Chapter Text
Paintbrush would say their life is… normal enough. Something like that, at any rate.
Sure, their roommate and girlfriend is a mad scientist incarnate who will gladly take anything near her apart without even thinking about it. They’ve gone through five remotes already since moving into their dorm last semester, and keeping them out of Test Tube’s reach is a futile effort. At least right now, she’s so busy with schoolwork that they don’t have to religiously guard it.
Right now, their biggest problem is that, well, they’re currently horribly late.
They rush around their dorm, loudly cursing as they try to get everything together for their morning class. Of course they had slept in, more preoccupied with cuddling their girlfriend instead of paying attention to the alarms they turned off. Setting five different alarms to ensure that they wake up in the morning means nothing if their mind is too stubborn to pay much attention to them.
Usually, they’re much more punctual. By the time their second alarm starts on their phone, they’re already up and at it, having more than enough time to do everything they need to and to not rush in the slightest, although they typically go fast anyway. But unfortunately for them, today is a Wednesday, the one day Test Tube doesn’t have any classes. Which means that she sleeps in, and as a consequence, Paintbrush sleeps in too.
Not to sound sappy, but they do love their girlfriend a lot. They’ve only been dating for a few months, but it’s going a lot better than their last relationship. They definitely got lucky, having Test Tube assigned as her dorm mate. They probably wouldn’t have met otherwise, since it’s not like they have any classes in common. Test Tube is full steam ahead when it comes to STEM, and Paintbrush is… an art major. (Not that they don’t have their own thoughts on that. Part of them wants to seriously rethink that decision, but they don’t have the time because they’re-)
“Late,” they hiss bitterly underneath their breath. “Damn it, where did I put that canvas?! I definitely need it for today’s assignment!”
“Have you tried checking underneath Diamond Crusher?” Test Tube calls, looking amused from her spot sitting at their dining table. She has a steaming mug of tea clenched in her hands, a smile twitching on the edges of her lips. “He has a habit of lying on your things,”
“Yeah, and it’s annoying,” they grumble in response, as if they don’t constantly coo over everything their cat does when in a better mood. Their… totally illegal cat. Yeah, the college dorms have a ban in place when it comes to having pets in them, but what were they supposed to do, just leave him back home? He would get lonely!
Not that they’re sappy, sentimental, or anything of the sort. It’s just common sense.
They pick up Diamond Crusher, the cat’s legs dangling in the air as he lets out an irritated meow. Unsurprisingly, there’s their canvas, bits of brown cat hair scattered about the pencil sketch. With an irritated huff, they brush the cat hair off before tucking the canvas underneath their arm before glancing toward Test Tube.
“I’m heading off to class,” they wearily announce. “I’ll be back in a few hours,”
“Don’t be gone for too long,” Test Tube teasingly replies as she produces a blueprint from somewhere and scans it, her brilliant green eyes narrowed as a finger traces lines of scrawled writing. They smile in exasperation as they leave, shaking Diamond Crusher off their heels as they do so.
Trudging through the courtyard, more than able to manage the somewhat lower temperatures, they move forward single mindedly, refusing to stop for anything. Even if they run into Marshmallow, who details new ways to break her neck, get suspended, or both, they won’t let themselves be distracted.
Just as they’re halfway to the building that hosts the majority of their classes, though, they stop, tilting their head. It sounds like there’s music playing, but not in the way where someone has their window open while blasting trashy pop or something. It only has one instrument in it, something that sounds stringed but definitely isn’t a guitar. It sounds like someone is playing an instrument live, but the orchestra hall is pretty soundproof.
In fact, the further they walk, the louder the music gets. Just as they turn a corner, they see the source of it: there’s a man with red hair, yellow on the underside of it, playing a stringed instrument that they don’t recognize. Behind him is a woman with tanned skin and wavy blonde hair, a sunny smile on her face as she bobs her head along to the beat. Judging by the relaxed, sunny expression on her face, the two seem to know each other pretty well.
Around them is a crowd that seems appreciative of the music. A red bowler hat with a yellow feather sticking out of it has been placed onto the floor with various wrinkled bills and shiny coins forming a thin layer in the hat. The hat is as old-timey as the two’s outfits. Maybe they’re costumes, then? The stringed instrument the man carries–they want to say it’s called a mandolin, even if they don’t have a clue if that’s right or not–definitely fits the vibe.
Ah, Paintbrush gets it. This is a performance art of some sort, different from just usual busking. They bet if they were to talk to either of the two, they would be in complete character as medieval folk, or something like that. Interesting, but not something that’s enough to make them stop for more than a moment. Maybe if they’re still here after class, they’ll sit down and listen to a few songs.
If nothing else, the energy in the air as the man plays his mandolin with a peaceful expression on his face is completely electric. It’s as if each note plucked lingers in the air, and each note compacts on the last, until the air is charged with energy. Something about it makes their breath stutter and their heart skip a beat.
Maybe that’s just the magnetic pull of live music. They’ve been to a few concerts, and they didn’t feel exactly like this, but the man obviously has some sort of skill. Since it’s enough to make them feel like this, they suppose there’s no harm in pulling out their wallet and throwing a spare five their way.
As the bill floats through the air and lands in the man’s hat, the woman turns to Paintbrush and offers them such a wide, dazzling smile that it makes their cheeks heat up. The woman kind of reminds them of the sun, in more ways than one.
They don’t say anything, though. They just cross their arms and shift in place for a moment, knowing that they should be rushing to class but feeling oddly reluctant about leaving. Finally, they manage to take a step forward, and as if the spell had been broken, they manage to move forward once more, breathing strained as they place one foot in front of the other.
Even as their class begins and their professor begins to lecture, they can’t get the performance out of their mind. They can’t get the blonde woman out of their mind, more specifically. They know that’s a bad thing to be thinking, considering they do have a girlfriend, but it’s hardly their fault that woman shined so bright.
Quickly after their first class ends, they have the next one, the one that required searching for their canvas with such energy. Luckily for them, this one doesn’t require having to pay attention to a lecture that quickly causes them to lose more and more interest. Instead, they just get to continue working on this sketch. Hopefully, if they’re inspired enough, they can start painting soon.
All around them is the sound of focused art students as they scribble on canvases of their own. One of them is even painting already. The assignment at the moment is to sketch out something with pencil before you start painting and compare it to a prior painting done without any sketching to see which one you prefer; sketching or just going head first into things.
Personally, Paintbrush already knows what they like. They’re aware enough of their flaws, including the fact that they’re a chronic overthinker. When they have a chance to undo things without consequence, they spend far too long trying to get something they’re happy with. When that comes to art, though, that doesn’t really exist. They’ll always find some kind of issue with things. They’d rather just throw bits of paint onto a canvas and be stuck with what they have as opposed to never getting anything done at all.
Squinting at the sketch they have on their canvas, they’re suddenly struck by how… inadequate it feels, they suppose. They’re much more partial to the idea of abstract art, especially over realism. They don’t care how it’s viewed in the art world; anyone can draw a landscape, but only they can draw something that’s personal to them.
What they have now is fine. If they just grabbed some paint and placed it onto the canvas without a thought for planning or neatness, they would probably even complete the painting. But the longer Paintbrush stares at their canvas, the less they want to fill out this sketch.
As they purse their lips, another idea suddenly bursts into their mind, bright and near fully formed as it swirls in their mind like a starburst of color. Their breathing stutters for a moment, before their eyes narrow and they begin to erase what they have already with determined vigor. They hardly feel bad about it, either. Abstract art is hard to sketch out, at least in their experience, and it’s not like it gets a good grade in college anyway.
Instead, they had gone with a landscape. Easy, generic, meaningless. They definitely wouldn’t go as far as to say they had wanted to paint it, but they weren’t against turning it in. With the idea that had popped into their mind, though, they were able to come up with something they had truly enjoyed and wanted to paint.
Now the question was, how were they supposed to sketch it out?
Chewing on the end of their pencil in exasperation, they know full well that the idea for what they want to paint will soon drop clean out of their mind if they spend too much time sitting here debating it. But sketching is part of the assignment. They have to do something.
Ultimately, Paintbrush decides to go with the easiest way out and sketch out only the big parts of the drawing. Smaller details and the background are things that they’ll get to when a paintbrush meets canvas, paint smeared across the off colored white to make something completely new. No need to try to make any decisions immediately.
So they sketch, determined to get everything done quickly so they can get to the part of the assignment they’re actually excited for. This class lasts for two hours, so if they spend half an hour sketching…
Things work out well in the end. They finish the sketch in twenty minutes, and it’s so sparse and simplistic that it’s hardly worth any sort of grade. That’s what paint is for, though. They create their palette consisting of bright and harsh colors, contrasting sharply against each other even in their plastic paint palette. Sitting down, they press their brush against the canvas and let out a shaky breath as the first streak of paint is brushed onto the canvas.
No going back now. All they can do is see what they can do with the decisions they’ve made.
Their idea had been based on the brief snippet of music they had heard as they walked across the courtyard, solid as each note took form into the air. It made it hard to breathe, the extra space in the air pressing against their chest. They know music is a form of art, and the point of art first and foremost is to elicit a reaction from an audience. But they hadn’t known that music could feel like that.
So they work off of that memory, sketching a formless, featureless person in the middle of the canvas, body twisted in motion as they’re surrounded by splattered bits of color and shapes meant to represent the weight of the music. It’s a work in progress, but they’re happy with how things are going at the moment. They’re positive the colors they use will bring it to life.
As they paint, their professor walks across the classroom, nodding and letting out thoughtful hums as he passes each student’s desk. Paintbrush is dreading him coming to a stop at their desk, but they try not to be daunted by it. They just continue to paint, not quite able to be completely focused on it.
His footsteps stop directly next to them, and as much as they try not to look up, they can see him looming out of the corner of their eye. Staring at their canvas? Most definitely. Judging them? Considering his tastes in art, they wouldn’t be surprised. Part of them is tempted to turn and snap at him, as if he was just one of the many people who watch artists work instead of a person in a position of authority over them.
Instead, they just try to paint, trying in vain to bottle up their anger and anxiety. Just don’t say anything, just don’t say anything…
Unfortunately, their luck can never be anything but shitty. “I thought you were doing a landscape,” their professor says, the scowl on his face audible in his words even if they don’t bother to look at his face.
“I was,” they say flatly, words coming out as an exasperated groan. “But I got new inspiration. So I changed what I was making.”
“Hm,” he doubtfully replies. “It’s hardly realistic.”
“That’s not the point,” they hiss.
“And you’ve barely sketched anything,” he adds. At least that criticism is in any way valid. “For this assignment, it would have been better to go with the landscape to show how sketching things out beforehand influences your work.”
“Well, I’ve already started painting,” they venomously reply. They’re trying their hardest to avoid looking up and meeting the man’s narrowed eyes, because they don’t want to see how obviously he’s doubting them and their work. “It would be a waste to change it now.”
Their professor scoffs quietly under his breath as he walks away. Distantly, they're aware of the way he stops at another desk and complements that student. When they furtively glance over their shoulder, bitter jealousy swirling in their gut, they see a realistic portrait on the canvas.
Of course. That’s the issue they’ve always had with art. When they were young, they would draw and draw, improving at a rapid rate. They were able to draw in a realistic art style by eleven, and after two years they had gotten shading down to a t. The issue was, always drawing in a realistic style grew brain meltingly dull after a while. They found themselves attracted to more abstract styles. Picasso was like their hero.
When they fully switched to abstract paintings, that’s about when the compliments dried up. It was discouraging, seeing the way people’s faces scrunched up as they looked at their art. Just because it didn’t make sense at first glance didn’t mean it made any of their art work immediately invalid! It just wasn’t fair.
