his arms around her delicate frame. Her hands close around his back, but Waylon can barely tell they're there. It's more like a stiff wind than the woman he remembers lifting a keg single handed at his wedding. He guides her back down and lowers himself into a nearby chair with a grunt. "So what's this physical therapy?"

She swigs from a cup of milk on the tray beside her. "Mostly walking. They said something about it maybe staving off the degeneration. I don't know what they're thinking so you'll have to ask them if you want it explained. I'd rather watch my soaps, talk to you, and pass in peace than all this fuss."

Waylon grits his teeth. "Don't talk like that, there are still options. I found a healer and I just need the money to pay them."

"Don't do anything foolish. Speaking of soaps, can you pass me the remote? A nurse placed it on the sink over there."

Gina nods off half-way through the show. Waylon rests his head on their clasped hands for a while. He has to fix it. Phil has plenty of company up there.

Dr. Crawford peeks through the cracked door and clears his throat. With a sigh, Waylon squeezes Gina's hand and walks out after the man. A little ways down the hallway, Dr. Crawford turns, his beady black eyes surrounded by forced wrinkles. "So... She doesn't have long, son. You've got to start making plans. I can set you up in the lobby with one of our administrators to walk you through it."

Waylon's heart clenches up, its beat disappears in the freezing water filling his chest. "No, stop. Just keep her happy and comfortable while I figure it out. I can figure this out."

"Son, there isn't—"

The freezing water drains and lava fills its place. Waylon barges past Crawford. "I said I'll figure it out! Keep her happy. And keep your paperwork to yourself."

Waylon

Dew decorates each blade of the hospital's lush grass like intricate coats woven of pure jewels, the early morning sun and passing clouds send steady waves of sparkles over each little member of royalty.

Grumbling, Waylon stomps along a sidewalk sandwiched between the lawn and parking lot. "Who teaches doctors to treat people like that." And where did he park? Section E?

Tiny blue signs with white text peek above the roofs of sedans, vans, and trucks. Waylon's eyes squint and he works to make out the lettering of a nearby sign. The bottom half is cut off, but it's an "E". He zigzags between the rows of parked cars.

Past a particularly tall truck, the sign stares back: "F". He sighs. "Why aren't these taller?"

The surroundings aren't helpful. The only sign visible is the wrong one with every other one dipping far enough below cars to be unreadable. He fishes out the key fob in his pants pocket. It's an ugly little thing: black plastic scarred by drops, pictograms gone, and a cluster of sentimental knickknacks dangling from it. Waylon glances towards one of those knickknacks: a picture of him and Phil at a showing for a movie he's forgotten. He lets a smile slip, then presses on the lock button twice.

A flock of mourning doves fly into the air to escape the honk, only to perch on the power lines just overhead. Waylon heads toward the sound. His car is an ugly little thing too: enough dents on the bumpers to need toes to count, chipping paint, and — as of the last hour — a ton of bird shit. Door handle included.

He glares up at the birds and rolls up one of his sleeves. "Really?"

One of the doves tilts its head. Pain throbs behind Waylon's left temple. He lowers himself in front of the glass and exhales: foggy breath rolls across the glass leaving behind a layer of opaque condensation. He rubs it away with his exposed forearm and the spots where foggy glass was moments before are now only outlined in abrupt edges. Like a huge caterpillar took a couple bites. With tired unfocused eyes, Waylon slips an arm through the largest hole and pulls the handle.

*Crack.* Waylon's heart and stomach leap, his arms shoot up around his head and he swivels in every direction. Nothing happens: no pain, no follow up sounds, nothing. Engine backfire? None of the cars nearby are on and no one is walking around. Then a thump rings out from his car's roof. Waylon takes a couple short breaths and inches his head back around. This is how all the people die in those horror movies, but he has to look.

A pair of green, vertical slit pupil eyes stare back unblinking and their owner clutches a dead mourning dove by sharp fangs. His heart settles. It's just a cat; a gross dead-dove-carrying cat.

The cat lays it on the roof and stares that unblinking stare with its head lowered. Nausea creeps up Waylon's stomach and into his chest. He bats at the grey-furred menace. "Shoo! Off!"

The cat hisses at the waving hands, then grabs the dove, darts down the rear-window, and leaps off the trunk. With a gulp to assuage the nausea, Waylon drops into the driver's seat. Disgusting.

By the time he leaves the parking lot, the hole in the driver-side window is almost gone; the edges of it blur toward the remaining opening like ice crystals propagating through water. he waits for it to close up, then pulls out into the road.

Just beside the hospital, a couple cars pull into the lot of a diner: Sickbay. One car belongs to the waitress, Pam. Arms wrapped around herself, she shambles up to the door, her blue apron dress and frizzy brown hair rustles in the wind. Waylon's hands tighten around the fake, peeling leather of the steering wheel and he parks at the end of the lot — far away from the other cars. This diner will work, even if the cook gives him guff.

Fake-leather upholstered booths line the windowed walls, a large bar with red-clad swivel chairs sits in the center, and everything beyond the kitchen door is a mystery besides the bit of the chefs head peeking through a small, metal trimmed wall cutout. Waylon slides into a corner booth and pulls a phone out of his inner coat pocket.

It's a beat up three-generation-old smartphone previously owned by some mid-level manager at the distribution center down the road. His hands start to jitter: this is just like the spy movies. Images of explosions and skydiving and cute tech guys with single letter names run through his mind.

Pam knocks on his table. "What're you having?"

Cold washes over Waylon's scalp as he comes back to the present with evidence of his wrongdoing laid out on the table; he flips the phone over into his lap. "Pancakes?"

Letting out a couple loud chews of the gum in her mouth, she rolls her eyes and head toward the kitchen window. "We doing pancakes?"

The deep grumble of a boar who woke up too early responds. "He's having hash browns and eggs."

She shrugs at Waylon. "You know the rules. That a problem?"

Waylon clenches his teeth and fidgets with the laminated menu. "I suppose not. Is he ever in a good mood?"

Another shrug. "Maybe try coming in a little later than the crack of opening every time." She walks back behind the bar and fiddles with the coffee machine.

Waylon rests his head on a hand supported by the table. Hash browns and eggs it is.

Pam drops off a full cup of coffee, some utensils, and a plate with two unevenly toasted slices of bread. "Five minutes."

Waylon leans his head toward her. "Thanks."

She's already gone and chatting with the cook through the kitchen window. Waylon flips the phone back over. Okay, shipping manifests. An image of the previous owner with a golden retriever appears and a ton of missed call notifications slide down in front of it. Waylon swipes them all away and searches through the apps. Idle games, to-do lists, meditation all alongside a "Work" folder. Waylon opens it then taps on an icon of a cartoon truck set next to a clock.

Black and white spreadsheets overflow the screen with dates, times, license plate numbers, and too much to think about. Waylon's left temple throbs again and he explores, trying to find someway to filter the massive amount of data. After some adjustments, the spreadsheets only show what matters: aluminum shipments leaving the distribution center tonight. Waylon takes a second phone out of his pants pocket and sends a cryptic message to the already open group chat: "It's on."

A Plan

A window on the far wall is ajar. The top of the studio's fire escape peeks into view against a backdrop of grime encrusted air conditioning units balancing on the sills of the apartment building across the street. Elia rolls over to lay on her other side and lets out a snore like a glacier cutting through layer upon layer of solid stone.

Fur-padded feet skitter over the window sill, across the floor, and up into the bed. Sandpaper drags across Elia's face; then again. Her face scrunches up and she flails towards her head with one hand. Sandpaper again. She opens her eyes.

Slit pupils set in the center of deep emerald pools stare back. 

Elia rubs the wet patch on her face with the back of her hand and pushes the cat away. "You're nasty."

The cat whacks the hand a couple times with a hiss, then retreats to a pillow on the other side of the bed. Eyes closed, Elia takes a sharp breath of the frigid fall air. "It's not even that late Bamboo."

Bamboo's weight shifts along the bed, moving closer. Elia throws the comforter to the side and opens her eyes again. "Fine. You better not have been licking some other stray right before coming up here."

Bamboo hunches over, her eyes dart between the kitchen and the human with hands perfect for cracking open cans of cat food. Elia swings her legs out of bed and Bamboo goes wild the moment sockless feet touch the hardwood floor. Purring like a well-tuned engine, she leaps off the bed and circles in between Elia's legs.

Elia tip-toes around the slithering trip hazard to the kitchen's mock-mahogany cabinets. Grunts escape on each exaggerated step. "Please — *eh* — let me — *eh* — walk."

The kitchen is split into two parallel sections: an island with a sink that looks out over the studio's main room, then a row of counters and appliances against the wall.

Colorful tins of wet cat food teeter in stacks of three inside a low cabinet near the oven, their well designed bottoms meant to fit neatly together merely a suggestion.

Elia grabs one and turns around with a nudge of the cabinet door. Just behind the sink atop the counter, waves of distorted light flow around a pulsing pinprick of space. Her eyes grow hot and try to force themselves closed — like she's flipped on a light after sitting in the dark for too long.

Unlike that, the feeling doesn't fade and her mind turns in on itself trying to interpret what she sees in the bead of unreality at the center. She braces for the next part.

*Crack.*

Bamboo emerges from the disturbance mid-pounce and settles on her feet with well-practiced grace. She whips the last bit of her tail out of the unimaginable void and it winks out, sending a last wave of distorted light rolling through the air before dissipating like smoke.

Elia's eyes relax and she wipes away a couple tear streaks with her sweater's sleeve. "You could have just jumped, you dick."

Bamboo runs forward to the edge of the laminate counter top and sniffs toward Elia's hand that's grasping the unopened tin. The cat paces the edge, rotating her head to keep the can in sight.

Elia leans her back against a cabinet and slides down with a grunt. Bamboo dives after her, shoving a whiskered nose at the can and rubbing a furry cheek against it. Elia cracks the can open and sets it beside Bamboo on the freezing tile floor. "There, you little devil."

The beige, matte tiles blend together despite grout crisscrossing between them. Elia traces those grout lines with her eyes: Up. Right. Down. Left. Repeat. And her consciousness disappears amid the routine.

Bamboo nudges against Elia's leg, then everything else starts existing again. Like the now-empty can. Elia rubs her eyes with the palms of her hands. How long was she sitting there? Bamboo bats at the can and chases it as it clatters across the floor and disappears beneath the fridge. Two emerald eyes pout toward Elia.

Elia glares back and pulls herself up to her feet with help from the counter top. "What do you want me to do about it?"

---

Bamboo circles in front of the apartment's door, meowing on every other turn. Elia stumbles through the entrance's hallway. She comes to a stop and fiddles with a stubborn zipper on the front of her navy blue mechanic's coveralls. "Darn thing..."

The zipper jerks halfway up the suit and Elia grunts as pain shoots from her thumb. She lowers the zipper to free the pinched bit of skin and shakes her hand out. "Euh, damn it!"

Red welts form in a zigzag along the back of her thumb. She gives her hand one last shake and zips the suit up the rest of the way.

Directly outside the apartment door sits the stairwell to the shop. Bamboo bounds forward and pushes through a flap in the door at the bottom. A muffled *crack* echos around the exposed brick walls as she teleports to her favorite spot among the roof's steel trusses. Country music pumps through Otto's radio speakers and filters into the stairwell. Letting her eyes close, Elia shakes her head in between stair steps. He knows not to have that music on.

Natural light falls through a ring of open awning windows set near the ceiling and onto the broom-finished concrete floor. The scent of gas, oil, and grease mix in the air. Feet kick to the beat of the music from under the minivan parked in the workstation on the far wall.

Elia barges over and knocks on the hood. "Turn that music off. I told you not to bring that radio anymore."

Otto rolls out from under the car, grease smudges stretch across his bald head. He dabs away sweat with a rag and speaks in a thick Polish accent. "Oh! Sorry, boss! Didn't realize you were going to be down this early. I pulled your next car in for you by the way." His brows meet in the middle and he nods. "I- I think it's the right one."

Elia nods back toward the Camaro occupying her station. "Yeah, you got it right. Thanks for that. But music: off."

"Sure thing, boss."

Elia starts back toward the Camaro. In between Otto's and Elia's spaces, Duffie works in the cab of a chrome 1957 Chrysler 300C. Elegant curves stretch past the headlights and swooping fins jut out along the trunk. Elia pats one of the fins and lets out a wolf whistle. "Better be careful with this one, Duff."

Duffie looks behind themselves out the rear window, the pillar of puffy brown hair on their head bounces with the movement. "Morning, Elia. Golly are you right, I'm scared to even be sitting in here."

Elia steps into her workstation. Her belt hangs over her tool cabinet with a pair of pliers threatening to stumble out of an overstuffed pocket. Her gloves wedge open the top drawer; she pries them out and slips them on. Now to change these brake pads.

---

An hour goes by and the job is finished. Sweat clings to every inch of Elia's body, staining the armpits and chest of her coveralls. She rubs excess grease on her knees and drapes her tool belt back across the cabinet. Break time.

Her office is separated from the rest of the shop by a wall with a window spanning most of the office's width. Just inside, a metal desk is littered with paperwork that should have been filed away in one of the file cabinets lining the wall behind it. A flag of white, sandwiched between amaranth pink, then sky blue peaks from the corner of her bulletin board. The board itself is filled with thumbtacks, dingy forgotten vacation photos, and pictures of foreign cars on standard printer paper.

Back throbbing, Elia collapses into the chair behind her desk. She opens the fridge nestled under one of the desk corners. Rows of soda sit parallel with all the brand logos facing forward except for one can. She twists it to the appropriate orientation and cracks the tab on a separate one.

Carbonation sends misty droplets of water popping out the top of the can, hitting any nearby surface. Elia rotates toward the bulletin board and upturns the soda. It rushes out in a translucent red river. Sweet sparks with hints of manufactured strawberry play across her tongue and crackle down her throat with a gulp. Nothing quite like it.

A knock rings off the metal door near the shuttered garage ones. It echos around the concrete room, and a meow joins in from the rafters.

Otto rolls out from under his car, greasier than before; Duffie leans back in the plush upholstery of the 300C; and Elia swivels her chair back around to face the window, mid drink. She takes a moment to lower the can.

All three mechanics exchange glances. Elia stares, alternating her glare between the other two. No way she's interacting with someone this soon after waking up, even if she's just sitting here drinking soda. 

Duffie steps out of the cab and guides the door closed. "I've got it."

Otto wipes more sweat off his head. "Thank you, friend! I'm on a roll over here."

Elia searches her office for another distraction and finds a half-finished crossword puzzle from yesterday's newspaper. She racks her brain between sips, but glances at Duffie's empty workstation instead of focusing. What's taking them so long at the door?

The crossword lay unchanged next to a discarded, chewed pencil. Elia slumps and inhales. Fine, she'll check on them.

Duffie leans out the door, wedging it close to their body with their only visible arm and foot. The desperate voice of a person with dwindling options slips past regardless.

"— just so I can get back to work. Then I can —"

Elia lets a sigh out and taps Duffie on the back. "I can take it from here." Don't be her...

Duffie doubles back out of the doorway. "Thanks!" Then adds with a whisper: "Good luck."

Past the threshold, a priest with wavy black hair leans on a cane. Her head dips and she raises a hand in a meek wave. "Hey Elia. I was just running an arrangement for my motorcycle by Duffie."

Elia huffs and crosses her arms. "Really now? What kind of arrangement?"

"One that gets me on the road and gives me the means to pay you."

Embers of anger coax into life inside Elia's chest where it burns an unwanted hole. Her eye's narrow as she searches Thea's face. "Sounds like I get shafted with that deal." Thea's features, her attitude. They're too familiar.

Thea raises the cane and her eyes go wide. "Y- You get shafted without a deal! I can't make money like this."

"And I can't pay my bills off charity. Got plenty of jobs right now without pilling your's on top for free."

Thea's hand trembles on the cane. "We can work something out! I've always been a good client, right? I've not done anything wrong, right?"

Embers ignite into a steady blaze and Elia starts to close the door. "Get out of here and figure something else out."

"Elia, please! I just need —"

Elia slams the door, stomps over to her workstation, and picks another thing to fix on the Camaro. Guilt tripping? Not this time.

Elia

Clattering tools are the only source of sound in the shop. The fan and power steering belts of the Camaro's engine litter the ground. Sweat drips into one of Elia's eyes, stinging it into a squint. She tightens her hands around her socket wrench and gives it a few twists.

The wrench's head sits over the final, rust-stuck bolt of the timing belt's case. Elia throws her entire body into it like a sumo wrestler eager to push her foe out of the ring. It doesn't budge; the strain sends metallic groans reverberating through her head and forces the hair on the back of her neck to spring up. Elia pushes again. Nothing. Fire rages inside her chest begging to be let out. She rips the wrench off the bolt and throws it at her cabinet. "Agh!"

Silence returns to the shop, tools sitting motionless as a fog of awkward empathy — laced with cold, prickling fear — falls over the other mechanics. At least, that's what Elia imagines. That's what she's feeling. She needs to get herself back under control.

*Crack.*

Bamboo appears on the tool cabinet and fixes an unblinking glare at Elia; her tail swishes back and forth, brushing across the waiting tools and generating a metallic whistle. Elia glares back.

*Crack*. Bamboo's furry sides snake between Elia's legs and she stretches up, using both paws to claw at Elia's pants. The fire of anger dims back to threatening embers and Elia picks Bamboo up from under the cat's outstretched limbs. Grey hair flattens close to Bamboo's body and she stretches into an arc as Elia lifts her higher. 

Breath leaves Elia's chest along with whatever else was fueling her anger; worn-out charcoal weighs down the pit in its absence, bringing a tired haze to her mind. She raises Bamboo to her shoulder where the cat scrambles up and lays across her shoulders. "Fine. I guess I'll take lunch early."

---

 A plain neon "Diner" sign looms over the all glass door, casting sickly-green light over the walkway and nearly empty parking lot. Cursive frosty lettering spelling out "Sickbay" swoops around the glass. Scents of maple syrup, fried dough, and eggs cling to the air, thickening it to a heavy syrup. Knots of exhaustion tug into place all over Elia's mind. Maybe this was a mistake.

An electronic chime catches the attention of a slim-framed waiter with an unkempt undercut wiping down the counter; his towel comes to a stop and he looks up. A smile spreads across his face. "Elia! Great to see you. Bit early, huh?"

Those knots tighten and strain, tiredness radiates out through the rest of Elia's head demanding mindless rest. She shifts her gaze to the closest empty booth and slides in. Can't handle this right now.

Bamboo tiptoes down Elia's arm and onto the table. She juts her chest out over the edge closest to the aisle and tracks something with her head.

The knots refuse to settle, so Elia stares at a tree out the window; its branches dance around naked in the wind like a skeleton's hand manipulating an ensemble of invisible puppets. She stares straight ahead. Probably best not to think about skeletons.

Footsteps echo behind the booth, then Bamboo teeters back and raises herself up to two feet to smell a pitcher on the waiter's tray. He slides a bowl to the window and pours milk into it from the pitcher. "There you go, Bamboo."

The cat rushes over and more so flicks the milk onto the table with her tongue than actually drinking it. Knots threaten to pop, but Elia looks into the waiter's eyes for a moment and manages to keep a steady tone. "Thanks, Mitchel."

"Anything for my favorite cat! Getting the usual?"

"Yeah."

Mitchel places a glass of water in front of Elia and tucks the empty tray under his arm. "Alright! I'll put that order in."

The wait gives Elia's mind a chance to recover. She watches several groups of people walk by bundled up in their monotone puffer jackets, arm-in-arm with their loved ones. Just living. Free. Sweat slicks the back of her neck and a pocket mirror etched with flowers pops into her mind. She shakes her head to get it out. She doesn't need it, she's fine.

Mitchel drops a plate of pancakes drowning in syrup in front of Elia. An icicle prods her heart, she shakes the thoughts out of her head and picks up her utensils. Mitchel drops another plate across from her, some kind of greasy, meat-laden sandwich this time. He lowers into the booth's other seat. "Mind if I join you?"

Heat simmers across Elia's face. She cuts out a triangle of multi-layer pancake and sponges up syrup from the plate. He's going to do what he wants anyway.

Mitchel takes a bite of the sandwich and speaks through his full mouth. "Strange you came so soon, thirty minutes earlier and I'd have missed you. What caused the change?" He forces a laugh. "Trying to avoid your favorite waiter?"

Knots tighten, cutting off Elia's patience and flashing that pocket mirror back into her mind. She gulps down her full mouth of pancakes and sips some water to help force it down. "I'd rather just eat."

"Oh, sorry about that. Mind if I just talk then? I won't ask any more questions."

"Fine."

He takes another bite. "So, my fiancé just moved in with me. It's different than I thought it'd be. We always got along back in college, but we never officially signed a lease together or anything. Not that we aren't getting along now. It's just... weird? Talking administration with her feels odd."

The words roll off Elia's mind, but they're there; floating around her subconscious. She cuts into more pancake. Distracts her from... other thoughts, at least.

Mitchel dabs at his grease-stained butcher block of a chin. "I suppose we're talking a ton more because of living together, but now our conversations are fifty percent what we usually talk about and fifty percent figuring out bills and what day we're supposed to put out the trash. Domestic stuff, you know? "

He sets the sandwich down and waves away his last train of thought with his hands. "But anyways, kids are coming up more often now that the wedding is right around the corner. We're thinking of trying a few weeks after."

Knots strain, then whatever they're made of snaps. Chaotic vibrations of emotion fly through Elia's thoughts: anger, loneliness, and whatever else. She spills money onto the table. "Don't. Worst mistake you'll ever make."

Mitchel's eyebrows tighten together and some kind of emotion fills his eyes. "What's wrong —"

Heat boils over and Elia barges out the doors. She doesn't need pity from the people she's hurting, she needs to be home. Closer to the mirror. Now.

Diner

Humidity soaks into every crevice of Thea's cassock and her hair crinkles into frizz. Mounds of unformed clay line both sides of the entrance hallway, like misshapen golems waiting for orders. Sweat slicks her palm making it hard to keep steady on her cane.

The humidity disappears past the threshold of the main room and the air carries the smell of burning cedar alongside the ever present assortment of sin-related berries. Tables upon tables spread across the workshop with pottery in varying stages of finished sitting atop. All leading to a hulking beast, a shadow; blocking out the sun blazing through the expanse of window's behind it.

Warmth fills Thea's chest. She smiles and throws up a hand. "Frank!"

The beast glances around, then bares a human grin between two rosy cheeks. "Thea!"

Frank stands up from a spinning pottery wheel and strides toward her; his arms spread; waist-length salt-and-pepper braids bouncing behind him. Not some shadow monster. Just a big, beer-bellied guy.

Thea gestures to her clothes. "Mind taking care of this? The shop's entrance is torture, I'd swear I'm carrying an few extra pounds now."

"Sorry about that. I'd have cleared it if I knew —" His eyes widen at her cane and his stride falters. "What happened?"

Thea taps her hip with the top of the cane's handle. "Tiny accident with the motorcycle, just like you said would happen."

"I didn't want to assume... Can't believe I ever set foot on one of those death traps."

"Don't call it a death trap. Now, damp clothes?"

Frank wraps his arms around Thea and squeezes. "Of course, of course." At his touch, the weight of damp clothes fall away like he cut a rope dangling a sand bag from her shoulders.

Warmth spreads from her chest and into her extremities. She squeezes back, her unused arm stretching upwards to avoid an accidental butt touch. "Thanks, big man. Still wish I could do that."

He holds her by the shoulders at arms length. "Anytime. Are you doing okay?"

Shame turns Thea's stomach. "Yeah, I'm doing okay. I just wanted a sounding board for some of my options really... To talk through some next steps."

"Money trouble? It can't be easy with the bills and that injury. You can always come back here, I know Brother Dale would love—"

Shame turns to a flash fire of anger. Thea pushes away. "I'm not you, Frank. Please keep your born-again spirituality to yourself. If I come back it'll be my choice, that's it."

He lowers his hands, palms out. "Okay, okay. I won't bring it up again. Promise."

Anger cools back to the stomach-turning shame. "Sorry... and thanks."

"Don't apologize, I overstepped." He tilts his head to a rickety table with a few chairs near a kiln. "How about we sit?"

Pain in her knees flare to the front of her mind and she beelines to the table in a half-jog, half-limp. She calls back over her shoulder. "I was waiting for the invite."

Frank follows behind and pulls a chair out for her, then they both sit down. He rests an arm on the table and taps his fingertips on the surface. "So what do you need to bounce off me?"

Nausea and shame surge; Thea balances her cane across her lap and breathes. "Okay. My motorcycle won't be fixed for a while yet and I need to find some jobs until it's working again."

*He doesn't need to how bad it is.*

He nods. "Uh-huh."

"I've got a few ideas: I could tutor, school is in full swing so there's got to be parents looking for someone. Midterms are close, right? Or I could officiate weddings again. Never a bad time for that, right?"

He waits for more words to come. None do. Then he brings his eyebrows together. "Do you want me answer to that? Or is it rhetorical?"

She nods. "Yeah."

He scratches a clay-stained hand over his head and lets out a breath. "Shew, let me think..." He rests the hand back on the table. "There have been a good number of wedding couples coming in asking about officiants if I remember right. They're turning them away since you left, so that might work."

Inspiration strikes her mind like lightening: she tilts an ear his way and grins. "Oh, yeah? They turning people away for anything else?"

Intermission: Pottery

Broken glass strewn through the street reflects pearlescent copies of the blue sky overhead, along with stray couples of mourning doves going about their noontime rituals.

Thea reaches a hand over her head and pulls a poster from her already open backpack. "Priest-for-Hire" in bold, outlined lettering scrawl across the top next to an image of her in a church parking lot. Below those, her usual list of services with the addition of red, color pencil marks spelling out "Impromptu Weddings" and "Notary". 

She staples it across the light pole in front of her. Just the library and grocery store now.

---

Empty tree limbs sway just above benches in a cloistered garden. Just off a side street, this garden sits open to the more curious public. Exhaustion and pain weigh down Thea's limbs. She collapses into one of the benches, lets her head roll back, and takes deep breaths. The sky glows a gradient of orange and blue, dark towering clouds roll closer on the horizon. She snorts a laugh and gulps in another breath. Probably foreshadowing what she can expect out of her grind, but that's just the anxiety talking. Hopefully.

Lightening flashes in the distance, highlighting the peaks and valleys of clouds around it. Then thunder accompanies a chime ringing from her pocket. Confusion strains her brows, she slips her phone out and glances at the screen. Already? 

It's not a number she knows: not insurance, no scam warning, and Frank definitely doesn't remember how to use one. She clears her throat and hits the accept button. "Thea Aalberg, Priest-for-Hire."

Raucous chuckles stampede out of the phone, "Hush, hush! She answered!"

Frustration twists Thea's chest into a painful knot, she's no stranger to prank calls. She keeps it out of her voice except for the occasional waver. "Excuse me? Is there something I can help you all with?"

Chuckles die down after a couple more hushes and a young woman's voice comes through. "Hi! Sorry about that. So you do weddings; can you do one tonight in front of city hall?"

Thea's chest untwists and excitement gnaws at her fingers. "Tonight? One second..."

Silence from the other end.

She drops the phone to her lap, pulls up her map, and pecks in "City Hall". A brief loading animation later and the directions and amount of time to get there appears. Only 13 minutes of walking.

Thea brings the phone back up.  "I think I can do that. When do you need me there?"

A different, deeper voice comes through in the background this time, liquor seeping through the phone with it. "10 minutes ago, man!"

The young woman reappears with her words punctuated by laughs. "Stop it! Sorry about them, they're just excited. But anytime! Soon though, we've got to get the after party started!"

Twisting uncertainty and gnawing excitement wrestle over Thea, so she snorts another laugh and follows it with a sigh. They're too drunk aren't they?

Before Thea can respond, the young woman goes on. "So you're on your way?"

Decision freezes Thea's tongue and her mind hammers at it like an ill-trained ice carver. This isn't wrong, right? She's about to get evicted; if she doesn't do this, it's the same as packing her bags.

The woman prods again. "Hello?"

That frees Thea's tongue, but sends a cold feeling crawling down into her stomach. "Y- yes. I'll be there in fifteen minutes." Did she really expect sober couples to reach out?

"Great! See you there! I'll be the one in a neon pink crop top."

Then silence. Except for the rumble of thunder in the direction of city hall. She's going to get soaked.

---

City Hall looms in the night, with spotlights and columns casting sinister shadows across a facade filled with intricate reliefs. Thea's breath turns to fog, but fire bellows in her lungs. She tucks her unused hand into her armpit and trudges toward the entrance. Just below at the base of the stairs, a splash of neon pink dances in the moonlight. A rainbow of colors join and part in chaotic movements all around it.

Sweat forms in cold, prickling beads against Thea's scalp. She rests on her cane, tugs at her cassock's collar, and sucks in cold air to soothe her burning insides. More people than expected. She's tired, it's cold, it's going to rain, and now there are all these people she has to give a speech in front of — completely out of breath and energy.

The smell of gooseberry rushes along the wind and overwhelms Thea's senses. Her face twists at the stench, but she trudges forward. These people really are trashed.

Closer, the splashes of color transform into people throwing extremities out at strange angles with awkward timing. At least she's not being paid to teach them to dance; not that she can. The woman in pink breaks away, raises a hand, and calls out. "Thea? Thanks so much for coming!"

Exhaustion tugs at Thea's mind. "That's me, thanks for calling. So we're doing it right here?"

The woman grabs one of Thea's hands and shakes it. "The stairs over there, come on!" She turns and beckons behind her. "I'm Jess by the way."

Thea follows after as fast as she can. Just a little more rushing about, then she can rest. "What are you looking for?"

Jess glances back over her shoulder. "What do you mean?"

"I've got all the forms all ready for you to sign, so we can just do that. Or I could officiate a small ceremony for you."

"A ceremony, of course! Just do your thing."

Regret burns through Thea's lungs and mind. It's fine, it's just a little longer; she can make it. "And who is getting married?"

As the two of them reach the group, Jess pulls a woman in a sky blue trench coat out of the gyrating crowd of drunk dancers; the woman's auburn hair sweeps just above her shoulder with the motion. She pushes against Jess for balance and laughs. "Hey! Don't pull me around like that!"

Jess wraps an arm around the woman. "This is Penny. It's her and I that are getting married."

Penny tightens the blue trench coat around herself. "Oh, heck yeah! It's us getting married! About time too." She shifts rolling eyes between Jess and Thea. "It's only been, like five years. Actually, no we should probably wait six years. Let's call this off."

Jess squeezes Penny around the shoulder in a side hug. "Yeah. I know I should have done it sooner. Speaking of, let's get this show on the road."

Everyone turns to Thea. Panic shoots through her; right, she's suppose to run this thing. "You just want me to come up with something?"

Jess lets go of Penny and stands at the base of the stairs. "Yeah! Let's just form an aisle here and it'll be like I'm at the podium."

The crowd shambles around to form approximate lines on either side of Jess.

Sparks of inspiration light up Thea eyes, so she twists around herself and searches. This can be spruced up a bit. Trash litters the sidewalk, grass clippings fly about for the last time this season, and unfallen leaves rustle in a gentle breeze; oblivious to the coming storm. Thea grabs at a bundle of nearby leaves, crushes them in her hand, then shoves them in her pocket. These will work.

Shifting eyes of the hopeful wedding-goers acknowledge just how weird that was. Cold nips up her neck threatening to send her into a full body cringe, but she shakes her head. Don't react to it.

Jess smiles down the makeshift aisle of drunk friends and pumps her fists with two thumbs up. Thea starts towards Jess, then pauses after a few steps. More stares. She pinches crumbled leaves out of her pocket, then tosses them to her sides in puffs of red-toned confetti. 

The crows cheers out drunken words as they recognize the impromptu flower girl. She steps forward a few more steps then tosses another couple puffs; then louder cheers. A man near the end of the aisle cheers loudest. "Yeah, man! That's the stuff! Great idea!" 

Penny steps into place at the end of the aisle opposite Jess and both of their eyes change in that moment. Not Thea's moment, not the crowd's moment; their moment. Something eternal swims between them, then circles around the crowd; voices hush, bustle stops, and all eyes dart between the brides drinking in the intense, warm atmosphere.

So Thea slinks past the remaining bit of the aisle and posts herself behind Jess. Maybe marrying someone wouldn't be so bad; the idea of sharing her recliner isn't great, much less her... Well, there really isn't anything else she can share. A moment like this can change some minds, though. Not hers, just some.

The moment passes and Penny strides toward Jess. She nods her head to every other person along the aisle, stops across from Jess, and locks eyes with her partner. Then swirls of orange fire spurt from Penny's tear ducts and swim around her iris in a perfect circle, like rings of pure sun. "Let's start it!" 

Long hours of practice sever threads of panic; Thea clears her throat and puts on a confident voice. "We're all here today to celebrate the union between Jess..." Wait, she doesn't know this person's last name. They'll hate that and then her and then not pay her.

"Thatcher." Jess says.

A cold flash of relief swells at the back of Thea's head, as if death itself brushes past. She clenches down on the cane's handle. "Right, Jess Thatcher and Penny..."

"Margrave," Penny says.

Another flash of relief; Thea claps and spreads her arms across the crowd. "Jess Thatcher and Penny Margrave!"

A large drop of water hits Thea's head from storm clouds swirling above. She glances up, then back to the waiting crowd. Better hurry this up.

"Two souls to be linked here and now in life and death, sickness and health, happy times and sad; and for eternity afterwards. Are there vows you want to state in front of all of your friends and the heavens above?"

Jess rustles in a tight front pocket and unfolds a paper. She breathes a laugh and onlookers nearly see butterflies come out with it.  "I've been writing these for a while."

Penny grabs Jess' hand without breaking eye contact. "You never told me that!"

Jess raises up the paper, then her shoulders keel over and heave with laughter. She flashes the front of the rain-slicked, waxy paper at Penny. "It's just the receipt from dinner." Using the edge of her hand, she wipes a tear from her eye, "Ho, that was a good one."

Laughter bubbles up Thea's throat; she reels in her neck and grinds her teeth to suppress it, then snorts anyway. "And you, Penny?"

And the rain starts. Within moments, every surface is slick and puddles form in uneven dips in the concrete slabs.

Penny rolls her eyes away from Jess and she calls over the rain, "No bad jokes from me, let's do this."

Contentedness warms Thea's chest in spite of the rain, so she spreads her arms a final time. "Then I pronounce you wife and wife! Please kiss. Uh— You may kiss, I mean."

Even compared to the rain, the cheers are drowning. The small group turns into a raucous swarm; they run, they whoop, they drink. Then concern twists Thea's stomach away from its warm contentment. She raises a hand but wavers halfway, leaving it curling inward. She won't be able to convince them to stop.

The crowd surges toward the three of them near the base of the stairs. Guilt and concern give way to urgency. Thea circles around the crowd and waits at a safe distance.

Penny breaks from the throng and stops just in front of her. She pulls a stack of twenty dollar bills out of an inner trench coat pocket and offers it. "Here, and thanks for doing this. We've been putting it off for so long..."

A small bit of that contentedness from earlier creeps into Thea's heart. She slips the bills into her pocket. "Happy to help. I actually had a good time with it."

Penny brings her hands to her chest and places them palms-together as if she was about to pray.  "I'm so happy to hear that! Be careful getting home."

Realization strikes Thea's mind. She widens her eyes and digs around in her backpack. "One moment... I almost forget to give you all the form. I already got Jess' signature, now it's just waiting for your's."

"Oh yeah! We should have said something."

Thea slides over to a nearby statue depicting a dolphin. A sweeping stone tail blocks a bit of the rain. She reaches a pen and paper out to Penny. "No, no. It's my fault."

Penny presses the paper against the side of the statue, signs it, and hands the pen back. "Don't worry about it. Thanks again."

Thea pivots and tosses a hand into the air in the rough approximation of a wave. Finally, closer to rent and now she can rest.

The rest of the night blurs together in exhaustion, a cab ride Thea can't afford, and a soft recliner. Then sun directly in her eyes. A strange malaise fills her mind as her consciousness surfaces from dreamless sleep; something out of place, not right. She rubs her eyes with the palms of her hand and looks out her balcony window. Forgot to close the blinds last night.

Flocks of blue birds battle over who gets to perch on the balcony railing with dive bombs and incessant chirping. Thea watches them for a moment more, then pushes herself out of the recliner and heads into the kitchen. All the dishes are gone from the sink, placed in their appropriate cabinets by a less tired past Thea. Present Thea blinks through blurriness and sets up the kettle to boil.

A loud thump reverberates around the bare walls of the apartment. Thea's heart leaps, and she steadies herself on a nearby counter top. Freshly brewed tea threatens to spill over the edge. She holds still until the tea settles. No more noise from the balcony. Thea sets her tea onto the coffee table and flips on the television. "Darn birds."

Speakers crackle to life before the image comes into focus. "—Margrave and Jessica Thatcher. Our hearts are with their family. Now to Neil on sports where he's talking to the experts in the Wrestler's International R&D department to find out just how they get their athletes into tip top shape."

Pictures of the two women from last night fade out and a man in a tailored business suit stands in front of a predominately glass office building. The words "Just married couple lose lives in hero mishap" scroll across the bottom of the news feed alongside "Duck sweaters are in, more at 12PM."

Confusion crashes into Thea and sends her sprawling back into her recliner. What? She'd just seen them last night, this doesn't make any sense.

Except it does.

Wedding

Spare belongings scatter the floor in front of Thea's only closet. Among them: a Bible, a clay vase she hasn't found a place for, and a folder full of identity documents. Thea kneels in front of the closet: a rosary dangling from her hand.

She rubs a thumb across the crucifix and drinks in the details carved out of the dark jujube wood. Tiny wooden Jesus hangs from the crucifix, which in turn hangs from a string of wooden beads large and small. The Blessed Virgin Mary stares up from a pendent set in between the crucifix and a loop of more beads. 

Reluctance and skepticism work to hold the air in Thea's lungs, but she forces a breath out and performs the sign of the cross. "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen."

Nothing. No sound, not even birds fighting on the balcony.

Thea grips the crucifix in her fist. "I believe in one God, the Father almighty, Creator of heaven and earth and in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord..." Actually, she hates the Apostles' Creed, why'd they make it so long?

The grainy texture of the crucifix's wood disappears in her hand's warmth and sweat.

She glances toward the ceiling to check if God is watching, then she shifts to the first large wooden bead. "Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed by thy name; thy kingdom come; thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven."


The bead for the fourth Hail Mary rests in her hand. Heavier than the rest, but not physically. Every one of Thea's senses recoil like a confident child that just bit a lemon, and an overwhelming annoyance settles into her mind. Annoyance at God for not making it clear if he exists; annoyance at society for not making it easy to exist; annoyance at herself for making all the wrong choices. Above all that annoyance though, a dense cloud of sadness blocks out any shining rays of optimism.

*We could have confronted them. They were too drunk to be walking about and We knew and We could have said something. But no. We'd rather make money.*

Her heart pounds, pumping cold, concentrated panic through her veins. She buries her head in her hands and gulps in a series of breaths. "It's just anxiety. It's just anxiety."

*Keep telling yourself that. We know the truth.*

Pangs of panic reverberate with every beat of the drum in her chest, but Thea clambers to sit upright. "I'm fine, get my breathing under control and I'm fine."

*Breathing won't make it not Our fault.*

Anxious guilt crashes against the dam inside her psyche, built tall over many years of practice; then it sloshes over. She wrenches herself up to her feet and hobbles toward the bathroom. "Medicine time."

---

A pair of mourning doves fly past the workshop's expanse of windows. Frank raises a delicate, clay coffee cup no bigger than a plump strawberry. He tracks the birds with his head and long black braids sway with the movement. "You're going to have to tell me more if you need help. This is all too cryptic."

Thea's last bit of reluctance thaws; almost. She shakes her head for a moment, then sighs. "Fine. Did you see the news today?"

Frank sips from the cup. "You know darn well we don't have a television. If you need more time —"

Thea drops her palms on the wooden table with a thump. "No, no. Sorry. You remember the instant wedding thing we talked about a couple days ago?"

Frank lowers the cup into the palm of his other hand. "Yeah, what about it?" His eyebrows jump. "And why would it involve the news?"

"Well, I did it. Made fliers, hung them up yesterday, then I got a call last evening when I was about to head home."

Frank nods. Wooden legs groan as the gargantuan man shifts weight to the edge of his chair.

Thea glances between Frank and the pattern of wood grain on the table. "It was a couple young women and a crowd of their friends. They had me meet them outside city hall and do a tiny ceremony and fill out the paperwork."

Concern taints Frank's eyes. "You were okay walking all over like that?"

Thea dismisses the concern with a wave of a hand. "Nearly, that's not what this is about. They were drunk, Frank."

"And you still went through with it?"

A weed of guilt sprouts in Thea's mind, sending out spiraling vines looking for purchase. She shakes her head and forces a steady tone. "I would have backed out if I thought they would regret it. They'd been together for five years or something like that. But they were drinking when they left and... I wanted to say something, to tell them to stop or to go home."

"And?"

The weed's vines constrict. She closes her eyes and breathes. "I didn't. They died in some hero thing after they left city hall; I only caught the headline."

Frank chokes on a sip of espresso. "Oh shit. Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Bit empty though."

"No kidding. What are you going to do now?"

Thea scratches a stray itch on her calf, careful not to knock over the cane resting across her knees. "I don't know. That's why I came here; to talk about this and maybe figure out what to do. I'd be glued to my recliner if I stayed home. Do you have any ideas?"

Frank studies the espresso he hasn't drank yet and swirls the cup. "Hmm..." He looks back up and locks eyes with Thea. "I've got an idea, but I don't think you'll like it."

A small flame of anger burns away some of the guilt's vines. She grits her teeth and glares at him. "I'm not coming back, Frank."

He doesn't break eye contact. "I'm not talking about coming back. The abbot has been overwhelmed and complaining to Brother Dale. So Bother Dale might be willing to part with some monastery funds if you agree to pick up some of your previous duties."

Cold water extinguishes the anger and new guilt sprouts. She drops her gaze back to the table. "Oh, Mass?" She shouldn't have snapped.

"Mostly Mass. The abbot has been getting calls non-stop about it; confession too."

Thea traces a couple of the grain patterns with a finger. "It's a good suggestion. But I hate confession and Brother Dale. Even if I didn't, wouldn't the monastery get in trouble if I handle Mass?"

Frank lets out a laugh. "Probably, but that's only if someone raises a fuss. With how many calls I hear about, I don't think that'll be a problem."

Resignation seeps into Thea's eyes, blurring her vision. It's better than losing her apartment.

Prayer

Silence hangs inside Avery's sedan like the early morning fog clinging to the ground outside. Not much longer now. With the pull of a handle, Avery leans her seat back and stares at the roof. Shadowy figures drift away from their cars toward a giant dolphin looming overhead. Dread stabs Avery's heart and reverberates through her chest with every breath. She studies the buttons and knobs cluttering up the console: distractions.

The controls are a matte black set into a tan plate that reflects the soft light filtering through the fog. Ridges ring the sides of the knobs, symbols and a raised groove sit on the face of most of the buttons, and everyone of these controls — besides the air conditioning — are a complete mystery to her. She twists one of the knobs and tactile clicks vibrate her fingers. Memories of Mom asking her to stop drift into her mind. Something about how it wears the knob out or how it's Mom's car and Mom's rules, so don't ask questions.

Clarinets and oboes sing out, yanking her out of her reverie and back into the dread that she just escaped. She pulls the ringing phone out of her khaki's pocket. Seven fifty-seven plus a few seconds. She swipes away the alarm and everything hidden beneath fades into place: apps, the status bar, and a single notification containing a message preceded by an image of a heart underneath a magnifying glass. 

MaybeYourPenpal: "Good luck! I'm excited to hear how it goes!"

There's another minute to spare; plenty of time to say something. Avery taps it.

---

Below the looming dolphin sculpture, double glass doors sit between Avery and the aquarium, like a portal to a different world of inescapable responsibilities and fulfilled expectations. The dread is part of her now; every inch of her being is tense with it. Her lungs ache, her mind revolts. She can still quit. No one knows she's here yet and she can just turn around and everyone will forget about her for an hour or two. Long enough to relax before her life comes tumbling down.

An old woman appears on the other side of the glass. She pushes the door open toward Avery and her grey hair ruffles on the top of her head like cotton candy floating along a light breeze. A smile warms her face and fills her eyes. "Dear, you wouldn't happen to be Avery would you?"

Dread disappears into that warmth, but the pain in her lungs lingers. Avery sticks a hand out. "Y-yes ma'am."

The old woman narrows a pair of hazel eyes. "The only person who has to call me ma'am is my husband. You can call me Valarie, dear." She spreads her arms. "Handshakes are so formal, how about a hug instead?"

*She'll contaminate you. Refuse.*

Tendrils of compulsion snake out from Avery's heart. She's going to get measles from this lady right? Then Mom and Dad will get measles, then they'll die, and it'll be like that world war zombie book. She stares at Valarie, pressing through the urge to decline. 

*R-Refuse.*

That disruption is just enough for the tendrils to shrivel up and fall away. Avery embraces Valarie in a hug. Wait, this is weird. She shouldn't be hugging her boss.

The smell of every grandmother Avery has ever met drifts off the old woman and grows into noxious fumes in their embrace. Valarie pats Avery's back a couple times, then the two part. Nausea shifts around in Avery's throat; she swallows once to suppress it. Valarie sweeps her arms behind herself and across the spacious lobby behind her. "Welcome to the Cordia Aquarium."

Avery squeezes through the bit of doorway Valarie isn't blocking. The soft glow from outside creeps over the lobby, crawling up posters full of aquatic life, circular brochure stands, and benches. Nostalgic wonder sweeps Avery off her feet and carries her into the clouds of her mind, where a younger her skips from poster to poster letting out laughs of pure joy at the penguins and polar bears and whales. A wide hallway sits between the posters. Little her darts through hallway upon hallway of shimmering blue-green tanks. Puffy cheeked fish blubbing along for their next pellet of food, eels slithering from hiding space to hiding space, and young her soaking in the atmosphere.

The entrance door closes. Valarie steps up beside Avery and she places a hand on Avery's shoulder. "It still gets me. What a magical place, huh dear?"

Avery shakes herself down from the clouds and glances at Valarie. "Sorry, I just forgot how neat it was in here. I don't think I've been since my parents took me as a child."

"Ed and Mollie Hopper, right? I'm pretty sure they had their first date here; they were such cute kids back then. Anyways..." Valarie starts forward, beckons Avery, then clasps her hands behind her back. "We'll get you reacquainted with the aquarium and then we'll go talk to Tamika."

Maybe this won't be so bad; Avery scrambles after her.

---

Bright blue water ripples over a rainbow of saltwater fauna, two turtles float along with their red-toned shells peaking above the waterline, and a bundle of cables stretch into the water from a set of tanks near a control panel. The panel is more complex than the sedan's console. There's a screen showing someone scrubbing at algae growth with a long brush nearly identical to a janitor's broom. Near the screen, a microphone sits among a variety of buttons begging to be pressed.

Valarie presses down on one of the switches until it clicks like the play button of an old cassette player. "Hello, Tamika. Sorry to bother you, but would you mind popping back up?"

Bubbles disturb the surface of the water, then a head covered in goggles and a regulator break through. Dark brown dreads wrap together at the back of Tamika's head in a bun and drip water like a spigot. She rips the goggles off. "This better be important, I told you not to interrupt when I'm..." Her eyes dart between Avery and Valarie. "Oh, guess it is important."

Avery's stomach twists with awkwardness and she raises her hand in a half wave. "Hey. Nice to meet you, ma'am."

Valarie places a hand on Avery's shoulder again. Avery jolts at the contact, disrupting her concentration on leaving a good impression with Tamika. Valarie gives Avery's shoulder another pat. "This is Avery, she's the one we talked about you mentoring. Please do your best to treat her well and teach her everything she needs to know to finish out that degree with shining colors."

The awkwardness crawls up into Avery's chest with a shiver. All this shoulder patting is uncomfortable, too familiar. She flashes a lips-only smile at Tamika and holds back a glance toward Valarie's hand still resting on her shoulder.

Then Tamika goes to war. She rests on the edge of the tank, her body still floating in the water. "So how much is she paying you, Avery?"

Bewilderment is all that comes to mind. Avery's mouth moves and she grasps for words, but only silence falls out. What was that? What's happening here?

Valarie's hand tightens for a moment on Avery's shoulder. "Tamika! Don't ask about that. It's rude and unprofessional."

Tamika shrugs with a tilt of her head, her bun gracing the top of the water. "For you, maybe. Can't have this aspiring aquarist getting less than she deserves." Her gaze returns to Avery. "Is it at least thirty?"

Words still won't come to Avery. Her lips part and she glances between the two, weighing each option like two pitfalls that only differ in numbers of spikes. "Uh, it's fif—"

Valarie tries to shuffle Avery away. "Don't tell her that!"

Tamika's brow furrows together. She climbs onto the landing, water falling from her wet-suit splashes against the concrete floor like hail. "Fifteen?! What's going through your mind with that, you old coot?"

Avery freezes. Maybe they'll forget about her if she doesn't move.

Valarie turns back to Tamika and crosses her arms. "She's getting experience for school, so it's a trade off."

Tamika takes another step in Valarie's direction and crosses her arms right back. "Trade off my ass. Pay her thirty or I walk."

Valarie shakes her head and scoffs. "Twenty."

Tamika doesn't blink. "Thirty, or I run."

"Twenty-five"

"Thirty."

Valarie throws up her hands and stomps away. "Okay! Twenty-eight. That's the best I can do, I promise. Just drop it and I'll fix the accounting."

Tamika cups a hand around her mouth and calls after Valarie. "Great doing business with you Val." Then she turns to Avery with a grin that would put Loki to shame. "Sometimes you have to push her around into being a decent human being; so don't be afraid to."

Avery's stomach keeps turning, but she unfreezes and scratches an itch at the back of her head. "Oh, okay. Thanks for the advice."
 
 --
 
None of the animals from the lobby posters make a real-life appearance besides penguins. The aquarium isn't lacking in variety though: spotted dogfish, tompot blennies, corckwing wrasses, and humbug damsels at the most Seussian. Common starfish at the least.
 
 At the end of the tour, Tamika shuffles Avery into the maintenance hallway that services the main hallway's tanks. The facade of aquatic paintings facing the visitors disappear into an abstract white; pipes and wires crisscross to interrupt the monotony. Shop lights hang over head. Their flickering florescent glow adds a dingy coldness to the warmth radiating from warehouse-style windows along one wall.

Tamika walks past tank after tank. She stops in front of an enclosure with a single puffer fish puffing about, floating in, out, and around a puffer-fish-sized castle. Tamika grabs a tray off the top the tank. "This little guy is Larry. Poor guy is lonely now that Linda passed." She picks an unidentifiable bit of meat off the tray with a pair of tweezers. "He's got a couple medical problems that make it difficult to place him with others now, so he's here all alone. He's now your responsibility. Along with every tank here in the main hall."

Insecurity unbalances Avery's mind. She looks over the seemingly endless row of tanks. "Yes ma'am. Are you sure though? This is my first job and I've never actually performed care tasks like this before."

"You've been in college, right? You've learned how to take care of a lot of these species, I'm sure. If there isn't one you know about..." Tamika flips open a book laying on a row of tables spread out under the windows. "You can find it in this handy book. See, here is the entry for Larry: white-spotted puffers. It's got diets, common issues to look for, everything you could need."

With the assault of the tiny font sprawling across the page, a gloss drizzles over Avery's brain and coats her eyes. There is too much. She'll never remember it all. "What about if I have a question the book doesn't answer?"

Tamika flashes a grin and points a raised thumb at herself. "That's what I'm here for. Anyways, that's all you should need. I'll be back in the salt water tank. Feel free to bother me by the way, I was just putting on a show for Val."

*It's not safe. Ask her.*

Tendrils race out from Avery's heart. She twists in place trying to ignore them, but her mouth won't stay shut. "Uh... Ma'am, sorry if I'm out of line here, but should you be doing that without a standby diver? I didn't want to say anything about it in front of Valarie." The tendrils disappear with the last word out of her mouth.

Tamika winks and turns. "Don't you worry about that, just get all these cleaned up."

Avery shifts in place. "Oh, okay. I'll get to it."

Tamika bounds down the opposite way they came, off toward the salt water tank without another word. Only the hum of air pumps, heaters, and the shop lights stick around. Emptiness bounces around Avery's head. There are so many tanks to check and she's only one person... Front to back then?

Every tank needs cleaned. Avery systematically goes from front to back: she scrapes off algae buildup, siphons up debris from the gravel or sand, tests water parameters, and swaps out half of the water with clean water. Some tanks need special care around plants or equipment, but for the most part Avery can turn her mind off and do what school taught her. That is, until she reaches Larry's tank.

The tube of the ammonia test turns a dull green, the same color as the dangerous level marker on the testing card. Panic shoots through Avery and her mind switches gears. Got to go fast. She sprints up to the doors to the main hallway and bursts through.

First Day of Work

It's late enough in the day that visitors are trickling in. A little boy gasps at Avery's sudden appearance from the maintenance hallway and hides behind his mom. Avery wracks her mind for the location of the spare tank maintenance room that was a part of the tour. Where was it? She runs around and swings a door open at random.

This is it. Spare tanks line the wall waiting to be used along with all the equipment a professional aquarist in an emergency may need to set up a hospital tank. Avery grabs up a heater, a filter, and an empty tank sitting in a section labeled "clean".

Back in the maintenance hallway, a spigot sits directly in the center of the row of tables. Humid warmth radiates from Avery's armpits. Gross, but not sweat yet so she can't use her power to get rid of it. She settles the tank below the spigot and she wrenches the handle all the way to the left. Water shoots out like a corked-up geyser finally bursting its seal. It splashes into the waiting tank, sending enough over the sides and onto Avery's shoes to make each shift of her feet an uncomfortable squelch.

 Her mind recoils at the vile sensation: wet socks suck. Avery lifts a leg into the air. With careful timing, she kicks her leg out in the general direction of the floor drain and shifts her mind to focus on each wet bit of clothing in turn, wiping over them with mental effort in the same fashion she would with a squeegee. At the apex of her kick water shoots out from all the clothes on that limb: pants, shoes, and socks alike. Water passes through Avery's foot and clothes as if they blink out of existence. Only it and momentum remains.
 
 The water splashes across the floor, then she repeats the process with the other foot. Vile wet socks disappear and relief reels her mind back in. She shuts off the spigot once the water reaches the level that Larry's current tank is at, then she picks it up and sets it on the table nearest to the puffer fish. A small green net sits on the table next to it, and Larry swims around in gleeful ignorance of what his future holds. 
 
 Unease sends Avery's chest teetering with an odd nausea. She doesn't want to stress this little guy out, but he can't sit in that ammonia-ridden water. The sooner he's out the better. So she grabs the net, drops it in the tank, and starts swiping after Larry.

The little puffer darts around and hides in the castle anytime the net comes close. Frustration seeps into Avery's temples and she swishes the net around a few times.

Larry makes it back into the castle every time with mere inches to spare, so she lifts the castle out of the water.

Larry circles the tank in a more erratic pattern, stopping and starting at random intervals surely just to annoy her. Avery furrows her brow in concentration and lowers the net into the water.

Larry approaches the net a few times with his little mouth opening and closing, but he darts away each time as if he was taunting Avery. That's fine. She just needs to wait until... Larry makes a fatal flaw and drifts too far towards the center of the net. Avery swipes the net like a tennis player a few lucky bounces from victory and it turns out this puffer isn't any Serena Williams.

Avery's chest loosens like a balloon that was fixing to pop and she lifts the net out. "Yes, yes, yes!"

A puffed up Larry dangles with the green mesh of the net, his mouth blubbing a couple silent syllables.

Panic jolts Avery's limbs and widens her eyes; right, she has to be fast. She twists around searching. "Sorry, sorry!" Larry gives another blub, then Avery dunks him into the tank waiting on the table. He floats around in aimless defeat. Guilt tugs at Avery's heart, so she lowers the castle into his temporary enclosure. As soon as the castle touches the ground, he darts inside.

Tank cleaning is easy with Larry out of the way. Avery's mind gets into a groove and the entire cleaning and ammonia removal process disappears in a blur of time. Larry doesn't put up a fight on the return trip. Avery scoops him up with the net, grabs his castle, then returns both of them to their home. He flits around for a moment and settles near the top of the water.

His unblinking beady eyes fix on Avery's. A swirl of purple flame swims around inside the black abyss of his pupils, then the plate of meat bits that Tamika left pops back into focus. Warmth explodes out of Avery's mind and encompasses her every thought. "Oh yeah, I should feed you."

The purple in Larry's eyes swirls brighter. Warmth surges through Avery's mind with fervor, her entire being is pushing her to do this. She grabs the tweezers and pins a piece of meat between the prongs. Larry darts around the castle breaking his eye contact with Avery for a moment. 

Feelings of subservience to the fish disappear like a puff of smoke and Avery's senses tailspin into dizziness. She steadies herself on the wall. "What the heck... Buddy, why would you do that?"

Peaking out from the safety of the castle, Larry only opens and closes his mouth.

Annoyance creeps into Avery's mind; they keep animals with powers like that here? Really? She sighs and moves on to the next tank.

*You didn't test the water. Test it.*

Surprise halts her next step and the compulsion constricts her chest in protest. A new one already? She twists between facing Larry's tank and facing away like an interpretive dance detailing how it feels to be a scratch deejay's record. "Nope, don't need to check. Already did. Nope."

*Check.*

Each twist toward Larry's tank brings relief, but no: she can't check, she can't add another ritual. Especially one that could rear its head on a task she'll be doing a billion times a day. She twists away a fourth time.

The sun flares to life from behind fog and clouds, some of its rays refract through the angled open windows and directly into Avery's eyes with a burst of white and yellow stars. The light, the pain, her practice; all of it works together and drives away the compulsion's pressure. Avery blocks the light from her eyes with a raise of her arm and gulps in a breath of air. "Phew, that was a rough one."

The entire day is problem after problem. Nothing as serious as Larry's ammonia issue, but stressful things that require all of Avery's attention at a given moment. No one is in the break room at the end of the day besides her. She slumps into a chair and lets her head fall into the crook of her elbow resting on the table, like a kid told to put their head down in elementary school.

Soft hums of equipment flow through one of the break room's thin walls and lulls Avery into thought. Can she keep this kind of work up? This is brutal. Stress every waking moment, foot and back pain, constant checking of books to make sure she isn't making a mistake. Is this what every job is like? Would it be better if she actually wanted to do this?

What could she even do about this when there are all these expectations? She raises her head and drops it back down onto her elbow. The thump echoes around the room, bouncing off the vending machine, the refrigerator, and not much else. She could quit. There are other aquariums that may be better to work at, or she could take a position as a more traditional lab assistant. Those are all further away... It could just be for her. She could quit and take the time to figure out exactly what she wants—

Footsteps echo from someone walking through the door behind Avery. Tamika, now wearing a pair of denim overalls and a t-shirt with branding from some band Avery's never heard of. Tamika pulls a chair up beside Avery and settles into it backwards. "Exhausted? Makes sense! You did good work today. I double checked everything in your report and you handled everything flawlessly. Thanks for taking care of Larry, there must have been a bacteria imbalance or something since Linda died."

Exhaustion tugs at the corners a smile, but Avery keeps it from dropping. "It was a lot, yeah. I didn't think a job would be like this."

Tamika barks a laugh. "All of them are! I like this one better than most. Used to work at a lab down in Hawaii that was doing this long term study about powers affecting the food chain: great views, but bad bosses. You wouldn't believe how many people with authority came up to me with bribes to sway data one way or the other to help their corporate interests or what have you." Her eyes widen and she snaps, then points a thumb toward the door. "Oh, that reminds me. Val likes to talk to new people after their first day. She wanted me to ask you to go see her in her office. You remember where it is?"

Avery pushes herself to her feet. "I think so. I'm going to have to hear more about that Hawaii job later I guess."

Tamika's smile spreads to her eyes with a wink. "Tons a secrets here. I think all my non-disclosure agreements expired, so I'll have to think about which one to share next."

Avery waves and walks out the door toward Valarie's office.

The door of Valarie's office is beige with a wood grain pattern snaking in zigzags all over. Avery's stomach is in turmoil. A clenching, nauseous mess. She's not afraid of losing her job; Tamika made it clear she didn't need to worry that. Instead, she's afraid that her newfound courage to quit and go her own way will be left behind. She should just knock, not stand here staring at a plank of wood and thinking. Rip it off like a bandage. She hovers her trembling hand just above the metal lever handle, fighting both an urge to run away and an urge to barge in.

The handle of the door sweeps down before Avery can make a move and Valarie stares out from her office. Her cotton candy wisps of hair blown back like she's just been jogging. "Oh I thought I heard you out here, dear. Why don't you come in for a cup of tea and to talk about your day?"

Avery's mind cries out for her to run with a shot of panic racing through her veins, but she suppresses a gasp of surprise and adjusts the tuck of her polo shirt's from odd to passable. "Isn't it a bit late to be drinking tea?"

Valarie bats a hand at the air and smiles the best I'll-cook-for-you-and-you'll-like-it grandmother smile Avery has ever seen. "Stop it, I'm something of a night owl so don't worry about little old me. Now come on in and sit down." She waves Avery in and stands by the door waiting for the reluctant woman to pass the threshold.

Avery's heart pangs with guilt, she was so close and she can feel her resolve slipping by the second. She should say something right here before moving... but tea sounds nice. Avery walks past Valarie and into an office that wouldn't be out of place in a witches swamp. Herbs of all type reach toward the window from multi-color pots; others hang from the ceiling by chains and twist their stems around nearby wires or other knickknacks. Like one English Ivy climbing around what must be a grandchild's little league trophy.

Fond memories of Avery's own little league adventures surface and a smile slips in under all her conflict. She settles into a plush, violet armchair across from a couch that only differs in size. A dark, mahogany-looking coffee table separates the two pieces of furniture and a snake plant shoots its leaves up from a pot in its center.

The door closes with a metallic click. Then Valarie hovers beside Avery to place a pair of already filled, floral-print tea cups on the coffee table.

The tea is still hot and the smell drifts up from the cup in hazy wisps. Lemongrass and rose hip, maybe? Avery balances the tea cup from a delicate handle that makes her feel like Bigfoot having a morning cup of coffee. "So what did you want to talk about, ma'am?"

Valarie lowers into the couch and balances her own cup of tea between wrinkly fingers. "There is no need to be that formal, dear. As I said, call me Valarie. Now, how did your first day go?" Her eyes narrow ever so slightly. "Was Tamika too mean?"

Autopilot takes control, some deeply ingrained professionalism wrenching control of Avery's words away from her. Tendrils constrict her heart again with a throbbing pain, but not tendrils of compulsion like she deals with every other moment. They're tendrils of fear, of guilt.

Of letting everyone down.

She sips from the cup and the lemongrass tingles through her mouth. "Oh no, she was very helpful. I was expecting a bit more management, but this works for me. She's made it clear I can go to her if I need support."

What? This isn't quitting. This isn't biting the bullet and finally doing what she wants. Why can't she stop herself?

Valarie smiles over a sip, then lowers the cup. "I'm so glad to hear that; that was one of my biggest worries. I know if she was my boss I'd turn tail and run the moment that first conversation happened. Is there anything I can do to make your time here more comfortable, dear? You're doing such a good job from what I've heard, so it's no trouble."

The conflict in Avery's heart rages like a storm inside her now, but she can't control her words. She can't say what she wants. "Oh no, I don't need anything. Thanks for the cup of tea. Lemongrass is one of my favorites, actually."

Another day, maybe.


Ammonia

Pockmarked columns of concrete with white peeling paint spread out at even intervals on the second floor of the parking garage, humming and flickering white lights cast the night away into wavering shadows. Nervous shivers pass over Waylon's neck. Just channel the Bond movies and this meeting will all go according to plan. He fixes his eyes on a distant point. A lone junker of a sedan on the other side of the garage with a man sitting cross-legged on the hood staring at something in his lap. Waylon slinks up to a column and glances behind himself. No one following, but an orchestra bellows tones full of heavy brass from the direction of the sedan.
 
Waylon's heart jumps to his throat. His hands clinging to the edge of his concrete column, he peeks back around. Nothing is different besides the sounds coming from whatever is in the man's lap, then silence returns. Waylon slips one column closer. Blurry features coalesce into a brick-shaped man made of pure muscle with a bright red burr sitting atop his head. Relief pulls Waylon's heart back down; that's definitely Ronan. Waylon shuffles out from the column and shoves his hands in his leather jacket's pockets. 

Ronan doesn't react to Waylon's sudden appearance, but his thumbs tap dance across the screen of the phone in his lap. The pupils of his eyes dart from point to point and his thumbs follow moments after. Confusion gnaws at Waylon's steady walk, he hesitates. This doesn't make any sense; why is this guy so casual about this? Shouldn't he be sitting in the driver's seat brooding or something? Waylon pushes forward one more step.

Without fanfare or warning, Ronan shoves his phone in a pocket and stretches, his arms shooting into the air and his back arcing. Crackles of joints ping around the concrete everything. 

Waylon's blood turns to ice for a moment and tense muscles linger in his legs. Ronan's just getting up; No need to be on edge. Waylon waves with one hand still in his pocket and calls toward the man over several empty parking spots. "Ronan, right?"

Ronan calls back without looking, keeping his arms high in the air. "Hello! Waylon?" He bends over his crossed legs, his face now right up against the scratched green paint of the sedan's hood. "Apologies for not making eye contact, lad. The neck position is important for this stretch, so fifteen more seconds..."

Relief washes away Waylon's tense muscles. He closes the gap in the silence of those fifteen seconds and hovers near a concrete column next to the car; directly underneath a flood light fixed to the decaying urban monolith.

Ronan lifts back up to his previous sitting position and starts rolling his shoulders back in slow, powerful motions reminiscent of the grinding stones in a wheat mill. He turns his head toward Waylon. "Alright, I can talk through the rest. How are you doing? Excited for the thrill? The payout? I didn't hear about you before this so I guess you're new, right?"

Waylon's forehead wrinkles with confusion anew; this is too different from what he expected. Too friendly, too familiar, too casual. He rubs the ribbed pattern of the beanie in his pocket. "What does it matter to you? We don't need to know each other's life story, we just need to work together. It's safer that way."

Shifting his gaze forward, Ronan closes his eyes and snorts a laugh. "We're all small timers here, lad. No need for all that secrecy with something this low risk. We'll be fine, don't twist your britches about it."

"And if we get caught, what then?"

Ronan arcs an arm over his head in another stretch. "I suppose we go with the flow then?"

Confusion begins to boil away with the rising heat of anger. Keep cool, this is a criminal; no telling what Ronan could do if provoked. Waylon pushes his hands deeper into his jacket's pockets. "That doesn't work for me."

Ronan arcs the other arm and glances at Waylon. "Stop the lights. Ain't nothing going to happen to us as long as we stick to the plan."

Waylon shrinks back to lean on the column with a whisper. "It's not me I'm worrying —"

The distinct clack of heeled shoes reaches their ears and a woman walks out from a stretch of darkness. An all black, knee-length trench coat hangs from her shoulders and a massive sunhat's brim conceals her face in shadow. Their last team member.

She struts into their midst, revealing ruby red lips and an upturned nose with a tip of her head. "Evening boys! Be a bunch of dears and hold these for me."

She rips off the sunhat and flings it toward Waylon's chest like he's a goal in a game of disc golf. Surprise tangles Waylon's hands in his pocket. He wrenches them free, but he fumbles and the hat tumbles from his arms onto the floor.

The woman doesn't skip a beat. She rolls the trench coat off her shoulders and tosses it at Ronan, where it drapes over his arcing arm and covers his face.

He uses his other arm to pull it down into his lap and keeps stretching. "Evening, Catnap. Got to say: love the energy, love the costume."

Waylon's brows furrow again. Costume? He grabs the hat and brings himself back up to get a good look at her.

Catnap's entire body below her chin is clad in a skintight black jumpsuit reinforced with rubber pads on her knees, arms, and the back of her hands. Two furry mock cat ears sit right at the crest of her head.

A sigh escapes Waylon's throat. Really, coming dressed like that when they're trying to avoid attention? He tosses the hat back and shakes his head at her. "I didn't say anything about the name, but the cat ears have to go. They'll make us stand out too much."

She rips the hat out of the air and glares at Waylon. "Who are you to say what I can or can't wear? I'm making a name for myself and that's that!"

Ronan pushes himself off the hood and reaches toward his toes, his head cocking toward the other two. "Sorry lad, but I'm going to have to side with Cat here. Costumes are important for branding."

Catnap shifts her glare toward Ronan. "It's *Catnap* to both of you, but yes." She strides between the men and puts a hand on the rear door's handle. "Waylon here is in the wrong and I'm in the right. Deal with it." She pulls and the lock of the door resists her attempt to open it.

Frustration searches for purchase in Waylon's mind, but he shakes his head. He needs to take a step back. To be objective. To get rid of his preconceived ideas about how this should be going. Shame it isn't as cool as the movies though... He walks around to the other side of the car and sweeps a dismissive hand through the air. "Fine. Can we get on the way then? We're all here and the sooner we get to the stakeout point the better."

Ronan straightens up, then bends over and touches his toes again. "Give me a minute, almost done with this set."

With a sigh, Waylon pulls on the handle only for the lock to stop it from opening again. "Can you at least unlock the car while we wait?"

—

Out of the garage, streetlamps pass by at highway speeds. A full moon illuminates the stretches of cracked and crumbling asphalt in between lamps and the sedan's suspension only hides the most minor of blemishes upon the road.

Strange calmness veils Waylon's nerves, something about how the other two are nonchalant about this whole thing maybe. He traces the horizon with his eyes. Evergreen spruces mix with nighttime shadow; deciduous bur oaks pepper the canopy with warm tones where their leaves have yet to fall. Soon. A couple weeks left until they're bare by Waylon's guess.

Ronan's eyes dart to the mirror, his gaze prompting eye contact from the other two. "Still a few minutes until we get to our spot. If I may, I've got a suggestion for conversation."

Waylon rolls his eyes and focuses them on Ronan. "Please no."

Ronan ignores the retort. "Leaving out old mister life of the party there, what brought you here Catnap? You're new to this too, right? What are you all about?"

Waylon lets a sigh escape and rests back on his headrest. He glances at Catnap from the corner of his eyes.

Catnap studies the ruby nails of a hand covered in a fingerless glove. "Fashionable mischief. But also riches; fame. The usual really."

Ronan snorts and returns his eyes to the empty road ahead. "That's not exactly what I mean... Why riches, why fame? There has to be something else in this for you or you'd be palling it up with licensees in that getup instead of us."

Surprise forces one of Waylon's eyebrows to twitch; oddly insightful for a man so preoccupied with exercising.

Catnap drops her hand into her lap and pouts out a huff. "This isn't my idea of fun, I don't need your psychoanalysis ruining my good mood. If you must know, it's all for fun. Just fun. Nothing more, nothing less. That good enough for you big man?"

Ronan eases on the brakes and the momentum shifts in the cab, carrying all of their stomachs and chests forward. "Not exactly. It doesn't sound like you're interested in talking about it, so I'll drop it. Do you want to give an answer to the question Waylon? I think we could be good friends if you all would just talk about yourselves."

Waylon rolls his eyes behind closed eyelids. "Sick family, that's all you're getting."

The sedan rolls to a stop behind a billboard and Ronan pushes the gearshift to park. He turns around in his seat and flashes a smile at Waylon. "Yeah! That's what I'm asking! We'll become quick friends at this rate. Oh, and sorry about your family by the way. For me —"

Why is this man so persistent. Maybe the shipment will pass soon and rescue Waylon from getting to know these people. He looks past Ronan and shakes his head. "Not interested."

Ronan bulldozes through Waylon's disinterest. "For me, I want to experience it all. We have so much time to live; why should we restrict ourselves to what's legal at any given time. Isn't it weird that we do that? Like those alcohol and cannabis prohibition days."

Anytime now. Waylon stares at a point on the road, willing the aluminum-carrying semi into existence through sheer force of mental effort. It doesn't appear of course. That'd be too helpful.

Ronan rubs a hand over his red-tinted burr. "Don't get me wrong though, I'm no revolutionary. It's all just interesting to think about." He stretches his arms out in front of him and studies veins bulging against musclebound forearms. "To think that I wouldn't be experiencing this adrenaline coursing through my veins or the anticipation of our score appearing from the other side of that billboard at any moment. We could all be sitting at home drifting off to sleep just like we have thousands of times before; soaking in an experience that won't leave a lasting impression. Something we'll forget right when we wake up. But we're here, making memories!"

As if the end of Ronan's monologue was the shot of a gun calling athletes to sprint forth, a semi races past the driver's back.

Catnap gestures with a ruby claw. "Speaking of our score: it looks like it's time to stop being so full of yourself, Nietzsche."

Adrenaline rips the veil of calmness from Waylon's heart. The beating thing hammers away in his chest like an old prospector searching for gold. He braces himself on the door's armrest and pulls a gas mask from the floor between his legs. "Yeah, time to go. Stop the chatter and let's get a move on."

Ronan turns back to the controls and guides the sedan onto the road. The semi's container doors stand out against the backdrop of its headlights as a shadow. A box of darkness following along behind cones of yellow and moonlight scattering across metallic walls in sweeps of blue-tinted reflections.

Waylon clips the gas mask to his belt with a carabiner. "Pull up near the gap and we'll hop over."

Ronan snorts a laugh, none of his carefree demeanor dulling with the goal in sight. "Leave it to me, new friends. I'll get old Aisling right up next to it." His eyes dart back to the rear view mirror. "You all see that old Interstellar movie by the way? The 2014 one, not the remake. This is kind of like that docking scene."

Catnap adjusts the position of her fake furry ears. "No. Is it any good? I can't handle old fashioned stuff like that, the special effects are always garbage. Theater is more my speed anyhow."

An odd hole appears in Waylon's chest at the exchange. He's read about the sensation before... Sonder, was it? A realization that the other people in this car have hopes and dreams and hobbies just like him. Anger flashes too: how could she say the special effects were bad? They did what they could with the technology of the time. He shakes his head, casting away thoughts of relating to these people. "Stop the small talk. We've got a job to do."

Grass, trees, and streetlamps turn back into blurs as the sedan gets up to speed. Then the gap is there. All of Waylon's feelings drown in a rising tide of nerves; his hands tremble and a lump appears in his throat. He has to jump that gap. He's no action movie hero with plot armor, what in the world is he thinking with this daredevil nonsense?

Catnap pulls her door's handle and the silence of the cab flies out the crack in a torrent of wind. She pushes the door all the way open, braces herself in its frame, and calls back over the noise. "See you on the other side, boys!"

Then she's gone. She sails through the air with a grace that's a match for any jungle cat leaping from tree branch to tree branch. She lands between the gap and slips into the shadows. 

