NOLA: Found a Peanut, pt 1

[amichan]

 Someone's coming--

“Kieran!” it's annoying sing-song voice though.

I look over, hand scrunching up the rag I was using on the table and squeezing a pool of water I need to then wipe up. This one is used up anyway, “What?” I ask.

“I'm all but done,” she says, turning around and leaning on the other side of the table, trying to give me a good view of her tits.

“Are you?” I ask, “Because half the time you just turn around in a circle behind the bar acting like you've never cleaned up before.”

She huffs, “Says the guy who just spent ten minutes cleaning the same spot of one table,” but she stalks off anyway. I toss the rag in the trash bag and turn up the chairs on that table and move on to the next one, almost forgetting the spray and then attack the next table with it.

“You know,” Dave says, from where he's standing on one of the chairs, dusting ceiling fans, “Mags isn't here she's going to be after you to take her home again.”

“She drives,” I point out.

“And?” he says.

“Herself.”

He just gives me a look.

“Let her drive your joystick. She lives across the Mississippi,” I wave a hand in that direction and pull a face, as if “C-C,” as Dave has taken to calling her. “C and C! Get it?” as he squeezes his chest area where her tits would hang, “I walk Mags because she has to walk down through the Square,” and people can't know she isn't more than capable of handling herself.

“Uh-huh.”

“And because Susan will kill me if I don't.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, again, as though he knows how unlikely it would be that Susan could actually kill me but really he just thinks that I want to walk Mags home because I have a thing for her, and...

“Look, the point is,” I tell him, “I'm not going anywhere with her whether or not Mags is here,” I put the chairs on this table and move on to the last one, and Dave goes to get the mop bucket. I can hear her whining at Susan about how she already cleaned out the bathroom and shouldn't have to go back in. I pull my phone out of my pocket and check the time. There were people in eating late which pushed back a huge chunk of clean-up and I really want to get out and back home because I have needs. I still have something to do though. Shit...what is it?

Tables. Mirrors. Did mirrors. Yeah. Did mirrors. Bar. Tables. Chairs.

Fuck it.

I go over to the bar and look around. I can't hear Susan's raised voice any more but she has to be close, probably went back to her office. I can hear someone fumbling around in there so I knock on the door and open it a bit. She's your aunt remember, “Tante Susan?”

She leans around to look behind me at Dave mopping the floor, “Yes?” she finishes fastening a chunk of receipts together with an elastic band and drops them on the desk.

“If I'm done with my shit I can just go, right? Mags isn't here so I don't have to wait.”

“You did the bar and the mirrors?”

I nod, “Yes, and all the tables and put the chairs up.”

“And you checked the soda levels and switched anything out that needed to be done?”

“Yes,” I tell her, “So, I can go? Before someone reappears and tries to--” I wave a hand.

She gives a me a look, “You mean to say you can't fend that off?”

“I'm tired. I just want to go home,” I lean my head against the edge of her office door, and affect what is hopefully a good pout, “please?”

“Oh, psssh,” she waves a hand at me, “That wouldn't work on me even if we were proper blood,” she picks up another stack of receipts, “but get out of here. I'm keeping your tips though.”

“Whatever,” I start to let go of the door.

“You're lucky you're cute enough to pull in the straight chicks and the gay boys,” she remarks, “otherwise,” she makes the cut throat motion.

“Oh come on, you wouldn't.”

She makes a cock-eyed you never know, but it's still mostly teasing.

“Besides your husband loves me. He wouldn't let you.”

“My husband is afraid of your boss,” she grumbles as the door to the office closes, “Get on before I'm tempted to spill,” I pull off the bar shirt and toss it in the sack of ones to be washed that is technically optional but why the fuck would I take it back with me if I don't have to? And walk home advertising where I work? I grab my jacket out of the back, and walk back through.

“Where the fuck are you going?” Dave demands as I walk across his clean floor.

“I'm done. I'm leaving?” this is a stupid question and you know it.

“How are you?”

“Do you see all the tables?” I point as I make it to the door, “Mop the floor faster and then you could have been gone already?”

“Must be nice to have family who owns the place,” he mutters, “Blow off work for three days, come in late, sleep in the back half the time...”

“I'm going,” I push open the door, “I will see you tom--” am I working tomorrow?

“No,” he shakes his head, “No, you won't.”

“You're off tomorrow?”

“Would I look this happy if I was off tomorrow?” he remarks, sarcastically, “I am off the day after that though, so have fun then. If you don't have a “family emergency.””

“You can always get another job,” I point out as the door closes behind me with a jangle.  

 

 

I don't want to deal with the clusterfuck that is Bourbon Street right now even if it is after midnight so I turn down St Anne's as soon as I can and walk down there. It's not like it's completely free of people but it's much more quiet, and me walking hunched, angry, hands shoved in pockets, keeps people away from me.

I'm about two-thirds of the way down the street when there's a...something. It's not the way I normally feel when someone's using Powers, but it's, well it's something and it's stronger than that. My brand is pulsing, as though it might pull itself off my skin and run off down the street. I better see what it wants I suppose. Seems to be the direction I was going anyway, which has me cautious, someone or something lying in wait for me? There are other ways I could have walked home but if they're this strong they could have some means to spot powers like I can or scan for specific people like the Carver pillar-line can when Allison has her focus right anyway.

Knife part way up my sleeve ready to be pulled out if necessary and up the rest of the street I go watching, feeling the energy get more and more urgent as I approach Jackson Square. Though all I've seen so far is a couple of drunk college students meandering back towards Bourbon Street singing two different songs at the same time and neither of them was the pull as it continued forward, and now to the right, as they stumbled on behind me.