Still, they did have a passion for art, and they didn’t have any clue of what else they would do with their life. And they figured, just maybe, college would be more accepting of the art they created. Instead, they get embittering scorn. It’s awful, and they’re more than a little tempted to drop out right here and now.
But without college, they wouldn’t have met Test Tube. They can’t say the same about their ex, that’s for sure. So all Paintbrush can do is weather the storm right now and try their hardest to fight for acceptance or… die trying, they suppose. What else are they supposed to do with their life, when the only thing they’ve ever received a scrap of praise for is their art?
In the end, they storm out of the class with a huff. If they run into any sort of inconvenience, they might just bite someone’s head off. They aren’t in the mood for anything after that. They just want to lay on their torn third-hand couch and get cat hair all over them while they rant and rave to a sympathetic Test Tube.
God, their girlfriend is so lucky. Innovation is a major tenet of science. When she does things no other has done before, she’s hailed as a hero, everyone excited to see what she’s done and try to build on it. When they think outside of the box and do things that other artists don’t, they receive doubt and scorn. They can’t help but be sick of it.
Paintbrush goes back across the same courtyard they had traversed hours ago. Instead of feeling nervous and rushed, they’re just frustrated, and they kick a nearby small rock and feel satisfied as it clatters across the sidewalk. As they continue to walk, they catch the eye of the performers they had passed in the morning.
The man isn’t playing his instrument anymore, and the crowd has completely dispersed. Instead, the two are just chatting with one another, looking relaxed and at ease. Seeing them like that doesn’t help their already pissed off mood, and they try to trudge across the cracked concrete quickly, hoping the two won’t call out to them. Unfortunately, they can never be so lucky.
“Hey, you’re the person from earlier!” the woman announces, brandishing a finger at them as a goofy grin spreads across her face. “I could tell you were really enjoying our performance earlier, but you didn’t even wait for the song to finish before you disappeared into that building over there. Did we sound that bad?” She pouts, fainting dramatically into the man’s arms. He’s smaller than she is, but supports her weight with no complaints and a wide grin.
“No? I had class,” they flatly reply, raising an eyebrow.
“Class?” the man parrots, blinking. He and the woman seem to not be able to comprehend the concept. Their reaction is so suspicious that they can’t help but narrow their eyes, pressing their lips into a thin line.
“Do you guys even go to this university, or are you just sitting here begging for money?” they flatly ask, a hand on their hip. As they speak, they stroke their chin, feeling bemused by the scratchy stubble on it.
The woman grins, resting her elbows on the man’s head as she smiles sweetly at Paintbrush. “No comment,” she says sweetly. “Hey, since we’re here, we might as well introduce ourselves, right? I’m Lightbulb, and this goober is Fan! I’m the brains, he’s the brawn.” She sticks out her tongue as she says that. They can’t help but feel dubious at that declaration, given that Fan is scrawny and has hands made for deftly playing an instrument as opposed to punching people.
“Paintbrush,” they slowly reply, arms crossed over their chest. “And you didn’t answer my question.”
“Well, it’s very nice to meetcha, Painty,” Lightbulb replies, getting to her feet and bowing. “Are all of your classes done for the day? The two of us could serenade you for a bit.”
“Oh, sure, just volunteer me for this, why don’t you?” Fan huffs. Despite his words, though, he has a wry smile on his face, and his amusement is obvious. They hadn’t noticed it before, but he has a dimple on the side of his face that comes out when he smiles. “Alright, which song are you thinking?”
They aren’t quite sure how they managed to end up in this conversation to begin with. Lightbulb is so exuberant that she’s able to pull Paintbrush in without even trying, they suppose. “When I passed by, he was the only one doing any sort of quote-unquote serenading,” they point out, brandishing a finger at Fan. “What can you do?”
“Oh, I can sing!” she announces in response, grinning brilliantly. “I don’t do it all the time. Sometimes it’s better to let Fan’s music speak for itself.” She shrugs, and Paintbrush can’t muster the urge to disagree. “But you went through the trouble of stopping by. Might as well bring out the big guns, right?” She winks at them and offers them some finger gun.
Paintbrush doubts Lightbulb is actually flirting. She just seems really friendly, like a golden retriever. But her words are enough for their cheeks to dust pink, and they can’t help but scowl as they duck their head. Is that the kind of person they are, easily swayed by people who are even the slightest bit friendly to them? Or can they only last a few months in a relationship at most before getting bored?
Either way, they feel bad. As they readjust the bag slung over their shoulder, they glance back up, Lightbulb’s big brown eyes still staring hopefully at them. “I should be getting back to my dorm,” they mutter in response, rubbing at the back of their neck. “My cat and girlfriend are waiting on me.” They try not to put too much emphasis on the word girlfriend, but in the end they don’t have a clue whether their attempt at casualness works or if it feels too feigned.
“Aw, that’s a shame,” Lightbulb replies, puffing out her cheeks in disappointment. “We’ll probably hang around here for a while, though. So we’ll be around if you want to hear more songs!”
“Here as in the courtyard or the college campus?” they respond, eyes narrowed. They don’t actually care much about whether the two go to this school or not, but the two's behavior is so suspicious that they wouldn't mind some kind of explanation for it.
“Both are good,” she sagely replies. Paintbrush rolls their eyes and begins to walk away. As they do, they see the woman jumping up and down out of the corner of their ear. “Bye! See ya later!”
“Wait!” Fan squawks, shoving his mandolin into Lightbulb’s hands as he scrambles to his feet. He fumbles through the pockets of his baggy, leathery pants until he produces a yellowed paper with so many folds it’s definitely on the verge of tearing. He runs after them, stopping just to their right, and doubles over wheezing as he tries to catch his breath. They just raise a brow, unimpressed. They only took a few steps forward.
“What is it?” they reply, tilting their head.
“We’re actually looking for some people,” Fan explains. Lightbulb, who had walked forward as Paintbrush had spoken, nods sagely. “One of them is a friend of ours. We got separated when we ended up here. Her name is Apple, she has red hair and dark skin and freckles. She’s pretty short, kinda chubby, and has flowy red robes.”
“Okay,” they say slowly, drawing out the word. Their mind latches onto the word robes, because with how the two of them are dressed, they seem more like characters out of a fantasy book instead of the real world, and apparently their missing friend is the same. With Fan’s cropped cloak and leather vest alongside Lightbulb’s hood and oddly priest-esque robes, they stand out against Paintbrush with their gray headband and paint-stained apron. “Who’s the other?”
“She’s- hm,” Fan huffs, furrowing his brow as he thinks. “It’ll probably be better if I show you the poster, but-” As he speaks he glances down at the wrinkled paper grasped in his hand as he bites his cheek.
When Fan falters, Lightbulb interjects, slinging an arm around his shoulder. “She’s really short, would probably go up to only your waist,” she begins, miming her height. “She has mostly blonde hair and these really scary amber eyes. Has a strong accent, too. Her name is Taco, although you probably shouldn’t approach her if you see her?” Her voice rises at the end as she furrows her brow.
“Yeah, yeah!” Fan adds, rolling on his heels. “She’s pretty dangerous, although maybe that’s because she knows why we’re chasing her? I’ve heard she’s also pretty manipulative, too!”
“Bottom line, avoid her,” Lightbulb concludes with a nod. Paintbrush’s head is spinning from how quickly they bounced off one another, picking up where the other left off effortlessly. Not even they and Marshmallow are like that, and they’ve known each other since the end of middle school.
“Uh, why are you looking for her, exactly?” they say dryly. “She doesn’t sound the most pleasant.”
“Long story,” Lightbulb says, her smile remaining affixed to her face even as Fan sobers, the man staring at the cracked concrete. “Maybe we can tell you the whole story later?” She spreads her hands into the air as she speaks, looking excited by the concept. “It has drama, intrigue, magic! And Fan is as good at telling stories as he is at playing music.”
To be honest, Paintbrush doubts they’ll cross paths with the two of them again any time soon. It’s a big campus, after all, and since they doubt the two of them even attend this university, campus security will probably catch onto them at some point and kick them out. It’ll be the one time they’re even competent.
And yet, despite being keenly aware of that, they can’t help but smile ever so slightly. When Lightbulb says something like that, she’s not saying it as an offer or even a promise. She sincerely believes in her ability to find Paintbrush again and spin as many stories as she wants. They doubt things will work out that way, but what’s the harm in entertaining it?
“Sure,” they agree, tilting their head. “Next time.”
— — —
God, Nickel really can’t stand Balloon. Just where does he get off, being that unbearable?
He glares daggers at the other man as he awkwardly scuffs the concrete with the sole of his shoe. The two of them alongside Baseball and Suitcase were meant to meet up at this cafe both to hang out and for Suitcase to help them on the topics in which they struggled. She was the smartest out of the four of them, and he would freely admit that.
If nothing else, he’s glad he didn’t make a mistake befriending her. He had noticed her sitting alone in one of the classes he and Baseball shared and had decided to sit next to her on nothing more than a whim. Immediately, they hit it off. She was quiet and anxious, but also kind. It was obvious she didn’t have a lot of friends at the college, and he figured there was no harm in taking her under his wing. It was a decision he had yet to grow to regret.
Suitcase is great. The issue occurs with her taste in friends.
Case in point. Balloon glances over to him for a brief moment, sky blue eyes furrowed, and when Nickel responds by making a face at him he turns back to his phone quickly, an anxious expression flitting across his face. He has no clue what could have possessed Suitcase to befriend him in the first place, considering his lack of redeemable qualities, but now they're all suffering for it.
Nickel does understand why she’s friends with Balloon. But only on a conceptual level! He thinks he should clarify that before he gets weird looks. She doesn’t know to avoid him because he’s bad news, because she’s one of the out of state kids who didn’t attend high school here.
Balloon was a total asshole in high school. He was obnoxious, cruel, and totally manipulative. Nickel was able to smell trouble when it came to him from a mile away, and he avoided him like the plague so he wouldn’t get bit. Reportedly, he had tried to turn over a new leaf later on in high school, sometime in senior year, but it’s not like anyone had believed that sorry display. No one was that dumb. So he was ostracized, for good reason. No one likes jerks.
When he had told that story to Suitcase after he noticed her hanging around Balloon and had tried his hardest to nip that in the bud, he had received an odd look. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Nickel,” she had begun, soft voice wobbling as she spoke. “But aren’t you kind of a jerk too? I-I mean, you just insulted Silver Spoon as he was walking by.”
“Yeah, cuz he’s a pompous jerkwad. So what?” he had flatly retorted, drumming his fingers against the table.
“I know you haven’t known Nickel that long, but I’ve known him since middle school!” Baseball had added, a dopey smile on his face as he rubbed at the back of his head. “He can be blunt at times, but he has a good heart.” That had been so saccharinely sweet that he couldn’t help but elbow Baseball, grimacing.
“Point is, you shouldn’t be friends with that two-faced ass. He’s bad news,” Nickel had declared, crossing his arms with a huff.
Suitcase had just shook her head, eyes flashing with a glint of steely resolve she obtained when making a decision. It was what made him think there was more to her then met the eye, although if she was even aware of that fact was up in the air. “I think I can make my own decisions,” she had softly insisted.
At the time, he had relented. He hadn’t wanted to make a big deal out of it. She was right, after all. He didn’t want to be the sort of guy constantly criticizing the decisions of others. But maybe he should have pushed a bit more. He can be stubborn when he wants to be. But he had just left it!
