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Dragging feet by that riverbank, again the cuts inside of him would bleed, his mind crash and roar in contrast to waters beneath.
Had already struggled in spite of their guidance or perspective, of everything Ma and Da had done to ensure an easier life, a better life. Failing when it mattered most, majority of occasions, to create these latest stories—common theme kept of never being able to belong.
"As if I'll ever have a right to a fulfilled life… Why be worth their burden, in hopes of getting it?"
Through the bus rides and to that moment of turning his key, such thoughts continued to seep—observing the world he'd walk into, however, to incur quite the pause, over the sight of mysterious gifts to cock heads and shift his eyes over.
"What the? Lounge suite? Giant television? I never bought any of this…"
Creeping closer he would inspect for evidence of tampering or trouble, before the evening's news scrambled him to find the remote. Coming up empty-handed, was moving for the source hoping for peace and quiet, when an abrupt, close-up and familiar face would almost beget a change of briefs.
"DON'T YOU DARE MOVE, PUNY EARTHLING! Join us, won't you, for Morbo's exclusive one-on-one with arguably the greatest conservationist of your Andromeda Galaxy."
"Make yourself comfy. Gifts to you, courtesy of close friends."
"I'll be better settled when your 'presence' pisses right off. Don't think I don't know that voice."
No ability to pinpoint it as it'd offer no further response, all as 'Tea with Titans', the tickles of ebony and ivory, would play on screen. In truth, was hesitant to heed the direction; beyond any thoughts of booby-trapping, the idea of damaging that suite, trimmed with gold and branded with a fancy calligraphic mark, did not sit well at all.
The programme to then proceed to what must've been a log palace; even for a showcase of futuristic arms, mounted beast heads, couldn't be convinced of passions for hunting. But what was clear, daresay crystalline, was the serving plates of purest gold, and crockery of sterling silver; luxurious living that could've cost decades of Da's salary JUST for a single piece.
A slurp of liquid to soon get his attention; behind that news desk, never knew just how utterly that green one dwarfed his guest, the fanciest ginger he'd find who might've made Hermes look slimmer than a streetlight.
"Oh hello, Morbo here sipping this delightful English Breakfast—"Used to be"—by special invite, inside this incredible live location. THANKS FOR JOINING US, SIR ARCHBURY!"
"Pleasure's mine and just as much, though I must insist, please call me Reginald."
"Saints alive, if ever I learnt how to drive… Free fuel for life to attach him to my tank."
He could get with those gentlemanly three-pieces, and even wave aside that oh-so-twirlable top lip, but the instant he heard the man speak, all he could picture were those who'd once be seated in parliament, the same to leave dumpster fires out of his only other home.
"Very well. So Reginald, riddle me this. Going by the financial records"—glasses brought out—"you've made public, you've taken in quite a few hundred million dollars, and donated most to several causes bearing your name. Can you tell us why the evidence of positive ecological impacts have been scant?"
"I'm but one man with money against millions without class or care for others; seems only I recall the follies of GGB2052, any of its preventable lead-ups, or indeed the day it'd return ready to leave a crater of my beloved city. Against our collective and viral free will, our dear Mother has long desired to unleash her direst cure against us."
"Bet he heads a fertiliser factory or two, guy's so full of shi—"
"And if neither my genius nor great big cheques can halt any of it, that's just a matter of when."
"Your saying so seems to contradict, however, that far from lacking class or not caring, New New York has been garbage-free for over 500 years. That as cataclysmic as that return could've been, we all stepped up to send it away. Why insist, then, with all the doomsday threats, and with the galactic funding you claim will prevent them?"
"Goodness, these questions are leavin' me hungry, and we've all these grand cookies going to waste?"
Archbury to grab a handful and snack as if he hadn't eaten for days, while Morbo would seize and devour the rest, plate inclusive. Try as Archbury might, couldn't hide the contemptuous look, though it did allow a moment to measure his next words.
"Concerning today's citizens, I'll admit to my alarmism, my failure to commend all those efforts. Of taking care of past contempts, of leading the way to Earth's cleaner future."
Would then pour a tea, and take his time sipping it, "But I'm an all-or-nothing guy—can't help it given how I grew up. And excuse me for saying it, but why should I be satisfied creating disasters anew, so I can deflect those made already? I'd rather annihilate any such possibility, including the seeds of that society responsible, anomalies still just as capable of such crude thinking…"
"Wait—wait a friggin' minute. Anomalies, with an S? So I'm NOT the only one?"
Never caught any glares on screen before they'd got redirected, question this time about any events coming up.
