"HEY! Why won't you LISTEN to me?!" I shouted, resisting the impulse to stomp my foot. "I'm trying to tell you something impor—"

"Shut up, old man," Blue Rose snapped, "Nobody wants to hear it!"

"But—"

"Why must you always act like a child?" Fire Emblem sighed, shaking his head.

"Because I—"

"Go away, Kotetsu," Antonio rumbled.

I opened my mouth to say more, but everybody was already ignoring me. They were all turning away, dismissing me, acting like I didn't exist. They do this every time I try to speak. It's like I don't matter.

I glared at them all, but decided that it wasn't THAT important. It's just a broken rib, anyway. And it's not like anyone would care if I couldn't work for a few days. I'm invisible. I'm worse than Cyclone. HE at least is quiet.

I knew I shouldn't be upset. This is normal, after all. But it makes me angry when they dismiss me like that, and it makes me angry when they tell me I'm acting like a child. Sometimes I do (act like a child, that is), but most of the time they're just ignoring me and won't actually listen to me. Why do they do that? I'm not THAT bad, am I?

I thought of the letter of resignation at home, taped to the fridge so I'd see it when I went for a beer. There's time… I could just run back home and turn it in… There's nothing wrong with giving up.

Yes there is.

I closed my eyes and leaned my forehead on the cool tiling on the wall in the farthest left-hand bathroom stall, in the men's locker room. This is where I go when I can't deal with them anymore. I've been coming here more and more, lately. Cold clears my head, most of the time. And it's quiet. Nobody comes here. Well, not until someone has to change. But mostly it's quiet. It's… it's nice.

My cellphone buzzed. I sighed and took it out my pocket, not removing my forehead from the wall. I'm always tired after I get angry. I saw the number and name and smiled a little before answering.

"Hello, kid."

"Hello, old man," the person on the other end said. I've never met this guy, but for some reason, he keeps calling me. He told me the first time that my number used to be the one to his mother and father's home phone. I told him that that's too bad, but I needed to get back to work. Somehow, he made me have a conversation with him, and now he calls me regularly. It's… kind of creepy. Which is why his caller ID is 'Creeper'.

"What's up?"

"Do you have some time?"

"Yeah, sure." I turned and leaned back on the wall, crossing my arms as well as I could manage with a phone to my ear. "Do you need somebody to whine to again?"

"Sort of," he said, sounding apologetic. "I… well, I need your advice. I was hoping you could help me."

"Uh. I'm not very good at giving advice, but I'll give it a try. What do you need help with?"

"Women."

"Oh, well, I'm DEFINITELY not good at giving advice on that subject," I said vehemently. "Give me anything but women."

"That's my line. But I really do need help. You see, I have a friend from school who is rather, er, attached… and it's becoming a bit of a hindrance. How do I tell her I'm not interested?" He sounded desperate and confused, and I couldn't help a small smile.

"Yelling at her to leave you alone won't work, ne? No. Has she expressly said that she likes you?"

"Back in highschool, she did, but then she told me that she realized being friends was better. And now she's getting flirtatious again. I don't want to hurt or humiliate her, but it's been getting worse, and her boyfriend is beginning to be concerned, as well. How do I explain to her?"

"I suggest telling her that there's something called personal space, and you'd appreciate it if she'd stay out of yours."

He laughed. "Forward as always. I like the way you talk. Do you act the same way?"

"I'm told so," I confirmed, feeling a little smug. At least SOMEONE liked me. "Strange, you're the only person with sense around here."

"Really?" The pause seemed pensive. "Why is that?"

I blinked. "Uh, well. Just… it was a joke," I muttered, apologetically. "A really bad joke. That's all. I'm sorry, I'm just not really, y'know, not really HERE. I took a shit ton of painkillers earlier. I'm a little out of it."

"No, that's alright. Did you get yourself half-killed again?"

"Er." I glanced down at my torso, wincing. "No, it's just a broken rib. It'll mend. Nobody around here seems to care much," I muttered before I could stop myself. "I know it's just that they all hate me, but still, at least have the sense to hear me out so there's a reason to gloat and scold. They jump on every opportunity they get, you'd think they'd like anoth—" I cut myself off, feeling a sudden tide of anxiety and guilt. "Sorry, sorry, didn't mean to complain. About the girl—"

"She can wait. What do you mean, they all hate you?"

He sounded disbelieving, bewildered, demanding and angry, all at the same time. I would have been flattered if he hadn't been questioning something as old as time and as deeply rooted as the World Tree. They hate me. They wish I'd disappear. Isn't that what they'd all said, time and again? I, myself, was bewildered and angry at his refusal to accept that.