Waylon's stomach twists in nervous agony. Damn it, he can't back out now. He edges toward the open door and peeks his head out. Passing wind turns thicker clumps of his shoulder-length hair into flailing whips and they strike his face: eyes, ears, cheeks. Everywhere. Pain overcomes his nervous push and he falls back into the cab.

Catnap peaks out from the shadows and waves an open hand in a beckoning gesture, then Ronan glances back for a moment and calls over the roaring outside. "You've got this, lad! I'm keeping her steady for you."

Pain disappears and nerves return, sending new trembles through his hands. Fine. He'll do it. Waylon ties his hair into a tight bun near the crown of his head and pulls a beanie over it.

The open door looms in front of him, like a monster's gaping maw dripping with spit from every tooth — straight out of a japanese kaiju film. He pushes the image out of his mind. He can do this; this has been on the horizon for weeks now and some nerves can't stop him. He edges back past the frame on quivering legs.

Asphalt flies past, its usual white dots blurring into an unbroken line. Waylon gulps in air; none comes. The stationary wind smacks into his face at the speed of a barreling car and steals any breath he can get into his mouth. Panic raises in his chest, but he can't stall any longer. He leaps across the gap.

The middle of Waylon's feet land on the edge of the semi's bed and his weight teeters backwards. His stomach leaps into his throat. Grab something, anything.

 His body falling backwards, he flails his arms out with wild abandon but only swipes through air,. Wind roars against his side and threatens to rip him from his precarious perch, but Catnap appears from the shadows and slaps a hand over his and tugs.

All of his weight falls forward and he crashes onto the floor at Catnap's feet, his limbs sprawling out like a flying squirrel mid-glide. Waylon groans a breath through the pain. "Ow."

Catnap rubs at a broken nail. "Not all of us can be as agile as me, I suppose." She turns back to Waylon gasping on the ground. "No thank you? What's the matter, cat got your tongue?"

An involuntary cringe racks Waylon mind, what's left of the panic washes away with the woman's horrible taste in one liners. No better than a comic book. He pushes himself up into a crouch and heaves gulps of breath between words. "Spare me the wannabe villain humor. But thanks."

She leans on the cab's back wall. "I'm nothing if not gracious, you're welcome." She traces a circle on the wall with one of her unbroken ruby nails, sending a soft grating shrill for a couple feet. "So, are you going to get to it? I've been baking this batch all day and it's getting uncomfortable holding it in."

Waylon unhooks the gas mask from his belt and slips it over his beanie. Catnap sweeps her hands toward the cab like she might present a prize to a game show audience. Now the easy part. Hopefully. Waylon kneels down and exhales onto the metal wall.

An invisible wave of air flows over the metal surface and condenses into water droplets that twinkle with each pass of a streetlamp. His stomach crawls back up into his chest with the anticipation, the fear.

It's nothing. It's the easy part. It's what everyone will forget when they get home tonight. Or it's one of those possibilities that he didn't plan for, infinite and unknowable as they are.

Then he's fucked.

In spite of chance, Waylon presses his exposed forearm against the wall and scrubs with counterclockwise motions. "Now it's you, Cat."

The metal under Waylon's forearm fades a little after each scrub of his arm, then fades into nothing. He falls through a couple inches, but he reels back and scoots to make room for Catnap.

A deep voice from inside the cab flows out. "Did you crack your door Mike? It's —"

Catnap kneels in front of the hole and opens her mouth much wider than a human should be able to, like a snake unhinging its jaw to swallow a meal larger than itself. A cloud of dust flies out in a stream for half a minute and she sounds like she's puking the whole time.

Waylon's stomach claws it's way up into his throat with a bout of nausea. No wonder she said it's uncomfortable. The stream stops with a sputter; then with a burp, she pounces through the hole. Waylon crawls after her.

A bulky man lies on the floor fast asleep and a woman in a cat costume sits behind the steering wheel: where the man was moments ago. Another — less bulky — man sits on the passenger side, his face rubbing against the door's window and him 
snoring out trumpets that would make more sense coming from the bear on the floor.

The nausea weakens, but doesn't disappear. It hangs around Waylon's midsection with the sight of the unconscious men. They're fine. Just sleeping, not dead, and no need to feel weird about it. Waylon unbuckles the man still in the seat and tugs his body into the back of the cab.

Catnap glances back. "Piece of cake!"

Waylon's heart still pounds in his chest with the adrenaline; he needs some calming quiet. He eases the man's head onto the floor and slips into the passenger seat. "Yeah. I'm just going stare ahead and not talk if you don't mind. Too many near death experiences."

Ronan's green sedan speeds off down an exit and an arm waves out an open window. Now they just need to deliver the goods.

Thirty minutes into their trip Catnap breaks the tranquil silence.

She twists her hands around the steering wheel, furrows her brow, then darts her head to the side. "At least that other guy was interesting to talk to, we're just going to sit here like a couple bowls of fruit the whole way there? Just turn on the music if nothing else."

Frustration stabs behind Waylon's left temple. Whatever, he can relax to music too. He leans forward and fiddles with the console trying to find whatever button or knob turns on the accursed thing.

A cover of Thriller from a newer boy band blares from the speakers around the cab. Then thick-fingers grasp around Waylon's ankle.

First Day of "Work"

The Boss

Morning sun falls through clouds and Elia's studio window, casting the room in a dream-like glow. Bamboo circles in front of the stairs. Her usual slick grey-brown fur a puff of anger or frustration with each strand standing on end. Elia's teeth clench and she tries to push the furball out of her mind.

Bamboo stops circling and strikes a pose like a lion preparing to pounce. And she meows.  Just ignore the cat, don't worry. Elia wraps her hand over the round, wooden knob of a drawer on a dusty dresser; the drawer she throws all her junk into.

Bamboo roars. Familiar distortions of light cascade out from a pinprick of swirling unreality just above the dresser, more chaotic than usual.

Elia's clenching teeth turn to gnashing, grinding stones. Damn cat won't leave her alone. She shields her eyes with a forearm from whatever unknowable truths seep through to twist her mind.

*Crack*

Bamboo drops out of the rift mid-pounce and onto all fours. She snakes her body around a dustless picture frame that's home to a young woman with a purple graduation gown, Elia's curly hair, and someone else's hazel eyes.

Elia forces her grinding teeth apart and pays careful attention to her tone, but she speaks in words that don't feel like her own. "You can go down stairs. I'll be fine."

Bamboo nuzzles the edge of the frame.

Elia slams the picture face down. "Fine. Sit there."

The cat swishes her tail and fixes her emerald eyes on Elia's. A cold trickle of guilt pools in Elia's chest and gnashing teeth settle for a moment: then Elia wrenches the drawer open.

Forgotten knickknacks and rubber bands and unopened boxes of staples obscure even more layers of unknown junk. Elia's heart leaps into her throat and her palms slick with sweat. It's at the bottom. She digs through the drawer, sending its contents raining onto the ground around her feet.

Half the drawer now on the floor, a glint of gold light sparkles off a piece of metal somewhere under the remaining junk. There! Elia wraps her hand around the tiny gold disk and yanks it out.

A pocket mirror. Every surface is a spotless matte gold; flowers coil around the edges of one face in intricate detail. Elia feels her heart pounding through each fingertip resting on the cool metal surface, little thumps that grow in intensity and speed with each moment. She pushes in a pushpin on the outside edge of the case and it springs open.

Her own face stares back at her from a mirror set into the underside of the case's lid. Brown eyes, short locks of hair springing down across her forehead, and the rest gathering in an oversized bun at the back of her head. Elia's throat goes dry: painful scraping sensations with every breath.

Just another look.

Bamboo puts a paw forward and whispers a meow with pointy teeth peeking through the crack of her mouth. Elia hesitates for a moment. Then she stares right into her reflection's eyes and lets the lock on her power fall away.

Her irises turn from brown to hungry voids of darkness, swirling with otherworldly power. Warmth shoots across her face in lightning-like patterns and sweat beads along her hairline.

A couple moments longer.

Blue lights flicker to life one after another at the edges of the voids and spiral along invisible currents. They fly around what used to be Elia's irises, drifting toward the center. Then one disappears into the void like a star tumbling into the event horizon of a black hole.

That cold pool of guilt in her chest doesn't drain: it vanishes without a trace.

Another light passes the center of her iris. Her shoulders straighten, the weight of unknown sadness flowing into the ether. More lights flow in until all that's left is anger. Gnashing teeth, pounding heart.

Hate.

A stubborn light trudges away from the void, struggling against whatever gravity wills it to cease its existence. That piece of shit. It should go away forever, leave her alone forever. Die forever. Elia widens her eyes and forces the void to pull harder.

The light jerks back toward the center, struggles for a few moments, then slips the rest of the way into darkness. Grinding teeth fall silent, her heart slows down. Everything just exists. No good, no bad, no neutral. Only the facts that her senses tell her with no coloring from her own biases. Elia blinks at her hazel eyes in the reflection and closes the mirror with a click.

Bamboo jumps up to Elia's shoulders, coiling around her neck like a scarf. She licks Elia's face and lets out a whimper of a meow.

Elia slips the pocket mirror in her chest pocket. "Work."

---

Music seeps from the door at the bottom of the studio's stairwell. Otto again. Elia pushes through and she beelines to her station. A sky blue 2032 Mustang that needs an oil change, an air filter replacement, and a new catalytic converter. 

Elia grabs her tool belt off her tool cabinet and clicks it around her waist. Everything not her current task disappears: Otto's pop music and his bald head bobbing along, Duffie donning a headlamp and hopping into the cab of the Chrysler 300C, Bamboo licking her face every five minutes.

Elia's perception returns once the Mustang's checklist runs out and she dabs a cloth across her brow. Duffie stands at the edge of the Elia's workspace. "Done with that 300C now if you want to look over my work." They point a thumb back toward Otto's workstation. "I'm surprised you haven't said anything to him yet."

Otto drums his fingers across the hood of a minivan to the tune of Lump. A memory of a teenage Elia pops into her head: listening to an old album by The Presidents of the USA that her dad said was a classic. The one that had Lump, her dad's favorite.

Just a memory. Elia pushes past Duffie and heads to the 300C. "I'll check it."

Duffie stumbles back at the contact. "Excuse me?"

Elia turns back and stares at Duffie with soulless eyes. "Yeah?"

"You bumped into me? Normally someone say sorry after something like that."

*Crack.* Bamboo teleports from somewhere in the rafters back to Elia's shoulder, then she brushes a furry cheek against Elia's.

Elia keeps her eyes on Duffie. "Oh, sorry."

Music stops. That doesn't normally happen without Elia saying something, odd. She turns toward Otto's workstation. The scarecrow of a man that Otto is, he covers the distance between them with a couple bounding strides. His eyes drift onto Elia's. Pain strikes across his face and he slaps a hand on Duffie's shoulder, talking in a voice loud enough to hear from the next lot. "H-hello. It's all good, right? Come please Duffie, I have things to talk about."

Elia glances between the two, waiting for someone to address her. Maybe one of them needs her. Bamboo must with how clingy she's being.

Otto hunches his shoulders and pulls Duffie into a huddle. "She's out of it right now. I don't know all of it, but she use to be like this every day. Her power does something with her mind."

Duffie's eyebrows scrunch together with a tilt of their head and concern paints their eyes. "Addiction?"

They don't need her, she supposes. Elia turns away and heads to the 300C.

The deep rumbles of Otto's voice still carries across the garage. "Don't tell her about the thing yet, give it a week please."

What thing? It's not important, she supposes.

Duffie's voice takes on a defensive tone. "I already held off with that priest woman upsetting her. I can't wait anymore!"

Otto hushes himself to the level of an average person's usual talking volume. "You'll both regret it if you do it today. Trust me."

Duffie sighs, then there's silence except for the shuffle of feet in opposite directions and the occasional meow from Bamboo. Guess they didn't need her. She hops into the cab and checks over the new console installation.

---

Sickbay doesn't have a single person besides staff during lunch hour. Mitchel's undercut is less unkempt, the booths are cleaner than usual with only one discarded banana peel in sight, and the chef smiles beyond the metal-lined kitchen window. Elia ignores it all and slips into her usual booth right next to the entrance.

Bamboo slithers down her shoulder and waits at the edge of the table. Moments later, Mitchel drops a full bowl of milk next to her. "What're you having?"

Elia looks up into Mitchel's hazel eyes; her voice comes out as a monotonous hum, like a running generator. "The usual." 

Mitchel squints his eyes and lowers his head toward Elia, searching for something. "You're not..." Recognition dawns and panic contorts his face. "No, no, no. Not again, Elia. Did you use your pocket mirror?"

"Yes. Can I have the pancakes?"

He runs a hand over Bamboo's fur, then taps his fingers across the table. "Oh god. This isn't good, this isn't good at all. What caused it this time?"

Elia opens her mouth to respond.

He shakes his head side to side like a twisting bobble head on a tight spring. "Wait, don't answer that. Wait until you're sober."

"Okay. And the pancakes?"

He pushes up off the table. "Okay. I need the time to think. I'll come back with your food and we'll talk."

Elia stares out the window for a while. People pass by wearing loose jackets and long sleeves, minus the one guy wearing shorts despite the frigid air. A thick blanket of clouds flow by and saps the warmth of any rays of sun that fight their way past. Time passes, clouds don't change. The people don't either.

Passing blurs, she supposes. Meaningless observations to pass the time until she can eat.

A plate of syrup laden pancakes slides in front of Elia and Mitchel lays a plate with an omelet and toast opposite her. "So we need to talk about the mirror. I don't want to hear why you used it, but how many times? Just once so far?"

Elia crams a slice of pancake into her mouth and talks through chewing. "Yes."

Mitchel places his hands on either side of the table around his plate, refusing to touch his silverware. "Not that bad yet then." He snaps in Bamboo's direction. "Hey, Bamboo."

The pancakes taste sweet, but they don't make Elia's brain tingle with pleasure like usual. She shoves another butter-drenched slice in her mouth.

Bamboo peeks up from her bowl of milk at the call of her name and pushes her cheek into Mitchel's hand. Mitchel tilts her head up so that they make eye contact. His eyes take on a wet, unnatural sadness for a moment before returning to normal: then he furrows his brow and stares at Elia. "She's worried about you, Elia. I don't think I've ever felt a cat this concerned about a human before."

"Guilt tripping pushed me to do it," Elia says in an even tone, as if she was remarking on the color of a passing car.

Mitchel cringes, twisting his head to the side and raising a palm just off the table. "Don't! Don't tell me why, wait and share if you want after it wears off. I'm sorry though. I just thought you'd want to know what the cat thought."

"Okay."

"Would you be willing to let me hold onto the mirror so we can have a chat after your power wears off?"

Elia looks up and into Mitchel's eyes for the first time. "No. I might need it."

He sighs and shoves a slice of veggie-filled omelet in his mouth. "I'd give it right back, I promise. Just as soon as it wears off and we have a —"

The plate is empty and she has no reason to stay. Elia drops her fork and knife onto the plate, a couple ten dollar bills, and slides out the booth.

Mitchel raises a hand, shooing her back to sit. "Wait, wait! I can get you another plate if you want. A drink. Anything."

She's full, her movements are more lethargic with all the butter and flour and syrup. She turns and strides toward the door. "No thank you."

Mitchel calls from the booth with a screech of the tables legs along the floor. "Wait!"

Weird that he keeps calling after her, she supposes. She pushes out the door and a blast of frigid air runs past her. It sends her mechanic jumpsuit's loose fabric whipping about like the crests of sand dunes shifting with the wind. She crosses her arms and starts on back to the garage.

The door crashes open behind her and Mitchel calls out over the parking lot, emptying his lungs of air to fight through the roaring wind to reach her. "Elia! Come on!"

She doesn't acknowledge the crash or Mitchel's voice, the latter growing more quiet with every step. There are more cars to fix.

Pocket Mirror

With the flick of a light switch, Elia's studio emerges from darkness. Random junk still litters the floor in front of the dresser, a cold breeze seeps in through the fire escape window, and Bamboo perches on the edge of the navy blue couch. She digs her claws into the fabric and her eyes follow Elia through the usual post-work routines.

Television to pass the time, she supposes. Elia changes into pajamas, grabs a soda out of the fridge, and plops down on the couch next to Bamboo. With a crack of the soda can and a burst of static, an old cartoon with a cat that wants to catch a mouse plays.

Scene after scene, the string of thought connecting it all slackens. Something is happening. Bamboo perches her two front legs on Elia's lap and looks up into the woman's eyes. 

What does this cat —

Emotions crash into Elia. Like a tornado, earthquake, and tsunami striking her home all at once.

Her vision goes bubbly with tears; her stomach twists up and down her torso with guilt, embarrassment, and sadness; goosebumps crawl across her skin in cold shivers. Then every memory of today plays through her mind like a movie.

Every memory, and every emotion. Guilt at letting Otto, Mitchel, and Bamboo down; shame for not being together enough to hear Duffie out; anger at herself for her weakness. Yes, anger most of all. Its inferno inside her chest incinerates anything else that tries to creep in.

She's a piece of shit. She deserves all of this. She should die and let everyone finally forget about her.

Tremors rack her body and her shoulders heave with every tear. She buries her head in Bamboo's fur with a snuffle and a wail like a dying animal. "I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry! It's too much. I can't do it. I'm so sorry."

Bamboo flops across Elia's lap and purrs, vibrating the both of them like one of those restaurant wait buzzers.

The memory of Mitchel trying his best to convince her to let him help jumps to the front of her mind. She wrenches a pillow off the couch and chucks it at the wall.

The pillow smacks into the wall above her dusty dresser. It tumbles down onto the near empty top, then to the floor: taking the face-down picture of her daughter with it. Glass shatters and tinkles along the floor among the junk.

Another wail escapes Elia's throat, her mind crashes in on itself like she's stared too long at Bamboo's portal. She careens and collapses onto her side. Bamboo hisses as she slips off Elia's lap, but she doesn't lash out with scratches or bites.

Tears flow from one eye into the other as the entire world spins around Elia's sideways head. "I'm so sorry, you all deserve better than me."

A cold metal disk appears in Elia's hand. Odd. She didn't reach for it, not on purpose at least. Her head refusing to budge, she darts her eyes down to the pocket mirror shinning in between the cracks of her fingers.

It's as if all of her body is frozen except for that hand and her eyes. Or they're too heavy, like invisible dumbbells dangle from every inch of her skin.

"I'm so sorry..."

The pocket mirror opens with a click of her hand. Bamboo jumps in between Elia's eyes and the mirror, but the mirror-holding hand swings around the beast. Then lights reappear in those otherworldly eyes and the void swallows them up one after the other.

Peace.

Relapse

Gina's hospital room is dark except for a myriad of warm colors dancing out of the television hanging from the wall.

*On the screen, people gather in a living room about to share a drink of Johnnie Walker something or other from green disposable cups. All middle or old aged except for a single woman in her twenties.*

Waylon sips on a hospital cafeteria coffee and nibbles on a fig bar.

The coffee is putrid, sour notes flow over Waylon's tongue and creep up his nose; it's like someone took a cup of mud and threw parsley in it. His mouth recoils, but caffeine yanks his drooping eyelids open. Last night was too much. He takes another sip and tips the cup toward the television. "You know, the guy who produced this actually wrote a play afterwards."

Gina readjusts her blanket — Waylon's coat — so that both her arms are under it. "Oh goodness, I'd love to go to the theater again."

Pain grasps Waylon's heart; he forces the corners of his lips to climb into a smile. "You will."

She lets her weight fall further into the pillows supporting her back. "No I won't. Just let an old woman dream without working yourself up. A movie with you is good enough for me."

That pain festers inside his gut, twisting and turning like a writhing worm eating through earth. It's not good enough. It's all he has.

They watch in silence for a while.

---

*A man wearing a beige hat and a jean jacket takes the center of the frame, throwing a yo-yo down and reeling it up. Chatting some nonsense about time that strikes too close to home.*

Waylon's mind follows the theme of time: spiraling through his own head trying to close his eyes to it and rip himself away. Still, his thoughts come. This won't last: the movie with Gina. It's a slice of memory that will fade to a specter of itself before she's even gone.

It'll revisit some time long off in the future and give him momentary comfort and pain. Just like Phil has. Even then. Even then it will twist in his mind upon each recollection, erasing and mutating the tiny parts that fill him with joy: his coat keeping her warm, the small compliments, even what movie they're watching. Until his mind stops being. Hopefully the taste of this garbage coffee lingering in his mouth goes first.

He takes another sip. "What do you want to do after?"

"After what?"

"Dying. What do you want the afterlife to be like?"

She rustles her hands around under the coat and talks through a snort. "Hopefully nothing. I'm about sick and tired of being conscious."

"Why would you say that? It's not like you can come back."

"Don't expect something wise out of me. Accept it or don't: I'm done, I'm tired, I'm fine with it. That's all my answer is and there's no great mystery I'm worried about. You'd say the same if some lass named Jolene kicked your ass every morning just so you'd live a few extra days or whatever. Or was it Jessica?"

Waylon hangs his head to the floor and wraps both hands around the coffee cup. "Fair, I guess."

Gina picks up an empty paper cup from her lunch and chucks it at Waylon, but it spins in chaotic circles in the air until it bounces across the floor. "You're not getting off the hook, what do you want it to be like?"

Waylon stares at the cup shifting across the floor in lazy rolls along its brim. "Anything that isn't nothing. There isn't enough time to live in a moment in this existence."

Intermission: A Movie with Gina

Dad lowers his face behind a trifold screen, mouth hidden. He darts squinting eyes between Mom and Avery. "The moon's full face shines twilight across the sky and peeks through cracks in the dense, leafy canopy. During your travel, you come across a camp. Smoke still curls up from the fire pit built in between six or so empty, unfurled bedrolls. It's clear this fire went out but a few minutes ago."

Excitement floods through Avery's body, sending tingles shooting through her arms. A fight! Finally! She thrusts a fork full of homemade pasta toward Dad, dripping with marinara sauce. "I ready my bow!"

Mom springs across the table with a napkin. "Avery! Be careful!"

A pang of shame reels Avery's hand back over her bowl just in time for a drop of sauce to plop into the tomato-based sea of vegetables and pasta. She puts the fork full in her mouth. "It's Ayda of the Grey Woods to you, you hulking green monster."

Mom wipes a splotch of marinara sauce off the table that Avery didn't notice. "That was out of character, and Mordah is a cute orc no matter what you say."

Dad raises his face above the screen. "Focus! Roll a perception check you two."

Finally! Avery picks up a sparkling purple twenty-sided die and dumps it out of her hand. It tumbles along the tabletop, plinks off a glass serving platter of sweet potato casserole, and continues along. There's nothing like rolling dice. Avery dips her head after the die, following its shifting result until it comes to a stop near the edge of the table. "Sixteen! What do I see?"

Mom brings her shaking fists to her chest. "Twenty!"

Dad arches his eyebrows one after the other, shifting his gaze between the two of them. "You both see a shadow looming in the distance, taller and wider than any man or beast you've seen before. Then comes the quivering ground underfoot. Each step the shadowy form takes rocks your legs like you're a newborn goat trying to find its footing."

Odd pain throbs in Avery's chest, like the pain she feels hearing a woodpecker hammering away outside her window for an entire day. Her concentration falters. "Their footing."

He stops his dramatic eyebrow shifting. "Hmm?"

"'Their', not 'its'. Goats aren't things."

"Ah, yes. Sorry." His eyebrows resume their strange dance. "Like a newborn goat trying to find their footing. What will you all —"

Oboes and clarinets sing about a new message from one of the pockets of Avery's basketball shorts. Avery's heart flutters along the waves of sound, dancing through her chest with irregular beats and weightlessness. She plunges a hand into her pocket and yanks out her glossy brick of a phone.

A spell of silence falls on the space. Mom and Dad stare at Avery with raised eyebrows and eyes full of... something. Expectations?

Avery lowers her phone back toward her pocket. "Sorry. It can wait."

Mom swipes a stray bundle of hair out of her dark-circled, puffy eyes. "We can excuse it if you finally ask this person out on a date. It's been weeks at this point." With a grin, her eyes dart to Dad with the odd sparkle of knowing something she shouldn't. "Surely you've all got a good idea about each other."

Warmth rushes over Avery's face. Sweaty, humid warmth that radiates from her cheeks. She casts her eyes to the side. "Dad told you then."

Dad raises a hand to the back of his head and scratches at an itch that definitely isn't there. "Well, I figured you wouldn't mind. You don't, do you?"

A huff slips out of Avery's throat and she flops her phone between her hands. "No. It would have been nice to surprise her myself though."

Mom picks up a crumb of the casserole that found its way onto the table and drops it on her empty plate. "You can just surprise me with how the date goes. Right? I'll stop mentioning if it's not something you want, but..."

Her throat won't conjure words for a moment, her mind blank. Avery flops her phone over once more, then unlocks it with a few swipes over a three-by-three pattern of nodes. "No, I want to do it. I *will* do it."

Yellow flashes across the phone: the now familiar dating app. Thumb quivering, Avery taps a couple more times. Her message history with "MaybeYourPenpal" scrolls past until it reaches the most recent one.

*MaybeYourPenpal: How'd the game go? I've been wanting to try an RPG like that for a while, but I can never find a big enough group.*

Avery's heart flutters anew, sweeping up into her throat and back down into her stomach. Goodness. She taps out a message.

*AveMarie: It's still going! Great. Dad actually does such a great job running it. Anyways... Do you want to plan a date for coffee or something? I know a place. Or we could go to a place near you? Or somewhere that's neutral ground? or something else im not good at this*

Mom and Dad smush their heads together ear to ear, beaming ridiculous grins at Avery.

Warmth from embarrassment and glee spill over. Cheeks glowing a bright red, Avery presses send and buries her head into her crisscrossing arms on the table.



Intermission: Dates and Dragons

A reddish brown wooden door with beveled paneling sits at the end of a hallway of horrible, thick, green carpet. Smells of artificial roses, printer paper, and gooseberry seep from the door gaps. Thea's nose wrinkles; the familiar smell hits her scalp with tingles like the wind around her motorcycle tugging at her hair. It's exactly how parish offices should smell. She hovers a hand near the middle of the door, then knocks three times.

Words with a high, nasally tone come from inside. "One moment." Papers shuffle, filing cabinet drawers slam shut, and keyboard keys click. The nasal voice calls again. "Alright, you may come in."

Thea cracks the door and peeks her head and curly untamed strips of black frizz through. "Morning, brother."

Brother Dale sits on the other side of the desk, hands resting intertwined on its top. He wears a well practiced smile and he sits straight against the back of his tall leather swivel chair. At the sight of Thea, he changes. Perfect posture disappears as he slumps away from the backrest with a sigh. "Oh, it's just you. Thank the heavens."

She glances down the hallway behind her, then back at brother Dale. "Expecting someone else?"

He throws his arms up and shakes his head. "Anyone else. I didn't think Frank would be able to convince you. I was part expecting His Excellency to walk in here and admonish the parish for this or that."

Panic steals Thea's breath for a moment, but no way the Bishop is actually here. She slips through the crack in the door and motions to a metal folding chair. "So I take it I'm welcome to have a seat?"

"Definitely, definitely. I suppose it would be too much to hope you've come to your senses and plan to rejoin the Church?"

She pushes into the room. Her cane catches on the raised carpeting and she stumbles forward, pain blaring through her leg like a siren.

Dale jolts up from his chair with a raucous of knee-banging on the underside of the desk. "Oh heavens!"

Thea flails her empty hand — and her stomach by the feel of it — toward the chair. The metal bar making up the chair's backrest falls into her hand. She grasps it.

Albeit wobbling with the new, odd center of gravity, the chair doesn't collapse backward. Her stomach settles, but her breathing thunders in her ears. She straightens back up with the help of her cane and smooths her cassock cape's wild flaps to sit flat. "That's embarrassing."

"Are you alright? What happened?"

Thea weaves a hand through the air. "I'm fine. Just a little motorcycle accident."

His eyebrows lower and his eyes widen like a sad puppy. Genuine concern, maybe. "Will you be able to stop using the cane after a while?"

"Probably not."

With a tilt of his head, he brushes a hand forward on the desk. His dry skin sounds like sandpaper against the hardwood.  "I'm so sorry."

Thea closes and rolls her eyes, the only outward tell of sarcasm is her sighing loud enough to tumble the gargoyle peeking down from the top of Dale's window. "Why? The cane means I don't fall over, it's a good thing. Aren't we suppose to be thankful for everything or something like that, brother? God's plan and such?"

"W-Well, I don't know. You make a pretty good point... Sorry." He tugs at the collar of his black robe and clears his throat. "I guess the sarcasm answers if you're rejoining the Church. That complicates things. Bishop Andrews won't like this a bit: you know that right?"

"Yes, we're both very aware of the consequences *if* the Bishop finds out. Even then, he wouldn't take it too far." She twists a hand around her cane. "Would he?"

"I doubt it. That's why I'm making sure you're okay with it, you'd never be able to join us again, you know."

Her twisting hand tightens to a stop: there it is. Always repeating things she knows more than well enough. "I said I know. I'm never rejoining so it's like there won't be consequences."

He shrugs. "You can't blame me for hoping the consequences might change your mind about rejoining."

Yes she can.

---

The deal they strike is simple: Thea performs the priestly duties she left, then brother Dale makes some money disappear from the parish's budget. A sour feeling permeates Thea's mind, like she knows better. She does. Exchanging money for this type of thing is a big taboo. Regardless, she has no choice so she does it. Mass, baptism, and confession spread across a week. None of it leaves a lasting impression on her, but it does make her heart float. Like she's helping other people again.

It's tiny things. Her guiding enthusiastic children during catholic themed crafts, or guiding a new visitor to interesting spots in town, or just talking an older man through the weekly grocery coupons for God's sake.

It's nice. Not riding-her-motorcycle nice, but nice enough.

---

Inside a cramped, dimly lit, wooden booth probably not too far off from a coffin, a voice on the upper end of baritone comes through a dense copper-tinged grating like the sorrowful song of a raven. "Morning Reverend."

For the tenth time today, Thea's body clenches up and the cold, clammy hands of anxious sweat crawl down her back. Confession will never be comfortable. Too much to think about, too much to judge, too much responsibility. "Good morning, brother. What is it you need today?"

Silence carries weight: enough to stretch moments into minutes and minutes into eons. Did she say something wrong? Did the person leave and she didn't hear?

Then — on the fourth or fifth scenario running through her head — the baritone voice comes through again. "Actually, Reverend. W-Would you be able to call me Jessica for the moment?"

Racing thoughts disappear, then recognition of a wrong with more racing thoughts. Vertigo sends her vision spinning forward through space like a barrel rolling train shooting through a tunnel. Words. Say words. "Sorry for the wrong assumption, sister. I'd be happy—"

Their voice trembles. "N-Not sister or brother. Just Jessica i-if you wouldn't mind, Reverend."

A cringe sends Thea's eyes slamming shut. Come on, Thea. "Sorry. Of course. Anything I can do for a child of God, Jessica."

"Thank you."

"So what brings you here today, Jessica?"

"I was hoping we could just talk. About anything."

Thea's eyebrows twitch. "A bit unusual, but I can make that work. How about —" Her words trail off, then inspiration strikes and she snaps her fingers. "Baseball?"

Jessica's voice changes. Genuine interest bursts through the grating in warm tones like an audible smile. "I love baseball! I can't believe what Stevenson did last night. A line drive straight to him and he didn't even flinch!"

Any remaining vertigo and anxiety disappear into a swell of comfort: Thea's back slackens into a slouch despite the hardwood wall of the confessional behind her, her scrunching eyes turn to a discerning glare at nothing in particular, and her mind runs rampant with future threads of conversation. This just got fun. "That ball had to be going at least 120 miles an hour, I know it! You think his hand hurt after that catch?"


After half an hour of chatting back and forth about the menagerie of feelings that being a local fan of the Cordia Ravens brings about, Jessica's shifts their weight on the other side of the dividing wall. "I've taken enough of your time, Reverend."

"Of course, Jessica. Be sure to come back next week so I can get a break from all the heavy stuff. If you don't mind."

Jessica announces their departure with heavy footsteps and the sound of curtain rings scrapping along a metallic rod. Tingles shoot up Thea's spine: she's never been a fan of that noise.

Even though that was a nice break, exhaustion shuffles Thea's mind like her thoughts are tumbling through a kaleidoscope; pain surges in her temples; her vision turns into an unintelligible flow of colors. Confession is always too darn early. If she's quick, maybe she can get in a ten minute nap. She nestles the back of her head into the corner of the booth and closes her eyes.

The next moment, the curtain on the other side closes and smells explode through the grate. Mulberry, cranberry, yew. Strawberry. Overwhelming strawberry set over a faint... perfume? Like roses dipped in gasoline.

Thea's mind sharpens in an instant, her heart stops, and her stomach clenches to keep it from coming up at the the sudden noxious medley. Why would someone carry around all that hatred? And for who? And who in God's green earth would want to smell like that?

Wooden boards creak underfoot and whoever-it-is sits on the bench with a thump like a clump of snow plopping onto the ground from an overladen roof. The voice of an old woman with a lifelong propensity for cigarettes grumbles through the grate. "Good morning, Pastor. Nice weather we're having, it's it?"

Older people can smell so much stronger than younger folk. Still, this strawberry is a bit much unless this woman has a lifelong feud on the level of— well, of biblical proportions or other nonsense. Thea rolls her head back to face the ceiling and opens her eyes, tracing the curving wood rafters. "Morning, sister. Quite nice, yes. What burdens do you bring with you today?"

"I succumbed to temptation, pastor. I let my selfish desires guide me in place of His word."

Clouds of boredom roll into Thea's mind and she sighs. "You recognize it and God forgives his children of —"

"I wasn't done, pastor."

"Of course. My apologies, sister, Please continue."

"Hmm, nice and proper. It's a shame really."

Confusion twists Thea's tongue into a knot, but she forces her voice to start. "What does that —"

The old woman clears her throat. "Never mind that. Pastor, I have sinned. I felt that I could overlook wrong doing; or rather, I could forgive myself a little ignorance if it would lead to helping my fellow children of God."

There's probably more: Thea scratches at an itch on her leg, but otherwise she stays silent.

"Last night when I was trying to fall asleep, God sent me a sign I couldn't ignore." Something odd slips into the woman's voice, tainting it harsher than the cigarettes ever could. "Have you had those moments Pastor? Where God sets you straight when you already know you're ignoring his word?"

Boredom swirls with exhaustion, making stringing together empty platitudes harder with every new sentence. Thea brushes at a dingy spot on her cassock's skirt. "Every person has experienced guilt, sister. You are not alone in this so hold the faith. Listen to that feeling and ask yourself and God what you can do to make things right."

"That's exactly what I've done, pastor. Things are being made right as we speak because God's word acted through me to save us from darkness."

Murky fog settles over Thea's mind and nausea creeps up her throat as the noxious fruit and perfume mixture grows stronger. That's doesn't quite match with the usual script. "What are you going on about, sister? You need to be a bit clearer so I know how best to guide you."

She yells. Her voice carries around the open hall through echoes, each bounce emphasizing the curdling, rasping hatred grumbling under each word. "We don't need your guidance anymore, you blasphemer. How dare you try to poison the minds of God's faithful!"

Frost tumbles through Thea's chest, freezing her beating heart and chilling her spine.  No, no, this was working, please no. She rips the curtains open and scrambles toward the parish offices, cane clacking along the tile floor like the bricks of a toppling tower.

---

Brother Dale's office door sits ajar in its frame and a voice like the crashing of waves upon an ancient cliff rumbles from the gap. "— negligent. You should have came to me immediately if you were having trouble."

Palms slap against a desk and a chair clatters to the floor. Dale pleads. "Your Excellency! I've come to you countless times about our needs here. Please reconsider, I had no other option!"

Thea's heart drums vibrations through twisting hands. God no, Bishop Andrews is already here. What can she do to fix this? Frank? No, why would she think that. T-The abbot? That'd only make the bishop angrier for sure. She hovers a hand near the door and her words come out in a whisper. "Damn it."

Bishop Andrew's voice booms through the crack. "Bypassing Canon Law, going behind your abbot's back, and you have the nerve to accuse the Church of not providing for its people?" He lowers his voice. "You're lucky I saw fit to handle this personally instead of letting the Archbishop find out and dissolve this parish himself."

Dale scrambles for any order of words that would change the bishop's mind. "O-of course I wouldn't insinuate— I'd never accuse the Church! Please, Your —"

An odd courage fills Thea's chest at a flash of memories. The kids, the coupons, Jessica. She slams the door open and sways from her cane. "That's enough, Bishop. Brother Dale was just trying to help these people; you'd know that if you'd talk to them for a moment. Let me bring—"

Bishop Andrews stands tall. His imposing form carries a long white alb that sweeps from his shoulders like an endless wave of light and a matching conical hat sits atop his head that looks too much like a stretched out fortune cookie. He hovers over a display of sacred books set behind glass and clasps his hands behind his back. "Ah, and the trouble maker appears. About time you stopped your little charade out there. I was just having choice words with my dear brother here. Nothing a disgraced member of this congregation has any need worrying about."

Something about his presence pushes Thea's words down. They catch in a knot in her throat. She glares empty threats into the bishop's eyes and braces against the door frame to stop her swaying.

Dale melts back down into his chair. Resting his head on the desk, he wraps his arms over his scalp and toward his neck as if he was protecting himself from an angry dog.

Thea finds her words and claws them from the pits of her stomach. "What's so wrong with me helping out, bishop? None of the nearby parishes can spare the staff! Brother Dale surely told you that."

A smile slips across the bishop's mouth amid deep wrinkles. "Even asking that question is reason enough to shut you out of the Church for good. You think all the people out there would be fine knowing they're getting their guidance from a person who is only doing it for a bit of pocket change? Not to mention from a person who renounced their faith?"

Embers of anger burn in Thea's chest: the bastard is enjoying this. She pushes forward a step. "You honestly think getting rid of me is a benefit to this parish? You'd ignore the people begging to have their a spiritual outlet back?"

The bishop's eyes sparkle like a dancing blue flame. "They'd be begging me to get rid of you if they knew just how depraved and misguided you are! And it's not just you, my dear. Not *just* you."

Her eyebrows scrunch together for a moment. What is he talking about? 

Then Dale comes into focus. Whispering nonsense, The poor monk sits in a pseudo-fetal position with his head resting atop the desk. "They needed help, what was I suppose to do... What was I suppose to do..."

Whatever flame was building in Thea's chest disappears with a splash from a bucket of cold panic. It steals her breath, her words, and the rest of her calm demeanor. Her hand jitters against the wooden handle of her cane. "Please, Bishop, don't. Please. Not him."

From Up on High

A fist pounds on Thea's apartment door and the force of it sends the blinds on the furthest wall swaying.

Silence.

Black frizz zigzags up from Thea's head and snakes all over the recliner's backrest. She snores through a wide open mouth; drool creeps down her chin, threatening to drop onto her mostly clean cape.

More pounding, more swaying. A deep, beast-like voice calls out at the edge of Thea's unconscious perception.  "Thea! Wake up."" He pounds once more. "It's Frank!"

Thea snores, but it catches in her throat. She coughs and yanks herself back into consciousness. Surroundings queue in her mind through a headachey, dry-throated haze: the recliner underneath her, the incessant knocking, some sleep goobers nesting in the corners of her eyes.

Her face shrivels inward; she rubs at her eyes with both palms and mutters. "It's too early."

Another fist on the door sends her precariously balanced cane sliding past the coffee table and tumbling onto the carpet. It lands with a soft thump. Her head swims in and out of streams of vertigo and frustration. Streaks of pain run past her temples, but she leans after the cane.

Another pound.

Wrapping her hand around the wooden shaft, she calls toward the door. "I'm coming! Hush up out there."

Frank calls back. "Then get over and unlock this thing before I barrel it down."

Vertigo still swirls about in her head, her mind wanders through trains of thought like a tourist wandering through the streets of a busy town. Only frustration and pain are constant. They furrow her eyebrows; they scratch in her throat; they bring her focus back to herself with judgment and shame and failure. She stumbles toward the door.

Frank's voice lightens. "Thea?"

She slaps the chain out of it's track. It flies about, strikes the door, and jingles to a rest against the frame. She yanks on the handle and the door comes with it. "What do you want?"

The beast of a man towers over Thea, his braids pull back into a ponytail and emphasize the worry lines etching his forehead. He clutches a six pack of the monastery's finest close to his chest. "Could you use a drink?"

Thea lets a sigh escape and her shoulders fall. "God could I."

---

Sunlight spills over the horizon in an explosion of orange; clouds skate through the sky like overladen brushstrokes of warm pastels. Frank drops into a wrought iron chair and it scrapes along the concrete balcony like nails on a chalkboard.

Thea closes her eyes and takes a deep breath through her nose. Frank's usual humid musk thickens the air with hints of clay and ash: along with the barest trace of yew and mulberry. Sins from long ago.

She pops the cap off one of the beers. The constant whisper of a breeze sweeps away the hiss of carbonation escaping from the bottle, but hoppy notes linger. With a sigh, she tips the bottle toward Frank. "Thanks."

Frank clinks the neck of his bottle against her's. "Don't mention it." He takes a sip and lowers his hand — as well as the bottle — to rest on his beer belly. "Want to talk about it?"

"Yes. Is — a-actually, no. I'd rather just drink."

Bottle upside down and pouring into his mouth, Frank stares at Thea out of the corner of his eyes.

Nausea twists, turns, and tumbles through her stomach. She shifts against the wrought iron of her chair. "Ugh, fine. Yeah. I'll talk about it."

Frank nods. "Alright, I'm listening."

Fire ignites in her chest. She jerks a hand toward her head like she might pull a fistful of hair, but she holds it back, curling her fingers inward. After a moment she drops a limp fist into her lap. "What good does it do to kick Dale out, too? He was only trying to help."

Only wind and the sound of Frank gulping down another mouthful of beer.

Fire dies down in uncertainty. Thea leans forward and studies the railing's vine-like lattice pattern, as if she might find the right words at the ends of the spiraling metal. "Is he okay?"

"He's fine. You don't need to worry, we're taking care of him."
 
Panic clenches her chest; she shoots her eyes toward Frank. "Won't that get you all in trouble?"
 
He shrugs his massive shoulders. "Only if the bishop finds out. We don't have any trouble making tattletales that would go tell him, so we're safe."

Thea lets a sigh slip out and falls back against the backrest. "If you say so."

He waves the tip of his bottle about. "Well, go on. I'm listening."

With a shake of her head, she shrugs. "I'm behind on rent, I'll probably get an eviction notice in the next few days, and my motorcycle is just sitting at the mechanics. Then there's the hospital bills wiping out all my savings, not enough people in this city needing priests-for-hire. I'm running low on groceries too I think. I'm afraid to open the cabinets."

Frank whistles a long, low note. "That's a lot."

"Yeah. Any good ideas?"

"I already gave you all my good ones. Do you have —"

*Crack.*

A cat pops into existence on the railing, emerald eyes fix on Thea's. Light, brown-gray fur stands out in the waning light against dark brown stripes.

Fear, panic, surprise: it all stops Thea's heart with a moment of pain. She jolts backwards. "Holy shit!" The chair shifts onto its two back legs, then starts falling. Her stomach jumps up to join her heart in her chest and she flails her arms for the bit of railing to her side. If she can reach it, she can —

Frank slaps a hand on the back of her chair and it slams down onto all fours. "Careful!" He tips his head toward the furry bastard. "You know the cat?"

Her heart starts back up; its beating drowns out Frank's question and most of her thoughts. She smooths down her cassock's cape. "Can that thing teleport?"

The cat's chest almost seems to puff up, then it drops onto the concrete floor and weaves around the legs of the Thea's chair. Frank dangles a hand down. "Looks like it. Come here kitty!" He snaps twice and wiggles his fingers. "Here kitty! Here!"

Thea's body backs away from Frank's hand with just a vague feeling; her eyebrows seize up in a cringe. He's going to get —

With a hiss, the cat bats an open-clawed paw at Frank's hand. He yanks his hand up and shakes it: two gashes drizzle blood from the fat of his thumb. "Gah! Feisty thing isn't it."

Concern etches Thea's face. Her eyebrows raise and and she wrinkles her forehead in between wind-swept, black frizz. "You okay?"

"That's just how cats talk: I'm not going to take it personally."

The cat rubs its side from cheek to tail against Thea's leg. It discovers the cassock's skirt a moment later and walks in circles, letting the skirt trail along its fur.

Thea's stomach turns. Cat hair. Gross. Laundry is already hard enough with just her hair. But no use worrying, it's not like she has money for the machines anyways. She turns her head to Frank. "I meant do you need a bandage or something."

He wipes his palm on his habit's tunic, leaving behind an uneven streak of brownish-red. "No, I'm fine. It seems to like you at least." As if to answer that, the cat rolls over onto its side amid the folds of Thea's skirt.

The mass of fabric and fur nods off; purring fills the air. With a purse of her lips, Thea glares down into the pile. "I guess so."

Silence falls over them as they both sit, drink, and watch the sleeping cat's stomach rise with each breath. A nice moment outside of the chaos of the last day or so.

Frank breaks the spell at the end of his second bottle. "Have you tried making a deal with your mechanic?"

"Yes. She's basically a brick wall, though. Refuses to talk to me about it and slams the door in my face."

Frank covers his eyes with one hand and leans back. He sits like that for a minute, then drops his hand with a shake of his head. "I've got nothing. Do you think it's worth trying one more time to reason with her?"

Nausea creeps up Thea's throat. "Do I even have another option?"

Excommunicated

The world is a clock. A big, monotonous, unceasing clock that ticks along to the tune of shuffling papers and keyboard clacking. Each second that passes nourishes a flame of anger in Waylon's heart: he's been through this with them already. If they change the schedule, they're suppose to tell him ahead of time. He leans forward — away from the rigid hospital lobby chair's backrest — and he tightens his grip around a plastic-wrapped mix of orange and red roses.

Nurses come, but not for Waylon. The seats around him empty only for more people to arrive to fill them. It all blurs together like the racing colors of a midday car nap. All the while the flame grows and Waylon taps one foot faster and faster. The clock's ticks turn to pounds in his head, then — for a fourth time — a nurse whisks away a person who got there after Waylon.

Fire dies.

It's like all those spaceship hull breaches he's seen in science-fiction movies: where a tiny pinprick in an otherwise solid wall sucks all the air out of a room, but now that pinprick is a depthless pit of hopelessness inside his stomach and mind. Anger flows into it and all that's left behind is one thought: somethings happened, hasn't it? The moment he's seen in his dreams; The moment he's thought about every second next to this godforsaken ticking clock. The moment where Gina dies: where he'll be left all alone. He falls against his chair's backrest.

A scrubs-clad, clipboard-carrying nurse shuffles up to the waiting area. Black curls billowing behind her, she weaves through the maze of chairs and stops in front of Waylon. "Good afternoon, Mr. Ishii! Apologies for the wait; one of the receptionists told me you've been here for a couple hours. Did you not get our email?"

Panic shoots through him, constricting his chest. Did they tell him and he didn't make it in time? His voice cracks. "Email? When did you all send it?"

She beckons Waylon to follow her with a wave of her hand. "This morning. Gina's physical therapist was out today and we paired her with someone else. His schedule was full up during Gina's usual time, so we had to shuffle her around a bit."

Relief patches the hopeless pits leaving behind an odd sense of jittery emptiness. All this panicked energy, but no where to put it. He digs his phone out of his pocket and opens his email: nothing, just like earlier. He taps around the interface. Set in a light grey bubble, a small "1" adorns the side the menu listing for his spam folder.

The nurse smiles down at him. "Went to spam?"

Waylon looks over the email, then shoves the phone back in his pocket with a nod. "Went to spam."

She leads him off and he follows. In the midst of the hospital's maze of clean, tiled corridors, unease tugs at Waylon's mind. Should he say say something to pass the time? He clears his throat. "What is it with that clock: why did you all make it that loud?"

She wheels around just beyond the door frame to Gina's room and she leans against the wall.  "No clue. Administration says it's to make us all more productive, but kick me if I've ever met a person who's said that it helps them stay focused."

That didn't take as long as he thought it would; did they switch Gina's room? He twists the door handle, but hesitates and nods toward the nurse. "That tracks. Well, I'll just go on in then; thanks for bringing me."

Gina's voice comes from inside as a raspy croak instead of its usual bright tone. "Don't just stand out there! Get in or keep moving."

Pressure builds in his chest: a dragging weight of concern. Still, he hoists up the corners of his lips into a smile and pushes through. "Morning, Gina."

Nothing in the room is different. Nothing besides Gina. A blanket covers the majority of her lower body; shadows previously spread across the cloth in gradients and smooth curves thanks to fat and muscle underneath, but now it's harsh. Thin skin and bone turns the blanket into some B-movie CGI with too few polygons.

Nausea and existential anxiety audition for joint roles in Waylon's body; a knot forms in his throat and his stomach swims around his chest. He gulps to force it all down. "How are you doing? Physical therapy go alright?"

She smiles out from a nest of pillows around her head, like a gopher discovering food at the entrance of its burrow. "Terrible. I wish they wouldn't make me do it, but at least lunch was good." Her eyes dart back to her television; the tiny, ceiling-corner-mounted box blares the theme song for her favorite soap opera.

He pulls a chair up to the bed and watches the familiar opening credits. For the hundredth time in his life, a bunch of uncannily attractive faces flash one after another until George appears. Then Gina launches a pillow toward the television. "Fuck you, George!" She darts her eyes back to Waylon with a grimace. "You know he cheated on Marla last week? What an absolute pig of a man. Marla deserves so much better than him."

Breath shoots out Waylon's nose before he knows it and the weight trying to pull his smile down lightens just a little. Each of those characters have died at least five times apiece; how does Gina keep track of it all? He tosses the plastic-wrapped bouquet of orange and red roses onto her lap. "Did Marla forgive him yet? How many times is that now?"

Gina brings the roses to her face and inhales before placing the bundle on the small rolling table next to her. "Just watch and don't sass me about my taste. Whats-his-name kicked my ass in therapy today and if the plot isn't this convoluted to follow, I'm going to pass out in between all your silent contemplations. Deal with it."

A heavyset man in a bowling outfit roams past open lanes on the screen, interrupting games and in one case pushing a woman over who gets too close to him. Making use of her raspier than usual voice, Gina snarls at him just like that mathematician in the first Jurassic Park movie. Or was math guy laughing? It doesn't matter: Waylon shakes his head to toss that train of thought out of his mind. "George, I assume?"

Gina throws that snarl toward Waylon with a snort, her teeth just visible below a curling upper lip. Pockmarked teeth whose enamel that won't last another year. Maybe not even a few months. "You know damn well that's George," she says.

The weight on his smile doubles; her teeth are different now too. He pivots his chair toward Gina with a few shrill scrapes of its metal wire legs against the tile floor. "Right, right. So you know that healer I talked about? I've got the first bit of money we need and I'll probably be able to get the rest within —"

Gina speaks, her raspiness disappearing into a stern, chesty timbre reminiscent of her much younger, much healthier self. "Did you not hear me the first time I said it, Waylon? Don't do anything foolish." She coughs and her raspy voice returns. "Leave it be, I'm fine with things the way they are."

"But —"

Gina pushes out of her pillow nest, straightening her back to its full height. "I said drop —" With an odd gurgle deep within her chest, she coughs. She doubles over onto her lap and grasps fistfuls of blankets as the coughing racks her frail form. Sirens scream from the monitors around the bed like an orchestra of emergency alert broadcasts.

Fear burns through Waylon's mind. It swallows every thought, every emotion. Pity, care, even love: all of it goes up in smoke. The only thing left is the one remaining person that loves him suffering; fighting for her life amid blistering, electronic screeches. He wraps a hand over Gina's tremoring grip and yells. "Nurse! Doctor! We need help!"

Prophecy

Dr. Crawford yanks past Waylon, pulling him back toward the door. "Out! Give us room!"

Anger flares in Waylon's gut; the doctors did this. They could have taken better care of her, or something! He reaches a hand out to grab Crawford. Inches away from the doctor's white coat, meaty fingers wrap around Waylon's forearm. He traces down the wrist, past an elbow with more muscle than funny bone, and straight into a glaring nurse's face.

Not glaring actually: smiling.

A scary, patient, disarming smile that drains all of Waylon's fight. 

This nurse towers over everyone in the room; he's at least three heads taller than Waylon. The walking stack of boulders lowers himself so they're face-to-face and he lays a hand on Waylon's shoulder. "We're only trying to help. If you wait outside, Dr. Crawford will come get you when we finish stabilizing her."

Cold settles throughout Waylon's spine. He leans to the side to get a good view of Gina past the nurse. Retching, the frail woman grinds a grip against a yelping Crawford's arm.

She'll be fine. Waylon lingers a moment longer under the mountainous nurse's odd, placating gaze.

The poor doctor yells, casting his head in every direction and attempting to pull his arm away. "Restraints! Get restraints!" 

She *will* be fine.

Scrubs of every color surge onto the frail woman, prying at Gina's hand from every angle. Embers of anger float all around Waylon's chest, but they refuse take flame, winking out nearly as soon as they appear.

One ember struggles to ignite a thought. *Help her!*

Something cold, dark, and wet smothers it, turning the call-to-action into a sludge that clogs his mind with a singular urge: *Don't. Just leave.*

Right, he shouldn't get in the way. He backs into the hallway. Boulder man follows after step-by-step, never dropping that odd smile.

Waylon stares into the unblinking titan's teeth. Each tooth swirls with something mesmerizing, something magical. Sky blues, amethyst purples, a pulsing undertone of crimson.

He can't move; he doesn't want to move.

The nurse slides the windowless door along its tracks, shimmering teeth slipping behind the metal one after the other. The last one disappears and whatever sludge was in Waylon's mind drains away. What was that? He shakes his head and brings a palm up to cover one side of his face.

A metallic click rings out from the door's handle: a lock engaging. Waylon's mind catches up in a flurry of anger. That smile — that nurse's power did something to his head. He hammers a hand on the door. "I was leaving!"

No answer. Only cold, white walls and tile floors stretching in both directions as far as the eye can see. His teeth clench, his left temple throbs. He thumps on the door with another fist, weaker than last time. "I was leaving."

Letting his hands fall to the side, he stumbles back into the opposite wall and collapses to the floor. People pass. Not anyone Waylon cares about or that cares about Waylon — everyone's busy with someone else. It's a hospital.

With a sniff to bring his runny nose under control, he buries his face into a nest of arms and knees. "Please be okay."

There's no telling how much time passes with no windows in the hallway, but — after a while — the lock on the door clicks open. Pain stabs at Waylon's chest. Panic running loose through a tremor of his limbs and a skip of his heart. He yanks his head up.

Nurses file out by singles and doubles, clapping each other on the back. No boulder sized nurse or Crawford. Waylon climbs to his feet and hovers near the doorway just out of the way of the stream of nurses. 

Over the shifting sea of heads, Crawford's shrew-like eyes pour over a clipboard. Just a little higher and Waylon can see Gina. He shifts his weight between tiptoes and cranes his neck, but he only gets as far as the top cushion of the angled hospital bed.

Another throb of pain behind his temples; unease trembles his fingers against the door frame. He needs to know she's okay. Lowering back down, he watches the flow of nurses and burrows into the room once the stream thins.

That mountain of a nurse slips out from his hiding space on the other side of the wall. Heart reeling into his throat from surprise, Waylon slams his eyes shut and crashes headfirst into what has to be a brick wall under the nurse's scrubs.

Massive hands close around Waylon's shoulders, each finger making contact like a falling leaf. "Whoa there, are you alright?"

Stars swim behind Waylon's eyelids; little pinpricks of light blink in and out at the edges of the dark space within. He pushes the nurses hands away and opens his eyes. "I'm fine. No thanks to —" 

No smile. No otherworldly influence. Only genuine worry stares back from the hunching figure. The nurse straightens up, straining to keep a neutral face: straining to hide some other emotion. "Dr. Crawford will be out right after he finishes some notes, Mr. Ishii. Gina's okay, but she's going to be out for a while. Best for you to wait out here so she can rest."

Relief washes away the urgent beating of Waylon's heart. She's fine. He can afford to take a bit of time here then, so he crosses his arms at the hulking man. "No forcing me out? No weird hypnosis?"

The nurse dips his head — along with a drooping mop of curly hair — and he walks past Waylon, speaking in a whisper. "I hate doing that to people."

Waylon's left temple throbs, confusion scrambles his thoughts. Why work here then? Following that train of thought, he watches the man shrink into the distance.

Footsteps echo behind Waylon. He turns around. Crawford passes the threshold and slides Gina's door shut. "Sorry about the wait, Mr. Ishii. Are you doing alright?"

Finally. Waylon glares into Crawford's eyes. "I'm fine. What happened to her?"

Crawford tucks his clipboard under an arm and slides both hands into his white coat with a shrug of his shoulders. "Late stage Consumption. I should have told you that this type of flare up would happen. Once it gets this far, Consumption enters a state of starvation and these bouts are it forcing out whatever power she's got left. She's stable right now, but she's on her way out, son."

"So there's nothing you all can do?"

"Only a top tier healing power might do something and we don't have the budget to keep someone like that on staff. I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist this time, son: you should start the paperwork. It'll make the transition for you —"

Defiance flares into life as a flame of anger and fear in the center of Waylon's chest. "No."

"I must insist. Even if she pulls through, the paperwork will just get shredded. It's not like you're signing her death warrant by being prepared for the worst. Studies show that taking these steps beforehand reduces the length of adverse effects of losing a loved one by up to twenty percent. It can only help you."

 Waylon's entire body clamors for anything that'd get him closer to her or that'd make the pervasive feeling of helplessness disappear. He wants to barge past: to slam the door open and hold Gina's hand. Maybe to punch the doctor's smug face while he's at it, but no. These people are doing what they can. They're not lying to him about her needing rest or whatever sick science is behind those numbers. "I don't care about your studies, I'm not signing anything yet."

Crawford sighs. "I swear, no one ever listens to reason around here. Could I at least convince you to sit with our administration staff for a few minutes and think about it?"

Waylon's thoughts go to the extra weight inside his right pants pocket. He shoves a hand in and runs his fingers across the glossy edges of the phone that Albert gave him. "Not happening. I can get one of those healers, I just need to get out of here."

The doctor sweeps his clipboard-free arm toward the long stretch of hallway. "If you insist. I'll walk you out."

With a grumble that echoes around the corridors, Waylon's gut shifts in unpredictable zigzags: maybe he'll get food at Sickbay first. He plods off with Crawford.

A Life of Crime

Past an open door, the mechanic shop's single office looks like a litterbug with a hoarding problem took up residence. All the paperwork from last week sits under mountains of crumpled soda cans; the odd empty tin of cat food; and piles of newer, sloppier paperwork.

Jitters crawl all over Elia's skin: her hands twist in her pockets. Nothing's happened, everything's fine, no need to use it yet. She barges into her office and collapses into the chair. With her momentum, the chair spins around to face the fridge under the desk. She cracks it open.

Frosty air swirls out of the fridge revealing three unopened cans within. Fresh nerves crawl over her spine at the sight. Three more. Can she even go to the grocery like this? She yanks one off the top shelf and pulls on the tab.

The familiar hiss and crackling of carbonation fills the room. Without a second thought, Elia chugs the soda in a handful of gulps.

Dull hints of artificial strawberry brush past her taste buds like a shadow of what it should be. No joy, no fondness warms her stomach for the sparkle of carbonation against her tongue. Only 
a wish that it would actually help. With a sigh, she crumples the thin aluminum and tosses it onto the sturdiest of the desk's piles of cans.

Otto and Duffie wave their arms about each other like those birds in that television documentary last night. Except with angry faces and rising voices. Nope. She can't deal with whatever that is, she's got enough mixing around in her head right now. She lets her head loll back and she spins the chair away from the window.

File cabinets sit in disuse under her bulletin board full of...

Less. Foreign cars on printer paper and her flag are still there, but the vacation photos aren't; their thumbtacks bear only tidbits of ripped glossy paper. Shame, sadness, anger all twist, chill, and burn Elia's stomach. If her daughter could see what she did — no, don't think about that. She spins back to the window.

Cheeks red, Duffie rushes through the office's open door and jolts to a stop on the opposite side of the desk. "Can we talk?"

Feelings threaten to overwhelm her: exhaustion tugs at the corners of her eyes. All she can think about is burying her head in her arms like she use to do back in grade school. Or to use her mirror, but no; she has to deal with this. She purses her mouth into a thin line. "Are you and Otto arguing about something?"

Duffie slouches and runs a hand through their sweat laden hair. "Kind of. That's not what this is about though, not exactly anyway." Their voice trails off.

Elia forces herself to keep eye contact, but the silence hangs heavy in the room for tens of seconds. Or what feels like it. With a shake of her head, she waves a hand through the air as if she was trying to dust away the silence. "Well, go on then. Out with it."

Duffie's eyes dart around the room hitting everywhere but Elia's own. After a bit of searching, they decide to stare at the bulletin board. "I'm putting in my two weeks notice, I got a job at the mechanic shop across town. It's closer to my partner's apartment and I'm going to be moving in there, so —"

Her feelings tumble over the precipice of nearly overwhelmed and plunge deep into a fiery lake of fuck-it. "I didn't do enough for you then?"

Duffie tilts their head, their words catch in their throat. "E-Excuse me?"

Elia tries to wrench control away from the anger, grinding teeth and clenching fists working to keep her voice from coming out; she might as well be tossing buckets of water into a volcano. "You're not grateful. After everything I've done for you, everything I've taught you. Leaving just like that?"

Duffie scratches at the underside of one of their palms and scrambles for words. "I don't know — um, I couldn't think of — I'm sorry? I thought I was showing how grateful I am by giving you two weeks notice. I didn't have to do that."

No resistance: a fiery river surges through her veins. She slaps her hands on the desk — sending a few crumpled cans clattering to the floor — and she rises out of the chair. "That's the bare minimum. Is two weeks all we're worth to you?"

Dipping their head, they dig their nails into the underside of their palm. "This doesn't make sense; none of this makes sense. Why are you treating me like this? It's just a job, Elia."

Just a job. Her life is just a job to them. She yanks an arm up to point a finger toward the door.  "Just get out of my office and get back to work. Or don't. Won't be different to me."

Duffie stammers in place, wrenching their hands in odd patterns like someone trying to crack their knuckles. Only mumbles make it out of their mouth. "This really — it's all wrong. What is —"

A towering figure blocks out the doorway, his head scattering beams of light in specular blobs. Otto inches his lips up into a weak smile and wraps an arm around Duffie's shoulder. "You don't need to stand here and take it, buddy. Come on with me." Otto guides Duffie into the garage across the office's threshold . 

Elia's teeth gnash together, acting as a final barricade against saying something she'll truly regret. That she'll never be able to take back. But she slams her hand back down onto the table and speaks. "Don't comfort them, they don't deserve it."

 Otto turns; his smile is gone. He only bears a grimace and eyes stricken with pain. No words, he just turns around and pats Duffie on the back. Insurmountable anger recedes, but Elia's entire body goes cold with shivers tingling up her neck and down into her stomach. She collapses into the chair.

Through the window, Duffie takes a tissue out of Otto's hand. She's fucked everything up now. Or again. A clink of a metal clasp rings out from somewhere in her lap. A familiar sound that makes her heart stop and her eyes swell every time she hears it.

The pocket watch rises into Elia's vision, dangling her arm from it like a marionette. Not again. She clenches her eyes shut, but something jerks them open the next moment. Each light that slips into the voids at the center of her eyes sends the tiny black orbs burbling like a sentient goo.

It's lunch time, she supposes.

Betrayal

Sickbay is busier than usual for Elia's usual lunch time. Through the dingy window of a corner booth, a long-haired man eats a stack of pancakes and pours over a phone set next to his plate. He isn't in Elia's usual seat, so it doesn't matter. She climbs the steps and pulls open the single glass door.

 The entrance's chime dings and Mitchel's head pops up from behind the serving counter, his usually unkempt tuft of hair slicked back above a freshly shaved undercut. "Elia!"

He didn't ask a question, no need to reply she supposes. She slides into her booth. Mitchel turns to the kitchen's window and fumbles with the flaps of fabric tying his apron around his waist, one hand wrenching at the knot behind his back in rapid jerks. Nothing better to do, Elia watches him.

With his other hand he slides a plate out of the window — laden with Elia's usual stack of pancakes, but some extra eggs and toast on the side. Must not be her's then? A final jerk of his hand and the knot falls away. He lifts the apron away from himself by the ring of fabric around his neck and drapes it over the counter.

Despite her lack of feelings, Elia knows that she'll regret using her mirror later. Future her would want her to be as conspicuous as possible: to draw attention to herself and tempt others to help. To set her straight. Current her would rather avoid any interruptions to her meal so she can hurry back to her world of cars and grease. So she should stop staring at Mitchel. She faces forward and pulls her scripts to the front of her mind like an actor about to film a scene.

Half a minute passes. Mitchel lays the plate — pancakes and all — in front of Elia. "Eggs and toast on the house, Chef cooked too much. Old guy hates seeing food go to waste." He places a small bowl of blueberries and strawberries next to the plate. "Fruits on me though."

There goes the scripts, scattering like a stack of papers in a sudden gust. Elia looks up from the bowl. "Why?"

He slides into the seat opposite her. "You can't just eat pancakes for lunch everyday."

She should show concern. She scrunches her eyebrows together along with an upward tug.  "Are you running out of ingredients for them?"

"No? Because of healthy, balanced diets not being— not being made out of pancakes I guess. I'm just trying to say I'm worried about you." He interlocks fingers and places both his palms flat on the table. "I take it that constipated look is you trying to convince me you didn't use your mirror today?"

What a waste of effort. She knew it wouldn't work to begin with; she's never been some silver tongued car salesman. She relaxes her brow and — dipping her head to the plate — she cuts into the fluffy, three-high stack of pancakes. "Yeah. Can I eat without having to talk then?"

Mitchel waves a hand through the air. "Sure, sure. Where's Bamboo, by the way?"

Elia crams a slice of the pancake stack into her mouth; her voice comes out in between chews. "On her way, I suppose."

*Crack.* Bamboo lands on the table with a flourish of her tail and rushes over to Mitchel. She rubs her cheek against his interlocking hands.

Mitchel scratches behind her ear to the tune of a deep purr. "Okay, okay. There's the good girl. Let me get your milk." He slides back out of the booth.

A pair of strawberries in her mouth, Elia turns around to watch Mitchel go about his business. Bamboo brushes past her with the same plan and Elia drags an absent-minded hand over the cat's back. Past Mitchel's shuffling, the man in the corner booth looks up — and for just a moment — he links eye's with Elia.

Time stretches inside Elia's mind. Each detail blazes out of the scene before her in vibrant colors and absolute focus. The man stares frozen in time: a yellow-green speckled strawberry peeking from the corner of his mouth; a knot of black hair sitting atop his head, but spiking out in every direction where it slipped out of the hair tie; an oversized, beige sweater falling from his shoulders.

Something about his eyes melts away all the self-imposed restrictions Elia put on her power. If she uses her power on this man, it will help him. It won't end up like last time.

She tugs a muscle somewhere deep inside her eye socket and the emotion consuming voids burble out from her pupils, encompassing her irises. The blackness writhes at the edges with all the hunger of a pit of starving snakes. She tugs on that muscle a bit harder and the man's emotions crystallize into pulsing blue orbs at the edges of the voids: grief, anger, and resignation twisting over and around each other through whatever currents swirl in the blackness. But they don't drift toward the center. The orbs fly about the perimeter, riding the shifting black edges. 

Odd.

Elia heaves back on the muscle; her eyes bulge and pain crashes in her temples. The orbs drift inwards: millimetre by millimetre as if they're anchored to something heavy outside her influence. A hint of someone other than this man. The pain grow, her eyes dry out, and she loses her hold. The orbs slam back into the edges of the voids, shattering the walls containing the blackness like a spherical pane of glass. A wave of darkness drifts across her eyes until it dissipates into nothing.

Time returns.

Pain roars through her temples, tears leak out of her eyes in torrents. Shit. She flips back around in her seat and drops her face into her palms. Her senses shutdown under the overwhelming pain: the sound of hissing food from the kitchen, the smell of the syrup covered pancakes in front of her, the taste of the pair strawberry's still in her mouth. She rubs her palms at her eyes, smearing tears over her face in specular streaks.

Pain vanishes and her senses snap back into her consciousness. Blinking a few times to clear her vision, she raises her head out of her palms. Bamboo's emerald eyes stare back into hers from the edge of the table nearest to her.

Fuck, that hurt. Some mental powers interact with her own in weird ways, but that didn't feel like his. Someone else's — maybe one of the staff from the hospital next door. Maybe something worse.

Whatever it is, she isn't messing with that again. So she chews away at the strawberries and plops a couple blueberries onto the stack of pancakes.

Intermission: Sickbay

A series of knocks drum against the apartment's door. Pain sears through Thea's temples, waves of nausea crash against her throat, and her head shoots up from its odd, crooked position over the arm of her recliner. She tries to force her eyes open, but her eyelids only flutter. Light from the balcony window stabs through her mind with every flap of vision.

She shields her eyes with a hand like a bad lookout trying to spot land from a ship's crow's nest. Whoever is outside raps three more times. Punctuating each knock, nails drive deeper into Thea's temples. Who in God's green earth is being so damn loud this early? She swallows down a bit of nausea, heaves in a breath, and pushes herself out of the recliner.

Cold glass brushes against the side of Thea's foot for a moment, then the empty beer bottle it belongs to tumbles to its side; it rolls across the floor to hit another empty bottle with a resonate clink. Lighting strikes Thea's ears, arcing through her mind in a painful web: she winces. Frank's going to get it whenever she sees him next, that bastard and his drinks. She claps her hands over her ears and slams her eyes shut.

It's quiet; it's calm; it's bearable.

Until the lack of sight and sound lets her nose take over: cranberry, strawberry, and yew flood her nostrils. Especially yew. Thea lets her shoulders fall and her lungs deflate. Without a doubt, that's the landlord coming to deliver the news. She cracks her eyes open again and feels around for her cane, waving her arms through empty air like a recently-made-glassless bookworm searching the floor.

Three more knocks none less polite than the last three.

With another wince of pain, her hand nudges the dense wood of the cane and she fumbles a hand around it. "Coming."

A soft, mouseish voice squeaks back from the hallway past the locked apartment door.  "Of course. Take your time, take your time."

Ever patient on the outside. If Thea couldn't smell all the theft and deceit just under the surface, she'd think this woman was a saint. She undoes the lock and pulls the door open partway — the still-fastened door chain going taut. Despite her best effort, sarcasm tints her words. "Morning, Natasha. How may I bless your day?"

Being a head shorter, Natasha leans back and looks up into Thea's eyes before she lets loose a well-crafted laugh. "I never get tired of your jokes, Thea! You know it's noon, right? Anyways I had some paperwork I wanted to drop off for you and thought I should do it in person." She sweeps a stray hand through her blonde, waist length hair.

The scent of mulberry steams off Natasha: she's not telling the whole story. Thea furrows her brow. "And what else?"

Natasha crosses her arms, tucking a furled packet of paper under her armpit. "You always know when I have more to say, don't you. Well, as an olive branch, do you think you could pay some portion of the unpaid rent? It'd really ease the burden I'm under right now if you could."

"What burden?"

With a smile, Natasha shrugs her shoulders. "Repairs to the apartments downstairs from that radiator bursting, replacing that one dryer in the laundry room, rising utility prices. All kinds of things that go into keeping this place running smooth for all the tenants."

Jitters rack Thea's heart, throwing it off beat. More mulberry. It's not the dryer Natasha's lying about though: that one absolutely sucks. Even Thea's socks won't come out of that thing dry. Thea shifts her eyes to the side with a couple shakes of her head. "I just don't have money to throw around right now. I'd pay you if I could. I really would."

Natasha's eyes light up, her smile tightens. "So you do have some? Are you sure you can't contribute then? I'd hate to have to pursue alternate paths to figure out this financial stitch."

Nerves send tremors down Thea's hand. Her fingers tremble against the cold wood of the door and her cane.  "I—I wouldn't be able to eat if I gave you what I have. We both know state laws about this, you'd just be wasting money going after me. Right?"

Natasha's unerring smile falters for a blink. "I suppose you're not wrong." She uncrosses her arms and threads the furled packet through the gap. "Here's that paperwork then! If you have any questions, give me a call!" The landlord shuffles out of view with a wave.

Thea's heart drops: it's eviction papers, she doesn't need to look at them to know that. It's different actually holding them though. Thea yanks the door, but it jerks to a stop and the chain grinds against the wood. "W—Wait! I've got a question." She closes the door, undoes the chain with a clatter, and rips the door back open.

Only silence, not even footstep.

Thea sticks her head out. "If you wouldn't mind, can I ask a question now?"

The woman is facing Thea already, smile still there. "Go for it."

Thea's heart pounds inside her rib cage like it's trying to escape its bony prison. Regardless of how scummy Natasha is, this is still her home. She's made it her home: her first taste of independence. Freedom. Her first sanctuary against the chaos of the cold, uncaring world outside the monastery. *Her* home and no one else's. And she can't let it go this easy. "If I get the money before whatever date is on here, would I be able to stay?"

"Maybe! We can talk about that if we get there." She turns around and waves over her shoulder. "Have a good day, Thea!"

The papers are heavy in Thea's hands, rooting her arm in place like those weights pitchers wear on their wrists when they train. She has to get to Elia's. That damn mechanic is Thea's last chance to salvage this.

Eviction

Wind whistles its way through sprawling, naked branches of elm trees on the outskirts of the mechanic's shop. The branches jumble and clack together, playing a spooky tune that bounces off brick walls, scattered car husks, and the parking lot carpeted in gravel. Tingles of foreboding tickle the back of Thea's head. Staring at the garage's red entrance door from across the way, she wrings her hand around the handle of her cane. "You've got this, Thea." She coughs twice to encourage the lump in her throat to move. "Hello Elia. C—Can I pay you — No, no no. Hey Elia, I've been a good customer for the last year, right? Could you do me a favor this one time?"

No one responds. Except for a sudden gust of wind dancing through her cassock's cape in a flapping frenzy. Even with the heavy cloth, the chill of the fall air seeps through her cassock and into her bones. She starts toward the door. "You've got this, you'll figure it out."

Nearer to the shop, the sounds of heavy, grinding machinery spills out of open awning windows near the roof. Nerves replace air in Thea's lungs. A little breathing and she'll be able to do this. Definitely. She begins sucking in a deep breath and counts in silence from one to seven. At four, the expansion of her lungs stretches her cassock tight against her shoulders, back, and chest. By seven, her eyes feel like they're about to shoot out and her diaphragm quakes with an odd, fiery tremor.