"Does an ursine defecate beneath a glade of trees? One month from now, at none other than our Metropolitan, I'll be hosting my annual gala. All esteemed guests will enjoy quality time—my guarantee—among the alphas from all across the Milky Way. But as always, I sell out fast, so be buying or be crying."
Curiosities to then pique, besides sudden gusts of wind, as he'd heat up old takeout; was imagining the who's who of famous faces and guest speakers, trying to guess what'd attract such a crowd, and finally, what history of the host there was to be explored.
"Bet there's a story or two 'bout him… No harm done to query the quality time, sure we can agree."
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The latest side quest to tackle with an earlier morning, his rush through a rainstorm, and the Chief somehow being awake and at the lab—not for nothing though, was going to take a true miracle to end any acrimony.
"Better be a good reason you're bothering me, Maybeck."
"Your beatdown, who was responsible?"
"Axes the person who'd fancy my suffering? Far as I'm concerned, you."
"What I spoke I won't deny, but given the favours paid and what I'd endure—no thanks to YOU, I'll add—I'd argue it's awfully generous that you're still here. That I seek only answers over your arse on a plate."
"You don't pay the respect I'm owed. You take vacations as you please. You've given me problems on as many missions as you haven't. And then there's the leaving us with massive backlogs AND leaving me to die. Still you dare have the nerve to demand a thing?"
"Those who want, give, and I give what is earnt. And save for the last, since I cannot, I intend to right all those wrongs. But there's a black cloud brewing, a storm that I suspect has already hurt us both; don't you think we should research, prepare for what we're up against?"
"I've no reason to believe you, but I've got a bunch of Netsuits about the place. Why don't you dig 'em up?"
Searching from lab to hangar, it'd be a peculiar scent to lead him to helmets, gloves, and boots 'borrowed' from worlds of digital realms and fatal Frisbees. Whether they were used or only gathered dust, he couldn't know, but once he caught a good whiff, his insides burned akin to London, 13 centuries ago.
"For the love of, when's the last time you washed these, 20 years ago?"
"Ohhh, quit being so dramatic—those were worth the burning rhesus monkeys, I don't care what you say."
"That's not what I asked, you psycho! Besides, it's as though the whole bloody zoo's rotting in here."
"It matters not, to get ourselves Internet access on a grand scale. Cheap downtime, and golden opportunities—what's not to like?"
"And to think all I needed was a box"—spread his hands—"yay big. We called 'em modems, fancy that!"
"You've never experienced a World Wide Web quite like what we've got. Well, as long as you can connect anyway—have fun!"
Would spit a swear or two over the tangled cords, the mess of outfits wasting time, but was eventually logged in and connected upon sorting it all; one button to envelop him in orbs of light, soon convert his bag of fat and facial fuzz into a strange blue avatar.
A sensation of 'dust' to swirl over his feet, encourage steps forward where he'd gaze upon a gigantic virtual world; gorge of some kind, to gift a view of some big city beyond the horizon.
"Boy, maybe I might stand corrected… I wonder if it would've taken off in the old world."
As he'd approach its edge though, any awe had would be cut off by a harsh squawk, one that'd flash an escort service in his face; moments after punching that creature's cross out, was then blindsided by other such harpies hawking pills and pumps.
"You gotta be—blockers were free in MY time, for the love of Christ!"
"Watch your mouth, Mayweather," the Professor's visage popped up. "And I'm sorry, but all those were outlawed in 2247—that I heard, some obscure clause in our most sacred right, to create the ruling."
"Don't tell me, the first?"
"Afraid so… Under promise of the second, and liberal use of it."
As each ad would dive-bomb and dogpile him, fight amongst each other to bleed his eyes and of course his wallet, would wish he'd heard better news—an eternity of slapping crosses, it'd seem, until he'd wrestle free, lift right off, and explore that which'd already been rendered ahead.
"Y'know, nahhh, ain't feelin' the hype here. Always dreamed I'd fly, but, that all there is? Adult chat rooms and games, promised lands of love, search engines for secret affairs? Pretty sure THEY were out and about long before."
Time and place perhaps to let false loves tempt him—instead returned to the skies mumbling where his actual search could start. Almost on cue, a medieval fortress to generate and fizzle in; reminders of choice hangouts for overhearing how any subject, for results, could rival even the powerhouses of his era.
Once inside, feared he'd waste ages just staring at it all; perpetual stretch of terminals, both sides, to the tubing above each, a monolithic network at that. Powers beyond orders, magnitudes even, to render this Earth's worth of websites physical; stretching his knuckles, would find a free seat and get to typing.