"They hate me. That's all. I'm older than most of them, and I'm not as good at my job, and I'm more of an asshole to them than to you." I thought about for a second, then said, almost but not really surprised, "I think you're the only person besides my ma who's ever actually LISTENED to me since I moved to Sternbild permanently. Maybe that's why I like you."

The door to the stall suddenly ripped open, and I yelped, trying to keep hold of my phone, jump away from the surprise, and not fall into the toilet.

"Like who?" Antonio demanded, and it was the first time in several months that he had looked so livid. "Who're you talking to?"

"None of you business," I retorted, still a little shaken. "What was that for, anyway? Couldn't ya just knock, like a normal person?"

He suddenly snatched my phone away, and I only had time to yelp in protest before he spoke into it angrily; "Who is this?"

I couldn't hear what Creeper said, but Antonio reddened further with rage. I could see the veins in his temple start to throb, and his jaw tightened so hard it twitched. "That doesn't matter! Who are you, and why are you calling? …I asked first, so you answer first! Proper etiquette!"

"Since when do you care about etiquette?" I demanded, but subsided when he glared at me. I remember that glare. Once you've crossed knives with a two hundred forty-something pound pile of muscle at age fourteen, you learn not to mess with them. Especially not Antonio Lopez. Especially not when he's angry.

Slowly, the tension in his body ebbed away; the tension in the air around him got thicker. I sat on top of the toilet's water tank and leaned as far back against the wall as I could. If he went crazy in the doorway, I'd have to climb out over the partition into the next stall. I know the proper etiquette for THAT well enough.

Finally, his stance was simply annoyed, while his facial expression and the aura he projected were nothing but pure dislike. And… was that a possessive look in his eye? No, surely it couldn't be. Friends we may have been, but that was a long time ago. A lifetime ago. We'd both agreed never to mention it, and gone our separate ways. Why dredge up a past that hurt so much more than the present?

Antonio grunted. "I don't care who you're related to, why you're calling him, or how you got his number. Just don't call him again. Got it?" After a second, supposedly during which Creeper promised to cut contact to me, he pushed the button and my phone beeped obediently, dropping the call. He handed it back to me, still full of disgust and dislike. "Don't call him ever again," he growled. "Don't even THINK about it."

"Why not?" I demanded, feeling the earlier anger start to throb in my skull again. "What's wrong with talking to someone?"

"Everything," he said simply, and left.

Oh, I was so tempted to just immediately call back… but Antonio has a way of impressing on you the importance of following his orders. I knew it'd have to be later, at home. But why was he so angry? It was just someone I was talking to regularly. Maybe it'd been the part about not listening to me. I scowled at the ripped door—they were going to blame me for this—and slid off the toilet. I hadn't said anything but the truth. It was obvious they hated me, and when I walked out of the locker room, three pairs of eyes locked on me with varying degrees of surprise and anger. The anger wasn't very much (in fact it was more like disgruntlement, or offence,) so that was safe. It was the surprise, and the way Sky High, Dragon Kid, and Fire Emblem all turned away rather hastily, as if caught staring at one of the adults in the parlor after they were supposed to be in bed. I frowned at the back of their heads, mystified, but shrugged and went off to the farthest corner of the room, hiding behind the exercise bikes.

(Everyone scoffs at them, since we all do so much running already, but they're still here. We just shove them off to one side, and it makes a handy little place for contemplation. It's a rule among us that if someone is in the contemplation area, you have to wait your turn. I usually try to be quick about it, but when it's Blue Rose or Fire Emblem's turn, they can spend hours moping. It gets old quickly.)

I sat on the floor and leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling as I thought for a bit. I dismissed the phone call incident after a couple of minutes as just some strange little tic that everyone had about me having private conversations, and ones that didn't devolve into arguments. I watched a spider cross the ceiling. Huh. Agnes was going to have a fit.

Mr. Maverick wouldn't. I smiled a little at that thought. Mr. Maverick was like everyone's favorite uncle, even if I did feel a little uneasy around him. When I was out of his presence, I scoffed at myself and focused on how he was nice to everyone, and never did more than suggest that you were being an idiot. I tried to group him in my head with Mr. Legend, but it didn't matter how hard I tried, he never measured up. There was always that small thing, in the back of my head…

Maybe he would know what was up. I felt a little uncomfortable, asking to talk to him by myself, but I could hardly confront the others, and their managers were just distant, floaty, ethereal things that didn't really exist, to my mind. Maybe I really SHOULD call Creeper again. He usually gave good advice when it came to dealing with social situations. I smiled to myself. He was VERY good at social situations. I'd started being a lot more polite, and everyone was still suspicious, but I wasn't having as many problems.

Well, not in public, at least.