Too much air too fast, like always; she should practice this when she doesn't need it. Just count: five seconds now. She braces her throat, holding back the swell of carbon dioxide. One. Two. The pressure builds in her throat desperate to escape. Three, four, five. Relief floods her mind and she lets the seal on her airway fall away, but not all at once. Seven more seconds now. She purses her lips like she's about to whistle and the air streams out under careful control.

She barely makes it to six. Her lungs feel barren: tingling with pain from trying to hold out. Did that help? Not really, but nothing else would either. She bangs on the door.

The sounds of machinery peter out into metallic whirs, then silence. Time stretches. Static tingles in Thea's stomach: should she knock again— was that a footstep? No. She hovers a fist near the door, wrestling the limb forward and back — millimetres each way — with the rhythm of conflicting thoughts.

The door inches open and a cloud of fuzzy brown hair drifts through the crack with a head and the scent of huckleberry right behind: Duffie, Elia's junior mechanic. They're covered in grease stains, scrapes, and — maybe that wet patch on their coveralls is water? But matte streaks draw arcs from their eyes and down their cheeks. They wave, keeping their arm tucked too close to their side. "Hey, Thea. Elia's not around right now... Can you come back later?"

Nerves disappear from her stomach. All those years of confession and each time a member of the parish opened up to her runs through her mind. All the help she gave them. And the response is automatic, coming from her mouth before she realizes that outside of a mechanic is not the place to do this. "Is everything okay, friend? Is their something you need to get off your chest?"

Confusion tints Duffie's face for a moment, then — eyebrows jumping with surprise — they rub at their face with a forearm. Their heavy coverall sleeve muffles their words. "I'd rather not talk about it with you."

Push just a little more. She reaches a hand forward, aiming to place it on Duffie's shoulder in reassurance. "Are you sure?"

They dodge the approaching hand with a tilt of their shoulder. "I've got this weird thing about priests; I just don't feel comfortable with the question, okay? Can we drop it, maybe?"

Thea lets her hand fall back to her side, dangling and useless. "Oh, yes. S—Sorry."

"As I said, Elia isn't here. I'd honestly recommend against coming back later today too, she's in a mood. I'm going to close the door now if you—"

Gravel shifts in the rhythm of footsteps and Elia calls from behind Thea, her voice commanding yet neutral. "I got this, Duffie. Go back to work."

Thea's heart springs into her throat. She pivots around and throws out a soup of words before Elia is even in sight. "Hey, hey. Hi. How are you?"

Something battles in Elia's eye's. Nothing supernatural or super powered seeming. Kind of like a pitcher and a batter sizing each other up and guessing at what the other will do, but Elia is both of them at the same time.

Thea's thoughts run in all directions: is she going to say something? Maybe another hello and she'll snap out of it... She hasn't told Thea to leave yet like she usually does, so that's good news. Right? Thea rubs at a particularly rough bit of wood on her cane, scratching away at wood fibers peeking through a worn patch of varnish.

Elia nods and the odd look in her eyes disappears into a glassy nothingness. "You're here about your bike."

"Yes. Yes, the bike. Do you think, possibly, that you'd be okay with, maybe—"

"No."

"—reconsidering your stance on..." Thea's mind catches up a few words past the interruption and resignation weighs down her shoulders. This is more like Elia.

Elia doesn't so much as blink. "I just said no."

"Yes, I heard that. There's nothing I can do to change your mind?"

"Nope, she'd be mad later if I did anything else. Do you have the money to pay for your repairs?"

"Well, no. That's why I came to talk— Wait. Excuse me, but she? Who?"

Elia edges past Thea and swings the door to the shop open. "Me. If you don't have enough to pay for repairs, you should leave I suppose. The sooner the better I think."

Resignation washes away in a surge of purpose swelling in Thea's chest: she can fix this, she just needs to find the right words. She raises a hand after the stone-like figure of the mechanic standing in the doorway. "N—No, no. Wait a minute, I still have more to say! We could work something out right? I'm going to lose my apartment if I can't get back on the road to work. You know that don't you? I swear, I can pay you back for repairs after I get that sorted."

Elia strides past the threshold. "No. It's either pay or take your motorcycle somewhere else. I only have room for paying work"

"Come on, Elia. You've been doing repairs on my bike long enough to cut me a little slack here. I've never not paid you. This time I just need my bike working to make the money. Can't you please do it, just this once?"

Elia throws a stray glance over her shoulder. "No, I'm —" All at once, her face changes: eyes widen, lips twitch, and lines set into her forehead. A million emotions tug at her face until a single one declares victory through gritting teeth, narrowed eyes, and a blood red face.

Fear shoots through Thea's chest in a spark of pain and her throat goes dry. She stumbles backwards. "A—Are you okay?"

Elia stomps one foot in Thea's direction. "Am I okay? Seriously? Trying to tug at my heart strings, go around me to my employees, and guilt tripping me?" Stomping one more foot forward, she flails her arms through the air like a coach arguing with an umpire. "You're despicable. I should have dumped that trash heap the last time you came begging, but no. I just had to hold on to it just in case you came buzzing about with what you owe me. This is what I get for being nice."

Thea's worlds collide: all these allegations, but from a hurting soul; all these obligations to herself, but also to those who need help. It's clear something is wrong. Thea defies the screaming urge to shuffle backwards — to leave while she could still make it out mostly unscathed. Instead, she steps forward. "I didn't ask Duffie for anything, I promise!" She shouldn't defend herself, she needs to get through to her. She shakes her head to cast her own pride out of her mind and she locks eyes with Elia. "What's going on? You were just fine a moment ago. Maybe not as angry as usual, but even then: what happened? Is there anyway I can help?"

"Shut it with the fake concern shit. Get out of here and only come back if you're paying for repairs or moving that trash heap. I'm sick of looking at it and I'm sick of looking at you. You've got two weeks before I tear it apart myself."

Fresh fear spikes through Thea like a line drive to the gut. Elia wouldn't. No way she'd destroy Thea's motorcycle for parts. "Come on, we don't have to fight like this! And you don't need to threaten to scrap my bike!"

"Then how about you fuck off and —" Elia gets in breath-smelling distance and pokes a finger into Thea's chest on each word. "Start — getting — me — my — money!"

With the last poke, Thea's balance falters and she falls backward. She shoots her hands behind her to soften the fall, but jagged gravel tears holes in her cassock's skirt and draws lines of hot pain down her palms and backside.

Elia's eyes widen again: fear, concern, and anger swimming underneath her irises. She stares for a moment like a deer caught in headlights. Thea reaches up toward her, but she whips around. She barrels into the shop and words leave her mouth in a warble. "Damn it."
 
The door slams shut.
 
Searing hot pain fades to embers, but Thea lets herself sit there with her legs sprawling in front of herself. How is she suppose to keep going now?

Helping or Pleading

Uneven cobblestones drift around a collection of shops and street lamps like the subtle waves of a lake. Wires crisscross over head with dangling, conical paper lanterns of bright whites, deep purples, and verdant greens that sway in the fall breeze. A circular plaza sits in the center of it all, filled with benches, trees, flowers, and buzzing crowds.

Nerves and butterflies. They rack Avery's body and her stomach floats about inside her chest. She scans over the sea of people from her perch on a concrete planter that's home to a sprawling tree, where her words come as a whisper meant only to fend off her nerves. "Any minute. Any minute now."

*Check your calendar. It's not today, you made a mistake.*

Tendrils of fear and compulsion wind around her arm, pulling the limb along to the reassurance of her phone and her calendar. She's checked six times already, but one more can't hurt. Wait, no. Resist.

*Come on, check. You're going to disappoint her if you don't.*

The tendrils wrench her stomach full of butterflies down into a pit deep enough that even a dragon would get tired trying to fly out of it. Exaggerating may help. She'll have a good cup of tea if she's here on the wrong day? It's terrible! And the tea will probably be poisoned!

*Not going to work. You'll be drinking tea all alone for the rest of your life if you don't make sure.*

She snakes her phone out of her pocket. Without conscious effort, her inner struggle squeaks out her mouth in strained words. "Don't do it y—you... dirt bag!"

Faux suede, navy blue sneakers with strips of brown step into the corner of her vision. Whoever the shoes belong to, they speak in a tone just as bright and just as smooth as a clarinet. "Who are you talking to?"

Shivers rush down Avery's spine and tingle throughout her body, making sure no inch of her being escapes the embarrassment. Even then, sparkles of excited static tag along and veil her with an odd, comfortable warmth wherever it goes: upturning lips, loosening shoulders, her stomach floating out of that pit with the furious flapping of countless butterflies. Avery darts to her feet. "Oh, no one! Don't worry about it. Sophia, right?"

Sophia comes into focus and she looks exactly like how she did in the photos: her hair cascades from a middle part in dense black coils that sweep just above broad shoulders; her hazel eyes dart between Avery's own and the surroundings; her height. A whole couple inches taller putting her mouth at nearly eye level for Avery. She stays silent for a moment, but settles her eyes back on Avery's. "So do we hug? Shake hands? I haven't done this much."

Avery's heart flutters, her chest tightens. "A hug would work for me." A moment of hesitation, then all the possible interpretations of what she said crashes into her mind. "But only if it works for you too! I don't want to pressure you or anything."

All pretense of calm and collection disappear. The coils of Sophia's black hair almost seem to puff out and her shoulders shoot up: like a distressed turtle-porcupine hybrid trying to hide in her shell. "No pressure here! I don't feel any pressure. You don't do you? I'm sorry, I shouldn't have brought it up."

"No, no, no. I'm glad you brought it up. We've been talking long enough that it makes sense, right?"

Sophia lets her shoulders relax. "Yeah, exactly. Exactly."

Then they embrace, but only in a quick, polite hug.

Parting with Sophia, Avery's heart soars and heat flushes her face. She did it. Absolutely no room for any awkwardness to squeeze into that hug. Well, there was room for other things: like Jesus if he could fit inside a can of those stacked potato chips. With a sweeping gesture, she starts toward a cafe set among the brick buildings. "So do you want to get some tea? That's the place I told you about."

Sophia scrambles after Avery, limbs flailing in awkward directions like she's putting too much thought into the movement. "Yes, please. Do they have chamomile or something? I could use some for the nerves and caffeine will make me make a bigger fool of myself."

"Oh yeah, they have tons of options. Bubble tea, decaf coffee, herbal stuff. London fog's my favorite right now. Oh, but that has caffeine... So don't order that! They'll definitely have chamomile, I think."

A sign dangles from a metal bar poking out from the cafe's facade: "New Interlude; Coffee & Tea" in modern, blocky font with etchings of ivy twisting around the letters. Inside — past the shop's large glass window — plants of all variety line the sill. Snake plants, monstera, swinging strings of ball-like succulents that Avery doesn't know the name of. Other's too, but the succulents are cool. People mill about from the counter to the tables where they sit in plush armchairs with warping wood and the occasional bit of torn fabric.

Avery pulls on an antique, brass handle and the wooden door scrapes along the threshold with a banshee-like screech and halts. Stuck. She pulls again: it refuses to budge. From the counter, a woman wearing overalls pauses her cramming of soap-laden sponges into coffee cups and twists her neck around to the door. "It sticks! Lift up a little when you pull!"

Heat tingles along Avery's nape, her hands seem to swell to clumsy mittens under a slick of sweat. She laughs a curt, nervous laugh and pulls up on the door this time. The chunk of wood swings free of the threshold and cold waves of relief wash over her head. Everything's fine. Pulling the door with her, she backs up to give Sophia enough room to pass. "After you!"

Sophia shuffles past sideways despite plenty of room. "Thanks."

Butterflies flap away in Avery's chest. She's never held the door open for a date before and it just feels... right. She weaves herself into the mesh of people. So many voices, so many people; fetching their orders, going to the restroom, searching for the right book or board game on the expanse of shelves near the counter. Talking and laughing over freshly baked sweets that fill the cafe with an aroma of sugar and bananas and bread. And tea! Flowery scents of all kinds float through the air like a late spring breeze.

Avery dodges and ducks between person after person swinging trays of disposable coffee cups on their way out the door, then she's there at a glass display of glazed treats and fresh, airy bread; steam sends streaks of fog dancing against the glass. She turns her head toward the cash register — cash tablet, whatever. Sophia leans over a menu on the counter with palms resting to either side of the slip of torn printer paper under too much tape. A grumble shifts Avery's stomach. She turns back to the display and floats toward Sophia, making note of each and every option marked vegan.

Sophia drums her fingers along the dark, wooden counter top and tosses a glance at Avery. "There are so many different things."

Avery makes special note of a couple of citrus scones with a tap of her finger on the glass. "Isn't it great?"

Sophia tucks a curtain of hair behind her ear, out of the way of Avery's view of the menu. A blue, glossy, crescent-shaped device sits behind Sophia's ear with thin tubing coiling around and into her ear canal: hearing aids.

Avery's mind wanders: are they heavier than earrings? Do they hurt her if she wears them for too long? Headphones always hurt Avery's ears after a while.

*You're a terrible person for thinking about that.*

A wave of panic crashes into Avery's chest. Breathlessness lingers for a moment, but the thrashing waves part around her, unable to find purchase. What? Oh god, stop staring. She darts her eyes to the menu.

Sophia puts her palm back on the counter, a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "Yeah, this is so nice. I never get to buy what I want at cafes, but now I actually have to *choose* something."

Avery slides in besides Sophia and pours over the list. "I think I'm going to be safe and go with a London fog and one of those citrus scones."

"I haven't had a macaron in so long; I'll go with that."

No barista in sight beyond the woman still scrubbing away at dirty stacks coffee cups. Avery coughs. "Excuse me! We're ready."

The woman glances over her shoulder. "Oh, apologies. One moment." She whips a cloth off a wall hook and whirls around. Fumbling the cloth between her hands more than drying them, water sprinkles the ground all the way from the sink to the cash register. Engraved black text reading "Lisa" sits inside a copper colored name plate that dangles from her apron. "So what'll it be?" Lisa says.

Avery taps at the display case's glass in front of the scones. "London fog and a citrus scone for me, please!"

Sophia runs a finger down the menu of teas. She hovers over the bubble tea section,  then jumps over and runs a finger down the list of macaron flavors. "I'll get a chamomile bubble tea and... Can I get a raspberry macaron?"

A couple taps on the tablet and Lisa looks between the two of them. "Sure thing. Name for the order? Or is Avery fine?"

Avery exchanges a glance with Sophia.

Sophia shrugs. "Yeah, that's fine."

A few more taps and Lisa swivels the tablet around. "Alright, that'll be $19.77."

Avery's blood runs cold. Right, right, she should pay — or should she offer to split it? She fumbles her hand at the opening to the jeans pocket she stashed her ID and credit card in, only managing to look like she's never used a pocket before.

Sophia bats the card scanner over to herself and jumbles a debit card into the chip reader. "I got it."

Butterflies turn to a swarm of frantic, flapping wings inside Avery's chest. "A—Are you sure?"

"Yeah. You'll just have to get next time, right?" Her arms and shoulders lock up. "Not that there has to be a next time; you don't have to go on another date with me. I—It's totally fine if you don't."

Warmth flushes Avery's face along with a big, ridiculous grin; she whips around to hide it. "Totally! No worries! I'll just go get us a table while you do that —"

*Napkins. You need to keep your hands clean.*

Yeah, can't forget those. She flips back and pulls exactly four of the paper rectangles from a dispenser beside Sophia. "Eh — ha. Forgot napkins."

---

Only one table is open in the small cafe: right in the middle of all the noise and excitement of people playing board games, catching up, and making plans for the rest of the weekend. Avery drops into a chair and lets her oh so very important stack of napkins fall to the table. "I'll stop myself next time."

A minute passes, then Sophia inches out the chair opposite Avery and slips her body into the thin gap. "So how did the fish go yesterday?"

"Great, I think. Tamika hasn't yelled at me for anything yet. That's my boss, by the way. Though there is this little puffer fish in my section that can hypnotize people; he's hell to deal with. Especially before I figured out he needs eye contact to make the hypnosis work."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold up. They keep fish with powers there? Isn't that one of the smaller aquariums in this area? I took some animal science courses in my graduate program and the certification for that kind of animal keeping is hard: not to mention wild expensive. Well, that was about zoos, but aquariums can't be that different."

Avery shrugs. "I wouldn't say it's *small*. It's plenty big, just not as big as the ones over in Windbridge or Rooterdale. I've got no idea about the bureaucracy behind it all."

Sophia's eyes dart down to the table and she traces a circle with her index finger. "Oh, okay. I should try to find time so I can go to the aquarium. Or cafes like this. I've only gotten to explore the block around my work so far."

Walls form around whatever part of Avery's mind comes up with words. What is she suppose to say next? The silence is going too long. People ask about jobs on first dates, right? "You told me that you do data science stuff. Do you like it? And if you don't mind me asking, who do you work for?"

*She does mind you asking. She's going to run out and tell all her friends just how big of a jerk you are. You need to apologize.*

The compulsion isn't strong, with weak, flailing tendrils that lash around Avery's heart for but a moment. She blinks it away without breaking eye contact with Sophia.

Sophia traces more circles, swapping between clockwise and counter clockwise. "I don't mind. It's a small company called Medmatters. They're not well known, but they're a subsidiary of Zava and I'm technically employed by them. Not Medmatters. I like it enough. Good benefits, not a lot of micromanagement — maybe too little management, actually. I'm not always sure what I should be doing."

An odd relief flows over Avery's body and the strain in her mind to come up with what to say next disappears. She throws her hands out in front of herself. "I feel the exact same at the aquarium! Tamika only gives me the big picture and I have to figure the rest out for myself. It feels like the owner is going to call me up any minute and ask what I've been doing all this time, then fire me when it's not enough."

Sophia looks up from her circling finger and into Avery's eyes. "That probably means you're good at it. If aquariums are anything like zoos or sanctuaries, they wouldn't let just anyone take care of other living beings. You've got nothing to worry about judging from our texts; you care a lot about those critters."

In the direction of the counter, Lisa yells above the raucous crowd. "Order up for Avery and friend!"

Avery's cheeks flush with a fresh wave of heat; she slaps her palms on the table and bolts to her feet. "I'll get it!"

---

Back at their seats, Sophia works a pencil against the pages of a small, faux leather journal. Avery slides an overladen tray of tea and sweets onto the table. "What are you writing?"

Sophia clenches up, then wipes at the markings with rabid abandon. "Oh, nothing! Nothing! I keep a bullet journal is all. It helps me plan out my day and remember what I've done. That's it."

The paper where Avery could make out bits of etching now glisten in utter blankness. Like a pencil never touched the surface. Avery's jaw drops. "Where'd the writing go?"

Sophia slams the journal shut, slips the pencil into a loop sewn across the top of the cover, and hides the whole package inside her green, cotton jacket. "It's back home. I can move writing between pieces of paper and I have a bunch of journals set up there so I never have to switch this one out."

Avery sits down on the edge of her seat. "That's so neat! Can you do other people's writing? What about printers?"

Sophia falls back against her chair. "Only my own, and maybe to your printer question? I've never had a reason to try it."

"Don't you want to though? I know they tell us to save experiments for when we're under medical supervision, but... they only say that because of dangerous powers and for insurance, right? Mom always yells at me about insurance this or insurance that for finding new ways to mess with mine."

"I can't think of anything that'd go wrong if I tried... It's not like I'm teleporting a person or —". Sophia's words fade into the noise of the crowd at the sight of a familiar bald man in an even more familiar costume peaking through the shop's window. Directly at Avery.

Barclay disappears from the window. A moment later, the door screeches as it tries to break free of the threshold. Lisa cups a hand around her mouth and yells toward the door. "Pull up a little! It sticks!"

The door swings open and Barclay blocks out the entrance in his full getup: a purple, u-neck leotard that end a little past his hips, a black belt around his waist with spectacular diamond-like gems sparkling in the sunlight, and — of course — his curly mustache with a fresh coat of oil. Behind him, a hero Avery has never seen before peeks around the bulging mass of muscle. A much shorter frame than Barclay covered in a green trench coat. She wears a helmet of pure, well-polished chrome that envelopes her eyes, ears, and hair. Where her remaining facial features should be is obscured by a pale, porcelain mask imitating a woman's lower face.

Dread pulls a rug out from under Avery and her stomach falls back into a pit. He'll ruin this if he sees her; she has to hide. With a flat smile at Sophia, she slides down against the back of her chair.

Sophia blinks a few times, confusion oh so apparent. "Are you okay? Was it something I said or..." Her words peter out as the cafe goes silent.

Barclay's words echo around the room in a deep bass. "I always forget about the door. Thank you, Lisa." Unknown hero in his wake, Barclay strides over to the counter. "How are you, Lisa? I don't come say hi as much as I should."

Lisa fixes Barclay with squinting eyes and a flat tone. "You were in here yesterday getting a cappuccino."

He scratches at the back of his head with a twist of his neck and a laugh. "Well, that wasn't in my official capacity! It's completely different. Speaking of, can you start one of those for me to-go? Oh! And anything for you, Scrypher? I'll buy."

The noise returns and everyone goes back to their board games and drinks and socializing. Except for Avery wallowing in her own personal pit of despair. He won't come over, he knows better. Just wish him away and he'll walk on out without embarrassing her. She closes her eyes for a few moments of blissful ignorance. Then comes his booming voice from far too close. "Avery! I thought it was you I saw from the window there. Who's your friend?"
	


A Cafe Catastrophe

Tears bead in the corner of Barclay's bulging eyes. Laughter thunders out of his mouth between cheeks too red to be healthy. With his leg resting on a straight-back chair stolen from the waiting area, he slaps a hand against his thigh and speaks through the tears and laughter. "She dumped the whole bowl of spaghetti on her head! Looked like Medusa straight out of an Italian horror movie!"

Avery's cheeks flush with a fresh wave of warmth for the third time since Barclay's intrusion. "Stop it, Barclay!"

Sophia perches on the edge of her seat, sipping at her tea. A series of dark circles flow up the too-wide straw and disappear: tapioca pearls. She covers her mouth and chews. "I'd like to hear another story."

"Come on, that's not fair! I don't know any embarrassing stories about you as a kid and Barclay shouldn't even be here!"

Amid Avery's pleading, Barclay twiddles his mustache between his fingers. His eyes light up. "How about when I was a chaperone for Avery's class on a field trip down to Douglass? What was that, middle school?"

Avery slams her palms on the table and jumps to her feet with a scrape of her chair along the tile floor. "No! No, no, no. Definitely not. Stop!"

Another sip of tea and Sophia nods at the musclebound hero. "I'm listening."

Barclay pivots the back of his chair to face Sophia and he drops onto the seat, straddling the backrest — bold considering the cut of his tights. "So there was this lass that Avery had a crush on and she'd finally got the courage to talk to her... but only through me. Avery asked me to pass a note to her. I refused of course, but you should have seen —"

The hero next to Barclay — Scrypher — coughs from under her mask, imitation porcelain face unmoving and chrome helmet reflecting the group's faces. Her voice comes in a light, steady tone. Full of control, full of practice. Full of monotony. "Should we be deviating from patrol like this?"

All the pressure in Avery's chest disappears and cold rushes up her neck. Relief. Thank god: kid Avery story time is over. She falls back into her chair. "Who are you, by the way? I've never seen you in town."

Near imperceptible, Scrypher shifts her head toward Avery. "I'm not permitted to say."

Rude, but better than story time. Avery darts her eyes to Barclay. "Who is she?"

Barclay looks between the other three, then slaps a hand against his head. "Oh, I'm sorry. I got so lost in the stories that I forgot to introduce you all! This is Scrypher. She's a federally licensed hero that's shadowing me for a new initiative they're running at the FBH. They're trying to get their heroes acquainted with the people they protect on a more human level. It's probably easy to get lost in statistics when you're dealing with events on the scale they do, so I think it's a great idea! She'll be running patrols with me for a couple months before going back to— well I don't know where she's going back to, she won't tell me."

Another slight shift of chrome and porcelain. "As I told you at the start of this partnership: I'm not permitted to share that information."

Barclay bats a hand through the air as a physical dismissal of her reminder. "Yeah, national security and all that. I understand. As for your question: this type of interaction with locals is the key to building trust! And camaraderie!"

Scrypher unclenches a hand from behind her back and waves at the bustling cafe surrounding them. "What about the other people? You're not interacting with them like you are this young woman and her date. Won't that breed malcontent? Or even worse, rumors that you'll play favorites in an emergency?"

Warmth flushes Avery's face for a different reason this time. Young woman? Really? "You don't sound much older than me."

The porcelain doesn't change, doesn't shift. "I imagine that we're close in age. 'Young woman' just felt better to say in that sentence, so I said it."

Annoying. "Do you always talk to people like this?"

Scrypher shifts and something odd happens. Like a hiccup in time: a moment of silence and everything speeding up to fill the gap an instant later. "No. I don't usually talk to people outside of my duties. Do you always have pancakes for breakfast?"

Barclay pushes off his chair's backrest with a nervous laugh and a swipe of his hand down the back of his bald head. "We should get going, huh?" He nudges Scrypher toward the entrance. "Sorry for the intrusion, ladies. I'll say hi if I see you again Sophia! Wonderful meeting you!"

Panic, confusion, something. It makes Avery shift against her seat, her breath catch in her chest. All she can do is stare at the pair as they weave through the crowd and back out onto their patrol. What the *hell.* How did she know that dad cooked pancakes this morning?

The door and its threshold meet with screeching: screaming out against a backdrop of twisting, crackling wood as Barclay tugs at the brass handle.

Lisa raises her voice above the crowd, anger tinting her words with a vicious flair. "You've got to —"

Barclay interrupts her. "Lift up! Yes, sorry! We're on our way now, thanks for the hospitality Lisa!" He ushers Scrypher out in front of him and they're both gone with a click of the door's latch.

Sophia nods at the counter after a sip of tea, where two to-go cups sit. "They forgot their drinks."

Avery jumps at Sophia's voice, forgotten given how quiet she was toward the end of that conversation. Avery begins to lift out of her chair before she realizes what she's doing. "Should we run those out to them?"

"Hell no. Scrypher freaks me out."

Guilt hits Avery with a shifting queasiness in her heart, but that last line from Scrypher plays back in her mind and she falls back down, firm against the seat of the chair. "Yeah. Me too."

Sophia sucks up the last of her tapioca pearls and talks through chews with a hand over her mouth. "She gives me some really bad vibes. Not surprising I guess, being a fed and all. Gross."

"What's wrong with feds?"

Sophia straightens up in her chair and gets closer, like she's about to share a secret. "You've read into the process for federal licensing, right? They filter candidates through some really weird tests. We're talking messed up on the level of all those federally sanctioned tests on the public. Combined."

A nervous laugh escapes Avery's mouth. "Oh, I'm sorry. I don't know too much about that stuff. I should really have taken more history courses..."

"They don't teach it in history class; that's how the feds like it." Sophia plonks her empty cup on the table and shakes her head. "I—I'm sorry, can we drop this? I know I brought it up, but I don't want to get too worked up. That whole interaction with them was draining already... Do you maybe want to go somewhere else? This place is a bit sour for me now."

*She hates it. She hates you. You need to apologize.*

Tendrils of compulsion wiggle in Avery's chest in a short burst of panic, of pressure. Bullshit. Sophia wouldn't want to go somewhere else with her if she felt that way. Would she? "Do you have a place in mind?"

"Sorry to put you on the spot, but no. Still new to the area and I don't have a clue what might be a fun spot. Is there a neat bar nearby or something?"

Another nervous chuckle. "About that— I haven't drank yet. I turned twenty-one a couple months ago, but with school wrapping up and getting a job for the first time and unpacking and... it's slipped my mind. I'd prefer my first time drinking wasn't on a first date."

"Oh, of—of course. Do you have any ideas?"

"Let me think..." Avery pauses, drumming her fingers in series against the the cushioned arm of her armchair. Inspiration strikes like lightening and her heart goes abuzz with energy. "Let's go dancing! I know a place that does swing dancing lessons for first timers and they're open today."

Sophia shifts her eyes past Avery. "I'm not sure I have the energy for that... Even then, I've never even been dancing and I can't keep a beat for the life of me. It's hard to parse out the music when everything is moving and everyone's being loud."

Unease settles on Avery, flipping her stomach: was that a for sure no? "If you're sure. But if you'd like to give it a shot I don't mind if you leave as soon as you want out. I've been before so I can lead and following is a piece of cake if you're with someone who's experienced."

*You're pressuring her; you're taking a choice away from her. You're terrible. Apologize.*

God, shut up. Avery clenches her hands into fists under the table.

Sophia shifts her eyes back to Avery, her face twisting into a pained expression full of guilt. "You wouldn't mind me skipping out in the middle of it? Or right away if I'm not feeling it?"

"Not even a little!"

"Well... I think I could try." Sophia exhales and her shoulders fall, her face relaxes. "Promise to keep this conversation in mind, though?"

Was Sophia holding her breath that whole time? Stop that, focus. "Yes! Yes, of course! Wouldn't dream of forgetting it." Avery pushes out her chair and slaps her hands onto her knees. "Shall we go, then?"

---

All the lights are out in Avery's house. Her parents are probably asleep, and she should be too if she wants her sleep schedule intact by Monday. She tiptoes over creaking wood floors, past the dining room, through the kitchen door, and slips a leftover pancake off a plate in the fridge. It's cold: less floppy than when they were fresh at breakfast time. Just how she likes a late night pancake. She finishes it in two bites, then sneaks back to her room.

No more cardboard boxes. They're all unpacked now and the room looks just like how it did when she was a kid. Her favorite stuffed animals sit in a line on the top of a dresser in the corner of her room, her laptop open at her tiny desk that she outgrew long ago, her overflowing closet with clothes that all look a little too similar to each other.

She collapses onto her bed, letting her mind wander through the precious memories of that night. Live swing music; the unending counting of steps; the two of them swirling atop the dance floor like they were floating, spinning maple seeds that refuse to separate on their way down from their tree. The genuine smile on Sophia's face. On *her own* face. Avery's stomach soars into her chest, floating about on the wings of butterflies.

And she falls asleep. That smile still there.

Dances and Dragons

The street outside Waylon's apartment is quiet. Except for the trees jutting up at regular intervals: their naked branches rattle together above dried up moss browning within the crevices of concrete slabs that make up the sidewalk. Temple throbbing, Waylon glances at the phone Albert gave him.

Nothing since Joel's text from this morning.

*Joel: A car will come at 10AM this morning, be ready outside of your apartment for pickup.*

Waylon swipes the text window away and clicks the power button. The clock flashes across the center of the screen at the perfect moment for 10:02 to change to 10:03. Late. Time marches on and the car is late. With a shake of his head and a clench of his teeth, Waylon shoves the phone into his pocket. As if his life was playing along to the timing of a popular drama, a black, unmarked sedan with tinted windows barrels around the nearby intersection and screeches to a halt inches away from him.

He should have put the phone away earlier.

The back door swings open and Joel appears, leaning over an empty seat with his arm outstretched and wearing a different — objectively ugly — sweater. "Hey, mister Ishii. Sorry for the wait. Albert changed where they wanted to watch the big game so we've been scrambling all morning."

Waylon buries his frustrations: be polite. In one movement, he stoops, slides into the seat, and shakes Joel's hand. "It was only a couple minutes. It's fine."

Joel jerks in surprise at the clasp of hands, but straightens up and returns the handshake. "O-Oh, ha. I was just opening the door for you. The handshake is nice though, great to see you again mister Ishii. M-My hands are a bit sweaty. Sorry about that."

He isn't wrong. Releasing hands with the waterfall of a man, Waylon wipes his own on his jacket. "Where are we going? Why couldn't I go meet Albert myself instead of you all coming to get me?"

Joel knocks on a dark, glass divider separating the backseat from the driver. The car jerks forward. "Standard procedure outside of a job, mister Ishii. Sorry if we've caused you any concern or inconvenience. There is a bar that Albert has grown fond of lately, so you're going to talk with them there. We'll be around to pick you up after and take you wherever you need."

Waylon tries to get a glimpse through to the driver's seat. No luck. "Why not the facility we met at last time?"

The tablet in Joel's lap flashes on with a burst of white light at the press of a button and Joel taps along its surface. "Albert's a busy person, mister Ishii! They have to be all over due to appointments and such. Can't say more than that! I'm sure you understand. Now if you wouldn't mind, I'm quite behind on some of my other work so I'm going to focus on that." He looks back up for a moment and tweaks a cautious hand toward Waylon. "Eh. Feel free to ask any pressing questions though."

Waylon loses himself in the hard-to-make-out signs, trees, and people passing outside his window. "The quiet is fine by me."

---

Bars are the worst. Drunk people, alcohol everywhere, not enough quiet to have a conversation. Why talk here? Waylon pushes through the door and... nothing. Quiet, no crowds. Still plenty of alcohol though.

The entire room is dim, only lit by weak faux sconces lining the walls and tiny clusters of globe-shaped lamps dangling above the tables and bar. There's no distinct smell of vomit and booze-riddled breath; no odd, acrid taste every time he sucks in air. Just pleasant lavender with a hint of honey. He squints his eyes, trying to make out anyone through the desaturated haze left by exposure to bright sunlight.

A couple moments pass, then the haze subsides and the occupants come into focus. Past the chairs and tables, two figures crowd around the end of the bar furthest from the entrance. Some baseball game flashes across the television perched above the bar. Within the dancing shades of green, brown, and white cast from the screen, Albert nurses an amber colored drink across from a bartender. In their odd costume getup. Trench coat, porcelain mask, full body black spandex, body armor. Chic.

Waylon's frustration melts away: finally, no more waiting. He weaves through the tables toward the villain. "Albert."

Swiveling in their chair, they shoot to their feet to tower over the space. "Ah, Waylon my lad. I didn't notice you come in."

"Let's get this over with."

Albert reaches out an open hand. "Now, now, Waylon. We've got plenty of time here. The game still has a whole two innings left!"

Hot frustration tingles anew around Waylon's temples and over his scalp. More waiting, then. He clasps hands with Albert. "How long does that take?"

They sweep their hand at the chair next to their own. "You can never rush baseball! Why don't you have a seat and order something? We can talk over a drink. Take the edge off, you know."

Waylon slips past Albert and into the seat. "I don't drink."

Albert plants themselves back in their bar stool and sends a curt laugh echoing around the empty bar. "Anything? Old Jacob here has water and soda, son! Order one of those."

Jacob steps to the side, directly in front of Waylon. He's a dinosaur. In fact, he almost looks like John Hammond himself stepped straight out of Jurassic Park. Just without the ridiculous straw hat. He watches Waylon: silent, studying.

"I'll have a water." Waylon says. He glances to Albert. "Does everyone working for you have a name that starts with 'J'?"

"Only most." They gesture at the television with their half-empty glass, splashing a drop of the amber alcohol over the edge. "Now look here, lad. The Ravens are down two, the bases are loaded, and we've got two outs. If we get a grand slam here, we'll be up two and we'll be in the perfect spot for the final inning. Stevenson is at bat. Highest home run count on the team, highest RBI: just a great batter. Do you think he'll make the hit?"

Waylon wants to tell them to drop it, to get to the point. They've got all the power though. He takes the glass offered by Jacob and sips. "Sorry, I don't know the sport very well. What do you mean we? Are you a fan?"

"You're telling me you live in Cordia and don't care about the local minor league team? The tickets are so affordable, lad! What price would you be willing to pay to see a game?"

"So you *are* a fan."

"A fan?" They scoff. "No. I own the team!"

Waylon chokes mid sip and talks through the sputter of water and air in his trachea. "Y—You own the team?" He coughs through more water. "Why?"

"Always been a fan of the game, I've got the money, so why not? Investments are all about diversification to protect yourself against risky moves in other areas. Baseball might not be the most popular sport, but the income is steady."

"I though that it was a dying—"

Albert inches a solitary finger off his cup and sweeps the glass toward the television with another splash. "One second, lad! The pitcher is at the mound again."

Letting his words peter off, Waylon goes silent. Play their game just a little longer and a door will open.

The pitcher rears back on one leg with the other cocking up toward his chest. His hands meet: glove hiding ball. In one smooth motion, his leg springs forward several feet and his ball-holding arm sweeps through a perfect arc above his head. The ball shoots from his hand, barreling toward number forty-eight: Stevenson.

Waylon doesn't know the game all too well, but that ball shouldn't be heading straight for—

With a sickening smack, the ball strikes Stevenson in the side just below his ribs. The man stumbles forward clutching at the spot and letting out a cry of pain. A spike of something in Waylon's mind forces him to flinch, to recoil from the screen as if the ball had hit *him.* "Ouch. Is that allowed?"

As Stevenson lumbers along the white line connecting home and first base, Albert sips on his glass. They speak without even a hint of disappointment tinting their words. "Of course it is. They opted for giving up a run and putting Stevenson on first instead of letting him drive the whole line home. Perfectly legal, just not very sportsmanlike."

Waylon rubs at his side where an imaginary ball might have hit, feeling around his own spongy mixture of muscle and fat. "Makes sense."

A scrawny man two sizes smaller than Stevenson steps up to the plate. He bounces his black and silver, checkerboard-patterned bat off the soles of alternating, hiked shoes. Albert taps Waylon's arm with the back of a hand and points to the television. "Number twenty-three: Corduroy Brawn. Worst RBI on the team, but best name. Even if he doesn't quite live up to it. The Ravens lose the championship if he strikes out."

"And you're not worried?"

Albert cackles. "I would be if I didn't place bets on the other team." They slap a black-cloth-covered hand against Waylon's back. "Diversifying, my lad!"

Awkwardness overcomes Waylon at their touch, sending cringe-inducing chills down his spine. Play their game. "Smart." 

One. Two. Three strikes and Brawn drudges toward the dugout, bat dangling limp from his hand and the other team cheering and rushing the field behind him. Albert cheers and punches their glass into the air. "That's what I'm talking about!"

Waylon stares at the dejected baseball player that the camera operator refuses to pan from. "Congratulations, I guess?"

They clink their glass into Waylon's own, sending water and alcohol splashing over the edges and into Waylon's lap. "Damn right. Cheers, lad! That's the team's entire upkeep for the year in the bag! It pays for itself."

*Now. Push it.* Waylon leans over onto the counter. He swirls the last bit of water left in his cup, steeling his mind for the last bit of Albert's game. "Can we talk about the job?"

Albert plops into their chair like a flying squirrel coming to rest and swivels to face Waylon. "Before we get to that, how's Gina?"

Anger sparks in Waylon's chest, but he holds it back. It's just more stalling: they're playing their game. Stay calm. "You already know how she is."

"Alas, I do and I apologize. Keeping up the pretense is important sometimes, but I should have known better. Sorry, lad. How are you holding up?"

Waylon breaks; the frustration ignites with each bit of kindling Albert has been stacking up. He slams his empty glass onto the bar top. "Fine. Can we please get on to the job? You know I don't have time for this."

"Of course, of course." They place their glass down and shuffle around inside their trench coat. From within, they pull out a loosely folded packet of papers and slide it across the bar top. "There's all the information you need. I'll give you the gist though."

The paper is sturdy, thick, smooth. Higher quality than any printer paper Waylon has touched before. He lets his eyes linger on the blank, curling backside for a moment before flipping it over and unfolding it.

Albert gulps down the last of their drink. "The target is a piece of machinery at the local aquarium."

They're messing with him; that's the only explanation that makes sense. Waylon lets his confusion slip into his words as sheer disbelief. "Why would someone want a piece of aquarium equipment?"

Albert swirls their empty glass toward the barkeep, who jumps into action. Behind the bar, Jacob shifts through a flurry of elegant movements with equally elegant metallic equipment and ornate bottles; shaking and shifting. He drops two fresh-chilled whiskey stones into the Albert's waiting glass, then pours an identical amber alcohol from far too high up without spilling a drop.

Albert sips at it. Whiskey stones shift and tinkle: glass against rock. "I'm getting to it. You've got to let me finish, lad." They take another sip, clomp their tongue against the roof of their mouth with a sound like boots buried in mud, and nod toward Jacob. "Perfect, thanks. So why an aquarium, you ask? Are you familiar with Zava?"

"Yes." Waylon says.

"Then you know Zaza Kukava, the founder? He got his start around half a century ago as an FBH licensee filling requests for custom industrial equipment. That type of request is a lot more common to actually get completed these days with all these tech-crazed licensees popping up everywhere, you know."

The puzzle clicks in Waylon's mind and relief douses the fire of pain and frustration behind his temple. It makes sense. "So they have one of those machines at the aquarium?"

"Exactly! All of his old prototypes are highly collectible, but they're hard to get in your hands. Most all of them have been auctioned off as they age out of commission or as they *age* out of commission as they say. Like you said, one of those prototypes is in this city at the local aquarium: sitting forgotten by staff and — so far — unnoticed by industrious minds like our's."

Images of countless, tension-filled movies where spies dodge traps set by their villainous rivals flip through Waylon's mind. "Won't this all cause a giant fuss? Won't security be a ton tighter than that aluminum shipment? I'm not interested in going to jail because I didn't dodge an invisible laser or something." He tosses the packet back onto the bar top. "This sounds leagues above me. I just need money."

Albert scratches at something under their armpit, just inside their bulletproof vest. "No, no. It's nothing like that, lad. All you have to worry about are the run-of-the-mill employees, and not even that if you're smart. The only other bit is a local licensee that patrols that neighborhood: Barclay. Not a big worry. Something to keep in mind though."

"Okay." Waylon stares at the packet as it sucks up a nearby ring of water left by his now missing glass. "Why are you giving me all this information, though? I had to scrounge for the aluminum shipment."

"That's the beauty of coming under my wing, lad! We have all the personnel required to delegate responsibilities like gathering intelligence. You'll only be responsible for the actual plan and carrying out the job from this point forward. Oh! And putting together your team. Except your driver. I've already got one for you: Ronan if you remember him from your last job."

That prying dingus only worried about his phone? Waylon sucks in a deep breath and exhales, steady as a stream. "Does it *have* to be him?"


A Deal With a Devil

Albert slams back the last bit of their third drink. They go for a breath, but their steady, carefree demeanor devolves into a fit of coughs and rasps. "Gah. One more for me if you would, Jacob."

Waylon's stomach turns over itself: why do people drink that stuff? The silent bartender performs the same flurry of intricate, elegant movements: shaking metal canisters filled with ice and various alcohols like a seasoned maraca player. After pouring the mixture into Albert's waiting glass, he brandishes a water pitcher to Waylon with a raise of a single bushy, white eyebrow.

Waylon dismisses the water with a shake of his head. "No thanks. So what's special about this prototype beyond the guy that made it? Why'd the aquarium need it?"

Albert coughs a few more times into the nook of their elbow. "It's this — at the time — revolutionary heat pump design." Another cough. "I'm not going to pretend to understand the science and throw some technobabble at you, but it became the new standard for industrial heat pumps. The specifics that the research teams could put together are in the information packet if you end up needing them."

"Okay. Why would an aquarium file for a prototype instead of buying one? Heat pumps can't be that expensive."

Albert hovers a lazy hand near Waylon. "Hold that thought. What's the time, Jacob?"

A shuffle of a sleeve reveals a watch of deceptive simplicity around Jacob's wrist. Like a glossy, blank brick. He raises the device into view and taps its face. Lights flitter into existence on the surface, revealing a clock amid an odd array of statistics and measurements. Standard stuff that Waylon can guess by the icons near the numbers: humidity, ambient oxygen levels, the current weather. Then there are more obscure symbols that'd look more at home adorning the wrist of an actor in the next Bond movie, certainly imparting more information than any bartender would need. Jacob studies the screen for a moment and looks to Albert. "Approximately twelve thirty."

Downing the fresh drink, Albert slams the glass back down and pushes up to their feet. "That's our time, lad. Would you mind seeing yourself out? I've got a meeting coming up that I need to make preparations for and it'd be best if you make yourself scarce." They stride to a door behind the bar and begin to push through, but they pause and jerk their porcelain-covered face toward Waylon. "Quickly, lad."

Confusion rips Waylon out of an odd comfort, as if time stood still in this liminal space. It's been two and a half hours since he left? Packet in hand, he swivels out of his chair and rushes toward the exit. "Right."

---

Outside the bar, the black, unmarked car that brought Waylon here spews white-tinted vapor out of its exhaust pipe. The rear window rolls down and Joel's ugly sweater appears. "Where to, mister Ishii? Back to your apartment?" He says.

Waylon yanks open the door, slides into his seat, and unfurls the packet of papers in his lap. "Yeah. That works."

Joel's knock on the glass divider to signal the driver to go fades into the background amid too-small black text and elaborate diagrams. Specifications of the prototype that go beyond anything Waylon would ever need to know, neatly labeled layouts of every floor, employee schedules. All lain bare in excruciating detail in the first half of the packet. Waylon flips another page and a face stares back up at him that definitely isn't an aquarium employee. "Excuse me, Joel."

"One moment..." Joel taps a few more meaty fingers on his tablet and looks up. "Yes, mister Ishii?"

Waylon flashes the page to Joel. "These people don't look like aquarium employees to me, what are they doing in here? I thought I was putting together my own team."

"Oh, apologies for the confusion, mister Ishii! Those are team member recommendations that Albert had us put together with profiles that were already in our databases. No expectations of including them, just recommendations."

What types of people does he need? Heist movies flash through his mind: the brawn, the brain, the — well, too many types of people to list out. Stop thinking about movies. He tabs through the recommendations, making note of each person's power.

Tons of enhanced strength, what sounds like a human version of a Russian nesting doll, and a short range teleporter. They're all only able to help with one thing: moving the equipment. "Is this really all of the recommendations you could put together?" Waylon says.

Joel glances away from his tablet for a moment. "Not exactly, but they are all the ones that the research team has deemed relevant for this job. Do you want different ones? I'd be happy to put in an order, but I'd also caution against the added noise, personally."

"Well, what about a tracking power? There's a licensee that patrols that area, shouldn't you all recommend someone that can make sure he isn't nearby?"

Joel scratches at his scalp somewhere underneath a frizzy sphere of brown hair. "Yeah, that's a great point mister Ishii. Unfortunately this job doesn't have the kind of payout that'd draw in someone like that. Those types of powers are rare after all. Sorry."

Without a conscious thought, Waylon chews at raised bits of skin on the inside of his lips. Clenching teeth tug here and there to leave behind a burning, raw pain. He turns back to the packet. "That's going to make this harder."

They sit in silence for a while as the car stops and starts at city intersections. Nausea steadily builds in Waylon's stomach, like a rising tide until the text of the profiles wiggle away from his comprehension and out to open ocean. He straightens up and closes his eyes. Darkness and light flitter on the other side of his eyelids, Joel taps along on his tablet, the car stops at another intersection.

Waylon's stomach wrenches forward with the inertia, sending a wave of fresh nausea cresting his head. Don't puke. He opens his eyes and tries to find something to distract himself with. Outside his window, the sidewalk buzzes with a weekend menagerie. Church goers, grocery shoppers, sightseers.

Shit, he needs groceries. "Sorry, can you drop me off at the grocery store instead?" He says.

Joel pauses mid-tap on his tablet. "Which one?"

---

Weekend crowds mill about the aisles of BuntsMart. Carts groan as they pass, stacked to their wire brims with branded goods aplenty, but Waylon's own flits though the maze of mobile obstacles with only a generic gallon of fortified milk and two boxes of oat circle cereal. Wringing his hands around the hard shell of plastic around the handle, he brings his cart to a stop in the checkout line.

Three customers between now and heading home. Three separate stacks of groceries that tower over the toddler grasping her mother's hand directly in front of him. The little girl runs up to a nefariously placed candy display and wiggles her arms about at her sides. "Can I have a chocolate bar, please mommy?"

Her mother reaches out a hand for her to grab. "I'm sorry dear, not today. We've got some at home if you can wait."

Her smile flattens in an instant and a transparent disappointment tints her voice. "Okay."

The moment sits in Waylon's head, time ever ticking. Each second passing let's his thoughts wander deeper into foreboding, existential frontiers, but he keeps centering his mind back to that girls face. The disappointment, the immediate understanding. A good kid even if she didn't want to be. Better than he ever was.

Before he knows it, it's his turn and the cashier scans all his groceries. "Bags?" She says, brushing a coil of brown hair behind her ear.

Waylon doesn't hear the actual words, but he's pretty sure that's what it was. He digs out his wallet and tabs through it. "No bags, thanks."

The cashier leans over and lowers his milk and cereal boxes into his cart. "Will that be all, sir?"

He plucks out a lonely twenty dollar bill. "Yes, thank —"

Out of the corner of his eye, the mother and her daughter sit on a bench near the store's ice dispenser. Waiting for something? The girl's disappointed face flashes in his mind and his heart stalls. He leans down and picks through the candy display, trying to find the one that girl was looking at. "One second —" He can't remember and this lady is staring at him, so he grabs one at random. "Can I get a candy bar? Sorry."

The cashier yanks the bar out of his hand, scans it, and holds it out to him without a change of expression. "No problem. Will that be all?"

He replaces the candy bar in her hand with the bill. "Keep the change."

At the bench, the mother looks down at her phone; the daughter leaps to her feet and spins around trying to make herself dizzy. Probably. Waylon drags his cart over to the pair and addresses the mother, holding the candy bar aloft. "Sorry to disturb you two, but is it alright if I give your daughter this? I overheard you in line and I saw you waiting over here so I —"

The girl wrenches her spinning body to a halt and her eye's light up through her certainly dizzy stupor. "Please! Can he?"

---

Now, for the final obstacle on his walk out the door: the store's bulletin board. All those times waiting for Phil to finish checking through the latest community events or him trying to convince Waylon to pick up some new local service because the flyer was pretty. Waylon's heart crumbles at the memory. It wouldn't hurt to give it a look... to feel a little closer to him, just for a moment. So he does. Waylon hovers near the cork board and he dismisses bulletin after bulletin with a shift of his eyes to the next, but the curling corner of a poster fixing to fall catches his attention. It's just a picture of a parking lot, a list of bullet-point services, and some scrawls in red color pencil — clearly added after the fact.

Lightening strikes his mind. A tingle of excitement runs all the way to his finger tips and he rips a paper tab with a phone number off the poster. "This — this could work." People shuffle around him, expressions of disdain painting their face for the man blocking the cart traffic, but he doesn't pay them any attention. He stares down at the little tab of paper like a winning lottery ticket and taps the number into his phone.

---

Professional. That describes the woman across the desk from Thea in succinct detail. Pressed business suit complete with matching tie and nail polish, straight black hair pulled back into a pony tail, her own office. Thea's never had an office to herself. Or a suit.

The woman — Monica, was it? Sure. Monica interlocks her fingers above a manila folder. "Next question. What would you say — in a few words — is your biggest weakness?"

Thea's heart races with panic; nails scratch against the rough weave of her cassock. Upending tables full of scripture and baseball statistics, she scrambles through her mind for the right answer amid the noise. "I, uh — I would say that my biggest weakness is —"

Her phone rings. Chimes bounce around the room, smacking Thea's cheeks raw with embarrassment on every pass. She fumbles at folds of cloth, trying to get through her cassock's bunched up skirt to her pockets. "S-sorry, let me just —" There, a pocket. She yanks the phone out and looks over the display.

Private caller. No number, just two buttons: green, accept or red, decline.

Nerves wrestle Thea's heart between the green and red: between the work she chose and the work that amounts to selling cigarettes for some gas station franchisee owner she'll never meet. There's a chance she'll be able to take whatever request waits for her on the other side of the phone, and there's no chance that she's going get past this interview, right? She lowers a trembling finger to the screen.

Monica's eyes spear Thea through. "This isn't a great look for you, miss. Do you conduct all your interviews like this or are we a special case for you?"

Thea's heart screams out for that sweet, green button. Her only way out of this. What the heck is wrong with this woman; are all interviews like this? She steadies herself up to her feet with the help of her cane and backs toward the office door. "Ha. Eh — s-sorry. I've got to take this really quick. Emergency."

"You're not going to get the job if you walk out that door."

Thea slips out, letting her head stick behind for a last word. "Yeah, that makes sense."

With a click, the door latches behind her and the hallway of the recruitment agency stretches ahead. Closed doors line the passage and voices seep into the hallway from within each office. Voices of cold, calculating interviewers; voices of fellow interviewees desperate for one more chance. Striding to the exit that stands ajar at the end of the hallway, Thea slides her finger on that green button and brings her phone up to the side of her head. "Thea Aalberg, priest-for-hire."

A Poster from God

Elia's eyes tumble around behind her eyelids, searching for a last bit of solace from the rays of sun piercing through her studio's windows. The light floods her bed in hues of brilliant white-yellows and unbearable warmth. Clothes cling to her skin with an uncomfortable, wet tightness and her thoughts race through her mind like many unformed clay blobs refusing to take shape on a pottery wheel. She cracks her eyes open. What were vague patterns of light on the other side of her eyelids resolve into the blurry shapes of her furniture. The next moment, a wave of dry pain flushes tears into her eyes and distorts her vision through a bubbly kaleidoscope. 

She squints through the itchiness and pain. "Ugh, what time is it?" The display of the clock next to her bed sits blank, battery completely empty. For around a month now if she remembers right. She swings her legs over the side of the bed and twists her palms into her eyes. "Bamboo?"

No meow. No teleport-induced crack. Only the sound of angle grinders drifting up from the shop and through her open window. Elia casts her squinting gaze about the studio, but no cat. Odd. She calls toward the kitchen. "Bamboo?"

Nothing.

Her heart creeps into her ears, carrying through a crescendo until its thumps drown out the screeching of the angle grinder. Bamboo *always* wakes her up. She bolts to her feet and freezes in place. The beating grows, pounding and hammering in her chest; forcing each breath out of her lungs the moment she takes it. *She needs her mirror.*

Clouds outside interrupt the sun's glow, but only briefly and a new glint catches the corner of Elia's vision. Her mirror on the nightstand; she swipes it up and pops it open, then her emotions drift away into those comfortable voids at the center of her eyes.

---

Inside the shop, everything melts away in front of Elia besides the silver Camry with a failed oxygen sensor in its exhaust manifold. She engages her workstation lift's hydraulic mechanism. Underneath the car, pipes and axles and coils crisscross in a maze of metal that hint at more complexity through shadowy gaps. Onto work, she supposes.

---

Otto flails his arms about on the other side of Elia's desk. "What do you mean, no? You were harsh on them!"

He's upset, Elia supposes. But why would Duffie deserve an apology when she just told them how she felt at the time? She plucks a can of soda out of her fridge.

---

It's lunch. Carrying a bottle of milk and a pitcher of water, Mitchel winds around the serving counter of Sickbay. Food soon then: Elia counts each stool Mitchel passes. Just to occupy her mind.

Lowering both glasses onto the table, Mitchel slips into the booth — opposite of Elia. "Hey Elia, getting the usual— wait. Where's Bamboo?"

Something in her mind cries out; a tingling pinprick traveling through her network of nerves, setting out on its journey from somewhere on her calf. An itch from the coverall's material, she supposes. She should scratch it. "Yes, and I have no idea."

He cocks his head and squints his eyebrows together: disappointment probably. "No idea? Really, that's it?"

"Yes. She didn't visit this morning."

Mitchel stares at her. No blinking, no shifting hands: just staring like a statue. "You've got to lay off the power, Elia." He shuffles out of his seat and heads back to the counter, but places a hand on Elia's shoulder before he leaves. "I know you should be worried out of your mind about this. Come back when you're sober and I'll help you look for her."

"Okay, can I get the food still? And can I get a glass for the milk?"

--- 

That Camry has more wrong with it than Elia thought. Not just the exhaust-side oxygen sensor, but worn out rear brake pads too. Over the next hour she wrenches, she yanks, and she talks in a polite tone at the underside of the car to get at the brake pads then put everything together again.

Inside the Camry, the RPM meter peeks just over the steering wheel. Elia turns the key in the ignition. The tiny red pointer jumps with each sputter of the car's engine until it settles near the white tick indicating four hundred. Still low. Maybe the intake oxygen sensor needs replaced too?

In the silence of her pondering, everything disappears into a swirling whirlpool. Her entire consciousness falls through the world and plunges deep into ice cold, lifeless water that sweeps her about in circles of despair, guilt, and disgust. She can't move, she can't breathe, she can only drown. Except for the one disc of metal in her palm. One flick of her finger and a glance of her eyes and she'll be fine, it'll be just like none of this is even happening. She shifts her finger over to the mirror's latch.

Mitchel's words echo out from somewhere deep in the ocean, as if he was whispering to her from a universe away. *"I know you should be worried out of your mind about this. Come back when you're sober and I'll help you look for her."*

Each moment of resistance burns her alive; blistering cold turns to blazing heat instant after instant; every bottled up emotion pours into the water and the pressure grows, squeezing at her from all sides. Even so, she tugs back on her finger. With all her strength she tugs back on the irresistible urge to stare into her own eyes and to make the pain a memory.

Past Mitchel now yells into her ear, morphing with a hint of her own angry inflection. *"I know you should be worried out of your mind about this."*

Somewhere under the pressure and cold and heat, her heart drums out alongside his words. She is. She is worried about that damn cat.

She breaks through the surface and the world snaps back into place. Right. She's in the Camry, staring at the RPM meter. The sensation of touch jumps to the front of her mind: sweat drenching her body; warmth spreading from her armpits; her unceasing, hammering heart. She has to go look, *now*.

Elia hops out of the car, whips her tool belt at the wall — where it probably clatters down onto the tool table — and she takes off out the open, overhead door. Otto's head peaks out from over a car's body with uneven streaks of wax and he yells after her. "W-What's wrong?"

She doesn't turn around. She doesn't yell back. She just keeps running.

---

Red and orange leaves lay wet and decaying over top of the cobblestone path; water drips in a steady rhythm from skeletal branches. Elia near-sprints past the plodding couples and jogging exercisers, calling out to tree and trashcan alike. "Come here, Bamboo!"

Bodegas advertise groceries, lottery tickets, and cigarettes at every street corner. Elia swings her body through the door of another one and she yells to the twenty-something behind the register in the back. "Have you seen a brownish-greyish cat?"

Steel dumpsters overflow with garbage of all sorts inside yet another alley between commercial buildings. Pain blooms in a fissure-like pattern in Elia's throat. She stands at the edge of the sidewalk, leaning down to catch a glimpse underneath the dumpsters. Her voice cracks. "Are you here, Bamboo?"

No noise. Her heart falls down into her stomach and she starts off to check the next empty alley.

Then a simple, wonderful noise: out from under the nearest dumpster, a meow carries along the brick walls of the alley like a whisper. Elia's heart swells at the familiar sound and she rushes toward it. Light from the afternoon sun disappears from her shoulders in the space of a step; wind channels through the small gap in buildings and blasts her loose hair back in a violent torrent of grey-streaked, tawny-brown. Gasping as the wind steals her breath, she kneels down amid the street grime and searches under the dumpster. A vertical slit pupil amid a sea of speckled emerald glares back.

Only one. Bamboo whispers another meow.

Elia nudges the dumpster along on its wheels, careful to keep them far from Bamboo's body and she lurches it to a halt with a grunt. "There."

Bamboo sits, mostly frozen. Her head doesn't move, her tail doesn't twitch, but her stomach rises and falls. Clumps of fur are missing from her back and cat-like scratches score bloody lines on her exposed skin. Warmth wells up in the corners of Elia's eyes. She scoops up Bamboo's tense, scratch covered form and cradles the cat close to her chest. "It's okay... it's okay." A tear sneaks through her fit of swallowing and voice cracking. "I'm sorry. I've got you, we'll get you help."

Through the Fog

Streaks in shades of reddish-brown stop short where one slat of the exam room's hardwood flooring meets another. Jitters force their way out of Elia's mind and down to her legs, where she taps her work boots in steady succession. A weight in her coverall's chest pocket dangles forward: her pocket mirror.

She can rationalize it: she's worried, she's disappointed, she's afraid. Those are more than enough of a reason to pull it out here and now. Then she could curl up on this bench and fall asleep without a care in the world.

One hand curling over the other, she digs her nails into her palm. *You have to stay present.*

A flurry of footsteps and opening and closing cabinets echo around the barren walls, and the vet — Dr. Lucas — speaks in her irritatingly pleasant tone. "Miss Ramos, I'm done."

The pain from Elia's nails linger. She bounds over to the silver exam table and levels herself with Bamboo's one-eyed glare. "How is she?"

Washing her hands, Dr. Lucas casts her words over her shoulder at the pair. "So her eye is fine. That nasty scratch actually only got the eyelid, thankfully."

Elia pets between Bamboo's ears with a single finger, careful to avoid the black loops of sutures stopping just short of her ear canal. "Good, good."

"I'm amazed that she let me do those stitches without sedation." Dr. Lucas turns back to them, sweeping a plume of paper towels over her hands. "Never had a cat this calm after an injury before."

Bamboo twists her head around — away from Elia's hand — and she licks at another scratch. A scratch dripping with antibiotic gel. The next moment, Bamboo scrapes her tongue along her teeth in between clomps of her mouth, almost like someone trying to swallow a stubborn glob of peanut butter.

Elia's lets her hand hover where Bamboo's head was a second before. "She shouldn't be doing that."

"You're right!" Dr. Lucas says. She tosses the now-damp clump of paper towels into a silver, foot-operated bin. Without warning, she pounces on Bamboo and puts her in some kind of headlock. They wrestle back and forth, but Dr. Lucas wedges Bamboo's mouth open wide enough to swipe the gel out. She releases Bamboo and flicks it into the bin.

 Best to avoid any more fingers in the cat's mouth: Elia cradles Bamboo's head between her hands, rubbing at her unscathed cheeks.

Dr. Lucas washes her hands — again — and rummages around in a cabinet near the sink. "It's here somewhere... Aha!" She hoists a translucent cone above her head.

"Makes sense. She's not going to like that." Elia says.

"They never do, do they? Move your hands for a moment, if you wouldn't mind?"

Elia's eyes meet Bamboo's one and the desperation swimming in the sea of emerald tugs at her heart. No. It's for the best, even if Bamboo has been through a lot. She lets her hands fall back to the table.

Dr. Lucas pounces on Bamboo once more — sans headlock. The cat struggles against the vet's grip, but the cone slips over her head and tightens it into place before she can slip away.

Dr. Lucas straightens up and pats cat hair off her scrubs. "Anyways. For the rest of it: the scratches and bites on the rest of her body will heal fine without stitches, but you'll need to apply antibiotic ointment twice a day and make sure she wears the cone. Cats love to lick it off even if they don't love the taste. It's toxic to them, so if you notice any signs like weird rashes or her being lethargic, give the office's emergency number a call. The front desk will give you a full list of what to look out for."

"Anything else I need to do?"

The vet pulls a notebook and pen out of of her scrub's pocket and scribbles. "Nope. Though if she's a stray, it's best to bring her in until she recovers."

"Okay. That's more up to her than me; I don't think windows can stop her."

Dr. Lucas rips the paper out of the notebook and slides it across the exam table. "What do you mean, windows wouldn't —"

"How much do I owe you?"

"Oh, they'll talk to you about that at the front desk. Give them that paper and they'll set everything up."

Heat simmers in Elia's chest: doctors always do this shit. Taking the paper, she balls her other hand into a fist and digs her nails back into her palm. *It's fine. It's just how this works. Stay present, in control.*

---

The shop sits against the swirling oranges of clouds catching the last of the day's sun. Normally it'd be just a silhouette at this time, but lights blaze out the windows lining the top of the garage. Elia's whole body buzzes. Muscles in her legs scream for her to stop with each step, but she doesn't stop.

Bamboo jerks in her arms, her furry head nuzzling as close to Elia's chest as she can in spite of the translucent cone. Elia tucks the cat into a loose flap of her coveralls and  trudges across the shifting gravel of the parking lot. Reaching the garage, Elia collapses back against the overhead door with a clatter of metal on metal. Her body slides down an inch at a time until her butt hits the concrete of the garage's lip. 

Her head lolls back onto the metal door with another clatter and she throws her head back into it a couple more times for good measure. It doesn't hurt, it just feels good to let something out. The shop's door swings open and light spills forth from inside, bathing a pillar of gravel in warmth. Except for the cutout of a man in the doorway. "Hey, boss." Otto says.

Her heart jumps out of her chest, running from whatever burglar or demon snuck into the building after hours. Wait: shiny head, tall. It's fine. She breathes in and holds it, letting the cold air seep through the rest of her body. "You scared the shit out of me."

A few crunches of gravel underfoot later and Otto lowers himself onto the concrete lip beside her. "Sorry, boss."

They sit in silence, watching the orange strokes of the sky shift into purples and blues. It's enough until she can move again.

*Crack.*

Panic sends Elia's head spinning. *Where the fuck is that cat going?* But Bamboo just shifts in her lap at the noise, still asleep.

Otto offers an open, red soda can to Elia. "Sorry to spook... Do you want a soda?"

A sigh escape's Elia's throat; an ember stifled to nothing but smoke. "Didn't I tell you not to go into my office if I wasn't there?"

He shrugs. "Yeah, but that's where the sodas are."

She jerks it out of his hand and takes a sip. Sparks of manufactured strawberry play atop her tongue, then crackle all the way to her stomach. It's good. Too bubbly and happy and loud for all the ways she's feeling though.

Otto dips his head forward, angling to meet Elia's eyes. "Are you okay?"

She can feel it building. That one emotion swirling in her gut, fighting its way up as a lump in her throat. She swallows and forces a laugh, only managing a huff. "No. I'm a fucking mess, man."

"Want to share?"

"No."

Otto straightens back up only to let his head fall back against the metal slats of the door. They sit together in the silence of wind and tumbling leaves, both watching clouds pass in front of the crescent moon. Even the silence is too much. The lump in her throat swells with each new rushing thought: images of her daughter, her mirror, that damn priest; flashes to Mitchel's words at the diner, to Otto's disappointed glare, to her own hands pushing over that poor woman. She's doing it again. Shutting down. A few words and she can change things, but she swallows at the lump trying to force it and the words bubbling behind them down into her chest.

It doesn't go away.

It boils, whistling out despite her desperate, tensing muscles. Bamboo shifts in Elia's lap again, flipping her head over inside the cone and jutting a furry leg into Elia's gut. That simple movement is enough to break the seal. Everything bursts forth in an odd flurry of relief, disappointment, and grief.

Invisible weight lifts from her shoulders; pain twists her face; tears streak down her cheeks. She cries out across the parking lot of dormant mechanical husks. "I'm sorry. I've been such an ass."

Otto whispers a word. "Yeah."

"I—I don't know what I've been thinking, Duffie didn't deserve that. You didn't. What the *fuck* is wrong with me? Why do I keep doing this?"

He stays quiet.

Elia digs her teeth into her lips and the taste of warm iron fills her mouth. "So many mistakes. Hurt so many people..." 

More silence.

Did she scare him off? That'd make sense. She drags her head over to look at where he was.

Otto jumps and glossy streaks trail from his wide eyes down to his trembling lips. He wipes at his face with a forearm, muffling his words. "Sorry. I'm just sad."

Her stomach lurches, like his words just hit the brakes and sent her sprawling forward. "I-I'm sorry. I don't know what I —"

His arm falls and his bloodshot, watery eyes stare into her's. "No, not like that. Well, like that, but don't apologize more. You already did that."

"Then what am I suppose to do?"

He lets out a laugh. "I just fix cars, boss." His eye's settle on the moon, but they shift back to her's with a spark of hesitation furrowing his brow. "Maybe you can go to one of those therapists?"

A toddler running into coffee tables too many times; a teenager too quiet for her own good; a full grown woman yelling at her in the middle of a train station. It all flashes through Elia's mind and a fresh tear rolls into her mouth, shepherding each memory out with an explosion of saltiness. "You sound just like her."

His eyes wander away. "Yeah, sorry —"

The lump is still there, making it hard to talk. She swallows again. "No. Neither of you are wrong... You're right. Everyone probably is."

"They could try to say it nicer."

A laugh bounds out of her mouth and echoes off the scrap surrounding them. An actual laugh. It doesn't last, but it doesn't need to. It's enough for now. She drops her head onto Otto's shoulder. "I don't think that would have made a difference back then."

He wraps his arm around her and they just sit, both of them an odd sniffling mess with a cat who doesn't care.

A Pillar

Sunlight bakes the asphalt of the loading dock; not *actual* sunlight, but the aftereffect of some fight dozens of miles away: a ball of plasma the size of a football field swirling against the horizon. What was sweeping, well-styled brown hair this morning now lays heavy atop Avery's head in thick, wet strips all dripping with sweat. One eye stinging from a well-aimed drop, she wipes the back of her hand across her forehead and jabs a thumb at the pulsing sphere of fiery orange. "What's holding them up on getting rid of that?"

Tamika hefts another nondescript wooden crate — and herself — across the gap between the box truck and the aquarium's loading dock. "Not sure. Radio hasn't cut to news in a bit, so something must be holding them up."

"This is miserable."

Tamika drops her crate on top of identical ones stacked just inside the open overhead door. "Then quit slacking. The sooner we get these inside, the sooner we can both get out of the heat."

Avery sucks in burning air and jumps over to the truck. The metal walls of the enclosed space radiate stuffy, humid heat. She yanks a crate off a dwindling stack and jumps back onto the concrete of the dock. "Can we not let this stuff wait out here until that dies down?"

Tamika upends a bottle of water into her mouth until the liquid rushes over her chin and splashes onto her tank top, leaving dark splotches of indigo against the fabric's lighter, sapphire-like shade. She gulps the mouthful of water down. "Ah! — Nope. Much longer in this heat and all the food will spoil; they aren't packed in enough ice for something like this."

The putrid smell permeating the loading dock tells Avery as much. Her back aches, her hands hurt, and she'll probably collapse from the heat soon, but she crosses the threshold and slides her crate on top of the others. *I can do it. Two more months and I'll be done.*

---

Larry bobs out from his hiding spot inside the pipe-cleaner-like green leaves of a java moss plant, his eyes swirling with pulsating purple flame and some semblance of strain. Or his puffy self just makes it look that way. Avery glares at the white-spotted puffer fish through polarized sunglasses. "Still not going to work, little guy."

The flames disappear from his eyes and he whips back around and plunges mouth-first into his java moss. Some feeling turns Avery's glare into more of a pensive grimace. An odd pinch in her gut. Doesn't Larry usually stay out until he gets his food? She tweezes a piece of chopped-squid off the plate she brought and drops it in his tank. Within moments of the tiny splash, Larry dashes out and sucks it up.

*See how slow he was to get that? He's going to die. You should tell Tamika.*

Familiar tendrils of compulsion petrify her, trapping a breath inside her chest, but just barely. She exhales and trudges past Larry's tank with a mumble. "That ones getting more annoy than anything."

Past the well-lit, many-windowed tank maintenance area and through the door to one of the aquarium's many utility hallways, it gets *way* too dark. Oh: sunglasses. Avery slips them off and threads one of the frame's arms through a belt loop.

---

Tamika sits scrunched over the lunchroom table, studying a paper-set grid of blank spaces and numbers. She taps a pencil against off-kilter, pursing lips.  "Where the heck is the nine in this row?"

Annoyance plucks a chord of clashing tones in Avery's mind. Working her way through a salad, she covers her kale-filled mouth with a hand. "Are you actually asking me this time?"

Another tap of the pencil against Tamika's lips. "No."

Avery grinds the kale between her teeth. "Of course."

A steady clatter comes from the hallway, like a shopping buggy with a bad wheel. Tamika collapses forward, head in arms upon the tabletop. She straightens up with a sigh. "Gah— just let her do her thing."

"What do you mean —"

One of the janitor's carts lurches into the lunchroom's doorway, though much different than the usual janitor carts that Avery sees parked around the aquarium. No mop bucket, no broom, no cleaning chemicals. Just a jittering set of tea cups, tea pots, and tiny plates set atop. Valerie's head peeks from around the door frame, her cotton-candy-like threads of grey hair gathered in a loose bun. "I'm not interrupting you girls, am I? I just thought we could have a cup of tea while we wait for the heat to die down."

*You'll get fired if you stay, leave.*

The impulse comes without fanfare — without announcement. Avery shoots to her feet. Chair legs scrape against the tile floor in a metallic scutter. Shivers vibrate up her spine and set the hairs of her neck on end with an odd, cold numbness. Wait, no. Don't run out: sit with it.

Hints of lavender and roasted green tea waft over from the cart. Which judders to a  halt near the table along with Valarie, her eyes wide with fright. "Oh goodness. Are you alright, dear?"

Digging nails into her palm, Avery eases back down into her seat. "Y-yeah, just surprised. I didn't hear you coming."

Tamika raises an eyebrow in Avery's direction, but she dismisses it with a tick of her head and scratches a number into an empty spot on her grid. "Keep the prying questions to yourself and I don't mind, Val."

Valarie fills all three clear, glass teacups to an inch below their brims with a dirty-green drink. "So, Avery. Is Tamika treating you well? Learning a lot?"

Avery's chest constricts; knuckles go white around the handle of her fork. Her mind screams at her to leap back to her feet and get far away.

Why? Does she even care if she gets fired?

"Yeah. She's great." Avery says.

In turn, Valerie slides a separate saucer in front of Avery and Tamika, making sure to place a third in front of the last empty seat. "Humph. Well, if you say so."

Tamika locks eyes with Avery and she winks before glancing back to her grid of numbers. "She just did, didn't you hear? You should say that a bit louder for her, Avery."

The absurdity of it all hits Avery in that moment: struggling for every fake, calm breath amid debilitating compulsions; stuck between two coworkers exchanging gentle snarks. Two coworkers for a job she's not even sure she wants in the first place. A job that, at the thought of quitting, pierces her heart with a numbing, icy fear. Fear of disappointing them, fear of making mistakes she doesn't know she's making, fear of time being its unceasing, always-forward-thinking self.

It's not some wild realization. Just a reminder. Still enough of a bother to break the compulsion and replace it with existential dread, though. Maybe the tea will be good.

---

Tamika swings through a set of double doors and strides onto the maintenance catwalk of the aquarium's largest tank. "Hey, Avery. Can you come with me for a minute?"

The words float within the fog of Avery's mind, lost among swirling thoughts. Thoughts about what Sophia is doing right now, if the newest season of Survivor starts tonight, or if Sophia would want to watch it with her. Avery takes a bite of her peanut butter and jelly sandwich, dangling her legs over the side of the catwalk. 

Tamika lets her feet fall a bit harder: each step causes a clang of the catwalk's metal to skip along the water. She lurches to a halt half a foot away. "Avery."

Avery's hands clench, her spine shivers and jerks. Her whole body seemingly tries to run from own name spoken so close, but gets tangled in the railing. Peanut butter and jelly ooze out from between the loaves, staining and stickying her hands. She takes a breath. "S-sorry. Was stuck in my head. What's up?"

Something's wrong. Tamika wears an odd expression: gaunt and pensive, but somehow soft all at once. "Can you come with me?" She says.