At the corner there's three ways, left to Chartres Street and my apartment, sort of forward across Jackson Square and to the right which is also Chartres which goes in front of huge buildings which I think are galleries, maybe museums another of the big tourist trap crap things anyway, and that's the way the power is.

I cross by the square as though I'm going to cross it, seeing where the brand pulls, back towards the tourist traps, so I slowly turn again moving the knife further up in my hand and pushing away how shitty I feel right now. The front of the building has a walkway that's closed off by pillars and connected by wrought iron fences.

I'm drawn towards the corner and when I listen quietly I can hear breathing. It's shaky and nervous and coming from near the corner pillar. Ah, pillars. Don't laugh. Don't snort. This does not seem like someone faking either so this is not someone about to attack me no matter what the power I'm feeling. Color me confused.

I should—I can't.

I go closer, and tap on the nearest railing a couple of times. The breathing hitches and I hear body weight shift, “You okay in there?”

“Sort of?” they don't sound sure. They also sound young and female. They walk into visibility standing on the other side of the fence. Small, blonde, slightly disheveled, probably barely a teenager, lost tourist maybe?

“You should probably come out of there...I don't know whose property that is...”

She looks about nervously.

“I'm the only one around here right now,” I tell her, which is fairly true. The two drunks are long gone, and there's someone in the park but there's nothing to them, “You can have my knife. Would that make you feel better?” I offer it to her, blade closed.

She takes it cautiously, searching my face.

“Do you have parents?” I ask her. There are so many odd things. Kids younger than her have phones. She's right by this place that she could have gone in to for help—it's past 1 a.m they're not open but phone to call someone. Which she didn't do, obviously and...

She seems to be searching her own mind intently, “...I don't know,” she says, softly.

But then massively powerful being. Something more than just the way that I am or Mags is...or anyone I've had to Cleanse and...hrm.

Normally if you find a lost kid you should call the cops. Yeah the cops the Watch has people involved in, and Mags is...off with the other pillars that would be a bad idea too right now.

“You don't happen to have a phone or a wallet do you? To help get you back where you're supposed to be?” I'm walking round the edge of the building towards the entryway and she's slowly following. She pats at her pockets, and searches them passing the knife from one hand to the other as she does so, but finds nothing, which considering the situation I pretty well expected. Ahh, my head is so fucking itchy and it's not really the only...

I really need to get back home, and leaving her on the streets is not something I can do.

“Okay, so I just got off work and I really need to get home, and I wouldn't feel right leaving you out here by yourself to the cold and the creeps. My apartment's just down here—less than five minutes,” I point down Chartres, “...are you hungry?”

There's hesitation again but then she nods as she comes to the gate of the walkway and out on to the actual street. Okay, something she knows. That's...something.

“Alright, well I have...food...and places to sleep and in the morning we can try and work out where you're from, and...” I have a feeling I know the answer to this one too, “Do you know your name?”

She shakes her head looking both upset and fearful.

“Alright, and who you are.”

She nods again, looking slightly miserable and follows me down the street. As a gaggle of tourists come loudly up the road towards us she steps up level with me. We both watch them warily as they pass and then continue on through the square.

Should I say something to her? Bah, I hate this shit. Mags would know what to do. I text her as we walk.

[Call me in the day. Found a zana on the way home. Need help without others of mine or yours]

She looks at me as I put the phone back in my pocket managing not to drop it. My hands are getting shaky.

“I...have a friend who's good with computers. She'll get in touch in the—later today and maybe we can find out if someone's looking...for you?” is that good?

“Okay?” she says, looking surprised.

“Yeah...”

And we trudge along some more in awkward silence passing the white buildings until we get to the red one my apartment is in and I fumble out my keys to open the door to the stairs, using one hand to stead the other and unlock the door and lock it behind us.

Fuck, did I leave anything out? Not exactly used to company.

“Just...hold on a second,” I tell her once we get up to the actual apartment, and I've unlocked the outer door. I open the inner one and turn on the light and then glance around, nothing. Phew, “Wasn't sure how...clean the place was,” I tell her and push the door open all the way, “So, come on in...”

She follows me in to my shitty apartment, looking around at the threadbare couch and the scratched up crate table by it covered with bits of mail and random books. The paint on the kitchen cabinets is peeling off, but whatever, it's better than her being on the street.

“Let's see what we can get you,” I go across to the kitchen area. Fuck I left the lunch meat out on the counter before I went to work and it smells vile. I throw it into the trash apologizing. Nothing much for sandwiches. Well, the eggs are in the fridge and they seem okay, but fuck if I can cook right now.

“Will you be okay snacking on some cereal?” I pull the box of not-cheerios out of the cabinet, “I'm gonna go...change...and then I'll make you some eggs and cheese bit more substantial.”

“Thanks,” she takes the box from me and opens it.

“I'll be right back,” I start to go to my room, “Oh, the bathroom's over there if you need it,” I point to the door.

Okay, I better actually change first, at least part way. I strip dumping clothes in the basket and put on PJ bottoms, and then find a lighter weight long sleeve shirt, because yeah. Then I mix just enough to take the edge off. I'll top up later. I need to be able to stop the shakes enough to cook but not be—I'm not crashing out yet given guest.

Everything shoved back in sock drawer or thrown away and shirt pulled back on I come back out into the room. She's sitting on the couch chowing down pretty quickly on the dry cereal.

