: Hahaha! Take this!

 : Hahaha!!!

 : Dude, stop!

 : STOP!!!!!!!!!

 : No way, I'm winning! Hahaha!!!

 : Not fair! I'm telling! STOP!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 : No you're not— Hey, get back here—

 : HA! Got you! Take this!

 : AGH— DU— STOP IT!

 : I'm stronger than you!

 : What the heck! You can't do that!

 : Why not? You were throwing rocks at tomatohead yesterday!

 : Dude, everyone throws rocks at tomatohead.

 : ... Oh yeah.

 : Hey, wanna throw rocks at tomatohead?

---

Deep in the slums of Lower Coalint, a small boy navigates cramped, grimy streets with calm familiarity. If he closes his eyes, he can map the area around the orphanage clearly in his mind. The boy frequently finds himself giving directions to drifters and passerbys, left with the lonely feeling that he was more of a signpost than a human being.

 He sits atop the roof of a low commercial building- the canopy itself was no vision of loveliness, but the smell escaping from the steam vent was heavenly. If he couldn’t afford the candy store, he’d allow himself to smell the caramelizing sugar and pretend.

 A small funeral procession is taking place below. The casket seems to float on the shoulders of the pallbearers, weaving its way through the narrow street. Though the coffin is closed tight, Roman feels as if he could see himself inside. As the procession turns a corner, the crowd and casket come to a halt. He’s too far away to make out what’s on the other side of the corner, but it doesn’t matter. The street was blocked, or off limits, or just too cramped to accommodate the crowd, and there’s nowhere else to go. He lets himself stare off into space.

 The last prevailing memories of his mother are engraved into the walls of his skull. They ring with the same frequency as the church bells atop the orphanage, and he yearns for the same peace of mind he had as a mere infant. Roman remembers her smothering, on and on, every morning during breakfast, loud and clear:

 “Keep your head screwed on TIGHT,” she'd say. “Make sure you're always listening to your surroundings, face the door whenever you sit at a restaurant. Keep track of what you own. And don't you ever speak to any adult trying to tell you who you are. Especially if they're trying to get something from you. Matter of fact? Don't trust anyone trying to change you. You know I love you just how you were born. You know mama loves you. Don’t forget, you'll always be my little…”

—He’ll never forget that.

 Suddenly, louder and clearer than the crowd comes a shrill squeal and a crash. A gaggle of children gather around the front of the store below. They aren’t leering over the sweets displayed in the window but watching something on the cobblestone street. He strains and stretches, trying to look past the domed awning blocking his view.

 “I’m sorry! I’ll give it back! I’ll fix it!” a small voice pleads. A burly man—likely the store owner—steps out, driving the keeper of the little voice out from beneath the awning. The crowd of children pull away slightly as a small redheaded girl scrambles back along the cobbles, clutching with one hand a cracked glass candy jar. Even from up on the roof, Roman could see the glass had cut her hand up. Blood was running down her thin wrist. Terrible, Roman thought. You have to steal the small things first, and work up to the big prizes.

 Before the store owner can get any closer, Roman launches himself onto the awning below, sliding onto the ground and pulling the girl away. The owner’s angry shouts and the children’s giggles fade away behind them as they turn into an alley. He pulls her in deeper and deeper, twisting and turning until he’s sure they’re alone. When he finally turns to face her again, he has to pry her fingers off the broken jar to inspect her wounds. He bandages them with scraps of his own undershirt and sends her home. It was getting dark—it’s time for him to head home, too.

 It comes as an awful surprise, then, to open the door to his broom closet room, find her sitting on his bed, holding that same jar with the same bandaged hand, and chewing on a piece of taffy. His bed. For all the orphanage’s shortcomings, he was always grateful that he had his own room and a place to sleep, however small it might be. He didn’t have to sleep pressed between the grimy, squirming bodies of the other children.

 Elise simply smiled at him, teeth stained blue.

 He would come to learn that she kicked, rolled, and talked in her sleep. Elise frequently demanded comfort for her night terrors, and would often wear herself out back into hibernation. And just as much as she loved to cling to him, she loved to run off even more.

