Ami-chan Writes

 How long are they gonna be talking bullshit down there? It’s getting so boring hanging out up in the rafters. Only so much climbing, swinging and flipping practice a gal can do before shit starts swirling around in her head again.

Too many egos in that room plain and simple.

I told him that when he first strutted the grand plan, no, Grand Plan.

 

“Go big or go home?”

“Oh, no one’s going home, Harley-baby—this one’s record breaking.”

“Hmph,” was not the answer he wanted. He wanted jubilation, excitement and praise of his brilliant scheme to pull it off and come out on top of the others at the same time, “Croc, might not appear to be as smart as the rest and those are not all as smart as they strut but they are going to expect to be crossed, you know? Half of them are going to try the same--”

“Harl--” he started, turning, but I was ready for that and up over the table, hands up in front of me.

“Come on Mistah Jay, please...” big eyes, big pout, ego stroke was a good idea at that point baby doll, lean over the table, “I’m not saying it’s not a smart plan, pudding. I should have said that first I just don’t want,” slid over the table, “anything to happen to you again I couldn’t take it,” stroked his hair back behind his ears, faces close together.

“I understand,” he said, low, dangerous.

A pit of anticipation, need spiked from that voice, the turn on started but also concern, fear because of the other side it could mean, they battled low in me, “but don’t doubt me,” and I’m backward over the table and onto the floor other side, “I know what I’m doing!”

I picked myself up using the table, “Of course you do.”

“That’s right,” he said, looking back at the table surface and straightening things that had been knocked in my various trips across it.

I gave him a moment to his work to process things. He might well turn words about in his head realize my point and make it own—change his mind.

Didn’t happen.

Maybe later. Hopefully.

If some of them team up against him—us. I don’t want to be in Arkham on the other side especially if John and his “experimental treatments” are still there—maybe I can luck out and get put in regular jail. But when does that ever happen? Did John get found out? I know I reported him—he was being investigated. He ran at some point, didn’t he?

“Harley—don’t look so worried,” he was close, but not harsh, “I told you it’ll be fine,” hand turning my face up to his, “You trust me, don’t you?”

“Of course,” I gave him the smile he wants, “It’s them I don’t trust.”

“Well, neither do I so all will be fine,” there’s that damned wicked smile as he leaned in to kiss me.

It was a moment before I could breathe again and by that point my legs were locked around his waist and hands around his neck.

“Better than fine then,” he said, as he nuzzled my neck and leaned round for a moment to look at his wrist, “I think we have time to mess up the papers again before they get here, whaddaya say?”

I dug my fingers into his back and squeezed more tightly with my legs, “You have to ask?”

 

It was half-dressed pick up and scale into the ceiling when people started arriving, pulling the rest of my outfit back on and hanging around listening for a while but the posturing made me sick so I went up the rest of the way, and now I’m not sure how long it is later. I’m not the one who wears a watch and they’re still here: Penguin, Croc, Scare...so, no, of course John isn’t at Arkham he’s right there, you’re supposed to be smart. So, even more likely things are going to go sideways, why would he help? I’m the one who ratted him out. I’m the reason he doesn’t have a toy box to play in.

Of course there’s a chance it’s gone the other way and he’s happy to not have to hide behind the civilian persona any more and be out and proud and more spectacular and theatrical the way “Mister Jay” really prefers to be Joker but that’s our inside joke pet name thing now so it’s stuck. That would require talking to him to find out and I really don’t want to try, especially because we’d both know what I was trying to do.

Anyway: Penguin, Croc, “Scaaaaarecrow”, Riddler all around the table, after a fashion anyway. What fashion? I hang myself upside down again. The color clash alone. Don’t laugh too loud. Distracting Harley cause too much trouble. Interrupt the big men talking their talk. Might get tempted to say what I really think about all this bullshit, again, but in front of everyone with a capital E. Everyone.

That’d be too much.

Too too much.

Oh, thank you. Everyone with a capital E is packing things up and leaving. I start to slowly lower myself back down to the main floor, dropping down as one of the other goons closes the door behind them as they go.

“So,” Joker says, “What do you think?”

Oh, this could easily be a trap. Tread so careful. I sit on the edge of the table moving what remains of the papers, and watch him for a moment. His measured stance.

“Oh, come on,” he says, “I know you were listening.”

“I was, but do you really want to know what I think? We already talked about things before.”

He nods, taking a step towards me and holding my hands in his, “and that was before and it’s done with. You’ve heard the conversations with everyone now.”

Fuck it.

“I still don’t think it’s a good idea. Last time you tried a multiple person event it didn’t work. So the answer is to add more people to the mix?” I shake my head, as he grips my hands more tightly, “I feel like we’d be better if we were just doing something by ourselves...”

There’s just silence.

Our hands are still.

His face is still.

My breath is still.

The next movement is so fast I don’t realize it happened until I’m on the floor. Though I realize that aside from his hand hitting my cheek I also bounced against the table on the way down. He’s hot with rage, but I’m hot too as I spring back up.

“You asked!” I spit at him, “I asked if you really wanted to know! You said you did or at least your words intimated that you actually did. Don’t do those things if you’re going to--” the hand again but I’m ready for it and block as if he’s the Bat or one of the flunkies. It’ll make him angrier but right now I don’t care. I don’t want him...why don’t you…?

I feel like my brain is not entirely making sense right now.

Even to me.

Of course I did just vibrate off two hard services—surfaces.

“Harley,” he snarls.

“I love you,” I snap back, “I want you around. If you don’t know that by know then you’re an idiot!” The tears that are coming now mean I don’t catch the smack that comes towards my face. I don’t go all the way down though. I just stumble and catch myself against the table and then shove all his stupid shit all over the place and on to the floor, running around the other side of the table while I’m doing it.

“You want to be like that?” he tips the table over.

 

I jump back narrowly avoiding my feet from being trapped. 

“And he's back!” My “Aunt” Susan remarks when I walk through the door, “Are we sure you're feeling okay? You're on time.”

“I can leave if you want,” I point out, “and come back in...half an hour or so...”

“Go on with you and get your work shirt on!” she whips at me with the bar towel as I make her a fake yip and go to the back office where she hangs the clean laundry, and find a shirt to pull on over my shirt.

“Hey,” Mags says from behind, announcing herself.

“Hey,” I return, cautiously, turning around, twisting the long sleeves back into a comfortable position.

“How're things?” she asks, one hand fidgets with what passes for a door frame.

“They're good...” I answer.

“We never got chance to finish our talk,” she says, “Can we later?”

“On the walk home?” Given Susan insists that Mags must be escorted as though she can't take care of herself.

“That could work,” she nods, “Provided you're willing to listen.”

“I'm--” I start, but she just looks at me, challenging me to talk about earlier, “I was tired--”

“Yes,” she says, shortly, an unspoken 'sure' hangs there and pops, “We agreed I would look into this, Key. You can't shut down because you don't like the results.”

I can't help frowning at her. None of what I recall us talking about made any fucking sense and there were other arguments and Peanut being upset. At least on the walk home there will be no Peanut to upset. How much sense everything else will make...?

“You getting here on time doesn't count if you're going to shoot the shit down there!” Susan shouts over at us. At least neither of us look rumpled and guilty? Or would that be better?

 

Shift goes fairly smooth until Dave is coming back from break and Mags is getting ready to go when I get a call from 'Work Bitch'.

“Go--” Mags grumbles, “But be quick, please,” she adds, with a pissy face directed entirely in Dave's direction.

I answer the phone as I walk out front onto the street, “What do you want?”

“Pleasure to talk to you too, Garriden,” Joanna replies.

“What do you want?” I repeat, “The job's done. Paperwork is in. I've been paid. Everything's square. There is no reason to be calling now.”

“There's another job,” she says.

“No.”

“Garriden you--”

“No,” I repeat, “We have rules about this. None within at least seven days of another. I came back to work today. It has been nowhere near seven days. Is this some world-ending calamity?” I look around for the hellfire tornadoes, and stop picking bits off the brick face of the front wall, “because it doesn't seem like it.”

“It is close by,” she says.

I snort, “It could be down the street for all I care. We have the rules that were signed. If it's not world ending it can wait.” I hang up on her.

My head is starting to throb a bit with the annoyance as I stalk back in towards the bar itself. The phone chimes again in my pocket and I swipe the denial option of “Can't talk right now” and shove it back into my pocket.

“What happened?” Mags asks, as I slide back behind and crouch down to rifle through random things.

“Just bullshit.”

“Please,” she says, sideways, given she's still standing up, “It's more than that.”

“Just take your break,” I tell her, “I'll have calmed myself down by then.”

“Hm,” she remarks, as I stand up again, “Are you sure?”

“It's just stupid bullshit with—just, go before a rush comes in or something and you don't get a break at all?”

“He has a point,” Dave says, from the other side.

“Fine,” she says, and walks out.

“You do seem wound up,” Dave says.

“Don't you start.”

“Ex girlfriend?” he asks.

Don't crazy laugh, “That might be easier to deal with, actually,” I tell him as I turn the phone to “Do Not Disturb” when she calls again. I'm 90% sure it's her even though it's from a different number. If it's not then it's a wrong number given there are only about four people who ever call me intentionally.

Mags comes back from break while Dave is answering the bar phone and catches Billy coming in and nods to me I pull the beer and set it down in Billy's usual spot and he sets the money on the counter.

“It's for you,” Dave says to me.

I don't want to answer it but at the same time if I don't the bar phone will probably blow up, “This is Kieran,” I say, taking the receiver, and biting each word, “How can I help you?”

“You can answer your cell phone,” Joanna remarks.

“Well, I'm at work right now so I had to turn my ringer off,” I point out, “and I can only talk for a little while.”

“We need you to do this job,” she says, “It's close by. It's urgent. It's only going to be this once.”

“Sure it is,” I say, making sure to not say just 'sure' sarcastically and have it be misinterpreted as agreement, “You know what these things do. We're not starting a thing.”

“We're not starting a thing,” she says, “but this needs to be taken care of. It's not like you're going to get fired from the bar for going away again.”

“That's not what I'm concerned about.”

“You need to do this.”

“I told you no. Don't call here again about this and I'm turning my cell phone off,” I say taking it out of my pocket and doing so.

“You're going to be selfish over a matter of a few days? What about the other people, innocent people who might suffer or die because of this?”

“If it's that urgent you take care of it,” I hang up, though it takes a few tries given I'm shaking.

“Key--” Mags says.

Dave is thankfully off waiting on a table.

I wave a hand at her, but I just...I'm tempted to grab one of the beer bottles out of the cooler but that's not a good idea because things would be...my stomach's churning enough as it is.

“You look green,” Mags says.

“I'm—it's fine,” I mutter.

“Bull shit,” she says, “Why don't you just go out back and get some air?” she kinda trails off a bit herself there, “You'll break something you try to serve someone right now.”

“Fine.”

She's not wrong anyway. That might be the worst part. My calm is not maintaining. I've got something stashed somewhere in the not so much outside out back--

--but the swirling of what unlucky sod Stephenson wants gone so fucking badly he's calling on me already has me off in the back toilet giving up the breakfast Peanut made and Susan knocking on the door all concerned, and then opening it, as I forgot to lock it in the urgency, and given I don't answer because I'm sitting down against the wall breathing slow, making sure it doesn't happen again.

She sighs seeing what's happened and flushes the toilet, “What did--?” she starts, then just puts up a hand, shakes her head and says, “Well you're going back home you ijit,” before disappearing up front.

I try and fail at getting up before Susan returns with Mags.

“I'm going to work the front for a bit. Mags said she'd get you home instead of me taking you given all the times you've walked her at night. We've got Callie coming in. How grateful are you?” she demands.

“Tres, tante. Merci,” I mumble, as between Mags and the wall we get me to my feet. Mags scolding me in Romani about being so not fine.

 

The walk is slow and cautious. Mags asks for actual explanation once we're out of sight of the bar. I'm uneasy but at it's Mags not Dave or all things forbid Callie.

“Watch called. Job,” is all I really have to say anyway.

“But you barely got back!”

“I know.”

“Well, I know you know,” she retorts, “I just—why would they? Other than assholery?”

“I don't know. 'It's...urgent'?” We pause for a moment and I lean against a nearby wall taking a drink from a bottle of water she snagged before she left. I spit the first part out, and pull a snarky face at a tourist who gives me a look, and then take an actual drink.

“No wonder you were so pissed,” Mags says.

“Hmph.”

“Hey, come on,” she says, “I'm on your side on this, you know?”

“Yeah,” I rub my temples after she takes the water back, “I just—they're not going to leave me alone. If they show up...maybe Peanut should go with you for a few days?”

“What about you then?” she says, “Maybe we should just show our hand? Say 'fuck you guys!' ?” We're only a few buildings from the apartment now.

“Just us or will the rest of your Pillar peeps be on board with that? They don't even know about Peanut, right?”
“Nooo,” she sighs.

“And what's the situation with us as far as they're concerned?”

“What's it as far as the Watch is concerned?” she points out, “or as far as we're concerned even?”

I unlock the door to the stair well.

“Exactly,” she says.

Once we get into the stair well and push the door closed she splits honeysuckle and one of her heads back towards he bar at a run, and the remaining her locks the door behind the other. She follows me cautiously up the stairs one hand in the small of my back to help keep me steady, she says, even though I'm sure it's fine now.

“Don't be an idiot,” she scolds in Romani.

“I'm not.”

“Yes. You are. You're swaying so much you might as well be Billy.”

The door cautiously opens ahead of us and Peanut peers around the edge of it and through the bars of the gate, “You're early,” she says, both wary and accusatory.

“Yeah,” I start but I'm not actually sure what to say.

“Kieran's aunt sent him home,” Mags explains, “because he got sick...” she looks at me and shrugs like what else could be said and she has a point.

“It shouldn't fight back,” she says, “Especially not so late.”

“No,” I assure her, as she comes to open the gate and we walk inside, “It wasn't that at all. It wasn't your fault.”

Peanut seems only slightly relieved as Mags pushes me towards the chair. Flopping into it like that hurts my head more.

“I'm not--” I start.

“Maybe something conventional,” she suggests, “Please, Key? Do you have something like that in here? For Peanut?”

“I...'m honestly not sure right now.”

She sighs, “I shouldn't be surprised,” she turns, instead, to Peanut, “Has there ever been anything he's given you to make your tummy feel better when food's been fighting back?”

She shakes her head, “It fights back. It wins. I feel better. Just like sometimes with Kieran before naps...or in the morning.”

Mags gives me a vaguely annoyed look.

I just shrug because she's not wrong but this is different. This isn't dope turning things around. I don't know how to explain the overwhelmed and literally sickened by my other job. It's not like we've explained that to the preteen because well...hi your guardian is a bartender slash murderer why do you like staying in his shitty apartment again?

“I probably will feel better after I have a nap,” I point out.

“Kieran--” Mags starts, as though I'm a five year old who just painted on the wall with crayons, “That...” then she looks out of the window for a moment, “fair point.”

I can't help but stare at her given the 'you get paid HOW?' of the other day.

“It's the truth, isn't it?” she says, “It's not going to stop this second. I just—what you said before about the Watch...should I stay? Should we go?”

“Whatever makes you and Peanut most comfortable,” I tell her, “I'm going to be asleep.”  

Mostly.

After a little while anyway.

I put the phone into the dock, telling Siri to play the appropriate mix, and dump my keys on the cabinet in front of her before going and finding everything I need for prep, and locking the bedroom door. I can hear tones of Mags talking but not much from Peanut, but in a little while none of it matters, just the pulsing rhythms running through the mattress and rippling the colors of the room around me.

 

The hell?

I didn't think I turned the ringer back on, just the music. But there's the tone and Siri telling me that Work Bitch is calling. I scrabble the phone out of the dock, because it's just going to keep ringing but I hit answer instead of dismiss in the flailing for it and there's Joanna's voice, faintly given speaker's not on and the phone's not to my ear, “You actually answered. This is a good sign.”

“Mmph,” I grumble at her, “It wasn't intentional.”

“Ah,” she says, “Don't hang up. Please.”

“Why shouldn't I? Are you calling to apologize for...earlier? It was all a mix up?”

“I can't do that,” she says, “but please, don't hang up.”

I sit up more fully on the bed, and actually turn the phone on speaker so I can hear her better. Whatever this is it better be good. This is a rude come down.

“Alright,” I tell her, “I'm listening. For now.”

“Thank you,” she says, sounding very unusual with all this politeness.

“Did you get possessed or something? You sound weird.”

“No. I just—Stephenson and I had a discussion earlier, and he...pointed some things out to me. We came about things the wrong way.”

“There isn't really a right way to come about this,” I point out, “I mean, if you're in breach doesn't that mean I can just...leave?”

“And go where?” she asks.

She has a point with that one though. Where's going to hire me with my extensive range of skills in bar tending, ass handing and death bringing? That's basically bouncer, bar tender or enforcer for a drug cartel, but that sort of thing is what landed me in Centralia in the first place. Not quite that high up though. Maybe I wouldn't have wound up in prison then some other schmuck would...

Anyway!

“Your point was?” I ask her.

“Just come downstairs and let's talk this through,” she says.

“Ugh,” I tell her, “That requires walking.”

“Yes,” she says, “It does. One foot in front of the other. We going to square everything away.”

“Fine,” I tell her given this seems like it's going to be the only way to get this shit over and done with. I'll go downstairs tell her to fuck off face to face and then we can put this behind us, at least for a week I suppose.

Joanna's sitting on the hood of Bennet's car, out on the street just to the left of the stair well. She gives me a sly wave and a smile as I close the door behind me.

“It's good to see you,” she says.

“Hm,” is all I trust myself to answer.

She slides off the hood of the car and comes towards me, “It's okay,” she says, “I do want to say I'm sorry. This whole situation...it could have been avoided.”

“It should have been,” I tell her, “If it's not apocalyptic there is--”

“I know,” she says, and I realize suddenly that her hand is on my arm, “but everything will sort itself out.”

“Right...how exactly?”

“It just will,” she says, “Trust me.”

 

Leaning back in the chair. The most boring radio announcer ever is droning on in the background, undercut by a deep voiced singer, worried about family.

 

I stop in a corner store. The type run by immigrant locals and their reluctant first generation children. He's in the middle aisle and I slip by, getting the wallet is easy, checking the address, slipping the tag into it, putting address into phone and seeing what's around it, and then buying a soda at the front and turning it in, “Someone dropped this, and hey I need directions to this place...”

Guy, “Oh, I live near there. You just go here and then turn there and...” patting pockets trying to find wallet to pay for his chips and soda.

Clerk opens the one and asks for some verification it might be his. I thank him for the directions and walk out.

 

There's nowhere appropriate in the actual area. Tag puts him twenty minutes away. Lets get this done.

 

And now we're in an alley. Great. He's a semi decent fighter for someone who looked like a misplaced executive whose only brush with sports was doing that zumba bullshit with their significant other. Childhood martial arts lessons, maybe? It's not power, nothing's turned on yet. Was the Watch wrong?

No, wait, something—shift in smell but I would have expected ozone from what they said, not metal.

 

Mugging. Say it was a mugging. Take all his shit. Mugging gone bad.

 

Keep your fucking phone.

 

I need to be out of the way.  

 

The wall is rough brick but only goes part way against my side and arm on the right side. Against my back is smoother, warming...I need to...I shouldn't have thrown the phone, but it wasn't mine. Where is mine? My hand is...sticky. From the left is gray flat and on the right is the rough small wall and then a drop off but I can't see how far down it goes.

I can just take a minute and things will get clearer.

I can't...smell anything dangerous.

I can pull my shit together. That's what I need to do.

Sort out where I am, what I was doing, and how the hell to get back...to...the apartment.

Apartment.

My legs don't want to move. I give myself...I'm not sure how long to be honest, and then try again, but no. I want to laugh, but I'm too drained. I just lean my head back against the smooth, warm wall behind me.

Okay, up...no.

There's a half-assed thought of dragging myself across the floor until I find some way out or off of wherever this is but that's not practical at all. Okay, get your ass up.

Or just lay here. That's lovely.

Thanks body.

What the fuck is wrong with you?  

 

Part One | Part Two

Mags rearranges some of the things so there's more in the dresser and I load the trunk. She takes the tags off Peanut's bear-cat thing now that it's paid for, and makes a few more disparaging remarks in Romany about the bigoted cashier.

“[Did she actually ask you if you were stealing us?]”