*Told you, you're getting fired. Start apologizing and maybe they'll forgive you.*

With a slow exhale, the compulsion's pressure dissolves, fleeing Avery's body like an exorcised ghost. Just another meeting. Nothing to worry about. She goes to lift herself up by the railing, but the sandwich. "Oh! Okay, just— let me just put this here..." Avery lays the sandwich on the catwalk's metal lattice and wipes the excess jam and peanut butter on her casual-Friday-decreed jeans.

Tamika whips around and takes off. "Alright, let's go."

Avery scrambles to her feet to follow. The pair rush through utility hallways and weave through aquarium-goers checking out educational posters or a fish that caught their eye. They finally stop their frantic journey at the door of the maintenance area for a set of tanks: Avery's tanks.

Possibilities run through Avery's mind, but nothing sticks. Why here? She stares into Tamika's still pensive face. "I thought we were doing a meeting or something, what are we doing here?"

Tamika pushes the door open and steps out of the way. "I think it's best you see yourself, I'm not good at talking about this kind of thing. Just know it's not your fault. It's common when anyone loses a partner, even humans: stress or something I guess. I'll stop rambling."

"Not my fault? What —" Then Avery's mind catches up to Tamika's words. Cold, quaking panic shoots through her heart and down to the soles of her feet. She sprints through the open door toward Larry's tank. "Oh shit, oh shit no."

A small green blob speckled with white bobs along at the waterline. Eyes unblinking; upside down.

Gone with the Squid

A translucent veil falls between Avery's mind and her body, like the theater lights shutting off between the scenes of a play. Where you can just make out shadows shifting the stage around. Is it her fault?

*Obviously. Something was off earlier and you did nothing. Said nothing.*

Even through the veil, her heart hammers into her head. A disconnected pain radiates from her temples with each beat. *It was just the intrusive thoughts. That's it. That's all it was, right?*

*You know it wasn't.*

Avery clenches her eyes shut and buries her face in her palms. Stars bloom in the darkness. *I do?*

*Obviously.*

*Larry was slow to eat... Or did he just hide for a minute?* Avery racks her mind, forcing the memory to play. *Larry's eyes blaze purple and fizzle out: he flits around and dives into his —*

*Memories can lie. You should listen to me. To us.*

The memory plays again. *Larry dives into a bit of moss and comes right back out to eat.* He wasn't slow... The memory plays again. Again and again, the same every time. *Am I remembering wrong?*

*We could be.*

*I-I know what I saw. Do I? Do we?*

Which thoughts are actually her's? *All of them.*

Tamika's voice comes from just beside Avery, softer than her usual bravado. "Are you okay?"

The veil lifts. Sweat covers Avery's body, dampens her clothes. She uncovers her eyes and stares at Larry's tiny, bobbing form. "O-oh. I just... I don't know. I didn't expect this."

*Yes you did, tell her the truth.*

Tendrils wrap around Avery's lungs. They constrict, pushing out her last breath of air; pain flares in her throat. She can't tell the truth... does she even know what the truth is?

Tamika reaches a hand toward Avery's shoulder, but hesitates, leaving it hovering. "The first one is hard."

Avery's eyes dart to the hovering hand. She could shrug away, could ask Tamika not to touch her. Maybe even just run away and hide. Tamika would understand. Instead, Avery stares back at Larry and the subtle reflection of herself in the tank's glass, her gaze as lifeless as the fish.

With that brief acknowledgment, Tamika lets her hand clap onto Avery's shoulder. "It always happens at some point, but I'm sorry it had to be so soon for you."

Avery's voice squeaks past the pain in her throat, warbling through the heavy warmth building behind her eyes. "What did I do wrong?"

Tamika squeezes, near imperceptibly. "Nothing."

*She's just trying to make you feel better. Tell her why it's your fault —*

Before Avery has a chance to wrestle with her own thoughts, Tamika speaks again. "We've got to take care of him now. Are you up to that? It's part of the job, but I won't force it on you this time."

Those tendrils wrap tighter, crushing and immovable. Breath refuses to draw and the pain of trying strips Avery's throat. She swallows, but nothing happens. The world jumbles in front of her, flickering in iridescent tones and stretching through her vision in odd, warping silhouettes.

*Tell her.*

She clutches at her chest. "I'm sorry, I noticed— I mean, I can't—" Each word plays with the pressure, swelling and ebbing on every change of intention.

Tamika slides in front of Avery and locks eyes, her usually bun-gathered dreads loose and sweeping over her outstretched arm. "You can take your time, Avery."

Something in Tamika's eyes is enough. Forgiveness, pity, understanding? Whatever it is, it sends hot tears bubbling down Avery's cheeks and her struggling lungs plummeting into her stomach. She wrenches away from Tamika's hand and barrels back toward the door.

Tamika calls after her. "Avery! It's —"

Avery crashes against the metal door and the rest of Tamika's words disappear in the buzz of aquarium goers.

---

No sound seeps into the hallway from Avery's home on the third floor of the Maysfield Condominiums. Amid the silence, Avery sniffles, waiting for some rush of courage to sweep her along through the door and into her room without a fuss. Hopefully. Dad's probably home though. Sitting on a hard dining room chair instead of the sofa, reading some new fantasy book. Probably.

Nothing changes in the hallway. No neighbors come or go, no interruption to the steady hum of cars driving past outside. Nothing new to use as a distraction, as an excuse to keep Dad in the dark for a moment longer.

Tears are long gone. Still, something wells up from her throat: an odd warmth that spreads up into her eyes, sending pain sparking around their surface. Her eyelids flicker; her face collapses into a dry, airless pout with teeth bare. She tries to let go, to let the tears come. But only chesty coughs rack her throat, leaving burning streaks of pain. *He's going to be disappointed. So, so disappointed in her.*

A door three units down creaks open. Panic clears Avery's throat and mind: she needs to get to her room. She fumbles with the key against the lock, clattering metal against metal long enough for even the slowest person in the building to make their way over and ask her what's wrong. No one does. Clacking shoes and the excited, high pitched voices of children echo down the hallway from the open door.

Quick, they'll be here soon. Avery steadies her hand and the key finally clinks past the lock's warding. A twist and a push and she falls through the door into her family's home. Dad stares — wide-eyed — over his reading glasses, finger still hovering over the page of a book on the dining room table. "Avery? I didn't expect you back so — " His moment of surprise falls into dismay and he jumps to his feet. "Oh gosh, are you alright?"

The shame eats at her, gnawing at her heart and mind like she just fell headfirst into a tank of piranhas with higher expectations. She hides her red, swollen face with a hand and dashes toward her room.

He doesn't give chase. Avery bolts past the threshold of her room and she slams the door shut. Afternoon light shifts with the sway of curtains, some rays sparkling off an empty water glass near her window and casting her room in a spectacular dance of rainbow hues.

She collapses into bed nose-first. The pillows around her are hot, stuffy. Each exhale turns the soft cotton into scalding clouds that engulf her entire face. She twists her head, freeing her mouth from the oppressive heat and cold air rushes into her lungs.

Time passes. She's not sure how much: she just stares at a wall of pillows for a while, closes her eyes, opens them to look blankly into the pillows again. An odd numbness creeps over her mind. All the emotion is still there, but she can't move a muscle, can't will a tear. Can't even force a cough up her pain streaked throat. So time passes and she lies there, unmoving.

Porcelain scrapes against wood as a plate sneaks under her door. Avery sucks in another garbling sniff full of mucus and raises her head just far enough to see past her pile of pillows. Right in front of her door sits two slices of carrot cake: white fondant wrapped around layers of orange sponge and interspersed with streaks of cream. Her favorite.

Dad speaks muffled words from the hallway. "There's more in the kitchen if you want it. I'm going to take a walk, so call if you need anything."

The dam breaks and tears flow sideways from one eye into the other, filling her vision with bubbly distortions. Why? Why can't he just let her fail? She clutches a handful of blankets and retches through tears and gasping breaths.

Pressure

It's a stern voice lacking any air of understanding. "The higher ups are pushing on this claim, Mrs. Hopper. It's out of my hands now."

Mollie's hand tightens around the phone against her ear and its boxy edges dig furrows of pain into her palm. "I've skipped lunch for two days straight, Gregory."

Gregory's voice comes through the speaker again. "I know, but we don't have any other agents in the area. One more day isn't going to hurt."

She could say something: stand up for herself and demand her lunch break this time. Maybe even yell a few words she's been saving special for him. Instead she laments, staring out over the park from her usual bench with a lunch box partially unzipped in her lap. Unkempt grass sways in the wind with a subtle crinkle of dry, brownish blades.

"Fine. This is the last time, though." Mollie says.

Gregory ends the call the next instant, which her phone announces with a discordant chirp.

Anger flares in her chest, but a gust of wind steals it away along with a sigh. She drops the now-blank brick into her purse at her side. Wind surges around her, casting her sand-brown hair into a frenzy. Panic grasps at her: the higher ups would fire her immediately if they saw one of their agent's this unkempt, regardless of whether mother nature was to blame. She slides a hair tie out of her blazer's pocket and wraps the flying strands into a tight bun. All in one smooth, well-practiced motion.

The lunch box in her lap stares up at her, taunting half-open and heavy with whatever Ed wanted to surprise her with when he packed it this morning. Not enough time... She zips it back up, slings it over her shoulder, and starts off to the mechanic's shop.

---

Set near a gravel parking lot, amid an always-expanding field of rust-clad car husks, sits Mrs. Ramos' mechanic shop. Just the thought of dealing with the owner tugs at Mollie's eyelids with a tinge of exhaustion: a woman too tense, too angry, and ready to snap at the slightest offense. Mollie lets out a rare, but hushed curse and strides toward the shop: careful not to scuff her jet-black business loafers on the shifting rocks underfoot, of course.

The overhead doors are already open. Crackling and hissing of a welding torch drowns out the traffic passing by on the other side of the lot. With a deep breath, Mollie dips her head through one of the openings and calls out. "Mrs. Ramos? I'm here for that inspection."

Welding stops and footsteps echo around the concrete interior, coming closer. Mollie squints, fighting off the haze left behind by sunlight. "Mrs. Ramos?"

A mechanic steps out of the haze and into the sun: grease-smeared jumpsuit, curly hair drawn into a massive bun at the back of her head, and a grey-brown cat wearing a medical cone curled around her neck sleeping. Elia Ramos passes by Mollie without a glance. "Follow me, then."

Mollie starts after her. "Thanks so much for your time, Mrs. Ramos."

Mrs. Ramos gives each footfall the slightest bit more heft. "Elia."

A cringe shoots through Mollie's face: the stress is getting to her, making her make mistakes. She settles into step beside Elia. "Right, right! Apologies. Now about the car... When did it get dropped off at the shop? Has there been any damage since it's been here? Do you have a quote together for the necessary repairs?"

Elia's right hand tightens. "One at a time — please."

Again, another mistake and more stress. "Sorry, of course. When did it get dropped off?"

"Around noon."

"Has there been any damage sin—"

Elia cuts her off. "No."

"Okay, and do you have a quote ready?"

"Yeah. It's not going to be cheap."

Mollie scrambles, weaving after Elia through a maze of rusty husks. "That's perfectly fine, if the claim is approved you don't have to worry about that."

Elia stops, hair peeking over two crushed car bodies. Her voice echoes off the metal surrounding them. "It better get approved, it's been here taking up space and space isn't free."

Pain stabs at the soles of Mollie's feet: thank god she took loafers instead of heels today. She struggles through the last stretch of maze-like stacks and emerges into an open area, surrounded by towers of crushed cars and one fence blocking off the area from the pedestrian and car traffic beyond. A mess of a 2305 Rolls-Royce Dawn sits in the center of the clearing next to an equally banged up motorcycle. Mollie darts beside the Rolls-Royce and flips open a notebook. "How'd you even get this back here? And isn't this a bit more... modern than the stuff you usually handle?"

No response, Elia just leans back against the chain-link fence with a clatter and crosses her arms. Okay, then. No chitchat.

Mollie pours over every minuscule detail of the wreck: squatting, leaning, weird push-up poses to avoid kneeling into the gravel and ripping holes in her pantyhose. There's paint scratches, a bent frame, cracked headlights, torn-off bumper, no glass left to speak of. Also a blackened hole from the passenger door all the way through the driver's side door. Where a blast of plasma — allegedly — burned away everything in its path.

Mollie pulls a blue glove out of her purse and stretches it on with a snap. Raised drips of metal run down the door, liquid at the time of the incident but now cold. She runs a gloved finger over the scorch marks and around the inside of the hole. No burrs; ash comes away with a touch, but the metal stays black; uneven ripples across the surface radiating from where the plasma would have hit. All consistent with previous plasma damage reports. She crumples the glove back into her purse and starts scrawling down her notes. 

Generic bells arranged in a generic melody ring out: the factory default ringtone for Mollie's phone that she never got around to changing. Panic, sweat, anger. If it's Gregory, she might just kill the man. She fumbles with the notepad and the purse zipper.

Avery's name blazes on the phone's screen above one green and one red pulsing circle. Mollie's eye's widen, her stomach drops, and her mind runs with endless, horrible possibilities. *Is she okay?*

A meow comes from Elia's direction, and the cat stretches out over the mechanic's shoulders. Little paws reaching out to something far away in either direction. On the less cute and more scary side of the scale, Elia glares at Mollie.

Tapping the accept button and covering the phone's receiver, Mollie casts a nervous smile at Elia. "Sorry, I'll just be a second..." She finds privacy on the other side of a pile of crushed cars, then whispers into the receiver. "Avery?"

Her daughter's voice comes through the speaker, hints of stuffiness muffling the words. "Hey, Mom. Are you busy?"

Did she forget to take her allergy medicine? Could stop by the aquarium between this inspection and the next... Mollie searches through her purse for her travel-size bottle of loratadine. "Kind of: working through lunch again. Do you need anything?"

"O-oh, sorry. Don't worry about it, Mom. I can call back later."

Mollie stops pushing things aside, hand still inside the bag. "You're sure? Nothing that can't wait?"

"I'm sure. Don't worry. Bye, I'll talk to you soon."

"Alright, dear. Bye bye."

The call ends with a chirp and the screen goes blank. Mollie stares at it for a moment, thinking. *Maybe I should stop by the aquarium, just in case she needs that allergy medicine.*

Back at the car, all that's left is to take pictures and commit them to the appropriate claim entry. And Elia's ever-present glare burrowing into Mollie's back. Mollie circles around the wreck, phone in hand, performing acrobatic lunges, squats and more to get the pictures she needs without roughing up her appearance.

A deep voice calls from the fence that definitely doesn't belong to Elia or the cat. "Hey, Mollie!"

Mollie's ears perk up, her heart flutters into her throat, and her stress melts away at those two simple words. She whirls her head around, big ridiculous grin and all. "What are you doing here, Ed?"

Beside her husband with his five o'clock shadow peaking through his usual goatee, Elia looks like a kettle about to scream. "God damn it, can she just finish this so I can go back to work?"

Ed flashes Elia a pained, lips-only smile: the same one he uses whenever Mollie is even slightly cross with him. "There's actually a tiny family emergency. Sorry to interrupt you all, but if I could talk to Mollie..."

The pressure releases and red drains from Elia's face; her eyes glaze over with an odd sense that Mollie can't place.  "Whatever, I'm going back. You can find your own way out of here, Mollie. Come back tomorrow if you have to." She marches off through the rust-covered husks, cat bouncing happily on her shoulders.

Confusion pushes Mollie's sudden rush of relief out of her mind and she scrambles up to the fence. "Why are you here?"

Ed laces his fingers through the chain-links. "Avery had something happen. Not sure what, but she barged in and locked herself in her room a couple hours ago."

A whisper drifts out from the depths of a pit in her stomach, along with a tendril that latches onto her heart and threatens to send it spinning out of control. *She'll never forgive you.*

Mollie eyes almost close by themselves and she takes a breath, playing through a practiced image in her mind.

*A cardboard box stops in front of her on the conveyor belt; a box with her own name scrawled across the side, splotchy and uneven. She reaches out. Her hand trembles forward, getting closer and closer. Then the conveyor belt starts up and whatever was inside whisks out of sight and out of mind.*

No more pressure. She exhales. "Why didn't you call me?"

"You were busy. Made the lass a carrot cake, so was a bit busy myself."

Mollie shoots a glare past Ed and into the shifting traffic. "I still want to know if something's wrong."

"Are you sure? Even if she's still figuring something out? If there isn't anything you can do yet?"

"Of course I do."

"She's almost out on her own, you know."

She steps up to the fence and wraps her fingers around her own chain-link. "What's that matter?"

He stares at her, searching for whatever point he was trying to make. Probably. Regardless, he ends it with a shrug. "I suppose it doesn't."

 "It doesn't." Guilt tugs at Mollie's mind, desperate for an inkling of recognition. "She called me not too long ago, asking if I was busy."

His expression shifts, lips pulling down into a grimace. "Are you alright?"

*You're not, she'll never forgive you: she'll never trust you again.*

Mollie jerks her eyes closed, but opens them back up with a sigh "Just fine. I can handle it today, especially if you buy me lunch."

"I already made you something, didn't—"

Mollie spins on the heel of her loafer and starts her way back through the maze of car husks. "There's this new sushi place around the corner. Let's eat, then we can go back home and check on her."

Intermission: One and the Same

Branches of a leafless willow tree stretch down from above, casting the park benches in a network of interwoven shadows. A phone sits in Thea's lap. With her gut full of nerves and a trembling hand, she swipes around the open text history. It flies by, but stops with a jolt. It's not a lot of messages, only six. Just enough for the window to have a scroll bar. Not nearly enough to banish the mystery that wraps Thea's body in a jittering veil of anxiety; this guy is a certified creep, no doubt about that. She scans the passing crowds.

Joggers, the odd parent with a stroller, a pair of policemen out on patrol. Why didn't she ask what he looked like before hanging up? She takes a deep breath through her nose.

A chaotic swirl of scents almost sweep her into a coughing fit, but she swallows down the sensation tickling at her throat long enough to think. Cranberry from a couple that walk together out of tradition more than love; fresh mulberry from a kid near the playground, who sniffles out a string of lies; hints of yew berries and honeysuckle from a policeman with a not-so-secret secret. Only what Thea expects: a blend of every day people living their lives and the familiar concoction that follows behind every other officer.

Then her. A collection of old scents she barely notices anymore, except for brand new cranberry and hibiscus overtones. Thea's cheeks flush red with frustration and the coughs escape. Doubling over, her body convulses and she rasps for breath; it doesn't stop, so she pounds her fist against her chest.

A man settles onto the bench; just a pair of sneakers and jeans as far as she's concerned at the moment. "You alright?" He says.

Thea sputters out words between her coughs. "I'm — f-fine — thanks."

Before she can get a decent look at the rest of him through clear, tear-free eyes, he whips open a newspaper and crosses his legs. "Good."

Something tugs at a thread of recognition: his voice? He doesn't smell like anyone she knows. An unusual mix of strawberry, huckleberry, and yew dominated by the scent of one of the big seven. Pride ushers in the nutty, warm aroma of sunbaked sunflowers.

That voice though... is it that guy from the call? He'd have said something if it was, surely. The bun-wearing, newspaper-reading man clears his throat; he clears it again, louder.

Thea's hand reaches toward him before she can think, concern squeezes her eyes and heart. It'd only be polite to show the same concern. It doesn't matter that she doesn't know him, right?  "Are you okay?"

He flips the page and whips the newspaper again, straightening the pages. "Fine, I guess l have to spell it out for you: it was me who called. Didn't I tell you to be discrete?"

Her chest flips end over end, her arm tenses and she recoils. "O-oh — oh! Yeah. That makes sense, that makes a lot of sense. If you had maybe told me what you looked like or what you were wearing —"

The newspaper doesn't budge. "Let's just get to the point. How accurate is your power?"

Her thoughts screech to a halt like a line drive straight to shortstop and she stutters over herself. "It's never wrong *exactly*, if that's what you're asking. I'd maybe describe it as subjectively correct more than accurate..."

His hands tighten on the edges of the paper. "How?"

Heart twisting, coiling between strings buzzing with electricity; an absent thumb catches on a hangnail and she scrapes at it. "That's complicated. The church is always changing and something that used to smell like a sin stops or shifts to a different berry... I think how the person feels about the sin might change things too."

"Can you differentiate between people?" He shuffles behind the newspaper and his voice cracks . "Did — did you say berry?"

That twisting stops for a moment: this one will sell it. She swings her head up and down. "Yes. Definitely, yes! That's super easy, you don't have to worry about that a bit. I track down all sorts of people, in fact one of my more recent jobs —"

"Just a yes works. We should keep this conversation short."

She yanks and the hangnail tears free with a burst of heat. "W-why, exactly?"

"A couple more questions first. How far away can you smell someone?"

"Are you talking downwind? I could probably do a mile then if I really try, but I'm out of luck if I'm upwind from whoever it is. If you mean inside a building it depends on if they have central air —"

He cuts her off, impatience taints his voice with a harsh timbre. "Stop, I get it. Central air, thirty-five thousand square feet, large bodies of water if that matters."

More twisting: her heart cries out in pain under the pressure. "I think I'd be able to track someone down anywhere in that building. But I'm confused about the water, what kind of job is this, exactly?"

"Couple more questions and I'll answer. Can other smells interfere with your power?"

The strings snap and frustration gets the better of her. She flicks a hand about in the air. "But you already said a couple more! What's the deal?"

The man folds the newspaper up into his lap: serious and harsh, but he's handsome — *probably*, as far as Thea can tell at least; spikes of long black hair jut out from the base of a bun near the top of his head. "More came up. Well? What's the answer?"

"Okay, okay, okay, sorry! I guess other smells feel different, like hearing versus tasting."

"Okay, that works. Can you wear something different during the job?"

"Um... no, I don't think so. Definitely not. No."

He massages his left temple with two fingers, silent for a few seconds. "Fine." He says. "Have you ever committed a crime?"

"O-of course not! I was a monk before this, why would you think that?"

"All priests and monks are squeaky clean, is it?"

A shiver runs over her body and lightning steals her focus, flashes of Brother Dale and Frank. She clenches a hand against her cane. "Well no, but the monks at least —"

His eyes dart to the side; a spark of excitement softens his face, makes his hazel eyes almost glow. "It doesn't matter if you had, may have been better even. Thought you might have with the weird stuff your poster mentioned. It reminded me of this old vampire hunting movie that had a priest in it: he broke away from the church and did his own thing like you are now I guess." The spark disappears from his eyes. "Anyway, would you commit a crime? If you had to?"

"Does this really have to do with the job you —"

"Last question, then I'll tell you."

Thea's hand trembles; painful, cold prickles stab at her neck; her hammering heart steals her breath with each beat, like her own body is threatening to strangle her. She grapples for an answer, anything that'll get her through this with a paying job. "Well — I mean — no. Maybe? There are so many laws, I've probably broken one somewhere, right?"

"Stealing?"

"Maybe to eat? Bread and stuff is fine, right?"

"What about money? For rent, maybe?"

Does he know? How could he? "I — I don't know." She says.

He settles back against the bench's backrest. "Then I think I can tell you some details. The job pays enough for rent and a lot more, but it's not legal and it's not risk-free. That's why I'm talking to you. Having someone with a tracking power along gets rid of nearly all that risk."

The needles at her neck spread to the rest of her body, provoking fresh beads of sweat everywhere they prick. She digs nails into the wood of her cane. *I knew he was creepy, I knew this was bad. Why'd I get my hopes up. I can't, I can't do this, there isn't a good reason. It'd be selfish, it'd be wrong.*

Heaven Forbid

Thea Aalberg: an ex-priest, late on rent, recent motorcycle accident; all information from the packet that Waylon had Joel put together for him.

Pain throbs behind his left temple.

That the mess of a woman in front of him could be a corner stone in his plan: an edge up against unknown risks... His head drifts to follow a tumbling leaf and he grips the newspaper in his lap just a bit tighter. "If that doesn't sit well, I think we're done here. You should head off first."

Thea jerks a hand off her knee, flashing a single hesitant, crooked finger. "No. *No, no, no, no.* Just give me a minute I have to think." She studies the ground. Silence stretches.

A spark ignites; an instant of calm — a hopeful breath that reels in a moment of patience from the depths of his exhausted mind. He just watches. The leaf catches on the edge of a storm grate and flaps with the breeze, crinkling out a threat to break in two.

She grinds nails into the wood of her cane, her knuckles shine a pale white against already clammy skin. The leaf slips down the grate and she breaks the silence. "Okay, I'll do it. I'll do it. No one is going to get hurt though, right? I don't have to actually hurt anyone, right?"

Relief. Waylon tries not to show it, but his shoulders loosen and fall before he can think. The final piece is in place. He drapes an arm along the back of the bench and he meets her eyes. "No. If everything works out, there won't be anyone in the building when we go in. You're our way around the case someone is. All you have to do is tell us if you smell something, that jive well enough with you?"

"You all won't hurt whoever I point out?"

"No, we just want to avoid them."

"And if you're caught?"

He rolls his eyes behind his eyelids with a deep breath. "I'm not going to sit still and let a hero take me in, if that's what you're asking. We'll run. Anything else I need to spell out or are you good?"

She studies the ground in silence for a couple moments. "I — I think I can do that."

Finally. Waylon bolts to his feet. "Okay. Give me your number and I'll text you the time and place. It'll be soon. And leave a few minutes after me."

---

Frank stares off into the distance. His hand dwarfs a beer bottle that sits askew in his grasp — its glass bottom resting unevenly against the chair's armrest. Every now and then he nods to some thought in his head, silently working through what Thea told him. Knuckles white, she clutches her own bottle. 

He swigs and gulps. "It's not like you agreed or anything." He takes another mouthful of beer, cheeks near bursting like a squirrel trying to fit just one more walnut into their mouth.

Pressure, guilt weighs down Thea. She curls into herself: shoulders scrunch, hands still around her beer drift toward her chest, calves and ankles wrap around the chair's legs. She looks anywhere but at Frank. "I kind of did..."

He spews alcohol out of his mouth, over the balcony railing; wind sweeps away the mist and tinkling lights dance through the droplets. "*Why?* Why in the world did you say yes?"

"I freaked out! He was trying to get me to leave and I just panicked and said yes. I don't know why I did it, am I in trouble? Did I make a big mistake? Will they come find me if I back out?"

His shoulders fall and — staring off into space — his head shifts. Left, right, left again. Over and over in the quiet, the only sound being his long trail of braids brushing against the backrest of the chair. "This is probably the worst, most avoidable mess you've ever walked into. What happened to the interview you were supposed to go to?"

She flinches back. "Well — I was in there and the interviewer was mean, she wouldn't cut me any slack. Then a call came in and I kind of just... gambled on it?"

"You *didn't even know* if the call was from a client?"

"Well — no. I never get calls from anyone —"

"Your phone has rang at least five times since I got here, what do you mean?"

At that moment, her phone rings again. Thea swipes away the too-familiar number on the screen and folds her arms, clutching at her elbows with both hands. "That's just insurance, they've been after me today. I could tell if it was them with my eyes closed so it wasn't' like I was shooting in the dark. I set them up with their own ringtone."

Concern tints his face. "Is everything okay? I thought you were done with them."

She bats a hand through the air. "It's fine, they're mad they accidentally paid for my cane. All the calls are just them trying to get me to pay them twenty dollars or whatever it was. Don't worry about it."

His face relaxes; he takes another gulp of beer and shrugs. "Well, anyways, this guy sounds like a small fry. Don't worry too much. No one will come after you if you back out."

Feelings wash over Thea: an odd combination of stress, relief, guilt, and more stress. No one is coming after her, that's good. But, she won't have a way to make money, and that's bad. Would it be better if she went through with it? She swirls the remnants of the beer around in the bottle. "Do you think I should back out?"

He scoffs. "Of course you should! What kind of question is that? Even a hint of a risk at jail time isn't worth keeping an apartment, and definitely not for you. It's not easy in there, Thea."

Her heart picks up, its audible drumming creeps into her ears. *It's just an apartment, just an apartment. I could... there's that shelter nearby. They'd probably let me in, right? If I didn't mind following —*

A ragged, stained handout flits through Thea's mind. Each word of it echoes just as exacting and dreadful as it was back then. Her heart hammers. She heaves in, trying to inflate her lungs, but air won't come. It's as if the rules they spell out leapt from her memory and are crushing her under their weight. All over again.

She wrings her hand around the neck of her bottle. "I think I have to do it Frank. I can't go back, not to that."


Shelter

A pair of robins dance across the pickets of an aging, cherry-tone fence.

On Gina's porch, Waylon rocks on his favorite wicker chair: the only one with completely intact cushions; next to a wicker end table that's just the right height to rest his morning tea; and no wooden support pillar to block his view of the backyard. It's peaceful. His shoulders aren't tight and his head isn't throbbing. He sips on his amber-colored oolong tea, breathing in the pepper-like scent coiling away from the cup upon wisps of steam. He rocks and he sips.

Each rock of the chair and shift of weight sets loose a myriad of creaks that mix with the unceasing buzz of cicadas hiding in the maple trees overhead.

It's peaceful. Different though. Distant. He's a ghost, a visitor plucked from another world and planted in a hollow imitation of what was.

Mourning doves dive from the treetops and flit near the tip of the fence. They strafe past the robins, barring their talons and beating their own gray, black-speckled wings.

A jolt of anger stings behind his temple and he jerks up in his chair, hovering just above the cushion. "Hey! Leave them alone, there's plenty of room for all of you!"

The back door creaks open. Waylon falls onto the cushion and yanks his head back to look.

Staring back at him is a man: medium length, brown hair mostly set in a pony tail near the crest of his head; a scraggly goatee that looks like he stepped right out of an old pirate movie; and tall, much more than Waylon himself. Phillip flashes his ridiculous grin and drops into the wicker chair next to Waylon. "What are you yelling about out here, hun? Gave Gina a good enough spook that she nearly sent a bottle of rum through the window."

Waylon's mind and heart hum. Discordant feelings transition to a resolute melody, a familiar leitmotif that follows behind Phil where and whenever he makes an appearance. Warmth, weightlessness, belonging. Even then, Waylon rolls his eyes before relaxing against the chair's backrest. "Good. You all should stop drinking anyway, so it's like I did her a favor."

Phil's head drops low and he bares a grimace toward Waylon. "We're going to enjoy the occasional drink no matter how many times you say something about it, Waylon. Is something stressing you out?"

Pain blossoms and Waylon lets his eyes close; he massages at his temple with two fingers. "I know, I know. I won't bring it up again. I'm sorry you have to keep reminding me. I'll do better."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No. Not yet, I can handle it."

Phil stares into Waylon's eyes and the moment stretches. His bright, pale-orange irises sparkle with hints of green, red, and purple: reflections of the plants all around that sway in the light, summer breeze.

They're just eyes, but they're spectacular and comforting, just like they've always been. Waylon loses himself in their power-tinted color and —

Something crashes against the backdoor. A mountainous crash of a knock that sends the still fighting birds scattering into the wind and a previously unseen rabbit darting under the boxwoods.

Waylon's heart jumps and both Phil and himself snap their heads around. Another boom and the door jutters in its frame. Waylon shoots to his feet and jerks to a stop between the door and Phil.

Phil covers his ears and shouts over the deafening noise. "What's going on? What's happening?"

Another crash and the door explodes into splinters that scatter over the patio and nearby grass. Fear bites at Waylon's heart; it locks his limbs in place and slicks his body in sweat. *I can't. I'm not losing him again. No matter what.*

A woman that's more akin to a statue of pure muscle than anything resembling a living, breathing human steps through the doorway. Gina, with her head full of grey hair rustling in the breeze. She swirls an amber cocktail and takes a sip amid the tinkling of ice against glass. "How'd you get that door open Phillip? Wouldn't budge an inch for me!"

Fear disappears in an instant and — ready to chide her — Waylon blinks. Before he can open his eyes again, everything changes.

Cushioned wicker shifts to stiff, cold metal that digs into his back; the steady beeps of hospital life support replace chirping birds; and Gina's voice morphs into another, much deeper one. "Mr. Ishii? Are you awake? Visiting hours are over, it's time to head home."

His heart falls. Any illusion of drifting back into his dream disappears at the sound of that voice. Should he even bother breathing at this point? The pressure of stale air burns inside his chest. Begging him. He sits with it, not even sure if he has the energy to take a breath.

Whoever it is speaks again. "Mr. Ishii?"

Waylon's lungs draw in air almost by themselves. He rolls his eyes open and lulls his head forward from its position dangling over the back of the visitor's chair. On the hospital bed in front of him, tubes and cables wrap around Gina's body. An oxygen mask covers her face. She lays motionless except for the steady rise and fall of her chest.

He grasps at her limp, skeleton-like hand. "Can I have a few more minutes. Please."


Intermission: Gina's Garden

Bamboo circles atop the hood of an electric blue Mustang, her brown-grey fur puffed out like the bristles of a fresh pipe brush. She yells over and over in her shrill, whiny meow. Elia watches on, holding a socket wrench to her side and waiting. Intermittently amid the circling, Bamboo's protests soften. The translucent cone around her neck muffles the sound anytime she isn't facing Elia.

Elia plants both hands on the hood and looms over Bamboo; she glares into the cat's eyes. "If I take that off, you'll just run back out and get in another fight."

Bamboo keeps circling and yelling, louder and louder.

Elia shoves her wrench into an empty pocket of her toolbelt and reaches toward Bamboo. "Fine. Come here you little shit."

A moment later, the cone falls away and Bamboo is a brown-grey blur: she slips under cars, teleports into the rafters with the usual *crack*, then back down to slither across Elia's shoulders and neck. Elia lets the undone cone dangle at her side and scratches under Bamboo's chin. "It'll be a good day for one of us, at least."

Clouds outside shift and early morning sun pours into the shop. Rays of light glint off tools, cans of oil, and the body of the convertible that Elia parked in Duffie's workstation earlier. She tosses the — now useless — cone at her tool cabinet. *Another hour of peace and quiet.*

Bamboo brushes against her ear and purrs and meows. With a deep breath, Elia pops the Mustang's hood and pulls her socket wrench back out. "Maybe not."



The repair passes in a blink and the next moment keys jingle outside of the shop's door. A whistling Otto swings it open and strides in, but he jumps at the sight of Elia. "Ah, oh ho ho. Hey boss. You're up early."

It's almost like a moment ago she was taking off Bamboo's cone. She wills herself to be here and now. To be present. That'll slow things down, right? Take all the detail in each instant and store it away. She searches over Otto: his blue jumpsuit, his head glinting in the sunlight just like the tools —

He creeps toward his workstation. "Ha... you okay, boss?"

Of course it wouldn't work. She sighs and picks up a clipboard with the repair ticket. "Yeah. Morning."

*Crack.* The weight on Elia's shoulder disappears. Bamboo pops into existence near the slowly closing shop door and dashes through with a flick of her tail.

Elia scrawls her signature on the ticket and doesn't spare a glance. "God damned cat."



Time flashes forward again. A flurry of workspace cleanup, phone calls, and Otto flipping through radio stations in the background.

Without thinking, Elia's grinds her teeth. She leans over her tool cabinet and tightens her grip around the phone against her ear. "We've got no more room for you all to park your cases here. You've got to have deals with other mechanics in the city, clear out the ones we've already got and then we'll talk." She slams the phone face down on the cabinet and jerks open a drawer. The tools inside clatter around, crashing against the front of the drawer. She rustles around for a phillips-head, muttering under her breath. "*Oh, you've only got ten of our cases.* Assholes. Got a semi with a trailer for gods sake."

The shop door creaks open. Duffie's puffy brown pillar of hair peeks through before the rest of them, curly as ever. They cast a nod at Otto with a weak smile and scramble toward their workstation, where they get to work without fanfare: not even the hint of a reaction to the car already being there.

Or even a spare glance for Elia.

Her stomach curdles: an odd shift like she might need to rush to the bathroom, but that's not it. It's pain, regret. She watches Duffie run through some standard checks, then she slams the tool drawer shut. Harder than she means to. *I tried, I suppose.*

Duffie jumps at the clatter of tools. Their eyes dart between Elia's workstation and Otto. The two employees stare for a moment, but Duffie shifts away and picks up their repair ticket.

The only thing Elia wants to think about is her next task: a catalytic converter replacement. She forces down a gulp of water and moves on. Time disappears amid sweat, oil, and an ache where a missing bit of cushion causes the mechanic's creeper to dig into her back. Face covered in oil, she wipes away sweat with an already damp cloth and rolls out from under a 2264 Toyota Camry.

The sun made it halfway into the sky somewhere in the middle of that. No rays drift through the awning windows, only a soft glow that makes her shop feel like it's drifting in the middle of a dream. Exhaustion weighs down her arms, her legs. She can't force herself up so she stares at the ceiling.

Steel I-beams hold up more steel and even more concrete. There's probably a ton of shit up there. Cat toys, weird snacks, actual shit. Bamboo spends too much time up there and Elia certainly doesn't drag out a ladder to clean it.


The sun creeps into the frame of an awning window, filtering through the pane and filling the workshop with an ambient, dry heat. Elia squints it away and guards her eyes with an upturned palm. *Been laying here that long, then?*

She wrestles her own body into an upright position and scans over the shop. Otto eats some kind of sandwich: gross, nasty tuna probably. Duffie is gone, off to lunch somewhere nearby. Their last lunch. Half of a day and they're gone. Forever absent from Elia's life from that point forward. She pulls herself to her feet.

Otto flashes a brief smile, his eyes full of pain and near watering. She doesn't even have the energy to acknowledge him, but she keeps her head upright somehow and shuffles toward her office. *A soda might help.*

---

Someone knocks on Elia's door just out of sight of her office's window. A heavy sigh forces its way out of Elia's lungs. There they are then. She slips a glass-scratched picture into her desk and wipes away tears that bubble in the corners of her eyes. "Come in."

Duffie inches the door open. They shuffle forward. Keys jingle from a dangling hand. "I'm off." They say. They ease the keys onto her desk like any sudden movement might set off a bomb. "There are the keys. It was nice working with you, g-good luck with the shop."

She should apologize. Say something meaningful that'll fix things and make them want to stay. Something to at least make them not hate her. Nothing appears in her mind though, so she just nods and pulls her lips into a flat smile. "Yeah, good luck."

Duffie stands there, eyebrows peaked and waiting. Unknown words stick in Elia's throat. A choking dryness that swallows everything that she might want to say. She stares at Duffie and pushes. *Anything. Say anything.*

The young mechanic turns and her chance disappears. Again. Duffie hurries out to their workstation, picking at their hands the whole way.

Elia climbs to her feet and rests against her office's door frame. Duffie sifts through their tool cabinet to take the last of their personal belongings. They stow a couple wrenches in a messenger back and sling the strap over their shoulder.

Warmth builds behind Elia's eyes.

Duffie waves at Otto and starts toward the door. Otto catches her attention and that same warmth spills across his face in salty streaks. The two of them share the gaze for an instant. The next moment, Duffie passes the threshold and the door latches behind them.

For the last time.

A Last Chance

The workstation is empty. Whoever dropped off the convertible for repair came to pick it up about a half hour ago, so all that's left is a sparse tool cabinet. Elia stands in the middle of the space, arms crossed in front of her chest. Otto stares on from his own workstation — probably. She can feel his eyes on her back, an odd pressure between her shoulder blades and a tingling along her neck.

He's pitying her. Or it's all in her mind, but she dismisses that thought with a shake of her head.

Duffie's workstation — rather, no one's now — is suffocating: how barren it is, how quiet. She did this; she drove them away. Her crossed arms tighten, constricting around her chest and digging into her ribs.

On top of the cabinet, a sliver of afternoon light pierces the clouds and glints off the mirror-like, metal shaft of a screw driver. Her heart freezes at the image; her breath hangs in her throat, burning. The polished, gold surface of her pocket mirror flits through her mind. It's close. Just through the door to her office and nestled among papers in the top drawer of her desk.

Otto lays a hand on her shoulder. "They're going to be okay, you taught them everything they need."

The burning sensation grows, peppering her chest with bursting sparks of pain. She shrugs off Otto's hand. "That's not it."

His hand hovers nearby and confusion tints his voice. "Oh? Sorry, boss. What is it?"

She hurries over to the tool cabinet and glares back at him. "The other night doesn't mean I'm going to spill everything out to you." She jerks open the top drawer. Tools clatter and she stares down at the jumbled mess of ball-peen hammers, screwdrivers, and socket wrenches.

The burning only gets worse: it spreads up her throat and permeates her thoughts. She picks up a socket wrench and twists her palms against its handle until her knuckles go white. *Today's been hard enough, so it only makes sense to use it... I deserve the peace.*

Otto takes a couple, hesitant steps toward her. "Right, right. Sorry. I could clean up their station for you. Would that help?"

She speaks before she can think; a singular word cuts through the air, jagged and harsh like an old hacksaw. "No."

He falls silent. Afraid of an outburst. Afraid to even move, probably. An unintentional breath flushes away the burning sensation and her mind clears, only for guilt to pock her heart. Shit. She slips the socket wrench into an empty satchel of her toolbelt and rests her weight on the top of the cabinet. "I'm sorry." She tips her head to look at him, but the guilt is too much: she stares into the distance of the shop and searches for what to say. "I — I just need to do this. It's my responsibility."

His voice is even, calm. "Okay. Sorry for butting in." He shifts his weight back there and a few seconds later, the screech of metal on concrete echoes around the shop.

Elia whips around. "What are you —"

Otto stares right at her, his still-coverall-wearing ass firmly planted in a stool that he drug over from his own workstation. "I can keep you company at least?"

With a shrug, she keeps sorting through the tools. "You could have kept me company from over there, but fine. Sure. Don't expect a conversation."

He yanks a phone from inside his partially-undone coveralls and taps at it. "I wouldn't dream of it."

"No music either."

His finger freezes inches away from what must be a play button. He winces, but does his best to disguise it as a smile. "Ah... right. Okay. Can do, boss."



Time passes. Slowly. Thirty *actual* minutes, maybe? Picking up each tool, putting some back in the cabinet in some semblance of order, putting others in her toolbelt for organizing later... It feels like it's been a few hours to her: a few hours of busy work that didn't actually help distract her from the guilt.

However long it was, it was at least long enough for Otto to nod off. Arms crossed and snoring a bear's snore, his bald head bobs toward his chest in between each breath.

*I tried, I sat with it, I did something. I deserve a break now.*

The thought feels like it isn't hers. Instant, automatic, and primal. A longing that whispers at the back of her mind. The front too. Everywhere a feeling or motivation or desire could possibly be, the need for a break weighs her down. She could get everything done if she just didn't have to deal with... *this*. Feelings, emotions.

Anger.

*I deserve it. I do. It's been a hard day.*

She starts toward her office, toward the desk drawer where the pocket mirror waits for her. Otto's snores grow louder in her ears — or maybe just in her mind. Thunderous and unbearable anger swells. *Why is he here? Why won't he leave me alone and let me deal with this myself?*

She rips open the top drawer of her desk.

There it is: a matte gold disk with etched flowers coiling near the edges. She grabs it and digs at the seam between the two halves with her nails. *Come on, open.*

That hurtle is just enough for her mind to hang, her eyes to wander. Back where the pocket mirror was moments before, her daughter smiles up from a glass-scratched picture. Timeless and unchanging. A better time — a memory. A memory that ignites a feeling of warmth and dulls the pain of grief and guilt ever so.

Elia's hand dangles to her side, still clutching the unopened mirror. "I'm being ridiculous." She collapses backwards into her chair. "I said I wouldn't, what am I doing?"

Metal clatters on concrete out on the shop floor and the sound of Otto's boots stampede toward her. He slams against the door frame palms-first with eyes wide and concern furrowing his brow. "Boss! Boss, are you good?"

Her thumb traces the pocket mirror's engraved flowers. She drifts her gaze from the desk toward the towering form of Otto in the doorway.  "I didn't use it. Almost did."

His brow relaxes. "Okay, okay. That's good then."

They both stare in silence: Otto at Elia, and Elia at anywhere but Otto. Like out the office window to a shop that feels far emptier that it did this morning.

She grumbles to her feet and tosses the mirror back into the drawer. "I'm going to get dinner, come if you want."

Just the Two of Us

Days blur past out of Avery's reach. Tamika drowns her in work, Valerie invites her to tea too much, her parents ask her too many questions. It all melds together into one amorphous blob of time that she can't make heads or tails of. Except for the stress, the obsessions and compulsions.

Drink earl grey in Valerie's office: *she's trying to poison you, spit it out into that plant.*

Scrape stubborn algae off the sides of the near-empty snail tanks: *wash it out again, microscopic pieces of glass you dislodged will kill the snails in horrific fashion. Wash it, come on!*

Have dinner with Mom and Dad: *all this moping and crying around is disgusting, they're going to kick you out if you don't apologize to them. Do it.*

Every day, Avery goes to work, comes home, rushes through dinner, and collapses into bed. She cries, she falls asleep, she wakes up. Days pass one after the other, but she's not sure how many. Then, as if breaking through water to suck down a much needed breath, it all screeches to a halt.

Damp towels and dirty clothes pile around the bathroom, while soaps, hair gels, and a pile of used tissues lie strewn over the sink countertop with all the care of a curious young raven. Through puffy, swollen eyes and smudged glasses, Avery stares at herself in the mirror.

Hair juts from her head at odd angles; blood settles into fresh scabs on the edges of her nostrils; plum-colored circles hang under her eyes. She clutches at her unsteady heart, where her nails scrape against skin and leave behind hot streaks of red. *How long is it going to be like this?*

Oboes and clarinets ring out from her phone on the sink counter: the screen blares to life in the unlit bathroom and a notification slides into view tagged with an image of Sophia. An image that is more coils of black hair than her actual face.

*Sophia: Hey, if you're able, would you mind letting me know you're alright? I know you said you're working through something, but the radio silence has been a bit nerve wra—*

Avery's eyes conjure water from the depths of a supposedly dry well. Tears bubble into her vision and — arms dangling unmoving at her sides — she stares at her face as it contorts. Teeth tremble and clatter. Lips curl inward. Vision blurs and clears with erratic timing.

She can feel it all, but it's distant. Like she's behind the wheel of a car flying down a winding backroad. The three-ton monster starts to veer off course, but her hands refuse to move. To stop dangling at her sides useless and limp. *I don't deserve it. I don't.*

The thought plays back to her until the bright light of her phone's screen dims, then blinks back to darkness. Her blank stare stays locked on her face, lit only by the morning sun pouring through the doorway to her bedroom. *Why am I so useless? Why can't I move? Why am I even crying?*

The phone screen lights up and another message appears.

*Sophia: Sorry, I shouldn't have sent that. Just being impatient. Take your time!*

The spell breaks, all the numbness flows away and threads of control reconnect her to her extremities. She scoops up the phone and hurriedly types out a reply to Sophia.

*Avery: No, no. You're fine. I'm sorry for taking so long. I'll text you soon.*

It doesn't even take a couple seconds for another message to arrive with a burst of oboe and clarinet. *Sophia: Alright, talk soon!*

Avery's eyes dart back to her messy-haired reflection. She wets her hand and combs at the oddball strands still reaching for the sky, but it only kind of works. She twists away toward the door. "Whatever."

*Did you turn off the sink?*

Tendrils of compulsion leap from her heart and twist around her legs, anchoring her to the spot.

It's too much, it's instant. Her heart threatens to burst one moment, and she whirls back around to face the sink the next. She taps the handles in alternating series three separate times and whispers. "Left-right, left-right, left-right."

Constricting tendrils disappear. With a sigh, she hurries out the bathroom door before she can get stuck again. *I could have tried harder... tomorrow maybe.*

---

Ahead of Avery, Tamika pushes through a set of double doors with a barrel of diced tilapia swinging by her side. The doors open out onto a wide open room. Humidity weighs down the air above exposed waterways that wind through the space and connect separate pools to each other. Inside the shallow water, stingrays of all sizes — except extra large — flit about through the channels from pool to pool and in between decorative rocks that spot the bottom.

It's beautiful, but distant. Sweat prickles at Avery's neck thanks to the humidity and her own anxious flux. She plods along behind her bucket-swinging boss and pours over how to say what she wants to say. Today is the day. The day she declares —

*The day you declare that everyone's expectations were a waste of time. They're going to hate you.*

Her plodding falters; her foot catches a nearby railing and she skips on one foot to a stop. 

Tamika glances over her shoulder, "You okay?"

*I can say it. I can do this.*

Tamika stops and faces her, waiting with bucket dangling.

Avery's stomach stirs, grumbling and shifting in anxious circles. She straightens up from her awkward, unbalanced squat and speaks above quivering knees. "I don't think I can do this."

Tamika plucks a piece of diced tilapia from the bucket and plunges her hand in a nearby pool. One stingray dashes over without hesitation, glides over her hand, and the meat disappears.

"There you go, Johnathan." Tamika says. "See? They don't bite. No reason to be afraid of them."

"That's not what I mean."

"I know, but just spit it out. We've only got about five minutes before Valerie finds us and starts yelling to help with the school event. I'd *like* to decompress with these guys without you brooding over the whole thing."

*She'll hate you. Apologize for even bringing this up, for wasting her time.*

The compulsion eats at Avery, nibbling away at her resolve. She forces her knees to steady and the words to form in her throat. "Um — It's just... I just feel like I can't do this kind of work. It's too much."

Tamika lowers the bucket to the floor and turns her full attention to the stingray, stroking him along his back. "This is about Larry, then? That's just the cold feet, Avery. Everyone gets them the first time they go through that. Give it a few weeks and you'll be right as rain."

"I — yeah it is. Are you sure?"

Tamika snorts. "Nope! Not a clue if I'm right, but that's how it was for me. Have you convinced yourself it wasn't your fault yet?"

"No. Not really —" Avery starts, before a thought cuts her off.

*She's making fun of you now, see? Stop trying. Apologize.*

Her heart falls into a pit and her breath goes with it: she bats a hand through the air, dismissive. "Never mind, actually. You're probably right and it's just cold feet, I shouldn't have bothered bringing it up."

Tamika rolls her head to glare at Avery; her dreads bounce and sway with the motion. "Now now, don't be like that —"

The double doors they just came through burst open. Valerie's squat form stumbles through and stands still, a few escaped strands dangle in frizzy, gray strips near her face. She clears her throat, tucks the loose hair behind her ears, and walks toward them, trying — but failing — to hide her heavy breathing. "I need you all out in the lobby now."

Tamika winks at Avery and lowers her voice to a whisper. "We can finish that talk later. I've got this." Still stroking the stingray's back, she lets her head fall with a shake and calls out. "We're still on break, sorry Val. You're going to have to find someone else to handle it for the next five minutes."

Valerie huffs. The unescaped hair in her bun puffs up like she's an angry cat — more likely it's just the humidity. "Avery?" She says.

Electricity scrambles between Avery's heart and lungs in a buzz of anxiety, caught needing to answer Valerie, but wishing her confession wasn't interrupted. She casts glances between the two women. "Uh— ah... sorry, we're on break..."

Frustration forces wrinkles across Valerie's forehead and she throws an arm behind her at the now-closed double doors. "Come on, you can't leave me out there alone." Her tone shifts more toward pleading than demanding. "Please. There's way too many of them."

The scrambling grows more intense; it won't let Avery speak.

Tamika pulls her hand out of the water and flicks it by her wrist, sending water droplets showering over the pool. "Our hands our tied, sorry Val. If only you had hired more staff, what a darn, crying shame that is. Maybe you should write to management about it?" 

"Tamika. You know well and good that we all have to pitch in here and there to keep this place running, especially in times of emergency." Valerie says.

"You not knowing how to deal with kids isn't an emergency, but I'll cut you a deal." Tamika wipes her hand down her jeans, leaving behind the water she couldn't fling as a darker, navy-blue streak. "Catered lunch tomorrow. *And* we pick the place."

Valerie clasps her hands behind her back. "We always order from Cob and Carl's. There's no where else I like as much, so that will have to do."

Tamika shrugs. "We're not getting your gross, cardboard pizza; you're getting two mini-breaks worth of time: *eight whole minutes*. So take it or leave it, the price isn't changing. I'll figure out what you owe me for this waste of a minute later."

"Fine. Fine! Where?"

"You're on, Avery. Close the deal."

Anxious electricity turns to ice in a flash. A lose-your-breath-and-freeze-up type of surprise. The two argue all the time and used to keep Avery on the sidelines, argued past and referenced, but not included. When did that change? Staring out over the pools and waterways, she wracks her mind for what to say. "Can we do sandwiches and cupcakes from New Interlude?"

Tamika perks up and nudges Avery's shoulder with a fist. "Oh! I love that place! Have you tried their dessert crepes? I —"

The rest of her boss' words disappear into a horrific realization. *Wait, I don't know how to deal with kids.*

In the Middle

It's overrun. Elementary students zip through Avery's hallway of aquarium tanks like a pack of goblins, gurgling out laughs and indecipherable yells. Little hands topple over cardboard cutouts of cartoon sharks, fiddle with interactive displays, and try to open locked doors with signs that read "Employee Only".

Avery's already anxious mind explodes at the scene. Screaming; the usual fishy smells; none of the kids understanding personal space: it all melds into a cacophony of stimuli that keeps the world out of focus. She scrambles through the river of children, searching above the tiny crowd for the two much taller figures that can set her free from this madness.

They're no where. At least, they're not in this hallway. Are they in the lobby? Even more kids can't still be waiting in there, can they? In spite of the thought, kids keep streaming from the direction of the lobby and around the bend.

A girl's nasally voice breaks through the buzz. "Why is that fish upside down?"

Another kid speaks up: an overconfident, smug boy. "Oh, that one's dead. I had a goldfish and that's what they look like when they die. I'm going to ask if I can flush it down the toilet!"

"He's not dead! He's just sleeping. Hey, lady! Tell him that fish is just sleeping!" The girl yells.

Avery's feet freeze in place; a weight falls into her stomach. *They're just kids, they don't know.*

A couple of images flick past in her mind: Larry the pufferfish dead, he bobs near the water's surface while Avery reads through a new book nearby and none the wiser; Dad's heart acting up, he lies on the living room floor while Avery listens to music just a room away.

Every feeling of helplessness, guilt, and failed responsibility she's ever felt bubbles to the surface of her skin in chills and shivers and sweat. Lightning bolts of emotion that stun her in place.

The girl raises her voice, yelling over the laughing of other children. "Excuse me? Excuse me!"

Avery inches her head around, her body following behind like a segmented robot. Her voice quavers. "A—ah, what is it? Sorry?"

She jabs a finger up toward a fish in the tank, a little too close to the arguing boy's head. "Tell him that fish is just sleeping!"

The boy flinches away from her raised hand. "It is not. Let me flush it!"

Ice freezes along Avery's spine, all through her neck. Still, Avery forces her gaze up; she grinds through the fear to act some semblance of normal. Inside the tank, a single catfish floats along the surface of the water.

Upside down. Just like the kids said.

*You weren't listening were you? Today, yesterday, the day before. All the same warning and you won't listen: we predicted this. It was always going to happen again, but you wouldn't liste—*

The fish's tail shifts and they drift closer: black-brown spots against an orange-brown body, with a set of whiskers peaking just through the water's surface. Whiskers that twitch above a hungry, searching mouth.

Fear melts away: Avery's hands unclench, her shoulders relax. All that worry for a goddamn, blotched upside-down catfish. She tries to laugh off the nerves and lets that professional, autopilot part of her take over. "Sorry, but no flushing. That's a blotched upside-down catfish, they just like to swim like that. One theory is so it's easier for them to eat food off the surface of the water or submerged logs. It's one of the only species in the world that swim the wrong way up, though they can swim the right-side up too. If they wanted."

Grinning, the girl puffs out her chest and crosses her arms. "Told you so!"

The boy drags himself over to the information panel in front of the catfish's tank that explains most of what Avery just said. He scuffs his shoe against the carpet. "Humph, whatever. I'm more mature than you so I can admit when I'm wrong."

Avery's eyes linger on the catfish for a moment. Nancy is her name, right? With a shrug, Avery whips around toward the lobby: toward Tamika and Valerie and — hopefully — the freedom to go home.

*Thump.*

A denim-overall-wearing girl crashes into Avery's raised knee. The scene pauses and the steady buzz of children turns dead quiet, like a crowd watching on as an Olympic diver smacks the water belly-first. All the girl's momentum disappears except for her hair's: two auburn pigtails fly past her head and jerk to a stop on either side of Avery's knee. Her head snaps back and her pigtails flutter after her falling body.

No thought has time to enter Avery's mind. Her body just lunges forward on its own and her hand shoots out to catch the falling girl. Denim hits the ground first, then bone. Overall-girl's head rattles against the floor and she stops moving. 

Feelings catch up and flood Avery: cold sweat pools at her hairline, a heartbeat drums in her throat. She sprawls over the floor on hands and knees and crawls up beside the girl. "Oh god, oh god, are you okay?"

The girl is still, silent. Her eye's ease open and she starts to say something, but then she realizes. Her little face trembles; veins pop into existence on the whites of wide eyes, pulsing an unnatural shade of red; and she releases a stomach turning, ear rending screech of a cry.

"Oh no — no. Don't cry. It's fine! I — I mean, are you okay? What's wrong?" Avery says.

She doesn't answer. The veins pulse with that unnatural red and inch closer to her irises. Avery can feel her mouth drying out, her thoughts growing wild in panic. She casts her gaze around, searching for the other two or maybe even a parent. *What do I do? What do I—*

*Tink.* Barely audible above the crying, something plinks off the tank's glass behind her. She cranes her neck ready to yell at a kid, but everyone is still stuck staring at her and the girl bawling on the floor. Avery stares into the tank.

Fish wobble through the water like drunken sailors caught above deck in a tropical storm. In a fit of bewilderment, she climbs to her feet and creeps toward the tank. *What in the world?*

Rocks and plants swirl in a frenzy and a heavy, limestone castle lazily scrapes along the bottom. She sticks her face up near the glass. *Current? From where?*

*Tink.* Another rock smacks against the glass and zips back to the cluster of twirling detritus. A rainbow of different fishes start to drift toward the center of the underwater twister: Congo tetras of orange and silver; purple-black mollies; and green, black-tiger-striped angelfish.

Avery plants a hand on the glass and the switch deep inside her flips. Every molecule of water leaps to the front of her mind and feels... odd. Usually it feels free, weightless. Now, it feels chaotic but ordered. Untamed and wild but with purpose. Like it's trying to force its way out through the thick slab of glass right next to her face.

In a smooth motion, the twister breaks and all the water rushes at her. Ice pierces Avery's heart. She flinches away from the glass. The moment her fingers break contact the feeling of rushing water evaporates, leaving behind only fear that judders up her spine in chilly bursts. *Don't tell me...*

The tank's vertical seams groan under the pressure and a series of larger rocks smack against the glass. The girl's screeching cry turns to pained screams; her tiny hands grasp at her head and she curls into herself.

It clicks in Avery's mind. *She can't control it.*

Children begin to crowd around the screaming girl; they drone out an indecipherable stream of chatter, pointing and snickering all the while. Avery's heartbeat thunders. Adrenaline clarifies her frazzled mind and she slaps both her hands on the glass. "Shit! Shit, shit, shit." She raises her quivering voice above the children's chatter. "Everyone, please walk calmly to the lobby and get the adults."

Everyone goes quiet again, but no one moves.

She cranes her neck around and yells. "It's an emergency. Go get them. Now!"

At that, the children shuffle in the lobby's direction. Some mutter insults at the still-crying, overall-wearing girl. "Of course she loses it on the field trip."; "Don't worry about ruining our fun, you'll grow up soon."; "Gah, I don't want to leave!"

Avery's gut curdles at the comments, but she flips the switch and the water flows through her senses in a torrent, washing away near everything. Everything that isn't the cool glass under her fingertips, the swirling objects and fish, or her own sense of self. She concentrates on each rock, and one by one they drop to the floor with muted thumps and — for large ones — resonant thuds. As if the water blinked out of existence and left them behind.

Pain flares behind her eyes.

She splits her focus to the castle. It's askew, all one hundred pounds of carved limestone spinning on a single corner of its flat base. It weighs on her mind and body just like she was trying to lift it herself: knees tremble, planted hands slick the glass with sweat, and pain burns hotter. *Slowly, guide it slowly...*

The grounded rocks shift, they vibrate, they threaten to jump back into the current. Avery chest and arms scream, straining under the weight of the castle. She squeezes her eye's shut; she wills herself to keep track of it all, to keep it out of the water's influence, but — for just a second — her concentration breaks and she overcorrects. One hundred pounds of limestone crashes down onto the tank's steel floor and the entire building shakes under her feet.

Avery gulps in hot breaths over her humid, sweaty-drenched body. *God. Keep it together. Keep the kid safe. Keep the fish safe.*

Even without the rocks bouncing off the glass, the tank's seams whine higher and higher notes of distress. Possibilities threaten to run rampant, but Avery clenches her eyelids tighter, forcing the worries out of her mind. *Someone will come and stop it. They'll get her to stop, just focus. Rocks, castle, now fish.*

Palm-size angelfish already spin end over end in the current. The next moment, they hurtle directly at the glass. Avery splits her focus again: each angelfish plummets through the water like it isn't there. The fish still need to breathe, so she lets them splash into the safer part of the current near the floor and they zip off into the twisting waters. She juggles all eight schools of varying species of fish just like that. In a rainbow Ferris wheel of pure stress.

Each second that passes, the pain grows hotter. Her knees start to buckle, her head starts to buzz. *Just a bit more. Keep it all just a little longer.*

An octopus of gray hair flings itself forward with tentacles that lash out and connect to the walls, floor, and ceiling. Suspended at its center, an odd mass of hair writhes in concentric patterns.

Black tickles at the edges of Avery's vision. *Finally. A hero.*

Once above them, tentacles retract and the mass splats onto the ground. Writhing patterns unfurl, slinking back up to form a head of long, silver hair. Valerie's hair. The old woman kneels down and gently pries one of the tiny hands away from the screaming girl's head. "You're going to be okay, dear. Just hang on a moment longer."

Avery blinks away tears, and grunts words through clenching teeth "What— are— you doing. Call— someone!"

Valerie doesn't pay her any mind. Instead, she coaxes her hair with her other hand and it slithers down from her head. Strands break away and wrap around the girl's wrist. They circle around and around, gradually forming an intricate weave that looks like an ornate bracelet. The instant the hair stops moving, the water changes. All hints of influence, order, and purpose dissipate and the weight on Avery's mind lifts. She lets her concentration fade. *What did Valerie —*

The darkness closes in and her consciousness winks out.



All Shapes, All Sizes

Chimes and brass fanfare ring in steady succession, echoing a hollow melody off the concrete and out through the entrance of a familiar parking garage. Waylon sucks in the cold evening air and lets it fill his lungs to bursting. It's a colder day. Pain ripples deep in his chest, warm and cold clashing inside him. He forces the breath out. Slowly.

*It's going to go fine.*

Metal digs into his back. He stuffs cold, clammy hands into his coat pockets and he shifts against the bench amid mumbles to no one. "Why is there even a bench here?"

Fog rolls out his mouth with the words and a breeze sweeps it down the mish-mashed street: an odd mix of multi-family houses and midrise, brutalist office buildings. It's ugly. One of the uglier stretches of Cordia that he can think of.

A white van turns a corner and inches down the street toward him; a set of whining brakes ease it to a stop in front of a particularly shabby house. Fractured siding, bug eaten window screens, and a tiny, overgrown lawn. Across the van's side, a decal of a man with a plunger beams out over the cigarette-and-beer-can-strewn street.

Anxiety frolics. It runs through his mind with images of plain-dressed agents whispering into hidden microphones, vans full of surveillance equipment, and frantic hand-to-hand combat. All straight out of a spy movie.

The van's engine peters out and a door slams. Waylon's consciousness zips back to his surrounds, eyes rolling and blinking away dryness that his day dreaming self wasn't keeping up with. He rises from the bench. *No one's out to get you. It's going to be fine.*

Directly across the street, an upside-down mountain of a man in green coveralls hefts a fifty pound bag of salt onto his shoulder. He swings the van's back door closed and checks both ways before walking across the empty, single lane and straight toward the garage's entrance.

If the towering stature of the man wasn't enough to tell that this is one of Waylon's partners for the night, the dark brown pompadour bouncing along with every step certainly is: Ivan Haas. Waylon can recall the file as if he was looking at it then and there. Grew up in poverty-stricken New Boston, registered wet pipe technician, single. Lives alone as of this week.

Ivan steps onto the curb. The coveralls pinch a nerve, irking and confusing. *Does no one know what inconspicuous means?* Waylon nods his head and shrugs an elbow to the rundown house behind the van. "Do you live there?"

Ivan crosses the threshold of the garage, and — one hand still steadying the bag of salt — he fights the wind to light a cigarette pinched between his lips. His words come out through a thick, typical New Boston accent. "As of a week ago. It ain't much, but the heat works and the windows don't stick."

Waylon shuffles after him. "Are you going to change? You can go back over, you've still got time and the technician uniform is going to stand out."

Ivan takes a drag on the cigarette. "You're one to talk." Smoke billows from his mouth and he waves the cigarette butt at Waylon's all-black outfit: wool coat, turtleneck, ironed slacks, and tennis shoes. "Dressed like a damned Doctor Who or something." Ivan says.

"My outfit is perfect. Serialized media is a waste of time, by the way."

"Guess you don't know what good is. Plenty worth watching on T.V. and your clothes are Grade A shit. Should try not dressing like some middle-aged woman's soap opera fantasy, it'd probably suit you."

Silence it is, then. Waylon stews in it, trudging along until the pair reach the far side of the garage and the source of the ever present chimes and brass fanfare.

A muscle-bound Ronan sits cross-legged on the hood of a rust-covered, white box truck. Light dances out from the phone screen in his lap and drenches his face in multicolored hues. His fingers are a flurry of movement, tapping and swiping in arcane patterns.

Is he wearing the same olive shirt as last time? Waylon slouches back against a nearby concrete pillar. "Haven't finished that game yet, then?"

Brass fanfare reaches a peak and Ronan's face explodes in glee. Sliding down the hood and onto his feet, he pumps his fist with each word. "Yes! Yes, yes, yes!" Flexing his arms and gritting his teeth, he darts his head between the two men. "Goodness why does this feel so good! Aren't games amazing?"

Waylon swallows a lump he didn't even notice jump into his throat, steels a stomach that twists in momentary, unexpected fear. "Uh... if you say so. I'm just going to go over the plan to myself if you don't mind."

"Not at all, not at all! Nothing's changed right?"

"No, just want to make sure everything is in order. I'll give a final rundown when our last member arrives."

Confusion twists Ronan's face for a moment, but he bends over the next instant, folding himself in half like a pizza box and touching his toes. "Wonderful to hear! So what's your name, over there? — Gah!" He straightens up, overextends his back, then — his elbows flared out — twists his upper half around as far as it'll go both ways. "Phew, that's better!"

Waylon wasn't taking the chance, bringing the plans with him just for some random cop to shake him down and find them; the memory of them burning to embers in his bathtub flashes. He slides down the column and grunts as concrete floor meets butt.

He closes his eyes and the plans materialize, crystal clear in his mind. Every exit, every employee's schedule, every nook and cranny of the entire aquarium. *Ronan pulls us into the loading dock. Thea signals us if she —*

In the background of Waylon's perception, Ronan walks toward Ivan "How long've you been working out? You've got some solid form holding that bag, and you carry yourself well in general too. Great posture. Only thing I'd change —"

*She signals us if she smells something. Or whatever it is that she does. I breach the door and —*

Ivan flexes his non-salt-bag-encumbered arm. "Been exercising ever since I was a teen. But better keep that unsolicited advice to yourself and stay —"

*Breach and run down the hallway. Turn left. Run past —*

Ronan nods, enthusiastic and strangely genuine. "No offense intended! I just see that you focus more on your upper body and I want to make sure —"

"How about we play a game of catch then, dick?" Ivan hefts the bag down off his shoulder. "We'll toss this and see who taps out first. Like a medicine ball."

Pain flares; Waylon massages at his temple and his patience wanes. "Can you two be quiet? Maybe even be some semblance of professional?"

Ivan plants his feet and hurls the fifty pound bag the entire gap between himself and Ronan. As if it was as light as a football. "What exactly were you expecting? A bunch of hard asses getting together to steal a fucking humidifier?"

The bag crashes into Ronan's chest and stops dead. The red head slams a muscly hug around it and lets out a huff, but doesn't move an inch. "Every moment of training is a gift!" He winds up and flings the bag back toward Ivan with just as little effort.

The pain stays, but the concentration doesn't. Crystal clear memories turn murky and Waylon strains his brain to keep it on topic. *Where was I? Just start over. Entrance. —*

*Thump.* Ivan grunts through his catch, but doesn't shift.

*Entrance. Pull up to the loading dock, breach with my power. Down the hallway and turn —*

*Thump.* Ronan grunts. "So why are you doing this? You're brand new to this kind of thing right? Jobs like this." He says, then chucks the bag back.

*Thump*. Muscles flex and tremble under Ivan's coveralls. He whirls around and sends the bag flying back in an odd shot put throw. "What's it to you? Knowing going to make a difference tonight?"

*Down the hallway. Turn left. Walk past the tanks until we reach the second employee only area. Go through the double —*

"It's just good to know!" Ronan says. *Thump*. "I'm just here to enjoy myself for instance. I don't know the specifics, but Waylon there has someone to help with his share of the money."

*Thump*. Ivan's breath comes heavier. "Fine. Got to pay for a research team. I'll get into the primetime wrestling rings once the big wigs are satisfied I won't maim someone."

*Through the double doors, down the maintenance hallway, and climb up onto the catwalk. Cross to the other side and —*

Ronan's eyes grow wide and wild with wonder. "Wow! What is professional wrestling like? Is that why you've trained your body so hard? What all does the research team do? It's great that the two of you have goals! It's important to cultivating a healthy —"

The frustration, the cold, the noise. That last comment. Waylon's patience strains under the load of stimuli and feelings. Then it breaks. Pain flares behind his temple and he snaps his head up. He scrambles to his feet and takes a few measured steps in Ronan's direction. "I don't know what Albert told you, but you don't know *anything* about me. This guy's *dream* of fame? That's all he's doing this for and you're going to compare him to me? His motivations aren't even on the same *plane of existence* as mine."

The Beginning of the End

In front of Thea, voices — mid-argument — pour out of the parking garage's entrance; each word resonates in an odd harmony of anger and hollowness. She wrings a sweat-slicked palm around the handle of her cane. Not even five-thirty and the sun is already slipping below the horizon, casting the streets in a haze of oranges. Damp hair clings to Thea's neck. She runs a finger between her skin and the collar of her cassock, desperate for relief from the heat of the heavy fabric. "Don't be nervous. No, no need to be nervous at all."

A cloud passes in front of the sun and the warm tones surrounding her flicker. She forces a foot forward, then another. One after one tempered by hesitation, like she's bit down on a fishing hook and is trying to escape.

But she can't. She's helpless. Past the threshold, the arguing voices envelope her, echoing off concrete surroundings and hitting her from every angle. Her self-directed pep talk shrinks to a whisper. "You're going to be fine; it'll be over before you know it."

Then there they are. Three men float a short distance away from a white box truck: a top heavy, pompadour-having man fixing to hurl a sack of something; a red-burred, smile-beaming man soon to be on the receiving end, his back toward Thea; and that guy from the park with his long, black hair nestled in a high bun — what was his name? Did he even tell her?

Bun guy jabs an angry finger in Red-burr's direction and — thanks to Thea's steady, yet glacial approach — his words turn intelligible mid-sentence. "— going to compare him to me? His motivations aren't even on the same *plane of existence* as mine."

Anxiety tingles down Thea's spine, down to her fingers and down to her toes. She stalls, her already slow walk peters out into a hesitant stance. Unsure if she should keep walking or run the other way. Pompadour whips the burlap sack with a grunt, but Red-burr is distracted: absorbed in Bun-man's yelling.

Words of warning lump in Thea's throat. It's odd. Almost like watching a play: the sack hurtles through the air in slow motion, twirling with grace and deadly potential; an argument perfectly set to distract; and now, a silent, helpless audience.

At the last possible second, in one, smooth motion, Red-burr steps back and shoots out an arm. The bag collides in a meaty thump and Red-burr spins on his heel from the inertia. All the way back to face Bun-man like the catch never happened. He flops the sack onto a shoulder. "Oh, of course. Of course! No harm meant, lad. Sorry for bringing that up." He toss a thumb behind himself. "By the way, our last teammate is here if you lot didn't see."

*Did he really just catch that?*

Bun-man massages his left temple for a moment. His anger breaks and he drudges off toward the box truck. "About time. Let's get this over with."

Red-burr shakes his head. "Without introductions? No matter, I'll handle it!" He whips around to face Thea. "Hello, it's wonderful to meet you Thea! I'm Ronan, the lad with the death glare and pompadour is Ivan, and our brave leader trudging away there is Waylon. He's nicer than he seems, I just messed up. Made him a bit mad with a comment I should have kept quiet."

Ronan's tone sends Thea's expectations tumbling, screeching down a corridor of twists and turns. Sweat clings to her neck, her heart drums in her chest. Her whole body teeters on the precipice of fight or flight. Still, she steels herself and resumes her glacial pace toward the box truck. "H-hi, nice to meet you too."

Ivan — the pompadour-having man — calls out in a thick, New Boston accent. "Already tapping out, asshole? Come on, throw —" The moment his eyes falls past Ronan's shoulder and over Thea's cassock, his entire demeanor changes. He shifts his gaze. "Oh shit. I mean — god. Shit. Sorry sister, please forgive my rudeness." He punctuates the sentence by flitting a hand from his head, to his chest, and to either shoulder: the sign of the cross.

"Oh no, no. Y-you don't need to apologize."

"Of course, sister. Sorry, sister." He says.

Ronan tips his head toward Waylon, over there hovering near the box truck. "Well, shall we convene around? He wanted to give us a briefing of some sort before we went on our way. Still plenty of time in the night though, so I'm not sure what all he's got for us."

Ivan and Ronan both start that way and Thea follows after. On every other step in the fresh silence, her cane's rubber foot sends a muted thud echoing around the garage. *Am I making too much noise?*

Waiting for the other three, Waylon lets his body lean forward, then fall back against the side of the box truck. Repeatedly. Each impact warps the metal siding and makes a sound like a kid flopping a laminated menu between their hands.

As the three finish their jaunt, an impromptu circle starts to form. Thea plants herself right next to Ronan. He shoots her a smile, clasps his hands behind himself, and turns his attention back to Waylon. Her stomach clenches; she shuffles a bit away from him. *Give him more space. Oh no, does it look like I'm uncomfortable? Get his attention and smile back, maybe? Am I breathing too hard?*

Her heart thunders, stress tears her mind in twenty different directions. *Get it under control, Thea. Breathe.*

Before she can, Waylon speaks up and holds a tired, dark-circled stare with each of them in turn. "You all have the gist of the plan, but I'm going to run through it now that we're all together. Then we're going to go over it again. And again, and again. Not a single slip up, not a single moment of confusion. We're going to pound procedure and contingencies into our memory until— well, we're just going to do it. *Got it?*"

Communion

Avery's consciousness zips back to the world through a dizzying swamp. A journey of swirling thoughts, fluttering eyelids, and an inexplicably dry mouth. It's gross. Like she's got a shriveled up sponge for a tongue. In a few moments, most of the discomfort passes and the world materializes around her: the subtle scent of lavender and lemongrass; rays of early sunset that tint the world red; a steady, eerie creak.

