The brothers rented a room over a cobblers along with the ex-lieutenant and T'ao. It was cramped, but what could they do? They were living off of Glowse's savings. He and T'ao had not received pay in months. Money was short in the capitol, and they were lucky to bring in a few coins here and there. Mario was working construction again, swinging a sledgehammer down in the refugee camps alongside T'ao and a few other riders that had shown up. Glowse went to the palace every day, trying to get a meeting with someone who mattered. They sold Baby. Mario had taken off work today to make the market trip. The only one who would be home at this hour was Luigi. Mario hesitated at the door, hating himself for his reluctance. He couldn't stay on the urine-smelling landing forever. He turned the key and crept inside.
Luigi was in the corner, curled up on his side. Maybe he was asleep. It was easier that way. They had gotten Luigi help, but by then he had become a human skeleton, lanced through by the terrible fever. He had yet to fully recover his physical strength, and was gripped by megrims. The first weeks were the worst. He muttered to himself, sobbed in his sleep, suffered from his scars through every waking hour. He cursed in his delirium, at God, at Mario, the Stars, T'ao, Glowse. His nights were filled with horrors. He had improved somewhat since then, and Mario did what he could for this shadow of a brother. His feelings alternated on a whim. Pity. Remorse. Disgust, he was ashamed to admit, was becoming a prevailing attitude. He was weak, he found himself thinking, a pathetic shrimp. He'd suffered far worse. How dare his brother die from such a petty thing as an infection?
Those thoughts made him sick, and because seeing Luigi in his condition made him think, he now avoided him as much as possible. Which made him guilty. It was an endless cycle of loathing and self-loathing, something he never thought he'd experience with his own brother. Sure, when Pauline left him… there was a time when getting a gun just seemed natural. Go shoot the stuck-up bitch for breaking his heart. Or maybe he would have just bit down on the barrel. Good riddance. No more petty, hopeless dreams of medical school, no more slogging in sewers, no more Luigi and his selfless adoration…
This must be how he thinks, Mario thought. He was a man of action and raw emotion. Having to sort things out wasn't in his nature.
So he sat down at the battered old table and made a sandwich. Not a panini, but still good after eating boot leather. He dragged one of the old driftwood chairs up to the table.
The chair was splintery. Damn it. He digged a piece out of his backside and decided he might as well eat by the windowsill. He set the sandwich down and froze. What was that? He peered through the grimy windopanes. There was no one on the street, but he thought he'd seen a cloak, darting away down an alley…
"Huh."
He gulped down big bites of his sandwich. Dry. There was a pot of beer in the cupboard. Nasty stuff, but you wouldn't get the shits from it like the water. He took a swig. This was life at its finest.
"Can I have a sip of that," Luigi whispered.
Mario flinched, fumbled the jar and caught it. He tried to sound cool
"Sure. Thought you were asleep."
He plunked the beer down on the floor next to Luigi. His brother looked up at him with hollow eyes and mumbled a thank you before taking a long drink.
"Great shit," he coughed, making a face.
"Yeah, sure ain't cola. More like grain piss."
They shared an uncomfortable silence.
"So… how's work?"
Mario had his turn with the beer. He mulled over his answer and settled with
"Yeah. I mean, it's ok. Good. Same as, uh, sort of like what I used to do. Wish we had nail guns but it isn't too bad. Or claw hammers. Decent nails. Fuck."
Luigi looked into the pot. He sighed. Sipped.
"How do you feel about the refugee camp? Do you feel good, helping out?"
"I s'pose. It pays. We put up houses to get'em out of the damp if that's what you mean."
"I've been down there."
"Course you have. That's how we got in here."
"No. I go out when you're gone now."
Mario gagged on the beer.
"Pfaa… you don't say."
"Don't be mad. I just started. It's… really hard. Seeing all of this. It hurts me, Mario. It really does."
Luigi slammed the jug down and staggered to his feet. He was a lightweight, and even this watered down swill worked itself over his malnourished frame.
"It's disgusting. Prostitutes. You see them every day, I bet. Covering up their spores, claiming they're clean. Balls! More than likely they're full of em, stoppered up. And they don't have no choice! You do what you can to live one more day. It's a slum, worse than anything I've ever seen. It makes we want to vomit."
He was making circuits around the room, bumping into the table every time he passed it. Mario hugged the jar to himself lest he trip over it. He didn't know what to say, didn't want to say anything. Would anything help? Let him work it out himself.
"You know how Glowse goes up to the castle every day? He waits in line. I go and watch him. I wear my mask and he never notices me. He waits in line all day most of the time, and they shut the fucking doors before they let half of 'em in, and he just comes back home and tries it again. And the fucking nobles! Have you ever been in that part of town? I walked around there once. They thought I was a tramp. Not enough powder to cover up the scars, see."
He held out his hands. Spidery white lines crisscrossed his knuckles and wrist, the vestiges of his removed spores.
"You know what I heard in Fountain Park the other day? King Rodan is still alive. He escaped with his family, and when they got here, ahead of all his subjects, they were welcomed with a two-day feast. A feast. There's people out there dying of the spores and hunger and they're celebrating a disaster. It makes me want to puke."
He looked like he might. He was as green as his shirt.
"Easy, sit down over here. You eaten today?"
Mario offered the corner of his sandwich. Luigi looked at it queasily.
"Haven't. Not today. Not yesterday. Food tastes like-."
He puked.
"Aw jeeze."
Mario wrapped his cloak around Luigi's shoulders.
"It's gonna be ok. Just let all the poison out."
"I'm just so scared," Luigi choked out between sobs. "I know we're safe now, but for how long? And this place… it's s-so sad… what's the point? Why bother…"
Mario wiped snot off of Luigi's face with his sleeve.
"There's troubles with this place, Luigi, but there were troubles back home too. We just never saw them up close. But we made it out of the woods, and that's something. We faced down trouble. We overcame it. I think after that, anything we run into will be like this,"
He snapped his fingers.
A key turned in the lock. The door swung open and Glowse rushed in. He was red in the face but smiling, the happiest they had ever seen him.
"I did it! I did it!"
He rushed over and shook hands with Mario almost comically, reached for Luigi's…
"Hmm. Is there any of that beer left, or is all on the floor?"
"Here," Luigi pushed the jar to him sheepishly.
"Thanks." He drained it in a draught and slammed it on the table.
"Finally! Days and days of waiting, kissing the boots of every piss-pot bureaucrat I could meet! We can meet someone who matters now."
"Who?"
"The Princess's steward and chancellor of the crown, Sir T'ao Perth."
"Any relation to our friend?"
"You think it would have taken so long if there were? No, T'ao's a common enough name."
"Like Glowse…" Mario muttered.
"Hmm?"
"Nothing. When are we meeting? What for?"
"In six days time. You will be introduced as, ah, performers from a far away country…"
"What."
The brothers glowered at him.
"Don't look at me like that. It worked. The princess is fond of entertainers, and if you can win her favor, we can do what should be done."
"I don't like it," Luigi mumbled.
"Too bad."