“[No, she asked if you were my sisters.]”

“Okay, that's something,” she says, closing the trunk, “[Gonna report her anyway. The bitch. What was her name?]”

“Bev, I think.”

“It'll be on the receipt,” she says, “You didn't toss it, did you?”

I pull the crumpled paper out of my pocket and hand it to her, and she puts it in her bag.

“Alright, back to the apartment!” she says, as though we're off to battle.

“Can—can I sit up front?” Peanut asks, hesitantly.

“Of course,” Mags says, unlocking the doors.

I open the passenger side and let her in. She studies the belt for a moment and then buckles herself in, and I climb in the back and stretch out. Mags coughs at me and I rearrange so I can buckle in and then shift my way back to actually being comfortable stretched out again as we drive out of the parking lot. I can hear Peanut excitedly asking questions about things as we travel but I let Mags answer them all and just try to push off the crappy feelings that are creeping across my forehead, keeping one arm across my face, feeling the turns as we go.

I sit up as we pull in, tangling myself in the belt, and having to carefully extract myself.

Peanut turns round concerned, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” I mutter, “This is why I don't like to wear seatbelts.”

“Well, if you sat in the car like a normal person,” Mags retorts as I let myself out of the car and she pops the trunk. I go and unlock the door to the stair case, as Peanut lets herself out of the car, cat-bear still clutched tightly in one hand.

“Do you think you can unlock the rest of the doors?” I ask her, “This one is for the gate, and this one is for the main apartment. Mags and I will start bringing things upstairs.”

“I can carry things,” she says.

“Okay,” Mags says, “Here, you take this bag of clothes along with you and unlock the doors too, does that work? Given you have your plushie there to carry as well,” she holds out one of the bags, and puts the handles over Peanut's wrist and then I put the first key in her hand, and verify again the other key for the inner door, and she heads off up the stair case.

I loop several bags on each wrist and then pick up the dresser.

“We can make more than one trip,” Mags says, “or I can call my--”

“Why?” I ask her, “When we can get it in one?”

Mags closes the gate and the door behind her and puts her bags on the couch seeing the ones I dumped there and then moves around to start opening things, “Come on, Peanut,” she says, “Let's make sure it's only clothes in your dresser. Why don't you put the food away?” she suggests to me, “You know where you want it.”

Mrrr...fine. That shouldn't take too long. It's not like we got a ton of things, but then Peanut has left the keys on the kitchen counter, which is good, because when I'm shoving empty bags into the trash can I remember it needs to go out because it's got the meat in there that's gone bad, and if I don't do it now. I tell them I'll be right back and traipse back downstairs and through the doors next to my stair well past the laundry facilities and out the back to the dumpsters. The fucking clanging that makes is the worst, but it has to be done. Still, I leave it open when I come back through and up the stairs again, to carefully shake out another trash bag, hopefully without seeing spots, and put the can back together because again. It won't happen if I don't do it now.

“--good for it?” I catch from Mags.

“What?”

“The dresser,” she says, “Where's a good spot for it? No one needs to be tripping over it in the middle of the night or something, yeah?”

“Right,” I lean my arms down on the kitchen counter, “I don't know...corner by the window then?” I wave, carefully, in that direction, “Move the book pile on to the...I'll put it in my room.”

“We should have gotten you a shelf,” Mags points out.

“I didn't think about it.”

“No shit,” she says.

“It's half a dozen books, doesn't need a whole shelf.”

“And how many more do you have in there? Isn't there another box around here somewhere?”

“Does it really matter? Just hand them over,” I wave at her as she's moving Peanut's dresser around, and she gives me the eye, but passes the books over, “I'll sort something out. You guys can finish things out here, yeah? And find your way around the kitchen to do whatever you were going to make?”

“Stir fry,” she says.

“Yeah, that,” I tell her, “Put your things wherever in the bathroom,” I tell Peanut, “and there's a closet thing right there,” I wave to the little attempt at a hallway alcove thing carefully so as not to drop any of the books, “for the extra towels and you can put your blanket there when you're not using it,” and I take my haul into my room and push the door closed with my foot before dumping the books on to one end of my bed, and then locking the door. Fucking finally.  
 

 

“Kieran?” there's a gentle tapping that accompanies it. For a moment I don't recognize the voice, and then, oh, right, found a Peanut last night, I roll over on the bed as I snicker into the pillow I've balled up under my head, “Kieran?” she asks, again, worried.

“Yeah,” I answer, still laughing slightly, “Yeah, I'm...what's going on?”

“Mags asked me to check on you. She said, 'tell the lazy ass that food will be ready soon and he needs to get his butt back out here.' if you can wake him up so I am.”

Yeesh.

“Alright,” I tell her, rolling on to my back, “I'll be out in a minute.”

“I...” she says, “I'm supposed to wait and make sure? Is that...?”

I get the feeling she's toying with something, fidgeting.

“Alright. Alright,” I pull myself up off the bed, and find the sweater I was wearing before and shrug it back on. Then unlock the door, dragging a hand through my hair a few times so that it has some semblance of being tamed and come out of my room. Peanut is standing to the side of the door and I was right she's fidgeting with the cat-bear thing. She looks relieved though now that I've reappeared. The food smells coming across the apartment is a good one and I can hear the sizzling of vegetables and meat. When we come into the main apartment Mags is at the stove stirring things in the wok and there's a sauce pan bubbling next to her.

Right. Right.

“Anything I can do?” I ask.

She turns and looks as though she was about to say something other than what she actually does say which is, “Well, we need some place to eat, maybe the table over by the couch?”

“I'll clean it off,” I answer.

Peanut looks about for a moment, “I could help?”

I glance at the table and it's piled up things, and try to think of things that were going on with me and it before Peanut arrived, and hmmm, “Why don't you...in the kitchen...Mags can show you were silverware and things are that we'll need to eat with and you can count that out ready for when I've got things cleaned off and then bring that over.”

“Okay,” she nods, and carefully sets her bear-cat down next to her pillow on the couch and goes into the kitchen area.  

I start sliding papers and mail together, some of it is junk mail I haven't bothered to properly throw away, and there are some half-read magazines but there are some books buried in here, and yeah...there, a burned spoon, some...I look at them cautiously keeping my body between the kitchen and them, yeah...empty packets and a needle, that's what I was afraid of Peanut finding if she helped, because, not exactly used to visitors until recently, and feh.

I scrape those things in with the junk mail and fold everything over and dump it in the trash can quickly, and then put the magazines and books into a stack and put them over by the window before getting a damp rag and some cleaning spray to wash the table off with. Once things are settled Peanut brings over the forks and spoons Mags had her pick out of the drawer and I have her place them around the table, and I go into the kitchen to get the bowls out so that we can have somewhere to put the food.

Mags is draining the noodles over the sink and soon we're sitting on couch cushions laid out on the floor around the table with bowls full of stir fry and glasses of juice.

“It's good,” I tell Mags after a few bites, “Thank you.”

She nods, “I can cook,” she laughs, taking a drink of her juice.

Peanut seems unsure though, and is moving things around in her bowl uneasily now that she's eaten some.

“What's wrong?” Mags asks her, as Peanut puts a strip of beef in her mouth looking for all the world like it might jump off the fork and bite her, and chews it up, “Don't you like it?”

Peanut doesn't say anything for a while, focusing on eating what's in her mouth and swallowing it. She shoves something else into her mouth wary, and uncomfortable, and makes a sort of squeaking sound while she's still shaking her head. She's definitely nervous—probably that she's going to get into trouble and we'll kick her out after everything that's happened.

I look at Mags and she's looking at me I think her expression is saying the same thing.

“It's okay if you don't like it,” I tell Peanut.

“Yes,” Mags echoes, “It's fine.”

“You don't remember a lot of things,” I continue, “So, you don't remember what things are so, of course, you're not going to know what you don't like and what you do. Just put what you don't like...on the table and we'll clean it up later.”

She looks over at me with those big eyes for a moment, and I wonder if I was speaking in Romany and not English, and then she makes another uncomfortable noise and goes back to the bowl, and doesn't look at either Mags or I while she shunts the beef around in the bowl but doesn't take it out but does start just eating the vegetables and noodles. So, it is the beef that she doesn't like. I look over at Mags wondering if, but she probably has noticed this too, she's not an idiot. She nods at me without actually saying anything as we finish up our own food, and there's just minor small talk confirming that I have work tomorrow, and that we'll be working at least part of the shift together, though chances are she'll be asked to stay on the evening and stupid bitch will be sent home, Mags points out in Romany, and there'll be much rejoicing. It won't be the first time it's happened, either.

 “That's what happens when you actually do the work,” I point out.

“And your--” Mags starts.

“And aren't related to the owners,” I add before she can make some joke about me sleeping in the back stock room at times. I push off from the table to take my bowl into the kitchen now that it's empty and start clearing away things. There are some leftovers, and I find something to put them in the fridge in. Seeing as Peanut didn't seem to like the beef but was weird about taking it out I put it into a separate bowl when I put things away leaving the veggies and noodles together and they all go into the fridge next to the box of leftover pastries.

I rinse out the pans and utensils and put them in the dishwasher so that it's done, and realize that Peanut is watching me from the edge of the counter, holding hers and Mags' bowls in her hands as Mags is wiping down the table again.

“Thank you,” I take them from her, and take one of the strips of meat out of her bowl and eat it while throwing the rest into the trash, and then rinse her bowl out too and put it in the dishwasher. Not really enough to warrant running things just yet, even once the glasses are in there. It'll run tomorrow though, if I remember.

Mags stretches when she stands up and looks to Peanut and I in the kitchen before crossing the short distance to where we are, “I'm going to have to love you and leave you,” she says, “If I don't get the car back to my cousin soon he'll start charging me late fees.”

“Do you need to give him gas money or anything?” I ask her, “I can give you money towards that.”

She shakes her head, “No, it's fine. He owes me a lot more than a car trip. I just need to remind him of that. I can check in with you guys tomorrow before work,” she pats me in the shoulder, “Hey, you'll be on time for once!”

“Oh, don't start that,” I tell her, “Aunt Susan will get ideas...”

She shakes her head, “Well, I'm not being late,” she turns to the zana girl, “It's been very nice to meet you, Peanut,” she says, “I hope you have a good night and I'll see you again soon.”

Peanut nods, “Thank you for the food,” she says.

“No problem,” Mags answers, and lets herself out the door. I go to lock it behind her but Peanut is already there and doing so. She learns quickly.

I sit down on the couch and put some music on on my phone, checking what the time is, around eight-thirty, and then set the phone on the table. Peanut sits down on the couch at the opposite end, cross-legged, picking up the cat-bear again and toying with one of it's ears. I try to think if the book I'd been reading was in the pile I threw across my bedroom earlier but there's Peanut here, probably having a million questions about things and perhaps not sure of if or how to ask them.

I'm about to ask her if there's anything she wants to know or alternately if she wants some more juice when the music gives way to, “Work Bitch calling. Work Bitch calling,” I answer the phone quickly, though I get the feeling that Peanut probably has no idea what that might mean.

“Jo?” I ask, standing up and moving towards the kitchen bar.

“Kennick,” she says, sternly, “Are you home?”

“Where else would I be?” I lean on the bar itself, “I'm not working.”

“Forgive me,” she says, drawing it out, “for wanting to make sure you were there before sending the courier up with your pay packet. It's not as if we can just leave it in the hall.”

My hand is at my chest and towards my neck before I really think about it, “No, of course, not.”

“So, we can send someone up?”

“Yes, absolutely,” I say, “Thank you.”

“Follow protocol.”

“No shit.”

She disconnects. The music comes back on.  

“Was that the one that went to work?” Peanut asks, from the couch.

“What?” I ask her.

“Mags,” she says, “One of her went to work. Was that the one?”

“Oh, no,” I answer, “That was someone from my other job. I did a...thing for them a few days ago and they're bringing my pay now.”

“...do you like doing things for them?” she asks, fiddling with the cat-bear's ear, but not looking at me.

Oh, fun questions, “It is what it is,” that seems safe. Please don't ask what my job is. I don't know if I can think of some sort of way to put that right now.

“Why do you do the job if you don't like it?” she asks me.

Oh, good question, Peanut. I find myself giving a slight snort, and toying with the edge of the counter where the edging is peeling, “Well, sometimes, there are--” the buzzer outside goes off and Peanut jumps. I go and unlock the inner door and open it and stand in the little entryway there. On the other side of the iron bars is Courier Number Two. I can see the lines of the manila envelope folded in his pocket, but first things first and he pulls the expected mini iPad out of his inner jacket, unfolding the fancy case, presses on it and then swipes and types here and there, glancing up at me as I try not to tap my foot impatiently or drum my fingers on the bars next to his head.

He coughs and then clears his throat more decisively, pulling a stylus from part of the case and then swallows, “This is to acknowledge your services to the Watch on the fifth of this month...” he trails off looking down at his screen, “Yeah, fifth.”

“Yes.”

“This is the statement you--”

I wave my hand at him, and he passes the iPad and stylus through the bars. I scroll through the paperwork there, “Yes, this is my statement. Initials,” fuck, clear, GK. GK, “Yes, there was no undue damage. Initial. Yes, everything went as described. Initial. No, there were no unforeseen complications. Initial. Yes, fuck...” I lean against the wall and scroll through the cleaner's statement of the scene, “Yes, I agree,” Remember to sign the correct name now idiot, “Sign.” I hand the pad back to him, “You could learn from Number Three he's a lot faster at this.”

“Three?”

I hold a hand against the bars, “This much taller than you, lighter hair, slight limp on the left side.”

“Oh, Barry.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

He signs something on there himself, and then reaches in his pocket for the package, scans the bar code on it with the iPad's camera, and hands it to me. I open the top and look inside, scanning to check that everything is in there, “Now, just sign again for receipt of the envelope and we're all done,” he shifts everything around carefully so I can sign with the stylus and after I've done that and clicked save he folds all that back up inside his jacket. I back into the apartment, close the door and lock everything again before going to the kitchen counter by the sink to properly go through the envelope, as usual.

I tip the bag up at an angle and shake everything out the needles, bags of packets and vials fall out first, and I slide them across the counter, as the money bundles more heavily follow. There's another bag of packets at the bottom and a rubber tie. Four money bundles. Three bundles of heroin. I move them around on the counter, sort of checking the packets inside one bag without actually opening anything just yet. When I look up doing the mental count my eyes catch Peanut still sitting on the couch.

Peanut.

Shit. Right. Shit.

This is not a normal whatever day afternoon—evening. It's evening.

I slip things back into the envelope. Fuck.

Well, at least I was on this side of the bar and I can go put things away and then sort out and keep her company for a bit. She's a kid. She'll go to sleep soon enough. Right?

“Hey,” I tell her, sheepish.

“Hey,” there's a little pause before she finishes saying, “...is it good?”

What's she wondering about? Did she see something? What's she talking about? Don't let that breath out outside, “Is what good?” hopefully that didn't sound too weird. Will she actually notice?

She waves a hand towards me, mostly in the direction of the envelope though, “The...pay? It's...what it should be?”

“OH! Y-yes,” huge relief but don't let that out to much either, “It's good. It's all there. I should...go, put everything...away though,” and I need to do other things, “I'll be back in a little while.”

The money goes in my safe, and two of the bags go in there as well, on the top shelf. I do have some left, but this is new. I can't help but have to try it.

When I come back out into the main room and flop down on the couch Peanut is toying with one of the jigsaw puzzle boxes turning it around and around in her hands.

“You okay?” I ask her.

“Yes,” she says, “I just don't know how to get into it.”

“No trouble,” I pull the knife out of my pocket, and flip it open, “Pass it here,” I make the motion with my other hand, and she puts the puzzle box in my hand. I slip the blade in between the box and the lid and spin it around to cut them free, and then I take the jigsaw puzzle with both hands knife carefully held between two fingers and shake it so that the bottom comes off showing the jigsaw pieces in their plastic pouch. I take the pouch and stab it with the knife and slice along so that it's open, then flip the knife back closed and slip it back in my pocket.

Peanut is staring at me like I just pulled a rabbit out of thin air.

“You ready?”

She nods.

“Alright,” I tell her, “Let's get this on the table and I'll show you how jigsaw's work.”

I take the box lid and she takes the packet and carefully tips them out on the table and starts turning them over and looking at the colored pieces.

“That's good,” I tell her, slipping off the couch onto the floor so that it's easier to access the table, she follows my lead moving the already face up pieces to one side and turning the other ones over with both hands, “Make sure all of them are face up, with the picture side on them,” I start turning the other pieces over.

“Like this?” she clarifies even though she's clearly been doing fine.

“Yeah,” I tell her, “and look for pieces that have one or more straight edges like this,” I show her one of the border pieces, “and put those separately. Those are the outside edge of the puzzle,” I point to the rim of the box and circle it with my finger, “and once we put that together it's easier to do the rest of the puzzle.”

“Okay,” she nods, pushing one piece with an edge so that it's next to where I've put mine down, and then examining the pieces she's already turned over to pull the edge pieces out of that as I finish flipping other pieces over and pulling the edge pieces out, “These ones are the same,” she says, holding up two that are both the same shade of orange, and do have opposing ends.

“Well, see if they fit then,” I say, “Put them down on the table, and,” I find two other pieces I've eyed before as matches and push them together to show her what to do. Sure enough both sets lock together.

Soon enough it's mostly chains of things, and the occasional frustration when things don't quite match, and her delight when large sections click together is magnificent, as she hums along with music that my phone is playing tapping her feet. I'm getting to the point I can't ignore the itchiness much longer though and the edges are pretty well done. She puts in the last couple of pieces and I make the move.

“It's probably a good time to get you ready for bed, Peanut,” I tell her, “It's pretty late, and the edges are done. You can work on the rest tomorrow while I'm at work.”

She nods and then hesitates but then looks intrigued and excited, “How does getting ready happen?”

“Well...first, where did you put the night clothes? The pajamas?” she points to the dresser, and then goes and gets them out.

Mags apparently pulled tags off them when she was putting things away, so I direct Peanut to the bathroom to change into the clothes, but tell her to come back out once she's ready for the next step and go into my own bedroom to change because I have a feeling I'm going to have to show her how to brush her teeth, and I don't know if there'll be “are you going to sleep in your clothes? Are you not ready for bed?” or whatever questions, so I may as well be.

I get out of the clothes I was wearing and put on pajama pants and a tank top and come back out to look for her. She's leaning against the back of the couch dancing the cat-bear back and forth in her hands.

“Alright,” I tell her, “Where did you put your toothbrush and paste?”

She points into the bathroom, “I put them where yours are.”

Well, that's easy enough. I open the cabinets and get the paste out, and open her box and put it in the trash can. The multipack of brushes she had has been opened an they're all sitting around my electric toothbrush in the cup on the counter like a strange flower bouquet. I show her how to rinse the toothbrush a little bit and then put the toothpaste on.

“And now, yours isn't going to do this because it's not electric but,” I turn mine on and she jumps back a little bit. Yeah, we made the right choice getting her a basic toothbrush, “you brush things the same way.”

She watches me for a moment and then copies what I'm doing. I lean down to spit and she follows suit and then says, “What's that?”

“What's what?” I ask, turning my toothbrush off in my mouth, realizing when I look in the mirror as I'm standing up from spitting again that I didn't put on a long sleeved shirt, or robe or—do I even have a robe? But she's pointing to my back with her toothbrush.

“That,” she cautiously touches my shoulder area with her finger now, thankfully and not the toothbrush.

“Oh, the br—tattoo,” yeah, lets not get into all of that right now.

“Tattoo?”

“Yeah,” I nod, “People get—it's sort of a permanent picture on your body, there's a lot of people with a ton more than me. They get ones they get pictures that they think look neat, or pictures that mean something to them, to commemorate people...things like that,” she's gonna ask about yours now isn't she?...tradition? Family thing? Fuck. So, not getting into this brand just appeared on me after I killed my father because of that job I do that I just got paid for.

“I want a tattoo some day,” she says with what appears to be all the conviction in her being and then goes back to brushing her teeth.

Well, then, never mind. I finish up my own teeth, and show her the last steps, and then we find where she put her pillow and blanket and get her settled.

“Remember I'm just through there,” I tell her. Remember, she's just out here, I tell myself. No attacking the small child if she comes into your room or makes noise out here. It's not invaders. It's just Peanut.

She nods.