Comfortable, warm, and haunting. Waking up around this time has always felt like that. Felt weird. The creaking doesn't help.

*What happened? Where am I?*

Her fluttering eyes shoot open and she props herself up. A plush, violet couch supports her now-awake self, herbs creep up from multicolored pots, and Valerie swivels in an office chair behind a mahogany desk. Avery goes to speak, but the words catch in her throat at a rush of memories. The school trip, the girl who lost control, overexerting herself.

*Did I pass out?*

Clutching a cup of steaming tea, Valerie stares out her office's window.

Avery stares at the old woman, waiting in silence for anything to change, but Valerie may as well be a statue on a swiveling pedestal. Several minutes pass like that: Valerie unaware and lost in thought, Avery looking on. So Avery breaks the silence. "H-hey, Valerie. I'm sorry. Did— did I pass out?"

The swiveling stops. Still staring out the window, Valerie takes her first sip of tea. "Yes you did, dear. How are you feeling?"

Avery swallows a lump. "Fine. Fine I think. What happened? I remember the girl and all that water. Is everyone okay?"

Valerie's tone is curt, oddly sharp. "Everyone is just peachy. You did wonderful work keeping the kids and that girl safe. Who knows kind of trouble we'd be in if that tank ruptured."

"What's wro—" Before Avery can finish the sentence, another memory surfaces: Valerie dangling from tentacles made of her own hair, rushing to a crying girl and... "What'd you do to that girl? To help her control her power?" Avery says. 

Valerie sighs. "To answer your first question, I'm fine. The second one is more complicated."

The scene in Avery's memories tugs on a thread that leads deeper. Farther back, to a time she can't quite place. "How?" She says.

"I don't think you want to know the full answer to that one. How about we agree that I'm just that retired old bat who wants to keep her husband's aquarium alive?"

Avery follows where her memory wants to lead her; she tugs harder on that thread, reeling in whatever's attached to the other end. And it hits her: her high school's "Recent History" class giving a lesson about the top heroes of the modern era. Hidden amid a long list of names and power descriptions was the hero—

Avery bolts upright. "Locks?"

Valerie sips tea through pursed lips. "Now why did you say that name, dear?"

"We learnt about her back in school. The age doesn't line up, but what you did with the girl and the hair tentacle things. I-it fits. Were you her?"

Valerie finally swivels to face Avery. She drops the saucer and teacup onto her desk like a judge's gavel. "I want to caution you against finishing that train of thought. I can't take away what you saw, as much as I wish I could, but you can ignore it. Bury it. Refuse to think about it. It'd spare me a great deal of worry and frustration if you did."

*This sounds like some mob shit, drop it. She'll disappear you if you don't.*

Pain and pressure sweep through Avery's chest, nearly knocking her flat onto the couch. She blurts her words out before her body and mind can put up more resistance. "Just tell me! I won't be able to just forget that."

Tired, well-worn lines creep into the corner of Valerie's eyes. "Of course you won't. Yes: I was the hero Locks. A long time ago, but I was. And yes, I bound that little girls power with a bracelet woven from my hair."

A thousand questions burn in Avery's heart. What else is she suppose to feel when she meets someone that has their own entry in a *literal history book?*

Why is Valerie here and not fighting villains? What other heroes did she know? Is she in witness protection or something? Silence gains weight as Avery sorts through her options. "What was—"

"No. Before you ask any more questions, you have to know. You can't speak of this to anyone. There's a good reason why Locks is in a history book somewhere and not out there making a fool of herself. Anything you learn here is not for sharing. Understand?"

Avery swallows a knot. "Y-yes. I understand."

Questions swirl anew, but one leaps to the front of her mind. Necessary, urgent. A chill shudders down her spine; she shifts her eyes past Valerie and onto the sunset. "Shouldn't you be, y-you know... too old?"

"Dead you mean?"

"Y-yeah."

"Thirty or forty years ago I should have been. I stopped counting." Valerie glares down into her teacup and clicks her tongue, shaking her head all the while. "I did a favor for the wrong person, and now here I am. Cursed with a gift I never wanted by a stubborn ass that should've known better."

"Someone just *gave* you forty years?"

Valerie lock narrowed eyes on Avery. "It's never *just* with heroes and villains, Avery. Especially not with this one."

As Avery's "Recent History" class did for heroes, there was a similar lesson over modern, notorious villains. She wracks her memory, searching for a villain with a power that could give someone years of life. But no luck.

Avery gives in. It may be going too far, but she has to know. She tightens her grasp on the wooden frame of the couch's backrest. "C-can you tell me who it was?"

"I figured you'd be a ball of questions. I'm entertaining them so you'll get it out of your system and we can move past this revelation, so go ahead and ask them. That question, though. That question is not one I'm going to answer. One I'm never going to answer."


Intermission: Just an Old Woman

The door to Valerie's office clicks closed, then Avery is alone. Exhaustion weighs on her shoulders and mind, and static sparkles throughout her thoughts. *Why am I so restless? She's just another person like me, why did I fall all over myself like that?*

Her thoughts seem to reverberate around the empty hallway.

Only ten seconds since and already her heart twists, her body cringes, and her face flushes red. *Acted just like a little kid meeting a hero for the first time. Embarrassing.*

She forces herself to start walking.

Past the breakroom, past a maintenance hallway, until only a set of double doors stand between her and the rest of the aquarium. She leans in, ready to push through, but the door swings inwards. Her head plonks off the steel and swarming fireflies explode into a frenzy behind clenching eyelids. She slumps against a wall, clutching her head. "Gah! *Ooh, ow, ow, ow, ow.*"

A voice calls out through the expanse of stars. "I'm sorry about that. Are you alright there, lass?"

Avery massages the top of her head; a raw spot, a slowly forming lump now only the size of a marble. "*Fine.* Fine. I'm, fine." She says.

The person in front of her is eccentric; vibrant. Waves of red hair flow from their head down to dangle just above their shoulders. They wear a bulky, teal suit jacket cinched at the waist and spread open. Underneath: the majority of a black mesh undershirt lays overtop their bare chest. Teal slacks hang from their hips and gather like crumpled paper where they're tucked into polished, high-heel boots.

Every trace of intelligent thought catapults out of Avery's mind at the spectacle. Their clothes are nearest to Newest York Fashion Week's idea of what a suit would look like rather than an actual suit. She stares, unblinking.

Whoever it is strides off down the hallway and waves over their shoulder. "Glad to hear it. Now if you don't mind, I'm off to an appointment. Sorry again!"

Her mind sputters, then starts. A rush of panic shoots through her in tingling, rollercoaster-falling fanfare. She chases after them. "Excuse me! Sorry. This is an employee only area. If you go back the way you came, you can following the main walkway to visit the rest of the aquarium."

They don't stop. If anything, they pump their arms harder, take their steps a bit farther. "No worries about that now, I'm only here to see Valerie."

Avery picks up her pace to match. "Then why are you running?"

"I'm not running, I just have long legs."

Avery leans into each step like a frantic speedwalker. "Come on, stop!"

In a matter of moments, the person stops in front the oak door to Valerie's office and knocks twice. A second later, Valerie's voice comes from inside. "Just a second."

Another shot of panic hits Avery, upheaving her stomach and beading sweat at her hairline. What is she suppose to say? She tried? Her pace slows to a halt a few feet away from the intruder.

The door creaks open and Valerie peaks through, but only her face. Her eyes widen at the sight of her visitor; that tiredness from earlier flashes away in a spark of... anger? A blip of something else. Tiredness returns just as quick.

"I'm so sorry, Valerie. They just slipped past me and—" Avery says.

Valerie cuts her off with a bat of a wrinkled hand. "You don't have to worry, dear. You're free to go home. Hurry on, now." Swinging the door open, she steps to the side and turns her eyes to the supposedly-invited, red-haired guest. "In, Albert. Then tell me what's so important that you've got to go and ruin such a peaceful night."

Albert shimmies past Valerie, but a fold of their ridiculous suit jacket catches on the door handle and they jerk to a stop. They fuss with the fabric, flapping it about. "Judging from the earlier scene, I don't think I'm the one to blame for that." A final flourish and the fabric jumps free of the handle. "And this is how you treat a dear friend? With words full of *scorn*?"

Avery whirls on her heel and rushes back the way she came for the second time. *Nope. That's not my problem.*

---


The Hall of Discovery is empty. Well, not empty, but there aren't throngs of emergency personnel and investigators like Avery was expecting. Instead, the last dregs of late aquarium goers trickle through before closing time.

Avery hovers around the spot where it happened. Where she passed out. Inside the tank: purple-black mollies; green, black-tiger-striped angelfish; and orange-silver congo tetras flit about the water like normal. Anxiety plucks a taut, steel wire at the back of Avery's mind. The feeling reverberates inside her head along with a flurry of thoughts. *Are they really okay? Should I run some water quality tests? Individual examinations or something?*

A tetra floats at the edge of the tank; one with an especially segmented and spindly back fin. *Name's Twigs, I think?* Floating parallel to the glass, Twigs stares at Avery through a single silver-circled, black pupil. Avery leans in to get a closer look at their gills, but the slight movement sends Twigs into frenzied dashes. They zip in any direction that'll take them further away from the overly curious giant on the other side of the glass.

Knots worn in by stress and worry melt away from places Avery didn't even realize were tight: her shoulders relax, her stomach unclenches. She strides off toward the lobby. *They're fine. All those tests can wait until tomorrow.*

*What about that creaking you heard earlier? Sounds like the tank's walls are going to give in after all that stress. Go check.*

Undone knots reform in an instant. Her shoulders, her stomach, her legs: tendrils of compulsion wrap around them and freeze them in a state of cold pain. As if her entire body was dipped in liquid nitrogen and flash frozen. She pushes, forces herself to take a step despite her already exhausted pysche. *Come on! This is ridiculous, just let me go home.*

Her limbs only manage to tremor trying to break free of the icy hold.

*Check.*

Overwhelming panic bubbles through her body and up into her eyes, warping her vision. Air stops. She tries to breath, but her throat only clenches tighter.

*Check. What happens if your power hurt them somehow? It'll happen again, it'll be your—*

A hand slaps onto Avery's back. "What're you just standing around for? Didn't Valerie tell you to go home?" Tamika says.

All that pressure disappears. She sucks in a breath and widens her eyes, trying to play off the desperation as a gasp of surprise. "O-oh. Hey. I was— I was just thinking about what to do when I get home." The taut wire in the back of her mind twangs again and she massages the base of her neck. "Sleep I think."

Take Me Home

Hot, humid air mixes with the sweat of awkwardly arranged limbs under a pile of blankets. Avery struggles. She flails, kicking both her feet with wild frustration. One foot rockets out of the steaming maw of her comforter and fresh, cold air rushes over her body. The relief nearly distracts her from the headache.

Nearly.

She rolls over onto her back and drapes an arm over her eyes. *Why'd they have to turn the radiators on tonight?*

Outside, the wind picks up in a whistling frenzy. It billows through sheer white curtains set around her desk's open window and dampens the unbearable heat. This'd be the moment to drift off if it wasn't for the headache. She sighs, letting an odd mix of relief and frustration seep out.

The desk itself is cluttered with remnants of tonight's dinner: half of a tomato-glazed, lentil meatloaf; an untouched pile of corn; and some stray green beans. The smell hits her nose anew and nausea tickles at the back of her throat. She drudges herself up. Up and up until she's sitting upright, her legs sprawling out over her nest of blankets.

She fusses with her pillows, forming them into a wedge near the bed's headrest. Purpose-built for keeping her body raised and — hopefully — the nausea at bay. She throws herself backward onto the pile. *Can I sleep. Can I just sleep.*

As if to answer, Avery's mind jerks her perception inward. Into a scene that isn't a memory, but of fear manifest in vivid detail. An intrusive thought.

*Fish swirl round in a vortex of unlimited colors. Within moments, mollies, angelfish, and congo tetras all begin to struggle. Some gulp for air, others slip upside down. Already dea—* 

Avery grinds her palms into her eyes. "That doesn't make any sense, brain. *Just let me sleep*. *Please*."

*While we're here, do you remember if you turned off the sink?*

Tendrils of compulsion grip at her heart. They squeeze. Her chest and arms lock up. Breath quivers in her throat, refusing to move and starting to burn. She forces through one thought after another, searching for an explanation. Some kind of excuse.

Just then, the silence underneath the whistling of the wind hits her with inspiration: *I don't hear anything from the bathroom.*

In a jolt, the tendrils disappear and she sucks down a fresh breath of air. She tilts her head so that one of her ears points at the bathroom. *See? Nothing.*

*That wind could easily drown out the sound of a running faucet.*

Tendrils lash back around her heart in an instant and a weight like an anvil crashes onto her chest. With a gasp of surprise, she claws at her blankets. "I— *guh*. I don't need to check!"

*Are you sure?*

She grits her teeth: she forces a memory of her tapping the faucet's handles to the front of her mind. *Three taps each, just like always.*

*You're thinking about the time you checked it this morning: or you're just making it up.*

She slaps her hands onto the bed and pushes herself up, over the side of the bed, and onto her feet. The pressure eases, but it's still there. Tugging each foot forward.

In the dark, she stares into the bathroom mirror. Her shadow's reflection betrays only glimpses of the form it represents. The pressure in her chest isn't too bad yet: she can hold out a bit longer.

She studies her shadowy outline. Slivers of moonlight angle their way from the bedroom window and transform into streaky, specular highlights against Avery's sweat-drenched skin.

Something tugs her gaze down onto the faucet. She glares. *It's not running.*

*Check. What if you're wrong?*

Her joints start to seize; her chest tightens. Sighing, she nudges the faucet handles and punctuates each push with a whispered count. "One, two, three."

Pressure and pain disappear the next instant. She drags herself over tile, then carpet, and toward the bed. "*Please* let me just be. I'm tired."

*Since you're up, you ever wonder how long it would take for a fish to suffocate after their tank starts leaking? With a bigger tank, we've probably got a few hours left.*

Dread settles onto her shoulders and her shuffling ceases. She can feel her thoughts twisting over themselves like a wiggling mass of worms, working to justify—

*Go make sure they're alright. It's only the right thing to do.*

Compulsive tendrils strike, coiling and wrenching through her body in pain, shivers, and sweat. She clenches her eyes shut and digs her nails into her palms. *Just sit with it, me. You can do it. Let it pass.*

*Let it pass while they're suffocating so, so close to you. So close you could have done something.*

*It's a mile. That's not clo— no. Stop. Don't reason with it; ignore it.*

*Not close? Certainly close enough to make it in time to help though, right? Those poor, poor fish: watching their precious source of oxygen leak away. All while you're standing here arguing with yourself.*

Avery jams her palms into her eyes, blotting out the moonlight. Her voice comes as a whisper. "I don't need to. They're fine, they're fine."

*As long as you're' fine with taking the chance...*

Her mind goes blank. The only sound is her curtains drifting in the wind, brushing against the side of her desk. Yet, her body continues to revolt. Fresh sweat beads along her upper lip; damp pajama pants cling to her legs. *Are they going to be okay?*

*Are they? You heard creaking when you were helping that girl...*

The memory sweeps her away into a timeless trance, disconnected from her body but somehow still feeling all its discomfort as the memory plays.

*Above her, a girl floats in the air engulfed in swirling water. Avery has to keep ahold of her. No matter what. Avery's power is the only thing keeping her from suffocating in the wet, writhing ball.*

*Behind Avery, metallic pings echo through the now deserted hallway. It's the tank. Creaking and whining under the pressure of water pushing against the glass. Trying to burst free and join the girl.*

*A screw shoots out of the tank's frame and plinks across the floor a few feet away.*

The trance breaks.

Stale, burning air blasts up Avery's throat and out her  mouth. She scrambles to her dresser.

Hand inches from the oak handles, black circles squeeze around her vision. She gasps for breath and steadies herself with a hand on the dresser's top. Each lung full of air beats back the circles just a bit more until only a sliver remains.

She rips open the drawer, takes one more deep breath, and snaps on the first pair of socks in sight. *It'll only take ten minutes.*

Hot and Bothered

Ronan's box truck hurtles over a speed bump and the entire vehicle careens through the air. Inside the truck's container, Thea's stomach coils tighter toward the ground before springing to her throat as her body leaves the floor. In the middle of that weightless moment, wheels crash down onto pavement. Her stomach flips through the air and she plummets back to earth.

Near simultaneous, everything smacks onto the plywood floor: Ivan's fifty pound sack of salt thumps down beside him; Thea's cane clatters out of reach; and her own butt—

A shock jolts from her hip, down her leg, and back up her spine. Her head snaps backward out of instinct. Bone meets solid metal in a hollow clang, like a bass drum with its tension rods set too tight.

Stars burst into her vision. They blink out in the same breath and she slaps a protective hand over the swelling knot of skin at the crown of her head. "*Ow.* Gosh that really hurt."

At the end of the truck's container nearest the cab, her cane skitters to a rest. Exhaustion tugs her eyelids down into a tired stare. *Of course.*

It's not that far away from her: just a dozen feet or so. Still, the thought of it. It's dreadful. Exhausting. The thought of crossing that short distance feels like she's aged ten years in an instant.

Ivan's eyes shoot between her and the cane. His brow jumps with recognition and he scrambles over toward the godforsaken stick on a mixture of hands, knees, and feet. His New Boston accent echoes back to her off the metal wall. "Oh, sorry. Please. Let me just..."

Thea winces at the scene, at his eagerness. "Come on, you don't have to treat me any special. I'm not even—"

His hand wraps around the wooden shaft and he whips his head around. He raises the cane above his head like a trophy. "Don't worry. I got it for you, Miss Thea. I'll—"

The truck lurches up. Once again, everyone and everything floats into the air and comes crashing down.

Thea's head strikes the closing note and she slaps a hand over a second forming lump. "*Gosh. O-ow.* Can't they drive a little more careful with us back here?"

Ivan holds her cane down to her from his full height, handle first. "Here."

She takes it from him, still massaging at knots with her other hand. "Thanks. And Ivan: 'Miss' is even worse than 'Sister'. You really can just call me Thea."

He slides down to the floor on the wall opposite her, kicks up a knee, and flops an arm over the sack of salt. "If you insist Sis—" A thread of the burlap sack that he's fiddling with snaps. "Shit, damn it. I mean, if you say so. Thea. *Thea*. Sorry."

"It's fine, it's fine. What were you saying, by the way? The bit about your parents?"

His cheeks flush red. "We don't need to go back to that."

Heat and stale air hang between them: oppressive, way too dry. Tinged with the scents of rusted metal and rotting wood. Amid the mundane, a hint of cranberry wafts over from somewhere beneath Ivan's unsteady gaze and piques wrinkles along Thea's nostrils.

Nerves send static along her collarbone: should she push? It might help him, but... Before she can second guess herself, she settles her cane across her lap. "It smells like you've got something on your mind."

A visible shiver runs up his spine. "No disrespect, but that's pretty creepy. Do you still say that to people who don't know about your whole nose deal? Not going to say you're wrong, though."

"Well? I've made I habit of listening if you're feeling like talking."

"It's pretty childish, I think."

"That doesn't matter."

He chews on his lip, working through his thoughts. "Can you, you know." He swirls a finger in the air. "Maybe turn away? Like confession?"

She spins on her butt to face the container's doors. "Ah, yeah. Okay. Is this—"

Something inside her hip seizes. Pain floods her senses and bursts of flickering white obscure her vision. She catches herself falling toward the floor, but the motion is rickety. A fresh wave of pain hits her with each jerk. "*Ooh.* On second thought, how about I just lay down?"

He twists himself around to face the same way as Thea. "That works."

She crosses her hands over her stomach, cane tucked underneath.  "So what troubles you, brother?"

"Do you know anything about professional wrestling?"

Surprise digs furrows in her brow and widens her eyes. "I-I can't say I do. What about it?"

"That's why I'm here. You know how much money the pros drop on research and development of their powers? Whole teams of scientists and shi— *ahem* — among other things that is."

"A lot I'd assume?"

"A load. Metalwork doesn't pay well enough to get me in before I'm too old for it to matter."

"But Waylon said you've got a teleportation power right? Wouldn't you make more money using that for something?" Thea says.

He scoffs and the surrounding metal almost seems to vibrate with the noise. "You kidding? No one is taking a risk on some no-name, unaccredited teleporter. Especially not someone as limited as me."

"Okay, so you've got your reason to be here. What does that have to do with your parents?"

Silence stretches between them overtop the steady rumbling of the truck's frame. "They're not the most supportive of that particular dream. Says the displays the performers put on are Godless or some other nonsense." He says.

"Does that matter to you?"

He gesturing wildly with at least one of his hands, sending it flitting through the corner of Thea's vision. "Of course it does! Don't you care what your family thinks about your choices?"

Thea rolls her head to the side and her breath bounces back at her off the metal container wall. "S-sorry. I was left at the monastery as a child, so I don't really remember my parents. Sure, I've talked to others with similar stories as you, but even then, all of their reasons were different."

Another stretch of silence.

"Sorry." Ivan says, regret obvious in the weight of his words.

"No, no. Don't worry! It's not important. But I have to ask again: why does it matter so much that your parents approve? Help me understand."

Ivan rolls that snapped piece of thread between his fingers. "I guess... I guess that I want them to come to a match. See me actually happy for a change."

A pang of empathy echoes in Thea's heart, like a sound carrying through a cavern's tunnels. "Do you think that'll change their mind?" She says.

His hands clench and some of his knuckles pop under the pressure. "I don't know. Probably not."

"Then could you do it for yourself instead? No grand ideas of winning them over?"

Ivan runs a hand through his hair, then down his face, dragging the loose skin of his eyes and cheeks along the way. "*Gah*, I don't know. I guess... Just tell me: am I making the wrong decision? I feel like I'm letting my folks down again, resorting to this. If it doesn't work out, I'll be back where I started, maybe worse off even depending how bad we fuck— I mean, screw up. What if this is the last straw with them?"

"Does the thought of that scare you?"

"More than anything." He says.

Thea lets herself lay there, the truck's vibrations lulling her into thought. She tightens her grip around the cane still resting atop her torso. "I don't normally do this, but do you want to hear from a priest or someone just as lost and out of place as you?"

"Both?"

"Well, in my opinion, you should be scared. Losing the people you care about, your actions pushing them away. It's scary. None of us know the right answer or how to avoid every mistake. Not you, not me, not your parents. And certainly not the *mess* that is the Church. We're all scared little kids bumbling through the dark hoping against hope that the way we live will matter."

She sighs and lets silence linger, collecting her thoughts. "I can't tell you that it will matter in some grand sense. There's this thought I keep having; it scares me. Thinking that the people I love will blink out of existence one day and their entire life will only mean as much as I can remember. And after that? After I'm gone? There aren't any memories of them left and it's like they never mattered in the first place. It's terrifying, especially if I'm the one passing on." Her voice trembles. "I hate it."

Her flow of thoughts breaks and a flood of nerves shifts her stomach in uncomfortable circles. She sucks a stream of snot back up her nose. "Sorry, just me rambling about my own stuff at this point. I guess the gist is: what if you and I thought about our life as *ours?* Ours to explore. Ours to... I don't know: to flail wildly with or flush down a toilet if we so please. What if we take all this time we have and stop giving it to people who don't have to live with how they spend it?"

A Midnight Confession

Orange street lamps blink past overhead. Despite Waylon's shut eyes, he nods to the steady flashes of hazy, dim light beyond his eyelids. It lulls him into a meditative state as he replays his parking-garage briefing. From plan to back- up plan; from building blueprint to machine schematic.

Ronan — of course — interrupts him: the hulking man behind the steering wheel glances at Waylon out of the corner of his eyes. "Apologies for earlier."

Waylon's head lists to the side and lands on the passenger-side window with a soft thump. It's cold: freezing and burning against his scalp even through his dense, black hair. He rolls his eyes open. "How about you apologize by staying quite and letting me think?"

The shadowy reflection of Ronan in the window shrugs a shoulder. "I could, you're right. Wouldn't that let bad feelings fester though? I've read this on one of the internet pages and it said communication is important! Learning about each other is the fastest way to developing mutual respect! In fact, when I was just a sprout—"

Invisible wires tension around Waylon eyes, like the strings of an over-tuned violin. "I don't need to hear about your childhood."

"Are you sure? It's quite an interesting story: I'm sure we could bond over it!"

Waylon lugs his head back up and glares at Ronan. "I'm sure."

"How about we just chat then? You went over the plan, the back-up plan, and the back-up's back-up plan for hours. Surely it can't help to stew over even more?"

Tensioned wires relax; creases in Waylon's forehead disappear. It's true, he could use the distraction. "Fine." He says.

Ronan's entire demeanor changes: his butt wiggles in his seat, his hands cling to the steering wheel, and his eyes glint with a new, fiery hint of anticipation. "Yes! Okay, okay. So, why are you doing this?"

"What do you mean by—"

The brute bounces in his seat like an impatient toddler. "Oh! Apologies. I practiced this so much and I still screwed up the first question. Let me think..."

Waylon picks at the inside of his cheek with his teeth. *I knew I should have cut him off before he started. At least he's keeping his eyes on the road, I guess.*

"Why aren't you doing something else to make money? Is a healer really so expensive that you can't make enough at your usual job?" Ronan says.

"I don't have a *usual* job. Haven't for a long time."

"Why not? What'd you use to do?"

Waylon's gaze drifts to the truck's side mirror. Inside the reflection, street lamps race into the distance and disappear. "My husband and I agreed that I'd stay home. He always made more than I did anyways." He says. "Never got to bartend for the fancy places, only dive bars and their stingy drunks."

"I haven't talked to a bartender before! What's it like? I bet you learnt about all kinds of people!"

"Not really. It's mostly depressed men that don't know a better way to handle their problems."

"Interesting." Ronan's voice trails off, lost somewhere amid his thoughts. A few silent moments later and he zips back into the present with a shiver. "Apologies, I was trying to relate. I don't think I can."

Waylon's arms tighten across his chest. "Then you're lucky: why are you even here to begin with? To mock the rest of us with your faux interest while we do the hard work?"

"Never! I promise that I am interested and each question I ask is genuine. My goal above all else is to learn: about this city and all its moving parts; about you; about the strange world of fish! Never really cared much for them before, but this job piqued my interest. Did you know that small-eyed gobies can change—"

"You can stop. I get it."

Ronan jerks his head to face Waylon, eyes wide. "You do?"

"No, not—"

Before Waylon can finish, Ronan's lapse in focus sends the box truck hurtling over a speed bump and into the air. Waylon's stomach lurches. Without thinking, he slaps his hands onto his armrests and braces for the fall.

*Crash.* Windows vibrate, the floor shudders, then everything returns to normal.

Waylon exhales in a long, low breath. "Can you please keep your eyes on the road?"

"Yes! My bad, apologies. I hope the two in the back are alright, the truck people told me the suspension for the trailer needs repaired. Trucks like this use air instead of springs, did you know that? See, it's all about the weight. Normal steel springs —"

Ronan's voice slips into the background and Waylon starts counting the passing lamps. *I really should have kept quite.*

Some fun-fact-filled time later, Ronan's cadence changes and his words force their way back into Waylon's ears. "Back to what we were talking about. I don't want to bring up your mother-in-law, but can your husband not make enough for all three of you?"

Waylon bounces a fist on the door's armrest. "No. He's gone."

Ronan's brow furrows. "Where to?"

Pain blossoms in Waylon's temple: he plants his bouncing fist against the plastic. "*Gone.*"

"I *heard* you: is he coming back?"

The earnest nature of Ronan's tone sweeps Waylon's would-be anger off its feet. "Seriously? What are you getting at? He's passed. Dead. *Gone.*"

Ronan panics. His head darts between Waylon and the road. "Apologies! I didn't know!"

At that instant, the truck careens over another speed bump and into the air. It crashes back down in a shuddering of metal and bones. Ronan straightens up against his chair's backrest. "*Ah-hem.* Apologies. Eyes on the road, you were right."

Silence stretches between them. Long enough to make Waylon think that Ronan's finally done. *Finally.* He lets his vision blur and his mind go quite. Road reflectors flash white and orange in the truck's high beams, then wink out. One after another, forever doomed to darkness — at least until the next car passes. *An hour or two, maybe.*

The peace breaks at the sound of Ronan clearing his throat. "Do you know about the cycle?" He says.

Exhaustion tugs at Waylon's mind; he doesn't move or refocus his eyes. "The cycle of what? The moon?"

"It's the seasons. Plants shift, some die completely, and others are born from what came before. There's more to it. That's the easiest part to see though: the easiest part to feel over such a short time." Ronan wrings his palms around the steering wheel. "It's constant. I'm not sure when I started feeling it, but I know it'll all come to a stop one day. Then maybe parts of us will turn into something even better — or nothing at all. Am I making sense?"

"Strangely, but I think I'd have preferred it if you said sorry in the normal way. Minus the existential crisis nonsense."

The Cycle

The loading dock is mostly mundane: steel overhead doors, raised concrete walkways, and plenty of room for their box truck. In one bay, a rust-covered crane extends its forked arm into the air and looms over everything. Everything but the building itself. Between the two points of the arm's fork, an algae-stained sling flaps in the wind.

From just inside the now open container of the box truck, Thea takes in the moonlit sight. The smell too. Exactly like the Atlantic ocean. Shoving the memory aside, she leans further out with the help of her cane and sniffs down a lungful of air. "I don't think anyone else is here."

Waylon hops: at the apex of his jump, he shoves the container's overhead door and it clatters the rest of the way up its track. "You *think?*" He says.

She scratches her thumbnail along the side of her cane's handle. "I-I mean—"

Stepping over onto the concrete, Ivan barges through half of Waylon: part muscle, part bone, majority part the fifty pound sack of salt resting on his shoulder. "Back off, asshole. We're lucky she's here to begin with."

Panic vibrates through Thea's skull. *No, no, no, no. I was fine—*

Waylon rubs at his shoulder and walks off toward the loading dock's door, shaking his head. "Whatever."

Ivan offers a hand to Thea. "Well?"

She'll probably be fine without his help... Still, she plants her cane over the gap and a hand atop his. "Thanks. F-for standing up for me too, but I'm okay. Really. Could you just ignore him?'"

He shrugs. "Least I can do. And maybe, depends how I feel."

A feeling passes over her: an odd comfort amid the storm of jumping nerves and rampant thoughts. Almost how it feels when she's with Frank.

She drags her mind out of her thoughts and bridges the gap. Once over, Ivan drops her hand and pats her on the shoulder. "There you are. All good?"

She straightens some wrinkles in her cassock with a few pats. "All good."

They both follow after Waylon. It's silent besides Ivan's sack-laden footfalls, the clack of Thea's cane, and the odd chime of Ronan's phone from the cab. 

*Crack.*

Thea jumps, Ivan freezes, and Waylon flinches. They all exchange glances; nothing happens.

Ronan crunches through a mouthful of potato chips and calls back to them. "Don't worry, just an engine backfire. There's a highway just over that way." Leaning out the window, he waves vaguely in the direction of a nearby hill, shrugs, and crams another chip into his mouth.

Ivan perks back up. "Oh yeah, one second." He jumps down from the raised concrete platform of the loading dock to the asphalt ground.

Waylon tiptoes around a triplet of oval windows set into the steel of the bay's overhead door, searching for something. He glances at Thea, but double takes. "What is he doing?" He darts his head around and calls after Ivan. "What are you doing?"

Ivan waves an index finger over his shoulder and disappears toward the front of the truck.

Waylon glares back at Thea.

"I-I don't know." She says.

A moment after the last syllable leaves her mouth, a knock on hollow steel rings through the night. "Hey, dickhead." Ivan says.

Surprise tints Ronan's potato-chip-muffled voice. "Oh? Yes?"

Thea shifts her eyes off Waylon's and onto the concrete. Shaking his head, he shifts to the other side of the door and bends over like an infielder waiting for a baseball to soar toward him. "It's fine, it's all going to be okay." He says, more to himself than to her.

Sputtering, the box truck's engine springs to life and its red brake lights bathe the loading dock in a sinister glow.

A fresh wave of panic washes over Thea. "Is — is he leaving?"

Waylon exhales an inch away from one of the door's panels. Fog rolls out of his mouth and splashes against steel; it seeps over the metal surface, dragging a cloudy coating behind it. "No, he wouldn't leave."

The brake lights go out and the truck shifts forward.

Thea's pitch shifts up a half-step. "Are you sure?"

He rolls up his sleeve, exposing a pale forearm. "I'm sure." He says.

A second later, brake lights drown them in their red glow again and the truck's backing siren wails out steady, shrill notes. 

Each pulse of the siren sends goosebumps crawling over Thea's skin.

Ivan appears around the truck's side, back stepping and beckoning all sixteen tons of metal, rubber, and whatever else a truck is made of to follow him. Wheels creep, brakes grind, and all that tension sends metallic pops echoing around the dock. He eyes the gap between the trailer and the concrete platform, alternating between waving the truck on and flashing his palm. "Another foot and a half!" He says.

*What are they doing?*

Metal scrapes against concrete and the loading dock itself shudders underneath their feet. Thea teeters; her cane slips against the ground and her already uneasy stance falters. She slaps her free hand onto the building's brick wall, bracing herself. Then all the trembling stops with the sputtering of the box truck's engine cutting out.

Legs shaking, she pivots and plants her back against the wall. "*Okay*, okay. I'm okay."

Ivan flops his salt sack onto the platform and climbs up after it. "Are you sure? Sorry about that."

She breathes, willing her legs to steady. "Yeah, I-I'm okay. I'm fine."

He lugs the sack back onto his shoulder. "Still not done, Waylon?"

In front of Waylon, an uneven, visibly-shrinking hole that didn't exist moments before burrows straight through one of the door's steel panels. He reaches his arm through. "Nearly."

*Is that what his breath did?*

His face squishes against the metal and he flails his arm about for something on the other side. His words mix with a series of grunts. "What was that about?"

"Just had a quick talk with him. Teleporting gets weird if my salt lines are too broken up, so I —" Ivan winks at Thea. "— *politely* asked him to close the gap."

Thea's breath skips a second; she darts her eyes between the two men. *Why did he— what does that mean?*

Wind rushes through the loading dock, whipping her shoulder cape and hair into a frenzy. Both lash against her face in painful streaks; she closes her eyes and brings up a hand to shield herself. Behind the wind, fresh hibiscus bursts into her senses.

Like she'd just fell face first into a field full of the stuff.

Sweat drenches her body in an instant; her eyes go wide; sparks of fear pepper her lungs. "*Someone else just got here.*"

A Field of Hibiscus

It's just out of reach of Waylon's flailing hand. Thin wires; the cold, metal tracks of the overhead door; a lever with an unclear purpose. All felt, but not what he's searching for: the telltale feeling of the squishy, rubber button that triggers the door's motor. Pain screams warnings through his mind. The hole worn away by his breath is shrinking around his shoulder, digging into his armpit. A grunt slips out; he stretches until threads of fire burn inside his arm's tendons.

*There.*

His hand brushes against rough, plastic housing, then a pad of rubber at its center. He slaps the edges of his fingertips onto the button. After a momentary shudder, the door jerks; it climbs up its metal tracks and steel slats clatter with each inch of travel.

Waylon slips his arm out. Metal creeps from the hole's edges in a crystalline pattern, like water turning to ice. Pain still burns in his armpit: a cut probably. He rubs at the spot, but — at even a ginger touch — his brow furrows and his hand recoils. *Gah— that was almost bad. If I made it any larger I'd have passed out, though.*

"*Someone else just got here.*" Thea says, her eyes wide.

He slams a fist on the aquarium's exterior brick wall. *Shit. A hero? No, why would a hero be here? It has to be one of the employees.*

The possibilities swirl around his mind. All the ways this can go wrong... they turn his stomach to a pit; his heart hammers adrenaline through his veins and a nail into his temple. He wipes away blood from a fresh scrape on his hand. *No. You've planned for this. Keep it under control.*

Ivan and Thea exchange glances. A moment later, they both fix their eyes on Waylon: Thea's accented by fear, Ivan's by indifference.

Waylon swallows his own fear. "Where?" He says.

Nostrils flaring, Thea sniffs. "O-other side of the building, I think. Parking lot?"

"It's probably just an employee. We'll be fine, let's keep going."

Her shoulders creep up around her neck, like a turtle going into its shell. "R-really? Still? They're going to catch us!"

Ivan bends down until he's face to face with her and pats her on the back. "Hey, that's why you're here. Right, Sister?"

Thea wrings her hands around the handle of her cane. "Yeah. R-right."

The loading dock's overhead door clicks into place above them. Moonlight only illuminates a few feet of the room, so Waylon squints into the darkness. Loading carts of various sizes and colors litter a concrete expanse of dangling wires, exposed steel girders, and workplace safety posters.

He waves the others to follow and he passes the threshold. The inside of the loading dock is more cavern than building: each exhalation sends fog floating up into their eyes, and a sinister whisper echoing off the walls. He mentally sifts through the aquarium's blueprint. *Three branches from the loading dock. Left one by the forklift leads to the aquarium's largest tank; center door surrounded by crates goes to the offices; right door off near the bathroom has a maze of maintenance hallways.*

A wooden cane clacks along the concrete floor behind him and Thea's voice comes as anxious vibrations. "Which way was it?"

Heat boils behind Waylon's temple, but he heads off toward the bathroom without saying a word. *They'll follow. Did any of them even listen to me back in the garage?*

Both hurry after him and Ivan snorts a laugh in between footsteps. "Oh. Should have peed before we left, Waylon."

Heat turns to throbbing pain. Waylon pushes through the door and whirls around, stopping just inside the dark, narrow hallway of pipes and wires. "*Keep it down.* From here on, we stay quiet. Thea, whisper if you smell someone coming down the hallways ahead of us."

Thea forces an unconvincing smile through her jitters. "O-okay. I've got it."

He leads them off, winding through the blueprint in his mind in sync with them winding through hallway after hallway. *First fork, hard left; skip the door straight ahead, take the left before it; center hallway at the broken exit sign— are they whispering back there? Whatever, it doesn't matter.*

Standing under the exit sign, a single straight hallway and a closed door stands between them and The Hall of Discovery. That and a variety of scattered janitorial detritus: three-tiered shelves buckle under a rainbow of cleaning chemicals, a push broom leans against a wall, rags hang from screws driven into concrete.

Waylon raises a palm and whispers back over his shoulder, nearly flinching at the noise. "Wait. Do you smell anything, Thea?"

Thea's hair brushes over her own shoulders as she answers with only a head movement. He inches his head around to glare at her.

"*O-oh.* No, nothing." She whispers.

Waylon picks at the inside of his cheek with his teeth. "Okay." He starts to weave around the clutter toward the door, before a thought hits him: *do they even know what's next?* They can't mess this up for him: he flips back. "After we make it to the door, I'll open it *quietly* and we'll run over to the maintenance hallway on the other side. *Quietly.* Okay? No chatting."

Ivan shrugs. Nonchalant, but he at least keeps his voice down. "Yeah, we just follow your condescending ass. You already went over the whole plan in the garage, remember?"

Waylon glances to Thea and she nods. He lets his gaze linger, the pressure build. *They can't mess this up.*

Her shoulders creep back up around her neck. "Y-yes, follow you. Hurry. Be quiet."

Satisfied, he starts off. They dodge low hanging rags; the occasional bucket; and stacked, plastic wrapped packages of bamboo paper towels. Waylon tiptoes around the leaning broom and hurries through a clear stretch.

The sound of the other's footsteps follow behind him, along with the steady, soft clack of a cane. *Good. This is going fine. This'll all go fine.*

Thea whispers ahead. "Wait, wait!"

They all freeze, but Thea doesn't elaborate. Instead, silence weighs them down with a mixture of fear and anticipation.

"You smell something?" Waylon says.

"*They're right out—*"

Light floods the hallway; it overwhelms his vision with dancing starbursts and static. Sweat drenches his body and despair locks him in place. *It's — it's over. This is it. It's a hero out there and they've found us.*

Then the daze fades and everything comes back into focus. What was overwhelming light now trickles through the cracks of the door ahead, casting sharp shadows from anything that catches it. Panic fades just like the daze and Waylon's hammering heart slows with each breath. He inches his head around, intent on glaring down Thea again. "Couldn't have warned us *just a little—*"

*Smack.* Out of the corner of his eye, the wooden handle of the push broom clatters against the ground. Thea vibrates over it like she's a statue in an earthquake, like a gargoyle that can only watch on in horror as it crumbles apart. "I— I— I'm so sorry, I don't—"

Flushed Out

Moonlight drifts through hazy wisps of still-forming fog. Sat in little more than her pajamas, Avery stares through bleary eyes over the dashboard of her sedan.

*Being here this late is dangerous. You're going to get mugged if you go out there: or shot and left for dead.*

She pulls the door's handle. "And I'll look very silly when Tamika finds my body in the morning, I'm sure."

At the crack of the door, cold night air supplants warm and the thought fades to the back of her mind. She sweeps the door open and climbs out. Cordia Aquarium looms in the distance, still imposing even from the far side of the parking lot — where Valerie demands the employees park. Avery starts her hike. Before she can take her third step, white lines upon pavement catch her eye. Not because they're spectacular in some sense, but because her car sits above them, horribly askew.

Warmth flushes her face. How did she park so terribly; what if someone sees her? A few seconds pass in wind-murmuring silence. And then it hits her. She marches off, head down and shaking. *What am I doing? I'm the only one here.*

Halfway to the entrance, the wind stutters to a halt, then roars. It sweeps her brown hair into swirling whips; it steals her breath and chills her face to the point of painful, tingling numbness. She tucks the flittering flaps of a varsity coat over her tank top and trudges through the erratic currents.

Suddenly, the wind breaks.

Her stomach lurches alongside stumbling feet, but she catches herself by plunging an errant foot into an ankle-high puddle. Afterward, it's quiet: no wind. Just Avery's shoe squelching against wet leaves and pavement. Her spine shivers with every other sickly, wet step.

She stops a few strides from the door. With a moment's thought, water phases through her shoes and pools around her feet. No more squelch. Still cold, though.

She presses her face against the glass, cupping hands around her eyes. The lobby is lit only by moonlight; its expanse of windows cast crisscrossing shadows over a carpet patterned in patchy blues. Almost like a tiny, fuzzy ocean: or the carpet of every library she's ever been in. Avery fumbles her keys into the lock. It unlocks with a click and she pulls the door open.

The lobby is strange at night: foreboding and almost liminal. Circular stands of brochures and velvet-roped stanchions spot the space, like buoys at an empty beach. Off to the side, the ticketing booth sits empty under blank monitors that would usually be flashing exhibit information or local advertisements.

An odd sensation prickles between the hair at the back of Avery's neck. Unease? She exhales into her hands and rubs them together. *It's just the cold.*

*Or you're standing in a fish coffin; you took forever getting here, all the water probably leaked out of the tank already.*

Tendrils of compulsion force her feet forward. She writhes inside, rebels against her own thoughts. But despite it, she creeps toward The Hall of Discovery. Its doorway stands like a portal made of pure shadow. At the precipice of the threshold, the compulsion wanes and her internal writhing subsides: she can think again.

Nothing can be made out in the darkness past the doorway ahead. She chews on her lower lip, planning a dive for the light switch somewhere within. *On the left behind the door?*

Light falling through the windows disappears for a moment, as if the moon itself blinked. Just a passing cloud. Enough to snap Avery out of her tired, anxious, and childish fear of the dark. Still no reason to take chances, though. She darts into the hallway and flings a hand behind the door.

The switch behind it flips and lights burn to life, casting diffuse rays from behind translucent panels set into the ceiling. She lets stale air escape her lungs in a shoulder-drooping sigh. *See? No murderers.*

Tanks of various sizes line the righthand side of this stretch of The Hall of Discovery, but not the tank still gripping her obsession's attention. She strides forwa—

*Clack.* The sounds comes muffled; it reverberates from somewhere behind the door to the aquarium's haphazard stash of cleaning chemicals. Her heart stops beating; her legs stop moving. *No.*

*Yeah, murderers.*

Cold sweat instantly forms and rolls down Avery's neck. *No. It's just pipes or something.*

*Murderers, go check.*

Tendrils sweep her legs away from her control and she seemingly floats toward the door in question. She pulls back on her leg, trying to stop her next step. All she manages is a momentary shudder in her stride as compulsion strips her senses and drives her forward. She really is going to get murdered if she doesn't check.

Avery yanks the door open and...

Nothing. Nothing out of place; nothing staring back at her besides hanging rags and the overpowering smell of premium carpet shampoo.

Compulsive tendrils shrink, wither: they leave her heart hammering like the tremors after an earthquake. She relaxes. Her white-knuckled grip on the door's handle falls away and the latch clicks closed. *No, nothing at all.*

The Moon Doesn't Blink

Three figures stack behind each other just before a hallway's bend. At the back, Thea's heart races. It threatens to burst free from her chest and take off screaming back toward the loading dock. She keeps a hand planted over her mouth: afraid to breathe despite the sound of retreating footsteps; afraid she'll puke from the vertigo of teleporting.

Ivan leans out and swipes a ball off the ground: an orb made of plastic faces, all set in between shifting seams wide enough to glimpse its hollow insides. Seams that moments ago sent salt spiraling through the air.

Thea shrinks into herself and manages a whisper through nervous chatters. "I-I'm sorry."

With a nod of his pompadour laden head, Ivan slips the ball into his green overalls. "Ain't a problem."

Waylon jerks down two unruly flaps of his wool coat. "It—" His throat convulses in a dry gag and he claps a hand over his mouth. "It *isn't a problem?*" He finishes.

Each beat of Thea's heart sends a new, anxiety-riddled thought stampeding through her mind: she's not going to get paid; she'll get ditched here, left to fend for herself in a place she barely knows; or they'll kill her and toss her in a lake.

Waylon's eyes land on her's, angry and unforgiving. "She almost just cost us—"

Ivan barges in between them. "With all due respect, keep your shit together. We're fine. Did you at least see which one it was?"

Thea cowers behind Ivan's considerable frame and a few, quiet seconds pass. *Should I say something? Apologize?*

The urge grows; it tickles her throat and fills her head with an insistent buzz. But Waylon cuts it all off with a huff. "The intern." He says.

Ivan snorts. "Really going to be this upset over a small fry like that?"

Waylon doesn't respond: he just swivels round with a shake of his head and works his way back through the mess of obstacles. Back toward the door.

Ivan pokes a thumb after the man. "He can't take much, can he."

The comment leaves an odd feeling near the crest of Thea's head. An instinctual rejection that turns her mind inward in disgust, almost like a dizzying nausea. *Why does he have to antagonize him? It was my fault, right? Should I say something?*

Upon making it back without any further stumbles from her, Waylon cracks the door open. Thea's heart freezes in that moment. But, the intern isn't there to scream and police aren't waiting to ambush them.

A door with an "Employees Only" sign stands on the opposite wall; their next destination. Propping their door open with his foot, Waylon waves the others on. "*Go!*"

Ivan slips through and Thea scrambles after him, cane flailing from one perch to the next. Fish tanks blur past in her periphery. Tingles perk her neck hair on end, she hesitates; she darts her head both ways down the arcing corridor. In the dark of the lobby to her right, stalking near the ground... are those eyes? She blinks and they disappear. *No, it's nothing... I don't smell anyone else.*

Waylon claps a stinging hand onto her back. "*I said go!*"

They both stumble past Ivan into an unlit maintenance area and the door latches behind them. An invisible cloud of salt and fish and whatever they feed them engulfs Thea's sense of smell. Her throat seizes and wretches; pain strips it raw. She doubles over and coughs through her words. "Goodness. Do you all smell that?"

The other two appear unaffected, indifferent. Waylon pauses in the middle of retying his spikes of black hair into a high bun. "You said it won't affect your power."

Ivan drops the salt sack off his shoulder and takes a step toward Waylon. "Can you lay off her for one—"

"It— it's fine, Ivan!" Thea blurts out. "The smell won't cause a problem. I promise."

"Good." Waylon finishes the bun off with a snap of his hairband. "This way."

Thus they move through the space alongside a row of tanks of varying sizes. Light from the hallway seeps through the glass and water, outlining floating blobs of shadow. Each with a pair of glinting eyes that follow the three of them through the room.

An odd cold settles into Thea's stomach. A heavy ball, devoid of warmth and pulsing with her heartbeat. She takes a measured step around a stray cleaning brush. "C—could we have gone a less creepy way?"

Ivan weaves his head in front of one tank and the fishes' eyes follow the bouncing tip of his pompadour. His arm tenses around his burlap sack. "Yeah, somethings up with these damn fish. Looking at us like that."

Waylon pushes through a door into another hallway cluttered with pipes. "We're almost there. Keep up."

Misplaced Courage

Throbbing, unceasing pain — sometimes stabbing. It's like the other two are driving nails into Waylon's temple with a sledgehammer. Ivan and Thea plod along, whispering in the dark somewhere behind him. Keeping themselves distracted from anything important.

Waylon runs a hand overtop of a pipe's chipping paint. This one can direct him all the way to the door he's looking for: the entrance to the service area of the penguin enclosure. *At least those two are keeping up.*

They're still talking, but he needs them to focus now. "We're almost there." He calls back.

Ivan and Thea ignore him, choosing to keep their hushed conversation going as if he had said nothing at all. Something about wrestling if he's hearing the words right.

Waylon grits his teeth. What did he do wrong? Every heist movie has a hard-ass, stoic type that tries to keep the team on track. *Whatever. Phil was the people person.*

This door is different than the rest in the aquarium: solid stainless steel polished to a sheen; no handle, but a touch pad set into the concrete beside it with numbers blazing green. He bears down on his already grinding teeth. The intelligence packet didn't mention this. Probably some direction from Albert to leave it out; just another inane test for some greater purpose he doesn't want a part of.

Ivan rolls to a stop nearby with Thea close behind. "What's this? Didn't know everything after all, huh?"

Waylon kneels down in front of the door and jerks a sleeve up his forearm. "It's *our employers fault*, nothing to do with me. It's fine. There's probably a manual release on the other side."

"So as long as it's you everything's peachy, but none of us are allowed to make a mistake? Cute."

Waylon glares over his shoulder at Ivan, his own eyes of murky brown meeting Ivan's piercing blue. "Do we have to—"

Thea squeaks past the giant and plants herself and her cane between them. "E-excuse me. There's another— " She sniffs again, but all her confidence disappears. She bats a hand and shrivels into herself like a deflating, wacky-armed tube man. "Oh! Sorry, never mind. It's nothing. I'm sorry."

Pain flares; Waylon's teeth grind under the invisible pressure. "What is it?" He says.

"Sorry — it's nothing. Really. Animals are a bit hard to differentiate sometimes."

He lets his head fall forward against the door. *Yet another surprise.*

Green light bathes the space: the touch pad burns to life and its number pad is gone. Instead, it now displays an empty rectangle with a green outline. About the size and shape of an ID card. Then the pad speaks.

"*Hello, and welcome, New User(s). Please state your name and place your credentials against the pad, face down.*" It says. Each word echoes down the hallway, pleasant-sounding, yet terrifying all the same.

Authority In Question

*Shit, shit, shit.*

Waylon can feel his heart beat inside his eyeballs; his vision seems to bulge on every thump.

On the second reminder to present their credentials, Ivan slaps the back of Waylon's head. "Don't just stand there! Shut it up!"

It stings: enough to pull him out of his own head. Waylon claps a protective hand over the spot and jerks to his feet. "I'm thinking!" He says, glaring at the solitary, rectangular outline on the panel's display. *There has to be a way to stop it.* He rubs a hand around the thin crevice where its set into the wall. No bumps, no seams. No hints at where he might be able to wedge open its matte, metal housing. *Calm, stay—*

It blares another reminder. "*Please state your name and place your credentials against the pad. An alarm will sound in ten seconds. Are you struggling to find your credentials? If so, please check these common places: back pants pocket; briefcase; inner coat pocket—*"

Waylon presses his palms over his ears. *Think, think. Come on! What do they do in the movies?*

A scene from A New Hope jumps to the forefront of his memory. Just as if he was in the theater. Back at the film's three-hundred and eighth anniversary re-release with his dad. *Luke and Leia run out onto the precipice of a drawn bridge. Boots thunder behind them; blasters leave their holsters and metallic clips jangle from rising barrels. What can they do? Luke darts his eyes around himself.

*The panel?*

*He yanks Leia to the side and pulls his blaster's trigger.*

The memory of blistering, zipping lasers breaks with the panel's shrill voice: "*5 seconds remaining.*"

There's no way it'll work, but adrenaline and panic thrum inside his heart. He hurls a fist right into the glass-fronted display. Everything crunches: the glass; whatever's behind the display; his hand. Fire spreads up his knuckles. He yanks his hand back and a couple, small shards of glass with it.

And the panel stays silent. No countdown, no reminders, but a still-closed, indifferent door.

Ivan claps a hand onto Waylon's back. "Whoa, your hand okay there? I didn't mean for you to beat the shit out of the thing."

Wincing, Waylon massages both miniature glass daggers out of his skin. "I'm fine."

Red bubbles at the cuts. He swipes his knuckles down his hip and smears blood over his pant's black denim in colorless, dark swaths.

Thea's squeaks her head around Ivan's breadth. "A-are we okay?"

Ivan winks at Waylon, then props his back against a wall. "We're perfect. Our commandick-in-chief has it under control."

*What? The wink... why?*

Thea shrinks back and wrings trembling hands around her cane's handle. "A-and what do we do? What if there's another trap?"

Fresh blood pools, warm and wet between Waylon's knuckles. He ignores it. Instead, kneeling down close to the door, he exhales to the point of dizziness. Wisps of fog roll out of his mouth and coat a rough circle of the surface in opaque condensation.
 
He steadies himself. One palm against the wall, he rubs his exposed forearm over fog-coated steel. "It's just the refrigeration unit in there. We won't be running into anything else."

The material fades and cold air blasts past his arm. Goose bumps crawl over him in a wave of tingling pain, but that doesn't matter. His mind is consumed by the sight in front of him. Beyond the hole, it's another world. Mirror-finished steel replaces concrete, plaster, and carpet. From ceiling to floor, it's like a box that stretches forever in every direction. At it's center sits an angular machine; an elegant metal form fit for any piece of science fiction. Pipes weave from the floor into its sides, then out its top and straight through a wall.

Water wells in Waylon's eyes. The mirror-like walls cascade their near-infinite recursion at the slightest shift of his head. It's dizzying; his stomach churns, but he blinks away tears and plunges his arm through the hole. He flails it to the side, slapping against painfully cold steel.

No controls.

He strains. He stretches. Inside his arm, tendons tremor and burn. The hole is shrinking. It digs into his shoulder blade and turns the steady stream of cold air to a trickle. He tugs on his arm, but it's stuck and the hole is still shrinking: digging deeper.

One last try is all he'll get. He sprawls his legs out behind him and pushes: rubber soles tear against concrete; his face slams against the door. "Gah, *come on!*" His fingertips graze against a steel box of some sort and he grabs for it. He claws at it. Somewhere on the box's face, his hand clips the side of a small, round protrusion. He slaps his palm onto it. *There!* 

The button clicks and the door hisses in kind. Relief sweeps over him. "There. Got it."

Then the door jerks and he jerks with it: it slides along a track and starts disappearing into a cavity inside the wall. He flails his free arm out behind him. "Pull!"

In an instant, the sack of salt *thunks* onto the ground near Ivan's feet and the brute's hands wrap around his ankles. Ivan tugs. Waylon's stomach lurches and his entire body lifts off the ground, hovering. Stuck between a pocket-door and a hard-ass.

That is, until the upside-down mountain of a man throws his entire weight backward.

All but one of Waylon's appendages scream: each leg pops under the tension, more satisfying than painful; his stuck arm is just painful. A stretching, pinching mess split between the his arm finally reaching the door frame and Ivan's heft.

*Pop.*

Waylon's head plonks off the concrete; light flashes behind his eyelids. It turns to stars dancing through darkness and washes away the outside world in a dizzying wave of nausea. He rolls onto his side and buries his head in both arms.

Both of them.

Wrapping a hand around a pipe, Ivan pulls himself up from the ground. "Why don't you just make the holes bigger? It can't be that hard to do."

Thea drops to the ground beside Waylon and her cane clatters to the ground.  "Give him a second, you just smacked his head on the ground. Are you okay?"

Waylon groans; his voice comes out like whistling steam. "*Just a second.*" He curls into himself. "*Shit. Gah!*"

She hovers a hand near his back, but — eventually — she pats him a couple times. "O—okay. It's okay."

A few minutes pass. The stars fade; the pain subsides. Waylon creeps up onto all fours and latches a hand onto a nearby pipe. "You'd run out of breath with this power too." He rises on unsteady legs. "Why did you pull me by my feet?"

Ivan shrugs. "Thought I'd get more leverage that way."

"I'm not a *fucking lever.*"

"You're fine, right? Look, I feel bad about it. Sorry. But, if you're not actually hurt—" Ivan jabs a finger past him, pointing toward the alien piece of machinery. "Then stop the play and tell us what that is."

Waylon rubs at a knot forming at the edge of his hairline and — supported by the pipe — stumbles toward the open door. "*Whatever*. That's the refrigeration unit for the penguin enclosure. Someone wants it. Was built by a big-shot at the Federal Bureau of Heroes a while ago, so it's collectible."

Thea plants her cane and climbs up its wooden shaft. "We're not going to hurt the penguins by taking it. A-are we?"

"No. Unless they're too slow to replace it."

Ivan waves a hand at the thing, dismissive. "And how are they going to replace that? Looks like it's out of Men in Black."

Waylon freezes his stumbling and stares at the man over his shoulder. "You watched Men in Black?"

"Of course I have. It's a classic."

Focus. Waylon trudges on toward the machine. "Well, they'll figure it out: it's a custom job from twenty years ago or something. There's better stuff off the shelf now."

Ivan hefts the discarded sack back up to his shoulder. "If you say so. That work for you, Sist— Thea?"

"Y-yeah. I think so, as long as we don't hurt the penguins." She says.

Waylon crosses the steel-framed threshold: infinite reflections and cold envelops him. He wraps his arms around himself. Near the entrance to the otherworldly room, condensation creeps along the mirror-like surface of the steel — obscuring its image and dulling the pain throbbing behind his temple.

He rests a hand atop one of the many gem-like facets of the refrigeration unit. "So Thea and I will stay here. Ivan, you'll make your way to the truck and—"

*Thump.*

Ivan drops his burlap sack onto frosted steel. "And I'll ring when I'm at the truck." He whips a pocket knife out and slashes off one of the sack's corners.

"Right." Waylon says.

Ivan pulls the salt back up and bobs his head toward the mess of pipes coming out of the machine. "You sure you're going to be able to handle doing your thing on all those pipes? Can't imagine it if you run out of breath on some small circles."

Waylon glares at Ivan with as much contempt as the now-constant shivers let him. "You sure you brought enough salt? It's a long way to the truck from here."

He barges past Waylon. "Sheesh, just asking, dick-hole." He kneels down and starts pouring a thin line of salt, starting from the base of the machine.

It'd be easy to answer his question, but something in Waylon's mind twists at the thought. An instinctive urge to keep what he knows about his own power a secret. 

*He doesn't need to know.*

The line of salt grow. Ivan pours from left to right, then — every few seconds — he shifts to the side as his arms run out of reach. It's as if he were a human sprinkler; a walking typewriter.

*One, two, three—* Waylon counts as Ivan's pompadour bobs further and further away. *Four, five, six—* At fifteen, Ivan disappears into the darkness of the hallway. Waylon sucks in a deep breath. *Sixteen, seventeen—* At twenty, the sound of Ivan's shifting feet fades away.

Waylon brings his face near one of the output pipe and exhales a soft flow of air. Mist forms. It coils from his mouth and splashes against the pipe, where it wraps around the circumference. Lights swim at the edge of his vision. He works his exposed forearm against the metal, against the easiest parts to reach. And, as metal disappears, it gets easier. Not easier to stay conscious, just easier to fit his arm into places he shouldn't be able to.

A section of the pipe is gone after a few minutes. It was actually — probably — only a few seconds to everyone else, but not to him. His vision swirls; his eyes threaten to roll back. He doubles over and slaps steadying hands on the humming machine. "Only nine more."

Thea plants herself beside him, breathing to the beat of her heart and voice quivering. "S-sorry, but are you really sure they'll stay gone long enough for Ivan to reach the truck?"

*What was she doing? Why is she out of breath, too? It doesn't matter, no reason for her to know.*

She grinds one set of nails into her cane's handle. "Sorry. I... I just have problems with worrying. We're so far away from the truck and that intern is walking around and what if someone else comes and we need to run? Or—"

Pain throbs behind Waylon's left temple and he heaves a breath. "I get it. I'm sure."

She stares in silence. Her breathing doesn't return to normal and her face starts to contort, shifting through emotion-laden patterns as he can see her thoughts spinning out of control.

He drops his head, letting it hang between his arms. "It lasts longer depending on the temperature, like when it's cold out and a kid exhales on a car window."

It isn't instant, but her demeanor changes. Short breaths turn steady; her hands stop fidgeting. "Yeah, that makes sense. That makes sense. T-thanks." She says.

That simple? Waylon gives her a curt nod and leans up next to another pipe, dreading the incoming bout of light-headedness.

Icebox

*Check. You're almost out of time.*

Not quite running, Avery pumps her arms in the fastest walk her pajama pants will tolerate without catching under foot. Tendrils suffocate her from within: they wrap around her chest, crushing and writhing and demanding her attention. *It was one detour. By request! Why does my brain have to be like this?*

The Hall of Discovery winds in front of her; a slithering eel made of concrete, plaster, and carpet; lined with murky, unlit tanks on both sides. It'd be creepy if she didn't know what was inside every single one of them. As she passes, she can see shadows floating inside them — each unique in their own way.

Names pop to the forefront of her mind, as numerous as her footsteps: marsh periwinkles with their distinctive, conical shell; the bulbous eye sockets and long face of redlip blennies; writhing, wiggling masses of wandering nudibranchs.

Her mind wanders along with them. Her pace slows. *I'll never keep the names of the sea slugs straight.*

String go taut. Sneakers slap against the ground and she flies down the hallway in a half-jog, half-sprint. Cramps jolt through her stomach and the pressure in her chest creaks and cracks against bone. She pulls against her feet, trying to break free from the strings.

All she can do is look out from behind her eyes; observe whatever passes through a warped pane of glass. It's like her entire being is lurking beneath her skin and some one-purposed demon stole her body and damned her to suffer, disembodied within.

Before she knows it, the source of her obsession looms in front of her: a tank that stretches from floor to ceiling. The home of darting shadows that belong to molies, angelfish, and Congo tetras.

From the depths of a lake of her mind's own making, Avery breaks the surface. She gasps for breath. Shadows flirt with the edges of her vision, sweat falls down her face, and her hands tremble. She doubles over, hands on knees. Heaving breaths. "Why— is my— brain— like this." She says.

The fish don't answer her, they just flit around in the darkness of their tank. Content to pretend she doesn't exist. After a few more breaths, she cranks her head up. "So— how are you guys?"

As she told herself in her room twenty minutes ago, they're perfectly fine. She clomps a testing foot on the ground a couple times. No squelch, so no big leak. She runs a finger along the bottom seam where plaster meets glass. Not wet.

At that, all the knots inside her disappear. "So nothing after all, then." She says.

*What about the tests? What if some stray water from that girl's power splashed into the tank and messed with the PH? They'll die.*

She can't even muster an effort to fight back. Instead, she offers an olive branch. She squints her eyes past stinging sweat, trying to make out the water line at the top of the tank. *Looks like the same level as usual, to me.*

And her mind is finally quiet. No retorts, no new compulsions. None. Nothing. She whirls around and crumples against the tank. The glass catches her shirt and the skin of her back squeaks all the way down to the floor. It hurts. A raw, painful streak next to her spine. It doesn't matter, though. Exhaustion hits the next moment and she buries her head between propped knees. *Finally. I could fall asleep right here.*

*You can't. They'll fire you when they find you in the morning and you'll never complete your degree.*

She rolls her head back — where her head thunks against the glass — and she sighs. "Was a nice few seconds."

---

Time passes in a vague reality at the edge of sleep. With the slightest pluck of a string, Avery's thoughts swirl from exercise regimens to a non-existent, sushi-themed hero. She's his biggest fan, after all. Anything and everything. But, one thing sticks out. Green eyes with vertical-slit pupils shimmer, slinking within the land between. Not fully real; not all imaginary.

Her eyes flutter and something grips her heart in icy claws. Fear? She forces herself to blink. Water floods her eyes and her face, obscuring her vision with burbling bubbles of specular highlights. She scrubs away the tears with a coat-covered palm: they dampen the cloth and it sits warm against her skin.

She whips her arm away.

Carpet and concrete and tanks, that's it. Those green eyes were just part of the dream. Figments of her tired, paranoid brain. She rocks up to her feet. *I should go home.*

Down the winding hallway, her feet drag anchors the whole way. Exhaustion pangs in every scratch of shoe rubber on carpet: a hypnotist's trigger that forces her eyes to roll closed and fight to flutter open.

She turns around the final bend to see the lobby. And there's something there. Near the middle of the stretch of hallway, a line bisects the space. A white line that definitely didn't exist when she walked through here earlier. How long was she sat by that tank nearly asleep? Five minutes?

Avery's exhaustion is a distant memory, now. She creeps forward. "What in the world..."

The line sits perpendicular against the main walk, connecting the Hall of Discovery's maintenance area door with the impromptu janitor's closet — rather, the subsection of the hallway that they hide janitor stuff in.

Five steps closer, the solid white turns to glinting crystals; five more and the doors... they're propped open. Both of them.

Her heart's beat and her feet stop at once. *Someone's here.*

Sound ceases to exist for her — at least, that's what it feels like. Burbling air pumps of nearby aquariums fade to silence. That one lightbulb that always hums, too. Gone. Her lungs burn: she doesn't dare breath in case it makes a sound.

But it's not actually silence.

There's something there, underneath everything that her mind is filtering out. A *shifting.* Like paper sliding over itself. Her already stopped heart judders — struggles to beat.

*It's murderers.*

Avery presses her back against the wall. The one harboring the door emitting the odd, papery noise. She stands there, frozen like a deer in headlights. *It's just Tamika playing a prank. That's it.*

*Sure. They probably already know we're here, so run.*

Compulsion tugs one of her feet to the left. Away from the lobby, away from her car in the parking lot, and hopefully, far away from whoever is past that door. She doesn't let her foot move. *It's Tamika. Breathe.*

No rebuttal springs out. Compulsions lay quiet in recesses, content to wait for a better time to prod her.

Face simmering between fear and confusion, she turns to look at the weird white line and the door. *What am I supposed to do? I have to check, right?*

It's as if the doorway is sucking her in. A black hole, exuding curiosity instead of gravity. So she drifts closer. Inch after inch, she creeps along the wall and the sound doesn't change.

Shifting paper.

She peeks a single eye around the door's frame. At the precipice of fading into shadow, a man kneels, pouring white powder out of a burlap sack. Under a blonde pompadour, his blue eyes pierce her own.

*See? A murderer.*

Figments

Salt still pours, forming a pyramid in front of mister Pompadour; Avery stares in disbelief. Both of them are frozen and afraid to move an inch. She knows she is, at least.

*Run.*

That's the push she needs. Her whole body jerks, set to take off in any direction.

"Wait!" He raises a hand after her. The sack he's pouring from flops to the ground and the stream of powder sputters out. "Ah, shit. One second—" He sweeps powder with his hands, trying to massage it into an even line like the rest. 

Instinct roots Avery's feet in place. Instinct to listen, to be kind. To hear people out. Only for a moment, though. Her divided mind echoes that singular thought: *Run.*

Except, run where? *The lobby? They might be out there, waiting.*

He straightens and shows his palms. "Easy now, you don't have to freak out—"

His words may as well be wind in her sails: she doesn't wait for him to finish. She bursts to the side and pumps her arms, sprinting down the Hall of Discovery in perfect form.

In moments, thunder chases her. Ogre-like feet that boom as they catch the man's weight. "She found me!" He says.

Her heart thunders along with the stampede. *Shit. Shit! Who's he talking to?*

The Stampede

Waylon keels over; he labors for breath and his chest heaves. Six pipes that were connected to the refrigeration unit now transition from metal, to a hazy ghost, to nothing. Four more pipes and the painful waiting is done.

Near the door they came in, Thea sits on the ground and doodles nonsensical curves into the floor's fog-covered surface. Each stroke of her finger wipes away condensation to reveal strips of clear reflections.

*Is there really nothing else I could do?*

She rolls her lips over her teeth. A bit of pressure from her jaw and they squeeze out from between, like she's some kind of fleshy pasta extruder deep in thought. "Wouldn't it have been better for me to go with Ivan? Should I go find him? He's the one moving around, and it'd probably help to—"

Waylon's phone rings. Still struggling to fill his lungs, he roots around inside his coat. "No way he's already there."

Thea lets her head fall back down to her doodles. "O-oh. Sorry, I'll be quiet."

After a second more of him digging, Waylon wrenches the phone out and raises it to his ear. "What is it? I still have four—"

Ivan's voice comes through the dingy speaker amid a regular beat of ticks and clacks. "She found me!" He says.

Thea's finger freezes mid-line; her stomach drops. "What?"

Waylon rolls his eyes and pushes himself back up to his feet. "So? Why does it sound like you're running?"

"I've got to catch her." Ivan says.

*Catch her? Why?*

Waylon leans over the machine. Both elbows rest on a facet and his empty hand supports his forehead. "That's not part of the plan. Go back to pouring. At this point, you'll finish before anyone comes to the rescue." He says.

"Easy for you to say, asshole. She saw my face. Don't worry though, I'll get her sat still and explain things. Then I'll finish the job." Ivan says.

Sharpness tints Waylon's voice. "No, you can't. What I did to the pipes—" The receiver clicks before he can finish.

Thea's heart hammers: it wills her to take some kind of action, but all she does is clench up. Shrivel into herself. "What did he mean by explain things? He's not going to hurt her, right?"

Waylon ignores her. Instead, he massages his left temple: jaw set and phone still pressed to his ear.

"W-Waylon?"

He slams his phone down. "Gah! *Damn it.* Let me think!"

"Oh! S-Sorry."

Eyes closed, Waylon bobs his head through his thoughts. Ten seconds pass in silence; Thea watches on.

One final bob then he opens his eyes and squares himself in front of the next pipe. "Okay. Don't go anywhere, we can still make this work. Just sit there and let me know if you smell anyone coming this way."

*He's not going to do anything about it?*

The pit in her stomach swallows her hammering heart. Heat explodes from underneath her cassock and sweat slicks every inch of skin. Fear, panic, everything. A tornado of emotion sweeps her up, but also freezes her in place. *Ivan seemed so nice. Is he really going to hurt that intern? I can't be a part of that: should I just run for it? What do I do?*

A Doodle from Disaster

"She saw my face — … — get her — … — I'll finish the job."

In the midst of barreling down the wavy corridor of the Hall of Discovery, sweat turns to ice against Avery's skin. She tilts into her sprint. *No. A pompadour-having ogre does not get to murder me.*

Then, as if someone ripped open the blinds of a dark room, Avery's mind swallows her up and spits her into a crisp, vivid world of possibility. An intrusive thought as tangible as the monster hurtling after her.

*Her viewpoint switches. No longer behind her own eyes, but from the side. A profile view of the hallway and herself running. The man is there too, gaining a couple inches each second. She struggles: pumps her legs and arms even harder to outpace him.*

*Something tears.*

*Pain shoots up her leg; pain even her disembodied self can feel. She collapses to the carpet. A single bound is all it takes for him to reach her and...*

Avery mashes her eyes shut. "Not now!"

The man calls out, closer than she expects and with a distinct, New Boston accent. "Yeah? Well that ain't an option."

She whips her head around. *Whoa, how did I miss an accent that thick?*

He's about twenty feet behind her: not gaining, but definitely not losing. He forces a hand into his coveralls.

Avery's eyes go wide. *A gun?*

No. A shiny, metal ball emerges within his grasp. He squeezes and the ball hisses open, bisecting itself to reveal a fine mesh.

*That's probably worse.*

He winds his arm back. "*Sturgeon's Leap!*" On the final word, he whips his arm forward. The ball screams toward her and white powder sprays out of its mesh interior in twirling threads, like the outline of a whirlpool in midair.

Avery forgets she's afraid; forgets she's running away from some weird-ass, pompadour-wielding murderer. It's a scene straight out of a pro wrestling match. Complete with an announcer yelling some ridiculous move name and —somehow — no one laughing at it.

He slaps a grasping hand through one of the trailing threads. In between his clenched fingers, white powder ignites into blazing plasma of amber and ochre. Bright enough that tears flood Avery's eyes.

His form shifts: starting from his hand, all two-hundred pounds of him zips into the plasma like a deflating balloon. A bead of glowing amber burns down the trail of powder. It engulfs the metal ball and the next moment, it explodes with dazzling, eye-rending energy.

Avery careens around another curve. *Not good, not good!*

Blonde hair inflates out of the center of the plasma-powered starburst, followed by the rest of the man's body. He rolls midair, snatches the still-intact ball out of the dissipating light, and lands on his feet. His stride barely breaks.

Dread and resignation creeps from the back of her mind. Of all the powers for the person chasing her to have, it had to be teleportation. She pounds feet against carpet. *Turn down a maintenance hallway? No, I might get lost and —*

He reaches into his coat and withdraws another, unspent ball.

Terror rips the breath out of her chest. *I'm not fast enough... is this it?*

Metal separates with a hiss to reveal an identical, fine mesh core. It all repeats. The throw, spiraling powder, and blazing amber. Him flitting inside like a cartoon character, then reappearing at the end of the powder trail in a burst of light.

Dread no longer creeps: it crashes into Avery with all the subtlety of an arctic tsunami. What little breathing she's managing stalls out and her limbs cry for her to give up. He's only a couple feet away. Too close. He reaches out, turning feet to inches.

*Crack.*

Everything happens in a flurry: Avery's heart jumps past her throat; Pompadour man lands a hand on her shoulder; and a cat pops into reality in between his ankles. His hand slips off and both the man and the cat crash to the floor; a ball of flailing claws and limbs and feral yells.