 Roman keeps a firm grip on the tail of Elise’s shirt when they go out together, refusing to let her ever distractible nature steer them both into trouble. Controlling her was second best to shooing her away. Even so, his little hands could only take so much tugging and straining. Interrupted by the sweet, aromatic fragrance of a nearby bakery, his grip loosens, finding himself nose first into the alley behind. As a spindly cleaning boy tosses a bag of dry pastries into the dumpster, flies and rats scatter. He has to get to the bag of gold before the pests do.

 On his second stale biscuit, he realizes what was missing. It wasn’t a glass of milk, nor was it his favorite Blue Cactus Jam. Worse. Roman hits himself upside the head once he realizes Elise hadn’t followed him down the alley… nor was she patiently waiting by the storefront. Dragging his spoils along, Roman runs down the street, panicking, scanning for her. Luckily enough, he hears the terribly manipulative cry he’d gotten used to, giving away her location.

 When he sees her, she’s clinging to the leg of a stranger, soaking his jeans with her fat, wet tears. In an act of bravery, Roman lobs the pastry bag at the man’s face and pulls Elise away, clutching her wrist hard enough to the point he was sure it’d hurt her. His grip is impossible to unbind, and he holds on until they make it back to the orphanage.

 Despite his scolding, Elise’s escape attempts continue. She can’t help it, Roman thinks, the same way wild horses can’t help running. It feels better than the idea that she’s doing it to spite him. Days go on, and over and over Roman keeps pulling her away from the pitying, suspicious eyes of strangers. Over time, their faces become familiar. He hadn’t gotten a good look when he’d thrown it, but he was sure that the man he assaulted retaliated against with those brick-shaped biscuits was appearing again and again. Roman didn’t recall seeing any blood splatter that day, but … could he have possibly given him that striking gash over his eye?

 His tousled purple hair stuck up here and there, and his sunken eyes looked deeply tired. Roman thinks of the oldest children at the orphanage- the feeling of being unwanted was so strong it seemed to imprint itself on their faces.

 The last time she ran, Roman told her he’d leave her for good. She stuck her tongue out, spat some seeds at him, and told him it was fine by her. Roman stands his ground, watching from a short distance as she talks to the disfigured man. He won’t do a thing to help- it’s time she learned her lesson.

 : ... I'm not trying to hurt her,

He said, voice lowered in an attempt to soothe Roman. The man bandages her hand, letting go as soon as he finishes.

 : Look, she's bleeding.

 Roman, pushing through his hesitation, moves towards Clyde just enough to make his presence known to Elise. Maybe he really does have good intentions. Tears begin to flow from Elise’s face as she sees her friend come into view. She cries, and cries, and cries, staining his sweater with her tears, and soon her green blood; The grip she had on him was just as unshakeable as all the other days he'd swooped in and defended her.

 : Hey, I just want to help. You can trust me.

Roman doesn’t want to believe him. But it happens again.

 Elise built herself a routine. Unwilling to leave the familiar safety of the courtyard, she plays by herself, leaving Roman to search for food. In his absence she becomes an easy target for bullies. She gets picked on, cries, runs off and it was up to Roman to find her.

Somehow, it was always Clyde.

 He introduces himself the second time. His office was by the orphanage, according to Elise. Roman hears all about Clyde from her- she was the only reason he knew that man’s name. She goes on and on about how nice he is, how she catches him on his breaks, and how much he likes to hear her stories. She made sure to tell him all about Roman, too. The idea makes him squirm–he doesn’t want to imagine how he appears through the filter of Elise’s manic, sugar-addled mind. He wishes he could wring the naivety out of her like water from a sponge.

 Much to his relief, Clyde disappears for a while. Elise cries for a long while over the loss of her new friend, but Roman finds it much easier to disregard the sound of sobbing over incessant blabbing. By the time she has no tears left to cry, they receive a gift. The box is scuffed on all sides and dented in the corner. The caretaker who’d handed it to them had given them a warm, albeit tired smile before turning her attention to stopping a nearby scuffle between two other children.

 There is no card or comforting note, only a label listing the recipients: Elise, Roman, and the sender, “C.” Inside are trinkets and candies, a doll for Elise, and a sweater for Roman. Before he can refuse the gift and shut the box, Elise makes sure she’s loud and clear, telling Roman he looks “ugly”, “frumpy,” and he “smells like Sewer Hyraxes”. She pulls at his frayed hoodie and sticks her finger in one of the many holes, poking Roman in the side. Over. And over. And over …

 The thought of being annoyed like this for the rest of his life makes him submit, and he gives up his old rags. When Clyde returns, Elise lets him hear all about Roman’s gracious acceptance of the gift.

