Ami-chan Writes

“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

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

“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

• This is the point K was like OMG and started drawing more cards for the other reading. 
• So back to the Steampunk. 

• Back to the Oracle reading.