“Doing okay?”

“Hm,” she nods.

I go into the kitchen and find a pan and spatula and then scramble up some eggs and cheese. She comes over as the food is cooking and watches me from the side as I break up the slice of provolone and put it into the eggs. Once they're done I scoop most of them into a bowl for her, and give her a fork and then the rest into a bowl for me because I should eat something before I sleep. Hm. Sleeping. I don't somehow think she'd be going through things in the room. I do have a couple of extra blankets for winter. I can give her those and bring mine off the bed out here.

Right now we're sitting at opposite ends of the couch, glasses of orange juice on the table and she's watching me cautiously, and starts eating once I've had a few forkfuls of my own. Did I find an actual true zana-pixie who doesn't know how human food works?

Stephenson was all focused on the Pillars and all of their issues and potential problems, and all the people with destructive Powers. There's never been any mention of anyone whose abilities smell and sense like this. I just...I don't feel like I should call it in.

“You doing okay?” I ask her.

She nods, and between mouthfuls of food says something which I think means that she finds it good.

“Once you're done I'll switch things out on the bed and you can lay down in there...”

She looks sort of horrified at that, and shakes her head, swallowing, “Bed...is yours?” following the sentence with a big gulp of juice.

“Well, yes, but--”

“Then no. This is fine,” she pats the couch with one hand and curls her feet up under her as I take the empty bowl from her other hand on my way back into the kitchen area.

“It's no trouble,” I tell her, rinsing the bowls in the sink and putting them down. I don't get any response. When I come back to the couch her head is lolling and she jolts up and looks at me.

“Okay, I'll just go get you a blanket and a pillow,” I tell her, “I think you'll be asleep before I get the bed switched out.”

She nods, and shifts down a little on the couch and is practically asleep again when I bring her the blue fleece blanket from the top shelf of the closet in my room and one of the extra pillows from the bed. She's soon enough nestled down in a sort of cocoon and I check the locks and that I turned the stove off before I top off and collapse into bed. 

 

 

Reaching out in the half-wake for the cabinet as normal my hand brushes over something unexpected and recoils waking me up more than I usually am. It's not very bright in my room because I keep the blinds closed, or covered with a dark sheet in the one corner where the blinds are broken so I can't entirely see what I just touched but I know it's not the cabinet, and it feels like...hair...

I move my head out of the pillow more. It is hair—fair hair.

Oh, right. I found the zana on the street. That actually happened.

And for some reason she's not on the couch she's on the bed—well, her top half is on the bed and the rest of her is...on the floor. I carefully push her shoulder a few times and she blearily looks over at me and up at me.

“You okay?” I ask her wondering if scratchy morning voice will freak her out.

She looks uncertain and unhappy, “Things—I woke up—I couldn't,” she waves a hand round her head all swirly, “I don't know.”

I sit up and swing around a little so I'm facing her. I so do n't know how to do this, “How are you feeling now?”

She shrugs, leaning back, “I slept some after I came in here...” she's nervous though, toying with fingers.

“It's fine,” I tell her, “as long as you feel okay now.”

She doesn't look sure. I wonder if she ran into some Watch mind fuckery asshole and they screwed her up. How can I sneakily ask one of them about that though?

“We should get you breakfast,” I tell her, “I can make something, or there's the cereal.”

“What's that?” she points to my bedside cabinet. For a moment I'm worried I left out needles or dope but it's my phone and the edge of it is blinking red and purple.

Missed message. Missed call. Missed message. Missed call. Possibly more than one. Most likely more than one. My head is starting to pound. I don't need to get pissy with her. I unplug the phone and look at it.

Several texts from Mags and two missed calls but no voice mail. She's learned I don't check that shit.

Just a bit more than five hours after I texted.

[A zana? Seriously? Please to explain ::confused face::]

Fifteen minutes later.

[You're still asleep aren't you?

::poop:: Of course you are.

I'll call later]

Three and a half hours later. Missed call.

Two minute after that.

[Okay. ::phone:: when you rise from the grave.]

An hour and a half later missed call.

Wait. What time is it? I stand up and then my aching head remembers that the phone has a clock on it and I swipe down. That was only a few minutes ago. I look over at the confused tiny blonde girl who is still on the floor.

“It's messages from the friend I was talking about yesterday,” I tell her, coughing to try and make my voice sound clearer, “the one with computers—good with computers.”

She nods, but I get the feeling most of that doesn't make sense to her.

I offer my hand to help her up, and she accepts, “Let's just get you some cereal and I'll call her back,” my phone is already dialing Mags, because Siri is helpful like that. 

It turns out I didn't actually put the cereal away so I hand the box to the zana and she tucks into the dry circles as Mags picks up.

“You're alive!” she remarks, dryly.

“Of course.”

“You were beginning to make me wonder,” she continues.

“Well, I'm fine,” that came out harsh. Shit, “Sorry. Just. Headache,” I say into the tense silence.

“Why did you say zana?” she asks.

“{If you could...smell...people's abilities the way I can you'd understand},” I tell her in Romani over the top of her stuttering waits and maybe I don't want to knows.

“Okay,” she says, when I let her actually get in a full sentence, “it doesn't—exactly, you know what I'm outside at this point, so just let me in.”

I lean against the counter with one hand, “Can you just let yourself in to the stairwell? I really don't feel like going downstairs.”