“Alright. Good night,” I say, and she echoes the same, and I head to my room and don't lock the door, but I do make triply sure I throw everything away after I set myself up for the night, and I put the music on at half the volume I normally do in case I need to hear something.  

 

I hear a tapping as of someone gently rapping...

Knocking someone's knocking and a cautious voice, calling my name.

“Peanut?” my voice is awkward from sleep.

“Kieran—I--I think...” there's a pause. I'm already rolling out of bed and making my way to the door, “I think the stir fry is fighting back.”

Shit.

“Okay,” I open the door, “Let's get you to the bathroom,” well, at least I'm used to puke. I lift the toilet lid and seat, and carefully wrap her hair around my hand so that it's out of the way.

She's breathing hard, gulping and whimpering for a few moments before everything comes up. Once it seems like things have calmed down. I get the rinse cup from the sink and have her swish her mouth around like she did after cleaning her teeth and spit it out before we flush everything, and let her sit on top of the closed toilet to calm down and wipe her face with a damp cloth.

I try to remember if there was anything Mom used to do when people had been puking and there wasn't Pepto or anything in the house. Tea...don't have any of that, ginger ale, don't have any of that either. I top up the drink cup and have her sip on it a little bit, at least there'll be something in her stomach if she starts puking again.

“I'm going to see if I have anything in the kitchen that might help settle your stomach a bit,” I tell her, “Do you want to stay there or sit on the couch?”

“Couch,” she says.

“Alright,” I help her up, open the toilet again, and walk her to the couch and sit her down, “If you start to feel bad again. You know where to run.”

“Yes,” she says, nodding ever so slightly holding the cup in one hand and the bear-cat in the other.

The kitchen area doesn't have much to offer except more water, the cereal or bread. She threw up the eggs yesterday, but she kept down the pastries. She didn't seem to like the taste of the beef, but she was forcing herself to eat it until we told her it was okay not to. Was her body rejecting the beef? Eggs, beef...how's she going to do with cheese? Or the lunch meat? Fuck. Well, at least I separated the veggies and the noodles, maybe she'll be okay with just those?

At least we got the granola bars.

Granola bars.

I grab one of the chocolatier ones.

Hopefully that won't be too harsh on her stomach, and she seems to do really well with the chocolate, maybe that's bad, but she did fall asleep a bit after eating the chocolate pastry and getting loopy, and she does need to rest. It's like giving her Benadryl—maybe? Let's not over think this. I'm not giving her dope.

When I come back to the couch I realize Peanut is crying. I sit down next to her carefully.

“Are you feeling any better?” I ask her, taking the cup from her as she doesn't seem to be drinking any more, and I put it on the table.

“I...think so?” she says, “I just...I wasn't stronger than the stir fry,” she sniffles, “I should just eat the cereal. I can beat that. I can't beat the other things. I'm too weak, everything beats me and—and--” she makes a motion with her hand which is a little hard to decipher but I think is trying to be throwing up, “It all keeps fighting me and I can't do it like you can.”

“Like I can, what?”

“You beat the stir fry. You haven't thrown it up,” she says, miserably.

Oh, “Well, I don't—I think it's the meat your body doesn't like, or things from animals, more likely, maybe? And because you can't remember things you didn't remember you can't eat that stuff exactly. You didn't like the taste of the beef, maybe you didn't realize you didn't like the taste of the eggs because you were just so, so very hungry at the time, and that's why it fought your body and got pushed out. You were fine with the cereal, and you were fine with the pastries too, and they're made with all sorts of different things from plants, and water,” I hand her the granola bar, after opening the top of it so she can get at the actual bar, “Here, for when you're feeling up to eating something. It'll be good to have something in your stomach. Plus it's chocolate.”

“What animal is beef from?” she asks.

“Beef is from a cow,” I realize my phone is in my room, but then also after the debacle with the chicken picture it's probably best to not show her pictures of the cow right now anyway.

“It's okay to not eat meat?”

“Lots of people don't eat meat and they do it for different reasons.”

“Hm,” she nibbles on the granola bar a little bit, and then chews on it more thoroughly, probably recognizing the taste of chocolate and how good it is, “You still make rainbows,” she murmurs before she slides against my shoulder, mumbling a few more things I can't quite make out. I wait a few minutes longer until I'm sure her breathing is soft and regular before I slide around and lift her into a better position on the couch but laying sideways just in case and cover her back with the blanket before going back to my room.

I read some more of the horror anthology I've been working my way through until I get too fidgetitchy to concentrate and then dose again and float my own way back to dreamland.  

 

The clanging of the dumpster jars me awake, and when I look at the time, just after 9 a.m I see several texts marked urgent on Siri's screen which are basically reminding me to look at the notifications from the joint calendar. I don't know why they can't update certain logs, but apparently it has to come from my side of the drive or something. I'm already irritated and definitely awake so I may as well knock this crap out of the way, especially as I already got paid; but this stuff has to be completed by the end of the week, and there are other things they want to make sure I've read because it's apparently been sitting there or something. I don't even know.

Then I delete any of the crap and save other things to different folders in case I get asked if I still have something and need to check on things and be all “here it is” and there's the database file that they want me to double check and verify all the info from “previous cases” because that makes it sound better. By the time I'm finished I'm so fucking done anyway but it's not like I don't have ways to mellow me out.

I'm putting everything into the trash or back into the cabinet when Siri tells me Mags is calling and I put her on speaker.

“What's up?”

“You're awake?”

“You're surprised.”

“What in the past months of knowing you would mean I shouldn't be?” she says, “It's barely ten.”

“Hrm,” I answer, “Anyway, trash collection woke me, and anyway. Why were you calling?”

“We talked yesterday about me coming over?” she says, “Is it okay for me to come over now?”

“Sure. I'll get dressed and wake Peanut.”

“Alright. I'll just be a few minutes then. See you soon,” she hangs up.

I find pants and a sweater, and pull off the pants and start to put on the other ones and have to brace against the wall because I start to feel dizzy and sick. Lovely. I breath in and out slowly. I don't want to throw up and freak out Peanut. I go to pull off the tank top, don't bend, don't bend. Just breathe. Breathe. Fuck it. Sweater over the top it—nope, bathroom it is.

“Peanut. Are you okay?” I hear Mags in the main room, as I take a breath hoping it's stopped.

“Ye-as?”

“Oh—it's not you,” the door's locking again, “I wasn't--” another brief moment, and then thankfully it's done enough to rinse things clear and brush my teeth a bit. I should have had her do that again. Should I? She ate the granola bar anyway so it wouldn't have done much good.

I give myself a 30 count after I pull the sweater over my head before I open the door to the bathroom and wait for a moment leaning against the door frame.

“It's okay to not fight the cow?” Peanut is staring at me with big pleading eyes.

It takes me a second to register she is just talking about herself, that it was a question and she wasn't giving me advice, “You don't have to eat the cow at all.”

Mags is looking at me slightly confused, but I just give her a sort of wait for explanation in a bit wave.

“I don't want to fight the cow. Or the chicken,” she says, firmly.

“That's fine,” I tell her.

She looks extremely relieved now, and settles down on the couch with much less tension than she had before.

“What about you?” Mags asks, “Do you need some soda water or anything?”

“No,” I tell her, “I'm good.”

“Okay,” she mumbles something I don't really catch but then spreads her arms against the kitchen counter, “Do you think you can eat something?”

“In a little while, maybe? But Peanut? Are you hungry? You want to pick out clothes to wear first?”

Her eyes light up at the mention of clothes and she gets up and goes to the dresser to look at things that are in there. Outfit picked out she goes into the bathroom to get dressed and I go into the kitchen area where Mags is.
“[What's the cow thing about?]”

“[Oh, yeah...some time in the night she threw up the stir fry...I think it might be the beef considering the way--.]

“[How she didn't like the beef? And the thing with the eggs?]

“Yeah,” I nod.
“Do you have any leftover pastries?” she asked, “She kept those down.”

“We should, unless she got up in the night and ate them, but I doubt it somehow. [It is chocolate though],” I point out, “Remember how that went yesterday?”

“[That was the first time she'd ever had chocolate...possibly?]” Mags says.

“Good point,” I say as the door opens and Peanut comes out.

“What do I do with all the other clothes?” she asks, “There are the ones from...yesterday? And the pajamas.”

“The pajamas you can wear again if you want,” I tell her, “I usually wear mine a couple of days if I don't get them dirty somehow, but the clothes—there's a hamper,” I show her in the bathroom, “when it's full I take the laundry to the washers downstairs and clean everything. I do pajamas and stuff then too, to be honest.”

She nods and puts yesterday's clothes in the hamper, and her pajamas back in the dresser. Mags has folded up her blanket and I put it back in the closet.

“So,” Mags says, “Food? I had a little bit of a snack earlier but I could eat again and I imagine neither of you has eaten.”

“No,” I tell her.

“I don't want to eat eggs either,” Peanut says, equally as firmly as she said chicken and beef.

“You don't have to,” I assure her again, “There should still be a pastry.”

Her face lights up and she almost teleports to the fridge she runs so fast and hasn't properly stopped before she yanks it open. To my surprise she picks out the bowl of beef that I put in there last night.

“Ha ha, you can't beat me! I'm not gonna eat you! So there!” she tells the bowl before pushing it back into the fridge, leaving Mags and I exchanged amused looks at each other. She then takes out the pastry box and the bag of grapes, and goes to the couch.

“Well, that's her taken care of,” Mags remarks, “What about us? What do you feel like?”

I shrug, “I hadn't really thought about it.”

“Do you like French toast?” she asks.

“Sure.”

Then she hesitates, “You don't have any spices here, do you?”

I pull a guilty face, “I don't really cook much so...I have salt, pepper?”

There's an almost explosion of citrus blossoms and ozone from the other side of the room that knocks me into the counter. Peanut.

Mags reaches for me, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, just...” I wave my hand at her, “Weird for a moment.”

“Maybe we shouldn't give you dairy?” she says.

I feel something odd, tickling at me, but yet not tickling at me. My ear is sort of itching as though the blocker against people's mind reading is suddenly sort of picking up a radio station but the brand—the brand on my back is going nuts, like a compass too close to a magnet.

“No, it's fine. I'll be fine. It's easing up already. I might still have some oregano I stole from the kitchen at the bar to put in eggs...but that's not really a French toast thing.”

“Uh, no. At least you know that,” Mags laughs, “Well, we have time. I can run back home and get the spices and do you have honey or maple syrup.”

I shake my head, laughing a little because what would make her think I would have that considering the lack of everything else that I have. Peanut is giggling on the couch, laying back on it slightly propped up on one of the arms, muddling through something sort of song-like with fruit and color names she's heard over the past few names and munching grapes here and there.

“Yeah, I figured but I had to ask,” Mags gives me a tentative hug, “Alright I'll be back in a little bit,” and I follow as she lets herself out of the door so that I can lock them both behind her. I lean against the door watching Peanut for a little while as she bobs her head, waving her hands slightly.

“Peanut?”

She sits up more and turns to me.

“Are you poking at my head?”

“...no? Maybe?” she looks, confused, but her eyes aren't as glassy as they were when she had the chocolate the other—that was yesterday, only yesterday—shit, “I don't know, am I? I'm poking the thing that makes all the colors...?”

“Yeah...” I run my hand down my face, so that's what that power is, “That explains...” so much, “I knew something different was going on and there was a sort of power spike from you...” she said the thing making colors, and yesterday when she was making the hand motions it was towards the blocker, “but, wait, colors?” is she even going to have the words?

“Colors. Power spike?”

Hm, how to go into this whole mess without going into that other whole mess, “I can...kinda tell when people with powers have their powers turn on, and there was a big jump or, well, spike,” I make a hand motion which hopefully just demonstrates that raise in level and doesn't look like—well, she's not going to know what that other thing is anyway is she? “in power level from your direction, and I've never heard of anything around me making colors from anyone, but then most people with powers don't really...” yeah, we don't really have extended conversations, do we now? And the Watch's mind assholes aren't going to tell me how it works, “...anyway, do the colors come from...?” I wave my hand at the spot around my ear where the blocker is.

“I have powers?”

Now I feel sheepish because is she going to be worried that's the only reason she's here, “Yeah...that was kinda how I found you. I sm—sensed you,” let's not get into the smelling thing that's not going to sound creepy at all, “and...well, I'd never sensed someone like that and I was worried at first I was in danger, but it was you instead.”

She looks thoughtful now but also a little...worried or maybe it's a little more than that, “I'm glad you found me,” is what she says though.

Yeah. I'm glad I found you too, for so many reasons, “It's good,” is what comes out of my mouth though as I move back to the couch and sit down near her feet, patting them to make sure she's paying attention, though she is looking in my direction, “You see colors here?” I point to my ear where the blocker is clipped. It's mostly behind the visible part of the ear itself just a little bit through the ear that comes off like an earring up there, “Do...you see anything else?”

She nods, “Colors come out of there. I see...”

I think she's making a sign like a big ball around my head, or maybe just signing my head itself, “Hm,” I say.

“It's full of...” she makes swirly motions, “...like the eggs in the bowl, kind of.”

Before or after I mixed them I wonder, “I'm not sure I understand but that's okay...” it's not your fault. It's gotta be tricky when you have a limited understanding of the universe because probably half your vocabulary got eaten by something.

“It's not as pretty as the colors,” she says, “How come you have the colors but Mags doesn't?” she's getting a little mumbly-slur, which could well be the after effects of the chocolate, fortunately I'm well-versed in stoner-speak, “She has the bowl of eggs, but not the colors.”

Oh. OH! The bowl of eggs is how she's seeing people's brain patterns, maybe? And the colors are clearly coming from the blocker.

“Well...the colors, I think that's from--” I'm going to have to explain mind blocker technicalities if I use that term aren't I? “I have this...” no that's not going to work either, “my other job gave me the thing to mess with people who try to read your mind—the job that paid me last night.”

“It turns things into colors.”

“I guess that would do it. Screw up a mind reader if words were suddenly colors.”

“Words are the squiggles on boxes?”

Boxes? I thought we were on eggs—oh, idiot, she's probably talking about the boxes we got at the store yesterday. I look around to see what I can find to show her that has words on it. Oh, the pastry box.

“Here, these are words. There's only a few on here, but words are the written down versions of things that we say. This just says 'Cafe DuMonde' but, yeah...”

She doesn't look all that impressed, “There's no squiggles or sound. Just colors,” there's another moment and then she says, “Oh! They expect words to come out of the bowl of eggs, but the things makes it into pretty colors.”

“...I guess so? I can't do mind reading,” haven't killed one of those yet, have you? I shudder, “so I don't know.”

“Mags didn't have any squiggles coming out of her eggs. I didn't hear anything come out, but I was looking at the colors,” her eyes drift back towards my ear again.

“I see...” I tell her, hearing Mags on the stairs.  

I unlock the inner door and open it to let her in. Peanut turns around on the couch so she's kneeling up and facing towards the kitchen as Mags puts down the basket she was carrying on the kitchen counter, and pulls a cloth off the top and starts taking out small bottles of colored powder as well as a larger bottle full of amber liquid.

“Alright,” she says, “On with the recipe,” she glances over at Peanut who is staring at us both and takes in the odd expression on the younger girl's face, “Are you okay?”

“I'm listening for squiggles,” she answers.

Mags looks at me, all I can do is laugh though because of the seriousness with which Peanut said it.

“She's just looking for squiggles in your eggs,” I can't resist adding completely unhelpfully.

“What did you give her?” Mags asks, and then looks horrified that came out of her mouth.

“Oh, sure, blame me. The pastries came from the shop under your apartment,” I remind her.

“I like chocolate,” Peanut murmurs as I get eggs and milk out of the fridge.

“She...has some sort of mind power, but the visual process is...either weird or she just doesn't have the words for it or both. If I'm understanding her correctly our brains look like a bunch of eggs in a bowl eggs yolks together maybe...before it was mixed up? Not 100% still on the description.”

“Hm,” Mags says, “If only there was something she could draw on,” but she says it in those tones which suggest she already has an answer to that.

She goes over to her purse, pulls out her laptop and flips the thing around to put it into tablet mode before logging in, and then fiddles around in her bag for a while before she finds a stylus, and then brings it over to the coffee table. Peanut is watching me at this point, her eyes darting back and forth, but her focus switches to Mags head until Mags has come over and sat down next to her. I stand behind the couch leaning on it to see what's going on.

“This is a drawing app,” she tells Peanut, “It's like drawing on paper, but it's on the computer screen. You can tap on the different colors here to change the crayon,” she sketches with it black, and then taps the red and scribbles across it but then changes it to purple and draws a simple flower and fills the middle of it in in yellow, “and then this,” she taps another button is the eraser, “and she scrubs out some of the black and red, “and you can clear an entire action using this,” she pushes a button and everything she erased comes back, “Okay? So, maybe you can draw for us what you're seeing when you talk about the eggs we have around our heads?”

Peanut nods.

Mags pushes something to give her a completely blank page, “If you have any questions about something to do with the tablet,” she points to the device, “I'm right in the kitchen area making food.”

“Okay,” Peanut says, picking up the stylus and scribbling with it a little bit and then pressing 'clear', and then changing the color and scribbling with it again and pressing 'clear'.

Peanut works quietly and industriously while I help Mags finish up the French toast.

“Mind powers, huh?” she asks.

“I told you I found a zana.” I tell her.

“Yeah, yeah,” she says, with a very mild raspberry, “I'd soak the bread, but it's just regular bread, it's probably safer to put the bread in the frying pan and pour the mix over it...”

“Whatever you think is best,” I tell her, “You've made this before I haven't.”

“I'm finished,” Peanut says.

I go over to her as Mags pours nutmeggy cinnamonny egg mixture over the bread in the frying pan. There's an outline of someone's face as though viewed head on given there's the vague shape of ears but inside the outline is a pattern of swirls, varying shades of white, cream and yellow, almost glittery, which is remarkable. I'd thought she meant the eggs when they were being mixed in the bowl at first and then wondered if she'd meant the eggs right after they'd been cracked into the bowl before they'd been mixed, orbs floating in a void somehow but it turns out the first thought was closer at least. This is the problem of her not having enough words, but how would I be doing if I'd lost most of my memory and had only made two-ish days of it back?

“I'm going to take it to show Mags, okay?”

Peanut nods and follows me over but stays on the other side of the breakfast bar as I go into the main area of the kitchen and hold the picture up for Mags to look at. She finishes checking the toast's underneath and looks it over with a thoughtful expression.

“So, eggs...” Mags remarks, and then presses something and I realize after a moment she's saving the picture, “I can see why you described it as eggs,” she tells Peanut, “It does look a lot like when you mix eggs in a bowl.”

Peanut nods, wisely.

“Though prettier,” Mags adds, “It's an amazing drawing, Peanut. Do we all look like this?”

“Kieran has colors.”

“Colors?”

“Can I?” she motions with her hands towards the tablet.

“Absolutely.”  

Part One

We make sure Peanut doesn't need to use the restroom and we head down to the car, locking everything up behind us again. I open the back door of the car and start to get in the front but Peanut's sorta fixed to the spot not letting go of my arm. Shit, of course. She probably doesn't remember ever being in a car before. I close the front passenger door.

“Okay. I'll get in back with you,” I tell her, “Mags, can play chauffeur.”

“Gee, thanks,” she says.

I get in the car and usher her in after me, and then show her how to buckle in for safety. This makes her nervous again.

“Everyone has to do it,” Mags assures her, “In all the cars. Kieran is going to do it too.”

“Yes. Yes,” I agree, as I try to finagle a way that my legs are comfortable, “We'd have had to do it in an Uber as well. It's just...”

“It's a precaution. It's for safety,” Mags says, terse, “Nothing's going to happen but if we don't do it the cops can tell us off for it, so it's best just to do so.”

“Right,” I agree, shifting in the seat again.

Mags closes the back passenger door and gets in so we can set off. She pulls her seat forward a bit which gives me a little more room.

“It's not going to take us long to get there either,” Mags says, “Not much longer than it took to get from Kieran's and get the pastries and up to my place,” the car starts up with a little bit of coaxing and we pull back out into the street traffic after a few moments of grumbling on Mags' part about people not letting us out despite her actually using her turn signals and then we're off.

Peanut hunkers down against me, holding my arm so tightly you'd think we were on a roller coaster.

Then we're pulling to a stop with a creak and slight jolt.

“Good morning,” Mags jokes as Peanut releases her tight hold on my arm and looks around.

“Wasn't so bad, was it?” I ask her.