Avery tears off down the hallway and screams. "*What the hell is going on?*"

Claws, Brawls, and Balls

Mister Pompadour doesn't waste time getting back to his feet. His footfalls are gaining again, but she has space; she has a chance. The cat helped her for whatever selfish, cat-serving reason they may have had. *What can I do, though?*

*You're just going to leave the cat to fend for themself? You're such a terrible, self-centered person.*

Pressure bears down on Avery's chest. She digs teeth into the fat of her lip and the taste of iron floods her mouth. *Keep running.* 

A plain, blue sign hovers above, hung from the ceiling on metal chains. White letters spell out exhibit names or important locations: "Gift Shop" and "Eastern Reef" are there with an arrow leading straight on. "Restrooms" too, pointing right — down the immediate hallway.

*Could I get out through the bathroom window? He wouldn't be able to fit... No, he could just—* Those spinning, metal balls pop to the front of her mind. *No, that won't work.*

Powder. What about the powder? At once, ideas collide and spark. A chain reaction of thoughts that coalesce into something coherent. As if, this whole time, she's been tipping ingredients into a cauldron, driven by half a recipe and the gut feeling of a master alchemist.

*Tamika's tank: I can just hop into it and sink to the bottom! No way that powder can phase through water.*

She makes the decision. Purpose propels her forward: the carpet and ceiling are just brushstrokes of white and blue, broken up by rainbow streaks where fish might be. 

A door labelled "Employees-Only" comes into view, set just before the visitor's entrance to the Eastern Reefs. Avery barrels through it. She hops down a short flight of stairs and slams into a second, much heavier door. It doesn't burst open. Instead, its hinges whine and pop; oppressive, humid air rolls out of a small opening that grows wider by the second. Groaning, Avery shifts against the door and pushes with all the strength her legs can manage. At three seconds, the gap is big enough. She slips through. Just as the heavy door slams, the man bursts through the first. Avery spares a moment to search for a lock: none, not that lucky then. She gulps against the dryness of her mouth. *Maybe the weight of it will buy me a little time.*

The maintenance area is cramped. Pumps, protein skimmers, and other machines with other names crowd around walls; a metal-grated walkway winds overhead, too close for comfort. She darts left, down a narrow hallway that ends in a stairwell made of the same metal material.

Her legs burn; tight muscles and ligaments complain about the lack of pre-run stretching. She pushes it out of her mind. Behind her, the — apparently not-so-heavy — door explodes outward. Mister Pompadour is there: shoulder bearing the brunt of the door's weight like it's nothing more than a flimsy piece of plywood. She whips her head forward. The stairwell is only a few more steps away.

*I can make it.*

She stretches her arm out in front of her, grasping. Her fingers wrap around the railing the moment it's in reach and — in a well orchestrated series of movements — she repeatedly yanks back, springing up three steps at a time. Three sets of three steps, then she careens over a landing; she slams the concrete wall on the other side, forearms first.

Pain flares from wrist to elbow: bruises to deal with when death isn't a step away. She pushes off the wall and yanks herself up the second flight of stairs.

The entire walkway judders on the last step. She trips; her body sprawls over metal grating. The pitted, rust-covered surface digs scrapes into the skin underneath her clothes: up and down her legs, stomach, and arms.

*He's right behind you, get up.*

Everything judders again. Past the grating below her, mister Pompadour sends the walkway into a new fit of shaking each time  he climbs step. Her heart quickens; it thunders inside her chest like a timpani. She scrambles to her feet and tears off down the way she came — just further off the ground than before.

In between bouts of shaking metal, she runs. Left, straight, zigzags. Whichever direction the walkway leads. Ahead of her, a short stretch of stairs climb up to the tank's access platform. The spot she first met Tamika.

*I can make it!*

Mid-sprint, she fumbles with her jacket, trying to slip it off. Reaching the first step, the jacket is off and flaps around in her grasp. She yanks herself up to the landing. *God, I hope this works.*

Water stretches out before her; dark, churning, but also glinting as waves catch diffuse moonlight at the right angle. She beelines toward it. Mister Pompadour's weight lands somewhere close behind, probably just off the steps. She refuses to look.

His voice booms, oddly muted with all the nearby water. "Stop! Don't—"

She plants a foot on the edge of the walkway and kicks off: a cacophony of clanging metal drowns out his words and she flies. Over the small diver's platform and its ladder; over several feet of undulating water; then no where. She freezes midair at the apex of her leap. Hovering betwixt gravity and her dying momentum.

Gravity wins: her body plummets sneaker-first into the tank. Grasping her jacket in both hands, she casts it above her head and flips a familiar, instinctive switch inside her mind. Water envelopes her lower half — yet, no cold. No wet, soggy clothes. Concentrating on everything but her jacket, she passes through the water as if it doesn't exist.

Then her jacket hits.

Her arms rip upwards; pain tears through her left arm's tendon and, deep within that shoulder, something pops. Fire erupts inside. Black narrows her vision to pinpoints and her eyes roll back.

*No. You're going to die if you pass out here. Stay awake.*

Jacket fabric bubbles up like a parachute and her rapid descent jerks into a drift. She fights for consciousness; her eyes flutter and water starts to seep into the clothes she's still wearing; cold supplants heat in uneven splotches against her skin.

*Please stay awake, Avery.*

It's a familiar voice, yet not her own. Her eyes snap open; the muddling darkness clears. Pain tries to force her eyes back closed, but she grits her teeth and clings to the edges of her jacket.

Moonlight spills through pyramidal skylights to cast shifting beams into the water. All around her, the shafts of light catch unfiltered particulate as it swirls in invisible currents. A rainbow of coral clings to the face of artificial crags; even more nestles into the floor's gravely substrate.

It's easy to appreciate the wonder — well, it should be. If she wasn't falling toward the ground at considerable speed she probably could. Instead, she kicks her legs. Flails them for any chance at slowing her fall.

It does nothing: her legs pass through the water like it's not there. She lets her lower half fade from her concentration and water rushes into the fabric of her pajama pants. Frost pierces her bones. A gasp escapes her mouth, but water absorbs any sound it would make and air bubbles tumble toward the surface.

Spines of coral wind upward toward the moon. Many, long and sharp and ready to impale her. *I'm going too fast!*

*Crunch.*

She crashes down on a bush-like, red coral. Its spines tear holes in the legs of her pants and wisps of blood curl up from raw scrapes. It's not enough: the spines crack — she falls, unhindered to the ground below. The entire exhibit shudders; her body tumbles over sharp rock and she skids to rest on her dislocated shoulder. 

Bruised and broken.

No fish are around — spooked by the noise. Avery plants a palm on shifting, crackling substrate; gravel and crushed coral dig into her skin. She tries to plant her left palm beside her right, but her shoulder screams at the slightest movement. She winces.

*We have to call someone.*

Avery pushes herself up to her knees, trying to keep her left arm pinned to her side. As she shifts, it doesn't matter. Lightening shoot down her limb to constant agony.

She screams, pushing against the gravel. Giant bubbles tumble away from her open mouth. Until she's there: finally up on all working threes. She closes her eyes and sucks in a deep breath. *One more push. That's it.*

A moray eel slithers by, brushing over one of Avery's legs. Long, slick, and cold. The feeling sends a shiver up her spine and leaves her skin feeling slimy.

*It's going to kill us, punch it.*

Instead of sitting with the urge, Avery raises her knees one by one to rest on the balls of her feet. *They're not an it... And they're not going to kill me.*

Some gravel and bits of coral tumble away from her knees, drifting toward the ground. The rest cling to shallow burrows in her skin.

*Punch it.*

With a water-muffled groan and a burst of bubbles, she does an awkward, one-handed shove and shimmies her feet closer to underneath her. Her hand leaves the ground; she straightens up to finally stand. Legs tremble under her weight, but — despite being the bleeding mess they are — they don't give. She slaps the pockets of her pajama pants, forgetting they don't even have them. *Where's my phone?*

In her jacket, of course. Where's that, though? Urgency creeps into her breathing and she casts her head about wildly.

There. Navy fabric waves within the water's current, pierced through by a jagged, red spear. The remnants of the coral that almost broke her fall somehow still affixed to the crag it calls home.

Panic, adrenaline; whatever it is, it forces her forward despite the pain. She stumbles over to the jacket and rips it down. Its fabric tears, leaving it in nearly two pieces — only connected by a handful of threads. 

She digs around in the pocket she can reach. Inside, her fingers brush against the familiar, glossy brick. *Oh, thank god.* She finagles it out of the pocket, only losing her grip once.

At the top of the phone's display, a blue light pulses every few seconds. A notification. And it hasn't shorted out, or whatever electronics in water tend to do. 

*Will it still work if I unlock it?*

Fire burns deep inside Avery's head; no sleep, all the recent stress, overexerting herself. Using her power as granularly as she is now too. It's all weighing down her thoughts — keeping them murky and imprecise. She looks up to the surface, trying to judge the distance. *What did that ad say about the phone being water tight? Up to thirty feet?*

There's a figure at the precipice of the diver's platform.
Under his sweat laden pompadour, the man looms over her. It's an odd feeling. An intense uneasiness that makes her stomach churn amid a heart-hammering fear. Like she's being watched, but the watcher already has a sword at her throat. He taps on his phone a few times and brings it up to his ear. 

She does the same. With a trembling finger, thumb, and a silent prayer that the phone doesn't immediately short circuit, she clicks the screen on. It burns to life and the waiting notification slides into view.

*Mom: Where are you at, honey? Work ran late and —*

Only the start of the message, but enough to cause guilt to join the cacophony of emotions inside her. She hovers a finger over the notification. *I don't have time, sorry mom...*

Calling up the number pad, she taps in nine-one-one; the receiver starts ringing.

She whips her head up and — at that moment — the two of them lock eyes. His blue eyes still pierce through all the water between him and her, and his lips curl into a frown. He's talking. Other than his lips, his face barely moves. Locked in a foreboding expression.

Avery chews on her bottom lip; each new ring from the receiver spurns a new thought. She's never had to call in an emergency before. *What if I'm overreacting? What if I pass out before they get here? What if I pass out before they even answer?*

Shifting clouds reveal the entirety of the moon's waning crescent. Past the pyramidal skylights, it hangs near his head. Brilliant beams of moonlight drown out Avery's sight. Everything, except for the man and his eyes. Eyes that pierce through overwhelming light and the shadowy tug of unconsciousness alike. The eyes of a cold death set to see her to her end, either by his own hands or by watching her slowly drown at the bottom of this tank.

He slips the phone into his pocket and climbs up from the diver platform. Up the ladder and gone. Just like that. She stares at the spot his last foot slipped past the concrete edge. *What? What's he doing?*

The receiver crackles and a woman's voice comes through. "Nine-one-one, what's the emergency?"

Avery forgot the thing was still ringing. Water swallows up her voice and it reaches the phone in a distorted, burbling hum. "*Uhm — Sorry. There are people here trying to hurt me. I'm in a safe spot, but one just walked off. I've got no idea what he's doing.*"

"Excuse me? I can't hear you."

Avery cups her dislocated arm's hand over the receiver. "I — gah! — I'm at the aquarium and there are people trying to kill me."

A bored tone tints the dispatcher's voice. "Which aquarium?"

"Cordia."

"There are two aquariums in Cordia, which one?"

"*The* Cordia Aquarium! Please, hurry. One of the guys just left to do something. I don't know what. He was talking to some other people on his phone, then he disappeared."

The dispatcher rolls her eyes — her voice makes that clear. "*Okay.* Have you seen any of the others? What do they look like?"

"Just the one: he has a blonde pompadour and coveralls. Is that enough?"

Some keyboard clacks come through the receiver. "Plenty."

"So you're sending people? When will they be here?" Another jolt of pain shoots through Avery's shoulder. She lets out a sound: part gasp, part hiss. "*Tssha* — can you send an ambulance too? My shoulder is messed up."

"Five minutes? I'm not really sure. You know that you'll be in big trouble if this isn't a real emergency, right?"

Frustration melts the ice still clinging to Avery's bones. "I'm *not* lying! Why would you think that?"

"People trying to kill you at an aquarium? It's pretty unlikely."

"Are you sending the police or not?"

"Yeah. Making conversation, now. I'm kind of just killing time until the next call comes in."

Avery slaps her thumb down onto the red disconnect circle. The receiver clicks off. "*What is with tonight.*" She says, water distorting her voice again and bubbles tumbling out.




That's a Moray

Time isn't kind. Waylon doesn't know how long it's been since Ivan called. Two rounds on the pipes and his head is spinning; his chest hurts and his eyelids flutter. He heaves in breath after breath, in between pangs of nausea that flip his stomach end over end.

It's freezing. The refrigeration unit hums louder each minute, sapping away heat to replace the cold escaping through the still open door. Its chill bites to the bone and forces his blood to churn — slow and thick. He drops his head onto an impromptu pillow of crossed-arms, which — in turn — rest on one facet of the machine. *It's been at least five minutes.*

Directly behind him near the room's entrance, Thea squeaks. "Oh! T-They just passed by..."

Waylon forces words past the nausea. "You smell them?"

She sniff a few times. "Yes. That intern's scent is fading, but Ivan's is still strong. D-Do you think he lost her? Is he coming back here?" She says.

Shifting just enough for an eye to slip past his own keeled over frame, he stare at her. "It's your job to know."

She picks her cane up off the floor and shrinks into herself. "Right, sorry. Sorry." Her head jerks toward the entrance as if her nose was caught by a fisher's hook. "*Oh.* Never mind, he's chasing her again." She says.

Of course, why wouldn't he. Waylon sucks in another deep breath. *One more round, then.*

Nausea-Flavored Frosty

Ivan's voice crackles through the phone's speaker. "She's at the bottom of the tank: phased through the water, maybe. Whatever she did, she can still breath down there."

Thea wrings her hands around her cane. *Thank goodness she's safe, but...*

Waylon paces. His heels stamp down on a frosted-over floor. The sound travels past the threshold, down the maze of crisscrossing corridors, and it echoes back. Eels slither in Thea's gut. Within the space, tightened wires sing with tension, spurred on by fear and anticipation. Then he snaps. "Why are you just standing there? Do something! Jump in after her — teleport!"

"Nope. Can't. Salt dissolves in water, professor shitbird." Ivan says. "And she's already on the phone anyway: probably the police."

Thea's lungs seize; tears bubble and distort her vision. *It wasn't suppose to be like this. Why did I have to come?*

Waylon kicks the base of the machine, sending a metallic warble to rend Thea's eardrums. "Gods. *Shit.* Why didn't you just go back to—"

Her throat. It won't move. She can't force air into her lungs. Crackling lines of pain burn up her esophagus. *I messed up. I ruined everything. I-I did this. What do I do?*

Ivan's tone sharpens. "That wasn't an option. You know that."

"Then why didn't you catch her? Plenty of space to throw one of those balls. You've got more on you, I know you do."

Thea struggles to her feet, rising on legs asleep with static. *It would be better if I left, right?*

"I used the last one trying to catch her. Fucking had her too, but a cat came out of nowhere and attacked me."

She stumbles to the doorway and grasps onto the metal frame; cold wind flows past her, off into the dark. *I'm so disgusting. Horrible. I'm not leaving for their sake. Only mine.*

Waylon scoffs. "A cat? What? This isn't live action The Cat in the Hat or some shit."

Ivan scoffs back, louder. "Might as well be. Thing teleported between my feet, tripped me, and wouldn't fuck off; my leg looks like it tried to eat it."

She teeters into the maze, running one hand along the wall's pocked concrete. *I can't live in prison. I can't. I won't.*

Waylon slams a fist down on the machine. "How? It's a cat! You couldn't handle an intern, you couldn't handle a cat. Couldn't even—"

"Sorry: don't care to hear more. I'm out. Not going to stick around for the fun." Ivan says.

*He's leaving. Is it fine that I'm leaving too, then? No. It's my fault. I should stay and face it, but I can't.* She takes another step. *I'm a coward. I'm worthless.*

Their words start to fade from her ears. Waylon's tone backs off. "No, come on. Please. We can still do this before anyone gets here. Just go finish your pouring and—"

"No, not happening." It's silent for a few seconds, then Ivan sniffs: wet, gloop-filled. "Sorry, Sister." The speaker clicks and he's gone. Forever.

Thea's heart tremors. It echoes in her ears like a church's bell, each pang driving twisted nails into her chest. She clutches at her heart's and collapses to the side: into a dark, cramped pocket between a concrete wall and a water heater.

Another fist clangs against metal. "Damn it. *Damn it.*" More silence, but it's cut short by a gasp. "*Shit*, no. No, no. Where is she? Where did she go?"

She lets herself fall down the wall; she squeezes her arms around her knees and tears gather like icicles at her jawline, threatening to fall. They do. One after the other onto the gathered fabric of her cassock's skirt. *I should get up and help him. Stop hiding. Help him escape.*

Rubber soles stamp against the ground. He shoots out of the door and runs right past the water heater. Past her cowering body nestled beside it. Words slip out under his breath. "No, no. Come on!".

Her heart won't stop; it just beats faster and faster, pounding against the cracks in its container. She lashes fingers around her calves. *Help him. Stand up and help him.*

Waylon skids to a stop at an intersection of hallways. Only one has the trail of salt leading back to the truck, but he hesitates. "Would she try to run by herself?" A moment of silence later, he shakes his head. "Us three can still make it out together; she knows the plan. We'll be okay." He runs off, following the salt trail.

Her head lolls the the side. It thunks against the concrete and pain sings inside her skull. "*I-I... I deserve it.*" She whispers.

Shellfish

Two cameras capture the world. Disguised as rivets that hold together the chrome scales of Scrypher's helmet, the masses continue on unaware they're being watched. Observed. Every single one of them: each hesitant step and every unsure word.

Just in case.

Red outlines pop onto the helmet's internal display. Points of interest. Scrypher darts her eyes over them, dismissing each in turn as a false positive.

*Typical.*

Internal speakers click and buzz, then a man's voice comes through. "— when I decided to just walk out! No way I was dealing with more of his nonsense. Anyway, enough about me. It's been so long since—"

Another click and it's a woman's voice now. "— so gross. Put that down! You've got no idea where that's—"

Banal, normal people. Mundane to a fault. Behind a decorated, porcelain facsimile of her own face, Scrypher clenches her teeth. *Why am I even here?*

The street around her is buzzing, but it's meaningless. A sea of inconsequential bullshit only meant to overwhelm and distract. None of these people are important enough to hone in on for more than a second. She wraps the flaps of her trench coat tighter around herself and shifts her back against the sidewalk's light pole.

It's a leap away from her office's stainless steel, clinical lights, and two-way mirrors. *Yet I'm here; stuck where I can't make a difference.*

On the other side of the restaurant's glass display, Barclay booms a laugh and slaps the supposed owner on the shoulder. She could listen in if she wanted. All it'd take is the simple twist of false rivet. It'd be useless, though. He's the exact person that he shows the world: outgoing, kind — both insufferably so. No hint of malice or corruption she can get a hook in. Nothing to drag into the open, bare for all to see.

The thought of it digs furrows into her brow. She fiddles with a pair of handcuffs in an outer coat pocket, ratcheting both cuffs closed and running her fingers down the chain link between them. *Why? Why did they put me here?*

A bell rings. The door to the restaurant is open and Barclay's there, holding it for a nondescript woman. He strides out after her, the legs of his ridiculous, purple leotard riding up his thighs. "Didn't have you waiting too long, did I?" He calls.

Scrypher pushes away from the pole. "No."

He offers her a kebab, point up and chokes down a word-muffling chunk of another. "Ready to go then?"

She yanks her share out of his hand. "I was fine not stopping here in the first place."

He swallows; he struggles, his face flushes red; he beats a fist on his exposed, hairy chest and his strained expression clears. "How about you take a couple bites and let me know how you feel? I haven't been wrong yet, have I?"

*He hasn't.*

The two walk off down main street, among crowds of drunk bar goers, late night jaywalkers, and a single street performer.

Scrypher pulls down on her helmet's porcelain mask and it clicks. It slides down a hidden guide track and comes free with her hand. Underneath is a plain, unremarkable face. Her face. The lower half of it, anyway. Porcelain lips that were full and painted in ruby are — in fleshy reality — just tight, thin lines; the button nose gets swapped for a downturned glob of clay; and soft cheeks turn to gaunt, iron-like slabs.

Her insides twist. Even exposing this much of her face in public... With her teeth, she plucks a cube of *something* off the kebab. *What's in these things? Soy?*

She bites down.

Despite its toughness, flavor explode out of the cube. A flavor that supplants prickling discomfort with explosions of multicolored fireworks. Forgetting to slide the porcelain insert back in place, she raises a hand to cover her exaggerated chewing. "Not meat, but it's okay."

He pumps a fist. "Nice! You know, it's not suppose to be like meat. Seitan is its own thing."

"Satan? Is this what they eat at those Mass things?"

He shoots her a look of pure confusion, his oiled mustache hiding most of a frown. "What? Long 'A' sound: seitan. Not Satan. That's probably the most out of touch thing you've said: borderline sacrilege, even. Probably best you don't ask something like that in earshot of a Catholic."

She bites a vegetable off the kebab. "If you say so. I tend to give them a wide berth anyway."

Pedestrians in Burnt Umber

Crawling along unseen wires, strings of holiday lights curl away from street lamps. They trace images of snowflakes, bells, and candy canes that twinkle in mismatched sequence from red to green to gold. An unnecessary display albeit eye-catching and festive.

Scrypher's comfortable again — her face is covered up, free to look how it does. And she's on the move. Patrolling along the route outlined by their nightly dispatch. Rather, she would be, if Barclay didn't find a new excuse to drive them off course every few blocks.

Like the overexcited dog of a man that he is.

First, a bottle shop: he drapes himself over their glass display. "Evening! Oh no, no drinks for me: just wanted to check in. How are you folks doing tonight?"

Next, a trumpet player: Barclay claps and stomps in tandem with the surrounding crowd. Scrypher pulls him away, but not before the struggling strongman drops a handful of bills into the waiting instrument case.

The final time — not counting the dozen that follow — he steps into line behind some drunks playing hopscotch on a faded board. Scrypher's eyes glaze over. She barrels past, set to leave him behind. *Irritating. An endlessly annoying, unfocused, lazy—*

From the back of her mind, a different thought pushes through. The memory of a binder recalled as crisp as tonight's air. Regulations for and policies from the Federal Bureau of Heroes, cluttered from top to bottom in bullet points and footnotes and whatever else the dear legislatures thought might be fun.

Only one sentence blazes against the paper, though. *Section 1, Patrol Procedures; Subsection 1.14:  Don't split up the patrol group except in cases outlined by Subsection 1.15.*

Locking her jaw, Scrypher plants her back against the brick wall of a nearby bar. *Being annoyed isn't enough to skirt policy.*

Barclay waits his turn — stuck behind stumbling drunks that can't tell their left foot from their right. Five excruciating minutes; it feels like her brain is rotting away. If she overhears one more inane conversation it might just.

At that moment, a crowd of teenagers pass by and one of the older boy's voices crackles through her helmet's speakers. "— finally asked: she said she'd go with me!" The others erupt in congratulations and pat him on the back.

Scrypher lets her head loll back, where her chrome-scaled helmet clatters against brick. *Yeah. I was right.*

---

Another patrol; another uneventful night. It isn't over yet, but it may as well be. No one is out on the streets and only the occasional car breaks up the monotony.

Scrypher lulls behind Barclay. *Another day to blend into the others. Will I even remember anything that happened tonight once I'm back?*

Barclay casts a stray eye over his shoulder and breaks the silence. "Getting quiet, but before I call it a night I'd like to take a stroll by the aquarium. You're welcome to tag along if you want. I understand if you don't, though. It being a special request and all."

"Playing favorites again?" Scrypher says.

His mustache twitches. "I'd do this for anyone that asked, not just Valerie."

Exhaustion teases her mind with the urge to go home. To drop onto her couch and lose herself in some video game, but no one escapes the iron grip of policy: Section 1, Subsection 1.8 in this case. She kicks herself into a jog. "Fine. I'm coming."

"Wonderful!" He peps up, puts more spring in his step. "It kind of creeps me out over there this time of night; way too dark. The city keeps ignoring me when I ask for them to put in some street lamps."

Catching up, she falls into step beside him. "So I'm just your nightlight, then."

He perches both fists on his hips and barks a laugh. "But a highly trained nightlight! Capable, cunning, and registered to fight crime with the best of them." He slaps a hand onto her back. "Anyone would feel safer with you around, even one of the top dogs."

It's a blindside. A rain of comets that blast craters in her carefully crafted facade. She judders at the impact; her whole body tenses and a lock clicks closed her thoughts. *W-what?*

Heat floods her helmet, washing away conditioned air. Staining her cheeks red. She scans over the set of temperature diagnostics nestled in an upper corner of her display: nothing out of place.

So she buries the feeling deep, ending them with a shrug and a thought. *Anyone would feel better with me around. He's right.*

Distractions of a Stranger's Mind

Homemade Purgatory

It's dark. Cramped and humid and hot. Thea tightens her arms around her knees; each breath comes rough. Haggard. Harsh against her throat, dry and raw as it is.

*It's my fault. I could have said something; I could have stayed out of this and let them find someone better. Then Ivan could become a wrestler; Waylon could help whoever it was that needs him. But no, I'm selfish. I took everything from them.*

Her thoughts bounce around inside her head, repeating — never-ending. Those that she escapes just add to the weight of the air around her. Floating at the edge of her perception, like specters waiting for another turn to haunt her.

She presses her head into her knees and she wretches. A dry, tearless sound — just as it's been for a while now. *How long am I going to sit here, useless?*

*Too long. I could do something. I could help them, but I'm just sitting here. Forsaking everything.*

An odd noise escapes from deep inside her: an animal-like cry that's guttural and primal. Pain rips through her throat, but she doesn't stop it. She slides sideways and her head *thuds* against another concrete wall. The water heater in front of her vibrates from the aftershock, a kind of metallic skitter.

*I shouldn't have been born; I'd rather be dead.*

Her thoughts whirl again, turning inside out and falling over themselves. Images of the universe, suns exploding: her own existence sits against that canvas. Just as meaningless as a dead star.

Her mind recoils: it zips back to her body from the edge of a cosmic abyss, but it's too late. Dread crushes what little resistance she has left. She cries out. "*Why would He put me here. I—I don't want to. I don't want to. I hate it—*"

"*Meow.*"

A cat with emerald eyes pushes through Thea's armpit and stares up at her. Thea sits there like that for a moment — face-to-face and silent. With a purr, the cat brushes a prickly cheek against hers.

It's gross. Rough, too warm — smelly; like breathing the exhaust of a tiny engine that runs on fish and sewer water. Thea sucks a bead of snot back into her nose. She gags. Her carefully constructed cave of limbs falls apart in a gagging, retching mass. "*Guh — ugh.* What di— *ghu* — what did you eat?"

The cat slithers along her leg and flops over, stretching furry paws out in both directions. "*Meow.*"

Thea gulps down untainted air. "Is there a cat dentist you can go to?"

Miss Cat wrings her neck up to stare at Thea, emerald eyes wide and bright,. A comfort rolls down Thea's spine. She runs a hand down the cat's brown-grey fluff, letting the fur swallow her fingers. *What am I doing? I should be freaking out: scared, overwhelmed, crying.*

"Aren't you the one that got up to my balcony?" Thea says.

Miss Cat casts her head to the side and her ears twitch. "*Meow?*"

Thea sniffs up another bead of snot. "Was that a yes? What am I talking about, you can't understand me." She swipes a hand over the cats head, stretching back furry eyelids and flattening ears. "What do you think I should have done?"

Purrs of utter delight fill the air with each swipe of her hand. They flood the cubbyhole like an old, familiar tune and steal away the oppressive weight of self-destructive thought. Thea searches over the ground's gritty surface for her cane. "I guess I should get going, huh? Maybe I can still make it out some other way. Do you want to come with me?"

The cat springs up to her feet. She spins in a couple tight circles and waits, staring into Thea's eyes. 

Thea's hand bumps against something; it shifts to the sound of wood grating against concrete. "You're going to have to be quiet if you do." She says, wrapping her hand around the cane.

"*Meow.*"

Thea plants the cane upright next to her and climbs up its shaft. "Good, good. Now where the heck do I even go?" She leans out of the cubby and casts glances down both directions.

The alienesque mirror room is still open to the left, spewing a cloud of condensation that creeps along the ground toward her before fading to nothing. The right is a plain dark corridor: the way they all came from to start with.

She takes a few steps toward the alien room. "Wasn't there a corridor—"

Right before the door, the concrete wall gives way to another passage. Thea peaks down it and exchanges a glance with the cat. "Think there's an exit this way?"

---

It's no less of a maze than the one before. Corridors that intersect, fork, or terminate at the home of some odd machine. Thea surges on and the cat meows at her heels the whole way. Through all the backtracking; through all the second guessing.

No signs adorn the walls saying where an exit might be. Or where anything is, for that matter.

So she guesses, leaving choice after choice to the whims of fate. To whoever sits behind the simulation's screen and fancies themself God. A twinge of anxiety twists knots in her mind. She runs her free hand along the wall, steadying herself. *No. I'm not thinking about that.*

Concrete disappears underneath her sliding hand. She tumbles to the side — into a stairwell. Pain shoots through her hip as her body wobbles through space. "*Oof!*"

Miss Cat zips forward as if to abandon her, but she only gets as far as the first step before whipping her head back around to check on Thea. "*Reow!*"

She pins her cane underneath herself, reclaiming her balance. Lightning shoots out from her hip and zips up her spine. "*Gah!* Shoot." She claps a hand on her lower back and digs her fingers into muscles. "Goodness; that hurts."

"*Meow?*"

Thea clatters over to the base of the stairs, still massaging at her lower back. "Ugh, it's nothing. I got in an accident and my hip is still gives me problems."

Miss Cat pounces up three steps at a time. All the way to the next landing, where she stops and stares back down the flight. Eyes unblinking. "*Raow.*"

Letting a out sigh, Thea grabs onto the handrail and fixes her cane on the first step. "Why am I explaining myself to a cat?"

---

Up another flight of stairs and through a door at a top, Thea wades into a carpeted hallway. It's wide, long, and mostly dark — yet, somehow it's not eerie. It's comfortable in fact. Warm-toned, loose-knit carpet sits in stark contrast to the maintenance tunnel's cool tones of concrete and plaster. Moonlight spills out of an open doorway, casting that warmth in an aura of mystery. Mystery and whatever dust plays in the beams of light.

Her first step on the carpet washes away her hip's aches in a wave of relief. She exhales slowly. "Oh thank goodness, all the concrete was killing me."

The two of them continue on to stop at the moonlight's precipice. Thea peaks around the doorway. It's just a break room: worn refrigerator, dishes arranged neatly next to a sink, and a table at the center with scattered chairs. Not this way, then. She steps into the light. "Well, guess we keep go—"

Her nose twitches.

Two distinct scents catch her at once. One far off. Down the hallway ahead of her, oozing from around a bend: the smell of towering sunflowers, baked in the rays of the brightest day. Another comes from beyond a closed door. A door that's only a dozen steps away in the same direction.

This one's a familiar Hibiscus. Not a field like it was earlier, but, combined with the overpowering sunflower it's enough to strike a nail behind her eye. Her insides race into a pit at her core. She's empty, gone. Outside herself and unable to move — unable to tear her mind away from one sentence.

*Is it over?*

Miss Cat meows up at her. She slaloms between Thea's legs, dragging the cassock's heavy fabric along her back.

Thea's heart hammers. It pumps adrenaline through her veins and clears her mind, but it does nothing to break the terror. Sweat dampens her vestments. She wrestles a finger between her collar and her neck and she tugs; heat rushes out of the gap. She whips her head around, taking in the distance to the stairwell she came out of. *Can I make it?*

The hallway warps in her perception. All of it — warm-toned carpet, tiled ceiling: it squishes and stretches and twists, like a glob of sugar in a candymaker's hands.

She digs nails into the handle of her cane. *What do I do?*

Miss Cat lowers her stature, shaking her hind end. She springs upward and sinks sharp claws into Thea's thigh.

Pain is instant; hot and cold at once. Thea yelps. "*Ah!* What are you doing?" Sweat freezes against her skin; she slaps her hand over her mouth. *No! I can't make noise.*

The cat flails upward: paw-borne claws pierce her cassock through and the furry monster ascends past her hip — past her waist. All the way to Thea's shoulder, where Miss Cat slithers up and sheaths her daggers once steady. 

Distortions plaguing Thea's perception unwind themselves with the pain. The hallway snaps back to its original form, but judders, threatening to shift again. To plunge her back into that chaotic lake of fire and water waiting at the edge of her mind.

Thea focuses on the pain still burning up her side. *Come on, stay present.* She seats her teeth and turns back around to face the overpowering scents. *Okay, sunflower or hibiscus? Pride or sloth? I — I could go in and talk to that intern. Convince her that I'm an okay person, right? Tell her that I just needed money — that I didn't want to hurt anyone.*

Miss Cat runs a bristled cheek against Thea's, purring. "*Grmrm, raow*."

Thea's voice squeaks out as a whisper. "O-okay, okay. I'm going— I'm going to be fine." She trudges forward; her legs and cane judder in invisible, billowing wind that only exists in her mind. 

Hibiscus surrounds her. It pours from the cracks around the door's threshold and swallows her up in a world of uncertainty. She hovers a hand over the doorknob, fingers trembling at each beat of her heart. A hint of chrome peaks around that far away bend and cold dread makes the choice for her.

She twists the handle and creeps inside.

Two Flowers

Valerie's office is foreboding at night. Shadows creep down the walls, cast by the vines of plants. Tons of them — nestled in pots — dangle from the ceiling by chains. At the slightest shift of air, they sway and their chains rattle, filling the room with a haunting melody. The melody of a a gaol-bound lich; of armored skeletons marching.

It sends goosebumps crawling over Avery's skin and resonates with the pain of her dislocated shoulder. She sinks further into the sofa — unable to do more than exist. *I'm safe here. I'm safe.*

Her usual internal contrarian fails to prod her: maybe it's too exhausted to carry on torturing her. Still, her thoughts aren't silent. They wax and wane, just like the moonlight outside shimmering through shifting clouds. Hazy, ethereal, unstable. Teasing the outskirts of sleep.

With a few more seconds, she's gone. Falling through her mind. She jolts up, out from the depths of the cushion's warmth and onto the edge of the sofa. *No! I can't sleep. Not yet. Not until the police get here.*

Tatters of her pajama pants stick to her leg, partially encased within scabbed over scrapes. Her movement jostles them around; forces them to tug against the scabs. She lets out a hiss and unpins some fabric that had been caught underneath her. "*Ow*."

Falling back into the cushion, she looks about the room. Nothing's changed since this afternoon. The plants may have wiggled a little, but—

Near the doorway — beyond moonlight's reach — emerald eyes glower from the shoulders of a giant enveloped in shadow. The outline of a sword dangles from the monster's grasp.

*We were never safe. Now you've backed us into a corner and we're going to die.*

Avery's heart lurches. She struggles to push free of the sofa with her one good arm, but a moment later and she's on her feet. The shadow steps forward.

Avery backs around the sofa, away from the approaching shade. "*No*. No, *please* no."

Another step forward; a reaching hand.

Her butt bumps into solid stone: the wall full of windows behind Valerie's desk. She cowers against it, throwing a hand across its rough surface. Searching for anything. A knob for a nonexistent door, a window latch despite windows not being made of stone. A weapon.

All she finds is a lack of hope: burnt as fuel for the pain that rips through her body. A body that longs for her to give up.

Then the figure takes one more step, passing the boundary between dark and light; clouds part and — with new vigor — the moon washes away all shadows within its reach.

The giant: actually a woman, clad in a priest's cassock. The sword: a cane. The emerald eyes: not even hers. A cat perches on her shoulder like a gargoyle, watching everything. Brown hair — more frizz than anything — zigzags out from the priest's head, down to just past her shoulders to frame a gaunt, uncertain face. She stares at Avery; her lips quiver, uncertain if they'll spew words or grief-stricken cries.

In the end, she does both. Tears flood her face. She bunches a sleeve over her palm and she scrubs them away, but they keep coming. "I-I'm sorry. *So s-sorry.*" She cries.

Cowering turns to confusion. Tendrils that locked her in fear moments before now drift away: taut wires uncoiling to merely float, like a field of seaweed. Still there — threatening to drag her back into panic.

Avery stares, eye's and mind blank blank. Her brain refuses to dissect meaning from the sight in front of her; she might as well try her hand at translating an arcane spell scroll or fighting an elder lich. "What? What is this? *Who are you?*" She says.

Tethers of the Material Plane

The priest tests a step. "I'm— I'm Thea." She stretches out a hand, but not for Avery to take: it's curled; faint and uncertain. "A-are you okay?"

Avery shifts against the wall and pain zaps through her shoulder, blaring a reminder that no, she isn't. "*Emh— I'm fine.* But why are you here? That's part of the whole 'who' question: are you with that gu—"

The cat on Thea's shoulder flicks her tail. "*Meow!*"

Memories of a tumbling mess of claws and limbs surface. Avery squints, trying to compare the cat in front of her to the furry blur she remembers. "Right, I didn't get a good look then, but... aren't you the one that saved me from that teleporting guy?"

"*Raow!*"

Avery turns to Thea. "So the cat was with you?"

"O-oh, no. Not e-exactly." Thea stands there silent; searches her mind. Unable to find an answer there, she darts her eyes over the knickknacks cluttering the desk — Valerie's desk — between them. Binders and loose papers mostly, but there's more. A couple leafy begonias; a blade-thin computer monitor; a digital picture frame showing a compact, middle-aged man. He stands in front of an old exhibit and beams a smile. Valerie's husband.

*Run! She's looking for something to kill you with; that picture frame could do it, heavy and perfect clobbering-size as it is.*

Drifting tendrils snap rigid around Avery's chest — quick, effortless. They squeeze. Crush. Steal what little breath she's recovered and forces it out her mouth as an involuntary gasp. She clutches at her chest and crumples against the wall. *No, stay here. Stay present.*

Thea plants a foot forward alongside her cane, but something anchors her other foot in place. She hovers there. Floats like a plastic bag caught in the current of highway traffic — unsure which car to jump in front of next.

*Deciding whether to actually go through with the murder. Come on, get going. It's your last chance to make a break for it.*

Avery bites down on her lip hard enough to taste a trickle of iron; tiny stars ignite behind her eyelids. *I can't! I've got no where to— wait, when did I close my eyes?*

She rips them open. The world spins: her vision is a kaleidoscope with everything multiplied thrice. Alarm bells ring inside her mind, but she can't place why. *Is the priest doing this?*

Three Theas stand still, all silent and hesitant and unaware — caught inside a trap of her own making. Without warning, the priest's figures change. They grow... taller? Three cats shoot toward the ceiling riding upon her shoulders.

Wait, no... Avery's falling. Sliding down to the floor and catching scrapes from the wall's jutting stones along the way. She doesn't notice the pain. "*Wha— what's— ugh. What's happening?*" The words flow out in a slurry.

*Thump.*

She hits the ground butt first. The impact jostles her arm and fresh pain jolts from her shoulder, down her spine. It feels far away. Almost numb.

*Am I going to be okay?*

Thea scrambles nearer. "Oh g-goodness, oh no." She falls down to her knees beside Avery; the cat slithers off onto Valerie's desk in the same motion.

Sweat pours over Avery, then ice. Then sweat again. She flings her good arm at the priest in token resistance, like a desperate, overboiled noodle. "N— no. No, please."

Thea hesitates, hand hovering inches from Avery's shoulder and eyes wide with horror. "I— I don't know much, but the abbot had me learn some first aid. I can help."

*Don't let her, this is it! There's a sword in her cane or something: this is a trick!*

Avery's resistance disappears with a reluctant groan; a whimper. She gives in and her entire body slumps to the side. Thea catches her in an odd, impromptu hug.

Wait, no. Not a hug. Using a gentle yet firm hand on Avery's back, Thea guides her to the lie flat on the floor. "Your shoulder... it k-kind of looks like internal bleeding. You're suppose to lie flat for that. I t-think."

Avery can feel her eyes roll back and her eyelids flutter. She works every wrinkle of her brain to form thoughts, but they're sparse; disconnected. *So... I am... bleeding in there...*

"Oh!" Thea struggles to her feet. She fusses with the desk and starts to wrestle Valerie's chair out from its footwell. A ruckus of wood and metal and plastic — the cat tosses out an occasional hiss, easing the symphony's percussive dominance. 

It's annoying. A clamor that prods the edge of Avery's consciousness; refuses to let her drift off and rest. Not to mention everything's spinning: desk, windows, cat, and plants. They float around, bouncing off the walls in her momentary glimpses of the room. Thea swings the chair free and rolls it to a stop near the tips of Avery's feet. "Okay, o-okay. Putting your feet up will help too."

Avery's stomach churns. She darts eyes around her swirling surroundings, trying to lock onto something. Anything steady enough to ground herself.

Her legs jerk upward: Thea wrenches them toward the seat of the chair. "*Come on,* y-you can do it."

Churning guts threaten to jet out of Avery's throat. Her saliva turns oddly warm and she claps a hand over her mouth. "Wh— *guh*— *whoa*. Wha- are you d-doing"

Thea hefts Avery's legs upward through grunts and huffs. "*Helping!*" She jabs her knee into the chair's side a couple times, nudging it. Satisfied with its position, she eases Avery's feet down to rest on the lip of its seat. "Okay, a-are you still awake?"

Blood rushes down Avery's legs and straight to her head. Warmth flushes her face; clouds of fog that obscure her thoughts thin. "*Uh — uh huh.* I think so." She says.

*Why are you answering her?*

Avery drapes her good arm over her eyes, trying to block out the unwanted pestering. "Why are you helping me?" She gulps down warm saliva, fighting the odd metallic taste permeating her mouth. "*Guh* — who are you?"

"Uhm, it's... it's complicated." Thea says.

"Talk."

"You should rest. Lie still and—"

"*Talk.*"

Thea shrinks back. Inward. "I— I made a mistake. I shouldn't even be h-here. I only agreed to help because no one was going to get hurt. I should have known better."

Spines of hair jump from the back of Avery's neck. She tries to lower her feet, tries to prop herself up and push away from the woman. "You *are* with the people that were trying to k—." Her head spins and she crumples back to the carpet. "*Guh.* Bad idea."

Death Saves

Thea doesn't notice Avery's attempt at escape. Tears well at the corners of her eyes and she sucks a glob of snot back up her nose. "I didn't want to go with them. I-I got washed up in it. Nothing else was working... and this is the only o-option I had left."

Avery could scream right now. Yell at the top of her lungs and try to draw someone within earshot, but something feels off. An air of despair oozes off the priest. Honest, pure despair that'd tempt the ear of any adventurer. Especially an adventurer that isn't able to make a break for it in the first place.

Flat against the floor, she glances at the priest out of the corner of her eyes. "Pretend I care: the only option for what?"

Tears streak down Thea's face and drip off her chin, where they disappear into the dark fabric of her cassock. She balls her hands up in her lap. "To keep it together. I just needed enough money to get my motorcycle fixed, then It'd've been fine. Nothing would've had to change..."

"What are you talking about? If you're going to tell me, *tell me*. Don't throw vague tidbits out and expect me to follow along. I could just scream, you know: someone has to be close enough to hear me by now."

Thea scrambles closer on hands and knees. "No, no! *Please!* W-wait! Sorry." She pauses, churning through the order of her words. "I need money. To keep my apartment, to fix my motorcycle, and to feed myself. Or I-I'll be on the street by next week. With winter coming..."

"The street? Don't you have a church or monastery to live in or something?"

"No, that's not an option anymore. They defrocked me and kicked me out."

"What in the world did you do? What about a shelter? They've got to have—"

"*No.* I'm not staying in a shelter." Thea says, her tone sharp.

"Jeez, only asking."

"S-sorry." Thea drops her eyes to the carpet and sniffs. "Everyone there was so mean. So many requirements: curfews, paperwork, job searching. I got kicked out three different times: it's— it's just too easy to mess up. And it felt like I didn't have any control over myself. They have so many expectations."

*Expectations?*

That word resonates in Avery's mind; a distant lighthouse that shines in tandem with her own towering mess of a life. She rolls her head to the side and stares past Thea's knees — past the legs of Valerie's desk and into the flaps of a velvet couch's skirt. "Why is the cat that helped me with you?"

Atop the desk, the cat perks up and circles, tail flicking. "*Raow!*"

"I've got no idea. She likes me, I think." Thea darts her eyes over Avery's injuries: the gleaming red of Avery's swollen shoulder; the tatters of one leg of her pajama pants woven into a mess of dried blood. "Did Iva— uh, I mean— did the guy chasing you really do all of this?"

Avery shifts her spine against the carpet, letting out a grunt. "He might as well have. Chased me all over and was teleporting and stuff, so I had to jump into the tank and couldn't slow down in time."

Thea's eyes change. Burbling tears freeze in place at the edge of her eyelid. "Y-you got hurt jumping in? He didn't beat you up or something?"

Avery's hand twitches, but she fights the urge to run her fingers along the scabbed-over patch of blood and fabric. "Yeah. Some coral sliced up my leg, then I hit the bottom of the tank with my shoulder. Dislocated it, I think."

"Thank good— uhm. Sorry. I don't mean that. I'm just—"

"Are you trying to say he wasn't going to murder me?"

Thea spews words faster than Avery can follow. "W-well, I wasn't sure. I didn't think he would. He cares too much about what his parents think to do something like that. I didn't think he'd even try to hurt anyone outside of a wrestling ring, but I had to be sure so I asked and—" Thea claps both hands over her mouth. "No, no, no! Please, forget the wrestling thing! That was too much."

It may have been hard for Avery to forget, but all the words— the revelation that her fear was likely for naught: they crash into her thoughts like a tidal wave. Everything churns under water until only one thing floats up and breaks the surface.

Avery chews on the fat of her lip. *That's it? He actually just wanted to talk?*

Before either of them can say another word, the door snaps open in a cacophony of cracking wood fibers. Thea's eyelids fly open and she collapses against the desk. Out of view of whatever monster just blew the entrance inward.

By instinct, Avery brings her injured arm up to shield her face, but only makes it a couple inches before red, hot pain blinds her to the rest of the world. "*Ahg!*"

It takes a few seconds, but the pain subsides. A silhouette comes into focus. On its head sits a helmet of overlapping chrome scales. In place of a face, there's a porcelain facsimile. Only the lower half, though: cheeks, red-stained lips, and the tip of a nose. All equally static and cold.

Scrypher.

She turns her head and somewhere under all that chrome, her eyes meet Avery's. "Oh. It really was you." She says, tone shrill and metallic.

Stress Bonding

Avery stares up at the hero. A licensee in action, costume and all: kicking down doors, saying one-liners. All to save her from... no one anymore. From anyone to begin with, if Thea is telling the truth.

In what should be a moment of relief comes an onslaught of questions. Worried questions. Spawned by her habit of blurring past one catastrophe in search of the next. *Am I going to have to pay a bill or something? How much does a rescue even cost? Shit, this is my first year paying taxes. Are rescues tax-deductible?*

Avery doesn't ask any of those, opting to keep them prisoner within her oxygen starved mind. She sucks in an unsteady breath. "Why did it take you so long to get here? Is the ambulance close?"

Scrypher moves her head, but barely: a centimeter up and to the right. She probably has a clock in here. "No. It's only been five minutes since you made the call and we were on-site within three; that's more than acceptable." Scrypher says, reaching a hand into the breast of her trench coat. "Medics will arrive momentarily. Before they do, could you tell me who's hiding behind that desk with you?"

Avery shifts her body to better see Thea past the chair and her own raised legs. "How did you kn—"

Her words fizzle out.

The face of the anxious priest from earlier is gone. Stricken with hollow, unmoving eyes. A painting that depicts a visage of utter defeat. Hopelessness given form through muscles, fat, and whatever eyes are made of.

It's a feeling so pure — so raw — that its infectious. Memories flash through Avery's mind: every time her parents encouraged her; each move from home to dorm, reinforcing the passage of years. How stagnant it all made her feel. How it still makes her feel, just remembering all that time spent on a path she never wanted to walk.

On the desk above, the cat circles once. "*Meow.*"

Thea blinks. The hopeless gaze disappears and she looks around aimless, almost as if she's taking in an unfamiliar sight. Until her eyes lock on Avery's. She smiles. A broken smile, but nonetheless genuine.

Light flickers; a couple clouds darting past the moon. Some moment in that flash of darkness, Thea looked away to plant  plants the tip of her cane on the carpet in front of her. She utters a barely audible whisper. "Now or later, I guess."

She climbs, a trembling skyscraper that defies all reason. Rising higher and higher. Up past the lip of the desk—

Scrypher whips out a revolver and levels it in Thea's direction. "No sudden moves!"

Impulse blazes through Avery's body faster than her thoughts: an instinctive fear that tingles over her scalp and screams at her to run. She hefts her head off the carpet and angles it behind Valerie's desk, using it as cover. "Whoa!" Pain flares inside her shoulder. "*Euh* — what are you doing? Put that away!"

Scrypher brings her head inline with the revolver's iron sights. "Not until I know who that is. Spit it out, then."

Compassion muddles the fear inside Avery's chest with a sprig of uncertainty. And a sensation that's hard to place. An odd push; the twist of a nerve; a wrongness that eats at the center of her stomach and mind. *What is she going to do to Thea when she finds out? Does Thea deserve it?*

The pressure of alignments. Of good and evil; of law and chaos; of apathy. Easy apathy.

Stuck in the middle of a squat, Thea struggles to stand on trembling legs. Lodged between her newfound courage and a desire to not be sent heavenward. Tears surge down her face, through canyons and cliffs. Skiing down her nose's bridge; slipping through the cracks in tightened lips; and falling off her jaw to plop onto the carpet with a muted thud. She digs nails into her cane, leaving shallow gouges behind. "I—I'm s-sorry. My n-name is T-the—"

*Don't. You'll get us—*

At that moment, something materializes in Avery's core. An urge as clear as crystal. She unfurls from behind the desk, landing in full view of Scrypher and her revolver. "T-Thea. She's Thea."

"Okay. And why is she here? I can come up with a few reasons for you, but none for her." Scrypher says.

"I..." Avery scrambles for words. "T-this area is scary at night, so she said she'd come with me. I'm lucky she was awake or I— well, I don't know what would have happened on my own." She says.

"You too? Flimsy, but I'll play along. Let's get this out of the way while you're talking: what's an intern doing here after-hours?"

*Flimsy? Come up with something else! She doesn't believe you and now you're going to get caught up in all this. Does prison sound fun?*

She forces words out as they come to her, past grasping tendrils trying to wrestle them away. "I-I wanted to check on one of my tanks. The one in the Hall of Discovery, with the tetras and angelfish and all them."

"It couldn't have waited until tomorrow?"

"Well, i-it could have. Maybe. Caring for animals isn't always clear cut. I just wanted to be sure. This kid lost control of their power and threw things around and I couldn't get it off my mind... like, what if the tank was damaged, or a fish was injured and I didn't notice earlier, or maybe I —"

"Okay, I get it. I don't need a whole book about it. Your being here doesn't matter." Scrypher tips her head toward the cat — toward the priest and past the cat, rather. "All I need to figure out is why Thea there came with you. Or if you're lying for some reason. Hey, Thea. Listen carefully and do *exactly* as I say. Raise your hands above the desk so I can see them. Nice and slow, yeah?"

In a raucous shlorping that's enough to make whoever hears it queasy, Thea snuffles. "Uu-umm, I t-think I may f-fall over if I can't l-lean on my c-cane."

"Then sit down first."

"Really? Is that f-fine?"

"Yes, just do it. Quick. But keep it slow."

Thea gulps. "O-okay. I'm going to s-sit down now." She lowers herself to her knees. No gunshot. 

If Avery's heart had fingernails it'd be biting them. She might be doing it herself, but the gnawing in her heart freezes her in place. Unwilling to tip the scales of tension so delicately balanced between hero and priest.

Careful to never outpace a glacier, Thea drops the cane beside her and raises trembling hands. "Is that g-good enough?"

Something tickles the back of Avery's brain: a swelling dizziness that floats inside her eyes. "*Guh. Ugh.*" The scream of danger goes quiet and her head thuds back to the carpet. *So nauseous...*

Scrypher lets her shoulder's relax. "Sure. Any powers that would—"

Thea crams her eye's shut and blurts words at the wall. "I can smell sin."

Nothing on the outside of Scrypher's mask changes, but harshness tints her voice. Like she's forcing it through clenched teeth. "I suppose that answers what I was going to ask good enough. Let me finish—"

"*They smell like flowers and berries.*"

"Enough. I'm trying to follow policy here and you're making that difficult."

Thea pins her lips between her teeth and talks through the corners of her mouth. "*Oh*, s-sorry. Sorry."

Scrypher slips one leg forward, out from underneath her trench coat. "Now, if everyone can stay nice and calm, I'm just going to—"

As the sole of her heeled boot touches carpet, an odd sensation interrupts her words. A hitch. Then another, like time played a quick game of hopscotch. Over fast enough to chalk up to two mistimed blinks.

Nausea hiccups to the center of Avery throat; she dry heaves. The world spins, swirling around her at impossible speeds. *What? What was that? What's going on?* 

"I'm just going to ease around the desk." Scrypher continues, unfazed.

Avery fans out her good arm, searching for steadier purchase. "You — *guh* — you didn't feel that?"

"Feel what?" Scrypher pivots around the desk, getting a full view of the two women cowering behind it. She stares down at Avery. "You're a mess. What did you do?"

There's silence. Staring. No on moving except for Thea's raised and trembling hands. Then, within a moment, everything erupts: people in navy blue uniforms pour into the room, Thea collapses forward, clutching her chest, and — before passing out — Avery pukes. 

She pukes *everywhere*.

She Doesn't Stop Bullets

Salt winds between Waylon's feet like a snow-covered mountain range. Stride steady, his heart pounds against his rib cage. Over and over. Footstep, *crash*, footstep, *crash*. The sound is inside his head. Deep, quaking, and painful. Veins bulge at his temples: thin, wiry things that pulse in tandem with his heart's thunder. 

*It'll work out. This job didn't, but I have plenty of time to work through something else. Plenty.*

Following the trail of salt, he whips around a corner. Light pierces through the darkness ahead. Two doors sit ajar in-line, one leading to the other: the tank maintenance area from earlier and the Hall of Discovery beyond it.

Striding past tables laden with spare tanks, air pumps, and whatever else, Waylon yanks at his hair band. Strips of black unfurl from the bun atop his head and fall to his shoulders. Heavy — damp with sweat. *I'll get to the truck, get home, then I'll figure out what's next. She'll manage until then.*

*She has to.*

A dozen feet from crossing into the Hall of Discovery, some monster blots out the light. Waylon can't see any details. Only a rocky silhouette stands amid blue-tinted light streaming in from the hallway. Waylon's heart whimpers, blood freezes in his veins, and his feet lurch. Stuck in place.

Movement. The figure raises a purple boot and lets it fall; a hurtling meteor set on his extinction. Rubber slaps onto concrete and air explodes outward in a deafening *crack*.

Whether from the sight or sound, it doesn't matter: Waylon's steady facade crumbles to dust. Calm, sureness. Gone. He cowers, stumbling backward. "But— but, how? It's only been—"

The voice of Earth itself booms out from the hero's chest — rather, from Barclay's chest. "A couple minutes?" Glass of nearby tanks rattle with his words. He takes another step and wrenches fist within palm, cracking his knuckles. "I was in the area, so thought I'd drop by."

Titanic

An earthquake shakes the room: another of Barclay's feet crashing down.

Waylon's body won't move, though.

He stares out at the man, suspended within the core of his own mind. Blank, placid, empty, and weak. Not even enough strength to spur a thought.

"Where's Avery?" Barclay asks, his voice an iceberg cutting through stone.

Fear pulses once in Waylon's chest. Thoughts surge. A landslide tumbling through his mind — alongside his disembodied form. They pepper him: chunking pieces away until only an abstract sphere remains. Devoid of feeling, yet full of questions. *Why aren't I moving? Am I— am I okay? Am I just going to stand here and let him catch me?*

Barclay cracks his other set of knuckles. "Staying quiet, huh? If she's hurt... Well, it's not going to be good for you."

*No.*

It's an answer that burns in his stomach. Guttural, desperate, and not his own. It sets his chest aflame and straightens his cowering spine. Physical sensations that he recognizes, but where's the feeling? The emotions?

*No, this can't be it. Not yet.*

Barclay nearly shatters the earth between them with the fall of another boot. "I recommend you don't resist."

Whatever drives those primal thoughts wrenches Waylon's body; controls muscles and tendons like a puppet's strings. It spins him around on his back foot and yanks him down the hallway he came from, forcing him to sprint. Back toward the refrigeration unit — deeper into the bowels of the aquarium. It's a clumsy sprint. Ugly, even. Born from his life as a sedentary househusband and the aches of his mid-thirties.

In contrast, Barclay jogs after him. His arms don't flail, his stride doesn't falter, and he doesn't lose his balance. It's effortless for him. "Wrong choice." He calls.

Waylon runs along pipes, twisting and turning and wrapping around. Corridor after corridor. And everywhere he goes, the steady shuffling of Barclay's boots follow. 

Heat bubbles up from within Waylon's jacket: a rolling haze of musk that seeps into his nose. Sweat. It's soaked through his shirt, his pants — his peacoat's cotton wicks away the rest. He sucks in a hoarse breath and suddenly, he's back. The fear, defiance, and guilt there for him to feel. *What happened— no. Think, damn it. Just think! What can I do? What do I know about him?*

Albert's information packet was sparse on heroes he may run into, but Barclay was there. Waylon teases the report from memory.

*Six-three, two-hundred three pounds; raised by Swedish grandparents; friends with the aquarium's owner... every other field comes up blank. Wiped away by stress and urgency.*

Waylon pants — they come from deep in his chest and grate past his vocal cords. *Why the fuck can I remember where his grandparents are from but not his power?*

However he tries to trick himself into remembering, all he can find is what he's already recalled. He throws a glance back.

Barclay's there, most of him cast in darkness. Except for his eyes. They glow: glowering balls of molten rage that spark and spew orange tendrils of smoke. Bobbing along with his jog.

Control slips away again and returns within a moment, like Waylon's sense of self is a series of microscope lenses flicking back and forth. He tears his eyes from Barclay and scrambles down another corridor. *What— what do I do?*

Concrete, shadow, and metal pipes shift in his vision. They distort as if under water, shimmering and warping in organic patterns. *What's happening? Am I crying?*

His body continues on, sprinting outside of his control. A bead of water rolls free of his eye and down his cheek. He's barely aware of the sensation: only a strip of salt left behind leaves a lasting impression, drying and crackling with the stretch of his skin. It's odd. Juxtaposed to how he feels. *What do I feel, though?*

Nothing comes of the question. No surge of fear, hope, or even resignation — just confusion at the silence.

"You're feeling hopeless, right? " Barclay says.

*I— I can't tell.*

Barclay barks a haunting laugh. "Maybe if you weren't a coward, I'd have managed some respect for you. Ronan wasn't one. If he hadn't resorted to crime, maybe— no. You and your ilk exist. Pulling good people down into the muck. Poisoning their minds."

*Wasn't? Is Ronan alive? Is this man going to kill me?*

A flame flickers in Waylon's chest, but it dies the next instant. Cast to darkness by a cold wind howling from within his mind. *Despair?*

"You're probably thinking this is all that's going to happen. That we'll do our little jog. In the end, I'll catch you, then turn you over to the police. Right?" Barclay says.

One of Waylon's legs gives way. He starts to fall. Black hair whips through the air behind him and his stomach jumps. He claps a hand on a nearby pipe, but his skin catches on a rusted bolt. It rips a gash down his palm.

He crashes to the ground, a pile of sprawling limbs — of blood and apathy. Roughly finished concrete digs into the gash, burning.

*You can still make it. You can escape.*

More mysterious thoughts, full of urgency and impulse that he can't feel. Though his body responds to it unbidden. He pushes himself up and stumbles toward the closest door, leaving behind a red-fingered streak on the concrete.

*I can't.* He thinks. *I can't escape: not anymore.* Yet his body pushes on, fighting against all sense in futility.

Barclay breaks his pace into a heavy-footed walk. "No, it's not going to be simple. *Far* from it."

Leagues Under

Waylon is clueless. Where are they amid the aquarium's maze? Running, navigating, his fickle fight with derealization. It was too much to handle in tandem. Conscious twists and turns transitioned to hunches, then to straight up gambles. The aquarium's floor plan is nothing but a useless memory now. Not that it matters: he's not in control anymore.

His body crashes through the door and he enters into a separate world. No more darkness, no more pipes.

A glass dome encompasses him, only broken up by two entrances: an unlit hallway and the maintenance tunnel he just came from. Blue-tinted light floods the space, shone from fixtures above all the water and glass. Subtle waves scatter light into ever-morphing spiderwebs. It's as if he's under the sea, standing among hundreds of fish that swirl around him. Big, small, every color he's ever seen and more. His stumbling falters. He spins in place, taking everything in as if struck by awe.

But he's not in awe: this is all meaningless.

A picturesque moment that may have spurred his heart if he were a few hours younger. Now, though? It's the backdrop of his own demise. The Seafloor Dome is near the center of the aquarium, after all. Far from any escape.

Waylon's body pushes him forward, but it's spent. He collapses to his knees at the center of the dome's floor, sucking down breath after breath. *It's time, I guess. I get to let this struggle end.*

Barclay is still in the maintenance hallway. Far enough back that his form is invisible — cloaked in shadow. That is, except for his eyes. Those still spark and burn, seeping luminescent, orange smoke. Wispy tendrils that rise to illuminate pipes running along the ceiling.

The sight beats hammers inside Waylon's chest. Endless, wailing strikes — any of which could split an anvil in two. *Why don't I feel afraid? That's what my body is trying to tell me, right?*

Barclay is no longer jogging. His stride is slow, deliberate, and heavy. The monster he first met is back. No more taunting or jeering from behind: now, *his* show begins. 

So Waylon watches on, body held firm by exhaustion and gaze vacant — a perfect, captive audience.

Barclay plunges a purple boot out of the darkness. It falls to the ground and the earth shakes. If someone said the water overhead rippled, Waylon might believe them. *Is the world really shaking? Is it in my head?*

Barclay emerges from shadow and crosses the dome's threshold. Jewels on his belt glitter, their facets reflecting the web of light from above a dozen times apiece. In his eyes, fire turns to snow in an instant. Orange light and rising smoke now white.

Barking a laugh, he stamps a final step. "Thanks for leading us here. Plenty enough room, now. Are you ready?"

*Yes, I'm tired. So tired.*

Barclay inhales. He vacuums down air until his lungs are fit to burst. "Come one, come all! Try your best to topple these bottles with the toss of a ball! Win within three tries and you'll get your choice. Any of my prizes!" He booms.

All that exists in the following moment is white light. It explodes out of his eyes, drowning out everything: water, fish, the floor underneath them.

Eyes burning, Waylon buries them in the nook of his elbow and slams his eyelids shut. It doesn't help. Light pierces through peacoat, sweater, flesh, and bone.

In the span of a second, several things come to pass. Harsh light disappears. In its place, darkness — from behind Waylon's eyelids, at least. He peeks out from his elbow. A trillion pinpricks of light twinkle across the canvas of space. Interrupted by rainbow nebulae, rogue planets, and glittering asteroid belts.

He stares, speechless.

And, in that eternal second, the universe stares back. Every star is somehow focused on him. Each one another of Sauron's eyes, watching. He blinks. *What's happening?*

Suddenly, his stomach wrenches. It's an odd sensation. Like his insides are being pulled through the eye of a needle.

Then... *pop.* Nausea flushes through him.

Space dissolves, revealing the undersea dome and a giant contraption. A carnival's game booth. Blinking bulbs line every inch and — in few-second intervals — a speaker blares out an orchestra of kazoos and clownesque laughs. Atop a table at the far edge of the booth's interior, bottles sit stacked in a pyramid five rows high.

The nausea won't let Waylon focus. He starts to double over, but he can't. His palms are locked to the booth's counter and his knees won't unlock to let him fall back to the ground. His legs' tendons yell, burning from the exertion of merely standing in place.

Barclay — on the other side of the game's counter — leans down and pops back up with three multi-colored, pleather-bound juggling balls. He places each on a wooden platter in front of Waylon. "How'd you like the trip? I've been told my power's teleport component is *especially* uncomfortable."

Waylon's vision swims; his left temple throbs. He gulps down a breath and holds it, building a dam against the rising nausea. *Carnival Barker... that's what it was.*

A power with a large space requirement: sparse as Barclay's information sheet was, that fact was there. *Too late for it to help.*

Bearing a smile beneath his well-oiled mustache, Barclay steps to the side and waves an open hand from Waylon to the glass pyramid. "The game's simple! Throw the balls, knock over those bottles, and you win! Just like I said."

Interstellar

Waylon tries to pry his palm off the counter: it doesn't budge. "*Gah* — what are you doing? You caught me, it's over, we're done."

"Now, now. No need to rush. Didn't you hear me on our little stroll? We'll have plenty of time for any groveling after a quick game. Until then: don't you want to know what prize is up for grabs?" Barclay says.

Exhausted from the run, Waylon's legs tremble. "No. I'm not playing your games, I'm done running."

"Come on! Don't be like that. How about I just tell you—"

"I don't care. It doesn't matter what you say, just take me in or whatever you're supposed to do."

"Really? Even if I say you'll be a free man if you win?"

Waylon's heart jumps. "You— you'd just let me go?"

Barclay pounds a fist on the counter and follows it up with a snap and a wink in tandem. "Sure would! The results of this game are binding, even to me. It has its ways of keeping us honest. You don't need to worry about the local council either. They know how this works."

*It could be true, maybe I should—*

Waylon shakes the thought out of his head. "No, you're lying. I'm not going to play."

"Oh! What a mistake on my part: I'm sorry. I shouldn't have made it sound like you had a choice. If I've been counting the seconds right, things should be kicking off right about—"

Pressure builds within Waylon's elbow. It starts as a tickle, like the thrum of restless legs at night. As if the limb wants to jerk away. Grunting, he bears down on his palm and forces it flat against the wooden counter. *No. I'm done! It's over!*

The joint tightens, arcing pain down his forearm and circling back up to his shoulder. "*Gah* — just let me— *ugh*— let me give up." He says.

Barclay's face lights up. He cups a hand around his ear. "Huh? Can you try again? It's a little hard to hear you through all that grunting."

Everything in Waylon's body screams at him to stop resisting: his skin tingles to the point of numbness; sweat streams down his back; and an unsteady heartbeat pumps ice through his veins.

Seconds pass and his will breaks. He stops pressing down. Without room for thought, his arm yanks free and snatches a ball off the platter.

Sweat stops, pain evaporates, and icy veins thaw. His palm stings against the pleather, still bleeding.

"Do you understand now?" Barclay says.

Waylon lingers a second too long and the sensation returns. A tickling at first. And — as before — it mutates into an unbearable, body racking pain. He tries to resist: he bears down on his core. "*Guh— stop!*" Tears roll down his face; he coughs out words between spittle, stringy with mucus. "*Why are you doing this?*"

The pain is just too much.

He releases his hold and his entire body contorts into a pitcher's stance. A moment later, his arm whips the ball toward the bottles of its own accord.

The ball flies through the air. With a soft *thwack*, it hits the curtain behind the pyramid and traces a bloody streak on its roll down to the floor.

Waylon's hand falls to the counter, where it lay trembling. Blood seeps out of his palm's gash and — instead of pooling on the counter's surface — dry wood wicks it away into dark red stains. "*Please, I can't...*" Waylon says.

*He doesn't care. You don't understand what this is yet? Or do you, and you just don't want to accept it?*

"Now, how about we liven this party up a bit?" Barclay sucks in a deep breath, then bellows. "Two chances left! Will he manage it before running himself ragged? Nobody knows! Step right up and watch, my friends. Witness a game for the ages!"

The words fall upon Waylon's ears alone. Yet, oddly enough, a raucous cheer answers. Spectral, human-shaped shadows appear all around him, crowding the booth. They yell and holler. Encouragement and jeers in equal measure.

The noises they make aren't actual words, though they're eerily similar. Each syllable drives a nail into his temple; he crams his eyes shut. *What do I do? I'm nothing without them.*

Two voices answer his call; two that aren't his.

One, self doubt: *Now you get it. There isn't anything you can do — not anymore. You've got nothing left.*

The other, old. A voice that doesn't exist anymore, though the woman that it belonged to does: *Then why shouldn't he try? If he's got nothing left, like you said: what's the harm?*

Her voice is nothing more than a false memory. Constructed from the depths of his addled mind thanks to longing, fear, and desperation. Recognizing that does little to stop it: it stirs something. An ember that burns in defiance of his water-logged reality.

So, he throws the ball. His form is pitiful: sloppy elbow, weak release, and — above all — overwhelmingly awkward. Born of the same litter as his sprint. Despite that, the ball flies straight with enough force to topple any pyramid of bottles.

*Tink.* Pleather meets glass just off center mass with a splatter of blood. The ball plinks off, not even forcing a teeter out of the structure. Almost like they're glued down.

Waylon grits his teeth and picks up his last ball, coddling that ember through sheer momentum. "That's a cheap trick."

Barclay fetches another ball from behind the counter. Rolling it in his grasp, he steps in between Waylon and the pyramid. "Thinking there's glue?" He whirls around and whips the ball in one motion.

It screams through the air. On impact, glass shatters — every single bottle explodes. Shards spray in all directions. Waylon flinches back, bringing his arm up to protect his face.

Wood, metal, tank glass, carpet. Each make their own sound as bottle shrapnel pelts them. In moments, the ruckus stops.

Barclay snaps his fingers. Glass shards replay their flight in reverse, reforming bottle after bottle until the pyramid stands as if it was never toppled. He drops his forearms onto the counter and leans closer to Waylon. "I know what you're thinking, but neither of us can cheat here. Though I should let you know: these games are tuned to my strength — at least, to some degree."

Fire burns lines across Waylon's cheek: three or so. He brushes his fingertips where they run. "*Tsst, ow.*"

Drawing his hand away, his fingertips are stained red. Beads of blood race away to seep into cuticles on their underside. "So I can't win." He says.

All the shadows cheer. Raising his voice to speak above them, Barclay shrugs. "You can't lose. If you fail with that ball, you'll get three more. They'll just be a bit heavier than the last set."

Static and pain force Waylon's hand: he throws his last ball. It strikes the curtain, leaving behind another streak of blood.  "What about when the balls get too heavy for me to lift them?" He asks.

Barclay leans back on one of the booth's support pillars and crosses his arms. Shadows envelope his eyes, but their irises still glow a faint white. "You don't want to find out."

Past hacky sacks, onto baseballs, and further. Every unsuccessful set of three and the weight increases; just as Barclay said it would. Ten sets: all failures. Waylon drops a palm onto the next ball; he lets his fingers fall around it. A curtain too tired and with too many gaps to truly close out the show. His temple pounds, injecting acid into his skull.

The ember pushing him forward dies. Ephemeral and — in the end — meaningless. 

Static buzzes. As a dog slobbers — Pavlovian in response, he tries to lift the ball. He clamps his fingers around it and heaves. The thing is heavier than it looks: a small, pleather sack that weighs as much as a cantaloupe. Muscles lining the underside of his forearm groan the higher he raises it. He gives up and his hand falls back to the platter, drug down by the ball's weight and his exhaustion. *What was the point of trying, again? I can't remember.*

The woman's voice intrudes on his thoughts. *Because I asked 'why not?' Not my best pep talk, but it did work. For a bit.*

Static thrums inside Waylon's elbow. His fingers move, tightening around the ball by their own will. He's too tired to resist. *Not for long enough.* He thinks.

Barclay snaps and dormant, white embers ignite within his eyes. Voices from the crowd slow, morphing into a demonic roar until they cut off completely. Slowed to nothing. Blinking lights that line the booth's signs are no different. They alternate slower and slower, until every other bulb stays dark.

Waylon blinks. The static: it's gone. He lets his hand fall. It flounders off pleather and it swings by arm. Eventually, whipping to a stop at his side.

Barclay folds himself over the counter, wagging his hind end like an impatient cat fixing to pounce. "You're looking rough. Tell you what: if you feel nice and cooperative now, we can work something out."

"Okay."

"Tell me why."

"Why what?"

"Playing coy? Fine: *why are you here?* Be thorough, too. I've got a couple friends who'd love to know."

Waylon tenses. "I can't—"

"No. No excuses."

"But—"

Barclay raises his hand, middle finger and thumb pressed together. Threatening another snap. "Either talk with me or we'll put the game back in charge. It's a lot less eager to listen than I am."

Exhaustion traces a web from Waylon's fingertips, up tendons and muscles, from forearm to shoulder. Pain follows. Nerves tingle and muscles jerk — tiny movements, but enough to make his arm visibly jitter. *Is the break worth it to betray Albert? To betray the others? What would I lose if I did?*

Danger chimes. A gentle, yet terrifying feeling that spreads from the base of his skull, coating him in cold sweat. *What would Albert do to me? They're like a mob boss, right?*

Barclay's hand moves. He raises it a touch higher, tension building between his middle finger and thumb. "Okay, if that's what—"

"*Wait*, wait." The words slip out of Waylon's mouth. "We— we were hired to steal the penguin enclosure's refrigeration unit. Something about it being a collectors item." He says. *They would figure that out anyway: I just need a little more time.*

"Better, but I said thorough. Who are you counting as 'we'? It couldn't have been just you and Ronan. Who poured the salt?" Barclay says.

Among the throes of Waylon's indecision, memories force their way to the front of his mind. Flashes of Bond, Leia, and the gingerbread man from Shrek. *I can just lie! Exactly like they did.*

He spits on the floor, imagining that his saliva is tainted red with his tortured-self's blood. Exactly like Bond. "I'm the only other one. It was just supposed to be me in here. That intern found me pouring it, so I chased her down, then lost her. You cut me off on my way back to wrap the job up."

"*Strange.* Did you dye your hair since then? Find a stylist that had an opening a couple minutes before we got here?" Barclay swipes his hand over his head in play frustration. "Gosh, I could have sworn the dispatcher said the one chasing her had a blonde pompadour."

*Shit.*

His mind skipped over what happened in those movies after the lies: a solid ninety-five percent of the time, they dug the hole deeper. He tightens his fingers around the next ball.

A drop of blood seeps out from the sandwich of pleather and palm. His hand some drooling dog, afraid to let go while still wanting the ball torn free and thrown out of reach.

*I can't chase it anymore; why am I fooling myself? What am I waiting for?*

*Honestly, why did you do any of this?* Her voice is in his head, clearer than life. Gina. So clear he swears he can see her. There, beside Barclay. Dwarfing his considerable frame with her own: two heads taller; muscles stacked atop muscles; and hair pulled back. Two thick, gray braids snake over her shoulder.

Barclay doesn't notice her. He crosses his arms and leans on a nearby metal beam that supports the booth's roof. "Struck silent? How does it feel to get caught in a lie? Uncomfortable?"