 He'll never admit she was right; that Clyde would give them a place to live, food to eat, a bed to sleep in... He'll never tell her she made a good choice. But deep down, she knows he wants to say thank you, Elise, for doing what I can't.

---

If, in the 3 years he's been living in Coalint, you'd told Clyde he would build himself a foundation just to steal some eggs from another bird's nest, he'd look at you like you were crazy.

 First and foremost: he was no bird, nor did he have a "foundation". What he had instead, was a modest wage built off doing a bunch of shit he never signed up for. Secondly: he’d never let himself be caught with his hands in someone else’s pockets. Not unless a large sum was offered, then he'd consider it, before ruminating over the consequences. The downsides often eclipse the reward, and create a fruitless dilemma.

 Clyde had underestimated just how energetic his new roommates could be. He hesitates to call them troublesome- that felt like a step backwards from the honorable side of him that’d agreed to devote his life to fatherhood at a young age.

 He can’t allow himself to have any second thoughts now, even as he struggles to get a word in with Elise. Her excitement seemed to spill out in waves, as her curious (but innocent) thoughts drove away nearby ears with no end in sight. She liked to squeal and shriek with happiness, headbutt him, tug his hair, and climb all over him like a weevil … so on and so forth.

 Even worse, she had a knack for revealing insecurities he never thought he had. Was his stubble really that … unappealing? The girl made it a point to let him know she prefers a smooth face, and the poor man would suffer the rest of his life avoiding her forked tongue. Clyde admires her for her boundless energy. On the contrary, Roman stays wary, and watches from a distance just as before.

Sometimes, she worries him.

Other times, he wishes he could join in.

 As Clyde breaks down a cardboard box, he tosses the last of the pieces into a haphazard pile and wipes the sweat from his forehead. Cleanup work complete, he then drops himself onto Elise’s bed and spends the rest of his time watching her paste small paper stars on the walls of her new room. Sadly, the decorations were poorly adhered and rushed to curl at the tips. He was worried he’d have to go back to the store and scrounge for more, but Elise seemed not to care too much. Her decorations were simply the best.

Floral-pattered curtains billowed in the breeze from the open windows, and the pull-string of the lightbulb swayed. Clyde’s eyes follow the string’s rhythmic movement, back, and forth, and back and forth …

 … There are still boxes in the bathroom, and he had to put his own bedframe together. The movers had no doubt misplaced the screws. Clyde wonders how long he’d get away with sleeping on a mattress on the floor—It was a good thing he didn’t plan on having anyone over.

 The sound of a loud electrical ZAP shakes Clyde from his thoughts. He and Elise emerge into the living room with haste… before realizing it was just Roman adjusting the TV. News broadcasts, soap operas and martial arts matches flicker through static as his hands twist the antennas. He bends one downwards by just a measly millimeter… and he’s got it!

 Roman stands proudly (smugness exuding) once the static gives way to the smiling face of Coalint’s local weather woman. Clyde crosses his arms, impressed with the little boys skill, while Elise leans against his leg.

 : You didn’t tell me you were good at technology.

Bashful for a minute, Roman reverts to standoffishness the moment Clyde pats his shoulder. Before he can open his mouth, the little tumor scampers back to her room, and then back out, squeezing through the two to stand by the TV.

 : I’m good with techs, ‘n stuffs, too.

 : AND! I'm even BETTER! with DECORATING!!!

Elise places a small, lopsided crocheted cat on top of the TV.

 … It immediately topples over against the antenna.

 Another ZAP, and the television shuts off. Elise gasps in horror, falling to her knees as if she watched a million deaths occur in the mere seconds the television would take to go black.

 : You dummy! You messed it up!

 : Is that any way to talk to the lady of the house?!

Clyde plops himself on the couch, sinking into the cushions. He massages his neck, stretching it from side to side.

 : Some lady you are. You got glue stains on your shirt.

 : Eek! Well… you’re… you…

Elise pushes Roman.

Roman pushes Elise.

 The two start to poke, prod, pinch, and bite each other. Clyde, unphased, digs the remote out from under a couch cushion and turns the TV back on. The hot beam of iridescent light illuminates the room and momentarily blinds Roman and Elise, halting their scuffle.