"Somethin' tells me I'm gonna be REEAALL grateful not having breakfast."
AWA to return—at first—associations, companies, and even conventions as archives of ancient life, before near the bottom, found Archbury's gala lurking. Next to no warning once he'd click, as with a holler he'd be sucked up at speed, doing loop-de-loops and long inversions before landing with quite the crunch.
Could've sworn to cobwebs and nausea, getting to his feet, but fell to his arse and fast to confront what he did next—created from every king's ransom and fabled myth of legend, with only the skyscrapers marking any difference, as close a resurrection of El Dorado as could be possible.
"On the Mayfield graves… Not sure that Mom maniac can claim such fortune."
Lost in the splendour of this virtual Mancave of Wonders, he hadn't a clue where any answers were, or if they'd exist, until a series of arrows guided him towards some titanic tower, the nearest of many. Pressing about, soon found the prices he was after, and drew not just an instant conclusion, but an obvious one.
"Five figures for getting in the door? A quarter-mill, MINIMUM, to be called a bigwig? I get the audience he attracts, but bugger me, even a roo in the Outback's less hopping mad."
Whatever appeal there was to charge so much, even to explore and get led about, it decisively didn't grow any clearer. Much as any appetisers would imbue quite the jewel in any city's crown—those of premium alcohols and cuisines, the presence of pedigreed heads in conservation—they weren't worth the months or years to simply make entry.
"Big guy runs a big club, and we ain't in it… Damned if I ain't quite okay with that."
Out of nowhere, reverie snapped by his Captain, "Yo, Thomas, you seen the time? Get your ass outta there and get up here!"
It'd already be nine o'clock by the time he caught fresh air and his breath at the lockers; even to lather up and leap into rollcall, only his name to avoid any more trouble. Or so he thought, as Mr. Conrad called for silence.
"Alright, everyone's here, now a quick word… Real early this morning, I'd receive this."
Photocopies handed out, and among his Captain and colleagues, either a rage to simmer or regret to surface as they read that rambling screed. One that he'd recognise, and wish had been abandoned, especially to note its apparent spread—vitriol made viciously clear, to no doubt scorch the earth under HQ itself.
"So, anyone at all? At least before I begin the filing for bankruptcy?"
As the silence only built, an epiphany leapt him out his seat—experiences of ancient news and social media, whatever was left at least, to detect that certain details didn't add up.
"Mr. Conrad, if I may?"
"You may not, Mayfield. Don't need your—"
"Well I'm going anyway, I'll say sorry after. You're familiar with Marley's little birds, right? Maybe time you take the lesson, mate."
"What are yuh—do I look like a guy who's into music?"
"Ooof, that explains SO much. Anyway, having given this a good look, we need not concern ourselves."
"Why do yuh sound so sure?"
"First, I can guarantee ya that, had his claims carried actual water, he'd be FAR better off than how we found him. Second, the passion and devotion he once influenced—and trust me on this—once seemed to rival God's own son. And third, surely you can tell ink from font, can't you?"
"Well, whatever the case, yuh better wisen up. And while I keep an eye on any matters, yuh better get those packages done—four days left."
Point taken on any other occasion, but here in particular, could only leave throwing up hands. Having not been there, trying to navigate the danger, knew that neither Mr. Conrad nor Farnsworth could truly understand.
"Least those on bridge can sympathise… It's a crazy life out there, for a courier."
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"Amy, you've got my seat. Thomas, I'd like a word."
The two to gather at Mess Hall after much hesitation on his end, which'd earn a share of expectant eyes—nothing to discuss that he hadn't already, and no matter the stares, certainly didn't want to.
"Captain, could we please forget last night? I know I'd create a scene, but now's not the time to—"
Long finger over his lips, before an abrupt embrace had him arc up, then actually soften enough to return it in kind.
"Gods, haven't gotten those in years… The worth of living in each one, better times or bad."
"I should've known better than to insist and keep pushing… Especially to realise just how deep it'd—"
"Ahhh… Since we were already leavin' it all out there, s'pose I shoulda seen those candid chats coming."
"Wasn't so sure to watch you storm off. Had me thinking you'd take that long walk, so to speak."
"To lose the best thing in your life, then be cast out of it, it did cross my mind more than once."
"Was that why you'd turn to drink? Try to keep those thoughts all quiet?"
"Please lass, there's Celtic blood in me veins. Was just when those gold and silver days grew absent, hell, GOOD days period, didn't know how else to cope."