“No...” she says, scrabbling at the belt and the moving towards the door, as I unbuckle myself with great relief and climb out the closer side, “Everything moved by so quickly.”

“Yeah, that's why we came by car,” I tell her, “It gets us here...what a fourth of the time?”

“Easily,” Mags says, locking everything up.

She grabs a shopping cart as we're walking towards the door and pushes it in front of us for a moment, “Non-food side first, I take it?”

“Yeah,” I nod, “Seems best.”

I'm expecting it this time so I don't go into defensive mode when Peanut grabs onto my arm and holds on as we go through the entryway and Mags goes to the left by the bank and the eyeglass place, and the money order center on one side, and the registers on the other and then through one of the open registers between the rows of candy and sodas and into the area where clothes are. Peanut is looking all around for different reasons than I tend to. Her head cranes from one side to the other taking in everything that's all around her.

“Are you going to get all weird if I turn the corner?” Mags says, suddenly, turning to me.

“What?”

“Well, I figured we'd get undies and stuff out of the way first,” none of us say anything for a moment, and finally she sighs, “Just hold onto the cart,” and dumps her bag into the kid carrier part of it and steps around it and goes around the corner.

I shift slightly to hold it while I still have a blonde teen attached to my arm and turn the corner after her. We're flanked on either side by shiny things, on one side they're in groups and packets and on the other they're just hanging loose on racks, shimmering and lacy strips of fabric some cups of bra held together by ties and wire, others thongs or undies.

“Oh,” Peanut says, “Undies. They go under the other things.”

“That's the stuff,” Mags says, waving towards her, “Come on. Let's pick you some out. What do you think, Key? Three packs?”

I shrug, “Sure.”

“I'm pretty sure I could say ten right now and you'd agree, huh?”

“No.”

“Lucky guess.”

She takes Peanut a little way ahead of us on the side of the aisle that's full of hanging packets and there's some messing around with labels and pants and checking her back, and after a little while and reassurance from me that it is in fact okay three packets of brightly colored fabric are tossed into the bottom of the cart, along with a couple of hangers of something else. I stand back up.

“Okay!” Mags says, “First task accomplished. On to clothes via socks!”

On the back of the “undies” rack avoiding the section full of spanks and things is pantyhose and all that mess. Peanut is quite taken with the middle area where all the character socks and bright patterns are, and soon alternately neon and pastel patterned fabric has joined the rest in the cart. I wonder if she recognizes any of the cartoon characters on there. It's not like I have any idea who they are.

I'm beginning to feel as though I'm in some sort of strange movie reel leaning against the cart with my back towards the registers, one foot wrapped against the front wheel to keep it still, flipping through messages on my phone as Mags guides Peanut through the racks of shirts, sweaters, pants, skirts and dresses, pointing various things out. Some times things will get held up against her or held up for me to look at and it's just sure, whatever, if you want. After a bit Mags waves me back closer towards them and puts a shirt with longer sleeves and a pair of pants in the cart.

“It's about another thirty-five dollars,” she says.

“Okay,” I answer.

“Well, I don't know what sort of budget you're working with here...”

“It's fine,” I look down at what's in the cart now.

Peanut looks at me, warily.

“It's fine,” I repeat.

She nods. She's going to probably need at least comfy pants to sleep in as well...and this stuff can't really be kept in my room.

“Where's she going to put it all?” Mags asks, echoing my brain's line of thought as we walk further through clothing and Peanut grabs shirts and things here and there remarking how tiny some things are or frilly or how not comfortable they'd probably be.

“Oh, hey, there,” I point, “Are those night clothes things?”

Mags glances over, “I think that's sports...but there might be something near there. Some times guys clothing is more comfy for that anyway. I sleep in—anyway...let's look, Peanut. Definitely better to sleep in than jeans.”

They come back with some more things that go into the cart, and Mags stops short of telling me how much it is. Which I'm glad. Perhaps she's also noticed it makes Peanut more on edge hearing the numbers tossed around.

“Have you seen anything you like?” I ask her.

She shrugs, “Anything I need I can get myself.”

“That's not what I asked you.”

She doesn't say anything to that, “Peanut needs something to put her clothes in,” she says instead, “{Where exactly is she going to sleep? On your couch? In your room? And if you have to do...things? I have extra room, you know?}

“Are you sure you wouldn't be more comfortable at Mags' place?” I ask her.

She looks at me with wide eyes then and I feel like I might have just punched her, “You said you wouldn't kick me out,” she says in a small voice.

“{Phrasing, Kieran. Way to go}” Mags remarks.

“{Well, what? You have said before how shitty my place is.},” I tell her.

“{I have said that I'm sure you could live in a better place if you wanted to, but you don't seem to so it's not for me to...and the point is the zana's comfort}” she puts up her hands.

“I'm not saying you have to go,” I promise Peanut, taking her hands, “I just—my place is small and not in the greatest shape so most people I've ever met would much rather stay at a place like Mags' than mine. So, I'm...confused is all.”

“I want to stay with you,” she says, “Mags' place...” she shakes her head, “no.”

“That's fine then,” I tell her, “You'll stay with me and we'll make sure that you're comfy.”

She nods fervently and Mags leads the way towards the household stuff section. Peanut runs ahead up the aisle a little way when she sees a small plastic dresser with zebra print pattern on it's three drawers and then stops looking at it hesitantly.

“You like that?” I ask, knowing the answer.

She nods. I take it down and put it in the bottom of the cart, standing up carefully. Peanut is looking at the price written on the shelf with curiosity given there are more of them along the way under the wider and taller ones.

After much encouragement she admits she wants to know, “What are these?”

“That's how much it costs,” Mags says.

“But don't worry about it,” I tell her. I don't think she understands what the numbers mean compared to each other, but given the looks I've had thrown my way so far she's still concerned that she's doing something wrong somehow with the money and the working—or the not working anyway and I'm not going to tell her, “Hey, don't worry about it I have a ton of money stashed away from my second job as an assassin because it's not like I need to buy my drugs they pay me with those too.” I suppose there is an easier way to explain that but damned if I can think of it right now so “don't worry about it” works, hopefully.

“Are you sure?” she asks.

“Yes,” I tell her, “It's covered. It's fine. There's enough.”

We walk down the next aisle which is one I was going to suggest we look for, cushions, pillows, bedding and so on. Mags encourages her to feel things and see if anything attracts her attention which is how we wind up with a round, dark blue pillow in the cart and a paler blue fleece blanket covered in suns, stars, bears and flowers as well. I figure why not and pick one up for myself, going for something that feels super soft, purple with lighter swirling patterns, and soft black plush fabric on the other side.

“You sure you don't want something?” I ask Mags.

There's a beat and Peanut looks between the two of us again, and then Mags takes a bundle blanket tied with ribbon, more of a red than purple with swirly shapes that after a moment I make out to be sort of clouds and puts it in the cart. She seems frustrated but then she gives me a smile, which I hope means things are okay.

“Come on,” she says, “Let's get you guys food things.”

 We come into the grocery section near fruit and vegetables. Given Peanut liked orange juice I sugget oranges and maybe some apples would be another safe fruit. She holds the orange in wonder.

“This is an orange?”

“Yes,” Mags says, “It's also the color. Like Kieran's sweater is gray and brown and my shirt is mostly blue, though there aren't any foods named those—well there is a blueberry, but...”

“And those are oranges?” she points to another bin.

“Those are a type of orange. They're called clementines,” Mags explains, “They only grow to that smaller size and they taste a bit different,” we get a few of those as well, and a couple of apple and a small pack of raspberries seeing as she like that pastry and it doesn't seem to have “fought back”.

Mags suggests lettuce given it goes good in sandwiches and puts a few other veggies in the cart too as they're good to snack on by themselves instead of just dry cereal—which we are in need of. She spends a few moments rearranging the non-food things in the cart to give us more room and Peanut investigates more of the produce section: those are apples but they sell them already cut up, that's just a different type of lettuce like clementines are a different type of orange. We wind up with a cucumber and some grapes before Mags is done (as it was easy to sneak samples of those) and then we're off again.  

There's a brief stop to make sure we have enough toilet paper now that there's going to be two people in the apartment and that reminds me that Peanut is going to need her own bath soap and shampoo and things which I point out to Mags in the hopes that saying it out loud means I'll remember or instead she'll remind me later, because none of that stuff is around here anywhere. Now we find ourselves at the deli section given I need to replace the rancid lunch meat. I need to remember to throw the trash out too before it stinks up the entire apartment.  

There are a couple of people hanging around the deli counter and Mags pulls a ticket and checks the sign behind the counter. I normally only get one thing of lunch meat and one thing of cheese but if Peanut's going to be there I might need something else to cover the extra stomach.

She's gone over to the counter area itself and is looking at the assortment of things on display, “What's that?” she asks, pointing at one of the cylinders of cheese.

“Provolone,” Mags tells her, “It's a type of cheese.”

“And what's that?”

I peer at the label, “Cheddar. It's a different cheese.”

“That one has holes...”

“That's Swiss.”

We're getting some curious looks from the people standing around as to why the pre-teen doesn't know what stuff is but fuck them.

“What about that?” she's pointing to the other side of the case now, and I'm not entirely sure what she's pointing at specifically.

“Chicken?” Mags queries, “That's a meat though, not a cheese.”

“A meat?” Peanut asks.

“Yeah,” I nod, “Urm...”

“What's that?” she asks, before I can finish the explanation.

“That's ham,” Mags says, definitively.

“What's ham?”

“Ham's also a meat.”

“{Now, we're really attracting attention}” Mags remarks, as Peanut presses closer to the case.

“So, meat and cheese are?” Peanut turns around.

Mags looks at me. Fuck. Cheese. Cheese. Cheese is that. How am I going to explain that? It comes from cows, like milk, but cow is another animal that meat comes from...like chicken and pig, and pictures, phone. Shit, how did parents and people do this before the internet was in their pocket?

“Siri,” I tell the phone, “Show us a chicken.”

“Chickens are a type of animal,” Mags takes pity on me and starts explaining, “We can get meat from them and they also lay eggs, and well...” she frowns, “you already know about the eggs...”

The browser opens up and I click on the most suitable looking picture I can find, a red-orange feathered chicken, captured mid strut through some grass and turn the phone towards Peanut. It reminds me a bit of Henny Penny from the children's book. 

“There we are. That's a chicken.”

Peanut, however, doesn't seem to find it cute. She stares wide-eyed at the phone, “I'm sorry for eating eggs,” she says in a horrified whisper, “I won't do it again,” and then she bolts around behind me, cowering.

Fuck. Fuck.

I try to turn around but she turns with me. Mags is also trying to soothe her. I put the phone away and that helps. She comes to my side at least.

“What upset you?”

“The chicken--” she waves a hand.

Mags has a bit of a “duh” look, and I should have phrased that different but word.

“Yes, right, but what about the chicken?”

She's struggling for words again. Poor kid. I vaguely hear Mags switching numbers with the person behind us in line.

“Watching,” Peanut says, “Angry with me.”

“Oh, shit...no,” I shake my head, “It's just a picture of a chicken. It's not—it can't see you.”

She doesn't look convinced, and starts to hide again when I go to take my phone out of my pocket. Okay, we'll deal with that later.

“Mags?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you get some...” not chicken, “ham and beef, and provolone and cheddar? I'll take Peanut and get her soap and stuff.”

“How much?” she asks.

“What?” what's it matter how much soap?

“How much meat and cheese, doofus?”

“Oh, right. Half of the meats, quarter of the cheeses.”

She nods.

“Thanks.”

She gives a goofy salute, “Take the cart.”

“What? No—I--”

“Trust me—just take the cart. I'll find you guys.”

I have Peanut walk next to me holding on to the cart and we walk down back through where toilet paper and towels and things are and skirt the edge of clothes and shoes to find where all the pharmacy things are.

“I'm sorry,” she says, after a little while.

“It's okay,” I tell her, “I don't realize how much you don't know about is all. I should say sorry. I'm the one who scared you.”

“The chicken scared me.”

“Well, yes, but...” I lean down on the cart a bit as I try to sort this out. She looks over at me and her expression is kinda focused to. I wonder if she's trying to sort out words of her own. I can't even imagine, “...it was just...on the phone.”

“Angry with me,” she says.

Oh, fuck. She doesn't know it's a photograph. I smack my head at my idiocy, and get the phone out of my pocket again. She gets nervous but I stop and then move us in between one of the shelves.

“It's okay,” I tell her, “No chicken. Okay? Let me just show you how this works, alright?”

She nods.

I really don't know how I rated this level of trust but we're just gonna go with it. I make sure the chicken is not actually on the screen because I did kinda shove the phone in my pocket quickly and all.

“Okay, so...I talked to Mags on here, right?”

She nods.

“And I brought up the picture just before, because that's something else it can do. It shows pictures, and it can take pictures, because it has a camera in here...” not that she probably knows what a camera is, but oh well. I turn the camera on and show her the phone screen now as it's scanning over the floor of the store and then the shelves and the products there. I put my hand in front of the screen and snap the picture and pull that picture back up and show it to her, “...see that's a picture of my hand, like this...” I point to the photo behind her of some model showing off lipstick that they want everyone to buy, “...chick was photographed in a different town and then printed out to make people want to buy the make-up she's wearing.”

“It takes photos,” she repeats.

“Yeah. The chicken was just a photo too. I looked up to see if there was a photo someone had shared somewhere so I could show you what it looked like.”

“It's just a picture,” she says again.

“Yes,” I go back to the browser and the search is still there all the different images thumbnails, “See—all these are different chickens from all over the country—lots of places--”

She looks over them.

“Touch one and you can see it closer.”

She presses one where a person is surrounded by a group of chickens feeding them, “Chickens are small?” she asks, incredulous.

Oh, shit, of course, there was nothing else in the picture it could have been some fucking monster.

“Yeah,” I make a size with my hands, “this is about as big as they get.”

“And it's not angry with me? It's not watching me?”

“No.”

“I still don't want to eat eggs.”

“That's fine. I don't want to risk you throwing up anymore. Let's find you some soap and shampoo.”

She nods.

If we're by make up bath stuff has to be somewhere nearby. The next aisle is hair dye and hair styling things: grips, clips, brushes and combs and so on which is something else I hadn't though of so a brush goes in the cart. Shampoo and conditioners are on one side of the next aisle and body wash on the other. The easiest thing is her picking out what color of sponge she wants. The next part is harder.

“But if it smells so good why isn't it food?”

“Because it's not.”

We're getting a bemused look from the lady next to us who is going through some loofahs.

“And it would actually taste really bad because of the soap part.”

“Okay, but then I would smell like food. I don't want to smell like food. What if the chicken wants to eat me?” she says, that terror creeping into her voice again.

“That wouldn't--”

“I'm not stronger than eggs. How can I be stronger than a chicken?”

“No, that's not...” I trail off, again. My head's getting muzzy and I'm not sure how to best explain things. I rub my forehead.

“Honey, you don't have to worry about chickens,” I hear from nearby. The loofah lady has come a little closer, “they don't hunt people, and they're not roaming around in packs. They're kept on farms.”

Peanut doesn't say anything to that.

“How about we find you some that smell like flowers and not food?”

She nods. We're almost done finding her things when Mags shows up and drops the meat and cheese into the cart.

“How're things going?” she asks.

“Well, we're getting there,” I tell her, “There's still some understanding things we're working through.”

“Oh?” she says, “Maybe I can help?”

“Maybe...” I lean on the cart as Peanut, who has some lavender and something shampoo and conditioner, is now smelling various body washes. Mags starts to head over, “Oh, we're not getting things that smell like foods,” I warn her.

“Okay?” she asks.

“It's easiest right now to just say yes, and go with flowers.”

“Okay?”

 “And don't bring up chickens.”

“Oh-kay,” she crosses the aisle to where Peanut is and they chat for a little while and then Peanut brings over a bottle and puts it into the cart, “Toothpaste?” Mags asks.

“No. We didn't get that yet,” I confirm.

“Well, it's the next row,” she says.

Toothpaste is pretty much all mint flavor, so there's not much to be done there. We just get something that's supposed to be fairly gentle and a not electric toothbrush because that seems like it'd be the safest bet.

“I'm not sure what else...” I tell Mags.

“Didn't you say something about towels?” she asks.

I shrug.

“Even if you didn't. Towels of her own is a good idea,” she points out, “I think they're back over that way.” Peanut picks out some fluffy towels, a white set with sunflowers and one covered in cartoon style fish.

“Is this all the food you ever have?” Mags asks, looking in the cart, “because I think you're going to need more,” she waves a hand at me, “Earth to Kieran. Don't you ever do dinners?”

“I tend to be at the bar then...”

“And where's she going to be when you're at the bar?”

Shit. Peanut holds on to the cart warily. She could stay at the...apartment...with all those things you have? Yeah, that's a great fucking idea.

“Or if you have to go away again?” Mags presses.

“That shouldn't be for a bit. There are rules,” I say it automatically, but we did. We laid it down in the contracts five days, three days minimum if there's some sort of extenuating terrible circumstance. Not that she needs to hear anything about all of that mess. I can list the four people I'd trust to babysit on one hand and they're all Mags; but I can't assume that they'd be willing, able or that'd be okay with Peanut considering she's very...conflicted about Mags.

“Well, we'll have to see...” I start, “I mean, the only other person she knows is you. If you're willing to watch her and she's okay with that. Otherwise...there's my apartment...but...”

Mags gives me a raised eyebrow.

“Well, she'd be by herself, and...”

“Would be safe,” Peanut cuts in, “Not sitting behind a...” she makes motions with her hands which I think is trying to show where she was when I found her, “...and no one to blow stinky at me.”

“Stinky?” I ask.

With the lost expression on her face I think she's upset because she doesn't know how to explain what she meant so that we'll understand it.

“Okay, never mind,” I pat her shoulder, “but if you need something there'd be no one there.”

She looks confused, “What something?”

“Food...or...” what else to say? If someone from “God” shows up she just doesn't answer the door.

“Food,” she answers, pointing to the shopping cart. She has a point.

“Well, if you want to cook something,” Mags says.

“If there's enough snacks that don't need it that'll be fine for an evening; and that's time enough to get to know you better before I potentially have to...go away for a couple of days and cooking needs to be done,” though who knows if we'll have found her family by then even.

“...why go?” she asks.

Blah, well, that's something I at least have a simple explanation for like I gave Mags before things were clarified, “I have a second job and so sometimes I have to go out of town for a couple of days to do things for my...other boss,” the asshat.

“Oh. Okay.”

Phew. Thank you for not asking any more questions about that.

“Well, then,” Mags says, “Let's go find a few more snack type things and easy nutritious things. I get the feeling turkey and beef might not be up her alley.”

I start pushing the cart back towards the grocery side of the store and we go towards quick breakfasts and things. There's oatmeal and such but that needs hot water.

“Do you have a kettle?” Mags asks.

I shake my head. Oh, now things are all blurry. Way to fucking go.

“Well, there are ways without using the stove top--” Mags says, “Micro—you don't have a microwave either,” she remembers.

“No, it had a—it broke.”

“Oh, well, there are pop tarts,” though she seems turned off by the thought of those, “and cereal bars and things further down,” she gives me a friendly push, “{Maybe you could at least pick up a toaster, then you could get strudels those are tasty and much better than the sugar cardboard}.”

“It's a thought.”

“And a toaster is pretty simple to operate. {Slide dial slightly, push down, wait for it} Ping. {Because, I mean...can she even read? The whole prices and numbers thing had me wondering...}”

“{What are you asking me for?}”

“I wasn't--” she stops and gives me a look, “{You know damn well what I meant}, don't you?”

“They don't look like the picture,” Peanut says, suddenly. She's holding a box out in between us. The top's been pulled open and she has one of the bars in her hand—still in it's crinkly purple blue wrapper, but, of course on the front of the box the bar is shown square and oats and shining with fruit pieces looking ready to be eaten.

“Shit,” Mags murmurs, but then adds in a more amiable voice, “Well, it looks like we're getting those.”

“But--” Peanut says, pointing to the front of the box with the bar in her hand.

Well, we're getting them anyway, “They put the bars in wrappers in the box so you can tell the different flavors apart and to keep them fresh longer,” I tell her, at least I think that's it, suddenly I'm doubting things I think I know because I have to explain them to her. What if I'm saying the wrong things? I tear open the wrapper and show her the bar inside, “See? On the inside it looks mostly like the box picture.”