Unfortunately, he was now the sorry idiot now stuck in prolonged contact with Balloon, because Suitcase had messaged their group chat to say that she would be running late, and Baseball is Baseball. As much as Nickel loves his friend, he doesn’t have much confidence when it comes to his ability to get to anywhere on time, especially since he had classes in the morning today and is probably currently napping.
That’s fine. Really. It’s just peachy except for the fact that he’s stuck with naive Suitcase, who sees the best in everyone even though it’ll inevitably get her bit, and Balloon. His sarcasm is usually better received when he has Baseball to bounce off of. When he’s with Suitcase and Balloon, though, all he gets is weird looks and uncomfortable mumbles. Honestly, his sense of humor is wasted on them.
Well, he would be stuck with Suitcase when she gets him. He’s already resigned himself to Baseball being the last to get here. Until then, though, their usual dynamic will be switched, and Nickel will be the one feeling like the outsider instead of Balloon. What has he done to deserve that, huh?
Vaguely, he recalls their friend group from the start of the year. The four of them had been there, of course, but it had initially been much bigger, to the point where this awkwardness could have been prevented to begin with. Knife, who he had known in high school, had hung around them for a few months while he figured out college, and still talks with them from time to time. He has a soft spot for Suitcase, not that anyone has the courage to point that out.
The other four members of their group were all from outside of the city and had only moved here for college. Soap, Microphone, Trophy, and Cheesy. Of the four, Soap had transferred out after her younger brother Tissues had become so ill he had to be hospitalized, Trophy had been kicked to the curb after he tried to blackmail Knife for being bi, and Cheesy stopped hanging around them after Microphone got so fed up with him she yelled at him for five minutes straight.
As for Microphone herself… To be honest, he doesn’t have a clue why she had ditched them so suddenly. But one day, a few weeks after Soap had transferred out, she had stopped showing up to their scheduled study-slash-hangout-sessions at the cafe Nickel was currently waiting at, and hadn’t sent any texts informing them that she would be late. Actually, she had just stopped texting at all.
Sure, it was strange, but if she decided she was better than them and didn’t need to hang around them anymore, well, she was free to do whatever she wanted. Things definitely got a lot quieter after she began to keep her distance, if nothing else.
Either way, it means that their friend group is a lot smaller nowadays. Which means that it’s far too easy to get trapped in situations like these. He can’t help but shift uncomfortably in place, shoulders squared. If Suitcase doesn’t get here soon, he thinks he might just lose his mind.-
“Psst. Hey, Nickel,” Balloon suddenly hisses, sounding tense.
Rolling his eyes, he glances up toward the other man. His puffy salmon hair tied back into a ponytail paired with a matching button-up, white polo, and a brown messenger bag never failed to irritate him. “What?” he flatly retorts, offering him a scowl. “Can’t you see I’m busy?” He had waved his phone in the air as he spoke, the motion irreverent and lazy.
“Oh, c’mon,” he scoffs, puffing out his cheeks. He’s as full of hot air as ever. “I wouldn’t be talking to you, of all people, if I didn’t have a good reason for it. Look across the street.” He gestures in front of him as he speaks, and Nickel follows his hand.
Across the street stands a woman, maybe a year older than the two of them. The first thing he registers about her is just how gorgeous she is; she has tanned skin with a smattering of freckles across her cheeks and dark, curly brown hair with two heart shaped buns atop her head. The rest of her hair falls to her shoulders. She wears an asymmetrical skirt that’s a lime green, shorter in the front and longer in the back. She wears a cream collared blouse with various ruffles on it that scream old-timey, and worn brown shoes with a strap over the front.
When he looks closer at her, though, he can’t help but hesitate, worry beginning to stir in his gut. Her big green eyes, wide and doe-like, have terror etched into them as her hands firmly grip the front of her skirt with a white knuckled grip. Sweat drips down her forehead as her head swivels back and forth, and her shoulders rise and fall in quick, labored motions.
From what he sees of the woman, he can’t help but get the distinct impression that she’s running from something. Or, even worse, some one. If the look he exchanges with Balloon is any indication, the other man definitely thinks the same. Still, though, hell will have to freeze over before he ever cuts Balloon any slack.
“So what? You think she needs help?” he says flatly. “Hate to break it to ya, pal, but you’re probably the last person she wants to see. You can’t even walk for fifteen minutes without having to sit down.”
Balloon’s face turns bright red, although it’s hard to tell whether it’s from anger or embarrassment. “S-Still!” he cries, throwing his hands in the air in exasperation. “I won’t be able to forgive myself if something happens to her because we weren’t there to stop it. If some guy is harassing her, we have strength in numbers, don’t we?”
As loath as he is to agree with Balloon, of all people, he can’t deny that the man is right. He’s a realist, as Baseball likes to say, and way too harsh, as Suitcase occasionally mutters, but he isn’t an outright asshole. And he knows enough about defense to know exactly where his foot should aim when dealing with a creep.
He sighs, rolling his shoulders. “C’mon, let’s get this over with,” he grumbles. “Maybe we can sit at a table with her, so there’s more eyes on her and whoever’s tailing her is less likely to try anything.”
“Good idea!” Balloon cries, snapping his fingers. His expression is stunned enough that it feels patronizing, as if he hadn’t thought Nickel capable of that. Noting that is enough to make him bristle; once an asshole, always an asshole, he supposes. “C’mon, let’s go!”
Reluctantly, he follows after the taller, wider man, hands in his baggy jeans pockets. He has to remind himself over and over that he’s doing this for the woman’s sake, not Balloon’s, despite the fact that the man is so horribly smug it makes Nickel want to bite him. He probably thinks of himself as a great hero for doing all of this, a knight in shining armor. Whatever, he’ll scold him later.
The two of them both stop in front of the woman, and she blinks at them slowly. They would probably look intimidating, if it weren’t for the fact that Nickel was lucky to be considered 4’11 and Balloon, despite his greater height in comparison, was curled in on himself and kept his arms firmly pressed to his sides. Making himself smaller wouldn’t change the sort of person he was, but it would make schmucks like Suitcase offer him pity.
“E-Excuse me?” Balloon stammers in his horrible, high pitched voice. As he speaks, he awkwardly fidgets with the strap of his messenger bag, shifting it back and forth in the air. Wow, really the picture of confidence right there. “We noticed that you look pretty stressed and winded. Are you okay? Do you need help?”
In response, the woman blinks at them a few times before she offers them a soft, pained smile. “I’m being chased by two people,” she murmurs. Her voice is high and soft. “I’ve done all I can to get them off my tail, even coming here, but they’re determined to chase me no matter what!” She begins to chew anxiously on her nails. “I-I really don’t know what they want with me, but I’m certain it’s nothing good.”
“Have you tried going to the police?” Nickel interjects. “I know they aren’t good for much of anything, but they can arrest those guys for you or at the very least guard you until they give up.”
“Police…?” the woman echoes, looking genuinely confused. It’s as if she never heard the word before. “Arrest… Guard… Oh! That also wouldn’t work,” she demures as she tucks one strand of hair behind her ear. “These people don’t hesitate to dispose of anyone who’s in their way. I’ve seen it for myself. And since I don’t belong here, that could cause trouble for me, too.”
Her odd words make Balloon and Nickel exchange a look. He shakes his head at the man; whatever’s going on here, it’s probably a hell of a lot more complicated than they should be just throwing themselves into all willy-nilly. But he just shrugs, turning back to the woman with determination shining in his eyes. “Okay,” he says slowly. “Do you think these people are going to hurt you if they catch up to you?”
“Yes!” she replies, nodding firmly as she presses her hands to her chest. “For now, they’ve been just trying to take me somewhere, but I don’t know what they’ll do with me when they get there.” She curls into herself as she speaks, eyes betraying just how terrified she is. “I’ve been getting lucky so far, but…” She doesn’t finish. Then again, she doesn’t need to.
Nickel lets out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. Even if things seem a hell of a lot more complicated in this scenario that he wouldn’t ever sign up for otherwise, he’s not just going to turn his back on her. Because then she’ll be left with Balloon, and that’s the worst hell anyone can be condemned to. “Right,” he says. “First, let’s start with this. What’s your name?”
“Oh!” she cries, a startled expression flitting across her face for a moment. “Well, I’m Clover.”
“That’s Balloon-” he jabs a finger into the man’s chest, causing his face to scrunch up. “-and I’m Nickel. It’s nice to meet you. How about the three of us grab a table at that cafe over there? Maybe you’ll be harder to notice in the building and crowd. Either way, we don’t mind keeping an eye out for you, since our friends are running late anyway.”
Clover doesn’t look entirely convinced by Nickel’s plan of genius. Instead, she chews on her cheek, expression dubious. But after a moment, she nods and offers him a sweet smile. “Alright!” she chirps, before her expression becomes more serious. “If anything happens, though, you should probably run. Don’t worry about me! I’d hate for you both to get hurt just because you were worried for me.” She clasps her hands together, so painfully earnest he can’t help but cringe for a moment.
Balloon looks more than a little bit daunted by all her talk of getting hurt, which is funny. He had been the one to want to stick his neck out for her in the first place, after all. But, well, him being a coward doesn’t come as much of a surprise to Nickel. After a moment, though, the man offers Clover his hand, his smile hesitant. “C’mon, we wouldn’t want you to get left behind,” he offers. In response, the woman takes his hand, laughing.
“Way to be condescending, Balloon,” Nickel says with a scoff and an eyeroll. He crosses the street without bothering to look both ways, considering any cars kind of have to stop for him, and the other two follow after him. They both grab a table in the middle of the cafe’s indoor seating, and Nickel kicks his feet in the air as he stares at the two.
“Do you want anything to eat?” Balloon prompts, throwing a sidelong glance over to Clover.
She taps her cheek as she thinks. “Is this place something like a bakery?” she murmurs. “What sort of stuff do they offer?”
“There’s a menu right in front of you, y’know,” Nickel can’t help but point out, rolling his eyes. Honestly, she treats all of this like it’s the first time she’s seen anything even close to this. When they were crossing the street, her head had swiveled around as fascination danced in her eyes. If she was here in the city, there’s no way any of this can come as a surprise to her. Maybe she’s just from a super rural area?
After the three decide what they want (a bagel with cream cheese for Clover, a croissant for Balloon, and a sandwich for Nickel), they approach the register. Just as Nickel opens his mouth, though, a flustered employee comes out of the back. “Management says we have to throw this batch of food out because they were slightly burnt!”
The cashier looks frustrated as they examine the tray of food the other employee is carrying. “Really?” they say with a sigh. “They’re only a little bit burnt. Definitely not worth throwing away. Ugh, it’s such a waste of food…” They shake their head, looking disappointed.
In response, the other employee casts their gaze over to the three of them, looking hopeful. “Would any of you like to have these before we have to toss them?” they prompt, a half-smile on their face. “They’re still perfectly edible!”
“Can’t say no to free food,” Nickel replies, a grin on his face as he reaches forward and grabs all of the pastries his hands can hold. To his left, Clover lets out an excited squeal as she grabs some of the bagels.
“Huh,” Balloon says, brow creased as he rotates a croissant in his hand. “Awfully lucky.” Clover flinches when she hears that, a frown on her face as she looks away from both of them.
Given that they now have more than enough food to split between the three of them, they return to their table. As Clover slathers cream cheese on her bagels, a pleased smile on her face, Nickel can’t help but pop one of the pastries in front of him in his mouth, only for his face to scrunch up in distaste. “These are fine,” he declares in frustration. “Honestly, what’s the point in wasting food like this?”
Balloon shrugs. “I guess it’s just how big corporations are?” he proposes, tone rueful. “Any excuse to have something to write off, I guess.” He takes a bite out of his croissant, letting out a pleased sound.