  : HISSSSS!!

 Eyes shut, the kids prime their bodies for physical destruction as the light dims. To his dismay, the blind tussle never slows down, leaving the pair in a pitiful wrestling match. Clyde slides himself off the couch with a sigh and peels the two apart, holding Roman back with one hand, and scruffing Elise with the other. To him, the feeling of tossing her over the couch is the same as doing yardwork. There were no dandelions that withstood his grasp, and Elise accepted her fate once tossed away.

Elise bounces off the cushions, rolling comfortably into place. She watches Clyde wrestle with Roman, who stood his ground rather firmly. Mud reflexively caked his feet, caking him to the ground. The boy refused to let go. Clyde, defeated, figures he’s no match for this kid. He’d rather shuffle back to the couch, and slump himself in the middle seat.

 Fighting is pointless, especially when the… weather channel… is on…

 : …How about a movie instead? If you two promise not to fight, we can make some popcorn.

 : Omigosh! Popcorn!

 : I want sweet! Sweet for me!

 : I want the salty popcorn. With seasoning.

 : (... Do we even have any s-)

 : YUCKY!!!

---

 : ... Yeah,

 : It went fine.

 : Okay, you already know what I wanna ask.

 : Here she goes.

 : Were any of the movers... sexyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy~?

 : I … was not paying attention to that.

 : So he says! I know at least ONE of them had a nice ass.

 : Shut up. You hardly get any action yourself.

 : You wound me, Madame Camille.

 : That would be for the best.

Keanu clears aside the empty drinks with one hand, popping open their fresh new bottle of champagne with the other. The burst of the cork is barely audible over the club ambiance, with other patrons muddying the soundscape even further.

 : Ha-ppy THIRD BIRTHDAY, to LCPS!

 : YAHEE!

 : What’re the resolutions, boss? Maybe some pro-mo-tions for your lo-yal em-plo-yees~?

 : Maybe some layoffs.

Keanu flops back into his seat. He immediately raises his hands to his chest in protest, signaling to the lady that Yes He Will Back Off, and Sorry, and then a Sorry Again For Existing, all before pouring himself some more champagne. To make matters worse, he tips the bottle into his seatmate's glass, and fills it to the brim. Clyde gladly accepts, blessing Keanu with a slight nod of appreciation. He’s already flushed, and a bit dizzy, but… it’d be rude to decline. Besides, who was he to deny a little party time?

 : I still can’t believe how beautiful that new office is- what a steal!

 : Yeah, you must’ve really twisted that agent’s arm.

 : It’s all about keeping your options open. You never know when a deal like that’ll pop up.

 : Ha, options, right. You sure he wasn’t just too scared to haggle with you?

Casey shifts slightly, and the loud THUMP under the table could be heard by anyone with ears. Keanu squeals, pulling his leg back and rattling the tabletop as if he’d been mortally injured. Camille instinctively keeps the wobbling drinks upright. Even with her efforts, Keanu finds himself in a moment of weakness, his lap drenched with booze. Drink in hand, Clyde studies Keanu’s pained expression, Casey’s slight smirk, and Camille’s flushed face. He covers his mouth with his free hand, muffling his laughter to avoid getting caught.

 As she stabilizes the glasses and bottles with her outstretched arms, Camille catches a glimpse of Clyde’s red, smiling face. She giggles until she hiccups boorishly, and her contagious laughter beckons the others to join in. Losing herself in joy, she points at Clyde for slipping off his mask, which would then prompt Clyde to point back. Keanu, just as astounded by the sight of Clyde smiling as Camille is, begins to snicker himself.

On the brink of full-on sobbing, Clyde wipes his eyes. He’s had his fair share of laughter. As his vision returns, he notices Casey missing from the table. What a shame. He’s never seen her laugh. What surprises him further, is that neither Camille nor Keanu seem concerned by her absence. Instead, they order more drinks, desserts, and a round of snacks.

Clyde looks back at Casey’s spot. Her jacket, likely still damp, is gone–she must be outside. The music was too loud to hear the rain, but he could see it running down the glass door straight across the bar, cold and blue.

 Camille takes it upon herself to “ration” the appetizer. She sips from her drink and props herself up on the table, guarding the warm pretzels and olives with a mischievous look.