There's a tapping on outside of the door across the room, “You're really not paying attention very well this morning,” I hear in a vague echo, “but I figure it's rude to just barge into the apartment. I'm hanging up now,” I can hear the grin in her voice. 

I leave my phone on the counter and go over to the main door and unlock the deadbolt and the main lock, “I do have the deadbolt too,” I point out.

“Yeah, there is that also,” she says, “I wasn't sure if you remembered to lock it though,” she walks by me to where the mystery teen is still leaning against the kitchen counter eating a fistful of fake cheerios, “Hi!” she says, brightly, holding out her hand in greeting, “I'm Mags,” she gets a slightly blank look in return, “Mags,” Mags repeats and then looks at me, “Did you--?”

“She doesn't--”

Mags puts up a finger shushing me, “I was saying. Did you actually introduce yourself? Did you even think to do that? You didn't? Did you? Did he?” she turns back to her without actually waiting for me to answer.

She gets a head shake in response.

“Okay, well, as I said,” she puts a hand against her chest, fingers splayed, “I'm Mags. This idiot is Kieran,” she shoves my shoulder which does shit all for my pounding head and I glare at her, “And you are?”

“I...don't know,” is the response crunched over cereal. She's looking at Mags confused, “I thought you...”

Mags looks at me confused.

“You gave his name,” she continues, “I hoped you had mine.”

“As I was trying to tell you,” I retort at Mags, “She doesn't remember things. That's why I figured you could help. She doesn't know if she has parents. She doesn't have a phone or ID but you have your computer...” I wave a hand towards her own phone, “...things you can do and track people down, and with the...other stuff I thought it was better than {going to the cops where the Watch have spies and I wasn't sure your “friends” should be brought in on it considering I found her} and we know how they feel about me.”

“That's just...” Mags starts and then stops.

I give her an eyebrow, and then massage my temples instead. 

“...do I have a name?” she asks, edging closer to us and look between us with big hopeful eyes.

“I'm sure you do,” Mags answers, “We just have to find out what it is.”

She nods, wolfing down another handful of cereal. I get her a glass of orange juice and set it on the counter. Mags watches my guest's reactions for a moment.

“How long was she wandering around out there?” she asks, “and where did you find her? And, I mean, she just came with you?”

“Look,” I put my hands up, “I just...can't...right now—my head, and she's right there, ask her your questions. I'm—I'm going to get...chang—dressed and take something from—for my fucking head, alright? And then maybe I can make something more substantial for everyone or we can go somewhere or something.”

“Fine,” she says.

I hear her talking, and a small quiet reply as I close the door to my bedroom and look around for what I need.

 

Someone's playing the drums.

No, wait.

Someone's knocking on the door, “Hey,” I hear, “Hey, Key. You okay in there?”

“Yeah, sure,” I start to say, sitting up, but then I'm not. Everything blurs and spins and then the room goes sideways and I almost fall off the bed. I manage to stand up and I just make it past her and into the bathroom to throw up before it's out. As I'm washing off my hand and rinsing out my mouth Mags is leaning against the doorway giving me a—I can't place the look but then she turns back into the main apartment.

“What was that, cherie?”

She's saying, “Eggs!” I realize but it's a little distorted because she's got a mouthful of cereal.

“What about eggs?” I ask her, moving out into the main apartment again and getting myself a drink of water.

“They...” she seems to be having a hard time with the sentence, “...don't stay inside you.”

“So...” I ask her, “...that happened to you? With the eggs?” Oh, shit—maybe that's why she was up and couldn't back to sleep, “Last night?”

“I...think it happened?”

Well, she was probably half asleep, and who knows how this not remembering things is really working not like I've ever really had...amnesia, “Okay, so I won't cook eggs to eat,” what the hell can I cook? Did I buy bread?

“What else do you have?” Mags asks.

I threw out the meat, right? There's cheese. No, I did buy bread, “Umm...”

“They don't like being eaten,” the zana puts in with definite certainty.

Mags is giving me a pointed look, but it's not like I'm going to explain what caused me to throw up to a...she can't be more than thirteen, probably. Someone has to be looking for her. What if they think I stole her? It's not like I'm known for saving people. Ever. And if Mags knows about the other...she's never actually said anything for sure. She's not exactly stupid though.

“Yeah...well...we could go get pastries?” I point out, “You work?” she had off...yesterday so chances are.

“Not until three.”

“That's time.”

“And I do live above the best shop in town, which is good for me to get changed, and look up the things,” she points out, “do you even have a computer?”

“Why do I need one? I have this,” I pull the phone out of my pocket, wave it and then put it back, “So pastries?”

“You're paying,” Mags tells me.

Our charge looks nervously at me.

“It's fine,” I tell her, “Everything's good. Pastries don't have eggs like that, and they're much tastier than dry cereal.”

“I don't know that's what she's worried about,” Mags says, as I go to get cash from the stuff in the bedroom.

“Well, it's all fine,” I call back, as I grab some of the twenties out of a stack in one of the envelopes in the lock box and put them in my pocket, “and it's not like we have to go that far,” my headache has disappeared again now that the puking aftermath has disappeared and everything is cool.

When I come back into the main room Mags is talking to her but doesn't seem to be getting anywhere.

“I don't know,” is the only answer though.

Mags looks slightly frustrated and turns to me with exasperation, “I was trying to find out what's bothering her but...”

“Maybe...she just doesn't have words?” This seems to be the case if I'm reading the look right, “but okay...pastry food is tasty. We'll all be together and safe, and you have the knife, right?” she nods, “besides Mags place is much nicer than this one.”