“Whatever,” Nickel scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Hey, save those donuts for Baseball!”
As the two of them begin to bicker, Clover just continues to eat her bagel, staring at it with an almost blank expression as she slowly chews. She looks… confused, almost. Balloon seems to pick up on it too as he asks her “What are you thinking about?”
“Just that this sort of thing always happens to me,” she replies with a sigh, cupping her cheek in her hand. “Bakeries always rush to offer me food that would have been thrown out otherwise. It feels like a pattern at this point.” She glances out a nearby window, her expression frustrated as she anxiously scans the streets.
“Eh, I think you’re just overthinking it,” Nickel says dismissively, waving a bit of half-eaten pastry in the air as he speaks. “It’s not like you can control whether the ovens burn food or not.”
“Yeah, that would be a seriously lame superpower,” Balloon agrees, snickering into his hand. He can’t help but roll his eyes at the other man. God, even his laughter is annoying.
“Still, I think-” Clover begins, her words forming the beginning of a protest before she just stops cold, her gaze still trained on a nearby window.
“What?” Nickel prompts, an eyebrow lazily raised. “Why’d you stop?”
“They found me,” she whispers, her words barely audible. Suddenly, she shoots to her feet, rosy tanned skin going pale as her eyes go wide with fear. “W-We have to get out of he-!”
Before she gets the chance to finish, the nearby wall suddenly shatters open, an explosion of dust and debris filling the air. Nickel begins to cough as he’s knocked onto the floor, and he hears Balloon let out a shriek as he ducks under a piece of debris flying through the air. Clover remains on her feet, any of the debris flying around her in near-perfect arcs. Huh. Awfully lucky.
It’s difficult to piece any thoughts together, especially when all the screaming starts. Patrons get to their feet and run out the doors in droves, and most employees seem to still be in shock from their positions behind the counter. Nickel’s aware of how sluggishly he’s moving as he raises a hand and presses it to his chest, blinking several times in succession as if it’ll erase the chaos in front of him.
Okay, okay. Obviously all of this is… super overwhelming, so he’ll start small. His eyes are watering from all of the dust in the air, and he rubs at them over and over, despite knowing how futile the motion is. His knees and palms are scraped from how he landed on the ground, and the gray beanie he usually wears had fallen off of his head in all of the chaos.
Somehow, his brain decides that looking for it should be the priority, and he blindly flails around, cutting himself on jagged bits of the wall and shattered grass as his hands blindly fumble in the air. Finally, he finds it, half submerged under a piece of debris, and he manages to pull it out just before he hears a loud scream.
“N-No!” Clover calls, tone pained. He can make out her silhouette through the cloud of dust in the air, and as it begins to clear, he can see her anguished expression as it stares at the hole in the cafe’s wall. “Stay away from me!”
“Jeez,” retorts an unfamiliar voice, sounding more annoyed than anything else. “Aren’t you tired of running? It’s getting real exhausting trying to chase you.” His voice is so bored and unbothered that it makes irritation flare up in Nickel. How the hell can anyone stay calm in the midst of all of this?
Well, he supposes the cause of all of this wouldn’t really be worried about any of it. But that creates a new issue. Are the people who are chasing Clover responsible for… all this? How is it something that any human could be capable of?
He was totally right, and he’ll be sure to rub it in Balloon’s face later. This whole situation is way above either of their pay grades.
“Whatever,” the voice continues with a groan. “Since you’re going to keep running, we’ll just have to catch you. MePad, grab her.”
Nickel finds the strength to scramble to his feet, heart thundering in his chest, just as a massive hulking silhouette walks through the hole in the wall. He knows immediately that the person he’s looking at right now is the person who had shattered the wall like it was made of glass to begin with, and their knuckles aren’t even bruised.
Except, calling them people doesn’t exactly feel like the right adjective to attach to them. The one giving all the orders looks human enough from a glance, except his bright blue eyes are glowing and are certainly not a shade people in real life have. His black hair is streaked with the same shade of blue, and that’s glowing too. It almost reminds him of magic, but he’s not dumb enough to claim magic is real no matter how scrambled his brain may be from adrenaline.
The other man is tall– no, gargantuan, double the height of his accomplice. His hair is blacked and streaked with color, except it’s a magenta that glows in the same way. His glowing magenta eyes are kind, almost, but that isn’t a fitting adjective for someone who just broke a massive hole in a stone wall and walks toward Clover with terrifying purpose.
Either way, he doesn’t have time to overthink this. As adrenaline swirls through his body, he sprints forward, grabbing Clover’s arm and running not toward the entrance, but to the employee area. The employees didn’t escape through the front door, but they definitely aren’t here anymore, so he’s taking an educated guess. If the labored gasps following close behind are any indication, Balloon is running too, not leaving either of their sides even though he’s surely bruised and battered.
Lucky for them, his hunch wound up being right, and as they run through the back area they discover an emergency exit door that’s wide open. Nickel pulls Clover into the alleyway, and they continue to run, trying their hardest to distance themselves from the cafe’s attackers.
“W-What’s going on?!” Balloon asks incredulously between gasps and pants, obviously winded. The idiot should know better than to waste his energy on a pointless question.
“Later!” Nickel barks in response, not even bothering to look over his shoulder as he replies. He hopes Balloon is smart enough to piece together what he means by that, although it really is a fifty-fifty.
Later, they can direct as many questions toward Clover as they want about what, exactly, they’ve gotten into. Later, they can ask if she has a clue about the magic goddamn powers her pursuers were obviously employing. Later, Nickel can interrogate her and squeeze out as much information as he can, because he’ll be damned if he’s going into all of this blind.
But that’s later, after they reach a safe place. After they get a chance to catch their breaths and patch up their wounds. After they lose the murderous, certainly not human duo that are still hot on their tails. After they push their bodies for all they’re worth.
And so, they run.
— — —
Marshmallow is in such a slump that it makes even the simplest things like breathing and blinking feel intolerable.
Agh, this is unbearable! She stares blankly at her empty document laid out on the computer in front of her. It’s been placed in the proper formatting, her name, the date, and the assignment’s title typed out in effortless Times New Roman. All she has to do… is figure out a good place to start.
Hesitantly, her hands hover over a key, typing the beginnings of a hesitant sentence.
“In the beginning, things were…”
And then it stops, because she doesn’t have a damn clue how she’s meant to finish the sentence. Things were what? Good? Bad? Somewhere in-between? Why can’t she just say that instead of hesitantly staring at the blinking line to the right of the word “were”, deliberating to the point of agony about what she’ll write there?
No, this isn’t right at all. If this sentence was meant to be here, then the words would be flowing from her no problem, just as they do when she gets in the zone. Like she hasn’t been experiencing in the past month.
Frustrated, she stabs at the backspace key with intense frustration, the sound echoing throughout her cramped apartment. And then she’s left with a blank document once more, her pained expression staring at her from her laptop’s expression.
It’s just a simple assignment. One her classmates probably aren’t thinking twice about. Write a scene and start from the middle. Give no context, no build up, and no conclusion. Just a snippet of something, as if the reader were a passerby overhearing a snippet of a conversation. She loves to do narrative writing. For the life of her, she can’t imagine why the last month has been any different.
Well, she could probably come up with a few ideas. There’s Knife, sitting right next to her in her composition class, looking all for the world like he can’t imagine a single reason why she would be so bothered with his presence, as if he hadn’t spent half of high school ruthlessly bullying her. There’s her family, judging her choice in major even after a semester has passed. And there’s Paintbrush, constantly ditching her more often or not to go makeout with their girlfriend, or whatever they do in that dorm of theirs.
She feels like everyone is moving on at a dizzying pace. And it’s impossible to keep up with the speed the world turns at, for once she just wants it to stop, but she doesn’t get any reprieve. How is she expected to start from the middle of a scene when she can’t even imagine any sort of beginning? How is she expected to write a conversation, shifting and fluid, when the only sort of social interaction she’s had lately are her irritated huffs as she sprawls out on her second-hand couch?
Marshmallow gets to her feet and slams her laptop shut, feeling vindicated for all of two seconds before she lets out a sigh, shaking her head. Getting the empty document out of her sight doesn’t change the fact that her assignment is due in a few days, but it does make her feel better to not have the blank screen glaring accusatorily at her, as if judging her for her lack of progress.
Maybe she should take a walk. Not that it would clear her head, but she would prefer to be walking around and getting her blood pumping instead of just endlessly agonizing about this stupid writer’s block she’s unable to overcome no matter what she does.
As she walks over to her doorway, she catches her own eye in a nearby floor length mirror, and frowns as she absentmindedly pulls at the collar of her brown turtleneck, letting out a sigh as she pulls her hair in all sorts of directions.
“Roots are growing back,” she mumbles, the first coherent words she’s been able to muster in a while. Her mousy brown roots poke through the crown of her head like an accusation, standing out starkly against the dyed, snowy white she’s had her hair the color of since starting college. She had bleached and dyed her hair on a whim, and she liked the result enough to touch it up time and time again.
Shrugging on her slightly-oversized navy blue puffy jacket with the fluffy hood, slipping on her hat with flaps, tying her light blue scarf with snowflake patterns and placing her matching mittens on her hands feels a little bit extra, but in her defense, she’s always run cold. And anyway, it’s January. California or not, temperatures have a habit of dipping to the point where she likes nothing more than to curl up with a cup of cocoa and pretend like she’s a starry-eyed child again.
Instinctively, she shivers the instant she steps outside of the building that her dorm is in. Not because she’s cold, exactly, but because she’s so used to doing so the instant the brisk air meets what little exposed skin she has on her body that her body does it without thinking.
Looking around the college campus as she is feels more performative than anything. She already knows where she’s going to go. Swallowing, she sets a course for the abandoned building that resides on the edge of her college’s campus.
Okay, hang on. She should probably give a little bit of context here, although she doesn’t know exactly how she’s meant to put the way the building pulls at something at her core into words. Whenever she talks to Paintbrush about how she can’t help but explore it, they just roll their eyes, a scoff visible in their words as they speak.
“You know, if you keep going in there, I bet the ground will collapse beneath you and you’ll break your neck.” they’ve said more than once, their lazy tone not quite able to hide their worry. “That place has been condemned for ages now, Marsh. I don’t think it’s safe to treat it as a hangout spot.”
They aren’t wrong. Legend goes, the building used to be part of the main campus, where the majority of classes were held. Logical people would say that after the college obtained a grant to build new buildings for both classes and dorms, with fun things like working heating and state of the art technology that’s out of date now, the college neglected the building, causing it to fall into the state of disrepair it’s currently in.
But alongside that sort of logic that Paintbrush and their girlfriend would just love is another, more insidious rumor. It proposes that a horrible accident occurred in the building, and afterward no student or staff would step foot into it. Apparently it’s haunted, and hiding some rather unsavory secrets the college would like to keep hidden until the building is demolished early next year.
Marshmallow’s explored two floors fully so far, picking the locks on the few locked doors that remain. She’s seen nothing as thrilling as a ghost. Just a lot of cobwebs and ancient textbooks that smell of mildew that have their covers falling off. Somehow, she doubts their condition was any better when the building was first abandoned.
She wouldn’t have expected to find such a thrill in urban exploring. But it’s so different from the lifestyle she’s used to living, not to mention that it only adds to her pre-existing love of the paranormal. What if she does find something hidden in the building? What if she sees a ghost? It feels like she’s exploring uncharted waters, especially when she discovers a lock that has yet to be picked by the people who came before her.
And maybe, the light filtering through the windows exposing the particles of dust as they linger in the air will be just the thing she needs to regain her motivation. The image in her mind is so picturesque that she can’t help but smile slightly, already imagining the way she would describe it in a scene.