My smile disappeared like a bird's shadow. Everything was still bumpy and sharp and not right, but it was even worse with my fellow heroes. Again, the resignation letter…

I glanced at the clock. My thirty minutes were up. I stood with a sigh and brushed the dust off of me, trudging sullenly out of the mass of equipment to settle in the second loneliest spot, by the giant window. Everyone ignored it because they were scared the media might set cameras, but I just didn't care. Nobody would recognize me. I don't have very many outside friends. I didn't have any inside friends, either.

The view is nice, but I like to stare out at everything and think about what it'd be like at home. Not home with ma and Muramasa; home with Tomoe, and Kaede. Both of them… my little girl and my center of the universe…

I couldn't smile when I thought about her. I mean, I could, but not in public. I could just imagine her, sitting here beside me, smiling calmly and laughing at some bad joke I'd made that she'd understood, because she understood me. And my baby—no, little girl, my little girl, well past babyhood. My little girl sitting with us, with her mother's arm around her, not yelling at me, not telling me how terrible I was, just laughing with us and being light with her berating. Why did we have to fall apart? Why did I have to leave her, let her go, lose my center…

I could feel her beside me, running her fingers through my hair. I wanted to apologize, but my throat was tight and my mouth was dry. Usually it's not this bad; usually I can smile on the inside. But not today… Today was a sad day. A broken rib, no one to talk to except someone I'd been forbidden, and everybody being mean.

