The sweet scent of frying eggs replaced the usual funk that surrounded the oft-unused kitchen as Naz cracked them into the pan. A couple pieces of the shell fell in, but he didn't care. He was going to make breakfast for his guest. Was that the right term? Ancom wasn't his friend. Yet. Naz really really really wanted to make friends.

"Hello!" he greeted Ancom joyously as the older person walked into the room.

"Mornin," grunted the anarchist as que took a seat at the counter across from Naz. He didn't really understand how to use these "que/quem" pronouns, nor why they were so necessary. But he supposed it was just like she or he, right? If Naz couldn't tell whether Ancom was a boy or a girl, then maybe there was a good reason that he should use the pronouns.

As Naz flipped the eggs around with a dented spatula, he began to plan out his day. It was nearly four, so he'd have five more hours till he fell asleep. In that time, he could try to befriend Ancom.

He didn't really know how to do that.

Naz was bad at making friends.

He remembered when he first heard about the Centricide. While part of him ached to see death, violence, blood spilled on the ground he stood upon and on his hands and everywhere he could see, another part of him shut that down, pushed it deep below the surface in a little locked box that he only took out when all other options were exhausted.

He'd met with the Centrists to see whether they'd accept him. And, well.

Naz dropped the spatula as he remembered what had only happened last night. Half-cooked eggs sprayed into the air.

They hadn't.

No, he didn't want to remember it, but he wasn't strong enough to resist.

He'd been cornered. Dead Centrist was the one who had been closest to him, amongst the congregation of taller, older men who were jeering at him for even thinking he could be part of their team.

In a blind rage, he'd torn out the man's throat with his bare hands.

He sank down to the floor of the kitchen, curling himself into the fetal position, tears seeping from his eyes. He was only twelve, god dang it, why couldn't he live a normal life like the kids he watched through the window? Kicking soccer balls through tiny nets in their front yards, throwing basketballs through hoops in their driveways, while it was all Naz could do to fend for himself and not starve to death.

He'd tried to befriend them. But it was so, so hard, and all they did was laugh at his name. Eventually, he'd stopped.

"Hey, hey dude. Are you alright?"

The high-pitched voice of Ancom busted through the wall separating Naz from reality. Bringing him to his senses, like a gentle mouse squeaking in his ear.

"You fell over. I thought you tripped, but then you didn't get up," continued the anarchist in a slightly caring tone of voice. "You okay?"

Naz shook his head wildly to clear the bad thoughts out of there. "Yeah, I'm… I'm good."

"Alright. Those eggs look, uh, well, you might wanna check on them," Ancom added.

He could hear the tension in Ancom's voice as he picked himself up and stared at the pan. Its describable contents were shell fragments, bits of blackened charcoal, and a rubbery mess that jiggled as Naz poked with the spatula. Despite all this, or perhaps because of it, a strained giggle escaped Ancom. Naz joined in, laughing at just how absurd this concoction looked.

"Yeah, maybe I should cook next time," the anarchist said apologetically, out of breath and nearly in tears. "I mean, I only know how to do pot brownies, but like, eggs can't be too hard?"

"Pot brownies?" Naz gasped. "Like, you cook them in a pot? That sounds so good!"

"Oh, dude!" exclaimed Ancom, pulling Naz into a hug and tousling his hair. Naz shook his head in indignation, but eventually succumbed to the brotherly interaction. "You've got to be the sweetest person I've ever met, Naz."