“Or maybe,” echoes Paintbrush’s voice in her mind, sounding flat and sarcastic. “You’ll get sick from all the asbestos in the wall and die prematurely.”
Hopping the fence surrounding the building is something that comes easy to her after all the times she’s slipped into the building. Technically, the place is off limits to unauthorized personnel, and a student getting caught can result in suspension or even expulsion. But considering that the building is slated for demolition, it’s not a policy most employees bother to enforce. Still, better safe than sorry, right?
It is a coincidence that her outfit covers up half her face and her hair, easily her two most distinctive qualities. But if nothing else, it’s a coincidence that makes her feel safer.
Without thinking twice about it, she makes a beeline to the third floor. Every thrillseeker on the campus has been on the first floor of the building at least once, and several people have left their marks on the walls to prove it. Large graffiti tags, the paint leaking down the walls from where they had been hurriedly applied, as well as markings engraved into the wall that read various things.
Marshmallow passes one of said markings left in the stairway, lingering in the same brief way she always does. She likes seeing things like this. It makes her feel less isolated, especially as she’s reassured by the knowledge that people have walked this path before her. The marking her fingers hover over reads “Liam and Owen 4ever” in permanent marker, each stroke purposeful. She wonders if that relationship really did last, or if all that’s left of it is this one bit of graffiti, marked on the wall on a whim.
That marking is just one of many pieces of history that will be destroyed when the building is taken down. Sure, it’s not the sort of thing most historians would deem worth preserving, but they’re still relics of the past regardless. People drew on the walls because they felt the urge to leave their mark. She’s going to do the same, when she gains the courage to reach the top floor. It’ll be akin to scaling Everest, just way less environmentally damaging.
Right now, though, she’s still beginning her exploration of the third floor after examining every nook and cranny on the first two. She doesn’t want to be too hasty as she looks through it, since she is heeding Paintbrush’s warnings, even if they are skeptical. This building is ancient, and the bits of plant life snaking on some of the walls just speak to how little it’s been maintained. If this is how she dies, she’s going to be so pissed off.
So she takes it slow. She explores each floor in multiple expeditions, each step slow and hesitant. No one has died in here before… at least, not after the university closed it off. But she won’t take that as explicit confirmation that this place is safe, given that the building has only had more time to fall into an increasingly dilapidated state as time goes on.
Exploring the third floor is no exception. She doesn’t bother to keep her steps light as she traipses down the main hallway, having made her way through it enough times to trust in its structural integrity. It’s when she explores the rooms hidden behind doors, some locked and some not, where she grows more wary.
Like with this one. She picks the lock on one of the doors, hidden around a few twists and turns. Probably not the sort of thing most people coming in just once to see what it was like in here would bother with. But of course, she always comes prepared. It’s to the point where she carries lockpicks around in her puffy winter jacket, although it’s in one of the pockets inside of the jacket.
With a satisfied huff, she twists the now-unlocked doorknob, and the door flies open with a loud creak that makes her cringe. Predictably, as she steps in, dust is stirred up, swirling around in the air. Not even raising her scarf up to her nose is enough to prevent her sneezes.
Unsurprisingly, the room doesn’t have much for her. When this place was abandoned in lieu of the newer, more modern buildings, any valuable things present were moved alongside the people. In other words, anything worthwhile an aspiring urban explorer would want to take as a souvenir.
But despite that challenge, Marshmallow’s found that she’s able to take interest in even the small things. She strides over to a desk that has a mug used as a penholder on top of it, “#1 Dad” printed in a gaudy font across a striped background.
“Can’t be that great, if he didn’t even bother to keep the mug,” she comments with a wry snort, tracing the dust that’s formed around the cup’s rim. After a moment, she takes out the scattered writing utensils from the mug and pockets it, feeling charmed by it. Yeah, she’s the kind of person who personifies inanimate objects, what of it?
The mug will go on her shelf alongside the rest of her pilfered items, a series of disconnected knick knacks that have no relation to each other save for the place they had been found in. They’re items that, for one reason or another, stuck out to her enough for her to decide to take them. She doesn’t like the term stealing, because that doesn’t really fit. Does a person taking a couch left on the curbside count as stealing?
Of course, that line of logic doesn’t stop Paintbrush from sighing and fondly shaking their head whenever they visit her dorm. “My best friend, the criminal,” they had said, tone dripping with amusement. “Try not to become too much of a kleptomaniac, will you?”
Honestly. Paintbrush could be so overbearing sometimes, even if she knew that they just wanted to protect the people they cared for. She doubts she’ll be caught here, because the amount of people suspended for sneaking into this building every year is so low there’s no point to it even being a statistic. It’s not that illegal. Just a nice little taste of breaking the rules, and then she’ll be satisfied. She doesn’t understand why Paintbrush has such an issue with it.
After exploring that room, finding nothing else that catches her interest, she moves onto the next. And the next. And the next. She’s already learned to not get her hopes too high when it comes to the already-unlocked doors; odds are, they had been forced open by the people who had explored this place before her, and if there had been anything interesting in there, they would have already taken it. In other words, a waste of time.
The more out of the way doors that remain locked are the things that pique her interest the most. Sometimes, she finds fascinating things. Her favorite find from this exploration venture has been discovering a Beanie Baby, tucked away in the back of a drawer. He was absolutely caked in dust and grime, but after giving him a good wash, he looked presentable enough to keep on her bedside table.
She named him Walmart. Obviously. Because Walmart is great, no matter how much Paintbrush pokes fun at her for her love of the store.
Today is not one of the days she’s made a great find, though, unfortunately for her. The mug is interesting enough, and she might be able to drink from it after cleaning it, but there’s nothing that immediately convinces her that she has to have it.
When she finishes looking through her fourth room, only having the mug in her pocket, she decides that she’s better off leaving for the day. She knows the longer she sticks around, the more likely it is that she’ll be caught. As dismissive as she is of Paintbrush’s worries, she has zero interest in being suspended or at worst, expelled. She can be impulsive at times, but she more than understands the value of being careful.
Passing through the main hallway, she makes a beeline for the main stairway, intending on leaving immediately, but the view she gets from a nearby window makes her draw to a stop without even realizing it, her steps slowing before ceasing entirely.
Marshmallow is in full control of her body, of course. She’s all too conscious of her breathing and blinking, each rise and fall of her chest deliberate. But despite knowing that she can force her body back into motion at any time, she just… doesn’t. Her body remains motionless as her eyes stare listlessly out the window. Absentmindedly, she begins to chew on her lip, the motion robotic and somewhat soothing.
As fascinating as all of this is, she knows that if she spends too much time in here, she’ll be caught eventually. It’s the downfall of all urban explorers; never get cocky. Still, though, she finds it difficult to pry her eyes away from the window, although she isn’t sure why. She can get this view from any other building on campus, just from a different angle.
Despite knowing that, she just continues to stand in place, hands pressed against the windowsill. Something about this feels so idyllic. The way the sun pokes out from between towering buildings, the gentle fluttering of the leaves in the breeze, and the dark gray clouds crowding the corners of the sky that don’t quite promise snow, with how sparse they are.
It would make a good scene. Unbidden, she thinks about how she could integrate it into her assignment, but she knows brainstorming is a fool’s errand when all she has is bits and pieces. She needs something concrete, a good jumping off point to scrawl down her stream of consciousness as her fingers fly across her keyboard.
Cupping her head with one of her gloved hands, she lets out a lofty sigh. It’s all pointless. She’s going to flunk out of college and go back to her parents with her tail tucked between her legs, and they’ll scold her relentlessly for her dreams of wanting to be an author when that doesn’t make money, and she’ll be-
“Hey! Hey, behind you!” calls a bored, feminine sounding voice. Heart in her throat, Marshmallow whirls around as she scrambles forward, wondering if she’s finally been caught. The woman there to greet her, though, is nothing like she had expected.
For one thing, she’s floating. That’s probably the most, um, attention grabbing aspect of her appearance. Instead of having legs, her lower half peters off into a wispy tail. Her pink hair is tied into two pigtails sticking out the sides of her head, and the wide grin on her face is toothy, with her teeth sharp and forming jagged fangs. Her entire body is surrounded by a glowing pink aura that lights the dim area up, and it only gets brighter as Marshmallow fully turns around, phone flashlight trained on her.
The woman is silent for a long moment. Then she smirks and throws her hands forward.
“Boo.”
Marshmallow can’t help it, she screams. Yeah, yeah, she gets it, she’s a big, walking cliche. The girl with a love of the paranormal immediately freaking out when faced with a ghost. But in her defense, she wasn’t expecting to actually see one! As much as she loves the idea of encountering a ghost, she had learned to temper her expectations, since they obviously weren’t real. Maybe it was just Paintbrush rubbing off on her, but, well, the idea just didn’t make sense!
And yet.
Her phone slips from her hands and clatters onto the floor as she staggers back, her jaw agape. “Wh- Wh-?!” she gasps, unable to fully form the word. Shock overwhelms her mind, making it near-impossible to think straight.
In response, the woman just cackles, the sound loud as it reverberates throughout the hallway. “Ah, man, good to know I’ve, like, still got it,” she says as she wipes tears from her eyes. Marshmallow hadn’t noticed it before, but her voice has an odd quality to it. It sounds like it has a reverb to it, a sort of echo-like filter attached to her words. “No one’s screamed at me like that for ages!”
The only thing Marshmallow does is stare blankly at the ghost. Her breathing is already fast and irregular. If she’s not careful, it’ll devolve into full-on hyperventilation. Maybe she’ll be launched into that state when the shock wears off and the fear currently resting at the back of her throat claims dominance of the rest of her body, but right now all she can do is gape, mouth opening and closing like a fish’s.
“Bow! Bow, get back here!” calls another voice, which sounds… human enough. It’s androgynous and doesn’t have the same reverb that the ghost’s does. Marshmallow doesn’t let her guard down, though. In all her time exploring this building, she’s never seen anyone else here. So the fact that she meets a ghost at the same time someone else comes rushing in is more than a little suspicious.
“Oh, great, the fun constable is here,” the ghost says with a huff, crossing her arms as she sticks out her lip in a pout.
After a moment, a blur of red turns the corner and comes to a stop in front of the ghost, arms pinwheeling in the air as she tries to cease all momentum. “Bow! You can’t just run off like that!” the woman hisses, her tanned face heating up. Whether it’s from exhaustion or sheepishness, Marshmallow can’t tell.
“What are you gonna do to stop me, huh?” the ghost prompts, spinning in the air as she rests her hands behind her head. “You were the one who told me that your magic was running low in the first place, which means that you can’t keep me under control anymore! Ha!” She wags a finger at the living woman, exuding smugness.
“No thanks to you,” she retorts, letting out a scoff as she crosses her arms. She looks stern for a moment, but the effect is immediately undercut by her muttering under her breath “...Whatever that means. You’re supposed to be the one giving me magic! That’s the whole point of our deal!”
“It’s not my fault! I’ve told you, the energy is weird here! I’m having a hard time replenishing my magic! Even keeping up a physical form is taxing enough.” The ghost grumbles to herself in irritation, arms crossed and brow furrowed. Marshmallow can’t help but blankly stare at the two of them. They argue like an old married couple, which would be less jarring if the ghost was… well…
Maybe she makes some kind of noise, or her breathing is just that heavy, because after a moment the woman turns to her, brow creased. Her hair is dark red, a few shades lighter than blood, and her tanned skin has a smattering of freckles going across it. Her green eyes are wide and shining. Slung across her shoulders is a tattered red cloak over a lighter red button up shirt with golden buttons and green suspenders holding up matching flowy pants. Bits of silver armor are situated all along her outfit. Overall, it’s very medieval, like the sort of thing she’d see at a ren faire.