God, I wanted a drink.

~~~\0/~~~

"WHAT THE HELL, TONY?!"

He stared at me coldly and dropped the crushed remains on my phone. "I told you not to talk to him."

"You're not my goddamn mother!" I snarled, stooping to pick up the pieces. I held tight to the barstool so I wouldn't topple over. "Why are you so pissed off? Are you going to tell me not to talk to my brother, too? Who said you get to tell me what to do?!"

"He's trouble," he growled, ignoring the group that was forming. "I can tell."

"How the hell do you know?"

"Why did you tell him that we all hate you?"

"Because you do!" I almost shouted. I can match him temper for temper, and I can go higher. One of the reasons we were rivals for so long, and are again. "None of you even bother to listen when I'm shouting in your face. Hell, Nate and the girls call me a dirty old man every time they see me. How the hell is that not hating me? And what does it matter who I talk to?"

"It matters because he's the one corrupting you, isn't he?" Antonio retorted. "You never were nice before this asshole. Something's wrong, and it's because of him."

"How is being nicer a corruption?!" I snarled, reigning myself in with an effort. Drink doesn't make me blurry; if anything, it gives me a fire that makes everything sharper. I used to drink before calls, but Tomoe threw a vase at me and I stopped. "And what d'you mean, I was "never nice"? I was plenty nice before you guys started being assholes!"

"I was under the impression you threw a fit because Nate tried to steal your underwear, and that's what started the downward trend," Antonio commented dryly.

I just stared at him, the rage rising. That was only a week after… they all knew and… for god's sake, how could anyone have thought to…

"Tomoe," was all I got out through a tight throat. I wanted to scream. I wanted to tear him apart. But the look on his face made me want to make it quick and painful instead of slow and torturous. His face went white, and uncertainty replaced contempt. When I got my voice under control, somehow I hissed, "And you were the first to forget. You know that. You were the first to tell me to get over it. You. YOU told me to get over it. You, who had tried just as hard as me…"

"I…" I could see the shame actively pounding through every part of him. Then he drew himself together visibly. "That has nothing to do w-with the current situation," he said in a shaky voice that made it half a question. I wanted so badly to just kill him, gut him, offer him to the Mayan gods. But that was the cognac coursing through me. I knew that well, and that put a damper on my bloodlust.

"Doesn't it?" I asked, narrowing my eyes at him. "There's a reason I gave up. There's a reason I just threw it all out the fucking window. Maybe I shouldn't have thrown my attitude out the window," I mused, faking sobriety, "Maybe I should have thrown YOU. And the other fucking pustules who call themselves our coworkers. The bastards, the swine, the sons of bitches—I should have thrown YOU out the window!" I shouted, surprised at my volume and the way Antonio shivered and shrank away from me. The cognac must have affected me more than usual. The bloodlust surged, but I knew better than to give in. I held on to it with a will, but Antonio knew it couldn't hold, that was why he was searching for a way out, and I couldn't hold it anymore—

The crushed piece of technology in my clenched fist beeped feebly.

I let out a little gasp of surprise, the anger suddenly taking hold of me as my attention broke, and it's only because of Antonio's NEXT power that he survived my sudden barrage of attacks. He held his own, bruised me good, broke another rib; but there's a reason why I'm called "Wild Tiger", and he understands, if not exactly respects, that when I let go you better fucking get some reinforcements, or you'll end up a smear.

It took about seven other patrons to pull me off him, and he was angry too by this time, and it took four to hold him back. I vaguely noticed that all the bigger, heavier, stronger guys and gals were holding my arms and the back of my shirt, and one woman was shaking me and shouting in my face as I strained around her, shouting at Antonio, who was shouting at me, and then I ran out of insults in English and switched to a jumble of French, German, Danish, and Japanese. A lot of them sounded dirtier than their meanings, to an English-speaker, which made it better. Antonio, who is fluent in both South American and native Spanish, had reverted as well.

The woman shaking me suddenly put her hands over my ears, and I trailed off, surprised how not being able to hear made everything calm down. I was still boiling, ready to kill, but there was suddenly a lessening of everything, and I suddenly burst into tears.

This was probably much scarier than the thought of my murdering one of my own "friends". No one expects a would-be murderer to suddenly start bawling, but god, when you can't get your fists at the problem, the frustration finds other outlets. I was still muttering insults and cursing everything in the world, but crying takes a lot of energy and air, so I couldn't be as loud as usual. And I just dissolved when the woman trying to make me calm down hugged me. She was one of those factory women who smelled of metal and soot and oil and had arms as thick as any man's, but she knew how to handle a sobbing full-grown man. I hadn't been hugged in… Good lord. I hadn't been hugged in… in years. At least, not by anyone but ma.

I'm a hugging person. I don't like being without physical expressions of affection. I've been deprived for so long, even a woman I've never met who hugs too hard and is covered in things that will probably give me a rash is a beautiful feeling. She was a mother. It was the way she murmured and held me, in the particular way of women who'd had to deal with crying children for much of their lives. Eventually, the hubbub was fading, while Antonio kept shouting what sounded strangely like apologies mixed with death-threats, still in Spanish, so I pushed away and the woman wiped my face with her sleeve.

"Well, tha' was interesting," she said, with a Scottish accent that made her voice sound like it was purring. "I've never seen a groown man fall teh pieces after shouhtin' threats of death to 'is over-protective friend."

"He's not a friend," I told her stiffly, rubbing my eyes on my wrist. "He's a coworker. You probably didn't hear the part where he tried to deny hating my guts. After this, he's got no reason to pretend. And I don't see WHY he's protective," I burst out against my will. "It's not MY fault Creeper keeps asking my advice—"

"Creeper?" the woman asked curiously. I turned red.

"I don't know his name, so I call him Creeper, because he's just weird. He asked me for help with dissuading a lady friend earlier today, and Tony decided that I'm not allowed to talk to him." I glared at Antonio, who was by now halfway across the room. There were several strong folk still encircling me, uncertain, though I felt tired and crabby and full of sharp pains that made it impossible to go over and break his nose. I'd missed the first three times I'd tried. He was going to have some absolutely gorgeous black eyes tomorrow.

"Well, seein' as ye doon't know the lad's name, I'd be concairned too," she said dryly. I scowled.

"He's a good kid. Creepy as fuck, but a good kid. I bet I'd hate him in real life," I muttered to myself, then took a deep breath and let it out. "Okay. I got this. Just… just need one more, and I'll be good," I mumbled to myself, trying not to sound desperate. "It'll help with…" I couldn't think of what it would help, so I just trailed off and stumbled back to the bar. Jerry whipped out a Heroes Ale, and I didn't even thank him, just drained it and gave him too much money and tottered (there's no other word for it) out into the too-warm air of a sticky summer night. I could feel people watching me, but I was too drained to care.

I noticed I was still clutching my phone. It was absolutely mangled, but it still flickered feebly, trying to get my attention. I leaned against a wall and tried to press the button to open voicemail. It didn't work, so I started pressing random buttons, and eventually, it opened voicemail and obliged with a distorted, pitiful recitation.

"Hey, old man. I know your friend said no, but I need to talk to you. It's urgent. And… tell me what happened. I know when something's wrong, and you know that. Alright? …Call me back. Thanks."

The speakers fizzled on the last words and popped. The lights flicked off. My phone was dead.