She breaks off a small piece and puts it in her mouth and her eyes light up, nowhere near the level of excitement that she got from the chocolate croissant but I'm not surprised when she declares it tasty. I give her the rest of the bar and Mags takes the box, and puts it in the cart.

“Where'd you get it from?” she asks.

Peanut points mouth full of granola, and Mags pushes the cart over in that direction and I grab three more boxes of the mixed flavors and put them in the cart as well.  

“Did you want to hit frozen foods?” Mags asks.

“What?”

“Strudels for the toaster?” she says, “{Nice toasty warm fruit pastry things? Easy to make?}”

“Right. Sure.”

“{How are you alive?}” she mutters as she walks ahead of the cart towards the frozen food section.

At Peanut's request we wind up with strawberry, raspberry and chocolate strudels. I grab an apple one as well and in the cart they go. Mags is looking thoughtfully at something else and pulls the box out of the freezer.

“{Do you think that's a good idea?}” I ask her.

“Well, she has to have some {kind of protein in her system that's not going to be evil chicken.}”

“What if she's allergic to peanuts?”

Hearing her name she turns around. Idiot. Mags is giving me the same look.

“{There's a reason...}”

“{I know. I know.}”

“It's okay,” I tell her, “You see anything else that looks interesting?”

“You have a point,” Mags says, “{But if that was going to happen it would have after DuMonde. That place isn't exactly nut allergy friendly.}”

“Okay. Fine.”

Mags puts one box of Uncrustables in the cart.

“What are those?” Peanut asks, point to them.

“They're a sort of sandwich,” Mags says. This is going to be interesting: her explaining peanut butter to a girl we just named Peanut, “It has fruit in it like the strudels do and also a kind of creamy paste,” she points to where it says peanut butter, “that's really tasty and really good for you. If you don't like how it tastes I'm sure Kieran will eat them.”

“Okay,” Peanut nods.

Mags looks over at me then, “{Okay}” she says, “{Now, I'm sure she can't read.}”

“{One thing at a time}.” I tell her.

But fuck—what is she going to do to keep occupied at the apartment while I'm at work? All I have is the couch and a few stacks of books and she can't read; and what was I thinking that would keep a teenager entertained anyway. I was always bored when I was—and then there were other things I got up to when I was about that age. Somehow I don't think a girl who has lost her memory is going to be running off all over town with kids from school sneaking into people's houses or their cars and taking things to pawn, drinking, trying out pot or just doing random stupid shit like moving for sale signs and lawn decorations and switching street signs.

“Key--” Mags is saying, “Toaster, yeah?”

“Yeah, right. Let's do that.”  

“Yes, before things start to melt.”

The appliance section takes a little bit to get to and we wind up grabbing Peanut a jacket and a pair of slippers along the way. Then we wind up with a simple four slice black toaster.

“You sure you don't want to buy another microwave?” Mags asks, pointing them out at the end of the aisle, “They're not that expensive.”

“We'll see how the toaster fairs,” I tell her, “I don't really want a repeat with the microwave.”

“What happened to the microwave?”

“I...shorted it out,” I tell her, “It was after I got back from one of my other jobs I was kinda...out of it.”

Mags is surveying me intently at that which is uncomfortable making but...too late now.

“Not entirely sure...I was trying to make food, and there were sparks and fire and I was just fuck it and went back to bed. Well, once there wasn't fire any more, anyway.”

“That's good,” Mags says.  

 Peanut follows me dutifully towards the toy section after a small argument about the cart which almost ended up with Mags taking it this time, but she won at the last moment with the uncertain size of toys and pointing out she was going to walk right past where the carts and small amount of baskets were and we weren't no matter how close the toy section was.

After a little while Peanut is holding on to the left hand side of the handle with one hand and I'm resting on the main part as we turn into the toy area, and we have another moment of her looking about with wide-eyed wonder/slight confusion at everything.

She cautiously touches some of the feet of the dolls as we walk by, looking at me for reassurance that it's okay, but shakes her head when I ask her if she's interested in one. She looks at the Barbie dolls with not exactly distaste but she definitely doesn't want one. She seems sort of intrigued with some of the plush toys but even if we get one or two they're not exactly going to be enough to keep her entertained for a whole evening or two. Playing cards and dice games probably aren't a good idea either, but, oh, jigsaw puzzles, those are right next to the games and she's very interested in all the pictures, and it's not as if I don't have space for those to be put together either.

So, three jigsaw puzzles go in the box, and I lead her out through the learning toys section, having a quick look at the things there and their various games and things and wonder if any of them would be worthwhile picking up. There's so many though who knows which is better? Or if it wouldn't be best just to buy an iPad and install teaching apps on it. Mags would know more than me on that front. So, we leave with just the jigsaw puzzles, and a multi-colored plush creature of some sort. It's mostly purple, but if you move your hand across it's fur it shifts to a more pinkish orangish color. I can't quite tell if it's a cat or a bear but she likes it and that's what's important.

We head back out to the main aisle of the store and move towards groceries given we haven't, at least I don't think there are any messages from Mags. I reach for the phone in my pocket and there aren't, so I call Mags to find out where she is. She meets us in the main aisle and puts a basket in the cart, it has a couple of packets of frozen vegetables in it and a couple of cans, and packages of noodles, and a sauce jars.

“Stir fry,” she explains, and then she pauses, “Do you have a wok?” there are tones of should I even ask? To the question.

“Actually I do,” I retort, not that I remember where it came from but she doesn't need to know that. I know I didn't buy it, did someone give it to me? I don't...who would? Was it there in the stove or a cabinet...? “and cooking utensils too.”

“And a saucepan to cook the noodles in?” she asks, undeterred, “and a means to drain them?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, then,” she nods, “I'd say we're good to go, unless there's anything else you need or Peanut wants?”

Peanut shakes her head, fingering the ear of the cat-bear thing.

“Fair enough,” Mags says, and turns the cart, and therefore us back towards the cash registers and the way out, “How come you have a wok, anyway?” she asks, as we line up somewhere in the middle of the bank of beeping nonsense and Peanut huddles close again.

“I have no idea,” I tell her it comes across so well though it takes her a moment and then she smacks me in the upper chest.

“You!”

“Me? What?” I ask.

She shakes her head, “Start loading things up, I'm gonna go get us another cart so there's a place to put the things once they're rung up,” she slips by the side of the shopping cart and around the couple in front of us who are making small talk with the cashier as she finishes ringing them up. They see her doing that and put a divider up for us, giving Peanut and me a once over look as well as following Mags with their eyes and then looking back at us. I give them a grimace smile, and move around to the front of the cart myself and start putting things on the conveyor belt.

The other two have taken their receipt and are leaving just as Mags comes back with the second cart.

“Find everything you were looking for?” the cashier chirps, automatically, reaching for the first items before looking up from her station.

“Yes,” Mags replies, equally cheerful, “Thank you!”

The cashier looks up then, and pauses for a moment. Her smile gets that sort of glassy look, given we're somewhat opposite to the previous cookie cutter couple that were chittering at her. I tend not to think about the fact that Mags has a partly shaved head of reddish-brown hair. She's wearing a fairly tame outfit, tight dark jeans and a cropped t-shirt with some sort of strange logo on it and low slung shoulders over a tank top, and me, in slightly ratty jeans and a sweater over a t-shirt under a jacket, dark hair on my head and face, slightly darker skin than Mags, but I'm sure we're still both clearly Romany, and then this little blonde angel in yesterday's clothes, slightly grubby and wide-eyed, and staring at the candy display...

She's clearly not Ours, but she's also clearly not One of Us.

I wonder if the Goody Two Shoes thought we stole her from somewhere. Dastardly evil gypsies and their criminal ways. Not only are they thieves they're kidnappers now. Horrible kidnappers letting their quarry out in public and buying her tons of things. Yes.

Such evil. So terror. Wow.

“Everything okay?” Mags continues in the happy tone.

“Uh, yes,” the cashier says, as I continue unloading.

“Good,” the smile threatens but doesn't quite sharpen.

“Are you okay?” I ask Peanut.

“What's all this stuff?” she asks.

“It's candy and chocolate,” I tell her.

“Are you sure?” she sounds nervous.

“Yes,” I tell her, wondering what's going on, “What did you--?” No, she's worried, idiot, she does't want anything, “What's wrong?”

She points to a bag of M&Ms where the cartoon characters are on the bag, “Candy is chopped up those? Are they like chickens?”

“Uh...” Shit...how to explain this. First things first, “No. Candy is...sometimes it has chocolate in it, sometimes it's fruit flavors and mostly sugar but those...are just characters the company made up figuring it would make people more likely to buy the candy if they had a cute pictures on them.”

“...I don't want those,” she says, breathlessly horrified.

“That's fine,” I assure her, “No one's saying you have to.”

She curls partially behind me peeking out towards the display, “How do you know what's in them if there's no pictures?”

“Hm...well, they show pictures and video of the candy and things on television and in magazines...” there's gotta be something, ah, there. I grab a People off the rack at the end of the aisle and try to find something that's food related and not creepy. There we are, cereal, there's a chick laughing and eating a bowl of cereal, “Companies do things like this, or they record video of people enjoying the food, with cameras, kinda like on my phone but bigger...they show people sharing the food and enjoying it so you'll want to try it too,” bad idea to pull up an M&M commercial though, half the time people are taking chunks out of the actual M&M cartoon characters.

“Hey,” Mags says, “Things are stacking up all over,” she shoves my shoulder, “Were you unloading, or reloading or—what's going on?”

“I'll go back to unloading, sure,” I tell her, “You can explain advertising.”

“I...”

I scoot around them and look towards the belt again.

Mags seems to be getting off easy though because Peanut is just asking her which candy she likes best.

The cart is about halfway empty but the full bags are piling up so I switch to loading some of the things into the empty cart Mags brought.

“You sure are stocking up on things...” cashier says, hesitantly.

“Well, you know how it is,” I answer, grabbing half a dozen bags and putting in the cart. I grab the dresser thing and she scans it having given a sort of “yeah” to my statement and put some of the smaller bags of things in it and it into the other cart before I continue putting things up.

“So they're your...sisters?” the cashier asks, hesitant like she might get bitten or sick.

It's so very tempting to say wives to fuck with her but do not need alarms and social services and nets and all sorts of shit raining down.

“No,” I say, and just leave it at that.

Mags is showing Peanut things to put up from the original cart onto the conveyor so I stay there loading the full bags, and the things that don't fit in bags. The cashier gives up on small talk until she gets to a couple of candy bars.

“You want these out?”

“Sure,” I tell her, and she puts them up on the little table by the credit card machine and I hand them back to Mags who shakes her head, and I toss them towards the cart instead. We're almost done now, which is good I really don't want to be in the store much longer. I lean against the edge of the counter and push my legs back against the edge of the aisle as far as they'll go stretching myself out and uncurling my back, feeling things crackling inside me. It helps a little bit.

“All done,” I hear Mags say, from by my side, “Unless you want some candy or gum or something?”

“No.”

“Okay,” she answers, in a way that suggests my tone was more snippy than I thought.

“So, um...” the cashier gives a worried cough, “It's $627.33,” she coughs again, looking in our direction cautiously, “How are we paying?”

I go into my pocket and pull out my wallet, and count out six hundreds and one fifty and hand them over to her, where she turns the stack backwards and forwards in her hand for a moment.

“Problem?” I ask her.

“No,” she drags it out a little too long glancing back towards Mags and Peanut and then picking up a thick black pen from the top of the register and fans the bills out on the conveyor belt and pulls the cap off the pen with her teeth and then draws a line from the top of the lowest bill over each of them down to the bottom of the top bill on the fan. Then she stares at them for a while as though she wasn't expecting the result she got. She swipes them with the pen again.

“Something wrong?” I ask her.

“Nooo,” she says in a way that clearly says she's not exactly sure, and the light on the top of her register starts to flash and a message starts scrolling along the digital display on the top of her register saying that she's called a manager to come over. Much as I hate the mind powers they'd be useful about now.

“Really?” I ask her, “Nothing's wrong?”

“I just want to double check I'm doing this right,” she says, slightly more convincingly, “I've never had this much cash before.”

“Mm-hmm,” I say.

“What's going on?” Mags asks, joining me.

“She's not sure what she's supposed to do with the money,” I tell her.

Mags rolls her eyes, “Wait—what?” she looks across the counter.

“I've not had this many this high bills before,” the cashier continues.

Mags narrows her eyes, slightly, but also looks at me, curiously for a moment.

“What?” I ask her.

“Nothing,” she says, “[For right now],” she adds, which gets us another wary look from the cashier, who is toying with the pen she swiped the bills with. The one that tells if they're counterfeit, I realize now, which, of course, said they weren't because Stephenson isn't going to pay me fake money, but we're disreputable types after all.

The manager shows up, a tired looking man with an unexpectedly bright red fake nail manicure. It jogs something in my memory. He's not come in to our bar but I've seen him – I was casing another, sniffing someone out, and he was – she was singing – is it she if you're a drag queen?

“What's going on?” he asks.

She leans over and murmurs some things to him about the money and about us and her concerns. That is one epic eye roll on his part. Mags make comment on it in romanichal tongues too.

“I'm very sorry for the delay in finishing your transaction,” he tells us, giving the money a cursory swipe with the pen and then tossing it down on to the conveyor belt, “Take the money, drop it below. Give them their change and receipt,” he points to a slot in the drawer of the register, “and then take break and we'll have a discussion,” he advises the cashier, “about proper procedure. Again,” he turns back to us, “I am very sorry for the inconvenience that Bev has caused you with her mistakes. I'll be re-educating her shortly as you can tell. Apologize.”

“Thank you,” Mags assures him, “We wouldn't want to have to report anyone to corporate. It's nice to know that someone here knows how to treat customers.”

She does so, and rings us out, gives me the change, tells us shakily to have a nice evening, and we head back to the car.

Part Three

 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

As best I can piece back together from notes that are partly water-damaged. Italic phrases are when I talk directly/interact with K while she's gressed. 

• K's life is 7

Mama's screaming, drinking, taking medicine. Mama telling her she needs to learn to take it, to be strong. K's opening her mouth like it's sore on one side. Mama sometmies touches her, sometimes slaps. Someone comes in and picks her up and takes her away--doesn't know who they are but they have a beard and a leather jacket. Tells her "hold on" she falls asleep. 

• Moves forward. Is now 12 years old. 

Uncle Billy is teaching her, Albert and Margo how to pick pockets without them noticing. Margo keeps messing up. Albert's okay. Uncle Billy knows she's making mistakes on purpose. "Okay short stuff, sit down." (part missing) "only have one good eye but I'll still tell." (if you're lying) she tells him that it makes her feel sick that she doesn't know if people deserve to be stolen from. Billy says he'll tell the family she's not good enough to be on the street picking pockets but he's still going to teach her the skill, though he warns her that it's "never done no Romney no good having a conscience." 

• Forward again. Now 16. Just got her driver's license. 

Seems to be some sort of "memory montage" given she talks about it "flashing different things, family have taught me, learning how to pick locks, how to punch, walk different, change silhoutte," but then computers, electronics it's "like I can see beneath the screen, beyond code." 
Uncle Enoch wants her to help family get something out of safety deposit box room--bypass security. She doesn't want to but really as no choice. Enoch says if she does the one thing he'll let her go for a while. 
She says it mostly goes okay. The keypad is easy. The SD box has a laser encrypted key and a finger print match. Back door is default so just need a blank key and she's not going to ask how they already have one. 
"It's not like I have a manual." 
She got it open but she warns them she can't bypass this one alarm that is going to trigger within three minutes tops.  While they're doing the thing she changes quickly so she can move into the crowd on the way out. Family got a box out and something rolled up in cloth but she doesn't know what. It almost looked like a tool roll. There are cops, so they have to scatter. Someone grabs her arm, "Hey, did you just come out of the bank?" "Don't be ridiculous. It's closed." Its an off-duty cop, but he's been drinking so she figures it won't be hard to get out of the situation. He's dragging her over to these other cops and she's begging "please, please," and it helps he had hold of her jacket and part of her hair when he was pulling her, and it turns out he's on suspension. His name is Mulloy. The other cops are telling him to leave and he's very unhappy about it. 

• Moved forward a little bit more. She's 17 now. 

She's at a club, and she's kind of annoyed. It's not the type of place she would normally go, but she came with a friend and now the friend met a guy and ditched her. This place has shitty music, expensive drinks, sticky dance floor. She'd almost rather be at "Rory's" she'd get pressed into working but still. It's money? "I'd only get tips because I'm family. Problem is I'm, like, related to everyone." If your friend's gone, why don't you just leave? "Good question, actually...but to pay $11 covr and leave after two hours feels like a waste of money...um...um...okay, not going to lie, I've done some drugs in the past but....there's some stuff going on...thought at first people were disappearing and there's clothes on the ground, now there's just lots of rabbits. No bartender...no DJ....just rabits...in a couple of cases rabbits fucking...
She does find a girl whose attention she's trying to get because the girl is sitting at the bar crying into a drink and definitely not a bunny. There's also a guy, an older guy who comes into the bar who is also not a rabbit, watching him trying to carefully walk around all the bunnies is pretty funny. 
She goes to talk to the chick. Icebreaker is apparently something to do with salt not tasting good in appletinis. The chick has a black eye and a split lip and didn't realize she was surrounded by rabbits until K asked her what was going on. The guy has also made it over, but the chick is crying again and has limpted herself onto K and guy is trying to get her to detach herself from K and calm down. 
It turns out the chick had a pet rabbit named Whisper which died earlier in the day. Her boyfriend, Brian, told her she was a stupid bitch and he was tired of her bullshit. She got more upset and he yelled at her for that, and how she never loved him as much as the fucking rabbit and hit her and hit her more and she doesn't remember leaving home or coming to the bar. 
"This is going to sound like a crazy person but I think she did this to these people." They're telling the chick she needs to report Brian to the police. She's all he hasn't hit me before but she had been sorta scared, now she's helping chick realize that Brian probably killed Whisper, people are starting to turn back, "Well, you know, sometimes there are naked people on Bourbon Street anyway..." 
The other guy who showed up is called Mike. They're are going to take a detour on the way to the chick's house to the New Orleans PD to get pictures taken. Then they're going back to the girl's house for the cop's to get Brian. "It's important you're there. Let him see you're not afraid." 
Mike's last name is Deveraux. He was just walking by the bar and felt he had to go through the doors. 

Next day. Wakes up hurting like someone kicked her in the ribs. Looks like there's a tattoo there. "I didn't get fucked up AT ALL so how do I have a tattoo on my ribs?" trying to get picture but at weird angle, "This would be so much easier if there was more than one of--I think I just broke my phone." dropped phone in sink because second her appeared and they both screamed. Second her has no tattoo. Thought there was a weird imposter in the room for a moment but then the other her disappeared. Then she was able to concentrate and make them reappear, apparently makes her nauseaous after a while, "Well, I'm GLAD that YOU feel fine I don't feel fine." Three copies is as far as she can go before vomit. 
"Fuck still don't have a picture of the God Damn thing and now my phone is broken." 
Then it rings, Mike calling, they exchanged numbers the night before while waiting for Jenny (bunny chick) to finish her statements and everything. He says something weird is going on. "Please for the love of God no bunnies." She clarifies that Mike is gay so it makes it somewhat less creepy that a 32 year old man is giving a 17 year old girl he met in a club his number. He's a teacher, possibly at a private school. 
It turns out the something weird is a 4 foot crack across the ground that has swallowed a car. It's knitting back together but no one seems to be noticing except this one guy, and the car has showed up 20 feet away and hit a lamp post. She wants to talk to mystery guy but she wants to do something first. She lifts his wallet and cell phone and then she and Mike are going to get coffee at Cafe DuMonde. She has an apartment in the same building so it'll look slightly less weird that she's hanging out there. 
Apparently in the guy's wallet is: $7 cash, Discover card, Blockbuster card (??), expired condom and ID in the name of Andrew Deschamps Milton and several receipts. "This guy eats a LOT of jerky." then laughter because apparently Mike has some moral qualms about her lifting the guy's wallet. ADM works at power and water in the maintenance department, has a couple of minor traffic violations and was picked up once for peeing in a public fountain, but not charged. He moved to NOLA from Alabama. (Yay, hacking). Being conscientious citizens they should now go and return his wallet. Laughing again, when asked why, "Mike just said, "I don't want to know how you know how to do these things, do I?" 
They get to ADM's address before him, when he shows up she tells him that she saw someone take his things and then got them back for him. He looks suspicious, but then he "kind of probably should," she notes that Mike has kept reaching under his shirt and scratching his upper right chest on and off this whole time. She's asking ADM about the street because the sidewalk is all broken up everywhere except right in front of his home. He says he replaced it but she points out the city has to replace that sidewalk. ADM runs. "I am NOT wearing the shoes for this. Oh, Mike's a lot ore fit than I thought. Good on him." 
She tripped and fell going into the park but didn't hit the ground. She's decided to just stop and wait for Mike. Sounds like you're getting powers. "That shit's not supposed to happen. That''s comic book shit." 
Apparently ADM saw her not fall and came back and poor Mike is winded, "We just want to talk to you." "Did you just fly a little bit? That's...weird..." "That is not the weirdest thing in the last day--club full of rabbits." 