The woman’s cheeks puff out in indignation after she gives Marshmallow a once-over, and she turns to the ghost, hands on her hips. “Bow! What did I say about scaring people?!” Without waiting for a response, she bounds forward, hand outstretched. “I’m so sorry about her, she’s been dead for a while and doesn’t understand basic manners, whatever that means. Are you okay?”
In response, Marshmallow screams as the weight of everything that’s happened overwhelms her at once. Promptly, she passes out.
— — —
Silver Spoon simply cannot handle such undignified acts like taking public transport and eating greasy fast food. Why, even the thought of it is enough to make him shudder!
And yet, here he is on the bus anyway, clenching his bag so tightly he’s worried his arms will fall clean off.
Most out-of-state college students usually don’t have cars with them, especially if they’re studying abroad from Britain. But Silver Spoon had prided himself on not being like “most out-of-state college students”. After all, he had gotten to Los Angeles months in advance, having graduated early and wanting to see the city he would spend the next several years of his life in.
That, and being with his parents for even a moment longer would be enough for him to tear his hair out, but that was unrelated.
The last thing he had expected was for his card to be declined when he tried to make a purchase, and at the most embarrassing time, too. He had been in a car dealership, intending to purchase a vehicle so he would be able to get around the sprawling city. But the purchase hadn’t gone through, and in a panic, he had called his mother, futilely trying to make his voice lower in the way he always did when talking to his family.
She had explained, without mincing a single word, that he had been cut off. “As long as you continue to live this reprehensible lifestyle, we refuse to funnel any of our money to you when we know how you’ll spend it,” she had said, voice low and frigid.
“B-But Mother!” he had cried, voice cracking. He had winced before continuing. “What about my housing? You can’t expect me to live on the streets!”
“We will fund your apartment, of course,” said the deep, cruel voice of his father, and a shiver had run up his spine when he realized the two of them had been waiting for him to call. It was an ambush. “No child of ours will be homeless, no matter what choices you make.” Disdain dripped from every word. “But any frivolous purchases you intend to make will have to be funded on your own.”
In a daze, he had stumbled back to his apartment complex and collapsed on his plush leather couch. It had taken too long for him to cry, and when he had, the sound had been all wrong, too high pitched and strangled. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t muster a single tear. In the end, he had just given up.
Living without the surplus of money he had grown up with was an adjustment, at any rate. Luckily for him, he had started squirreling away money of his own years ago after he realized the person he was and knew without even thinking about it that his parents wouldn’t approve of it. From there, it should have been the simple process of getting it converted from pounds to dollars, if not for the fact that the only currency exchange place nearby had been too far to walk and the bus driver had looked at him funny when he tried to pay the fare in pounds.
So overwhelmed by the idea that he was trapped in place, unable to go anywhere with money he couldn’t use, he had started to cry right there at the bus stop, with real tears this time. He supposed the idea of being trapped and helpless was far more overwhelming than the fact that his family had cut him off and cast him off to sea, free of guilt and worry for him.
Because he had already known his family wouldn’t ever accept him. He had known them all his life, after all. It would be foolish if he didn’t know the kind of people they were. As much as he wanted their love, he wouldn’t delude himself into thinking he would get it.
The first time he had cried (or tried to, at any rate), nobody had come. But the second time, an angel had parted the roaring tide of his grief and crouched in front of him, both in the eye of a hurricane. Water swirled all around them in a dizzying spiral, the sky completely gray with no silver lining in sight. But they still managed to sit down next to him on the bus stop’s bench and glance at him, brow furrowed.
“You alright?” they asked, tilting their head. The blonde hair that was held back by a silver headband moved along with their head. “It’s not often I see someone crying at a bus stop all alone.”
Like most humans seeing the might of a true angel for the first time, his first instinct was defensiveness. “I’m quite alright,” he had said with a sniff, raising his head.
“Are you sure?” they had teasingly replied, one leg neatly folded over the other. “If you need help, I can offer it to you. Not doing much else, at the moment.”
“I don’t take handouts,” he had grit, all of the conditioning he had gone through as a child kicking in with full force. If he was going to grow up with money, he would have to act regal and refined, above everyone else, because that was what his birth stated he should be.
But it had always been his parents who had firmly instated that viewpoint into him, pompous and stern. They wanted their child to be the best possible heir to their legacy; that meant taking his heart and ripping it from his body so he could never exhibit a single unhelpful emotion. It meant never doing anything disgraceful. But it was far too late for that, so why was he clinging to what he knew so long after his parents had cut him loose?
With a roll of their eyes, the other person had gotten to their feet, bulky boots clicking against the concrete. From here, Silver Spoon had two choices; allow them to leave, push away anyone and everyone who intends on lowering his walls, or to let them in close so he can feel the thrill of someone who actually cares for him.
Swallowing both the lump in his throat and his pride, he had cried out “Wait. I’m… s-s-sorry.” The other person had paused but they hadn’t walked back over to him fully, a hand on their hip as they impatiently glared at him. “It’s just that… my parents have stopped giving me any money. I knew it would happen eventually, so I stashed away some money. But it’s all in pounds, and I can’t even make my way to a place that will let me exchange it for your paltry American dollars!”
The longer he speaks, the less morose he grows and the more irritated he becomes. By the time he finished talking, he could stop himself from being blanketed by the weight of his numbness and actually feel something for once. It feels nice.
His words had been enough for the other person to crack a smile as they sat back down next to him. “So you’re a Brit, huh?” they say. “How do you like being across the pond?”
“It was more enjoyable before the only thing I had to my name was the small stash of savings my paranoid teenage self had hidden.”
“Better that than nothing at all.” They had smiled wryly as they produced a few dollar bills. “Here. For the fare.” He had stared blankly at the money in his lap for a moment, its presence completely foreign. His parents always said handouts were for beggars and the desperate, and his family were neither. But the act of charity made him feel warm. “What’s the deal with your parents, then? Were you caught doing drugs or something?”
“Nothing so low,” he had flatly replied, nose wrinkled in disdain. “It’s simply a matter of them raising me as a different person than I truly am. And now that I’m taking steps to become that person… they aren’t pleased by it.”
“Oh,” they had said blankly, before their face was nearly crushed by the weight of sharp, overwhelming empathy that had made his teeth rattle in his mouth. “Oh. Fuck. I’m so sorry. No one should have to…” They had swallowed, looking uncertain about what to say, before offering him their hand. “Well, I’m Paintbrush.”
“Silver Spoon,” he had wryly replied, taking their hand. It was obvious they had very little experience with handshakes, but the fact that someone could ever be so kind to him even knowing who he was, what he was, made him so grateful that he wouldn’t dare complain.
That conversation was the first time he had been acquainted with them, but it wouldn’t be the last. They had gone with him to exchange currency. “So you don’t get lost,” they had explained. Afterward, they had taken him around the city and snuck him into their room when he had explained how awkward it was for him to go home.
From there, they were seeing each other every day, and he wouldn’t have had it any other way.
Paintbrush was tall, but thankfully not taller than Silver Spoon himself was, a fact he never hesitated to laud over them. Of course, he never fully said why he valued his height so much, but they had been able to guess. It was just one more thing that made him feel closer to the ideal self he wanted to be, as much as that’s something he struggles to visualize.
Their hair was wild and had a tendency to stick up whenever they grew angry, which was often. It was tamed only by the gray headband they often wore. On their chin, they had bits of scraggly blonde stubble growing, something they had often shaved the moment they saw it. That habit had grown less consistent as they began to go to college, although he couldn’t tell if that was because they disliked it less or because they didn’t have the time to get rid of it.
Back when he first met them, they usually wore a tight black crop top revealing bits of their stomach and their tanned arms and torn acid washed jeans, but as they made the transition to college they switched to a brown apron over a white button up with rolled up sleeves and darker brown pants rolled up to their knees.
Meeting them and becoming closer with them… now that was the greatest thing that had ever happened in his life. Without them… well, he wouldn’t know. Maybe he would have made it to the currency exchange, but then what? All he can think of is going crawling back to his parents, head ducked, as he sobs out that they can have their daughter back so long as they don’t cut him off entirely.
It sounds miserable. It sounds necessary. But the longer he spends in America, the more he regains his confident poise and bravado he had with him back home, the sort of thing that always made him raise his nose as he walked down the street and sneer at anyone he viewed as below him. Now, he can’t ever imagine crawling back to his parents. Good heavens, it would simply ruin his outfit! Ah, and swallowing his pride sounds awful too, of course.
Of course, the more he felt his bravado return to him, the feeling emboldening and empowering, the more haughty he became, and the more Paintbrush’s warmth turned into grumbled barbs. When they stopped talking to him altogether, he wasn’t surprised but was disappointed.
Now Paintbrush is gone, and Silver Spoon pays for the fare with his own damn money, just so he can go to the nearby library and not have to be stuck in the one thing his parents still give him. He hates his apartment as much as he’s relieved to have it; most of the time, he can’t help but be reminded of his parents whenever he looks at something at the wrong angle.
But Paintbrush being gone doesn’t mean he’s lonely, though! See, watch this! “Greetings, Cabatha,” he says haughtily as he passes by the front desk.
The woman grits her teeth as she readjusts her wheelchair. “It’s Cabby,” she grumbles as she flips through a notebook. After a moment, her eyes light up, and her voice carries a lot more warmth to it as she continues “Do you need help finding anything, Silver?”
“Nothing that would require you straining yourself so heavily, my dear,” he purrs, flipping his ponytail over his shoulder. “Of course, if your expertise is required, I shall inform you posthaste.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s fondness visible in them. He isn’t quite sure why, to be honest. He hasn’t allowed himself to become vulnerable with anyone since Paintbrush, first because of a loyalty to them and wanting them to be the one who bore his secrets, and then because it stung far too much when someone who knew so much about him could just look at him and decide that keeping him around wasn’t worth it.
“Sounds like a plan,” she says with a sigh, turning her attention back to her desktop computer and clattering away at it.
He sits down at a table a fair amount away from the front desk and lets out an airy, dramatic sigh as he rests his chin on his knuckles. He didn’t come to this library for any given reason; the college campus has one that works just as well. But he likes having a friendly face who calls after him as he walks in, continuing to be friendly to him even as he constantly grinds her gears.
Cabby is someone he’s not close with. At all. But they know each other’s names. They recognize each other’s faces (he thinks? Sometimes it takes a second for things to click, slotting into place behind her dark blue eyes). They banter teasingly with one another. They have rapport, for god’s sake!
Nothing like what he had with Paintbrush, of course. Their relationship was… different. But at least it’s some sort of companionship.
He tries to read a business book (his major, of course) but the words feel like they’re sliding off the page. Or maybe it’s his eyes glazing over. After a moment, he lets out a huff and slams his book shut, digging out his phone and brainlessly scrolling through social media. He knows it’s bad for him, but he finds his parent’s page on Instagram and begins to scroll it, chewing on his cheek.
Pictures of them being happy… pictures of them being happy… Luckily he doesn’t need the whole speech about how fake social media is, because he could have already guessed that from looking at his parent’s page. He’s never seen them this happy in his life. Maybe that’s because he’s been around them whenever he throws a glance at their faces? Maybe his presence would influence things. After all, he is a disappointment.
About five pictures in, though, the caption he reads makes him stop cold. “It’s been a few months since we tragically lost our daughter-” He forces himself to skip over the name. He doesn’t need to hurt himself any further. “-to the dangerous trend sweeping across our nation.” He likes how they say that, as if they’re an American company instead of a British one.