I closed my eyes and tried not to cry again. I don't know how I got home, but I think a taxi was involved, and luckily I got a reputable one who didn't take me to some private area for a gang to disembowel me. Again, I paid too much. He certainly didn't mind, maybe because I hadn't puked or made too much noise and was ready to fork over a load. I am very certain he saw the empty condition of my wallet and the guilt and anger and jumbled negative emotions on my face, and that's why he was nice and waited until I actually managed to open the door to my house and got inside. It's good to know someone sober with a car is there to make sure you don't fall over dead on the stoop. There's not much they can do once you're inside, but still…

I stood in the shower until I felt marginally better, and ate a couple bananas and went to bed, anticipating a deadly headache in the morning. I completely forgot about my broken bones, but in the middle of the night, when they tried to kill me, I activated and made them heal faster. I've done it before. It takes a long time, and it doesn't go all the way, but it does a lot to help. I was so exhausted that I slept through the alarm clock, and Agnes had to wake me up by shouting, "HEY YOU LAZY IDIOT, GET UP!"

"Not so loud," I groaned, struggling to even raise my wrist to look Agnes in the eye via holo-screen. "My whole body is trying to murder me."

"I didn't hit you that hard," Antonio objected snidely. My attention focused, and I tensed in remembrance of last night, even though he didn't show on my screen.

"And if you did, I hit you a million times harder," I hissed, so I didn't have to growl and make my throat vibrate, which would hurt the base of my skull. "You forget, I'm more experienced at brawling than you."

"Because you're a violent drunk," Dragon Kid commented. I almost shouted, but I couldn't, physically and mentally. I didn't have the heart to protest, and it wouldn't matter my trying to deny it. It was true. No point anymore. No point in denying anything…

I sat up to get my mind off all those dismal thoughts and listened to Agnes relay the information, grimacing at her tone, which was one of absolute fierce joy, as if she relished explaining how terrible our new assignments were. It was a packed day. I closed my eyes tight and tried to mentally prepare myself, but it didn't work. She cut the call right at the seven minute mark, and I shambled like a dead thing to the bathroom.

"Call me back, he says," I muttered gloomily as I fetched a towel. "Call me back, eh? Hard to do with no phone…"

I looked down at my wrist, at my call bracelet, and wondered tiredly if it had a phone call ability. Probably. Might as well check.

I don't know why I have his number memorized, but when he picked up and said "Hello?" all confused-like, I grinned. My day was going to get a lot better.

"Hey, kid!" Why does his voice give me a sense of stability in this cruel world? "Sorry about yesterday, Tony broke my phone. I believe we had been in the middle of a conversation, and you had something important to tell me?"

He laughed, a happy laugh that came crystal clear, unlike when I was using my cellphone. "Oh, good! I'm glad you got my message, then. Is Tony the one you've been hiding from?"

"Yeah. I don't know how I'm gonna face him today, I gave him some nasty bruises last night. I lost my temper." Will the bracelet survive the shower? I stuck my arm in the spray experimentally and grinned. Yup, still works! I tore off my boxers and jumped in happily. "So how are things with you?"

"Well, the girl I've been having trouble with has left me alone. I explained to her that it really wouldn't work out, since I already have a special someone."

I frowned. "Special someone? You didn't tell me."

"Because you're that someone."

…I don't think even the core of the sun could have been hotter than the blush that poured through my face. "Umm…"

"Not in the romantic way," he assured me hastily. "I just used you as an excuse. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all," I replied, trying to make my heartbeat calm down and forgive him for the scare. "So you got that girl to back off. Cool. What was so important?"

"I… ah." It was very unlike him to pause awkwardly before even beginning the sentence. "I was wondering… if you would like… to come to the graduation ceremony."

"Graduation?" It's hard to wash with only one hand, but I managed. I sacrificed three precious seconds to comb my fingers through my hair and work the shampoo in a bit more. I HATE having greasy hair. "You're graduating college?"

"No, I… I'm graduating from the Heroes Academy."

"…Oh." I turned and backed up so the shower spray could actually rinse out the suds. "You didn't tell me you went to the Academy."

"Didn't I?" he answered vaguely. "Oh, I suppose I didn't. Well, I've been here for about six years, it's time to allow them to kick me out."

That, I laughed at. "Kick you out? Kid, I know you, you don't get kicked out; you walk out on your own and let people convince themselves it was because of them. Don't deny it!"

"I never said I was going to. Would you like to come or not? It's next week, so…"

I bit my lip. "When next week? I'll have to talk to my boss; you know, weird schedules and bad hours and all that."

"Thursday, at 7PM. I'm assuming you know how to find your way there?"

I snorted. "Ha! Who doesn't? The Academy is so new, the ribbon is still on the gates. Or, that's the way everyone still sees it. Is it nice there? Do they actually teach you things?"

"Come to graduation and I will reveal all."

"Bastard."

"Idiotic old man."

I wanted to talk all day, but I was almost done with my shower. I grimaced to myself. "Well, I don't know if I can get there. And I have to leave for work in a couple minutes, and I have no idea when I'll get out. I'll call you when everything's cleared up. Alright?"

"…Yes. I understand."

"Good." I grinned as I stepped out and grabbed my towel. "You're a good kid. I promise to try really hard to get the day off or something."

"Thank you. Have a nice day at work."

"That is entirely impossible, but thank you for the sentiment. Good luck with your last week of school."

He hung up first, and while this made me a little sad and kind of hurt, I shrugged and got over it, scrubbing myself dry and flinging on my clothes with complete disregard to whether my shirt was tucked in or not, and did a quick scrape to get off that stupid, stupid stubble. Why must I be cursed with such dark facial hair? Nobody notices when Sky High doesn't shave…

I was out the door after two quick bottles of Heineken and a last, longing look towards the muffins sitting in their plastic box on the counter. I already felt bad about being so blunt and short with him, but I had work to do. I could call back and have a proper conversation later.

Except that, when Tony saw me, he stomped right over and grabbed my collar and snarled, "Take it back, asshole. You had no right or reason to say that."

"Oh, I've got plenty of reasons," I snapped back, jerking out his grip. "And because I've got reasons, I've got rights. Free country, hombre. Unlike where you come from."

Tony hates being reminded that his parents fled their inlaws in Spain to settle in Mexico. His face went purple, which made his black eyes blend in quite nicely except for that greenish-yellow tint, and he would've tried to kill me if Agnes hadn't stepped in.

"Hey, idiots! Get to your stations," she snapped, pointing in the vague direction of the perp we were supposed to be trying to catch. "You can continue your fracas later, got it? Right now, HeroTV needs something to hold viewers, and unfortunately, you're the comedy duo that draws a crowd. Go!"

We both snarled at her and went to do our duty.

Comedy duo, bah… Even Tony has fans. I've got nothin', and with my ribs pounding and my head woozy…

"Oy, Ben," I hailed my manager tiredly, "What's the odds I can have Thursday off next week? My friend's graduating and he wants me to come."

"Call him or send him a card," Ben prompted bluntly, "Because you aren't going anywhere on Thursday." He held out my suit and I snatched it from him with a groan.

"Ben, I am so fucking sick and tired of this shit, why can't any of us have at least one day of PTO? I promise not to spend it drinking…"

He scowled back at me. "You break promises as often as walls. Maybe the Head Honcho will let you off for a few hours, but you're not getting paid time until you stop racking up all these debts. Be CAREFUL for once, will you?"

My jaw hurt, so I forced myself to stop grinding my teeth. "Yeah. I'll be careful."