Yawning, Gina leans on Barclay's sparkling head in turn. "*Well? Come on, tell me. You've got a good reason to ignore my whole 'let me watch my soaps and die' bit, right?*"

*Gina... I don't know. I wanted to help you — to help Phil. Would you two hate me for this?*

"*Fucks knows! This is your head, so I only know as much as you. Probably not. Anyway, you dodged the question. Answer it.*" She pats Barclay's chest. "*Not his. Mine.*"

Wagging a hand in front of Gina's face, Barclay snaps a dozen times; the crowd jitters. Starting and stopping and starting again. "*Hello?* What are you looking at?" He says, raising his voice above the crowd's tickering roar. One more snap and they go quiet.

Waylon stares past tears, past the man's protests, and into the green eyes that Consumption stole away. *You're the only family I have left.*

"*Did you already forget how to find a new one? It wasn't too long ago that you were on your own.*" Gina says.

Her words wash over him, eroding long settled layers of dirt piled atop memories. Flashes of his mother and her drinking. Of the disgust that alcohol helped bring to words — not disgust at him, but at other's like him. And his father always beside her. Never active, never bothered.

Guilt, betrayal, loss. The unfairness of it all. The loneliness. Until Philip. Him and his family, there to bury the past with better, kinder memories.

Waylon slaps his palms onto the counter, head lowered and shoulders trembling. "*I can't!* I can't do it again."

*Snap.*

He whips his head up. Crowd and lights jolt back to life: cheering, jeering, and blinking in equal measure. Barclay pushes off the metal beam with a shove of his shoulder. Behind him, Gina's figure fades. She flashes Waylon a smile and then she's gone.

He blinks. Tears rolling down his face, he watches the spot she vanished. *Where are you going? Stay. Come back. Please.*

Barclay drives his face toward Waylon's, stopping inches away. Breath humid, sour. Embers whip up from deep inside Barclay's soul to flit about his pupils. Embers of a flame stoked by anger and disgust. "That's fine. You can ignore me. Just know, all the suffering you endure from here on is your fault."

Casino Royale

Each throb of Waylon's heart plucks a nerve — a drum unheard yet felt inside his temple. Tears rolling, muscles screaming, Barclay's breath. Sensations coalesce: an orchestra to underpin the villain's fall from grace. His own fall.

Trying to stay ahead of the static creeping through his joints, Waylon pitches his next ball. *Is this really all my fault? Could I have done something different?*

The ball clips a single bottle at the pyramid's edge. Pleather glances off glass, strikes the backing curtain a foot to the right, and skids down, rolling to a stop near a counter overloaded with stuffed animals.

Gritting his teeth, he scoops up the last ball and whips it; a wild, unplanned throw. *If I didn't stay at home while Phil worked, maybe I'd have had enough... Or someone would have been willing to hire me again. Was five years really enough to make me worthless?*

Almost forgotten amid thoughts, the ball *thwacks* against the pyramid's pedestal. Barclay drops three more onto the empty platter.

*No. That's just an excuse.*

Waylon hefts one up, now heavy as a grapefruit. He squeezes; he tries to crush it in his grasp. Beans shift inside, forcing the pleather to deform — slight bulges of fabric that inch their way through the gaps between his fingers. Pain. Nerves tweak within his wrist and he gives up.

If only he had the will — the strength — to crush it; to make it explode into a rainbow of pleather ribbons.

He readies his next throw and glares at Barclay. *Excuses for a system perpetuated by heroes like him.*

*Thwack* — a miss into the backing curtain.

He claws up and flings another ball. *By insurance companies.*

*Plink* — off a bottle near the pyramid's top.

*By every so-called healer.*

*Plonk* — center left.

*What did I do to get on this side of it all? When did it start?*

A memory plays, fresh and raw and real as any recent second. *A glance toward Phil. Headlights past his window, growing larger. Faster. Screeching breaks. Crunching.*

*Nothing.*

The thought interrupts Waylon's series of wild throws. A sudden, metaphorical jerk of a rug underfoot. He stands there, hovering his hand inches from one of three new balls. *Yes. That's where all of this started. Since then, they've all took from me. Took me from my comfort and forced me into society's underside.*

*Shouldn't a hero like Barclay put a stop to a system like this? Can't he see? Can't he look and see how much I've lost? How far I've been driven?*

With a shake of his head, tears gathered at his jaw break free to splatter over the wooden counter. Waylon picks up another ball. *Of course he can: he's chosen not to care. I'm here, shattered in front of him. But he's ignoring it like everyone else. Ignoring my reality in favor of his own. Whatever it is; however he lets his world paint me.*

*It's straight forward with everything else. Life insurance denying Gina's claim; the healers. Both driven by greed. But... what's Barclay's reason? Joy in the cruelty? Indifference? Or is he desperately clinging to his own comfort? Aware, but unwilling to jeopardize it by working against what got him here.*

*Would there be a difference?*

---

It continues like that for hours — literal or not, it doesn't matter. Three tries, three failures, and more questions. Three more tries and it repeats. Whether the balls hit the bottles or not, nothing new happens. Nothing besides Waylon's ligaments and muscles discovering new ways to scream.

Through it all, he feels his newfound anger slipping away — fading into the background. Unending pain to dull his mind and resolve. To break him.

Barclay drops another three balls on the freshly emptied platter. They *thud* against the wood; the platter protests with a crackle of wood fibers, but it doesn't split. Each pleather ball the equivalent of a midweight bowling ball now.

Waylon's eyes drift over the next one: it hangs in his mind just as heavy as it would from his hand. *I can't keep going...*

Static builds; sirens blare in his mind. A warning against the coming storm that'll tear through his resistance. Force him to continue on, leaving scars upon his body and mind.

He wraps his fingers around the pleather and lifts. Everything hurts. His legs, his arms, his back. Groaning, he hefts the ball above his shoulder. Set to throw.

A spasm strikes his elbow like a bolt of lighting. Electric pain hums through his bones, arcing between nerves and neurons. He gives his arm to gravity's influence.

But the rules don't let him. His arm refuses to fall, left holding the ball aloft — flash-frozen in a timeless agony. "*Argh! Ah!*" He yells.

"*What is this, exactly?*"

The voice is new, high pitched and tinny. Far away. Somewhere behind Waylon; near the visitor's entrance to the dome, maybe.

Any perverse joy in Barclay's eyes freezes over at the person's words. Glaring at Waylon, he speaks in a dark, chesty tone. "Did you find her, Scrypher?"

"And more." She says. "Had a priest looking after her. Avery is in rough shape, but she's with the EMTs now. They've probably left for the hospital already."

A flash of anger incinerates sludge drooling over Waylon's mind. He clamps teeth down on his bottom lip, staunching the flow of involuntary screams. *Thea — they don't know? Could I get him to stop by— no. No, don't. She doesn't deserve this.*

Pain flares: his bones feel as if they're searing him from the inside out. Grunts slip past his teeth; he bites down harder, drawing the taste of iron. *That's a change I can make. A difference. All they're allowed to have is me.*

Scrypher strides into view on his left: green-tinted trench coat, chrome scales for a helmet, and a blonde ponytail snaking out the back of it. She stops beside him, stiff as a board. "How long have you had him like this?"

Barclay's face contorts, his brain visibly churning through his memory. "Thirty minutes?" He snaps and everything dissolves in slow-drifting sparkles: the crowd, the booth, the bottles.

Waylon's body collapses to the ground, strings cut. He doesn't feel relief: only exhaustion and his body's screaming — damage already done. He kneels there, hands limp against the carpet on either side of himself. Mind a mess of anger and questions.

*Who is she? Another hero, but why is she here? Why wasn't I told about her?*

Barclay drops another three balls on the freshly emptied platter. They *thud* against the wood; the platter protests with a crackle of wood fibers, but it doesn't split. Each pleather ball the equivalent of a mid-weight bowling ball now.way. Again. Did you even take the time to establish risk level or did you let all that under-cooked meat in your head tell you what to do?"

A cringe rattles the monstrous man's frame and he lets his eyes drift to the surroundings. "Well— uh, I— this was a small time heist, so there was never going to be—"

"Licensee Field Manual Section 2, Subsection 1. You remember it, right?"

"Of course I do."

"So you established what his power was?"

"No, I didn't. Is this really—"

"Necessary? Yes." She twists her eyeless helmet to face Waylon head-on. "You."

Ice permeates Waylon's chest — freezes his breath in his throat. Then something happens: a kind of hitch, as if he blinked out of turn. Scrypher clasps her hands behind her back. "You can make temporary holes by rubbing away condensation left behind by your breath."

Waylon's eyes go wide. *How does she know?*

She nods, as if confirming something. "Are you able to demonstrate?"

He tries to raise an arm, but it's numb. Not there. "I— I can't move my arms or legs."

She whips her head back toward Barclay, her voice coming sharp. "Of course he's not. Don't you understand? If I wasn't here to confirm his power, you could have had a ticking time bomb on your hands."

Barclay glances at Scrypher like a scolded dog. "Well, he still could have lied when—"

"He didn't, and you're arguing my point for me."

*Are they still talking about me?*

"Maybe this is why they put me here: to teach you how to do your job. Given what we know, what would you classify the risk as?" Scrypher says.

Barclay raises his head, some measure of confidence returning brassy timbre to his words. "A mix. They were here to steal the refrigeration unit for the penguin enclosure. 2.7.3 for risk to civilian property. 2.2.2 for—"

"No. Not 2.2.2. *2.2.3*."

Barclay scoffs. "Low? Isn't that a little conservative? You said it yourself, he could be a time bomb!"

"He's not. Assumptions aren't valid for risk classifications. 2.2.3 fits this situation perfectly. One person's life was in danger, Barclay. *One*. You don't get to inflate risk assessments just because you're fond of the victim.

"2.2.3.1 is very clear on what force is acceptable and you exceeded it. I'm filing a BH 5d about your conduct tonight: I'd rather you didn't keep adding to my notes with weak justifications, so please don't argue with me. We're an hour and a half over our shift as it is; I have things to do tonight that aren't babysitting."

Emotions flit over Barclay's face: anger-tinted cheeks, brow-furrowing disbelief, and — finally — acceptance. Recognition that, like Waylon, he has no way out of his failure. His resistance falls with his brow. 

"You're right." Barclay says. "I overstepped. If there is anything I can provide for your excessive force report, ask. I'll make myself available."

Waylon shifts his eyes between the two heroes, chest burning and mind turning. *That's it? A form?*

Scrypher reaches into her trench coat and pulls out a pair of handcuffs. She tosses them at Barclay. "Cuff him and carry him out. He'll probably need a trip to the hospital, so we'll leave him with the EMTs. If there are any still here."

Taken

The world is ending. Thea's world, more than anyone's. Worms writhe underneath her skin. A knife twists, tearing at her heart. She clutches at her chest. There's no knife there: just handfuls of her cassock's heavy — very much intact — fabric. Above, white ceiling tiles rush past and lights interspersed beat her eyelids into a flutter.

*Bump.*

The stretcher underneath Thea shudders and her back floats above its cushioned bed. A moment later, she falls. Her back hits. Breath explodes out of her lungs, leaving her gasping. Bereft of air.

An emergency medical technician to her right places a firm hand on her shoulder, pressing her against the stretcher. "Sorry! Ran over a cable cover. Don't worry, we're almost to the ambulance. Hold tight."

With one hand already clinging to the stretcher's handrail, Thea squeezes until her knuckles turn white. "*I already am*!"

*You're dying. You're having a heart attack. You've got a blood clot.*

Twist. Another dagger plunges, hilt deep. She screams.

*They're taking you to the hospital. They'll help. Then they'll take the rest of it: your money; your television; your apartment. Everything. Even your choices.*

*Your control.*

Her heart rounds third and sprints for home. Its beats metaphorical, stampeding feet. Each one a new pressure on her chest — crushing. Forcing air out of her. She gasps; she claws after dregs of oxygen until another beat blasts it out of reach.

*No! I can't go back.*

There are actually two EMTs scurrying alongside her stretcher, guiding it through propped open double doors. They chatter. About her, where they're going, what they can do for her. Trying to figure out what's wrong.

She knows, though. Those thoughts aren't hers; she can't control them anymore than she can control the beat of her heart. They're reactionary. A tree of thoughts with branches upon branches, doubling by the second. Hopping from potential disaster to potential disaster too fast for her to ignore.

Digging her knuckles into her chest, she squeezes the bundle of fabric in front of her heart. *Breathe. I have the breathe slower. It's just a panic attack; I'm fine.*

Ceiling tiles disappear past a door's threshold. Ahead, blue-tinted moonlight spills through an expanse of windows. Metal bars crisscross atop glass and cast shadows that flow over the careening three — a web, complementary to her feeling of being caught.

Trapped.

Her body doesn't heed her metal command. Gasps, sweat, daggers. She squeezes her eyes shut, interrupting their pain-driven flutter. *Come on, breathe! Slower. Visualize.*

Everything beyond her eyelids disappear besides an impression of those flitting shadows. She focuses: she tries to drag her consciousness away to somewhere else. Flickers of a different space, half-formed. A recliner. One of the stretcher's wheels skids; a screech of rubber and painful vibrations. The image falters. She yanks at the cloth in her fist, pulling the cassock's fabric taut. *Home. Go home.*

*A recliner: soft, warm — a little scratchy, maybe, but it's hers. She lets herself sink into its cushions. Baseball plays on the television: a game between the Cordia Ravens and —*

Cold sweeps over her, washing away the vision. They're outside. She keeps her eyes closed, but alternating red and blue light blooms diffuse behind her eyelids. An ambulance sits beyond the veil — waiting to swallow her up.

*You'll never have a home again.*

Thea's stomach flips, falls, and flounders. Daggers twist. Pain drives away red and blue in burning white. She wrenches open her eyes. Everything drowns; for inches or miles, all she can see is that unyielding white.

A few seconds pass and it fades. Right in front of her, the back of an ambulance: both EMTs pull one of its double doors open. A one-way portal to destitution. There's a lot of medical equipment and whatsits too, but with enough room left to slide her stretcher in between it all and seal her fate.

Each EMT splits off. Right EMT circles around behind her. Left EMT barely moves, taking position at the end of the stretcher near Thea's feet. He grabs onto the metal frame and his muscles tense. "Alright, lift on three."

Thea yanks herself up by the handrail. Pain peppers her chest, shooting her back into endless white space. She doubles over into her own lap. "*No! Wa— augh — wait! Wait, p-please wait!*"

No response. Except for the man near her feet, but he doesn't speak to her. "One." He calls, directed to the man behind her. 

White fades, but pain doesn't. Thea struggles up out of her crumpled over state. She pushes and pulls and groans until she's sitting up, face to face with the man. "*I s-said wait!* I don't—" Another surge of pain. Wincing, she clutches at her chest. "I don't want to go."

On either side of a massive, rocky nose, the man's face droops. He lets his arms fall limp at his sides and groans. "*Come on.* Really? You could die; actually sounds like you partway there."

"I can't — *augh* — afford it."

He trudges a few steps away. "Well, Gary, guess we better pack it up and roll on back to Sickbay. I'll get the paperwork."

"R-really?"

Gary speaks up from behind Thea, his voice gruff yet soft somehow. "No. We'll do our job and get her taken care of. Now get back here, Benjamin."

Benjamin stops. He stands there: stoic, back towards them, and giant nose silhouetted against the light coming from inside the ambulance. "Not Benjamin: just Ben. How many times do I have to tell you until you remember, old man?"

Tension and awkwardness thicken the night air. It's got nothing to do with Thea. So, struggling, she grasps the handrail in both hands and pulls herself over it in an odd kind of wiggle. Wormlike; graceless; painful thanks to the metal bar digging into her sternum, stomach, and nethers. One more wiggle and she falls free, landing on her feet.

She starts to hobble off, but the dagger twists. Pavement, the ambulance, and three figures off in the distance disappear in white. She collapses to her knees — one hand pressing against asphalt, the other clutching at her chest. Within seconds both EMTs are at her side.

Gary — judging by the voice — grabs her upper arm. "What in the world— we're just trying to help, miss!"

Ben grabs her other arm and the two of them start to lift.

Gritting her teeth, Thea shrugs them off. "*It's a panic attack.* That's all. T-that's all it is: I don't n-need a hospital."

One of them kneels in front of her: salt and pepper hair; glasses; an overwhelmingly kind, yet concerned face. Gary. He lays a hand on her shoulder and waits for her eyes to meet his. "We can't force you to go with us. Looking at you in this state, I wish we could... Are you sure about this?" He says.

"I'm— *eah — I-I'm sure.*"

His eyes linger for a moment, but he nods and calls past Thea's head. "Benjamin, can you get the paperwork from—"

Ben's voice comes from far behind her. Near the ambulance.

*When did he let go?*

"Just Ben, and I'm already getting it." He says.

The world that was ending changes in that brief exchange. It's cold. Colder than when Thea arrived at this godforsaken aquarium. The night air: she can feel it again, but when did she stop?

Supported by three limbs, she stares up at the underside of Gary's stubbled chin. "T-that's it? You won't take me?"

"Almost. You've got to sign a waiver, then we'll be out of your hair." Gary says.

---

The paperwork is quick. Gary gives Thea a spiel about how they won't be liable or whatever; she doesn't listen. Instead, she fiddles with her fingers, picking at a hangnail here and the scab of a shallow cut there. Ben's nose appears from around the ambulance before he does — possibly the sphinx's that went missing, though it fits his face. He approaches her bearing a pen and a packet of paper. As soon as they're in reach, Thea yanks both out of his hands. Leafing through to the last page, she signs a line at the bottom before Gary can finish vocalizing an endless list of fine print.

"— without— oh, already signed?" Gary says. "You sure you don't want to hear the rest?"

Thea jabs the packet into Gary's chest, crumpling it ever so. "Nope. Rather not feed the anxiety more things to blow out of..." Her words trail off. Behind the EMTs, those three figures are much closer. Close enough to make out their details.

Waylon limps, flanked by that chrome-helmeted hero and another one wearing a purple leotard despite the cold: all three creep forward, heading straight at her.

But, why isn't it cold? Why can't she feel it anymore? Thea's eyes meet Waylon's. They stare, both bloodshot and bagged amid age's wrinkles. There's an odd look in his, though. A harsh, unwavering resolution. Dread infects her — it eats her from the inside out and strips her mind of thought. 

A new dagger tears into her chest. 

Sermon Atop a Stretcher

Heroes and their captured criminal stop feet from Thea. Waylon breaks eye contact with her; his face is motionless, carved of stone. An unchanging sculpture that stares forward in apathy, guilt, anger, or resolution. Thea can't tell which.

Heart beating and knife twisting, she clutches at her chest. *Not again. Not now. Breathe.*

The strongman grabs Waylon by his forearm and leads him forward. Past Thea. "Gary! Benjamin! Great to see you two. Is the ambulance free or are you attending to Miss Thea there?" 

*He... he knows who I am; I'm done for. They'll take me to jail, I'll get sucked into a gang, and then I'll have to murder people to prove myself. Or some prison chapel priest will pit me against the other inmates and—*

Ben stammers somewhere behind her. "B-Barclay! You remember me?"

Barclay claps him on the shoulder. "Of course I do! I'd never forget a proud man of our emergency response services, no matter how recently you started. Enjoying your work so far? Gary's been treating you well, right?"

Thea twists at her hip to better see the four men. From her seat upon the asphalt, Barclay eclipses her. His bald head blots out the moon and his frame casts a shadow that could stretch to the aquarium far behind her. She shivers. Not from cold: from fear rampaging through her veins.

Snapping his feet together, Ben docks a flattened palm at eyebrow level in salute. "Y-yes sir! Most rewarding work I've ever been a part of!"

Gary grabs Ben's saluting hand and yanks it down. "Come on, Benjamin. *Be cool*: you're making him uncomfortable. He's just doing his job like the rest of us." Gary looks over Waylon. His eyes travel from a clearly favored foot to cuffed, blood-stained hands. Then he spares a glance for Thea. "As for the young lady there, she's refused to go with us despite our insistence. So we have room; we can take him."

"Wonderful!" Barclay nudges Waylon forward — too hard. Waylon stumbles into Gary and the grizzled EMT catches him, keeping him upright. Barclay rings one twirl of his mustache around a finger and tugs. "Whoops! Sorry about that: don't know my own strength."

Thea's heart seizes up; she claws at her chest, trying to relieve the building pressure. Chewn nails run useless over the weave of her cassock. *He'll kill me. He'll shove me, I'll fall, and he'll lose his patience and beat me to death. Or that helmet woman will. Or Waylon will turn around and do it himself. Or—*

"*Oof.*" Gary struggles under Waylon's weight. "You've got to be more careful, Barclay. Sorry, sir: just lean on me." He leads Waylon to the stretcher and helps him up. "You all really shouldn't have made him walk. *Umph* — didn't you see his leg?"

After a series of well-practiced movements, both EMTs slide the stretcher into the back of the ambulance and lock it in place. Waylon stares out; his eyes flow over the sea of people with a thousand league stare.

Thea catches a moment of his attention, but just that: a moment. His eyes dart away the next. Whatever emotions they harbor, it's scary. Terrifying. Like an encounter with the ocean's vast, unyielding darkness.

Shivers thrum through her bones and the earth itself shakes. Barclay steps toward her. She stares ahead, unblinking and frozen. Terror claws at her insides; it rips her thoughts to shreds and leaves behind a desolate creature that can do nothing but exist.

He squats in front of her, beaming a smile from beneath his curly, oiled mustache. "Wonderful to meet you, Thea! I've been dying to talk with you." He juts a palm out toward her. "Barclay, if you didn't hear."

Before she can stop, she's raising her hand to meet his. That's what she's supposed to do right? That's what's proper? The hand clutching at her heart goes limp, only staying in place due to the fabric tangled between her fingers.

Barclay doesn't wait for her tepid approach. He clasps his hand over hers and drags her in tight for—? He abandons the handshake and wraps his arms around her,  squeezing the life out of her.  "*T-Thank you so m-much!*" His words are garbled; snotty and wet. "Avery having such a good friend... *t-thank y-you!*"

*What?*

That's what surfaces between the chimes of her brain's low-oxygen warning bells. Barclay's shoulder digs into her throat; embers tingle throughout her lungs. Yet, all she can feel is relief. *Really? I'm okay?*

Barclay tightens his grip, sobs racking his shoulders. "*T-thank you. Thank you. I'm so glad she's okay and that she had you and—*"

The helmeted lady tugs on Barclay's shoulder. "You're going to strangle her if you don't let up."

Thea barley hears what they're saying. *I... I have a future again?*



Roll Aside the Stone

Valerie's office looks no different from yesterday: plants, grandchildren's trophies, eclectic furnishings. Valerie herself... she's mad. Not that she wasn't mad before, but Albert's transgression then was old — scabbed over. The events of the past night are a different story. 

Seated across the desk from her, Albert drums their fingers along the seam of a plush armrest. They study her. Underneath the anger lurks something that should be imperceptible. Especially so, given how little time has passed since the two last parted.

Aging.

A year, a day, a minute. It doesn't matter, even for a woman harboring hundreds more years than she should. Albert can *feel* it: imperfect cells, damaged through poor choices or nature's own flawed regeneration. Like worms writhing underneath her skin

Albert lists their head about the room. *It's already been a day, huh? Ever faster does it crawl.*

Valerie prickles behind her desk. "Well? What do you have to say? What kind of— of— of *barbarians* are you working with, Albert?"

*Right. I shouldn't let my mind wander. Now: reframe responsibility.* "She wasn't supposed to be here—" Albert starts.

Shooting out of her chair, Valerie slaps her palms onto the desktop. "But she was!"

*Offer a flawed solution.* Albert bats a hand. "Don't worry, I'll cut a check to cover any medical expenses."

"And have her owe you a favor? I never thought you'd sink low enough to suck life from a college student."

*Tease, then provoke.* Albert clutches at their non-existent pearls. "*Goodness*, who do you take me for? I'd never do something so dastardly! If anything, she the one who did *me* a favor."

Her voice resonates in her chest, taking on a dark tone."*Don't you dare.*"

*Resolve the tension, put her center stage.* They lower their hand back to their lap. "Fine, I'll make this clear for you. Avery has plenty of life ahead of her. There's no reason for me to dabble and I swear to you that I won't. Not everyone is worth the guilt like you were, Valerie — the old you, at least."

"Oh? And exactly who was I?"

*Establish a hero's call.* "A light in a long, dark tunnel. You still could be if you wanted: it'd be shame to send you—"

Valerie collapses back into her chair, letting her head loll against the headrest. "*Enough*, I've humored you more than I should have. This is where I make my exit; let the curtains close for someone else to draw. Someone younger. Maybe with enough patience for your bullshit, if that's even possible."

*Thus the scene ends. The fourth wall broken, the writer disgraced, and the play strangled in its crib by the would-be star. For a second time.* All the calculations — all the fear and stress — disappear. Albert's lost. And for the rest of this moment, there's nothing left to do. Nothing besides saying goodbye to an old — albeit estranged — friend.

Peppermint creeps up Albert's nose, wisps rising from a delicate teacup in their lap. They cradle the cup to their lips and drink. "You know I had to try, Valerie. There will never be another to take your place: no one else can understand me or my reasons.

"I'll miss you.

"And our conversations, no matter how few or hostile they may have been. You're certain you want to go through with this? I'm not trying to convince you otherwise, but I have to be sure. I have to hear you say 'yes' to that question."

Her eyes dart to a picture frame on her desk. They linger there. After a moment, she clears her throat and refocuses on empty space. "Yes — yes, I'm sure. Tamika's starting to notice and I'd rather pass things on before she gets spooked. She deserves it. Don't fret too much, you'll find someone else. There are plenty of people at the Bureau with a conscience: you'd have chosen one already if you weren't being so picky."

"Maybe you're right; maybe I have been picky. Though, it's not just a conscience. I'd say it's more about—" Albert shakes their head. "No, sorry. I shouldn't ramble. You don't want to hear all of my caveats, requirements, and such. Anyways. Do you have your affairs in order?"

Behind teal, horn-rimmed glasses, panic flashes through Valerie's eyes. "*Oh dear,* we're not doing it *now*, are we?"

"What? Of course not. This would be a terrible place for it."

"Then why in the world did you ask it like that?"

Albert shrugs. "Chitchat; small talk. Though, to be fair, I *was* trying to segue into discussing your preferred timing. Keep it a tad more delicate than saying it outright. Not great at subtlety when I'm doing something out of the good of my heart."

There's a long silence between them. One of silent contemplation for Valerie. For Albert, the opposite. They close their eyes and wander through the halls of an empty mind. Paths packed minutes prior now pristine. Calm. No urgent plans; no onslaught of possible scenarios. Just silence and letting their thoughts happen. Letting them wander from nothing to... more nothing.

Unease settles in Albert's stomach; each new nothing threatens their mind's footing. Like they're teetering on an existential slope, slicked by rain. They drum their fingers upon their armrest and pull themself back into the present. *Maybe relaxing just isn't for me.*

Valerie plucks her teacup off her desk and cradles it to her chest. She goes to sip, but — with a quiver of her lip — she stops midway. "Are you scared of it?"

"If you're going to ask me a question like that, I'll need something stronger than tea." Albert digs a flask out of their dress pant's pocket. They start to unscrew its cap, but hesitate. "Oh, sorry. May I?"

Managing a sip, Valerie glares past the rim of her cup. "If you must; a waste of quality tea."

Albert wrenches the cap off. "I must."

It's a single malt from the now defunct Chichibu distillery — made just before they shutdown. Two hundred years ago, about. Albert pours it into their teacup and — hovering their nose inches away from the mixture — breathes in: dried orange and caramel rise upon trails blazed by peppermint, both tailed by a pleasant woodiness. Oak, but a species specific to Japan. Mizunara.

Nerves tingle up Albert's nose at the familiar scent. They savor it; they sip. Caramel apples frolic from taste bud to taste bud, leaving behind the visage of vanilla — walnut. They swallow. Peppermint lingers in their nose and the alcohol's heat spreads through their chest: images of snow and a warm hearth.

Lowering their teacup, Albert exhales through pursed lips. "*Exquisite.* Far from a waste, I'd say."

"Well? Enough to give an answer?"

At her prodding, Albert's chest shifts. Amidst warmth a void blossoms; a core of all consuming fear. A black hole. Practice keeps their voice calm. "Oh, yes! Your death question. I'm scared of it — more than anything, I think. Terrified."

Valerie lowers her teacup, placing it back upon its dish. Her hands tremble and porcelain meets in a jittery clatter. "You have a way with words, Albert. Always knowing just how to scare an old woman."

Drinking more whiskey-infused tea, Albert flushes that void to the back of their mind. "*Ah, mm—* Aren't you Catholic, though? You've got an afterlife to look forward to."

"Sure, I'm Catholic. As much as I can be in a world as— as *messed* up as this one." She hides trembling hands in her lap. "But, what if I'm wrong?"

"A hero brought to tremble by something she used to face *every* day? Second guessing, too? Never thought I'd see Locks shies away from death and its many questions."

"I'm not second guessing my decision. It's just... I don't know. Doing it for other people was easier; this feels selfish. Wrong. Like I've lost."

"Nor did I predict a future where she shares such personal struggles with me! What's gotten into you?"

"*Oh, quiet.* Who else would I be able tell?"

"And how would you like me to respond? Offer some advice? Admiration? My condolences, maybe? Honest question, as terribly as I've worded it."

"Just tell me it's okay. That I'm allowed to make this choice. That, even if this life is all there is, dying isn't a bad thing."

"Your time is yours to end. Though, can I say that dying isn't bad without hesitation? I don't know; that's a hurdle I haven't overcome." Albert turn's their thoughts inward, toward the void they tried to drown under whiskey. "There's this feeling I get when I merely think of what waits beyond life's final curtain — contemplation of endless nothingness. It's petrifying."

*There it is.* A sharp intake of breath that leaves Albert's lungs empty. They claw at their chest, nails scrabbling over their shirt's mesh fabric. "My heart stops; my mind clears in an instant. The Grim Reaper themself is there next to me, skeletal hand reaching to pluck away my very existence. Then, it's like you said: I'll lose. I'll have done something wrong. So, can I tell you that death is good? I think not — unless you'd prefer I lie to you."

There's another silence. Albert forces their focus to stray in between sips of tea. They search for any visual stimuli to occupy their mind. Behind Valerie, next to a cracked window and resting upon the cluttered windowsill, snowdrops rise from a pot. Blooming snowdrops; odd for early winter. Wind whistles in to rustle their stems. Drooping bulbs filter cold air as it flows, brightening its bite with the flower's smell of honeyed almonds.

Albert swirls their tea around their cup. *There might be meaning there: renewal, hope. If I were lucky, but am I?*

Pushing off her desk, Valerie struggles to her feet through age's aches. Pain unerased despite a gift of two hundred years. "I don't want to know when you're going to do it. I want to go to sleep one night and never wake up." She takes a stance near those snowdrops — back to Albert — and gazes over the aquarium's parking lot. "Soon, though. Promise me that."

Albert rises out of their chair and slides their teacup onto Valerie's desk. "Then that's that. I promise, it'll be soon. For what it's worth: I'm sorry that I wasn't able to find a favor big enough to offer until now."

She cocks her head to the side. "That's how you're spinning it, huh? Offering me the opportunity?" Sighing, she looks back to the parking lot. "I suppose it doesn't matter. Before you go: why is that man worth so much to you?"

Albert pats wrinkles out of their faux suede pants. "Who?"

"Waylon."

A switch flips in Albert's mind. They freeze in place, thrust into the spotlight of a scene they didn't plan. "You've been snooping, I see. Too early for an article to be out. Who'd you get his name from? Barclay? The hospital?"

"Ronan. I invited him for tea and he was more than happy to come. Ecstatic, I'd say."

Heart races; sweat christens. Regret, fear, and something else. Why did they let their guard down? This woman isn't just an estranged friend: she's a hero.

A paragon.

That feeling of something else though; danger and a will to overcome intertwined, both thrumming in unison to form what can only be described by a single word.

Life. The reason Albert exists. To—

Valerie interrupts their thoughts. "*Now, now*: I can hear your waters churning. I'm not planning anything. Don't be mad at him, by the way. He only told me because he knew you visited and I was pestering. Even then, he put up quite a show trying to convince me that he didn't know what I was talking about."

*Oh. That makes more sense.*

Albert unfreezes and finishes patting away their suit's wrinkles, paying close attention to the two wings of teal, faux suede fabric that dangle from either side of their belted waist. "The downside of your understanding me; all the buttons to make me panic, lain bare before you."

"Then we're even for earlier. I'd still like an answer, though — about Waylon."

Wrinkle free, Albert works toward the door. They shuffle around a velvet couch and a matching pair of armchairs. "It's nothing grand, Valerie. He's just a bit like me. Burned by a system unwilling to change, its bloated and archaic and cruel self acting by design. He's come to understand that we need to move beyond it. Just like you did. Unlike you, though, he'll decide to do something about it."

"Then by helping you I've damned another's soul to save mine." She sighs, long and drawn out. "What a hero I've become."

"You won't have to live with it, at least."

The remaining maze of plants and furniture stretches with the silence. Albert thinks that'll be the end of it, but just before they cross beyond the room's threshold, Valerie speaks. "I hate you. By god, have I hated you."

The words are nails. Not freshly driven, but rusted and bent; embedded long ago. Still leaking poison throughout Albert's body and mind. They hesitate in the doorway, letting their fingers linger upon its frame. "I know. I wish I was sorry."

With that, they leave.

Reverie Lost

Beeps are the first thing that Avery hears when she comes to. Steady. In tune with the beat of her heart, oddly enough. Each pulse of noise and blood warps her hearing, as if her head were spinning between a pair of balloons. Round and round.

Now, pain. Even lying still, her shoulder screams for relief. Sight. Formless crimson light bursts in the corner of her eyes — figments of pain itself. She grows conscious of every sense in sequence: the taste of unbrushed teeth; the smell of clinical, sterile air; and the woven feel of thermal blankets.

All senses accounted for and all just a little bit shitty. A lotta bit, really. She cracks her eyelids, letting light as clinical as the air seep in. It's blinding at first. Her eyelids flutter with waves of discomfort, but she catches glimpses.

IV drip, curtain, hospital bed. Light-driven discomfort recedes: slowly; too slowly. Though, as it does, the pain in her shoulder grows more intense. A groan escapes her throat. She grits her teeth and forces her still struggling eyes to stay open.

To Avery's left, a woman looms. Waves of auburn hair cascade over her shoulders; a light blotted out by her head rims the edges of her silhouette in a halo. It's as if Avery were witness to the stories of angels made real. This woman isn't an angel, of course. She's a doctor. 

She removes a glove from one of her hands. "Good morning! Well, almost. We've still got an hour or so until the day walkers are out and about. I'm your doctor: Dr. Helen; feel free to just call me Helen. How are you feeling, Avery?"

Avery tries to say something, but words refuse to come. In their place: noises with the vague shape of words. "*I'ehm— I'ehm heling bhed. Iht erts.*"

"Take a minute, dear. Don't rush. Your anesthesia is still wearing off." Helen reaches her ungloved hand toward Avery's arm, lying limp on the bed. "If I may, can I take your arm here? I'll be able to dull the pain you're feeling."

"*Ohhey.*"

Helen grasps Avery's forearm. The next moment, ice floods her veins and courses further with each beat of her heart. Everywhere it flows it chills her body to the point of numbness. But, not a bad numbness. A comfortable one.

Lying there, she exhales. Fog wisps from her lips as if she were a dragon letting loose her freezing breath.

Helen snaps her glove back on. "Does that feel better?"

Breathing in, the air comes cold. Freezing. Yet, no pain. For the first time in Avery's life, she feels a complete lack of discomfort. No aches, no twangs, nothing. Even her mind is quiet: barren of obsessive, buzzing thoughts.

She stares at Helen, mind blank. Not from some clouding of her mind. No: this is pure wonder. "Wha— what? What did you do?" She says.

Yanking a clipboard and pen off a nearby tray, Helen starts scribbling something out. "Just a little pain management. More effective than morphine and keeps you present. Doesn't last as long, though. There's some indications that it hastens the natural healing process: kind of hard to get the sample size I need for a conclusion like that. There's only one of me, after all."

Avery loses herself amid the explanation. *This... is this how brains are supposed to work?* She tries to raise herself up, but everything is numb. Only her mind and her mouth work by her command. "*How long?*" She asks.

Helen doesn't look up from her clipboard. "Hmm?"

"How long will this last?"

"Oh, about an hour. Don't worry. With luck, you'll have your prescribed painkillers in hand before it wears off."

"We can't just do this again?"

"Unfortunately not, no. Anymore without a weeklong break and the risks of complication rise dramatically. Blood clots, nerve damage, probably other things. Not to scare you, though: once is perfectly safe. I've done all the tests and submitted the appropriate paperwork to clear it for use with patients."

Avery's heart falls. *Only an hour then.* She bites back her anger, letting it simmer inside — not anger at the doctor, but at herself. *Damn it, the one time everything feels okay and I'm stuck in a bed. Stuck in a hospital away from everyone.*

Helen dots off whatever she was writing with a tap of her pen. "Want the run down?"

"Of what?"

"Your injuries, what we did, aftercare."

Barraged by her returning senses and Helen's ability to wipe away her obsessions, the happenings at the aquarium lie forgotten. Until now. Her mind recoils at the rush of memories: late night worries about fish, a teleporting man, her shoulder after the chase. That priest bubbles through her thoughts, too. Thea.

*Did she get away?*

"Well?" Helen says.

Thoughts jumble and Avery blinks them away. They refuse to stick — to linger as they usually might. "Sorry; yes. Am I okay?" She says.

"Sure, I can lead with that. Good news: you're fine! I expect you'll make a full recovery given a few months of taking it easy. No strenuous exercise, no lifting things heavier than twenty pounds, and keep that sling on for three months."

*Sling?*

Avery looks down. One arm — the one the doctor's grabbed — is free, limp at her side. The other, though, is cradled to her ribcage by a sling of shiny, bright blue fabric. A strap loops over the opposite shoulder and down; she can feel another drawn tight across her lower back.

*Oh.*

Helen continues. "You had two cracked ribs and a dislocated shoulder with some severe internal bleeding near the joint. It was interesting, actually. Normally there isn't arterial damage from a simple anterior dislocation, but your subclavian artery must have gotten pinched somehow. Anyway: when you arrived — say, five hours ago — we took your vitals, then prepped you for surgery. We had you in and out of the operating room in an hour. Assuming you follow your aftercare instructions, they should both be good! Any questions?"

For all the biological knowledge rattling inside Avery's head, precious little helps her parse what qualifies her dislocation as anterior or where a subclavian artery is. Near her shoulder, of course, but *where at* inside there? *She probably wouldn't be able to tell me right now*

*Would she?*

Deciding that the answer is 'probably not', Avery tries to wiggle the fingers that dangle out the front of her sling. "No. No questions."

Helen tucks her clipboard under her armpit. "Wonderful! You should be feeling more control over your body by now. Stop by reception, fill out a little paperwork, then you're free to go. I've heard your parents are waiting down in the lobby. Be sure you have them stop by a pharmacy to pick up your prescriptions. You'll have two: an antibiotic and a painkiller. The pharmacists will—"

*I'm free to go?*

Free from the constant, obsessive companion and her chest bursting with motivation to not end up liked that priest, she scrambles to get out of bed. *I've got an hour to spend and my parents are here. Now's my best chance.*

---

"*Avery!*" Mom's voice echoes around the expansive lobby, beating back a steady, deafening tick from overhead. She shoots up from a hardbacked chair and runs. "You're okay!"

Shock grasps Avery's breath. Having burst through a pair of doors into the lobby moments prior, her stride breaks. The sight of Mom like this: usually straight hair a nest of frizz, eyes puffy and red, *wearing pajamas*. It's a simple, matching set of navy bottoms and a top, but still: weird. Nostalgic in a way.

*How long has it been since I've gotten up early enough to see her in pajamas?*

Mom barrels into her, slinging arms around whatever she can hug. And she *hugs*.

Pains jolts Avery's shoulder. Struggling to speak, she squeaks words past frizz and a collapsing larynx. "*M-Mom. Unsqueeze me. S-shoulder.*"

Mom cradles Avery's face between two hands. "*I'm so sorry*. I wasn't thinking, sorry dear. Are you okay? What'd the doctor say? The receptionists gave us some details, but—"

Without thought, Avery finds her unbound hand squeezing one of mom's. "That can wait. There's something I have to tell you both. Dad's here too, right?"

"Yes, yes he is, but—"

*There.* Back where Mom jumped out of her seat, Dad shambles in their direction, massaging his chest directly in front of his heart. Avery starts off and drags Mom one step toward Dad.

*If you tell him, he'll have another heart attack. It'd be as good as killing him yourself. Stop: apologize to them for even thinking to do this.*

It's a sneak attack, advantage and all. Tendrils latch onto her limbs; her lungs. They squeeze out air. They refuse to let her move, leaving her like a suffocating statue — a carefully carved rock with no will or way to breathe, but still a desperate need. *It— it hasn't even been close to an hour. What's happening?*

*Sorry, but you were never free. Just distracted.*

Back into the Meat Phylactery

Avery is dumbfound. How could she have believed it'd be as simple as a doctor's touch and she could do it? Anger coils in her gut, nestled within the compulsion's tentacular workings. Anger at Dr. Helen for not warning her. At her parents. Here, unable to help despite their wealth of lived experience. Shouldn't they know something? *Shouldn't they already know what I'm struggling with?*

No. That's not right.

Mom brushes a hand against Avery's uninjured shoulder. "What's wrong, dear? Are you okay? Do we need to get a doctor?"

Avery jerks away. "*No!*" She acts before she can think, driven on fumes of a momentary, unjustified anger. Guilt carves a spot alongside her heart. What's wrong with her? She scrambles for words to explain the thoughts running through her head. "Sorry, n-no. I don't need a doctor. I just... I don't know, I..."

Dad shambles into earshot. His hand falls away from its place massaging his chest. "Something wrong, you two?" He says.

Mom looks between Avery and Dad, silent and full of suspense. Expectation.

That's it, isn't it... what this is all about? What the rush out here was for? Expectations. Dropping her head, Avery rubs a palm into her eyes. *For now, an expectation that I'll explain. Why I was out late, how I hurt my shoulder, what the doctor said. Expectation that I'll reveal every tiny detail and leave nothing out.*

Her heart shudders under immense weight and compulsive tendrils respond in kind.

*You have to control your tone. Your mannerisms and your volume. They'll despise you if you let emotions slip or you leave anything out. Might kill Dad, even. He's already too worried about you.*

Both of her parents stare a stare that Avery can feel. Stress boils under her skin; itchy, crawling stress that soaks her clothes through. She swipes beads of sweat away from her brow, leaving behind a crackling layer of salt.

Such an insignificant sensation. Yet, it runs rampant through her mind. Every nerve within her forehead crackles and her mind writhes, as if even her brain were sticky with dried sweat. *Why? Why did I think I could do this?*

*Because you're a terrible person. Apologize now so Dad won't die and you won't get kicked out of the house for killing him.*

Dad places a hand on her back. Warm, gentle, well-intentioned.

Regardless, that breaks her: one final sensation to drive words and actions beyond Avery's dregs of control. She slaps his hand away. "*I— I— I never wanted this!*"

Mom gasps; Dad lets his hand — still lingering near — fall to his side. They're flanking her. Both close enough to be heard over the ticking clock overhead, yet both quiet.

*Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.*

The clock stuttered silence is debilitating, each passing second a jolt to her heart. Until Dad breaks through in his ever kind tone. "Never wanted what? Let us listen, Avery."

*How can he be kind when I'm treating them both like this?*

Despite the thought, words shoot from Avery's mouth. "All this fish shit. The job, the degree, the—" Her throat seizes. "your— your all's expectations. *Everyone expects me to do all these things and I don't want any of it! I never did!*"

She's done it; she's finally said it. Flowers bloom, fireworks explode: at least, they should. Right? Exhilaration should cut away the stress anchoring her thoughts in catastrophic obsessions, but it doesn't. There's no relief. Anger still coils in her stomach; tendrils still cling — slackless — to her limbs; and sweat pours into her clothes, doubling their weight.

*That was the worst way to say it, you know. Now they're more than justified to stop caring about you. You've defied their wishes, and now they're going to cast you aside. Unless you—*

Avery drives her teeth down on her lower lip, avoiding eye contact and waiting for damnation with the taste of iron filling her mouth. *I've said it. No taking it back. I've wasted enough of our time.*

They're quiet; she can hear their gears grinding. Steady clicks like the reel of a fishing pole and she's a fish dangling helpless from the line. Dad starts, voice wavering with confusion. "Oh. Well, I don't think—"

Mom lays a hand on Dad's shoulder, quietening him. "How can we help?"

It's an odd question. Of all the hours spent planning this moment, it never crossed her mind. *How? Why would they want to? They've already done so much for me, I can't ask for more.*

Still, Mom offered.

*Only so you'll ask for too much. That's when they'll spring the trap. You can't push forward anymore: turn back or—*

A thought resonates. Thanks not to fireworks or blossoming flowers, but to the surprise of being heard.


*They've done so much for me.*

*They've done so much for me.*

*They've done so much for me.*


All around her, tendrils snap one after the other. She rockets from the depths of her own mind. Loose, shorn tendrils flap from her limbs, only to drift free like curls of seaweed.

Outside her forest of obsession there's room for the thought to grow — to change: *did they ever say they wouldn't do more?*

Something drops onto the fabric of Avery's sling, making a soft *thud.* She looks down. Amid its bright blue is a blotch of navy. Another *thud,* another blotch. She raises her hand to her cheek and tears slick her palm. *When did I start crying?*

Her parents stand in front of her, concern scrawled across their faces in wrinkled foreheads and clusters of crows feet. Dad massages at his chest and Mom nestles an arm around his waist.

*I suppose I should at least ask, right?* Avery darts her eyes between theirs. "Could— could I just take a break? To figure stuff out?"

Mom and Dad look to each other and back to Avery. In tandem, they embrace her. Avery doesn't fight it this time; she lets their arms close around her. They're warm. Solid.

Dad brings her in tight — careful of her injured shoulder — and he buries his face in her hair. His voice warbles against her scalp. "*Of course*, of course you can. As long as you need."

Mom's hand finds the small of Avery's back — a ginger touch. She tucks her own head to one side of Avery's and whispers into her ear. "I'm so sorry, dear. We should've made room for you to share this earlier."

The disconnect between Avery's expectations and her parents' actions replace coiling anger with something else. Nausea? She revels in her parents' warmth, but tries to tease apart what's happening inside her gut. *Do I just need to go to the bathroom?*

No.

It's an empty feeling, like she's barreling down a hill in a rickety rollercoaster. It's a full feeling, like she's just tucked in for a midday nap. It's fear; it's elation; it's love. Messy, folded together until they're inseparable. Mom's hair and Dad's sweatshirt wick tears away from either side of her face. *Was this all I had to do? They just understand?*

Avery buries her head into Dad's chest, snuffling. "*I'm s-sorry I didn't say something until now.*"

"*Shh, shh, shh.* It's okay." Mom says, rubbing Avery's back. "Don't worry."

"*But I don't want to just blame you two! What if all the pressure has been in my head? What if I tried harder?*"

Mom weaves her hand into the hair at the back of Avery's head, massaging. "It's never just in your head. A thoughtless offhand comment, a forgotten plan. Anything. It doesn't matter, our brains will find a way to make it a hint at something greater. You don't have to find the exact causes right now; you've got time. *You have so much more time to learn.*"

A wet sensation trickles down the crown of Avery's scalp. Dad, crying. He kisses the top of her head. "*And you've got us: we'll be right here, learning with you.*"

No more worries jump for attention. No more words barge to the front of Avery's mind, demanding to be spewn without a second's thought. She can't even hear the clock anymore. Only the thump of Dad's heart and Mom's fingers running through her hair.

Session Zero

*A few weeks later.*

---

Rooterdale's low-security correctional institute doesn't show enough movies. Three days a week, two movies per day; six pieces of modern Hollywood trash. Lying in bed, Waylon traces — by sight — the metal lattice of the top bunk's underside. *It wouldn't hurt them to play one of my suggestions.*

And he's made *plenty* of suggestions the last couple weeks: Reservoir Dogs, Twelve Angry Men, Rashomon. In hindsight, the reason they refused is obvious.

He rolls onto his side. *Can't help I'm in a specific mood.*

Above, his cellmate shifts. The bed frame shakes and creaks with every movement, letting lose a metallic whine that resonates in Waylon's teeth. A couple seconds pass; the ruckus stops. In its place, Ronan's faint, Irish accent comes hushed. "*One, two, three, four, five, six—*"

It's grating; excruciating. A grim reminder. *Each second, a second closer.* Waylon sucks a breath through his teeth. "Do you always have to do that out loud?"

"*— ten, eleven, twelve—*"

"Hello?"

"*— thirteen, fourteen—*"

Waylon flops onto his back and kicks the underside of Ronan's bunk. "*Come on!*"

That does nothing to deter Ronan. Voice unwavering, he counts to twenty. Silence comes after. Silence, not counting the men's exaggerated breathing: Ronan's steady and calm; Waylon's heavy from a mere kick.

Waylon hisses through staggered breaths. "*Why?* Every two hours, every single day. Every time *out loud*. Just, why? What do you get out of it?"

Ronan peeks over the side of his bunk, revealing his usual burr. Though — thanks to their irregular access to razors — his cheeks, jaw, and upper lip bear a strikingly even layer of red stubble. He scratches at it. "Sorry! Can't say. You wouldn't happen to have the time, would you?"

"There's no where to go; nothing left to look forward to. Why would I? *How* would I?"

"A watch, maybe?"

"Do they even let us have watches?"

"I've got no idea. You know what—" Lacing his fingers into the metal lattice on the underside of his bunk, Ronan flips end-over-head and drops to the floor. With a couple steps, he juts his face between their cell door's bars. "Guard! Any guards? Hello?"

Waylon's chest roils. He rolls onto his side to face the wall. *Why is he always like this?*

Heavy boots echo down the hallway. A guard stops feet from their door and his voice comes grizzled, low. Exactly what you'd expect from a guard. "Yeah? What is it this time, Ronan?"

"Are we allowed to have watches?"

"Why?"

"Curiosity."

"*Ah.*" The guard hobbles back the way he came, calling over his shoulder. "How about I go ask my superior and get back to you?"

Ronan squeezes his head between the bars as far as it'll go. "I'd appreciate it! If you wouldn't mind while you're at it, could you check with him about my question on— oh, he's already around the corner."

Chest still roiling, Waylon counts the wall's bricks — far different from counting the seconds. *Why does he even bother?*

"I'm sure he'll check." Ronan says, voice trailing off. There's a shuffling of feet, then Ronan's voice booms right near Waylon's ear. "For time: I'd guess it's about noon."

Wincing at his volume, Waylon shifts closer to the wall. "I could hear you fine from beside the door."

"What about the human connection! Shouldn't we look at each other when talking?"

"I don't want to talk."

"What else do you have to do?" Ronan drums his fingers along one of the bunk's vertical supports. "You know, I wasn't sure what being bored felt like before getting put in here. This is it, right?"

"Yeah." Waylon says. A simple answer, yet the question doesn't sit right in his mind. He flips over to face Ronan.

The man is there, squatting. Face inches from Waylon's own and his breath minty.

Waylon recoils, planting his back against the wall. "*Ah— god*. You're really saying you've never been bored?"

Ronan's eyes light up and his incessant finger drumming stops. "Isn't this better? Eye to eye, soul to soul. It really *feels* like we're getting to know each other! But, I am saying that: I've never been bored. How can you be with so much to learn? So many sensations to experience?"

Bitterness taints Waylon's tongue. "You've never had to fill hours at a job you hate? Waste away in a doctor's office, waiting for your name to be called?"

"Neither of those. Though, I can say that whenever I've had to wait, I use my phone. Aren't they great? Learning or playing anywhere!"

"How fortunate for you."

The guard from earlier plants his boots in front of their cell. This time, Waylon can see him. Dead eyes, heavy, and a balding head. He raps a baton — extended — along the door's bars, producing a discordant ringing. "Waylon Ishii, you've got a visitor."

Ronan practically leaps to his feet and rushes to the door. "Did you get an answer? And did you check about—"

"Oh, shut it Ronan. You'll get your answers soon enough."

They bicker back and forth, but Waylon doesn't hear the rest. His stomach is gone: dropped through his body and down to the floor. The guard's words replay a dozen times, echoing through his mind as if resonating within an audial kaleidoscope: *You've got a visitor.*

*A visitor. a visitor. a—*

There's only one thing it be; one reason someone would visit him. A reason Waylon stuffed into the back of his mind, desperate to forget — unsuccessfully.

*Gina. She's gone.*

Stir Crazy

The trip to the visitor's room is a blur of cells, hallways, and barred windows. Emotions of all sorts rack Waylon's body, but they pale against that of anger and guilt. Both wrestle inside his chest. Fire and ice, hot and cold, sweltering and chilling. Ahead of him — through a single open door — the visitor's area practically buzzes. Meaningless chatter; nothing like what waits for him at one of a dozen meeting tables within. Sweat beads along his scalp overtop a humming static; an itchiness.

Anger? Guilt? Something else entirely?

He steps through the doorway. Alone, at a table sits a man: sleek hair in a suit equally so. A lawyer. With confirmation of his fears, Waylon's perception shifts. Just like it did at the aquarium. Sitting, waiting, watching from behind his own eyes while his body continues on. Walk; shake the lawyer's hand; sit; listen. Take a packet. Sign each page. Listen for a while longer. Get handed another paper.

Sign it, sit, and listen. Sign the next, wait. Listen.

Listen more. Sign. Again and again, paper after paper. Until the lawyer stands up and stuffs each of Waylon's binding autographs into a leather briefcase. *Real* leather.

*How much did the tax on that cost?*

The thought is offhand. A weak thrash of the little control he has. Though, it doesn't stop there. Memories of a movie flash by: humans crammed into a single car at the back of a train, forced to survive by eating what and *who* they could.

That's where Waylon would be. At the back of that train.

Meanwhile, this lawyer would dine on caviar and drink his fill. Champagne, syrupy soda, crystal clear water.

He'd be complicit. Hell, he *is* complicit. Just like Barclay and the other one. Not as directly as them, but most certainly complicit. Varying degrees. Somewhere on a spectrum. Anger flares in Waylon's chest, yanking him back to the forefront of his mind — back in control. He slams both handcuffed fists onto the table.

*None of that matters. Licensees and lawyers: they both get paid to deal with people like me. People who have been driven to the brink, who can only afford to make rash decisions.*

A guard pulls Waylon to his feet and shoves. After a short stumble, Waylon marches on where the guard pushes. Back the way he came; back to his cell.

Something's not right in his gut — a twinge. *Should I be angry at them?*

He dismisses the thought with a shake of his head and grits his teeth. *Why shouldn't I be? They don't care — about me, about her. As long as they can ignore my humanity, they can stay comfortable. All they have to do is their job. Lock me in here for twenty years, forget about me. Let me writhe in my helplessness while Gina wastes— no. While she wasted away.*

The guard shoves him down the final hallway to his cell; Waylon doesn't stumble this time. 

Raucous chatter floods out of every cell they pass — follows them. Bouncing endlessly off brick walls, disparate voices coalesce into an unbearable drone. It drives a nail into Waylon's temple. He stops to the side of his cell's door and massages at the pain. "Come on. Let me in."

He didn't bother to notice until now, but this is the same guard that took him to the visitor's room. The same one that talked to Ronan earlier: dead eyes, heavy, balding.

*What was his name? Lieutenant Franco?*

Franco struggles to detach a set of keys from his belt. "Try giving me another order. See what happens."

The threat isn't the lieutenant's first and it won't be his last. Meaningless posturing — as long as Waylon plays along with his fragile ego. So Waylon does. He shuts up and he waits.

Key ring jingling in hand, a grin splits Franco's face. He doesn't attempt to sort out the right key on the cluttered loop: he tries them one by one in the lock, smug grin growing by the second.

*Why do they always have to be so petty?*

A while later, the lock *clinks* and Franco swings the door open. Waylon shambles past. Ronan is cross-legged atop his bunk, again. Counting in whispers.

*Already?*

Routine is one Ronan's more likeable qualities. Sure, the man likes new things, but he likes those scheduled. Same with his usual activities: workouts, meditation, sleeping. All on a strict schedule.

Annoyance ties a knot in Waylon's mind; the fact that he knows Ronan this well... but that takes a back seat to another thought. *No way I was out for two hours. Was I?*

Closer, Ronan's voice cuts through the noise of their neighbors. "*— seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty.*" He opens his eyes and catapults himself to the floor, landing with bent knees. Well-toned calf muscles bulge against the legs of his uniform — a classic orange jumpsuit. Rising to nearly eye-level, he pats Waylon on the shoulder. "Waylon! Welcome back! How'd it go?"

Waylon tries to shove past him, but the man is solid as a rock. "*Guh* — just let me past. I want to lie down."

The cell door creaks behind him, closing. Ronan whispers into his ear. "*Actually, might want to wait on that. I'm going to do something rash. Albert will want you to make the most of it.*" He claps Waylon on the back and slips past, pace hurried. "Franco! Did you happen to—"

A drop each of confusion and fear dilutes Waylon's anger; he twists his head after Ronan. "Wait, what do you—"

Before the door can latch, Ronan barrels his body into it. *Clang.* The door bursts outward and catches Lieutenant Franco's arm. Thrown backwards, Franco flails through the air, searching for purchase by hand or foot. 

Waylon stares at the nightmare unfolding before him. *What— what the hell is he doing? What does Albert expect me to do?*

Happening into steady footing, the guard fumbles at his belt; his gun holster. "*No, no. Back up! Stay right—*"

Ronan punches his throat.

Franco's words stop instantly in favor of desperate wheezing and gurgles. Abandoning his gun, he scrabbles fingers against his throat. 

Ronan hooks a hand around Franco's head. "Sorry to do this to you, lad."

Eyes wide and watering, Franco splutters. "*Nuh, nuh! Nu—*"

Ronan slams him face-first into a brick wall and he crumples to the ground. Silent.

Waylon springs toward the doorway and catches himself on the surrounding bars. "*Why?*"

"Because I'm the backup plan! Albert wouldn't just let you rot in here." Ronan says. He leans over, unbuttons the strap holding Franco's pistol in its holster, and slides it free — far too casually to be his first time. "You're angry, right? Let's do something about it."

"Do what? Escape guns blazing? *Are you out of your mind?*"

Ronan pulls back the pistol's slide enough to reveal a gold-cased bullet. Letting the slide snap shut, he wrenches the keys out of their cell door's lock. "Nothing of the sort. Listen, we don't have time to chat. I'll start a wee bit of a riot to draw attention, you make a hole in our wall — preferably the one facing outside — and jump on through. From there, you'll figure it out. Take the sewer, maybe."

"So you do all this and you're not planning on coming with me? Just throwing me to whatever wolves are out there?"

"Nah, don't worry. I've got my own way out. And you're selling yourself short: you'll get on on your own just fine. Now, if you don't mind—" Ronan starts toward another cell, jingling his new set of keys. "— I'll get this riot started proper."

Waylon hovers there, thoughts setting terror firm in his gut. *If Albert sent Ronan to break me out, why did they wait until Gina—* 

Her name teases the anger roiling beneath his fear. He wrings his grip against prison bars, knuckles white. *It doesn't matter why. If Albert wants to play that way, I'll break out and strangle them.*

Waylon whirls around and sprints to the outside-facing wall. From next door, Ronan's spiel rings out. "Hey. Hey! You're the one with the fire thing, right? What would you say to busting out and—"

It's noise now. Unimportant. Waylon drops to the floor and starts exhaling against the bricks. Though not glass, his breath leaves behind a whiteish film upon their surface. What would resemble condensation on glass or metal looks like more like dusted chalk.

*Clink.* A cell door unlocking. Rubber soles scrape across concrete: their neighbors passing into the hallway.

"Here, cut this ring and we'll split up to unlock the others." Ronan says.

One breath isn't going to be enough. Waylon sucks in more air and exhales: once, twice, three times until his head swims. He leans over, resting his head upon the wall with his arm as a cushion. A twinge picks at his mind amid the swirling.

*Isn't this too easy? Shouldn't prisons be better prepared for powers?*

The twinge doesn't last. After all, when's the last time there was any kind of reform? Three hundred years ago? *To be expected, I guess.*

More locks clink and doors screech open. More and more. Surely not much time until things kick off. So, despite his still swirling head, Waylon rolls up a sleeve and scrubs his forearm over the brick.

Far off down the hallway — beyond the murmurs of would-be rioters — a guard yells. "*Shit! Pull the alarm! Pull it now!*" Hushed voices turn boisterous, shuffling feet turn stampeding, and chaos begins. Orange jumpsuits rush past in droves. Ten, twenty, thirty. The whole prison block.

Waylon's stomach is in knots: nerves, fear, uncertainty. Still, he scrubs at his patch of chalky, breath-coated brick.

A pinprick of afternoon sunlight pierces through.

*Almost there.*

Patch half gone, sirens sound. Like kazoos mixed with the scratch of a guitar string. Somehow it's familiar. Waylon tugs on that hint of recognition, desperate to distract his raging nerves. *Star Wars? Echo Base's alarm in The Empire Strikes Back.*

Amid the chaos behind him, Ronan's voice cuts through. "What are you still doing here, lad? Hurry up and—"

A series of gunshots blot out reality. Vision and hearing, gone in an instant. There are no thoughts in Waylon's head. Only a garbled firing of neurons with no meaning beyond surprise.

Though, he feels no pain.

Isn't that normal for people who've been shot? Waylon braces, waits, but pain never comes. Slowly, his forces his eyelids to crack open. Sunlight pours through.

*I'm fine?* Chest, sides, legs. Waylon searches over each body part with his hands. No bullet holes.

Behind him, something *thuds*.

Waylon knows what true horror feels like. What it means to have reality yanked from underneath him. This is that. Falling within his own body; flailing past his heart and his stomach. He lands in a jolt and swallows, terrified of what he'll find if he turns around. Still, he does.

Ronan lies near the entrance to their cell. Less of him; none of him. Motionless. Dead. Despite three holes, there's no blood. There's nothing that Waylon would expect, actually. Blood, gore: absent. A substance spills out his wounds — brown, earthy. Like soil.

From it, a mushroom sprouts: golden-yellow with a trumpet-shaped cap. Waylon blinks and one turns to four; then ten. They keep sprouting, only stopping at two dozen.

*What?*

In the distance, prisoners clash with guards and another gunshot rocks Waylon's senses.

There isn't time for any of this. Ears ringing, he jerks his head between Ronan's body and the hole streaming sunlight. *Do I— what do I do?*

Possibilities flash through his mind. What Albert might do to him, what the guards might do if they catch him, what the fuck that bunch of mushrooms might mean. Waylon doesn't know any of it.

Afraid of everyone, he plunges into the sunlight and tears off across dirt, grass, and pavement.


Defiant Ones

Early morning. Earlier than ever. Elia slips on her coverall's second sleeve and reaches for the zipper. *Beat her for once.* She thinks, zipping from crotch to collarbone.

Off near her bed, an alarm squeals. Shrill, warbling tones like a distressed bird in an old recording. Fire floods Elia's veins in an instant. She tramps from her foyer closet, past her kitchen, and over to the new clock on her bedside table. "*Fuck!* I'll never figure this damn thing out."

Picking it up, she fumbles with its buttons and dials — of which there are far too many. "Fucking — *ugh* — stop!"

Inside her mind, something twinges. Unclear and quiet. Yet, distinct enough to recognize: a reminder. Her past pleading with her present. She pauses, alarm still ringing in hand.

*Yeah. Should try what the therapist said.*

Memories of exactly *what* the therapist suggested are conspicuously absent, papered over by her own interpretations of the unbearable, feel-goody bullshit. Cars are easy; engines follow rules. The squishy workings of a brain and its feelings are much the opposite.

*Never say never. Talk better. Whatever.*

Taking a breath, Elia locks eyes with the clock's display. "This makes me mad. *Very mad*. But, that's okay, I guess; I have time to figure the clock out."

There's no instant quenching of flame — no sense of accomplishment. She drops the alarm clock onto her nightstand and yanks its plug from the wall. "*Fuck,* I feel ridiculous."

The clock's squeals die over a second. From unbearable, to a weakening whine, to nothing at all. Upon the clock's segmented display, red numbers reading "8:00 AM" fade away.

*8:00 AM already?* Elia glances out her bedside window. *She should be here by now.*

The window is open. Only cracked, but enough for a cat to slip in. Unease sits in Elia's gut. Breaths quicken, goosebumps rise, and teeth clench.

She shakes her head, casting the worry away. "No, no. She's fine."

There's a sensation at her finger tips: embossed, cold metal. She looks down. Her right hand, stuffed inside her chest pocket, caresses the pocket mirror within. Her stomach jumps and she yanks her hand away.

*No. It's just here for peace of mind. That's it. Never using it again.*

Force of will isn't enough; the allure to rip the mirror out from her pocket festers. Grows. Could she resist using it forever?

*"Use it."* Her inner voice whispers. *"Just for today, huh? Just for an hour? Not having to worry for a little while sounds so nice."*

Her chest constricts. She wipes a sweat-slicked palm down the leg of her coveralls. "Shit. What'd the kook say to do?"

*"Use it."*

*Nope. Not quite that.*

More self-paraphrasing of the therapist's nonsense spews forth: *baby steps. Take baby steps.* Elia grits her teeth. *Asinine, embarrassing bullshit.*

But, what choice does she have? She plants her back against a wall, cranes her neck skyward, and closes her eyes. *I can go an hour without using it. That's all I need to do.*

The thought acts as a chisel, chipping away at an impossible forever. Carving away blocks until only an hour remains. A single hour.

Her body's response isn't instant, but the pressure eases. She breathes in and out — slow, deliberate. "An hour; I can do that."

Bamboo still isn't here, but that's okay. *It's fine.*

Dipping into the kitchen, Elia fishes wet cat food from a cupboard. Her knuckles shine white against the tin. "Bamboo'll come; just a bit late. That's all."

Work isn't going to wait for the cat. So — with a final slow breath — Elia cracks open the tin and leaves it on her windowsill. For whenever Bamboo does come.


Whatever She Said

Seeping under a gap between workshop door and threshold, opera music ascends the apartment's stairwell. Ave Maria. Elia sighs and lets a heavy footfall carry her down each step. "Without fail."

Inside the shop, Otto is tucked under a minivan's popped hood. He wrenches away at something and makes slow, exaggerated swings of his hips to the song's lyrics.

Between him and Elia, Duffie's workstation sits empty — aside from oil stains; a tool cabinet with drawers ajar; and memories. The workstation isn't Duffie's. Not anymore.

Elia breaks her glazed-over stare. *Maybe I should go ahead and put up some postings.*

A 2302 Pontiac Firebird Redux sits in the center of her own workstation, maroon paint chipping and one side mirror gone. Otto must have moved it in for her. She glances at him — his music-inclined ass, too. As if on cue, Ave Maria fades out and Nessun Dorma starts.

Mom's favorite.

Memories flit through Elia's mind — old sensations of her mother's cooking. Enfrijoladas. Tortillas there, but on the verge of disappearing into a creamy, black bean sauce. Cocadas. The smell of roasted coconut wafting through their apartment. More. *So many more.* Alongside all, Nessun Dorma crackles out the speakers of her mother's thirdhand phone.

Elia blinks away her reverie. She's not standing where she was when the music swept her away. In front of her, a clipboard lies atop her tool cabinet — the Firebird's work order clipped to it. She lifts her toolbelt off the cabinet and wrestles it into place at her waist. *He can keep the headphones off, today.*

---

Lunch comes fast. A couple rungs from the top a step ladder and rag in hand, Elia dabs sweat off her brow. Three work orders down; two left. She eases down the hood of a Ford F-250, its leaky coolant hose now replaced. An easy job if the thing wasn't a building's worth of steel and fiberglass.

The shop is quiet; no music. Elia descends her step ladder and leans around the truck's hulking body. *Did he go to lunch already?*

No, he didn't. Only Otto's feet are visible, poking out from underneath yet another minivan and tapping away to nothing. Headphones.

She drapes her toolbelt over her cabinet. "Nice of him."

A bit of walking and Elia pounds on the van's hood, sending metallic warbles echoing off the shop's concrete walls. "Lunch time!"

Otto slides out atop a roller. Headphones cover his ears, smudges of grease cover his cheeks, and beads of sweat glitter along his scalp; he wrenches the headphones off. "Sorry! What did you say, boss?"

"Lunch time."

He starts scrambling to his feet. "Going to Sickbay? I'm coming?"

Elia's mind jumps to the tin of disgusting meat paste waiting overhead. *She could be back by now.*

Elia's eyes drift upward, catching girders that support the shop's ceiling — somewhere beyond which waits a tin of disgusting meat paste. "*Ah, hmm* — no. No, I don't think so. Going it alone today; I'll be up in my apartment if you need me."

Otto settles back, sitting upright on the roller's butt cushion. "Oh, okay. Yeah. Whatever you need, boss." He pulls off a glove and his brow furrows. "Are you sure?"

She bounces her fist against the minivan's hood — three times, lightly. She doesn't do a fourth. "Yeah, I'm sure. Enjoy your lunch."

---

Upon crossing her apartment's threshold, Elia rushes to the windowsill. A swarm of flies dance above the tin. Earlier, she could fight back against the fear; keep her emotions in check long enough to think. Not now. All her worry spills forth, coating her body in sweat. She shoos flies and stares out over the shop's gravel parking lot. *Do I go out and try to find her?*

None of the rusted husks of cars yell an answer back, but she's already made her decision. It's there — in her chest. Solid. The rest of her just hasn't accepted it yet. It doesn't take long; that resolution spreads like a fever. A hot, urgent ache. Her legs move, trailed close by her mind. *Where would she be?*

There isn't a good answer to that. Only bad and worse.

She yanks a puffer coat out the closet in her foyer, rushes down stairs, and barrels through the shop door.

*Crack.* Doorknob meets concrete with explosive force. From near his tool cabinet, Otto flinches and jerks his neck around. Seeing Elia, he scrambles to get his headphones off his ears. "*Hoo*, gave me a spook. Everything good? Okay?"

She freezes half a dozen steps between the stairwell and the door to the parking lot, mid-stride — straddling long-ways. *What do I tell him?*

Nothing. That's it; what she'd always say. Why is it a question now? Her heart writhes between that nothing and something else. Something tender, raw to the touch. Secret.

*The truth.*

"I didn't see her this morning, so I left out food, but she hasn't touched it. So I was— I was—" Midway through her explanation, she dabs away a dribble of snot and snuffles through the rest. "I— I was going out to look for her."

Otto doesn't hesitate. He breaks into a jog and they collide, his arms wrapping around her. He squeezes. "*Oh no. Oh no.* Do you want help? Where do I look?"

That mysterious something warring with silence wasn't just some ideal like truth. It was personal. It was trust: trust that Otto wouldn't run at a flicker of emotion — good or bad. Her mind goes to her chest pocket, where her mirror hangs heavy.

No. She let's herself trust him. "Dumpsters in the alley behind BuntsMart." She says.

Their bodies part. Forcing a smile, he holds her at arms length and nods that big, thoughtful, bald head of his. "Okay. I'll be right over there."

She breaks away and shoves one arm into the sleeve of her puffer coat. "We'll split up: if you find her, I'll be searching around Mangrove."

There's no more words to say. They both wrestle on their jackets, lock up the shop, and jog over shifting gravel. At the sidewalk, their path's diverge. Elia to the left; Otto to the right.

Her heart races. Each beat pumps fear-defying adrenaline through her veins. Though, that's not all that fights her fears. She wheels back around and calls after Otto, quiet enough to leave him hearing to chance. "Thank you."

He throws a hand over his head. "Yeah, boss!"

---

Lunch is far past and Elia has looked everywhere along Mangrove Street. Restaurants, bodegas, delis. Anywhere a gross cat might find gross, discarded food. Everywhere except for one place; the thought of it curdles her blood. She pounds pavement with her work boots. Every second, the alley grows closer. The alley where she found poor Bamboo lying in the rain; beaten, scratched to hell, and unable to move.

Elia clenches her hands into fists. *She's okay. She's fine.*

At the alley's mouth, she swings around to face it. It's cluttered. A mountain of milk crates, empty trashcans, trash bags tossed in the direction of said trashcans. She pauses. Braces. Prepares herself for what she might find— *there*, a swishing tail behind the crates.

Her heart leaps; her stomach flips. She tears down the alley, work boots trampling the odd billowing bag. "*Bamboo! You're okay!*"

For a moment the cat's tail disappears. After a breath, emerald eyes and pointed, fuzzy ears replace it. "*Roaw?*"

A second pair of eyes join Bamboo's: brown ones framed by frizz of the same shade. 

Elia's haphazard sprint peters out. "*Thea?*"


The priest's eyes go wide and she ducks out of view, leaving the tips of her dirtied sneakers behind. Visible beyond the cover of milk crates.

Elia's emotions blend together: a near unbearable concoction of relief, mind-scrambling confusion, and anger stoked by jealousy. For a moment, her mind goes back to her mirror. A pocket and an undone clasp away from absolution.

She grinds her teeth as if milling her thoughts into a decision. *No. Not yet. I just need to go another hour.* She lets her jaw relax, but the jealousy still burns. *Why is Bamboo with her?*

Thea cowers behind her stack of milk crates, unmoving.

"I can still see you." Elia says.

No response.

She starts forward. "*Thea.* Why is Bamboo here?"

Not two slaps of work boots later, Thea scrambles into view. "O-oh, E-Elia. I didn't realize it was you." She sniffs at the air once and shrinks into herself. "Sorry. Don't be mad, p-please. Whatever I've done, whatever you're envious of—"

Elia's backfoot clings to the asphalt, stopping her advance. "*How do you know that?*"

"Oh, I shouldn't have said anything. Please forget—"

"*How?*"

Thea flinches and brings her shoulders up around her neck. "I can smell sin." She says. "Hyacinth; W-well, envy. You already knew that. Sorry. All the big bad ones smell like flowers. You've got other smells too, but hyacinth is the strongest—" Realization flushes Thea's face. "*B-Bamboo?* This is *your* cat?"

Elia huffs. "No, I just look after her. Actually answer my question this time: what's she doing with you? And stop sniffing at me like that. I can see up your nostrils when you do and it's gross."

"*Sorry.* Sorry. I'm f-frazzled. After the whole— the— you know, the pushing thing. I don't know; you scare me a little. A lot."

Elia's heart thrashes once — off beat. Her hand rises to her chest; not to her pocket and the mirror within, but to her heart. Shock. "I—" She starts.

No more words come. Only breathing. Her own, unfulfilling despite its heavy timbre. Like the gust of a thunderstorm roiling behind her eardrums.