From there, the caption goes on and on about supporting them and their company, never saying anything outright bigoted but leaving plenty of space for people to fill in the gaps. Despite himself, he begins to scroll through the comments, and grimaces. Fill in the gaps they did, if any holes filled in with vitriolic hate are able to remain in any way stable.
Slowly, he tabs out of Instagram and looks up their company’s value on the stock market at the moment, only to groan when he sees that it’s gone up. He obviously doesn’t have access to the internal profit margins of the company anymore, but he can guess that they’re in the green. Not for pushing out a new product or whatever the hell, but because they’re using people’s rage of his very existence as fuel to push themselves further.
He just- this is- seriously? His parents are profiting out of cutting him out of their lives? He can’t believe this! It’s outrageous! It’s maddening! It’s… really overwhelming.
With grit teeth, he slams his phone down onto the table, the sound making a loud thunk as it makes contact with the wood. He thinks he hears Cabby call something scolding, but it’s difficult to hear much of anything over the ringing in his ears.
He presses his forehead firmly against the cool wood of the table as he wraps his arms tightly around his body, taking shuddering breaths as he tries frantically to get his breathing under control. It doesn’t really work, though. Each breath he takes is either too slow or too fast, and any of his attempts to get it under control just leaves it spiraling even further.
Silver Spoon is a mess. That’s indisputable. If his parents could see him now, they would raise their noses at him and call him shameful, a disgrace to their name. If he was capable of it, he would just laugh and reply that he was already a disgrace to their name, so why not go even further with it?
But whenever he’s placed in front of their sharp eyes and cutting glares, he just shrinks back, overwhelmed by fear. He's split by the fact that he’ll always be a disappointment to them by just existing as the man he wants to be, and by the fact that he always feels the urge to try to please them anyway, even as he knows that it’s pointless.
Approval is nice. And when his existence is inherently dis appointing, he has to find other ways to make up for it. With his actions, perhaps?
Whatever he does won’t earn his parent’s approval, though. Not now. Now that they know that his existence spells out dollar signs for them, why would they even try to entertain him? They can just continue to ignore him and leave him a continent away to fend for himself and never think twice about him.
It isn’t until the voice speaks up that he realizes he’s having a panic attack.
“There you go. Just breathe, in and out, in and out…”
Whoever is speaking to him, her voice is so soothing he can’t help but listen to it. For a bit, he struggles to stabilize his breathing. Each breath in is strangled and uneven, and each breath out is a choked gasp accompanied by several other breaths as his body tries to get more air into his lungs.
But when he feels the warm feeling of the woman’s hand tightly clasping his shoulder and giving him a reassuring squeeze, the physical touch is enough to ground him. Maybe he’s just touch starved. The only person who would ever dare get so physical with him is Pa- isn’t around anymore. Feeling someone get so close with him just for the sake of calming him down…
It’s nice. He won’t complain, at any rate.
For several minutes, he focuses on the woman’s calm, melodic voice, listening to each order she gives him without thinking twice about it. All thoughts of his parents and their cruelty have flown from his mind; he’s much more focused on whoever this mystery woman is and her firm, easy words.
Until finally, his breathing is relaxed and even. As even as it can be, at any rate. Sure, there’s still a slight rasp to it and every so often his breathing stutters uncertainly. But he can breathe again, his thundering heart calming down in his chest. And he has someone to thank for that.
“Remember your manners,” scolds his mother’s voice in his mind. “Always say thank you so long as that person isn’t below you.” Since it’s just him here, alone, he’s free to interpret that order that’s been drilled into his mind as he may. And he simply must thank the woman who stopped to help him. It would be disgraceful if he didn’t, even more so than his behavior up to this point.
Silver Spoon looks up at her the moment he’s capable of it, a blush creeping across his face as he does so. What he sees takes his breath away, which is a shame considering how much he just worked to stabilize it.
Her skin is dark, and her hair is a rich purple, bits of hair spilling over her face like candle wax. The rest of her hair spills over her shoulders and disappears behind her back. She wears a leather outfit, various pouches wrapped around her waist, as well as thick gloves and a blouse with flowy sleeves the same color as her hair. Despite her strange outfit, she carries herself with the same grace and poise anyone in high society would bear.
She smiles at him, the motion easy and faintly smug. “I see you seem to be feeling better,” she says, voice airy and detached. “What a relief. Whenever you find yourself growing overwhelmed, just remember how to breathe like I taught you. In and out.”
It’s impossible to say anything else when he finds himself getting lost in her eyes. They’re brown, objectively, but that doesn’t feel like the proper rate to describe them. They’re deep and pool deep within themselves, like layers of chocolate constantly spilling over each other. Occasionally, her eyes shift, and something brighter appears within them, as intense as lava. He could look into her eyes forever.
Before he can get too carried away, though, she just giggles into her hand, looking amused as she tilts her head. His face warms up again, but from embarrassment as opposed to… well, never mind. She waves at him, the motion slow and confident, before she walks away, heeled boots clicking against the tile floor with each step.
He stares blankly at the woman as she leaves, each stride she makes poised and purposeful. He only scrambles to his feet when she turns a corner and disappears behind a bookshelf, still breathing heavily. He hadn’t even gotten her name, for god's sake, and yet she hadn’t hesitated to help him! The only other person who had bothered to do anything like that for him before was…
Paintbrush.
Oh.
…He can’t let her leave without thanking her. Maybe not without introducing himself first, either. Maybe the two can exchange contact information, and they can…
What? They can what? He’s so caught up with trying to see the woman again that he doesn’t bother to pause and think about what will happen next, about what he’ll get from this. Does he want to emulate his relationship with Paintbrush with someone else? Would that be fair?
It doesn’t matter what’s fair or not. He wants to be happy again, and if the woman is his opportunity to do that he’ll gladly seize it. He has to find her. He has to-
Silver Spoon runs into the front area of the library and looks around hurriedly. The only person present is Cabby, who raises an eyebrow at him. “What-”
“Did you see a woman with purple hair pass this way?!” he interjects.
“Um, yes? She just went outside a minute-”
Before she finishes, he dashes outside, head swiveling left and right. But he doesn’t see hide nor hair of the woman. He knows if he tries to run around, he’ll only end up lost and tired, so, downtrodden, he treks back to the library.
Cabby changed from sitting to leaning against her desk, one hand propping up her head as she looks at him in amusement. “Well?” she prompts.
He doesn’t respond right away, instead walking over to her as he leans across the desk. “Cabigail-” he begins.
“Still not my name, Silver.”
“I think…” He lets out a shaky breath, not quite willing to say the word resting on his tongue aloud but desiring someone to talk to about the things he does have the courage to admit. “I think I hate my parents."
The woman raises an eyebrow, clearly not expecting him to have blurted that. In the end though, she just nods encouragingly. “Oh? What for?”
Silver Spoon does the thing he expected the least; he actually talks to someone whose name doesn’t begin with P and ends with an aintbrush. Had it been the woman with her soothing voice and warm words that had spurred him into this.
He doesn’t know. But he yearns to find her again and find out.
— — —
Microphone’s day was normal enough before a massive otherworldly fucking portal opened smack dab in the middle of the sidewalk she was walking down and a woman half her height shot out from it like she had been launched through it.
Of course, her first instinct was to let out a scream and scramble back, heart rate doubling in less than a second as she tried her hardest to catch her breath. Her second instinct was to do a double take, because the scene in front of her is so bizarre she wouldn’t be surprised if it was lifted directly from some sci-fi or fantasy book.
The woman currently sprawled out on the sidewalk, portal still swirling in the air behind her, doesn’t show any signs of moving. Her eyes are open, although half-lidded, and the way her shoulders rise and fall makes it seem like she’s breathing heavily, as if she had just been running. But from what?
Maybe from the sort of person who can open portals in the air and transport people from who knows where to end up in front of a hapless pedestrian or two. Just a hypothetical, though.
After maybe a minute of Microphone just standing there and gaping, rubbing at her eyes as if it’ll make the scene in front of her make any more sense, the portal sputters to a close, sparks flying and dissipating as they land on the cracked concrete. The woman doesn’t seem like she’ll disappear any time soon, though. And since she seems… relatively real (honestly, what kind of person wears clothes like that? She looks like she just left some ren faire), it would be kind of shitty if she just left her on the sidewalk like a piece of roadkill.
Warily, she steps forward, crouching in front of the woman. “Uh, hello?” she says nervously, poking her cheek with her pointer finger. “Are you okay?”
Slowly, the woman pulls herself up, hands pressed against the concrete to support her weight until she can sit up. The expression on her face is one of complete exhaustion, one she can’t cover up no matter how hard she tries. Quickly, she gets to her feet fully, although she does sway in place as if she’s about to fall over again. Microphone moves to steady her, but just as quickly the woman shrugs her off, shooting her a dirty look as if she had just committed some grave sin.
“I’m quite alright, thank you,” she huffs, dusting off her lap as she speaks. Microphone can’t help but blink a few times in surprise as she hears the woman’s British accent. “Just a little bit disoriented.” She raises her hand to her mouth to stifle a yawn, looking irritated by it. Irritated for being tired?
“Yeah, you got spat out of a fucking portal, so no surprise there,” Microphone deadpans, crossing her arms defensively.
“Can you tell me what town I’m currently in?” she continues, looking ruffled by the disruption. Ruffled is probably the best way to describe someone so prim and proper. Annoyance feels distinctly below her.
“Uh, Los Angeles?” Microphone says, voice raising at the end like it does when she asks a question. She knows that probably doesn’t inspire confidence, but she’s so baffled she finds it difficult to keep her voice level.
The woman cocks an eyebrow, one hand on her hip as she stares up at her. “Are you asking or telling me?” she flatly retorts.
“T-Telling!” she stammers. “I know what city I live in, believe me. I’m just really confused, and your blaise attitude isn’t making things any better!” She throws her hands in the air in exasperation.
“Los Angeles?” the woman echoes, brow furrowed in what seems to be confusion. She pronounces it in such a strange way. Which is strange, because Microphone was under the impression that it was one of those big American cities that most people were aware of, even if they were from across the pond, as it were. “Odd. I’ve never heard of it before. But very well. Is it possible you could point me in the direction of the Kingdom of Inanimatia? I have to return there.”
“Number one,” Microphone retorts, counting on her fingers as she speaks. “You look practically dead on your feet, dude. I couldn’t in good conscience let you off on your own when you’d definitely end up collapsing in a ditch somewhere. Number two…” She lets her bafflement seep into her words as she continues. “What do you mean, kingdom? This isn’t the medieval times, you know. And anyway, I’ve never heard of a country called Inanimatia before. Are you sure that portal didn’t scramble your brain?”
In response, the woman lets out a dismissive scoff, waving her hand in the air. “Oh, please. It doesn’t matter how far I transported myself away from the kingdom, it’s the biggest in the realm. You
must
have heard of it, even if you do seem to be an uneducated plebeian.”
“Excuse me?!” Microphone can’t help but roar, bristling in indignation. Of course she stopped to help this stranger and got nothing but insulted for it. “I’m literally in college, you ass! Besides, we don’t even know each other’s names. What right do you have to judge me?!”
She half expects her words to slide off the woman with absolutely no confidence whatsoever. But oddly enough, they do seem to make some sort of impact, as she tilts her head and lets out a sigh a moment later. “Very well. You make a good point. My name is Taco. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” She bows, the motion overdramatic. It definitely fits her outfit, at any rate.