~~~\0/~~~

"It's not your fault."

"Yes it IS!" I burst out, fighting back tears. "It's my fault, alright?! If I hadn't knocked over that piece of shitty so-called "art", I would have gotten that guy, AND I would have earned some free time! As is, my boss'll put me on overtime, AGAIN, and I won't have any time at all for the rest of the year! This is my goddamn fault, so don't try to be all nice and encouraging about it!"

"I'm not being nice, I'm telling the truth. I have no idea what you're babbling about, but whatever it is, it's not all your fault. First off, it's the fault of whoever was making that "shitty so-called piece of art" to put it in quite that area. Second, it's the person's fault that they were running from you. Third, it's your boss's fault for withholding paid time off. There are labor laws against that."

"I'm not part of any kind of union, though," I muttered, trying not to sink too far into misery, or into the couch cushions. "And nobody wants to add me to their union because my job description is so haywire. It changes every few weeks, god knows why."

"You don't need to be part of a union. There are laws to prevent you from having to work every day at such strange hours, if it's harmful to you."

"My job IS to be harmed." I pressed one hand to my injured ribs and winced. "If I try to point out those kinds of laws, my boss will laugh in my face and threaten me with a retirement package. And it won't even be a good package, just a few thousand and the stuff in my cubicle."

He sighed, a good-natured, though sad, sigh that made me wonder if he had ever had the feeling of drowning in your own career. "You are a silly old man. I can't give you any advice, but I can tell you this; there are always ways to get what you want. But if you can't come to the graduation, that's fine with me. We'll just think of something else."

I grinned, reluctantly. "Wow. You're really determined, aren't you?"

"Well, of course. I want to meet you in real life, so I don't have to guess what you're like just by your voice. It's not like you can truly judge someone and their character simply by phone or through their written word. How do I know you're a good person to everyone else as well as me, if all we do is talk? I want to know what you're like," he clarified, and there was a strange intensity in his voice that made me feel odd. "I want to know if you really are a loathsome person, or if you're paranoid, or if your coworkers are simply prejudiced against you. I want to know why that Tony person won't let me talk to you. I want to know if the image in my head is the image of reality."

"Uh." The odd feeling had changed, and it felt a little like embarrassment, now. "I like to think I'm a good person, and not paranoid, but it's hard when you're in a pit of vipers. I don't think you would like them. My coworkers, I mean. But, other than that… well, what's your image of me? I've always imagined that you were some baby-faced popular kid with enough charm to fill a swimming pool."

He laughed, and I grinned at both the delight and embarrassment in the sound. "True enough, I suppose. At least, that's how others see me, or so they say. Whatever gave you that impression, though?"

"The way you talk. Your accent. You've got a particular way of putting sentences together that makes me think you were raised well, and that usually translates into being a popular kid. And you're too nice. I know there's substance in that pretty-boy exterior, but the way you talk about your friends and classmates and what they do and say in turn makes me think they see you as some sort of… oh, I don't know. Some kind of standard in being human." I paused to let him deny it, but he didn't. "Did I get it?"