Mags shakes her head. It's like she's going to say something but then changes her mind, “Anyway, it really isn't far either. It'll be a few minutes walking.”

“Just like from...where I found you to hear, but a different...direction,” I wave my hand pointing but am not sure I put it the right way around.

“Alright then,” Mags says, opening the apartment door and stepping out into the entryway. After a few moments the zana follows with me and goes out into the stairwell and I lock everything up with the various keys and we go downstairs and out on to the street. Mags leads the way back down Chartres and I start to follow.

Mags stops ahead of me and looks behind, nodding, “She's still over there.”

I look back and wave her out of the doorway to the stairwell and she follows me, keeping pace by my side.

“How were things at the bar last night?” Mags asks, after a little while of silent walking.

“Same as usual.”

“Which same as usual?”

“We weren't too busy. Billy propped...the place up all night from one side. Char from the other because you know...nails or whatever. Dave and...I worked.”

“You worked?” she asks.

“Yes. I worked. Of...course.”

“Sharon was on, wasn't she?” Mags remarks.

I manage to stop myself lashing out when a small one latches onto my right arm suddenly. My left hand goes down and calm returns, secondary knife goes back into pocket. Everything is fine. Breathe in the smooth. People are walking close. Lots of tourists. Few locals.

“We're okay?” Mags asks.

“Yeah. It's all...fine,” I answer, “and,” what was I saying? “Yes...Aunt Sharon was on.”

She stays attached to me as we cross the square and reach the cafe, which is bustling, and that just pulls her in tighter against me.

“Good thing we decided we were taking things to go,” Mags remarks, “What do we want?”

There's a long line which gives us plenty of time to decide, and a big board full of handwritten items, and the long glass cases full of sweet and savory treats I don't have to look down to know there's going to be wide eyed confusion on her face though.

“An assortment?” I suggest, “Those spinach egg feta croissants are good, for me,” I make sure to add, “You don't have to eat that,” I assure her before she might panic, “Some of those fruit ones? The chocolate stuffed? Chocolate is good, right?”

“I don't know,” she says, glum.

“Well,” Her hair is very soft when I ruffle it, “Now's good for finding out.”

“No eggs?”

“No eggs.”

After a little while longer in line Mags chats away with the baker behind the counter who she knows well and picks up various things which are given to us in two different boxes one sweet, one savory and Mags leads us up the stairs. There's a brief dispelling of power before we open the door, copies dispelling and then she unlocks it and shows us in.

Her apartment is a lot brighter than mine. The walls are actually painted, rather than just brick and it's a bright cheery color, there are curtains, rather than just blinds on the windows and her furniture was probably not bought second-hand or if it was it wasn't from a thrift store. She tells us to sit on the couch and puts the pastries boxes down on the glass topped coffee table in front of it, and goes into the kitchen area and pours a couple of cups of coffee from the pot that's been left on and then hesitates looking at the zana over the top of the kitchen bar.

“Hmm...” she says, “I have milk? orange juice? this tropical fruit juice mix?”

“Orange,” is the firm answer.

“Coming right up,” Mags says, going into the fridge.

I open the boxes and offer the sweet one towards our guest, telling her what they are and wondering if it makes any sense. After a moment where I confirm from the look on her face that it's boiling down to nonsense to her for the most part I opt for, “The strawberry and raspberry are fruits like orange is but they taste different and these two are chocolate which...isn't a fruit but I thought you'd like to try it. Lots of people really like that. I thought you might too.”

She looks at me for a moment and then leans forward, cautiously reaching for the closest chocolate pastry as I take one of the napkins and the spinach croissant. Mags puts the two coffees over onto the closer side of the breakfast bar, and then brings the juice to the zana, and sets one of the coffees by me and the other in front of the big arm chair next to where I'm sitting, disappears and reappears again with a laptop and puts it by the arm chair too.

She opens the laptop before taking some sort of meat and cheese pastry from the box and starting to chew on it. The zana is hesitant to eat the chocolate filled croissant, like she thinks it might explode once it hits her mouth. I pull apart my pastry and eat a small piece. She watches me and then watches how Mags is eating hers and then seemingly decides to just take a big bite, tearing the pastry apart with her teeth and then chews. Her eyes light up in delighted surprise. Well, that's good—and hopefully she won't be puking it up. Maybe that was just eggs.

I set the two-thirds of pastry I have left down on a napkin on the arm of the sofa, and then kick my shoes off under the coffee table and pull my feet up onto the couch, curled to the side, as Mags works and the zana polishes off her croissant so quickly I'm worried she might choke. Mags glances sideways at me with an amused smirk as she finishes the last part of her pastry and goes back to typing away. I can feel myself drifting for a moment watching her focus and determined concentration. She doesn't like when things don't make sense and clearly this is stumping her. I wonder how long it'll be before she gets frustrated enough to fully tap into her powers. That's why when I'm leaning slightly back with my eyes closed and I feel a surge of power activating I'm confused because it comes from in front of me and not to the side, but then I realize I shouldn't have been because Mags doesn't have any powers like that. Hers don't deal with mind things. Mind things.

I open one eye to see the zana staring, transfixed, at me. She doesn't seem annoyed or angry though. She just seems...well, stoned actually. Her eyes are tracking something that's not there but whatever it is it seems to be centered around me.

“Are you okay?” I ask her. 

“Your head maaaakes preeetyyyy,” she says, reaching towards me. I start to pull back but I realize she's not reaching for me but near me—near above my head. She's scooted closer to me on the couch, carefully crawling over my legs.