"Mike has a tattoo like mine, well not exactly like mine but the itchy thing on his chest is a tattoo that appeared, and Milton has one on his left forearm." They follow ADM back to his place. He says six months ago he was at work and a steam pipe ruptured and a co-worker disappeared into steam. They closed off the pipe but some of the steam was still there, and he kept talking to the guy and it gradually became a person again after lots of coaching and the next day he had the tattoo and found he could pull broken things back together. She asks Mike, "Anything you would like to share with the class?" three times. Apparently he can mess with people's heads. She starts to see some images. 
"Oh! Mike has mind powers and he's NOT gay! Someone has GOT to teach him about women!" 
Mike is 32. 

At this point K started getting weird headache so we pulled her up. 

Because I woke up from dreaming it and it won't leave my brain: 

The bus slowing down wakes me up and I stretch as much as I can considering hands cuffed with the bar and legs on a chain. I hear the guy in the back complaining that if we're stopping can he at least piss. The guard with the driver is muttering about, “what the fuck is going on?” and I lean so I can see through the gap between them there's flashing lights on the cars in front of us but then for a moment there isn't and then there are again, and that itching on my back left shoulder in that all to familiar spot—people using powers.

Fuck.

Fuck me.

Calm.

Breathe.

I look around. There's a sharp edge on the seat across from me and I slice the side of my finger on it and wipe the blood against my other finger and I can feel it then and pull down to break the bar between my hands so that it will be long and then snap the cuff off me and then break the leg chains too.

“The fuck, man?” I hear from behind me, “You could do that this whole time and you've just been sitting here?”

They're approaching the front of the van now, and I slink down towards him.

“Do me, right?”

“If you shut the fuck up. These are not good people, and they will fuck with your brain. Get out the back and run because not just your life depends on it.”

He nods. I snap his leg shackles off first and then his arm bar. Two bars are better than one if it comes down to it, which I have a feeling it will. Then I make my finger bleed again and rub it against my palm break the lock and handle off the back door and we jump down to the ground. He bolts for the tree line and I'm about to follow when somebody steps between us.

“Garriden,” soft, molasses female voice. I don't recognize her, but obviously she's Watch, and I can smell the power on her, mind stuff, of course. They'll have had people by each door I realize now, because it won't have taken much to over power one guard and one driver. I'm not some murdering psycho as for as the prison knows so it's not like they have a whole troop in there keeping an eye on me. She must be pinging people to come here. Yeah, I can hear them moving now.

“You don't want to do that,” she pushes as I move to knock her out of the way with one of the metal bars, but I do, and I do, and while she tries to deflect thick metal against the arm is painful and she doesn't make much mental effort to stop me as I run, but then I can feel it tugging at me to slow down. I have to keep going though. I have to.

But it's difficult. I'm tired, but I slept on the bus I shouldn't be tired. I'm not tired. I push forward. The trees seem further away though. They're fucking with my head. They have to be. Gotta keep going. Get out of their range but my legs are so heavy.

Fuck.

I hear the sound of the metal bars dropping out of my hands and clattering on the ground before I realize what I've done and then I'm on my knees myself, and an overwhelming tingling is going through me and my body can't move for two reasons the second of which is being tazed. I forgot how much that sucks and I want to get back up once my limbs stop being on fucking fire but no I can't because there are three different voices in my head that aren't my own reminding my how my I want to stay still and how drained and tired I am, and how much I want to cooperate and I do.

“We got him,” I hear someone saying, as two others are dragging me to the cars which definitely do not have light bars.

 

I'm in the back seat of one of the cars, sandwiched between two Watch people. I'm not cuffed in anyway but I feel like I've been neutered.

“We'll stop prodding your brain,” one of them says, “If you don't try to fight us the minute we let go,” she's in the front seat, but is not the one I hit with the cuff bar. She is not in this car, “besides if you fight us it's not going to do you much good right now. We're going 80 down the interstate.”

“Miles to go before we sleep,” the driver remarks.

“So,” the woman says, “What have you been up to the past few years? Stephenson's been very worried about you.”

“I'm sure,” I lean back as best I can in the space I have and shift position trying to scratch the brand on my shoulder without being able to scratch the brand on my shoulder. I haven't been around this many people with abilities in a long time. There were maybe one or two in prison and they didn't really have any idea about themselves and it was easy enough to stay out of their way, “because he hasn't looked up what I was in for and neither have you, I'm sure.”

I expect a folder with my record on it to appear or maybe the Watch has sprung for her to show off and have an iPad to wave in my face but she just laughs and turns back around in the seat, “You got yourself a nice vacation that's for sure.”

“Oh, yeah. They let me out for walks once a day and everything. I'm going to leave harsh feedback about the view though, and they never said anything about having to share definitely not five stars. Transportation's pretty crap as well.”

“I'll be sure and tell Stephenson,” the driver remarks, “He was all up on the gas mileage.”

I can't help but roll my eyes.

The trip is long and dull. We're through Missouri and into Arkansas and they've agreed to let me out of the car for more than just to piss and change into something less conspicuous than prison dregs, which means we're out sitting in a restaurant like the most awkward family meal ever when one of the chicks who I've come to find out through their crappy conversations is called Joanna gets a call that appears both urgent and top secret because she almost trips bolting out of our vicinity and then out of the restaurant and into the parking lot to talk.

Doug leans over and begins to take her onion rings.

“That could end badly for you,” the guy whose been sitting on my left for the last several hours says. I think his name is Lucas.

Doug shrugs, “You could make her think she ate them.”

“Riight,” Lucas says, wiping his hands on a napkin, “We're just going to have a...what? Mind off?”

“You don't think you can take her?” Doug says.

Lucas shakes his head but more in the pity Doug's brain way than the I have no chance way. Joanna comes back around the same time that my other back seat companion comes back from the bathroom and sits down next to Lucas. She looks curiously over at Joanna.

“Change of plans,” Joanna says, looking to Doug, “We have to go to Kentucky.”

“Kentucky?”
“What the fuck for?” and various other complaints echo around the table.

“Where in Kentucky?” Doug has pulled something up on his phone which had been serving as the navigation for the trip so far, “No. No, cancel trip you bitch.”

“I'm not going to get into that here,” Joanna says, “and just plug in Summersville.”

“We're not doing that today,” Doug says, after a moment, “That's—another five hours.”

“No,” she says, “We're getting a hotel, and we'll head out in the morning. So, plug in the Hampton Inn and then we'll go over the rest of it.”

 

They slept in shifts so that there was always someone keeping an eye on me. I didn't sleep well. People patrolling and awake around me isn't unusual it was the fact I was sinking into the bed and the pillow and the place was so quiet.

Doug is sent downstairs to get food while others finish sleeping or get ready to go back on the road to Kentucky where I must find and kill someone. Someone who is apparently blighting fields and animals. Modern day witch hunt. Such fun.

“What did you think you were let out for?” Joanna says, when I protest, “This is what your family does. They cleanse they unfortunates and keep the rest of us safe. It was crops, now it's animals. You want to let them get on to people next?”

 

We make it to Kentucky by midday. Doug, Joanna and I are to be dropped in the town itself while the other two go off to make arrangements for a place to stay that's not in an area that “looks like it crawled out of the bottom of a muck spreader,” as Joanna puts it.

We stop on the way into town though because I can feel it, and there is the field one strip about three feet wide perfectly healthy crops and the rest withering and curling up. A couple of cars have stopped and people are looking on in wonder and horror too. There has to be something close, feel the pulsing in the shoulder and where it is in the air.

You know where it is? I hear Doug's voice in my mind and glare at him, especially as he's not got those abilities but then I see Joanna has her hand on his shoulder fingers extended towards his neck. I extend the glare towards her. Lucas leans against the side of the car, staring off over the field.

Answer the question her voice intrudes.

“Fuck you both,” I mutter.

Do you?

“It'd be a lot easier to work without you poking at me,” I point out. I step on my shoelace to give myself an actual reason to stop and tie it and look around from a different angle seeing if I can better orient what the hell my brand is doing and where it's trying to pull me. It's not like I've—that way. I pull the knot tight and look up. I hadn't seen him at first but he's on the other side of the gray-green truck looking both pissed and uncomfortable and it's around him like a cloud. Then he and the other guy he's with get in the truck and drive off towards town itself.

Joanna clearly knows that I've spotted something. She spins one finger around. Lucas opens the rear car door and waves me back inside next to Lindsey who wakes up when I slide in next to her and follows me inside and closes the door and Doug speeds off after the truck.

 

The truck is stopped at the parking lot of a local bar which is at the end of a strip mall. Lucas takes over driving and I follow Joanna and Doug into the bar. They're off to the right hand side around the corner of the bar sitting at a table drinking beer and tequila. Joanna points us into a booth where we have a good view of them.

“So,” Doug says, “You wanna start a fight or something?”

I give him a look as Joanna sets down drinks in front of us. Doug gets a bottle of beer, as does she. I'm given a glass of ice water with a chunk of lemon.

“What?” Doug asks with a vague amiable smile.

“Well, if you want to have to clean up a huge mess and deal with a bunch of witnesses then go ahead, but if this has to be done I was figuring on something a bit more discreet.”

“This has to be done,” Joanna says, turning the beer around on the table, “Stephenson's orders. This situation can't continue. You saw that field. You saw the pictures last night. If it keeps escalating...”

“If. What about recruiting? Isn't that the thing to do?”

“That must have been tried while we were picking up your ungrateful ass,” Joanna continues, “We're not the only people in Watch, you know.”

Doug snorts, “Vastly underpaid if we are.”

“Whatever,” I drain the glass of water, seeing as the guy is teetering towards the bathroom. It's less fair if he's halfway plastered but fuck, “Alright. Gonna hit the head.”

Joanna nods, and Doug gets up to let me out.

He's leaning his head against the wall while peeing and doesn't even move when I walk in. There's one other guy in there who is finishing up and leaves and I wedge the door shut after that betting the guy won't notice which he doesn't. He does notice me when he zips up and turns around.

“You...were...” he starts, waving a hand at me, “I've seen you.”

“In the bar?” I ask.

“Oh. Maybe,” but he's nervous, and I can feel the energy wavering around him already, knowing that's not just it. I close the distance quickly because who knows how soon someone's going to realize the bathroom door is jammed aside from not wanting him to fucking destroy something else just because he's talking to me and freaking out. Shit, “I coulda...sworn,” he starts, looking over at me and double checking because I'm closer and putting his hand against the wall.

“Maybe at the field?” I ask, “The one that was dying?”

He looks towards the wall and then the stalls avoiding my gaze. My skin is tingling through and I feel as though there must be a hole burning through the back of my shirt. I realize he's about to shove at me before he does and stop him, and despite his attempts to fight me off I get him into the larger of the stalls, head butting him to make him more cooperative. 

He flails some, scrabbling at me half-assedly but I don't have to do much to keep him away from me and then push him against the wall. The power floating around is diminishing but...I know it's still there, and I have to...just...

I bust his nose up because that I remember the blood is needed as the death happens, and I can feel it absorbing through the blood in my hands and then the neck snaps so easily and I push him onto the toilet with my elbow and leave the room unblocking the door. Joanna catches my eye as I walk out of the bathroom and spotting a door in the back of the bar go out of it. I'm sure she'll be following soon.

I'm not wrong.

She's putting her cell phone back in her pocket as she does, “Lindsey should be here soon. She and Lucas registered us and then she turned around and headed back.”

“Great.”

“We'll have to check in with Stephenson once we get back to the hotel,” she adds.

I lean against the wall, “I'm sure that will be just as lovely as yesterday.”

“You did a good thing,” she says, “You were very efficient and blood clean up is easy for you, I guess.”

I give her a look for a moment, “If you took some Watch classes on communication skills and tact you should get your money back.”

“Hey,” she shrugs, “Focus on the positives. No more melty cows.”

I am so glad to see the car pulling around the corner. Lindsey pulls to a stop a few feet away and climbs out of the front.

“Go inside and help Doug,” Joanna says, almost before Lindsey has her feet on the ground, “I'll send Lucas back for you as soon as I can.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Lindsey says, with an edge of sarcasm that gets her a glare.

“Well, come on,” Joanna says, “Look at you, getting to ride in the front for a change. Be excited.”

“Woo,” I tell her, dryly, walking around to the other side of the car, “you didn't have to get your hands dirty. See how you feel.”

“You think I've never had to do something like this?” she retorts, as everything gets closed up and we drive off, “Don't get all pity me when you know jack shit of the work I've done here.”

“Fine,” I stretch my arms out, assuring myself, nothing is flaring up with red rash given it feels like it should be everything going hot and tingly like it is, “Sorry. Did you get abducted and forced or were you just yes sir absolutely sir may I lick your ass sir?”

“This is for the greater good, you know? You've saved this community from financial ruin.”

I close my eyes and just breathe slowly. I can detach from this. Just remember like before. Like when I was a kid.

 

“Kennick!” It comes at me from both inside and outside my head in Joanna's voice, and I turn to where she is, outside the car with the door open staring—glaring at me, “You, seriously fell asleep on a twenty minute drive?”

I feel less like my body is on fire now I'm just sore. I pull myself out of the car, “You handle things your way I'll handle them mine,” I tell her, “Stephenson wanted me to do that because of how...my family...deals with things it has side effects, right? I know you...mind people get headaches, nose bleeds and things, yeah?”

She ignores me and turns towards the hotel and I follow her onto the sidewalk and into the hotel. It's another snooty one. The Watch is allowing themselves no discomfort on this trip.  

We're apparently on the fourth floor so I follow her into the elevator. I wonder if she does have a headache too and that's why she's being a bitch, or if she's just that way in general. She'll probably have aspirin or something though, but what'll it cost me to get some from her?

I focus on her ass, which is not unpleasant, as we're walking down the corridor to the room to keep myself straight with where we're going which is thankfully not too far because the knock on the door feels like it's breaking off bits of my temple and sticking them into the back of my eyes.

Lucas opens the door and Joanna hands him the keys, “Go help the other two. Make sure everything's squeaky,” she says, “Pick up food on the way back,” she reaches into her pocket and hands over a credit card as well.

“I'll call in to check on orders?” he suggests.  

She nods, “Laptop?”

He points into the room somewhere, and gives me a half-wave as he walks by me and back down the corridor. I follow her inside and sit on the edge of the bed across from the television while Joanna sets up the laptop and gets back on the cell phone, talking to someone at HQ. I lean back on the bed and shade my eyes with my arm so the light from the window isn't piercing into them because it feels as though they might start to bleed.

“Here,” Joanna is suddenly offering a bundle of something towards my ear, when I go to take it I realize she's standing where she completely blocks the light from me and that it's something cold wrapped in a towel, “put it behind your neck. It'll help.”

It does, quite a bit. After a moment I hear the whoosh noise of the night before, which is the video conference software engaging.

“Stephenson will be on the line soon,” Joanna says, quietly, “You'll have to talk to him.”

I sit up slowly, putting the towel wrapped bundle down behind me, just as the thing starts beeping and then she and Stephenson begin talking to each other, customary pleasantries.

“So, all went well?” I hear Stephenson say.

“As far as Kennick reports to me,” Joanna looks over.

Stephenson's dark brown, graying at the temples head turns to me with the question he doesn't repeat.

“The guy is dead in the bar bathroom and I'm the only one who was in there with him,” I answer, “I'm not sure what else..?”

“Transference,” Stephenson remarks, with much annoyance, “Joanna leave us,” he says, turning his head, “I'll have Allbright text you when you can come back.”

“Very well,” she says, and disappears into the bathroom. I hear another door open and close. This must be like the other hotel where we have two rooms connected through the bathroom.

Stephenson turns back to me waiting for my answer.

“Transference?” I repeat back, “Are you...the power thing?”

He sighs.
“You do remember that I wasn't exactly taught this stuff, right?”

His expression darkens, “and whose fault was that? You could have stayed where we were able to help you rather than running off in the middle of the night and abandoning your post. You see where that got you, don't you?”

I shake my head.

“Anyway,” he continues, “What did you experience physically? What did you see?”

Ugh, “The blood it was like it burrowed it's way into my skin and then I felt stronger like I do when I—when I bleed myself,”just keep going you need the information. You need to know what the fuck you are. May as well be honest, “but then by the time I got outside I was tingling and it was burning through my veins, within about twenty minutes just really achy and a bad headache and sort of feeling sick.”

Stephenson's nod says this is both expected and good, which is annoying, “There was transference of power then. That's excellent. It's come to you and not stayed in his familial bloodline.”

“There's a chance I could have killed him for nothing?”

“Highly unlikely. You remembered the blood.”

Go me.

“So, you shouldn't have a problem in future situations.”

“What...sort of future situations?” I can feel my chest tightening.

“I thought that had been made clear yesterday,” Stephenson's words are clipped and he adjusts his position so he's sitting further forward at what I'm assuming is his desk I don't have full view of his upper body but I can make out his hands now, “You'll have to perform more of these...tasks whenever there's someone whose powers are out of control. You'll be compensated, aside from the fact that you'll remain out of prison.”

“I'm not that concerned about prison...”

“I imagine you'd be more concerned if there are added murder charges. We have already cleaned up after you twice now, considering the matter of your father, what is that, four years ago now?” He shakes his head, “and then you went and fled the state.”

There are noises going on in the bathroom.

“You're doing a service, Garriden. I'm sure you remember the hurricane several years ago. There are still places rebuilding from that. It wouldn't have gotten nearly so out of hand if your father had been able to get to things more quickly, and there are times where there are people with equally terrible powers. They can cause holes in the earth, vaporize people, horrible sicknesses...”

“That's all well and good but...”

“When you get back we're going to set you up with an apartment,” Stephenson continues as I hear Joanna come back through the bathroom door, “you'll have a day to day job, nothing like you were occupying yourself with while you were by yourself. Something much more above board. Do you think you can tend bar? Or would you rather work for the local paper?”

I'd rather you suck my dick.

“That's not very nice,” Joanna remarks.

“I'd also rather you stay out of my head,” I point out.

“That was pretty clear,” she says, hands suspiciously out of sight, “I wasn't trying to read you. Strong emotions and all.”

“We're going to set you up with a blocker. The telepaths helped design one. We can't have random mindreaders over hearing things or probing you when you're on mission, some times groups of powered people band together after all,” he waves a hand as though this is something minor, “You still seemed annoyed.”

“Randomly murdering people doesn't sit well with me. Today was bad enough.”

“How many times do I have to remind you that it's for the greater good?” Stephenson says, tiredly, “Aside from the fact that it's your family's mandate and has been for centuries.”

“That's wonderful,” I tell him, “but I didn't ask for that, and I don't...”

Joanna is closing the distance between us rapidly in a way I don't like. I put my arm up to block her hand which she anticipates and we wind up rolling across the bed until she's underneath me. There's a needle in one hand, and I can feel her power surging angrily forward pushing at me to stop resisting, but there's only her this time and not Lucas and Lindsey as well so it's easier to shake her off. She tries to knee at my groin but she can't at the same time though she lunges and head butts at me, which works to fuck with me given my head's still not doing so well especially after we rolled around. I slip to the side and she comes at me with her hand again which I block but it's not the one with the needle. That jabs into my neck, and I can feel the liquid surging in.

“That's it,” she says, “No more fussing.” Calm down. Take it easy now. Sleep. 

 

What time is it? I feel so...fuck...I've been through...

This could be from the blood and the power, right? Though even as I think it I'm also in this don't kid yourself thing. I remember fighting with Joanna and the needle in my neck and the way this feels is too familiar, and I know I'm lucky I didn't puke, though it would have served her right if I threw up all over her.