"I… I suppose so," he agreed slowly, sounding a little shy. "Thank you, I guess. Did you mean that as a compliment?"

"Oh, I suppose you can go ahead and think that," I sighed, grinning a bit. "Your turn."

"I don't think you'll like it…"

"Bullshit. Tell me, or I'll bug you until the end of time."

"Well, it is only fair," he acquiesced with a small sigh of his own. "Do you want physical description or character profile?"

"Both. Character first, though. I don't wanna hear about how many warts I have."

A small laugh. "Oh, don't worry, I don't believe in putting warts on my friends. No… I think you're a lonely middle-aged widower with no clue how to operate in a public setting. Lonely, because you put up with me. Middle-aged, because of the pitch of your voice. You drink too much, you told me that yourself, so that would automatically lower your ability to function in polite society. You are not in poverty, but you are not part of the upper class. Your job has made you hard and bitter, but there are still soft spots in you, somewhere. You pretend that you don't really care what anyone thinks about you, but really you hold the hurt close to you. You wouldn't complain half as much if you really did let insults and such roll right off. Is it a coping habit, or are you just one of those people who don't like to let others know your real feelings?"

I couldn't find the words to agree or disagree with either option. That… how can you tell that much about someone just by talking to them? It was like he'd been reading my diary, if I had one. Maybe it was because I'd told him so much about myself… "I… guess it's… a little of both? You are really fucking creepy, you know that?"

"Why? Did I get it right?"

"You fucking nailed it." I guess awe shouldn't be my strongest reaction when confronted by someone who's dissected my entire inner self, but I can't fear him. I don't know why. I just can't. He's perceptive, I've known this for… how long? Has it really been over half a year? Good god. "I guess you should tell me what kind of face you put on that."

"I'm sorry… I didn't mean to offend you."

"You didn't. That was just really freaky. Don't do it again."

"Alright. I promise. Are you sure you want me to…?"

"Yes."

A sigh rushed through the speaker, but since I was still using my bracelet, there was absolutely no crackle. "Well, I think of you as a regular person, average height, average build, with a bit more muscle than most of the fellows on the street. I wish you would be good-looking, but really, how many men nowadays don't look like what you consider "douchebags"? That is a highly improper phrase, by the way—"

"Yeah, yeah, save me the lecture. Let's see if you can tell me what I look like on the outside as well as what I am on the inside."

"Hmph. Fine, be an ignorant bumpkin, see if I care." It's impossible for him to hide it when he's joking. "Hmm. Since you complain about your facial hair so often, I am inclined to believe you are either clean-shaven or have minimal coverage; a beard seems more likely than a mustache."

I rubbed my chin and grinned. "Bingo on that respect."

"Heh. Dark-haired?"

"Brown."

"Slightly longer than fashionable."

"You have a photo of me, I swear to god…"

"Well, since I don't stalk my friends, that is highly unlikely. I'm sorry to offend, but I've always imagined that you have pretty eyes."

My ears and the back of my neck were the first to burn, but my face was a close second. "Nothing about me is 'pretty'. So THAT'S wrong."

"I bet they're a soft doe brown," he added wickedly, which made my face hurt even more. "With naturally perfectly curled eyelashes and barely a wrinkle in sight."

"Okay, now you're making fun of me."

"Oh, contraire. And straight eyebrows, and a slightly crooked nose from being broken so many times, and you smile more often than you frown. And your hands are scarred, but not so that they're ugly, just so that they show how hard a worker you are. And the over-all effect of you is that you are strong, capable, and were attractive earlier in life."

"Um." Is it sad that these were the first compliments to me in years? "I told you, I'm not attractive. I never was."

"You have beautiful eyes. Admit it."

"I do not!"

"Are they hazel, instead? Because that would also be rather adorable, combined with the rest of you."

It was getting hard to breathe, and my heart was beating so hard that I could hear it. "S-stop it! I'm not adorable! I'm not attractive! My eyes are just normal brown, that's all!"

"Well, I don't care what you look like physically. You're an adorable old man."