“What is she--?” Mags asks, sliding the computer off her lap.

She's blowing in to the air now towards my ear, and waving her hand through the air above there. Oh, man—is she seeing? She's seeing what the mind blocker does? How..?

“I...think she's seeing the effects of the—you remember me talking about how the Watch gave me a mind blocker?” I catch one of the zana's hands as it comes close to my face.

“Yeah,” Mags nods.

“I think she's seeing--”

“Coloooors moooooove!” interrupts me, as she falls forward against me, leaning partly against me and rolling sideways against the couch.

 “Okay, yes, I'm sure they do,” man, I...she really is stoned, did she get stoned off chocolate? That...I try to remember the stories I heard about faeries, “Anyway,” I continue as Mags laughs, “I think she's somehow seeing whatever the mind blocker does. Right before she started this I felt a mind power turn on...but it's not the same as the types the Watch have.”

“You said before {about her power being diff--}” Mags starts and then stops glancing at the girl leaning on me, “is she asleep?” she asks, switching back to English.

She has stopped rolling around like a cat wanting it's belly scratched and is just laying still against me, breathing slowly.

“Yeah. She is...” I carefully shift my position so that my leg isn't bent under me. She doesn't wake up. Her head is further down my chest and I have use of both my arms if I decide to finish my pastry and not just drink more of the coffee. I test the air and energies around. The power from her has gone mostly back to muted again, but still more than other people's with constantly active abilities I now know. This whole thing is...

“What were you saying?” Mags puts her hand on my shoulder.

“What?” I ask her.

“You said something but you were mumbling.”

“Oh, sorry. She's just confusing me...isn't there something about sugary things making faeries stoned.”

Mags blinks, “Okay. One thing at a time. How are you so sure she's stoned?”

“I...didn't exactly hang with the best people in school, right?” I wave a hand. Mags takes the coffee out of it and sets it on the table. Oops, “So, this is not the first person acting like this I've seen.”

She purses her lips, “Mmm. Juvenile delinquent you.”

“Yeah, because you have room to talk.”

She makes a raspberry noise, “Who is it of us who went to jail? But anyway this faerie thing?” she asks, “Kieran!” she says, sharply, “The faerie thing?”

“I was gonna answer. Why are you--?”

“By staring at the wall?”

“What?”

“Never mind,” she shakes her head, “Anyway—the faerie thing?”

“Well...her power's all weird, like I said. It's nothing like a...” I can't help but snort, “normal powered person or a Pillar, and I could swear I heard something about faeries being weird with sugar but...”

Mags shrugs, “Doesn't hurt to look I guess. Legends, whatever. Super powers aren't supposed to be actually real either...” she swipes something on her computer and now I feel her power turning on, probably wanting to get things done quickly.

I take a small piece of the pastry and chew on it.

“Key?”

“Yes?”

“Okay. Good. Not so much about sugar. Supposedly they like tidy kitchens and bread and cake, and don't like iron, nothing about eggs there either...or about sugary things making them stoned, just about them liking it,” she shrugs, “still, I mean, until she remembers something we don't really have anything else; but people generally say they're tiny or they're almost like ghosts, not entirely visible on this plane. But again, not like we have any better ideas.”

I have to laugh a little.

The possible zana stirs then and I feel a bit guilty. She looks only momentarily bleary eyed and then is almost instantly fine. She sits up looking me and looking around wary again.

“We're in Mags' apartment, “I remind her.”

“I see why so many people like chocolate,” is the first thing she says to that.

 Mags laughs.

“What?” she asks, looking at each of us.

“Most people don't have quite that reaction,” I have to admit, “but...I mean, it is the first time you've ever had it, maybe that's why..?” I add when she looks worried, “We'll sort it out.”

She sits up properly scooting back down to the opposite side of the couch and I move around so that I'm sitting up straight myself. She picks up her orange juice and sips on it some looking between the two of us.

“Oh, right!” Mags says, shifting in her seat, “Well...I don't really have any news,” she continues, “I'm not sure if that's good or bad?” she sighs, “I can't find you recorded as missing anywhere but I can't find you recorded anywhere either, so...there doesn't seem to be anyone...” I realize when she smacks my leg that she's been looking at me for help with what she's trying to say and I haven't realized.

“Right—sorry...” I lean towards the zana, “So...okay, you don't have any identification in the computers, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything bad. Some families just don't do that.”

“True,” Mags nods, “I still don't really have official identification.”

“It also...means if someone is looking for you they don't want it advertised in the system they haven't put anything in there,” she's got that look again, “the official records. They don't want anyone else to know that they're looking for you.”

“Is that good?” she asks.

“I really...” this time I look at Mags.

She chews on her lip, “It'll be fine,” she says after a moment.

“We'll look after you,” I tell her, “besides...”

Mags is tapping my foot, “Go on,” she says.

“What?”

Mags frustrated face flickers and her tongue rolls around her mouth behind her lips. I hear some muttering from her direction but can't quite make it out and she brandishes one of the pillows from her chair at me before whacking it against my knee.

“What?” I ask her, again.

She shakes her head some more, “It seemed like you had more to say.”
“About what?”

She sighs, burying her face in the pillow, and then takes a deep breath, “About the things I was looking up?”

“Oh,” I look at the zana, whose nervousness has resumed, “Things will be fine. I'm sure things'll start to come to you soon enough anyway.”

“Right,” Mags agrees, “It's all good.”