She's sitting in the chair by the desk watching me, “How are you feeling?”

“What time is it?” my voice is hoarse.

“You slept through late lunch,” she says, “and it's almost late dinner time if you're hungry. How do you feel?”

“Why don't you just poke around in my head and see?” I mutter, slowly pulling myself up into a sitting position and trying to keep my head as still as possible.

“Because you don't like me poking around in there,” she retorts, “I'm being polite.”

“Polite like stabbing me in the neck with smack polite?”

“From what I understand you used to love the stuff,” she opens the drawer next to her and lifts out something I can't quite see in the dimly lit room.

“Used to,” I echo. We're not going to talk about all the random times it chewed and gnawed at me through the last couple of years especially when I would see other inmates who'd clearly gotten their hands on it somehow.

She turns slightly in the chair, and I hear something unrolling and things clinking, “Lucas was suggesting just ordering in for pizza or Chinese or something. We are back in civilization enough,” she turns the table lamp on, “that they might actually have decent Chinese.”

“Whatever. Am I allowed to use the bathroom or do you have to watch?”

“Go ahead,” she says, things rustling, and I have a sinking feeling as to what she might be doing.

I can smell it when I come out of the bathroom all it's sweet vinegar promises and I stop in the doorway. If I don't go any further maybe I can resist. By the strength of this doorway...

“What are you doing?” she says, turning around to look at me.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“I really think you know though,” she says, and she holds up her hand with the syringe and I can feel my heart pounding and my skin is chilling down all over.

I sit down right there because I'm not going to go over to her. I'm not. I don't care how good it is. Was. Was. Not again. No.

It wafts towards me across the room and makes my fingers twitch. No.

I'm sitting right here. I'm not going over there.

“So,” she says, turning the chair more fully around and rolling closer to me, “What's your vote? Pizza? Chinese? Or is that really what you want?”

If my stomach sinks any further someone on the second floor is going to be wondering what the fuck is in their bathroom.

“I can see it in your eyes,” she points out, “and in the fact that your fingers are clawing into the door frame...”

“Fuck off,” I tell her, turning away. I want to get back up but I don't know that I can. I should fight her off and leave but I remember what happened last time and I might not give it my best effort. I'm already wavering. It's so close; and all of this ache will slip away, all of the memories of yesterday too and the feelings turned into softness and warmth and...

“Stop,” she says, pulling my head away from the door frame, where I've been rubbing it, “You're going to hurt yourself. How's that going to look the cleanser rubbing his face raw?”

“How does the rest look then?” I demand. Maybe if I can stab her with the thing and then she'll get it. She doesn't have anything else weapony on her and it's not like I have telekinesis that and finding snapping people in half more fun would certainly make this “cleansing” job easier.

“What's so funny?” she demands.

I try to grab the needle from her while she's confused by the joke she apparently did let herself in on but she pulls it easily away from me.

“Oh, interested are you?”

Not for why you think.

Mostly. Fuck.

“I think we should see what the others have decided on for dinner,” she says, and pulls up from the chair, and steps over me towards the other side of the bathroom and that door, “There's not an orgy going on in here is there?” she calls as it opens, “because if there is it's the world's quietest and saddest one.”

“There has to be more than three people for it to count as an orgy, Jo. This would just be a threeway.” I hear Doug's voice clearly.

“I didn't think Luke was your type,” Lindsey remarks, “Sleeping Beauty's awake then?”

“Mostly,” Joanna answers.

I pull myself up against the bathroom door. What else is in the room here? Are there empties I could use to stab her with...of course then there's the three others, but only two of them have mental powers, and then there's Doug. Doug. Doug, what can he do?

My arms are shaky so I lean against the table carefully after I've made my way over. The laptop isn't there any more unfortunately, but there is the roll, which does have supplies with it, okay, needle, needle. I pull one out.

“What are you doing?” Joanna's voice from the doorway behind me, “I have it right here if that's what you're looking for and you know it, or don't you think I made the right mix?”

“How do you even...?” Do I want the answer to that?

“You think you're the first junkie we've encountered?” she's coming closer. I grip my hand around the syringe tightly and go for her but she blocks my arm with hers and they syringe is stopped my fist several inches from her chin, “You're not operating so well right now,” she remarks, pushing me backwards. I manage to roll so that when I bounce off the bed and onto the floor nothing is too damaged and the syringe lands on the bed and doesn't get stuck in anything or break off anywhere as far as I hear, “Nothing on par with your record or witness statements.”

Whose fault is that?

I stay where I am half laying-half crouching but don't move.

“If you've stopped being an idiot,” she says, “They've decided on pizza. Easier to handle leftovers after all,” less sticks for me to try and stab you with? “Do you have any topping requests?” she kneels down but she's just out of reach. I don't see the needle anywhere either, though it feels like the smell is everywhere crowding me with it's promises of false eternal bliss. Her question seems to have amused her greatly based on the expression on her face.

“No,” I tell her.

“I suppose any non-cafeteria food is a step up for you, huh?” she says, standing back up, “Are you going to eat with us or do you want to stay in here and plot ways to try and stab me with needles?”

I sit up some and glare at her.

“Maybe you should get some more rest, Mr. Cranky Pants?”

“I'm not tired. I'm just...”

“Just what?”

Pissed with you. Itchy. Fucking itchy. Don't scratch.

“Well, then, why don't you come and be social?”

“Hm, be in a room with the three mind readers all at once? That sounds bad for my health.”

“If we were going to do that, don't you think they would--” she trails off regret on her face. They don't know she's doing this. This was a thing between her and God before they even got back...

“So, what you're saying is they don't know? How would they react to--” they wouldn't believe me regret is probably on my face now.

“Who are they going to believe on this though?” she confirms, “You could have had this shit on—in you going between prisons and taken it while I was in the can. Resourceful drug addict full of murder remorse. Once an addict always an addict isn't that how it goes?”

I lean back, trying to swallow, “You're a bitch, you know that, right?” My mouth is so fucking dry and my head...you can get past it. You can. Just climb up on the bed and sleep it off, right? I pull myself up to standing and then sit on the edge of the bed.

“I've been called worse things,” she says, “Well, you do what you're going to do. Rest. Take a shower maybe. You're sweating and nasty,” whose fault is that? “There's some other clothes in that bag,” she points, “I'm sure the pizza is here by now,” like someone hasn't telepathically told her, “We'll save you some. I promise. If you don't eat it now. I'll bring it in here and you can have it whenever you wake up and feel less cranky,” my hand has found the syringe on the bed and picks it up to throw at her but it's weight is wrong because this one is not the empty one from before.

It's full of brown, tantalizing, right there in my hand which is shaking now because there it is right there. Right. There. And everything will stop hurting and itching and...it's in my arm already, nothing is tied off but my fist is clenched and my arm is braced against my knee making it easier for the needle to slide in the vein, so simple, so familiar, so easy. Why have I not done this sooner? Make everything slip away?

And there it shines as I lie back on the bed the gentle thrum of the overhead fan guiding me as the warmth spreads from my arm deep into my chest, last time I didn't feel it so well because I was being pushed past into darkness, but this time it blends and I'm in the mellow soft that I was stupidly ignoring for so long because I apparently like to punish myself and deny myself good things—great things.

My head is light and wonderful no more ache and nothing is itching. I could just lie here for hours—with the vines tangling through the curtains.

I feel the bed shift and Joanna is lying down next to me when I turn to see who it is, “Hey...”

“Hey yourself,” she says, “I'm just gonna,” she draws the needle from my arm and moves it somewhere I don't see and then lays back down, “feeling better?”

“Yeah...” I turn over so I'm facing more towards her, shifting further onto the bed.

“Thought you might,” she smiles at me, and reaches towards my head, but then puts her hand back down, “I was gonna go eat with the others. Did you want to come with for pizza? They apparently got some wings and cheese bread too, or did you want to stay here?”

“I'm...kinda...” I wiggle my hand in her general direction.

“Yeah. I figured, but it's rude not to ask,” she sits up, “I'll leave the door open. Come through when you want. If you don't I'll bring something back with me,” she stands up and picks the bundle up off the desk and moves it to the cabinet next to the bed, “This is here when you need it,” and she disappears through the bathroom door with a short wave.  

I take my shoes off and move further up into the bed's embrace given I can spread out across the whole thing like a giant starfish instead of being cramped up in a small cot. There are waves of light sparkling across the ceiling ushered by the rippling off the fan's humming song, and I listen to it until I must drift off after a while.

 

 

Noise.

It's not Joanna like I expected though. It's Lindsey.

“Sorry,” she says, with sheepish expression, “I was trying to be quiet. Jo asked me to come check on you real quick.”

“Okay?”I sit up on my elbows, “Well, I'm good. Probably should...shower though.”

Her expression changes then and she kinda looks down, “Ah...well...” she looks back at me. She's chewing on her lip, “...that's through there.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

I go into the room and lock the door to the room on the other side. The one I can hear Joanna, Lucas and Doug still talking in and then realize that I possibly should have let Lindsey back through but there was that expression...I come back to the other door. Joanna had said something about clothes in a bag, maybe?

Lindsey is sat on the bottom of the bed swinging her legs backwards and forwards she looks over curiously when I reappear, “What's...up?”

“Joanna said there's a bag with clothes in for me?”

“Oh, right,” she stands up and goes to the other side of the desk where the laptop was and pulls out a backpack, “I think they're in here,” she brings it over and offers it to me, rubbing my hands when I take it. Maybe I wasn't—and it's been... “Are you alright?” she asks.

I nod, “Showering, yes,” I turn, taking the bag in with me and close the door. I turn the shower on to heat up because that's a luxury I can wait for now. No risk of shanking or violation, which leads me back to Lindsey and a wonder of if she's going to wind up sneaking in here to the shower given her expressions and whether that would be so bad. It's not like it was co-ed prison.

Let's just examine the clothes which are simple enough, two pairs of underwear and socks, dark jeans, and a t-shirt which I think must be for a band but I haven't heard of it but at least they're not giving me things with Barney or something on them. I lay them back on the backpack and start stripping my own clothes off and dumping them in a pile by the toilet.

There's hotel soap, shampoo and conditioner on a shelf in the shower that I saw which will serve and probably be much better than what I used to get from commissary anyway. Oh, man decent temperature water. I slide in the shower and just stand there for a while letting it wash over me, letting it soak into every part. I'm not in a downswing yet and so it feels extra awesome not just because I can probably take as long as I want.

I'm reaching for the shampoo when I hear a noise from the right. I didn't lock the door to that room...only the one where the trio was. Too late now. I lean over to peek out of the shower.

Lindsey gives me a shy smile, hands on her shirt that's half way up her body, “So,” she says, drawing it out a little, “I was kinda...well, you can see,” she draws that out too, “hoping to join you?” She laughs a little, “I was going to say something like 'need help with those hard to reach places?' but that's kinda out now.”

“Yeah...kinda jumpy around sudden noises,” I point out.

“Should have figured,” she says, rueful, “but I got the impression you might be interested in things happening in here...just a thought.”

“There was a...thought or two...” I admit.

“Yeah,” she moves one hand from her shirt to point to her head, “didn't intend to pick up on it but it kinda involved me so it sorta...telegraphed. So,” she says again, nodding towards me and the shower.

 “Come on in,” I tell her.

She whips off her shirt and shimmies out of the pants and her underwear at the same time, tossing her bra off into the corner, and does a sort of wiggling-walk towards me and then into the shower, and takes a moment to douse herself in the warm water and wet her auburn hair before moving close to me and pressing her body against mine. Her breasts squashed against my chest and, the way she's moving, her lower body rotating slightly over my crotch. She leans up to kiss at my mouth and then slides down arms wrapped around me, a mischievous smile on her face as she does so which I understand when one of her hands moves from being around me to holding my penis and lifting it towards her mouth and then it's inside her mouth and she's sucking back and forth, her head bobbing, and I'm glad that the shower has hand rails because I might slip down the wall otherwise.

She's laughing around my shaft now, the giggle sending vibrations down my length and I know there's a moan sorta merged with an exclamation to a god I don't generally honor.

She pulls back still giggling slightly, water splashing off her shoulders and against me. She hasn't finished things, and she raises up slightly so that it's resting on one of her breasts, “Fancy giving him a better home? I imagine it's been a while,” she gets a teasing look, “or do they let you have conjugal visits?”

I shake my head, “Not the sort you're thinking of or that will keep things up.”

She moves her hand against me a few times, “Well, then, come over here,” she gently tugs on my penis and I release the hand rails and lower myself. She leans back avoiding the spray from the shower and spreads her legs to me. I crawl forward and she wraps her legs around my hips, and I use one hand to guide my penis into her and she pulls me deeper with her legs against my back. I can't brace on the wall behind her because it's too slick so I wedge one hand against the place where the wall and floor meet and use that as a point to thrust from as well as my knees against the floor. The other hand wrapped against her back. Her hands are on my shoulders and her legs around my back and we push against each other struggling with rhythm on the slippery floor until we mostly collapse into a heap of laughter things not properly accomplished.

“They make this look so easy in movies,” she mutters against my shoulder.  

“It's not like there isn't a bed in the other room,” I lean back away from her and she slides off me and I help her up to standing and she turns off the water and we wend our dripping way into the bedroom. She bounces backwards onto the bed, and I jerk myself for a few moments restoring full hardness and then re-enter from standing position. She grips around my butt with her legs again but I run my hands up her legs to pull them more towards my shoulders to help with leverage as I stay standing. We pound and grind each other growing more desperate and urgent as things go and then...release and she knots her feet around the back of my neck which pulls her to a slight angle against the bed and she wiggles from side to side pulling me deeper and trying to entice me back to hardness.

I'm honestly not sure it's going to work.

I bend myself down, and she slides her legs back around my lower body, our faces are closer together and I can nibble at her shoulder and her neck before she takes my mouth with hers and sends her tongue on a search for my own—that helps. It sends current down through my body energizing everything and she moans into my mouth as I fill her, everything tightening together. We continue kissing as I thrust against her and she pushes her groin up against me. The kiss breaks as she's moaning with each push and I spur faster and harder at her command as her fingers scrabble at the bed covers and then grip my own hands that are holding down at either side of her head.

Her grip relaxes and a kiss resumes and I push a last few times to release my own and then disconnect and lay down next to her.

“Now you really need a shower,” she jokes.

“Who's fault is that?” I ask.

She goes to smack me lightly on the arm and I reflexively catch her wrist and then let her go, realizing what happened, “Well,” she says, “I was going for playful.”

“I'll just go get that shower,” I tell her, sitting back up, “I'm sorry.”

She reaches more slowly for my hand, “It's okay. I should have...” her sentence dies then and she looks as though she's fighting her facial expressions for what's going to show through. I didn't notice it before the scent of mind though it's not directed my way. It's just around her own head.

“Should have what?” I demand.

“Expected you'd be,” she turns one hand around in the air almost as if she's not quite aware she's doing it, “your family wasn't...” she trails off again, “...and then.”

I stand up, “Yeah, whatever.”

“What?” she says from the bed as I make my way back towards the bathroom door.

“Just tell Joanna I enjoyed the pity fuck or whatever you need to say to keep her off your ass.”

“But--.”

“I'm going to shower.”

“Fine,” she says, shortly.

By the time I get out of the shower “clean and sparkling” Lindsey and her clothes are gone from the bathroom. I drag my stuff back into the bedroom and lock the door from my side while I dry off and clothe my lower body and then sit on the side of the bed facing towards the window to run the towel through my hair a few times to get most of the wet out. I have no idea even what time it is. Joanna had said something about food...hadn't she?

There's a tentative knock on the between door and then a more forceful one. I'm about to say come in and then remember I locked it so I get up and fix that. Joanna.

“I heard the shower stop so I gave you fifteen,” she says.

“Okay,” I tell her.

“You never did say what you wanted really,” she continues and I realize she's carrying a box, “So, there's a couple of different slices of pizza, some cheese sticks and a few wings.”

“Oh, right.”

She sets the box down on the desk, “One's just pepperoni sausage. The other's some special thing the guy's decided looked good so I figured, you know.”

I put the towel on the back of the chair and take a piece of cheese bread out of the box and munch on it as she watches. She seems relieved that I'm eating but then it has been since breakfast and I'm not sure what time it is now, she said I'd almost slept through late dinner, and that has to have been a while ago.  

“How are you doing?” Joanna asks after I finish the cheese stick and investigate the pizza. The other slice has large chunks of sausage—different than the grounds on the pepperoni pizza, colorful peppers and onions and...is that chicken?

“Fine,” I tell her.

“About before I meant--” she says, “Lindsey was...”

“Is she okay? The drive back is going to be awkward to say the least if--”

“I think we got things smoothed,” Joanna cuts me off, though she has a strange expression for a moment, “You're fresh from the joint that's not prime for touchy feely.”

“No...” the pizza doesn't look appetizing but the wings don't either. It's not what I'm hungry for, is it? I I'm being honest, “How early are we on the road tomorrow?...later today?”

“Does it matter? You're not going to be driving.”

She has a point, “Are you on Watch duty now then?”

She puts the food in the mini fridge apparently guessing I'm not going to eat any more.

“Just for now. Lucas will be in in a bit. Though I told them I felt things were settling down since you'd talked with Stephenson about his offer.”

“Right...” the drum is beginning to beat I can hear it from the bedside table, “but still protocol.”

“It is what we're paid for: why we make the medium bucks,” she gives a slight laugh, “I'm going to pee and check on the others. I'll be back in a few.”

I don't kid myself about why she's giving me space and get it sorted quickly. It's just like riding a bike getting everything mixed and ready. You don't forget. And there's that sweet spot. I loosen the tie and set things back on the dresser leaning back against the headboard. I should have seen if there was something that would have looked really interesting on TV. Ah, well it's not like I've watched much of that lately. I can feel myself sliding down the pillows as the weight shifts next to me on the bed and Joanna appears by my side.

“Doing good, huh?”

“Mmm,” is the only answer I can really give her.

“Mind if I watch a movie? They're playing cards in there, supposedly with no powers to make it fair to Doug. I'm sure there's going to be an argument in about a half an hour.”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

I hear the TV flick on and snippets of sound as she flips through channels and roll onto my side. I can make out some of the screen over her leg as the picture changes. She says something but I can't quite decipher it as I let myself drift. I hear her giggle, and then it's just rocking in a swing.  

 K began the readings using my Steampunk tarot. Her shuffling theme was "looking for 'the girl' meaning you know who and the first card she drew was
Page of Pentacles -- someone tied to the earth, very strong connections and lines, but being occluded as indicated by The Moon, drawn next, hidden from her True Potential. Next drawn Death (inverted), Ten of Swords and Ace of Pentacles she can either use her power to destroy or heal. Her true purpose is to heal but she's being manipulated by The Hierophant (inv)--he's supposed to be a warden but he's corrupted, The Devil, something happened to corrupt him and she should be able to heal the corruption but not while things are going like this. 
(draws card while I'm writing) DAMNATION! 
(shows me card: XVI Tower) Shit, says I. 
(draws more cards for explanation): Two of Wands, Sun (inv), Page of Cups, Nine of Pentacles, Queen of Cups, Two of Pentacles (inv) with The Fool (inv)
The Nine = Deschamps, Sun (inv) = Devereaux. Page and Queen, one is Carver one is Fournier/Mags (K's life). 
draws Seven of Cups (inv)  which goes with the Page, meaning it's Carver. able to see layouts. 
Queen of Cups is tied with King of Swords (inv) who came with Two of Pentacles and Fool (inverted) representing Kieran, so must be Mags. 
These five destroy plans and take "her" out of isolation, but doesn't entirely answer the Tower.

Draws Eight of Swords, Page of Wands (inv), Judgement.
There have been things influencing her decisions but she's not with the warden anymore but still feels trapped and blocked by all the previous information. 
Chariot, Three of Cups.
She has to make a sort of pilgrimage, and decides to give herself over "sacrifice". She's afraid and yet not that it will (Nine of Swords) destroy her but it will also (Six of Wands inv) destory her enemy (Six of Pentacles). She balances things tries to see further than she can (Three of Wands). Two of Cups and Six of Cups instead of making it about everyone she makes it about one person's happiness to save. So, she sacrifices herself without talking to everyone else about this decision. 
Does it destroy everything? 
Wheel (inv), Four of Wands. 
There is the sacrifice but things stop moving in a way, there's not exactly celebration, so enemy is gone? but yet powers don't end...what happened?
Turning over more cards but not getting anything...