That's when I started crying.

~~~\0/~~~

"I told you. Nothing good would come of it."

I tried to glare at him, but I couldn't. I was still preoccupied. "Fuck off, Tony."

"What'd he do?" he demanded, stepping in front of me. I tried to snarl, too, but it wouldn't come. Even if I was pissed off at him, I wasn't really ready to get defensive.

"He didn't DO anything," I muttered, trying to get around him. He got in my way every time. "Goddamn it, Tony, move it!"

"No. If he didn't actively do something, then what did he say?"

"It has nothing to do with you!"

"I'm sure it doesn't." Tony planted his feet and crossed his arms over his chest, glaring down at me with a touch of Antonio the Terror. "But I still want to know."

"It's none of your business," I muttered, ducking around him and heading for the window. Bikes weren't good enough today. In this state, I'd take up most of the day… "And I still don't see why it matters to you if I've got actual friends or not. You're not my mother, and this isn't goddamn highschool. Get over it! You're a big boy now, fuck off and act like one!"

He grabbed my shoulder and spun me around, but before he could start, Fire Emblem suddenly appeared and grabbed his ass, making him yelp very loudly. "Damn it! Stop doing that, it hurts."

"Geez, you'd think it's the end of the world," Fire Emblem pouted, then started cuddling up to him. "But you have the most glorious backside I have ever laid eyes upon! How can I resist?"

I sneaked away while Tony was distracted, and wondered if Fire Emblem was just seizing the opportunity, or was trying to help. Nah… nobody helps me. He was probably just horny today. Thank god he sees me as the epitome of greasy old man with no kind of attractive qualities at—

You have pretty eyes.

I rubbed my mouth to hide the sudden heat in my face. I do NOT have pretty eyes. I don't know why it annoys me that he said that. No, not annoys me; it frightens me. No one has said that kind of thing, ever. Tomoe and I didn't have to tell each other what physical features were best. Ma never said I was cute. None of the women I've ever tried to have a relationship with ever mentioned what I look like, besides the initial "Hey, sexy" at the bar. Nobody has ever said I have pretty eyes.

I flopped on the couch against the window and folded my arms on the back, glaring at my reflection in the glass. What does he mean, attractive earlier in life? I know he's never actually seen me, but still… I really… I am NOT handsome, hot, beautiful, adorable, cute, sexy, gorgeous, pretty, or any other flattering description. I am a person.

My reflection was pale and very see-through, but also harsh and unforgiving. The crooked nose; permanent scowl; lines like parentheses from all the frowning; and my eyes. How can they be considered anything but eyes? They're shaped like little balls of goo that have a shit-ton of nerves in them and are kinda colored weird. I don't like them. I guess they can be labeled "fawn brown" at times, but they change color. Like now. They look like mud.

I closed my eyes and buried my face in my arms. He was just confused. And he's never seen me before. So it's okay. Maybe I'll send him a picture of myself, to show him that he's wrong, or maybe I'll get his email. Actually, no. I like not knowing who he is. I don't mind if he knows who I am, I just want him to keep quiet about who HE is. It's more fun that way.

Waiting, waiting… when will we get our next call? I don't want to talk to him right now, because of what he said, and because it won't be a closed system. I don't want everyone knowing what we're talking about. And Tony might object. But Tony's a possessive bastard and can go burn in hell for all I care.

"Hello, Wild Tiger!"

"Hello, Sky," I muttered, resisting the urge to snarl at him. "What do you want?"

"To know what you're sulking about, that's all." He sat next to me on the couch, crossed his legs, and clasped his hands around his knee, which I have never actually seen anyone in real life do. I eyed him suspiciously, but he just grinned, forever cheerful and innocent. "So what's the matter?"

I looked out the window again and tried not to be angry. "…My friend. He acted like an ass and didn't apologize."

"Ahh, kind of like you!" Sky High compared.

My entire body ached to scream at him, but no. I should at least try to be diplomatic. "Yeah… I suppose. Maybe I'm rubbing off on him more than either of us realized. Or… he claimed he was trying to compliment me, so I didn't get mad at him as much as I should've. So I drank too much again. That's all."

He nodded thoughtfully and I wanted to hit him. God damn you, you bastard, don't try to judge me based on this one incident. I hate it when people do that to me. He's going to tell me to "explain my feelings" and ask for an apology, just watch…

"I suppose you could explain to him why you were upset," Sky High suggested. Ka-boom. What'd I tell ya? "Asking for an apology would not be selfish, either. Being angry without finding a proper way to dispose of said anger is very unhealthy."

"I know that," I muttered, burying my face in my arms so I wouldn't have to look at him. "There's never a way to "dispose" of my anger. Drink it down or punch it out. Sometimes it goes away. This'll go away." I couldn't help adding, almost in a whisper, "I hope this'll go away, at least."

I didn't have to see him to know what his expression would be. Disgruntled, maybe. Offended, most certainly. With him, pity was a given. That asshole is always pitying me. I'm probably the lowest-grade alcoholic bastard son of a cabbage-gardener and a traveling salesman that he's ever seen.

'Course, I don't exactly know if my father was a traveling salesman. I just like the sound of it.

I tensed when Sky High put his hand on my shoulder. "It'll be fine," he said, and my jaw tightened at the gentleness of his tone. "You'll be alright." Then he walked away.

I closed my eyes tight and tried not to cry.