We stay for a little while longer. Mags prints a local map and I point out where I found our guest and she gives as much information as she can for where she was, which amounts to running through the square and that's about it, which does sound like someone hit her with some kind of mind...whammy, if ever it was. By now though most power resonance will have gone, muddied by any amount of people walking through the area, especially as she remembers it being somewhere yesterday afternoon or evening. There's much reassurance of the little possible zana (even though Mags and I had another minor grumble back and forth about that while she was in the bathroom I can't stop coming back to the idea) that it's okay that she doesn't remember and it's not her fault.

“Don't worry about it, Peanut,” Mags says, at some point, “No one's angry with you. I can't imagine how scary it must be not remembering anything.”

“Peanut?” she asks, “Is that my name?”

Mags and I look back and forth at each other for a moment and the silence drags until both of us catch the zana looking at us as well.

Mags is chewing on her lips again, “I...”

“Peanut is...usually more of a nickname,” I tell her, realizing with Mags' look that she probably won't know what that means either, “Like, my name is Kieran, but Mags calls me Key at times, because it's shorter...” and that doesn't really explain it idiot.

“Or,” Mags says, “while Mags, like Key, is a short nickname for a full name I have an Uncle who calls me “Short Stuff”...” the sentence disappears for a moment, “because he decided that was his special way of recognizing me.”

“Special...” she murmurs.

“Yes,” Mags says, “he calls me that and doesn't call any one else it. So, if you're okay with it. We can call you Peanut until you remember your name? Or pick something you like from a name site or something?”

She nods, slowly, “I'm Peanut.”  
 

 

 

Mags has to go to work fairly soon so I suggest that Peanut and I go back to my apartment so she can get ready.

“Are you going to be okay?” Mags asks, taking two of the fruit pastries and putting them in a bag in her fridge and giving us the remainder along with what's left of mine.

“Yeah,” I nod, “We'll go restock the fridge and stuff in a bit, given the whole meat situation...and see if we can find stuff at the store that Peanut likes to eat.”

“That doesn't fight back,” she says.

“Right.”

“The store?” Mags says, skeptically.

“Yes,” I tell her, leaning down on the counter, “You know the place where you exchange money for goods.”

“I know what a store is,” she says, “I just...which store?”

I shrug. I was gonna properly decide that later, “Well, there's,” I point over that way, “but sorting things out with her tastes and things I'd wondered about the mart of our future overlords.”

“Wal-Mart? How are you going to get there without some sort of mode of transportation?”

“There are these things called taxis and ubers,” I point out, “You know you call them and they come and pick you up and drive you places in exchange for money.”

She rubs her forehead with her finger tips, “I—I would feel better if I went with you,” she says, after a moment, “and I mean then I can just take you. If that's where you're wanting to go.”

“On your scooter?”

“Moped.”

“For three people?”

She rolls her eyes, “I can borrow a car. You're just being deliberately argumentative, aren't you?”

I shrug, “besides you have work.”

“Like that's ever mattered,” she points out, “considering I can make arrangements and like you...” she waves a hand at me.

“We'll head back,” I tell her, “and take stock, okay? And I'll text you.”

“Sure,” she says. Mags offers me a cautious hug, “Stop being an ass,” she says, quietly, “{I'm just...concerned is all.}”

“{Well, don't be. It's fine.}”

She makes a humming noise, as she offers Peanut a hug as well, and we explain what that means given her confusion with so many things that we don't expect. Peanut seems wary of Mags in general but she does give her a quick hug and with Peanut carrying the box of pastries we head back to the apartment on Chartres. Peanut sticks close from the get go given it's busy downtown mid afternoon, though mostly it's tourists and not locals. Once we get past the square itself though there are a few odd noises from her and then she actually speaks again.

“What were you and Mag going on about with money...? What did you mean? What is it?”

“Oh...” Damn it, “Well...money...” I reach into my pocket and pull out some of the bills and change that I have left, “...this is money.” I let her look at it for a short while before shoving it back in my pocket, last thing I need is for someone to be hanging around thinking I'm trying to pay a little girl for nasty deeds.

“I'm paid it when I work...at the bar and then I can use it to buy food, um...clothes, pay Monsieur Durand so I can live in my apartment, and...other things.”

She looks nervous again, “Do I need a job? Could there be one that I'm not doing?”

I have to laugh, “No, Peanut. When you're your age you don't work. Older people, usually parents have the jobs and take care of things, or when kids don't have parents other people take them in, like I'm doing. Like people did for Mags until she was old enough to work.”

She looks a bit like she wants to ask something else but she doesn't and just waits for me to open the door to the stairwell so we can go back upstairs.

“And shops?” she says then.

“Lots of different ones,” I tell her, “Some,” oh, hello wall, “just sell food, or clothes,” we're almost to the top of the stairs now, so I find the right key, “or books or phones, other bigger ones like the Walmart Mags mentioned they sell all of those and other things like stuff to fix things round the house even.”

I unlock the metal gate and the main door and lock them behind us. I tell Peanut to put the pastries in the fridge and Siri to open notepad on the phone so I can I can tell it what we need from the store. I'm just a few items into the list: toilet paper, toothpaste, lunch meat, juice; when I notice a keening noise coming from the other side of me towards the couch, high-pitched, and accompanied with sobbing. Peanut.

I put the phone down on the counter and go to where she is, sitting on the couch, hugging her knees to her chest, chewing on her lip, wide-eyed and crying. I sit down next to her, but keeping a few inches between us.

“Peanut—what's wrong?”