 : I paid for them, why don’t I get a bite?

 : You WILL! But you’ve gotta say please.

 : Please?

 : It wasn’t sincere enough. I bet Clyde can do better.

Clyde looks down at the plates. The olives, covered in small red and green flakes of herbs and sat in a pool of golden oil, glisten in the colorful lights of the bar. They did look nice. It’d been hours since lunch, and the (three, four?) drinks made the pit in his stomach grow deeper.

 : … Please?

 : See! When he does it, it’s cute.

 : Who says I’m not cute!?

 : Say “aaahhhh,” Clyde!

Camille stabs an olive with a toothpick and leans across the table towards Clyde. He presses himself back against the vinyl upholstery, eyes widening and face flushing deeper. She seems to move in slow motion, closing in on his face. Though he opens his mouth to object to being fed, it gives Camille the perfect opportunity to lurch forward, stuffing the olive in his open mouth. She smiles dopily at him, hand still on the toothpick, proud of herself for winning her own game.

 Just as quick as she moves forward, she slams herself back into her seat, tucking her hands in her lap and looking down. Clyde turns slowly to his left. Casey stands at the end of the booth, dripping wet.

 : Clyde.

Seconds pass.

 : We have some shit to do.

 : What?

 : Now?

 : Yeah. Big one. You're coming. I got tickets for two.

 : Now? When—

 : Phone call.

All he can do is frown.

 Why me? is what he wants to ask, but the answer is clear.

 He looks to Camille and Keanu in their drunken beatitude. Once their waiter came, the girl kept the wings all to herself, laughing as Keanu suffered through the sticks of celery (AND ranch). They smile, laugh, argue... and Clyde laments that they have to do the same dirty work he does.

 Clyde hangs on to the warm sight as long as he possibly can as he slowly slinks out of the booth. He shivers as the outside cold snakes in. Taking his time making it towards the door, Casey waits outside under the storm-battered awning. The wind blows the rain onto her boots, but she doesn’t seem to feel a thing. Clyde, accepting his incoming misery, gets hit with her piercing expression–as if she means to say, “Don’t disappoint me again.”

Rainier is just an hour away.

 The two huddle in the empty train car. Even Casey seemed to relax once they crossed the threshold from icy rain to warm car. As the doors slid shut, a VTranspo jingle played, announcing weather delays, safety measures, and all the other junk he doesn't care much about. Still, he can’t help but hum along–he’s only watched their commercials about a thousand times. If Casey was judging his affinity for daytime television, she didn't show it. She sits quietly instead, eyes closed, and brows still furrowed.

 Clyde peers through raindrop-speckled windows as the caboose pulls out the tunnel. He squints, but it's far too dark to make anything of the world beyond the train tracks. It didn’t matter much, though. If there’s anything to see here, Casey would chastise him for spacing out so much. She’d remind him, with that tone in her voice, that he isn't on vacation.

 : ... We're going to... this... warehouse.

 : Okay.

 : It's an in and out deal.

 : When we reach one of the hallways, I'll tell you where to go. All you have to do…

 : Is your job.

Clyde looks past her. He stares back into the window.

 : You're the barrier. Stop them and protect me from getting swarmed.

 : I'll take care of the rest.

 : Okay.

 : If you need to kill someone, then do it.

 : All I need is for you to watch my back, and we're set.

 : ... Okay.

Clyde sinks back against the hard plastic seat. The pitch black absence of scenery continues to fill the windows, save for the occasional empty station lit by harsh electric lamps. They must be on the last train–the station lights shut off as soon as they pull out.

 If he looked at it another way, Casey might’ve been doing him a favor. He’ll do the job right this time and win her trust—She was giving him the second chance he needed. It was way better than sitting around drinking the night away. He’ll be doing some real good for the company.

 Casey closed her eyes again, and sat stock-still across from Clyde. Looking at her permanent frowning brows and tight lips, he was more sure than ever that any positive impression he had on her was completely squashed by his first failure. He’ll need about a thousand second chances to get on her good side, if such a thing exists.

... Clyde is drenched.

 And he hates it.

It's gloomy, wet, and cold.

 : Remember what I said.

Clyde looks up towards the sky. Storm clouds always seem to front as a knell for a bad day.

 What else is there to do?

---