Meanwhile, Thea hums. Not the musical sort; more anxious. Her whole body jitters in tune. Hands, eyes. Toes too if Elia could see them.

Combined with Thea's words, the sight provokes Elia's heart to thrash once more. *It's happened again. Again.*

Her husband, her daughter, Duffie. Now Thea. Her anger— no. Elia can't hide behind her anger; not anymore. *Not after I started trying.* 

This was all *her* fault.

She tries to speak, but a knot obstructs her throat. She forces the word past. "Sorry."

Thea waves her hands out in front of her, as if trying to erase her last sentence. "Sorry, I-I shouldn't have said anything."

"Yes you should have."

"What do you mean? Oh. *Oh!* *You're* apologizing to *me*?"

"Yes."

"*Phew,* I was starting to think I was unreasonable b-back then. Maybe it's all the thinking about it that was unreasonable, huh? *Ha.*"

Flame bursts out Elia's gut. *She's got to keep drilling after I've apologized? I should—*

Elia slams her eyes shut and locks herself in thought. *I'm reacting. I need to be thoughtful. Deliberate.*

Test Drive

A Spluttering Engine

Thea's voice pierces through clouds and severs Elia's train of thought. "S-sorry; blabbering on about nothing."

Breathing slow, Elia opens her eyes and looks over the priest. She's rough — as unkempt as the alley. Dirt smudges all over her cassock and face, untrimmed fingernails with more dirt caked underneath, and the smell. No shower in at least a week.

Around her, milk crates form the walls of a ramshackle shelter. Torn t-shirts and bedsheets stretch overtop; a Frankenstein fabric riddled with holes. Far above that, a window-mounted air conditioner drips condensation, which falls through said holes and onto a pile of more ragged fabric. Thea's bed, no doubt. Or a makeshift pillow. Or it's just trash. Hard to tell.

"What happened to you?" Elia says.

"I-I told you, didn't I? I was about to get evicted. Didn't have near enough money to rent another place, so I'm here. It's warm most of the time."

This conversation is landmines aplenty. Elia clears her throat. "Guess you blame me?"

"*No, n-no.* Not at all. Definitely not, no." Thea cocks her head to one side. "W-well, maybe a *little* bit. If you had—"

Elia kneels down and waggles her fingers in Bamboo's direction. "How long have you been out here?"

Bamboo doesn't prance over; instead, she runs her cheek along Thea's legs. The little shit.

Thea swipes her hand along the cat's back. "Here, exactly? Three days. Technically four if you count the moving day; not that I have much to move anymore." She pats a suitcase nestled beside her. "Anyway, I've been trying to find a good spot for a couple weeks and this—"

"So a couple weeks; you knew what I meant."

Thea shudders. "Y-yeah. I guess I did. My brain just keeps pushing all these words out and—" She claps a hand over her mouth. "*Sorry...*"

There's silence. They both stare: at the ground, brick walls, random trash. Not each other. Though, there's the occasional glance where their eyes meet. Each one forces Elia's gut to contort and her eyes to stray. *What do I say? What do I do?*

Not subject to the tribulations inherent to human-to-human social interactions, Bamboo flops upon the floor, rolls onto her back, and bears her stomach for all to see, but not to touch.

Elia's gaze gets lost tracing mud-crusted strands of belly fur. *I could tell her the truth, I guess. About me. How, though?*

Emerald eyes lock on Elia's. "*Raow.*" Bamboo says.

Too nosy, the damn cat. Elia looks about the alley once more. Everything is as it was: dirty and trash-filled. This time, though, something catches her eye.

The milk crates.

Idea forming, she raises herself to standing and stares down at Thea. "You're a priest, right?"

"Yes. *W-well,* no. Kind of? Not officially, anymore. Why do you ask?"

"Let's clear the air. We'll do a confession."

"*You're Catholic?*"

"My parents were." Elia shuffles over, placing the milk crates between them. She eases down the brick wall to her butt. On the other side of the crates' plastic grid, Thea fusses with something. If Elia squints, the sight is somewhat like an actual confessional. Though, thanks to the size of the holes in their impromptu screen, the priest's form is less an impression as it should be and more an "I can see straight down your ear hole" situation. 

"Get to it, then." Elia says.

Thea and her shadow fiddle, fingers fussing over fingers. "You're sure? Here? I never liked doing these, you know."

"Sure enough. You'll manage."

With a pause and a shaky breath, Thea starts. "*Uhm— uh—* welcome, Sister. What burdens do you bring?"

Elia sucks in a breath. A deep one. Down inside her gut, a fire —ever present — searches for tinder. For fuel to burn, to consume, to devour. She sets her jaw. "Anger."

"*O-oh*. At *w-who*, might I ask?"

"You, myself. Everything. All the time."

"*Phew— uh— sorry.* Why? Is there a reason?"

"Nothing specific; there's a new reason every time. Even if it doesn't make sense to me, thinking back. Small things. Small enough that I don't even remember what they were by the time I cool down." Flame flickers within Elia's chest. "*God*, it pisses me off."

Thea doesn't say anything; Elia lets her anger fester alongside the silence.

The priest putters like an engine, surely lost in her search for divine wisdom. Eventually, her puttering transforms into coherent words. "W-what if you try being more gentle with yourself?"

"Never thought of that one."

"Sarcasm?"

"*Sarcasm.*"

Thea shrinks. "S-sorry. Should I have stayed quiet?"

"No. I don't know— *fuck.* I've got anger issues, okay? I'm trying to say I'm sorry and tell you why things happened and that I started working it out with a therapist and all that bullshit. Got it?"

"Some of it. I— I don't know what to *say*, though. Ask, rather. To keep the confession going, that is."

"Then don't talk. I'm sorry for pushing you and for not helping you when I could have. *I'm a piece of shit*; I'm trying to be a less shitty piece of shit. So come work for me instead of sleeping out here."

Elia's breath catches. *What'd I just say?*

Quiet as Thea is, she must be in a similar state. Elia steals a glance. Thea wrings her hands around something lying across her lap; the shaft of her cane.

*Duffie was one thing, but her?*

A whiskered cheek scratches against Elia's denim coveralls. Bamboo. She slithers under and between bent knees, tail flicking this way and that.

Scrubbing behind furry ears, Elia sighs. "Nosy ass. How'd I get stuck with you?"

Voice flat, Thea interrupts the moment. "Do you mean it?"

*Do I?*

Elia nods. Weak; barely noticeable; but she does. "I do." She says.

"Why?"

"What I've already said. Do I have to repeat it?"

Thea's tone jumps an octave, now far from flat. "N-no. I'm just— I'm confused. I don't even know anything about cars! What do you get out of this?"

Elia sits with the question. Nothing is the obvious — the easy — answer. But no, that's not it. There's something crawling beneath her skin. A sick, sludgy mess she can't ignore. Guilt. She swipes a hand down Bamboo's back. "Atonement, I suppose. Just saying sorry isn't enough for what I did."

"So you'd expect me to forgive you?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"That you'd try to learn what I teach. You'd do your work. That you wouldn't keep me up at night."

"*Keep you up?* W-what?"

"Well, you'd need a place to stay. Somewhere to shower."

"That doesn't really answer—"

"*Got to spell everything out.*" Elia mutters. "With me. You'd stay with me and you'd work for me. That's the best I can do. Got a couch, a shower, and a place to eat. Take it or don't."

Thea shrivels. "*Ha...* n-not the friendliest way to put it."

"That's how I'm saying it. Take it that's a no?"

"No. I mean— *no*. No. I'm not— I'm not saying no. W-well, I guess I am saying no, but not to the offer. I— I don't *know* what I'm saying."

Elia pushes up off the ground and swats at the butt of her coveralls, brushing away whatever dirt or trash is trying to tag along. "Figure it out then. You know where I'm at; offer is open. Bamboo, you heading back with me or staying here?"

Bamboo circles once, tail high. She darts back around the milk crates and disappears. "*Roaw!*"

"Figured." Elia starts off, but the sight of her fly infested windowsill flashes. "Feed her if you can; she didn't have her breakfast."

The Family Junker

Downtown Rooterdale is abustle: drivers curse their way through afternoon traffic, some self-censoring with their car's horn; pedestrians dart from between parked cars and into the street; cyclists hurtle down bike lanes, straight through red lights, and — in the case of one — into the passenger window of a violently green Volkswagen Beetle.

Albert's gut curdles. Staring upon the spectacle from Topiary Corporate Plaza's thirty-second floor, they shake their head. "Total disregard for life. An unnecessary commute in the morning — equally as fraught; eight hours in an office chair; then this. All to go home and sleep until tomorrow where they'll start again. It's like they don't realize just how fragile they are or how little time they have. Why do they do it? Why don't they stop?" Albert sighs. "Ants following the orders of a decrepit queen. Her life sustained by the masses' ignorance and a comfort of the already known. Shame, isn't it? Just how close we are to something great, while at the same time, being so far?"

A woman's voice comes from behind them, each word weighted by age, the echo of a sparsely decorated room, and a healthy helping of sass. "Banal of you." She says.

Albert glances back, just over their shoulder. "Humans are rarely anything else."

Atop a state-of-the-art hospital bed, a woman sits upright. Translucent skin stretches over a network of veins and pale bone. She's more skeleton than human; more ghost than living. 

Gina. Waylon's mother-in-law. She stares out another of the room's ceiling-to-floor windows, silent.

Albert twists about and settles their back against glass, careful to make sure that — from Gina's perspective — their figure is framed in a menacing way by the skyscrapers outside. "You've got to keep the conversation going, Mrs. Thomas." They say.

Letting her eyes roll closed, Gina collapses against a pile of pillows. "Yeah. *So you said.* My grandson is on his way, right?"

*Redirect.*

Albert spreads their arms to encompass the whole room, prompting the unfastened blazer sleeves dangling at their elbows to sway. "Why would I go through all this trouble if he wasn't?"

She grimaces. "I don't know why you would to begin with. We're not important people; never have been."

"And that's exactly why! Two insignificant people. One: you. The other: a son-in-law. Widowed before his time, caring for the mother he never had, and going to lengths unthinkable just to keep her safe. *Alive.* Well, was the idea, anyway. A moving story, isn't it? *Inspiring*?"

*Especially after two dwindle to one.* They add in thought.

Gina shifts. She places her gaze on a giant, blank television affixed to a windowless stretch of wall. "I've reconsidered. You can go ahead and let me die now."

*A lie.*

"Why is that?" Albert says.

"You don't strike me as a kind person."

A simple comment; one that teases at most unwelcome introspection, but there's no time to linger. Albert's inner monologue drives them on with two words spoken a thousand times: *Keep going.*

So, Albert forces a laugh so well practiced, it may as well be genuine. "And would you say that you're kind?"

"No."

Silence.

For precisely two seconds, Albert lets it hang. Two precious seconds of nothing that should really be filled with something. Their game is a game against time, and Gina's has all but run out. An hourglass clinging to its final grains of sand.

It's not enough for an effective dramatic pause, but two seconds will have to do. Albert casts an upturned palm through the air. "If you truly want out of our deal, why are you still talking? All you've got to do is stop and that's that. There's nothing I could do."

She whips a glare Albert's way. "You know damn well why: one more time. He'll say his piece, I'll say mine, and then *that's that*. To use a bastard's words."

"Fair. Then are you set to continue on?"

It's a pact. Albert shares their uncensored self — for the most part — and she provides conversation. Then, eventually, she takes everything she learns to her grave. Each word spoken strengthens the link between the two of them. The link itself is ethereal; unknowable. Except to Albert. Albert's power is simple: a favor for a favor, and what's a bigger favor than listening to someone share their candid, unsavory thoughts?

With a constant forcing of will, Albert lets time flood from them into her. Tons of it; years upon years upon years. None of which originally belonged to them. Politicians, corporate enemies, the unfortunate journalists whose noses were a bit too apt.

Despite the flood, Gina's life still seeps away. Consumption. Consuming faster; every second, ever more until there's nothing left. As designed by— well, Albert isn't quite sure by who, but they've got guesses.

It won't be long until the cost to keep her alive is too great.

Turning back to the window, Albert sets their jaw. *Joel will find him. Soon.*

Breakfast. Three plates. Upon each, imitation egg and strips of seitan sit sandwiched between biscuit halves. Pitiful. Only if one were to miss the veritable rainbow of food spread about, waiting to be plucked from their serving dishes.

Platter of blueberries; a much larger platter of blueberry muffins; grocery store strawberry jam, transplanted into a more aesthetic jar; Dad's experiment at homemade yogurt. Quiche.

That's not all, either. The options are only limited by the Hopper family's sizable dinning room table.

Deep inside Avery's gut, something churns; warm saliva slicks her throat with a sickening funk. She should be dancing in her seat waiting for Dad to take his. Or, she should be stuffing her face to the tune of Mom's protests.

Today is different. These past couple *weeks* have been different.

She loses herself in the coils of steam wafting off her biscuit. *What's wrong with me?*

Around and around the steam goes. Up, disappearing into nothing. Circling, wiggling, whatever until it does.

Dad's voice echoes through her head. "Everything okay, Avery?"

Avery's vision snaps back and she's staring into the face of an incomplete quiche. Directly across the table, Dad's already got a slice on his plate. She blinks away her surprise and reaches for a muffin. "Oh— sorry. Still tired, I guess."

To her left, Mom cuts her egg biscuit into bite-size quarters. "Got any plans today"

"Not really. I'm going for a run after breakfast."

"You always do that; I mean something fun."

"Running is fun enough."

Spearing a muffin quarter, Mom fixes Avery with a glare. "You know what I meant, Avery." She catches Dad's eyes and juts her head at Avery — several times, frustration edging in with the man so focused on eating.

Subtle as a brick through their window. Avery braces herself.

Dad chokes down his mouthful of quiche, clears his throat, and conducts his words with knife and fork. "*Ehem* — Hey, Avery, how about we go do something today? You could go show me that café you and Sophia like. Interlude, was it? Oh, and that aquarium up in Rooterdale is having—"

Mom hunches over the table and hisses at Dad. "*Ed!*"

Mentioning an aquarium isn't enough to faze Avery. Someone worrying that that's all it'd take, on the other hand, is. Her heart twinges.

*Shouldn't I be better than this?*

*Yes. They're going to get tired of tiptoeing around your feelings. Sophia, too. Send her a text; apologize to her.*

Faster than she can think, Avery's phone is in her hand. She strangles it. The phone's rounded edges burrow into her palm. She clamps down harder, refusing to let her compulsion driven fingers near the power button. It's excruciating. Not the pain in her palm, but an otherworldly force bearing down on her mind. Like her head is about to explode. Tendrils lashing, light disappearing, breath escaping. She forces her thoughts to churn. *Better than what? Is it actually my fault that they think that? Did I do something? Say something?*

"— Avery?" Someone says. Dad, Mom; Avery doesn't know which.

But, that dangling question sits at the forefront of her mind. *An expectation.* That's what this all is; they've got something in their head, Avery's got something in hers, and — after the hospital — she knows what to do.

She locks eyes with her mother. "Mom, I don't care if someone mentions an aquarium; I go into one every day, for god sakes. You all don't need to tiptoe around me. Please. Don't."

Mom relaxes back into her chair, picks up her mug, and sips coffee between pursed lips. "Fine, okay. Maybe I overreacted a little. But Avery: don't use God's name like that. It's rude."

All the pressure and pain disappear. Avery's head doesn't explode. In fact, it feels quite empty. Clear. Back to normal.

Swiping a blueberry muffin off the communal stack, she rips it in two — not counting the explosion of crumbs that pepper her surroundings. "It wasn't his name. I used a lowercase 'G'." She says.

The Tavern Start

Sharing Revelations at World's End

Avery saying she doesn't have plans was a lie. In fact, since Dad's mention of Sophia, daydreams whisk Avery away at any lull in attention. Daydreams of a nice — probably crowded — time at Cordia's only ice rink.

There's hours left until then. For now, Avery runs. Down sidewalks, over crosswalks, and through the park. There's no explosion of shifting, multicolor leaves overhead. Just bare branches and decaying mush underfoot. It's chilly, too. A hint of Winter sharpens late Fall air.

As nice as daydreams are, Avery's heart struggles to stay afloat. Every unchaperoned thought threatens to tumble from her grasp and drag her to depths well-known. *Why? Am I actually this fragile? What am I even worrying about?*

She stops near a familiar park bench and stretches. Standing quad, seated calf, downward dog. People shift course and couples split around her. None pay any more mind than that.

She lingers in downward dog pose, hands and feet pressed against root-warped brick. *I feel stuck. Sophia already has all this figured out; why does she even like me?*

*She feels sorry for you. Why don't you take out your phone and send an apology for being so pathetic?*

Her gut twists; her head spins — thanks to the rush of blood; and she collapses to her knees. Until the whispers start. Real or conjured by anxiety, passersby speak of the unusual woman. Of the weirdo knelt upon her knees and palms, bearing a harrowed look.

Avery struggles into a seated butterfly stretch, trying to make every movement look intentional. *Why isn't this easier? How does everyone else know what they want?*

---

Everyone in Cordia must be at the ice rink. It's chaos. Parents and their flailing children, hand in hand; groups of college students; other couples. Through all the chaos, a man dances atop custom ice skates. Well, that's selling them short. They're skates *made* of ice, anchored by more that crawls halfway up his shins like frosted greaves. He slices through unsteady clusters of school-aged girls and families with ease. 

Heart fluttering, Avery stands in line. Sophia, too. She's clad in a bubble coat and her usual mass of hair is pulled taut into a low bun. The odd wisp coils on either side of her face.

That does it: Avery's heart skitters to a stop. She stares into Sophia's face, completely oblivious to her moving lips and words accompanying them. *Why are the hair dangly bits so powerful— oh shit, listen to her.*

With as little reaction as possible, Avery tries to claw meaning from Sophia's corpobabble.

"— anyway, the CTO drops in and starts yelling at our project manager. Like real, *loud* yelling. 'Your parents are upset at you' kind of yelling." Plucking at a forgotten piece of tape plastered to the rink's railing, Sophia cocks her head to glance at Avery. "You zoned out, yeah?"

Avery bounces fists on her stretch of railing. "*Sorry, sorry.* I was thinking about how you did your hair; it— it just, looks nice. What was that about parents yelling at you?"

"Oh. Well, you know. When they're upset and have to—" Sophia squints at Avery's unyielding confusion. "Did your parents not yell at you whenever they were mad?"

"No. I don't remember any, at least. That seems wrong. Kind of mean to yell at a kid, right?"

Looking off, Sophia wrings her hands against metal. "*Huh.*"

The line shifts and chains guide their way. Each one bows between stanchions, forming as winding of a line as turnout demands. Avery follows along in silence.

*God, why did I say that. Everyone's family is different; different isn't bad. Is yelling just different, though?*

Shuffling along, the debate between tolerance and morals rages in Avery's head. Her conclusions swap back and forth in rapid succession. Each new thought, a new perspective. Everyone is different; some differences are bad; who decides that?

*Certainly not me.*

That's the only thing about it that she's know, but something doesn't sit right in her mind full of— well, whatever it's full of. Sophia, at the moment. Who is standing right where Avery left her. A crowd of increasingly unruly people pile up behind her; some even clear their throats, trying to draw her attention to the gulf of empty space they could all be standing in.

As if a couple feet would make a difference.

Knowing that doesn't help. All Avery can focus on is the crowd's concentrated glare. "Sophia?" She calls, anxiety plucking at her heart.

Sophia tweaks her head in Avery's direction. Taking in the unhappy throngs, Avery gives off an aura of pure desperation. With eyes wide, she jerks her head, indicating the crowd.

Sophia looks around and does the unthinkable. "Oh, sorry." She says. Striding forward, she steps into place at Avery's side. "I think I'm going to ask some other people."

Not a thought, not a stutter. A whole crowd and not even a warble to her voice. Avery stares into Sophia's unfazed eyes. *How am I supposed to measure up to her?*

Then, Avery realizes that she has no idea what Sophia means for the second time tonight. She traces her thumb around a chain link. "About what?"

"The yelling. You're right: it feels wrong. Why yell at a kid?"

"*Oh, right.* Right! Who are you thinking to ask?"

Sophia shrugs. "Not my parents."

Wisdom Saves

Two women stand upon skates at ice's precipice: just before  a rink's open gate. Sophia breathes deep, slow, and with her eyes closed. She mouths something under her breath.

Not words meant for Avery, but the emotions behind them come across clear. "Are you okay?" Avery says.

Sophia's eyes snap open and she casts a wild look Avery's way. "*Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?*"

"You never been ice skating?"

"I have."

"Okay, then what's wron—"

With a huff, Sophia rolls her eyes. "Sorry, that was a lie. I haven't. Too hot down in Tennessee, you know."

Stepping onto the ice, Avery pirouettes. "Right! Why didn't I think of that? Well, It's not so hard—"

Sophia claws at the air in her wake. "Wait. *Wait!* I'm not ready. What if I fall?"

"Then you fall. It doesn't hurt too bad if you try to land on your butt. If you feel like you're about to—" Avery crouches and juts her arms in front of herself. "— do a squat and lean forward. Just like this."

Mimicking the motion, Sophia squats down on unsteady skates. "Yeah?"

"Exactly!" Avery straightens up and reaches out a hand. "Want some help on your first go?"

Sophia tests the tip of one skate on the ice, as if she were about to take a dip in a pool. "No. I've got it." Her foot jerks to one side. Midfall, she hooks an elbow around some nearby railing to keep herself upright.

"You sure?" Avery says.

"*Yes.* I just need to practice."

"Want me to wait for you? Give any advice?"

Testing her other foot to a less severe wobble, Sophia shakes her head. "Nah. Do a couple laps or something and I'll catch up. Like you said, not so hard, right?"

Weight settles in Avery's stomach. *Am I being too much?*

She gulps and swipes a hand through her hair. "Right. Yeah. So I'll find you in a few minutes, then?"

No reply comes. All of Sophia's attention is spent steadying her exploratory foot in anticipation of her other joining. With a puffing of her chest, she takes the plunge. Her feet immediately skitter about and she flails all her limbs. "*Whoa*— *ah!*" Eventually, she skids into the railing and folds herself over. "*Good god.*"

Avery has to pry her feet out of the ice. There's something horrific yet beautiful about the moment: a kind of grotesque grace. Sophia's stubbornness, Avery's too-strong desire to help, and all the people flowing around them.

*I'll probably remember this moment forever.*

She will. In excruciating detail, too. It'll be a snapshot of how unsure she feels; how Sophia's hair curls just so; and the passing murmur of a couple's weekend plans. Bowling.

Smiling, Avery kicks off and starts her first lap. *Dates are supposed to be a little awkward, right?*

---

The minutes pass and Avery laps the rink. Five times, exactly. She can't help but count each one, precisely when she glides past the gate. Each increment feels like water flushing through her mind. Some ethereal, welcome working of brain chemistry responding to numbers going up. Like character levels at a tabletop.

Though, thanks to that, the minutes pass uncounted. Avery realizes with a start. *Fuck, how long have I been going?*

She casts glances about. First, to the gate and the absence of Sophia struggling nearby. Second, to the sitting area, where people don and doff skates. Not there either. *Where did she go?*

*She left; only natural. She got sick of all this. Of you.*

Avery's heart twinges. She skates a full lap around the rink. Nothing. So, she makes another loop; then another. No Sophia, still.

*It's fine. All of it is fine. I just keep missing her, is all.*

Desperate, Avery skids to a stop in the rink's center, spraying a wave of ice from her skates. She cranes her neck this way and that.

*There!*

Clinging to the railing, Sophia pulls herself along as if in a tug of war with a giant — while wearing ice skates. She dances upon wobbling feet that skip and slide and slip.

Relief. But, only for a moment. The more Sophia struggles, the more Avery's heart pounds. *She isn't enjoying herself, is she?*

*This was your suggestion and she hates it; way to fuck this up. Even if she didn't skip out before, she will soon. Go apologize before she hates you too much.*

*No. She doesn't hate me; she won't. No, I can save this.*

With a few kicks, Avery propels herself forward and skids into the rink's siding — right in Sophia's path. Avery offers her a hand. "Want some help, now?"

Sophia shoots her a confused glance. Prying a hand away from the railing, she fusses with one of her hearing aids. "Huh?"

*You're overreaching; you're being clingy. She going to hate you for sticking so close. Let her fend for herself.*

Noise. So much contradictory noise. Avery clears her throat, as if more noise would somehow drown out her anxiety. "*Ahem*— sorry. Can I take your hand?"

Sophia reaches out. "Yeah, as long as— *wuh!*" Her feet try to buck her like a mechanical bull. She collapses back into the railing and clings to it, knuckles white. "*God.* As long as you don't make me fall."

More relief. Leading Sophia by the hand, Avery eases them both toward the mass of folks flowing past. "If anyone is making someone fall, it's you."

The words threaten to become reality in a split second. Legs scramble, arms flail, and Sophia crushes Avery's hand in her white-knuckled grip. "*Ah! I was joking; it was a joke; don't jinx me!*"

Avery lets her hand flow through the air with Sophia's chaotic movements, partly by choice and partly not.

They fall just as Avery taught.

---

Skates off, socks on pavement, and asses sore. Sophia and Avery make their way through the crowd. Mostly a horde of newcomers, skates in hand.

Sifting through isn't easy. After a thorough jostling, the two women make it to their lockers. People amass behind them like vultures in anticipation of storing their own belongings away from curious eyes and hands.

Both of them are winded. Sweaty. Their foreheads glisten, glinting auburn from now-lit park lamps. It's nice: the subtle burn that accompanies each breath. Avery breathes deep and holds it, letting the warmth spread. Her thoughts move from that to butterflies to—

*This isn't going to last.*

Mid-exhale, her breath catches. It refuses to leave and its warmth turns acrid. Desperate. Sophia stands near, oblivious. Embers billow up Avery esophagus; tendrils wrap around her chest and squeeze.

*Give up. No point in pursing this when it's all going to end, right? Soon. Maybe tonight? Tomorrow? We're not worth whatever attention she gives Us.*

Insecurity as leverage, the thought pries its way into the center of Avery's mind. She places a card against her locker's sensor — a scuffed, black block bearing a near-worn pictogram: a card alongside some nebulous waves. Internal mechanisms whir and click. *Did Sophia even enjoy herself? She does have better options than me, doesn't she? Someone more established. Self-sufficient.*

*You could ask? Maybe you should. Go ahead: do it.*

Something sick slithers inside Avery's chest. She shouldn't; she can't; yet, that sickness feels absolute. Like her decision is already made. "*Hey.*" She says.

Sophia presses herself against her own locker, forcing its stubborn, rust-covered latch to engage. "Yeah?"

"Have you worried that we're not compatible?"

"How'd that pop up?"

"Can you answer first? Then I'll say. Promise."

Using her fingers like a shoehorn, Sophia forces her feet into pre-tied shoes. "Okay, sure. Yeah. All the time. More just asking the question than anything, you know? Evaluating."

"Doesn't that scare you?"

"Why should it? Seems like a good thing to think about to me. Better now than later." Sophia pauses, bubble coat loose in her grip. She shrugs. "*Eh*, maybe it's a waste of time; people change. Or maybe we'll always be thinking about it.

"You owe me an answer now." She says.

Avery shoves her feet into untied shoes and, dropping to a knee, she starts tying. All the better to point her uneasy expression groundward. "Well, I— it's just— you've got everything together; I'm an outright mess. You honestly don't think about that?" Avery says, voice less stalwart than her hunched over posture.

"Nah."

"*Just nah?*"

Sophia slips an arm into one sleeve. "Would saying more help?"

"I don't think so, but like— *ugh!* I don't know. You've got a plan; you've got your job; you live on your own." Avery tightens off a pair of bunny ears. "I've got no idea what I want to do or have or be *or whatever*. It's all been what happens, happens. Parents say this; I do that because I was too scared to do anything else. How'd you figure your way through it all?"

There's a stretch of quiet; Another one to tweak the dials in Avery's FM radio of a mind. Introducing a subtle hum that she can't tune out, regardless of how tender she twists the dials back to their original place. She shifts her stance and works on her other shoe.

"Come back to my place." Sophia says.

Avery snaps her head up. "*W-what?*"

"Not like that. Well, maybe. But, I've got something to show you too."

Avery jolts upright, holding her hands aloft. "*M-maybe?* What— *what—*"

Sophia zips up her coat. "Fine, if you insist. We can do that. I'll still want to show you something after."

Ears and cheeks burning red hot, Avery stomps away. "*Gah!* Quit messing with me!"

Not one follows her. Back near the lockers, Sophia leans upon a locker door. Waiting. Silent.

Avery wheels around and throws up her hands. "*Well?* Are we going?"

"After you finishing tying your other shoe."

Looking down, it's true. Two laces dangle from Avery's foot in a half-formed knot. 

Ice Giants

Mangrove Street. Sixth floor of the Timmerman House. If Avery zoomed in on a map all the way, she'd still be able to see her own home. A couple blocks away, at most. She stands with Sophia in front of apartment 603 — one of five on the floor. The hallway connecting them is lavish, though dated. Hardwood floors; replica plaster ceilings that twist into floral designs; and sleek, black trim two-thirds up the wall. Kind of like the inside of a Georgian spaceship. Or a Victorian one.

Avery has no clue, honestly: those are just words she's heard in passing from real estate reality television. 

With the twist of a key and the click of a deadbolt, Sophia pushes through the doorway to her apartment. "Welcome hom—" Her limbs lock; her words stop. After a moment, she swirls to the side and beckons Avery in with a sweep of her arm. "Well, welcome here, I guess. After you."

"Not quite home, yet?" Avery says.

"Nope. Not for a while, I'd guess."

Inside, Avery stands in the center of a mostly-enclosed, white-tiled foyer. Walls everywhere but to her left. There, tile transitions to carpet. A living room. Mundane, if not for two bay windows overlooking Mangrove Street. Cracked open as they are, sounds from below flow in: an odd honk; the continuous rumble of tires over cobblestone; and humming. Not actual humming. There's no music in it, but it carries a resemblance to human word. Each syllable battered beyond recognition by wind.

Leaning left, Avery peaks around the foyer wall and takes in the rest of the apartment. A hallway juts off the living room. Three thresholds, two with doors. Probably a kitchen, a bathroom, and a bedroom. Standard fare.

She starts forward. "I expected Timmerman House to look a bit —" With a gasp, she catches herself at the carpet's edge. "*Oh,* shoes off?"

Sophia kicks off her own. "Yeah. You can leave them here. Same with coats and whatever." She patters past upon duck-patterned socks and collapses — face first — over the arm of her couch. A navy sectional. "*God it's hot in here.*" She calls, voice muffled by cushions.

It most certainly is. A dry hot, too. Sweat slicks Avery's back in moments, yet the skin of her hands crackle at the slightest movement. She slips out of her shoes and places them side by side — carefully parallel. "Don't you have a thermostat?"

"*Nope. Radiators are controlled by—*" Sophia rolls her head to the side, unsmothering her words mid-sentence. "— by building management. Nothing I can do about it but open a few windows."

Crossing into the living room, several facts about the current situation hit Avery. For one, she's in someone else's home. There's all kinds of expectations around that. Manners and such. The specifics, of which, shoot out her mind like an anxious champagne cork.

Secondly, this isn't just *anyone's* home. It's Sophia's. The Sophia she met on a dating app. *The* Sophia that she went on dates with and danced with and thought about doing... things with.

There could be another fact. Though, thinking of the second certainly doesn't help Avery remember the third.

Wriggling herself upright, Sophia pushes up from the couch and beckons Avery with a wave. "Well? Come on. Can't show you from there; it's back in my bedroom."

Alarm bells ring and Avery's heart sputters. *Her— Her bedroom?

There isn't time to sort out her thoughts: Sophia strides off and disappears through a doorway. So, squashing down the burgeoning, heart-throbbing panic, Avery skitters after her. "*R-right*, right."

Sophia's bedroom is nothing special. A twin bed covered in a navy comforter, covered — in turn — by a quilt. The kind a grandmother might have given her: flowers, birds, and bees stitched into being from warm-toned scraps of fabric.

Usually, a simple quilt wouldn't occupy so much of a room's first impression. To Avery, however, the depicted subjects flush her thoughts with a long past conversation. An uncomfortable one with her parents.

Her face flushes red.

She hovers near the doorway, clinging to its frame as if in fear of something arcane sucking her in and trapping her in a dungeon.

*Dungeon?!*

Dungeon Crawl

Sophia kneels near her desk. A massive, wooden monster weighed down by a computer tower and four mechanical arms. Each one holds a monitor. A two-by-two grid of black bezels and screens, all blank. 

Arms deep inside a drawer, Sophia glances at Avery. "Come in, yeah? Don't just hover there."

Avery takes a few tentative steps toward Sophia's bed. "Do I— do I just— sit?"

Sophia unearths a black-white speckled tome — journal, rather — and chucks it onto her desk. "Yeah. It's not going to eat you."

She slaps journal after journal down atop the first. One, two, three; a hushed "*No*" or "*Nope*" accompanies each. At ten tall, she goes for eleven, but falters. Something about the cover. She stumbles over with it and plops onto the bed, her eyes never straying. Avery can see it now; the writing across the cover in big, black marker: *January 2335*; nearly four years ago.

There's a burbling in Avery's gut — a series of pangs in protest of her inadequacy. "You've been bullet journaling for that long? I'd never manage to be that organized." She says.

Sophia doesn't face her; she stays staring at the cover. Color drains from her knuckles and, for a moment, her hands tremble. "That's what I wanted to show you. What I wanted to tell you. When you asked me something, I didn't tell you the truth. Back at the café."

"It's nothing bad, is it?"

With the slightest tilt of her head and a dart of her eyes, Sophia steals a glance at Avery. Her voice comes after. Unsteady. "No. People are allowed to keep secrets, huh?"

*She kills people and puts them into books. Maybe you should run.*

A weak attempt by Avery's supposedly sophisticated mental illness. Yet, it's enough to mess with her addled mind, being filled with parental sex talks and the general anxiety of romance. "*Ha, yeah.* As long as it's nothing serious, I guess. Like secret murders or something. It's not that, right?"

Eyes locked to her journal, Sophia lists about before settling onto her bed. "Nah. Not that." She pats the bed beside her. "Sit with me?"

With a jolt to mind and body, Avery realizes she never sat down. She waddles over. Penguinesque and awkward in her mind, but likely worse in reality. She drops next to Sophia.

The bed near swallows her up. It's soft; warm. A cloud of stuffing and fabric that threatens to drag her to sleep. She can feel her aches now: the heat in her calves, the pricks in her knees — too much walking and worrying and ice skating. She closes her eyes and lets the bed leech away her pain.

"Are you ready?" Sophia says.

Avery's eyes snap open in a violent return of her wavering consciousness. *Ready for wha—*

Birds and bees dart through her mind. Her heart thunders; her thoughts rush; her face betrays bare-naked shock. *What do I do? What do I do!*

No answers come. So, she sits there, wide-eyed and as quiet as her thoughts.

Sophia fingers the compressed pages of her journal, teasing it open. "*Hmm?* You okay?"

*Right! The journal; not the other thing!*

"*Y-yeah*, I'm fine. Just didn't realize how tired I was! I'm ready. *Ahem*— well, is it something I should be getting ready for?" 

Sophia opens to the first page. "Just promise you won't laugh. This is all early stuff and I didn't know what I was doing."

Inside, it's messy. Top to bottom and side to side, sketches of all kinds populate the pages in no apparent arrangement. Animals, landscapes, and portraits. Everyday objects in everyday situations. The only connection between them is that they're all terrible. Objectively bad, like the wall scrawlings of a child.

Yet, Avery doesn't laugh. She studies every sketch. Their misshapen, wandering lines; their warped proportions. Their changes. How, over time — over pages separated by days — the lines smooth; flat doodles develop form and perspective.

Then, Sophia closes her journal and it stops. "Well?" She says, tone distant and eyes locked onto the cover's black-white speckles.

Avery doesn't know what to say. Nothing. A bad choice, but she's stuck here making it, insides abuzz with bees and butterflies. Her heart thunders in her ears as if yelling "*Say something, you dipshit! Say something!*"

Beside her, Sophia shifts. Nothing descript. Her fussing with her bed's quilt, maybe. It doesn't matter. Avery works her mind, desperately forging words. Though, it's an impossible order. One that calls for strength beyond what can be wrought by a mere mortal's tongue.

She needs mithril: the supportive-girlfriend version of it.

"*Uhm— Wow.*" She says.

That isn't it. So far from it that — as if deploying a verbal smokescreen — Avery yaks up whatever comes to mind. "*Oh, uh,* it's great. All of it. Amazing!"

Sophia glares, eyes fit to roll into their sockets. "Don't lie. This isn't me asking for an opinion."

"Sorry. I didn't— don't— I—" Avery scrabbles hands through her hair. "*Gah!* Sorry, I didn't know what to say. This is a lot. More than I'd thought you'd show me."

Sophia gives her a look: one that could kill, but not in a bad way. "And what *did* you think I'd show you?"

Avery's cheeks flush. She averts her gaze, fixing upon an oval rug and its alternating rings of pale-red and beige. "*Not* that. Something. Just, not something as meaningful as this."

"Oh."

"*Y-yeah.*"

"Well? Want to see more?"

"*Yes*. Please."

---

An hour passes in ethereal bliss. Silent, yet full. Both women exist at the intersection of knowing and being known. Neither needs the other to speak. So, they turn pages. And when they run out in one sketchbook, Sophia pulls another out of the stack. And when the stack runs out, Sophia pulls more from closets and boxes and bookshelves.

It's a journey through years, slice by slice. Each moment struck to page with growing confidence. Each something unique. If not in subject, then in atmosphere or medium. Pencil-drawn dandelions; a television news broadcast in charcoal; and a grocery store blotched out with thick, colored markers.

Avery's heart is aflutter. She lets each illustration flow in front of her. Sitting there entranced by the shifting lines, she wishes had a power other than her own. The ability to stop time or to leap inside memories — anything that'd make this moment last longer. Somewhere in the middle of her wish, the lines become... different. They take on new meaning. The view from the center of a cafe; swing dancers spinning about a church's hall; the cafe again. And again and again.

All separated by pages of unfamiliar things, but they carry a similar air. An unequaled care whispered by the shadows of erased lines.

If butterflies could get rabies, whatever Avery's heart is doing would be it. Uneven, desperate. As if it's gasping for breath. *Thump, th-thump, thump.*

Her thoughts run wild. *Goodness. Should I ask for a hug? Should I—*

*Ask for forgiveness? You're not anything; you're useless. Look at everything she's done: her willingness to share, her commitment to be better, her ability to hold down a job while doing it. Unlike you. Come on, apologize already.*

It's less a compulsion and more reality. A dreadful, unyielding fact. She wants to fight it; she has to; and she can't. All she feels before going under are waves of realization crashing down.

"I'm sorry." Avery says, words empty. As hollow as the figment of herself saying them.

Sophia rolls her eyes onto Avery.

Beneath her mind's surface, Avery floats around, confused more than anything. Depersonalization. Derealization. She knows that, but— *Why can't I do anything to stop it?* She thinks. *I should be happy, shouldn't I? I should be present. Here, with her.*

But she's not, so Avery's figment speaks in her stead. "What?"

Sophia slides the journal off her lap and leans back, propping herself up by her arms. "I'm waiting for you to tell me why you said that."

"I— I don't know."

"Yeah. You do."

"Yes. I don't know if I should have, though. What if I'm being ridiculous?"

"Then be ridiculous. Nothing wrong with it."

"But everything feels so far away now; small. Like an echo. None of what I felt makes sense any more. How am I supposed to tell you about it?"

"Are you going to remember later?"

"I guess not."

"Then get going before you forget more, yeah? If you don't trust yourself, I'll take what you say with a grain of salt." Freeing one hand from her weight, Sophia rustles the buzzed bristles at the back of Avery's head. "That work?"

The contact is brief; a couple seconds, but it felt *real*. Like the Astral Sea and Material Plane coalescing along a singular axis. Avery's figment shudders and flickers and — as Sophia takes her hand away — reforms.

"*Could*— could you do that again?" Avery says.

"This?"

At Sophia's touch, she feels... something. A pinprick of light piercing through the water's surface. Avery closes her eyes and focuses on that. On how her scalp tingles wherever Sophia runs her fingers. Avery forces herself to feel the bed supporting her; to hear its creaking springs; to smell sweat. Her sweat.

And she's back; whole. Cheeks flush. She reaches up, takes Sophia's hand into hers, and rests both atop her lap.

They sit, holding hands and not talking for a while. Until Avery's hand begins to tremble. "I'm scared. It feels like I've got nothing to give you. You're so persistent. Strong-willed or whatever. You know what you want to do and you do it." She says.

Stifling a snort, Sophia waves a hand to her scattered journals. "That's what you took from me showing you all this? Really?"

"What else is there?"

"*That I'm stuck.* That I've not figured out what I want to do. Never will, probably." Sophia lifts the last journal off her covers and strums its pages with a single finger. "For now, I enjoy this. Might not forever. Who knows, huh? Parts of me wish we could swap. I didn't go into school to write software. I wanted money; enough to stop caring about it. If I had people supporting me and willing to give me time to figure something else out, that'd have been the dream."

Guilt pangs in Avery's chest and she sandwiches Sophia's hand between both of hers. "You really don't enjoy your job? At all?"

"Sometimes. It's *fucking confusing*, yeah? One hour I'm happy to pluck away on a keyboard, the next I'm dreading the next keystroke. I want to learn more about art, then I don't. I want take care of house plants, then I don't. Freezing-drying fruit sounds neat. Until it doesn't. It's fucked. Why can't I commit to it all? Why do I have to try so hard to fight past indecision and lethargy, only to feel trapped anyways? 

"It'd be easy if I didn't have to worry about time, I think. Not enough for everything; only so many decisions I can make. So, got to suss out which are the good ones. It feels like it should be simple. Does any of that make sense?"

Face contorting, Avery chokes back tears. "A little too much."

Sophia let's go of Avery's hand and beckons with open arms. "Come here."

*She's pitying you.*

Avery hesitates, but the momentum of her emotions carry her forward. She cries out and collapses into Sophia. Arms wrapping around each other, the pair fall back upon the bed.

Tears.

Sophia's shirt wicks them away into maroon splotches. Avery squeezes; she squeezes, buries her face into the crook of Sophia's neck, and cries.

Sophia squeezes back.

Planes Collide

The world is oil and rust. Screaming metal. Grease. A far cry from the monastery's quiet gardens. A sedan rests upon cinder blocks — upon gravel, in turn — in front of Thea. No wheels, no mirrors, no windows. Body eaten by water and rust.

It's a ghost of its former self, draped in metal like a tattered bedsheet. A ghost most unwilling to part with what little it has left. In other words, all its doors are rusted shut.

Thea jams her crowbar into the passenger-side one and pushes. Metal creaks, groans, and whines. Ears protest; nothing changes. Frustrated, Thea throws herself at the crowbar a few more times. "I'll eat my — *ugh* — whole butt — *guh* — if this thing has a — *gah* — working radio!"

*Snap.*

A shard — metal, by the sound of it — *plinks* off a nearby pickup truck and the sedan's door bursts open. Before Thea can think, she's falling. Forward, onward. Driving the crowbar on with her full weight. Metal meets flesh; car body and crowbar and both sets of fingers in-between. Spots dance through her vision and white fire burns up her hands.

Letting the crowbar fall, she pummels the car with slaps and tucks fingers under her armpits. "*Ow, ow, ow. He-ssh. G—gosh dang it.*" She slaps the car again, for good measure. "Meanie. *Gosh, that hurt*."

"Everything working out well then?"

Thea's heart jolts into her throat, but settles as a familiar hint of yew hits her nose. She whips around. "Frank!"

Monk habit, case of beer under one arm, and gathered braids trailing down his back: it's him. Ever the same.

With a wince at still burning fingers, she snaps up her cane and starts over. "How'd you find me?"

He drops his beer to the ground and spreads his arms, inviting her in with a couple tweaks of his wrists. "Asked around, made a couple guesses. Mostly your old landlord. Natasha?"

Thea stumbles. "R-really? I didn't tell her—"

Frank closes the distance and envelops her. "*Eh, come here*. That lady knows too much, you know? About everyone living there." He holds her at arm's length. "Wouldn't stop talking once she started: never knew you lived across the hall from a Nobel Prize winner."

"I didn't. She makes up stories like that for everyone."

"Really, now? What was yours? Nothing she told me seemed out of place."

"It used to be. She told everyone I got kicked out of— out of the—"

A thought — a possibility — steals Thea's words. It's outlandish; unthinkable. *Precognition? A landlord?*

"What's wrong?" Frank says.

Thea shakes the thought away. "Oh, it's n-nothing. Let me go ask Elia for a couple chairs." She strikes off, but another thought sticks her in place. She wheels back to Frank. "You don't happen to know anything about car radios, do you?"

Yew Among Gravel

Folding chairs in hands and cane tucked safely under an armpit, Thea trudges her way back to the sedan. All hints of afternoon are gone. The sun flirts with the horizon and dregs of cream-whipped clouds lace through an orange sky.

She juts one foot forward; one chair; other foot; other chair. She huffs and haws and wobbles on, barely managing to coordinate five pairs of legs.

Bamboo trots alongside her; the definition of grace, in comparison. Though, sensing Thea's attention, she surges forward. Until the gap between them grows to ten feet or so. She stops — tail upright and twitching — and cranes her neck around. "*Raow?*"

"*Sorry*. I'm—" Thea hefts one of the chairs forward. "— *ugh* — I'm coming!"

By the time she reaches the sedan, her arms, back, and ass all hurt. The latter thanks to her cane giving her a smack after every drag of folding steel and plastic. Stumbling near, she lets herself fall to her knees alongside the chairs. Gravel digs through her cassock's skirt and presses into her skin. It's painful, but it bears no comparison to the fire in her lungs. Every few words, she sucks in air and her shoulders rack. "*Sorry — eugh — for the — eugh — wait. I should have — eugh — asked for help.*"

A door slams; gravel shifts. Frank kneels down beside her and rests a hand on her back. "Why are you always so stubborn, huh? You going to be alright?"

"*Yeah. Just fine. Puh— perfect.*"

Tension hums in the air like the moments before a lightning strike. "*Erraaow!*" Just out of reach, grey-brown fur bristles and Bamboo bares her teeth.

Frank tweaks his head to follow her prowling. "Oh, well then! Hey there, little one." He flips over his palm and waggles his thumb. At its tip, a thin, white line trails toward the crease of his knuckle. "Still got this, you know. Got me pretty good!"

"*Eraaow, hehhsh!*"

Bamboo lashes out; she bats her paw with unsheathed claws at Frank, but all she strikes is gravel. Too much of a scaredy-cat to get closer.

There's a pang of something Thea's gut. Guilt, maybe. *Should I say sorry? But the cat isn't really my responsibility, is she?*

*Is she?*

Thea heaves another breath. "S-sorry about her..." Gravel digs into her palms; coarse, jagged rock that bleeds her nerves of fire and brimstone. She scrambles for her cane, but — in her collapse — it tumbled a ways off. "Frank, would you mind helping me up?"

He snatches up the cane; guides her to her feet; and presses the hooked, wooden handle into her palm. "Not an ounce. So, you ended up taking a cat in? Does that mean you found another place to live? You know, I didn't realize some places let you bring them to work."

*Do I tell him? Will he worry?*

Guilt pangs again. She thumbs over her shoulder at the mechanic's garage. Toward the second floor and its concrete, stacked atop a first lain in brick. "I actually live here. My boss is letting me stay on her couch; upstairs."

Frank unfolds both chairs, sure to face the setting sun. It's barely visible, now. Halfway behind some distant rooftops. "And the cat?" He says

Thea hobbles over and plops onto a chair. "Hers."

Bamboo slips between Thea's legs and glares out upon her domain. Gravel, rust, and this so-called "Frank" soiling it. That's what Thea thinks is going through the cat's mind, at least. It only lasts a handful of seconds. Then, Bamboo drops the glare and curls up. Motionless — except for the rise and fall of her breathing. 

Frank drops into the other chair and pulls over his crate of beer. "Goodness, looks like she'd kill me if she could." Passing one of the unmarked, amber bottles to Thea, he lets himself fall against the chair's backrest. "*Ah.* Age really creeps up on you." He darts his eyes between Thea and the cat underneath her.  "*Quite* the coincidence, huh?"

"Don't even start." Thea says.

"About being old? Give your back twenty more years and see how it feels."

Wedging her bottle's cap against the edge of her seat, she smacks it and the cap pops off with a *hiss*. "Come on. No proselytizing, Frank. If everything I've went through just to end up here— if it had anything to do with Him, He's sick. Mad. *A b-big, m-mad guy*."

Frank shudders. "That's some venom. If I can't talk about him, you can't. Deal?" He bobs his head as if weighing his words. "Yeah. Better for both of us, I'd think."

There's a comfort in Frank's proposal. A familiarity. It's a conversation that happens every time they meet: a couple one off comments about religion, an agreement to avoid it, then they can relax.

At least that hasn't changed.

She sighs — expelling an ounce of stress — and takes a sip. "Deal."

The taste hits in an instant. Hops, papered-over with cinnamon. Far from the brew's usual taste of hops and wheat. Taste buds revolt; panic swells. It's not what she expected, so it must've gone bad; rotten.

Her tongue begs her to spit it out, but she forces herself to swallow. "What— w-what'd you do to it?"

"Thought I'd try something different. You know, something bold." Frank says.

"*Why?*"

He pulls out a bottle, pops off its cap, and shrugs. "I don't know. Don't you get tired of the same thing every once in a while?"

Thea whirls about on her seat to face him and lays a hand on his knee. "*We* don't get tired of it. It's our favorite. You tweaked it and nudged it for years. You made it into everything we like about beer!"

A look washes over Frank's face. His brow furrows; his eyes grow distant and unsteady. "Tastes vary, right? We can like more than one thing. What's the harm in—" He starts.

"The *harm* is— " Thea waves her arms about, as if trying to catch reasons from thin air. "T-the harm's that it's different! You didn't forget the recipe did you? Lose it in the monastery's library?"

"Nothing happened to it."

"*Then why?* Tastes vary? We both know that that's nonsense."

"Needed to take my mind off things, you know. I was worried about you. Thought I'd try a few things. Add some of this, some of that—" He sniffs at the opening. Immediately, he jerks back and coughs. "*Ugh*. I meant to bring the cherry batch; not the cinnamon. Fucking *hate* cinnamon."

Thea takes another swig. It's not actually bad, just different. "Teaches you for worrying about me. I've been taking care of myself just fine." She says.

"And that's why you're on this lady's couch, huh? Taking care of yourself?"

He's not wrong, but her thoughts curdle. Unsteady images flash: wet alleys and ripped sheets. She swallows it down. "Mostly. Not that I'm going to share."

After a pause, Frank eyes her. "You can still ask me for help when you need it, you know."

"No. You know what the Abbot'd have to do if he found out."

"Plenty of monasteries out there for me to go. Don't forget: you're talking to the best ceramicist this side of the Appalachians."

"Goodness knows you've lost the title of best brewer."

"You're drinking it all happy, aren't you? I think you owe me the story for that jab."

Thea's memories loom over her, as insurmountable as reality. The musk; the trash; the people — how they treated her. She feels the weight of the bottle in her hand and the weight of everything it might represent. Love, friendship, escape. Whatever it is, it's where she'd rather be. What she'd rather feel.

"N-not this one. Not yet." She says.

Frank takes his first sip and lets the taste ride between smacks of his lips. "*You know, not too bad.* But be sure to call when you feel you can: I'll be there to listen."

"Promise?"

He holds the neck of his beer out to her. "Never broke one; never will."

They clink bottles and settle back to watch the sun set.

Thessalonians 5:14

An hour passes; the sun is gone. Only the moon and flickering street lamps cast away shadow. Though, the shop's flood light joins in when a large enough insect flies by. Thea and Frank crack open another beer, their firsts empty and mingling with their seconds on the gravel between them.

Bamboo bats at one of the empty bottles. It topples and rolls, glass surface tinkling like a windchime. She darts into the darkness after it.

Letting thoughts go where they will, Thea watches the cat's silhouette prance and pounce about the lot. *It was just a coincidence that she was Elia's, right? What about the aquarium? Me getting out unscathed: that couldn't be coincidence, too, could it?*

She shakes the thoughts away. *Of course it could be. Why bother looking out for me? What would He get? Too much planning to end up with me here, still questioning everything.*

"You're being awfully quiet." Frank says.

"*Hmm?*"

There is no intent behind the noise: just something instinctive while her thoughts drag her on. That is, until something shifts at the edge of her vision and breaks her concentration. She cocks her head to catch it.

Leaning over the arm of his chair, Frank stares at her. "*You're quiet.*"

She jumps. "*Oh.* O-oh, yeah. I guess I am."

"*Well?* Can you share this one?"

Thea runs her finger nails up and down her thigh. Bitten and uneven as they are, her cassock's fabric catches. It's an unpleasant sensation. Hairs stand on end and goosebumps crawl up her arms.

*Can I?*

Adding to the discomfort, Frank refuses to look away. His eyes pierce her through.

"*Fine. C-can I—* Did I ever tell you *why* I hate confession?" She says.

He relaxes into the back of his chair again. "No. You haven't."

"Can I now?"

He nods and tips his beer her way, prompting her on.

Her nerves aren't quite settled. She breathes in and out; once, twice, three times. It doesn't help. If anything, counting each breath just makes silence hang heavier. So she forces words past the knot in her throat. "Well... *ahem* — m-most of it was mundane. A lie about enjoying someone's cooking; shoplifting. But there were these questions that'd pop up. A woman a w-while ago asked: 'Do people who've never heard of Christ go to Heaven?' She told me what she thought. 'No.' They never knew Him; never accepted Him."

Frank scoffs. "Sounds like something a Baptist would think."

"R-right. And that's kind of what I mean. What makes us right? Baptists read the Bible. We read the Bible. We've got a few more books than them, but the Church has changed its mind on what makes up biblical canon before — and how to interpret it.

"But, that woman's question. I shared the Church's perspective and she accepted it j-just like— " Thea snaps. "— just like that. If I had to give her an answer a thousand years ago, it'd have been different, and she'd accept it just as easily. Will the Church's answer change in another thousand years? It bothers me. I'm supposed to guide people; h-help ease their minds.

"But, looking at all the modernish codes of canon law, we've got separate ones from 1917, 1983, 2094, 2133, and 2210. That's five major upheavals in three-hundred years. Am I *just*— just supposed to *overlook* how unsure that makes the Church seem?

"Like— *like—* I don't know. Let's take our powers, for instance. Canon law's only mentions of them are in the 2133 and 2210 codes. You know what they both say? Basically the opposite of each other.

"When powers became prevalent, Church leadership held the Third Vatican Council. Powers were still sparse, though. There weren't advocates amongst the assembly or any faction large enough for another schism. Most every bishop preached *abolition.* Not live and let live. Strict control; eradication; anything that'd keep the Church from changing. And that's exactly what they put into the 2133 code."

Mid sip, Frank jolts upright. A mixture of beer and spittle floods from his mouth. "*Ah, shoot—*" He swipes at dark, wet splotches trailing down the front of his habit, as if to bat the moisture away. Which — thanks to his power — he does. "*Sorry, Thea*. Didn't want to interrupt. Is that true, though? How'd the government let them?" He says.

"It's true. Everything back then—" A realization twists Thea's gut and cuts off her words. She slaps a hand over her mouth. "*Oh goodness, I'm s-so sorry.* I shouldn't be sharing this. Our deal—"

Frank settles back and shrugs. "No, no, no. Don't worry. Sharing history is different, isn't it? You go on ahead: it's not like they told me the whole deal when I became a monastic. It's fascinating. Honestly."

"Thanks. *S-sorry*."

With a snort and a shake of his head, he takes another sip. "*Always apologizing.*"

Thea's spine shudders. The Church and its many past woes roll back from the tip of her tongue and she gulps them down. *I already knew that.* She thinks, fingers tightening around her bottle.

It's not anger. Still, it boils much the same. Inside her chest; inside her mind; through her fingers. To the tips of her hair, standing on end. There's something sick about it; ugly. Shame? Fear? Disgust?

She clutches at her chest, trying to quell the discomfort building inside. *I knew that; I knew. Is he trying to make fun of me? Tell me to try harder?*

There's another train of thought chugging in parallel. *It's just my mind. He didn't mean anything by it. Ignore it. Do anything else, like—*

Her mind is blank. No coals to burn to catch up to her runaway worries. So, harsh, hush words bully their way out of her mouth. "*I don't want to apologize all the time.*" She says.

"Now, you know I don't think nothing of—"

"*No!* *That's a lie!* If you don't think about it, why say anything? And it's not like I don't know. Every time I apologize, I get stuck inside my head, chastising myself. And then you say something like that. *I'm trying, Frank.* What else am I supposed to do? I'm on medicine, I've got all these techniques the doctors taught me, but I'm still— *I'm still*— *this*. It doesn't matter. I feel sorry for everything I do, anything I say. I haven't made a single good decision since leaving the Church; each one has made the person that loves me worry. Why wouldn't I be sorry? *Why shouldn't I apologize?*"

Frank stares at her, shock upon his face as wide eyes and a slacken jaw.

It's terrifying. She can't feel it, so she has to think it — lost as the terror is amongst her already storming emotions. Disgust at herself; an honest fear mixed with the unfound. She suffers through shivers, through sweat, and through the words flowing from her mouth. She can't stop them. She doesn't *want* to stop them.

"*Everything's always changing.*" She sputters. "Why couldn't I just keep sitting in my apartment, watching baseball? That's all I want. Not much to dream of; to ask for, I don't think. It feels like— like I've— *ugh,* I can't explain. M-maybe there's nothing I could have done. It feels like the world is constantly changing and I can't keep up. I'm too complacent; too powerless. *Too something.* I don't know, Frank." Shoulders racking, she cradles her head in her hands — what she can while still holding a bottle, at least. "*I j-just don't k-know.*" She says.

In a flurry of motion, Frank fumbles after her hands and knocks the bottle free. Cinnamon-scented beer floods out. Down into the earth; into the writhing innards of worms buried underfoot. But, beyond an impulsive thought, Thea isn't worried about the worms right now.

Frank pulls her hands into his. They're warm. Rough — caked in dry clay and the wrinkles of age. Letting his head fall with a shake, he squeezes. "Sorry. Shouldn't have mentioned anything; after fifty years, you'd think I'd know better. Thanks for telling—"

"*Hehhch! Eraow!*"

Ecclesiastes 2:14

"*Hehhch! Eraow!*"

Both humans snap their heads forward to where they last saw Bamboo; somewhere within the darkness stretching to the nearest street lamp. Squinting and heart skittering, Thea struggles to make out anything through tear-warped vision.

It's useless.

Before she can make sense of warbling shadows, the air between ex-priest and monk begins to swirl. Light and space fold end-over-end. Around a pulsing, pitch-black, spherical center. It's mesmerizing; painful. Yet, Thea can't shift her gaze.

Nostalgia rushes through her mind. A feeling of familiarity and calm and desire; a feeling of need. To slip inside that pitch-black core and return *home*. To return—

*W-wait, what? Why does it feel so—*

Air splits in a deafening *crack*.

For an instant, the entire gravel lot stands in stark white. Car husks, elm trees, the far off buildings. Pure and colorless. They'd be without form if not for sharp shadows falling off their facets to cut swaths from reality.

Afterimages burn in Thea's mind. She blinks, but she can still see everything just as it was. Black and white. Over tens of seconds, the images fade and she can see again. Bamboo bristles between their chairs — her fur raised to needles and emerald eyes piercing into the darkness ahead.

Thea follows her gaze.

Between the two elm trees, a shadow shifts. A human shadow. Moving closer. Thea's heart hammers in her ears, blocking out wind and word. *Elia?*  

The figure's silhouette doesn't quite match Elia's. Less stocky. Their hair might pass: long and gathered into a bun. Though, it doesn't hang. It sits atop the figure's head, a quarter the size. 

There's something about it. Tugs at a memory; a person. Thea works her mind and tries to reel whatever — whoever — it is to the surface.

Frank raps a knuckle against her knee. "Your boss's shop is closed, right?"

The memory feels close. *So close.* Like it's darting past, just beneath unbroken water. "Yeah. Closed. A couple hours ago." She says, offhand.

He pats her leg and rises from his chair. "Weird; I'll go talk to them. Just watch my back from here, alright?"

Water parts; her stomach falls. *No. How? How would he be here?*

She scrambles to her feet and — balance unsteady — she claws after Frank. Her fingers tangle into his habit's sleeve. "*Stop!*" She says, yanking Frank back. "*It's him.*"

Frank's brow furrows, but he lets Thea pull him back. "Who?"

She stumbles to her seat and plucks her cane off the ground. "*From the aquarium. Waylon.*"

"Aquarium? What aquarium? What's wrong?"

Lamentations 1:19

The shop's flood light kicks on. Sweat trickling down her scalp, Thea plants her cane and whirls about. *It's not him. It's not him. It's not—*

*Him.*

A dozen feet away, Waylon heaves breath after breath. The kempt man she met is gone. Stubble dots his face in dark patches. Smooth, straight hair is now dry and split. His clothes are odd, too. Price tags dangle from the waistband of his jeans and a sizing sticker runs down his chest, peaking out from an equally new, unfastened peacoat.

He stares at her, something behind his eyes. Or nothing? Thea isn't sure. Until the wind shifts: whistling through skeletal trees and stealing her breath, it carries the stench of dying — of death.

Corpse flower.

She dry heaves and coughs and buries her nose in the crook of her elbow. *Good god. What did he— what did he do?*

He stands there, one hand shoved deep inside a coat pocket. Whatever he grasps within embosses the coat's fabric with sharp curves and awkward points. "You owe me." He says, his voice cold.

Thea hacks and stammers into her elbow. "*I— I—*"

There's a flurry of noise and motion behind her. Frank pulls her back, placing himself between her and Waylon. "She doesn't owe you a thing. Been through plenty of guys like you before; your little pocket square there making you feel tough?"

Waylon's forearm goes rigid. "It's not for her; or for you."

There's something odd about their conversation: some shared understanding she's outside of. Even then, she cowers behind Frank's bulk as if behind a bulwark under fire. *What do I do? Do I run? I could go hide—*

Frank wrenches a palm against a fist, cracking his knuckles. "Need your finger so close to the trigger, then? Not that the little thing'd help."

"You're not bullet proof." Waylon says.

"Want to take that bet?"

Thea's heart stops. *Bullets? Wait, he has a gun?!*

Everything feels real, all of a sudden. Too close, too clear, too terrifying. Her heart sputters back to life. In moments, its beats thunder inside her head. *Why? Is he— is he going to shoot me? Shoot Frank?*

The last two thoughts force her gut to churn. Acid crawls up her throat, burning and stripping it raw. *I can't let this happen, can I?*

Wind whistles and Bamboo stalks at the outskirts of the three's perception. Her fur prickles; her glowing eyes track Waylon's every twitch.

*Am I going to let them both die trying to protect me?*

Everything kicks off too quick to follow: Bamboo lowers herself, readying to pounce; space tears, warping in between Waylon's feet; Frank charges forward; and Waylon rips a silver revolver from his pocket, leveling it at Frank.

*It'll all work out, right? I'll be okay?*

Disgust writhes through body and mind. It's as if stomach bile boils up, into her skull. Not disgust at Waylon or Frank or the cat: at herself. That her final act in the world could be naked, uncertain hope. Standing by, wishing for nothing more than *'okay'*. Let the world happen; embrace passivity; accept whatever comes. 

*No.*

*Not anymore.*

She slams her eyes shut and screams. "*Stop! All of you, stop!*"

It's as if she's cast a spell: wind settles; the writhing, cosmic tear zips closed; and humans and feline alike glare out the corners of their eyes, frozen. Waiting.

Thea gapes at the scene. *Did I— was that— no... I smell sin. I can't stop time, too. Can I?*

Waylon waves about his revolver, never letting its barrel stray too far from Frank's chest. "Well? Go on: talk your dog down before he's done digging his own grave."

Turns out, no: she can't stop time.

In that moment of distraction, Frank lunges for the scruff of Waylon's shirt. "Why you little—"

Thea lunges, too. "*Frank!* Just— *just stop*!"

He grabs a handful of fabric, yanks Waylon into the air, and sends the gun tumbling to the ground. "Stop? What are you talking about? Guy brought a gun and a death wish to your doorstep."

Legs kicking, Waylon scrabbles nails against Frank's hand. He's like a humming bird struggling within a gorilla's grasp.

Thea tugs on Frank's arm. "*Stop. Please.* This is my problem. Not yours: mine."

Frank darts his eyes to her. She holds his gaze, her face set in stone. A handful of seconds pass. All the while Waylon sputters and struggles to free himself.

With a sigh, Frank kicks the gun off near a far away car husk and lets Waylon drop. "Fine." He glares down at the knelt, gasping man. "Go for that gun: I'll change my mind right quick."

Clawing at his throat, Waylon's voice comes hoarse. "*I won't.*" He says.

"Good." Frank trudges off and plucks a fresh bottle from his case. "All yours."

Thea's stomach squirms at the prompt. Her 'Calm Frank Down' plan went off without a hitch, but now: a bridge. One that almost anyone would have seen a mile away.

Nevertheless, she fumbles her hands over the pommel of her cane. "*Uhm*— *uh—* join us for a drink?"

Waylon rolls his eyes up toward her and sucks down another lungful of air. "*I don't drink.*"

Psalm 58:1-2

Three sit in a circle: Frank and Thea in a chair; Waylon cross-legged on the gravel. Thea looks about for Bamboo, but the cat is gone. Asleep at the foot of Elia's bed if she's lucky.

Thea, though, feels far from lucky. She stares across an expanse of gravel and into the eyes of a wanted man. *Is he wanted, though? Maybe they let him out early for good behavior.*

Unfolding his legs, Waylon props up his knees. Waiting.

Her stomach won't relent. Squirming, roiling. She chokes the cane lain across her lap in a bid to force it from her mind. "S-so, h-how did you find me, exactly?"

"Your landlord." Waylon says.

Frank bobs his head and speaks to himself. "*Um-hum. She's talkative.*"

"Did she say anything else?" Thea says.

Eyes distant, Waylon wrings clarity from his thoughts. "Nothing about you."

Her hands tremble. "Okay. Why bring the— you know? *The gun*."

He glances at the distant hunk of metal, discarded near her scrounged radio. "In case a certain person finds me. Before I find them."

Just that glance and Frank tenses. He grips the armrest of his chair, set to give chase.

Thea tenses alongside him. "So, *not* for us?"

"No. But kept it close as a backup; incase you tried to call the police." Waylon says.

"You didn't get out for good behavior?"

"Good enough to knock my whole sentence down to a few weeks? No. And I refuse to go back; put myself under their control. You're someone that can understand that. Control. That's why you're here, isn't it? Relying on people you barely know, rather than the system you do."

Memories flash past: bare spigots pierce through mold-covered tile; shadows shift too close, sleep never comes; people in ties repeat promises for the hundredth time.

Heartbeats thunder within her chest. She claws at it. "N-No. I can't ask Elia to help you after everything she's done for me. P-Please, don't make me."

"I'm not after your kindness or hers. I need the answer to a question. Afterwards, I'm gone."

Tension ebbs. "T-That's it?" She says.

"Yes."

Frank tips his beer away from his lips. "Spit the question out, then. Got more to drink and you're spoiling the taste."

Waylon shoots a glare at Frank, but turns back to Thea. "Notice anyone following you? Averting their eyes after you look their way?"

She can nearly taste relief amid the beer's lingering cinnamon. Clenching her eyes shut, she digs through memories. "Just the cat follows me around. Tons of people look away, though. The grocery store clerks, Elia, the bus driver. I always catch him in that long mirror."

Waylon massages at his left temple. "I meant something notable: someone you'd remember. Like a guy that's wearing a Christmas sweater this early. Maybe something more garish; flamboyant. "

"No. Nothing like that."

Sighing, he pushes himself up and swats at the dirt and dust clinging to his pants. "I'm off. You won't strangle me for getting my gun now?"

Frank lowers his bottle. "Keep it slow, we won't have a problem."

Thea's heart quickens. Glee; guilt; shame.

Waylon whips around and starts off, business-like. Matter of fact. At the sight of his back, feelings writhe within her chest. She watches on. *Is he going to be okay?*

As the night steals all but his silhouette, a black sedan hurtles into view on the street just past the lot's chain link fence. Thea doesn't know much about cars. Blurs of colors, shapes, and logos that filter through the shop. Even so, this one is unique. Sleek, nary a chip in its paint, and *heavy*. She feels the earth shake with each pothole it hits, like a crowd's rumbling feet at the bottom of the ninth.

The sedan screams around the corner of an intersection — red light a suggestion. Its tail swings wide; its tires screech; it skids in an arc until centered within the lot's ever open gate.

Her thoughts of Waylon's fate falter. *But— but we're closed.* She thinks.

Whoever sits behind the wheel doesn't move, content to let their headlights set darkness ablaze. She shields her eyes and casts an unsure glance at Frank.

With a sigh, Frank takes a long swig. "Busy night."

Amidst the blaze, Waylon's silhouette burns at the edges. He's still; steady. The sedan creeps forward. Each inch it moves over gravel sounds like a dozen cracking bones. Closer, closer, *closer*.

Thea runs a nail along her teeth, searching for extra to bite away. *Should I tell Elia?*

Before she can decide, the sedan turns. Headlights sweep over husks of less fortunate cars and — no longer beaming directly into her eyes — casts everything into darkness.

She blinks, trying to force her eyes to adjust. It only takes a moment. The sedan sits in profile, each curve of its body glinting with moonlight and tinted windows obscuring whoever hides inside.

The driver's door swings open. It's a scarecrow of a man. Hunched — too tall to sit upright inside the cab. He climbs out and straightens up, but doesn't quite iron out his hunch.

His attire is as spotless of the car. Finely pressed suit, driver's gloves, reflective shoes. All black. Besides a white undershirt and a navy, patterned tie between his lapels. Sparing no mind for his audience, he shambles to the backdoor and pulls its handle until it *clunks*.

Ceiling lights inside blink on. There's someone in the backseat.

Hints coalesce into understanding and Thea's stomach falls: this isn't a customer. She bites a sliver of nail off her ring finger. *No. It's not a coincidence.*

The driver pulls the door open. Behind it sits an unremarkable, pear-shaped man. Normal in all respects except one: he wearing a Christmas sweater before Thanksgiving. Throughout the fabric, Reindeer prance above an idyllic, snowy landscape. Ugly reindeer with cartoonish proportions.

The man Waylon asked her about.

Frank leans over and guards his mouth with a cupped hand. "*That'd be the real source of your sketchy job, I'd say. Or one of his guys.*"

Thea's heart freezes over. *No. They're not after me. They can't be.*

Genesis 22:7

Being on the furthest side of the car than the opened door, the pear-shaped man starts scooting. "Hey! Hello, everyone!" He says.

Off his seat, over the middle, and — finally — onto the one closest to fresh air. It's an awkward series of hops and scoots. Made more so thanks to him holding a tablet in one hand and constantly pecking at it with the other.

He kicks himself up and out to stand beside the driver — three heads shorter. "Sorry for the intrusion. Mister Ishii's got an urgent appointment downtown." He punctuates the sentence by looking up from his screen.

Waylon holds the man's gaze. "Joel. Got to grab something first."

Thea darts her eyes between the two men. *Not for me? But— but what about him? What're they going to do?*

Scenes flash past like the changing channels of a television. Mob shows she'd catch glimpses of; the way they dealt with their own family. She tenses. *Should I try to stop them?* 

Joel prompts his tablet with a tap and a clock appears. "Fine, fine, mister Ishii. That should be fine. I've got a few words for miss Aalberg, after all. But be quick. As I said: this matter is of the *utmost* urgency. Utmost."

The sound of her name sweeps away any concern for Waylon. She jerks her head to Frank.

The monk's face is stone. He tilts his head near, loosing braids to cascade and dangle past the chair's armrest. "*Don't worry. I'll be right here.*" He whispers.

The assurance does little to reseat her innards.

Joel starts toward them, but just a few steps and he stops. Considers. After a moment, he wheels around and — lowering his tablet a fraction of an inch — he addresses the driver. "Mister Hersh, please watch mister Ishii while I handle this. We can't lose track of him again."

*'Handles?'*

Mr. Hersh bows and peels away, clutching hands behind his back.

Joel closes the distance and cradles the tablet to his chest. "Now, miss Aalberg. How are you this evening?" There's something about the way he looks at her. Something that makes the question feel sincere.

Thea looks to Frank for a hint at what to say. He has none. Instead, he stares at Joel — unblinking; waiting.

She reaches up and pulls at one of her curls. "*Uhm— I—* fine. I'm fine. Confused. *S-Scared to be honest.*"

"Who could blame you?" Joel pouts, careful to divide his attention between Thea and Frank evenly. "First mister Ishii, then us showing up out of no where. And after how hard the last few weeks have been for you?"

"You know that?"

"Of course! We had to keep our eyes on you in case mister Ishii reached out. Though, I admit we weren't as rigorous as we should have been. We'd missed the fact that you set up shop out here. My apologies regarding your apartment, miss Aalberg."

"Th-thank you. Is that why you wanted say to me?"

He whips his tablet away from his chest and taps the screen a few times. "In part. My employer is quite pleased with your performance at the aquarium." He flips the tablet around. "In particular, my employer appreciates your silence regarding this matter. There are a shortage of people who understand discretion these days. Even more so, you've got a power we'd find useful. Holding that in mind: we've had two disparate contracts drawn up."

Upon the tablet's screen is a document full of text and blank lines to initial. In its header, "*Employment Contract*". He swipes and a similar document appears, but reading "*Non-Disclosure Agreement*" across the top. 

He takes a long look past her at the mechanic's shop. "Now, the choice is entirely up to you, miss Aalberg. My recommendation? Employment. You could go far in our organization and it'd be a shame to see that potential squandered. Dare I not mention, your financial problems would be relegated to the past. Albert — my employer — sends their apologies for the loss of your apartment, by the way. And for not being able to present this offer in person. Circumstances and all."

The contracts crawl into Thea's mind like a swarm of cockroaches. She scratches at phantom itches and stares at unending lines, mind too busy to parse meaning. *I have to accept the job, right? They'll kill me if I don't, won't they?*

Her heart thunders in her ears. A warning; a confirmation; a challenge. One that, before today, would be too scary to stand against. She wrings palms around her cane. "*S-sorry*, but can I choose neither?"

Joel sighs. "I'm afraid not, miss Aalberg. You don't have to worry: we'll respect your choice. Even if you decide not to work with us."

She glances to Frank. Without turning his attention from Joel, he nods once. Curt.

Her hands tremble. She breathes, trying to calm them. *It's fine. Frank is here. He said it's okay. I'll be okay.*

"So, *t-the* non-disclosure. Where do I sign, exactly?" She says.

kitfisto.gay