Actually, Microphone doesn’t think she’s properly examined the other woman yet. She rectifies that now, looking her up and down before offering Taco her name. The woman in question is short, just barely going past Mic’s waist. She has blonde hair that goes just past her ears, and a braid across the top of her head with bits of red and green interwoven into it. The left side of her face is severely scarred, to the point where that amber eye, just as piercing as the other, is permanently half-lidded. What in the world could be severe enough to injure someone like that?
Her outfit is just as bizarre as the rest of her, to say the least. She wears dark robes streaked with yellow, red, and green. The sleeves on her arms are long and flowy, but the rest of her outfit remains close to her body. She wears old-looking brown flats, and underneath her robes are the barest traces of some sort of blouse, ruffled with a lace-up corset across her midsection. Bits of gray, shiny metal are dotted across her body, dented and scuffed. They look like armor.
Of course, on her head, she wears a massive, stereotypical witch’s hat, the top pointed as it flops over the back of her head. It casts a shadow over her face, making the glint in her amber eyes seem even more sharp and animalistic than they already do. She doesn’t quite know how to feel about the way Taco stares at her; part of her is rather unnerved by it, but another part of her can’t help but feel a sort of thrill at meeting her gaze.
Even without the hat, her outfit is distinctly atypical. Combined with the hat, she looks as if she just left some sort of convention or finished up a LARP session. But Microphone’s mind goes back to her eyes; the look in them proves that she’s deadly serious, no matter how strange her appearance is.
Swallowing, she replies “My name is Microphone, although most people just call me Mic.”
“Charmed,” Taco curtly replies, not bothering to hide the once-over she gives her. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to be judging her attire, which has gotten her more than a few strange looks from passersby. Although, to be fair, if she was judged by this woman, she would be rather upset.
Just as Mic is about to say something else, a car passes by on the nearby street. She rolls her eyes at how loud the motor is; she hates people with loud motors, because the walls of her shitty off-campus apartment are thin enough that the sound lingers for far too long. And she’s found that most people who drive cars like that are just as obnoxious as their motors are.
It’s common enough that she doesn’t bother to comment on it. But Taco lets out a startled cry, flinching back as she stares at the passing car with a faintly horrified expression. “What on earth was that?” she sputters, her eyes wide.
“Huh?” Microphone says blanky.
“That- That horrible metal monster!” she cries, waving her hands in the air in exasperation. “The one that made a truly unbearable noise as it roared by!”
“You mean a car?” she dryly replies, unimpressed. “Or, well, you’re British, so maybe you’d call it an automobile? Either way, it’s definitely not worth freaking out over.”
“But-!” Taco sputters, before her face goes blank and she folds her hands behind her back, regaining her composure in the blink of an eye. “Right. Of course. An… automobile.” She pronounces that word weirdly too, saying the word mobile like one would say mobile phone. Mic can’t help but squint at her, not even bothering to hide her suspicion. This woman seems far too composed to be on drugs, but to be honest, she won’t rule anything out.
“Alright, I’m probably gonna regret this, but…” she mutters, running a hand over her face. “Do you want to come back with me to my apartment until you get your bearings? You obviously seem confused.” She doesn’t know why she’s even suggesting this; she knows she’ll inevitably regret it later. But Taco obviously needs help, and she would be a bad person if she decided to turn her back on her, strange circumstances or not.
“Yes, I believe that is certainly for the best,” Taco curtly replies, absentmindedly tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she glances almost warily toward Microphone. “Do you have one of these cars, too? From what I can surmise, they seem best for faster, more efficient transportation.” Microphone decides not to comment on the fact that she had just obviously, inadvertently admitted to not knowing what a car does, although her guess was right.
“Nah,” she replies, grinning as she begins to walk down the sidewalk, picking up the bag of groceries that had fallen from her hands in all the panic. “Too broke for that. But my complex is just a block away. You can survive walking that far, right?”
In response, Taco huffs, looking rather affronted by the question. “Can I survive- Of course I can manage this, Microphone,” she says, tone scathing. She likes the way the other woman says her name. “I’ve trudged across great distances many times. Considering your own appearance, I doubt a block is a significant distance. I’ll be more than fine.”
“And now we’re back to the insults,” she says with a lofty sigh. Well, it was nice while it lasted.
The two walk down a few blocks in stony silence. When they stop in front of the gate of Microphone’s apartment complex, Taco cranes her neck up to stare at the towering stone buildings, eyes narrowed. “This is where you live?” she asks.
“Well, in one of the apartments inside one of the towers, but yes,” she replies, deciding to add more detail to her words than she usually would. It’s obvious that the other woman is clueless about all sorts of things that are just common sense to her, which is definitely eyebrow-raising at the very least. But she’ll badger Taco about it when she has the chance to sit down and properly rest; at the moment, she looks dead on her feet.
Taco lets out a hum at that, continuing to follow behind Microphone with uneasy, wobbling steps, not that she’s rude enough to comment on it. The two turn to the left as they enter, and after passing a building, Microphone leads Taco up the stairs of the next one, unlocking her lock and throwing open her door.
“Here’s the place,” she says, grinning as she sprawls her hands in the air. “Make yourself at home, yeah?”
“Yes,” Taco agrees, looking blankly around the apartment as she staggers to what Microphone considers the living room. Since it’s a one room apartment with only one college student living in it, it’s not exactly the lap of luxury. There’s three rooms with doors dividing them; the main room, housing the kitchen and living room, both of which are cramped, her small bedroom that her twin sized mattress takes up half the space in, and a bathroom that lets her touch the east and west wall with both hands no matter where she stands,
In other words, it’s way too small for her. But the rent is manageable for her to handle, considering she has no one she’d want to have as her roommate. During the first semester, she and Soap had shared a dorm at their college’s campus, but after she had transferred out…
Well, she told everyone that she couldn’t pay for it without a roommate, and she didn’t want to have to live with someone she wouldn’t know and would likely be an asshole anyway. But the truth was, without Soap, the dorm had felt overwhelming to Microphone, especially when she found some of the things the other woman had inadvertently left behind.
In the end, moving out had been easier.
As Taco sprawls on her couch, Microphone leans against the back of it, brows raised. “Alright,” she says flatly. “Spill. What the hell is your deal, huh?”
“I’m not quite sure what you mean,” the woman replies, voice muffled from where she has her head buried in a cushion.
“Don’t play dumb,” she says flatly, grabbing Taco by the collar of her shirt and yanking her up so they can meet one another’s eyes. She goes limp in Microphone’s arms, like a cat. “You came spilling out of a fucking portal, and act like you have no idea about any of the things you run into. Toddlers would know more than you.”
Taco sniffs, trying to look disdainful. Considering she’s still limp in Microphone’s arms, it’s a pointless endeavor. “I’m simply disoriented,” she says, matter-of-fact. “And the portal? You must be going insane. Those obviously aren’t real.” She would be the picture of confidence if it weren’t for the way her amber eyes darted to look at Mic, as if trying to gauge her reaction to the words.
“Obviously,” Microphone flatly retorts, hissing out the single word between her grit teeth. “But I know what I saw. Explain it or I’ll throw you out onto the streets.”
“Alright, alright!” she cries in exasperation, raising her hands defensively. “I’d much prefer to have somewhere to sleep, especially when I’m in the lap of luxury.”
“...Are you serious?”
“Only if that’s a normal thing to say,” Taco chirps, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “Although you cannot blame me for thinking that. After all, look at everything!” She gets up and begins to rifle through Microphone’s cabinets and fridge, face twisting every time she sees various food. “How can you even have this much food? Aren’t you worried it’ll go bad?”
“Yeah, that’s not really much of a problem?” Microphone replies, shoving the woman aside as she puts away her two bags of groceries. “I’ll answer any question you have as long as you answer mine. What the hell is your deal?”
“Hm,” she says, leaning against her counter as she narrows her eyes. “I doubt you’ll believe me.”
“I think we’re a little bit past that excuse.”
Taco lets out a pained sigh, running a hand over her face. “Not that this is anything more than a theory,” she says crisply. “But judging by my surroundings, the fact that we’re both doing things the other finds odd, the fact that I’m far more exhausted than I should be from a normal transportation spell…” She trails off into mumbles as her brow is furrowed.
“Stop mumbling and get to the point,” Microphone hisses in irritation.
“I believe I may have made a mistake with the spell I casted,” Taco relents, the expression on her face quite pained. Mic gets the sense that she doesn’t say the “m” word often. “That is to say, the portal you saw.”
“The one you fell out of,” she dryly adds, tapping her fingers against the coffee table as she leans forward, other hand cupping her head. “I get it.”
“Yes,” she grits out in response, cheeks briefly dusting pink with anger. To be honest, frustration is a cute look on a woman as small as her. “To make a long story short, I was fleeing from some… rather unsavory folk who viewed it as their duty to capture me. I intended to cast a transportation spell to get away, but in my panic, I must have gotten a few words mixed up.”
“What happened, then?” Microphone prompts. If she hadn’t seen the portal for herself, she wouldn’t be entertaining this, but she had. Either neither of them is crazy, or they both are. Either way, she has hardly anything to lose when it comes to entertaining this. “I mean, you were obviously transported.”
Taco rolls her amber eyes. “Yes, that’s obvious enough,” she flatly agrees, before she slowly looks around Microphone’s apartment with an unreadable expression. “I believe the spell I ended up casting was an extra dimensional transportation spell, though, as opposed to me simply being transported to another place in the world. Which is how I ended up here, in this strange place with technology leagues ahead of things I could have ever conceived.”
For a moment, she can’t do anything more than stare at the other woman blankly. “...You’re from another dimension,” she says hoarsely.
“Indeed. It’s the most likely explanation, at any rate,” she dismissively replies. “If the spell I cast was the one I had been intending, I wouldn’t be experiencing such heavy magical exhaustion. I am a powerful mage, but it takes incredible power to breach the space between dimensions. I have no idea how I could have made such an amateur mistake-” Her face scrunches up in distaste as she speaks. “-but until I regain my strength, I suppose I'll be stuck here for a while.”
She doesn’t exactly look thrilled by the idea. Microphone finds herself sympathizing with her. It must feel awful to feel like such a fish out of water, stuck in a completely foreign world. “How long will it take?”
“Normally, I’d say it would be about a week,” the woman huffs, brow furrowed. “But the energy of your dimension feels… strange. The air is certainly less magically charged. Does magic not exist here at all?”
“Only in fairy tales and TV shows of middling quality.”
“Hm. That does explain your reactions to things, but to think all of this could be achieved without the power magic affords…” She looks thoughtful for a second, before recentering herself. “Right. Due to the differing levels of magical energy in the air, it’ll likely take my body more time than usual. First to acclimate to the lower magic levels, and second to use what it can to recover its strength. At the moment, I doubt I can conjure more than a mere spark.”
Well, it isn’t an exact estimate, but Microphone likes to think she can fill in the blanks well enough. “Okay,” she says matter-of-factly, getting to her feet. “First, you should sleep. You can take my couch or my bed, whichever you prefer.”
“And then?” Taco prompts, raising an eyebrow.
“And then…” She just shrugs, smiling wryly. “I’ll help you get used to this place. You may be stuck here, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t enjoy it while you can. Otherwise, that spell would have just been a complete waste, right?”
Taco takes a moment to think about this, before nodding. “Very well,” she says sagely. “I accept your terms, Microphone.” She gets to her feet and bows. “I hope we can put our trust in one another.”
“Jeez, that’s so formal,” she says, grimacing. “But alright. It’s a deal. For the time being, though…” She trains a severe glare onto Taco. “Really, you should sleep. If you collapse on your feet, I am not looking forward to dragging you around.”
Taco rolls her eyes, but there’s still a ghost of a smile on her face.