“I don't know how to do things,” she says, miserably, “How much time do I have before I have to leave?”

“It's okay, and don't worry about that. I'm not going to kick you out. You don't have to leave until we find out where you're supposed to be...as long as it's safe.”

“What if I don't want to go there?” she says in a voice I can barely make out, “Wherever that is?”

“Well, then we'll sort it out,” I wonder if she does remember something bad and that's why she's so scared.

She closes the distance then and clings to my arm, nodding, still crying because I can feel them soaking my sleeve. I hug her around her shoulders and pat the back of her head.

“Thank you,” she says, still in her soft voice.

“It's okay,” I tell her as she takes some deep breaths, trying to calm down and I keep my hand on the back of her head, focusing on her so that I'm not paying attention to the itching crawling around my shoulders and up my neck to my scalp.

She looks up after another moment, pressing a smile across her face, “So, when do we go?” she says, sounding much more chipper, “to the shops?”

“It'll be a little while yet,” I tell her, “I...need to take a nap for a bit,” that's a safe thing to say, “and then we'll go. Walmart is open all day.”

She nods, “Okay.”

Shit. What do I have for her to do in the mean time?

“I have books for you to read if you want? or...”

“I could nap too?” she says, “It's sleeping?”

“Yeah. Okay. You have the blanket and pillows if you want. I'll be in there,” I point to my room as I stand up and go to the kitchen counter to grab my phone. She knows that, moron. You slept in there last night, “if you need me.”

She nods.

“Siri,” I say, as I open the door to my room.

There's that chime and the, “What can I do for you?”

“Play Mix Trance Two.”

“Playing Trance Two,” it starts up filling the room with ambient music as I clip the phone into the charging dock on the safe and the door closes. I find my supplies and pull off my sweater so I can tie off more easily, sort myself out and then lay down so I can listen to the music.  

 

“Mags calling. Mags calling.” in that metallic voice cuts through my unconsciousness. When I pull half up into a sitting position to find the phone I see Peanut stirring in confusion. She's half on the bed again. Please don't say she threw up the pastries.

Siri stops talking and the trance mix starts again. I take the phone out of the dock though and call Mags back instead of trying to slip back into the relaxing music zone.

“You called?” I ask her.

“Well, you said you would and you didn't,” she says.

“I was going to. What time is it?”

“After four,” she says, dryly, “I'm guessing you haven't gone to the store yet.”

I run a hand through my hair, scratching the back of my head, “No. I took a nap. I was going to call when I woke up.”

There's a noise from the other end of the phone I can't make out, “Well, I got my cousin to loan me his car, and I sent another me to work so I can pick you guys up if you still want to go to Walmart?”

“I think it's best. There are things Peanut'll need that we can't get at the bodega. I'm sure she wants to be able to change clothes and things.”

“You're having more common sense than me,” Mags remarks, “I feel ashamed.”

“You should.”

“I'll be there in a couple of minutes.”  

“Okay.”

I realize Peanut has stood up and is stretching, as Mags says her goodbye and hangs up, and I make sure the music is off before putting the phone in my pocket and reaching for the sweater I hadn't put back on.

“Mags has borrowed a car so we can get to the store more easily. So we'll be going in a little while,” I tell Peanut. I should probably put money in an actual wallet and have ID and shit if we're going out that way. There should be one in the safe.

When I'm faced with the room again after getting my head through the sweater Peanut is looking at me with anticipation. She did seem excited about going to see an actual store but then, “Could—could I have another pastry?”

“Of course. You know where they are.” That's good though, “Glad to hear your stomach's doing okay. I was worried you'd thrown up again when I saw you in here.”

She shakes her head, and with the proudness of someone who has just won a marathon tells me, “I'm stronger than the pastries.”

“Oookay,” I tell her, laughing a little, “I'm gonna grab some more money and I'll be right out. You get your pastry.” I tell her.

“Do you want one?” she asks.

I shake my head, “No. I'm good.”

She nods and runs off into the main apartment. I open the safe and find the wallets, and the one with the actual Kieran ID in it is actually in there which is good, and then sort out some money, folding several groups of different denominations into there so there's almost a grand mostly in hundreds and fifties. I have no clue what all we'll actually need when it comes down to it. Clothes get expensive I know that though and she'll need stuff for the bathroom of her own like toothbrush and shower gel and all those other things and holy fuck what have I gotten myself into? Probably is a good thing Mags is coming with because other things to explain that girls...yeah...I scrub my hands over my face.

There's change all over the bed I see when I stand up and I scoop back what I can immediately see and put it back in my pocket, along with a couple of twenties, and then put the envelope back and lock the safe again.

Peanut is humming to herself leaning against the counter by the sink chewing on one of the fruit pastries, which in some respects I'm thankful for, so we don't find out if the chocolate thing was one off or not in the middle of Walmart. I can hear Mags climbing up the stairs as I push my feet back into my shoes and go to unlock the doors so she doesn't get the chance to show off with lock picking again. She gives me a smile when I open the door but something seems a bit...

“You ready to go?” she asks.

“Once Peanut's finished her pastry.”

Mags gives me a skeptical eye.  

“It's the one you said was raspberries,” Peanut says, pronouncing the flavor carefully, “It's good. I beat the pastries,” she explains to Mags just as proudly as she told me before, “They couldn't fight back like the eggs.”

Mags smile doesn't break through to actual laughter like I did, “I'm proud of you, baby,” she says, though, “Should we go?”

Part Two | Part Three