So, went to the Halloween Oracle for 3-card relationship readings. 
Kieran vs Mags. 
Kieran=Skull of Darkness (blind spots)
Kieran needs to face things with help because he cannot face them himself and deal with his shit. He must rely on others to pull himself out of darkness. 

Mags=Barnbrack (sweetness and synergy) 
Mags needs to stop over anlayzing everything and take what is going on. Ironic comment about the fact that barnbrack has many things inside of it and she can split into many people (which doesn't help with the overanalyzing). 

Relationship=Skull of Stars (infinite possibility) 
Fuck society. Fuck the Watch. Fuck Stephenson. Fuck all y'all. Ignore what others say about the pillars and do what they know to be right. Combined they have the strength to withstand the obstacles provided stick to guns. 

Kieran vs "the girl" 
Kieran=The Lamp (remembrance) 
? = Winter (sacredness of pausing) 
Relationship = The Underworld (where all things pause and begin) 

Kieran as the lamp is a becon to lead her and may reflect someone she hopes for in a sense "her William" as far as she thinks.

• This is the point K was like OMG and started drawing more cards for the other reading. 
• So back to the Steampunk. 

Devil, Hanged Man, Seven of Wands, Eight of Wands, Page of Pentacles (inverted) with Page of Swords. 

She sacrifices herself with expectation of ending things but nothing changes powers wise in the outside world because it wasn't for the right reason. Her understanding misconstrued because Stephenson had been keeping her in the dark about the way society worked and the pillars weren't properly able to help her understand the real world before she went off "half-cocked" to her decision out of emotion but whatever she did to sacrifice herself caused instead a metamorphosis/evolution (no longer the Page of Pentacles, instead the Page of Swords comes back). When she comes back she has greater understanding, more strength, more power and is better able to do what she was supposed to in the first place but Stephenson stunted her in the hopes of bending her to his purpose. 

• Back to the Oracle reading. 

Kieran vs "the girl" 
Kieran=The Lamp (remembrance) 
? = Winter (sacredness of pausing) 
Relationship = The Underworld (where all things pause and begin) 

Kieran as the lamp is a becon to lead her and may reflect someone she hopes for in a sense "her William" as far as she thinks.
Winter is a time of change but being afraid, preparing for a rebirth,
Underworld is sacfificing for a future life. 

Mags vs. "the girl" 
Megs = Witch (earthly weaver of worlds) 
? = Wise seeing, wise action. 
Relationship = Winter (sacredness of pausing) 

Mags - others are threatened by your growing power but don't be discouraged you can heal things. 
? needs wise council before acting. Needs to think logically and not emotionally. 
In their relationship Mags must help ? to accept that change is necessary for growth. Things remain strained though until ?'s reawakening. 

Then we decided to look for the Carver because they weren't mentioned during the regression, only the Dave equivalent and the Teague equivalent (K's life) and the Wuornos equivalent came up so we did. 

Carver vs. Mags. 

Carver = Trick or Treat (mischief and play) 
Mags = Skull of Darkness (blind spot) 
Relationship = Night song (hidden talents) 

The Carver is wound very tight and can't let anything go especially to relax. 

Then we did some die rolls about them. 
Carver is female, older than Kieran, older than Mike (Deveraux/Dave equiv who is 32) but not by much. Works for watch (crit yes 4/100), conflicted about their work (crit no 96/100), but that is denial talking. Not exactly working against the watch (49/100). 
Kieran knows the Carver (17/100). 
Carver is chick who in game was called Allison Gallagher, one of the Watch members who is sent to clean up after Kieran does his work. She does not know she is the Carver but the Watch suspects. She has manifested a few powers but  not The Big One. 

Back to reading:
Mags cards, blind spots happen because of pre-existing opinions about the Watch and attitudes, this shouldn't be done this way just because it always etc.  
Mags must convince Alli to embrance the power she has as a pillar and make her own decisions but at the same time not act out of her own prejudice. There's also a good bit of "why do you trust KENNICK with this but not me?" and Alli bias against Kennick because the Watch has a bit of boogeyman thing about him and Alli has seen things Kennick has done. 
Kennick being what the Watch knows Kieran as. 

 

I follow Julia through the old graveyard looking about, “So is there a reason your grandfather had same tattoo as a guy who died way before his time a month or so ago?” Much as I don't like reminding myself of that time. There was something about it being made by the local tattoo guy but obviously that's bullshit.

“Probably,” she says.

“And where exactly are we going?”

“Just up there,” she points.

I shake my head at her, considering the amount of area 'just up there' covers. Eventually she stops in front of a gravestone for R. Anderson, the damned symbol is below his name, and then it says he died March 3, 1817, which would make him 39 way too old.

“That's...” I point, “1817. There's no way that's your grandfather.”

“It's not,” she says, “He's back there somewhere.”

“Then who is this?”

“I don't know. I also don't know who that is--” she points to graves one after another, “or that, or that, or that. This symbol has been part of Haven for centuries, Duke. Finding the one man with it as a tattoo who's going to kill you is like Sleeping Beauty's parents trying to keep her safe from spindles by destroying spinning wheels when what they should have been doing is finding a way to break the curse.”

“And by curse you mean...?”

“The Colorado Kid was killed the same way. If we can find who killed him...”

“...maybe we can prevent him from killing me,” I breath a tentative internal sigh of relief, “Well, if that works it will be a lot easier on my nerves,” but how are we supposed to do that exactly? It's still a needle in a haystack just a smaller one.

“There's something else,” and it's apparently big because she's not looking at me, “The reason I came back to Haven...you know my birth family is Troubled.”

“Go on,” I mostly doubt she's going to say that it has anything to do with her family but she's so nervous.

“When my Troubled parent died I inherited the Trouble,” she says and then takes a deep breath steeling herself, “I knew it had happened when I looked in the mirror one morning and found this,” she unbuttons her shirt a small amount and I wonder what I might get to see, then she pulls the sleeve down exposing the top of her left shoulder and there are parts of me that are disappointed, and other parts of me that are concerned when I see the symbol on her arm and how similar it is to the one on the gravestone that we're standing next to. That's not. I know it wouldn't be any sort of joke but still...I look at her, and she nods. I run my finger over the symbol on her arm. It's a tattoo, alright.

She pulls the sleeve back up on her arm and starts to fasten her shirt again, “My Trouble is dormant but the mark means I have it. Uncle Vince told me, before I left, that it was like an heirloom and that when I inherited it I'd need to come back but he couldn't tell me what it means.”

“You knew last night,” my voice catches and comes out quiet, “You knew that symbol but you didn't say anything. Why?”

“Because it's not Audrey or Nathan's business. It's yours, so I waited until I could tell you alone. And until I could show you proof that tracking the man through the tattoo isn't the way to do it,” she says, waving a hand around us at the mass of graves.

I nod towards her, conceding, “Point taken. Do you think you can wheedle more information out of your uncles?” I have a feeling that she's already intending to do so but...

“When I tell them you asked me, yes. You know they don't trust you?”

Such a surprised, “Yeah, well I don't trust them so we're even.”

“As long as you only approach them through me they'll think I've got you somehow 'under control'” she says with very sarcastic air quotes, “and give me just about anything I ask for.”

“You are a devious little wench,” I tell her, and I'm sure I'm smiling. I also know how my brain works, and what it's going to do to me if I'm not careful, “Now that's settled can I ask a favor?”

“Look into the Colorado Kid?”

The thing you're doing anyway, no, I wave a hand at her, “You're already doing that. No, just don't let me focus on the tattoo?” and obsess myself to death.

“Sure thing, Boss,” she nods.

“Good,” I rub my hands together, “Let's get back to the truck. I still have a lot of work ahead of me today,” some on the contract, maybe, not to mention the more important securing of all the things that need to be secured and hidden and slightly rearranged before the poker game, strangers and Audrey wandering around the old girl—all sorts of things can cause problems. There's prep before leaving tomorrow I can get done at the same time.

 

 

We make quick time back to the truck because there's less meandering. We're a minute or so down the road when Julia pipes up with, “Does this mean I still have a shot at making dinner?”

Ha! Not a chance. We should have time to do that before the game starts, “No. You have challenged the honor of your host by fixing breakfast. Now I must reclaim it by providing you with dinner. Don't argue with me. I'm making dinner and that's that.”

“Okay,” she says, more than a little too easily—what's her plot? “Dibs on making breakfast tomorrow.”

“Damn it!” because I'm sure she has absolutely no problem getting up early enough to compensate for when I'll have to leave.

She cackles victoriously and it doesn't take long before my fake angry head-shake turns into a laugh as well and then I shake my head in a different way because I'm being ridiculous.

“How early are you leaving tomorrow?” she asks, “So, I know how to work breakfast.”

“I have to leave by seven,” I tell her, “Is that going to be a problem?”

“Is it for you?”

I look at her to eye roll and she has a shit-eating grin on her face, “I get up early for pay and thus for Gull prep...” that dawns on me then. Gull prep for the next four days, shit.

“Yeah, but that's like, what? Eight-thirty, nine, and even then you look like you hate life itself.”

“Well, that's why Mother Nature created coffee and why I continue to search for the strongest known to humanity.”

“Right,” she says, taking a turn to roll her eyes.

“I don't see you complaining when it's brewed.”

“Fair enough,” she shrugs.

“Would you be willing to do Gull prep for me on the days when I'm away?”

“I've helped you a couple of times I'm sure I can do it. I certainly get up early enough,” she teases.

“Are you going to argue with me if I say I'll pay you?”

She seems to be considering this, “Are you going to dock my pay if I make breakfast with Gull supplies? I already cleaned out the fridge at Mom's house, and I'll be there early in the morning anyway.”

I can't help but laugh a little, “No, that's fine considering I'm running off with your food source.”

“How about if I make breakfast for the uncles? You know, to butter them up since I told them I'd be living with you and now you're running off without me,” she gives me an innocent look.

I grumble a little, “In the interests of bribery fine.”

The innocent look deepens, with wide eyes and fluttering eyebrows and stop it brain, “You sure you don't want to dock my pay?”

“Do you really think they'd be okay with you running off on my insidious criminal activity?”

“Oh so it's insidious criminal activity this time? I thought you were just picking up a box.”

“I'm going on how your uncles think,” I point out.

“Awww,” she pouts, “I was hoping it was an insidious box.”

“You know I don't look in the boxes.”

“Of course,” she says, “That's why I didn't say insidious cargo. Can't you just see the box sneaking around the Cape with its little box cloak trying to blend in with the shadows?”

“If I have to transport a Troubled box my rates are going up, a lot,” I point out as we turn down the road leading towards the harbor.

She laughs, “Alright, so I'll let you pay me for being your kitchen wench, but I want an advance.”

“Oh?”

“I'll need to buy lunch and dinner while you're gone,” she points out as we park and climb out of the truck to get back on board.

“Ah, right. Well, I can do that. Three days lunch and dinner. One day lunch, at least, depending on the weather...” so say four days just to be safe, fifteen for lunch, twenty for dinner, thirty five per day, four days, “at least one forty, so two hundred just to be safe?”

“More than generous, Boss,” she follows me into the state room, “I'll make sure I have things packed.”

“You are staying for the poker game?”

“Yes, of course,” she says, “I just want to be ready to go in the morning.”

I nod.

She disappears into her cabin and I go into the office and look at the contract I've been drawing up, for a little while, then get out the money I promised her and lock up the office.

Julia appears out of her quarters as I'm heading towards the hold, “Need a hand with anything?”

“It would go faster,” I admit, “and I can show you where certain things are. Strangers coming aboard sometimes things can go wrong.”

“With the quality of people you know?” she jokes, “I could never imagine.”

“Are you saying that there's something wrong with the people I know?” I inquire with an arched eyebrow, “because you count among that number, remember?”

“Exception that proves the rule, Boss,” she says.

“Oh, I see.” I pick up a stack of empty crates and move it by the door.

“So, what are we doing?” she asks.

“Right. Sorry. I'm putting empties over here right now, so I can shove certain things in the back corner out of the way,” I point to a couple of crates that are labeled very innocuously as fruit, which is extremely obvious to anyone who knows me given I never truck with actual food, well, never used to, and certainly not on this side of the business, but that's what they came in and that's what the other end is expecting it as so, there you have it, “We need to keep that,” I point to a metal structure on the wall, “and that,” I point to another area, “accessible but not too obvious. This stuff...” other boxes that are actually loaded with things, “that's not so precious. It can stay up front. Let me know if you need a hand with anything.”

“Got it.”

And we set too shifting things around, once we're moving things near the area I told her we needed to keep clear I ask her to wait a moment and show her how to open the cabinet. Inside I keep a double-barreled shotgun and a pump-action and several boxes of spare ammunition. Julia picks up the double-barrel and examines it, and checks to see if it's loaded and flips it closed smoothly. I have to bite my lip and look away for a moment. She's definitely a lot more familiar with guns than I would have expected from knowing her in high school. Stop following that train of thought.

“Right, now,” I say, as she puts the gun back, “Over here,” I slide the panel one way and then the one behind it, “this is the back way out of the hold.”

She ducks through for a moment and peeks around taking the lay of where the panel leads out too and then comes back in, “Should I ask what prompted you to build this? It wasn't here when we were working on the old girl.”

“Self preservation,” I point out, “The great motivator of any building project.”

“Ah,” she says, “That should have been pretty obvious.”

“Well, the past more than a decade have more than taught me that my exit strategies need back up plans and more back up plans, speaking of which—I think the hold is arranged enough I'll show you the passage in the state room,” I start up the ladder and she follows me.

“How many of these are there?” she asks.

“Not that many otherwise it would be sort of pointless,” I turn back to her, “Though there is one in your room. I'm not going to show you where that one is. That one's up to you to find.”

“Fair enough,” she says, “but for now...”

“Yes,” I wave a hand around the the state room, which includes the kitchen area and the table we eat at. I reach under there and detach the gun I have stored and offer it to her. Immediate bonus points for her pointing it away from both our faces and bodies. She quickly disassembles it as though she was putting it away, removing the clip, popping the remaining bullet out of the chamber and checks everything over, then puts the free bullet back in the clip and reloads, and checks the sight, aiming towards the kitchen.

“What?” she says, when she sees me watching her.

I shake my head, “Between this and the shotgun...you're a lot more familiar with guns than I would have expected from...but it has been quite a few years.”

“Wild world, Boss. Girl's gotta learn how to protect herself,” she says, and then before I can say something else she adds, “And defend her ship from boarding parties.”

“That's--”

“What self-respecting wench would just stand by while mutineers ran amok? I'd walk the plank myself if the Cape fell into enemy hands because I couldn't defend her,” she continues.

I have to drag my mind out of the gutter again. Damn it, Crocker, she's not interested. Stop it.

“The Cape and I appreciate your devotion to her safety,” I concede.

She gives a slight smile, “Well, I have to keep my home in one piece.”

“Of course.”

“The other main point of safety is the gun out on deck in the orange junction box on the port side.”

She nods, “I've seen it. Well, I've seen the box,” she amends, “not the gun.”

“Okay,” I nod, looking about to decide what to tackle next. What time is it, yet?

“Still got the gun under the bench on the deck?” she asks.

My brain short circuits again for a moment between the fact that she knows about the weapon and the fact that my lower body is once again trying to betray me and my attraction to the fact that she's so prepared and so...and guest possible room mate stop being creepy, damn it.

“Boss?” she asks.

I realize one of my hands is in the air and I put it down leaning on the counter that separates the two portions of the state room, and keeping that counter between us, “Yes. That's—how do you know about that?”

“You remember when we were working, fixing her up,” she pats the counter affectionately.

Like I'm going to forget this. I give her a look.

She laughs, “Maybe I'm triple checking there wasn't another chameleon,” she says, “I'm speaking about a specific time of course considering that took several months and everything. You were on deck when these guys showed up with...issues. I was watching from the side...”

“Is this when you had the boat hook?” I recall dissuading her from future boat hook use given the risk of inadvertent personal or ally injury and the problems of assault charges with the unwieldy thing and showing her where I kept a baseball bat instead given I had a feeling preventing her from trying to protect my “honor” wasn't going to happen and at least the bat was safer for her, and not wanting her to know that there were guns on board back then if I could help it which was a good half the reason I hadn't immediately gone for the gun the other half being talking people down is much preferable than having to wing someone.

She nods with a slightly rueful smile, “Yeah, anyway, when I was watching to see if I needed to come out, hook blazing, I guess, I saw your hand kinda drift towards the bench, before you managed to talk them down and get rid of them and I was wondering why you were reaching to the bench as a means of aid so...later on I looked under there.”

“And found the gun.”

“And found the gun, yes.”

I shake my head. Well, one out of...two back then, and many more now.

“You still have my baseball bat?” she asks.

I lean my head down towards the counter managing to disguise things with a laugh. It is so good the counter is between us. Vince and Dave in boxers. Vince and Dave in bathing suits, “Yes. Yes, I do. There's that and a big piece of metal pipe out on the deck down behind some of the crates up there but you can move it to somewhere that'll be better for you.”

“I'll check it out when we're setting up for the game,” she says.

“Alright,” I take a deep breath, “Well, I am going to check how clean and stocked up the bathroom is and probably,” definitely, “take a shower before I start making dinner...”

“I'll pack then,” she says, with a determined look that also says she'll have found the slip passage from her cabin before long too.  

 

We keep the bathroom fairly clean so there's not much to do there which is good because I need a shower, and release. So, much...thoughts to purge, especially if we're going to be sitting there all night with poker cards, beer and all that bending and leaning and banter, and yes, bad Crocker, do you want to fuck up your friendship this badly?

This calls for me to conjure up things that are the better to get rid of the lust and there isn't much in recent memory I can think of that's better for purging things than the Russian. The last time I saw her was the day of the Farmer's Market. I can see Ylsa stalking across the room in her leather corset, and black lacy briefs with those long laced up high-heeled boots which come all the way up over her knees, while I can't move, strapped down to the bed, tracing the crop up my leg, telling me off in that thick accent of hers. Running the crop up under my chin, teasing that she might actually grant me a kiss but then smacking me instead, and so it went teasing parts of my body, running the crop or nails tantalizingly against my skin or nipples, gently pressing heels against me, licking the very tip of my penis and then blowing against it but then no, it was not for me, I knew that.

She was teaching me that lesson. That I couldn't have her until I—and as I finish I realize that Ylsa has been replaced in my mind by Julia which is not what I was going for, but it's too late now.

You're betraying me brain, or is it you penis?

Either way I scrub myself off and I can see I'm actually going to be wearing underwear, maybe two pairs to be safe while we're at the poker table. Why are we doing this again? Oh, right, helping Audrey investigate these two jerky poker guys. So, therefore I've had to get the hooks into them to invite them to play and hopefully we can keep them on the line and play again depending on how things go.

I set up the game because she would walk in there smelling of so much FBI/cop that...yeah.

On the boat though she can be cop-in-pocket or something and we can all work our own angles and whatever Trouble they're using can be sorted out and winnings—or money left lying around that's just the cost of business.

In the mean time I need to come up with something to make for dinner as I dress before Julia takes it upon herself to make it. All this bullshit is at least a good distraction from everything else. Shit with Vanessa, with the pick-up I should be out of town for her funeral too, which is good, and there's this tattoo and then Ju—come on we just got through all that.

Dinner. Dinner.

Dinner.

I can hear Julia shuffling around in her room as I make my way to the galley. I wonder if she's found the passage yet.

What to make?

Something simple, quick and tasty given we've still got table and chairs to set up. I rinse and slice some small potatoes and set them to boil in lightly salted water, chop up half a small onion and put the rest into the fridge, then start to sautee it with butter in a pan, and then set to work with the steak that's in the fridge rather than the chicken, slicing it thinly with one of the sharper knives I have and adding it into the sautee pan after I take the onion out. Just enough that it's not raw.

Once the potatoes are soft I put them back in the pan with the onion and some herbs, and then mix up some eggs, and cook them in another pan. Steak and eggs is more a “breakfast food”, but it's quick and tasty, especially with the right seasonings.

“Does this mean I make dinner for breakfast?” Julia inquires as I hand her a plate.

“Did you find your escape route?” I ask her.

“I guess you'll find out if the ship gets boarded won't you?” she says, but then her expression softens to serious, “I rearranged the wall hangings and my dresser to make things a little more accessible and less conspicuous at the same time. Nice ladder.”

“Good,” I nod, “especially with strangers coming on board...”