"With what you'd been missing?"
"I'm gonna sound crass, so, sorry in advance. Imagine a kid giggling to sleep, over wicked funny stories on sketch toys. Imagine a loving group gathered at box screens or backyards, games growing wilder with every play. Imagine the delicious meals, at home or had out, the giving cheers to health, fortune, and happiness…"
"Thanks for the warning, I guess. Doesn't make it much better though."
"And now you realise that, between how I'd wind up failing them and—less this little part—all I'd experience without them, forgive me if I don't care for outside worlds or their strangers."
"Haven't we talked about this though? I mean I hear ya, but why take blame even still?"
"Maybe it might motivate who I see in the mirror. For if I don't, who's gonna get those answers? You, with your own family mysteries? Farnsey, whose parents lived during the Dark Ages? That fat bureaucrat, who'd rather fire than do me a favour? It's as simple as this—odds will worsen from Buckley's to none, to make that anybody else's burden."
Getting a nod and little clap of shoulder, they'd both return toward the stars rushing past, his mind to flood with what might've been. Maybe how most of the day would go, until a memory of that morning would return with a force.
"Say, you catch that interview on 'Tea with Titans'?"
"Stood in a line or two, yet you're the first to tell me. That's the one with Morbo, isn't it?"
"You know it. Would the name Archbury ring any bells, by chance?"
"Better believe it. Matter of fact, for all the campaigns and causes, he's a real champion of our environment."
"Well, I sure wound up with a very different opinion. Guy kept gabbing on 'bout society's faults and his genius, regarding that. For such a tree-hugger, that arsehole just OOZED grade-A arrogance; from what I'd seen though, was a flaw well earned. Whatever the case, guy's saying he's hosting at the Metro next—"
Was stopped cold by a good snort, chorus of laughs; had she been at the wheel, might've crashed well off-course.
"Buddy, you can bet your life that we're off the guest list—finest arts centre in the galaxy, if that's true."
"I'd certainly hope so. Can think of better ways to spend my money, and wouldn't wanna go even if I were paid."
On that they'd agree on, before a co-pilot callout would scamper them both to bridge; imminent approach to Spectrus-19 for the Captain to claim Bessie back. Up to then, was adamant that this'd be as any other job, of dozens yet to clear, and then their destination came roaring right into view.
"Ohhhh my… And me without a camera or anything to record it."
Whatever he'd willed to imagination, it couldn't compare to the starburst before his eyes, as if an Avogadro's number of Skittles had collapsed, gone supernova, and created this paradise. The aurorae of Norway dancing in his head, as he did anything in his power to drag that delivery—"Just another second!" would call, until his Captain hurried him inside and hustled through the job.
"Are you kidding me Ma'am? Taking me from the most beautiful—"
"You didn't hear all the crackling before you hopped out? Spectrus makes Chernobyl seem like an X-ray scan!"
Was sure she had oversold it, but only until a whirling unease would overwhelm him, and from both ends, a purge unholy would begin. No way to scream as his every system ground to a halt; lucky man being on bridge as the ladies would activate Bessie's AI, and hauled arses to help him to Med-Bay.
IV solutions inserted under his wrist, yet was only semi-aware of the bonds passing particles out his body, and maybe his own mumbles for sweet release. They to absolutely level him, both the fallout and this treatment—too sick to eat yet starving mad, dead tired, and covered in his waste.
"Unngghh… UNNNGGGHHH!"
"You brought this on yourself, again. Now, all that poison's gotta pass first, and we gotta decontaminate thoroughly before doing YOUR job. Oh, and any miracles will be eaten away, if applied too early. Feel free to think on that, idiot."
Every second like a minute, every minute like hours, as he could do nary a thing but create a vow and make a mantra of it… Live the same words he'd warn Leela with, when she'd first block his door with her foot.
It'd take the entire shift—virtually a week it felt like—when he'd be cleared with a cream rub; soon as he was, could've redefined light-speed over the urgency to burn those clothes and streak out sight unseen. Even in better days he wasn't the 'stick around' type; this episode easily could've topped its opposite.
Hoping nobody saw a thing as he'd arrive back at his doorstep, would find gossip rags gathered there—plans had of making mulch as he got dressed, only for dog-eared marks to instead take a peek. Editor notes front and centre; regarding candid shots, seemed that despite a status as 'prized target', Archbury had a knack of secrecy that'd shame the greatest spies.
"Be sure to call when I get famous, hope for a hint or two… That said, why show me these?"
Wouldn't feel better in days to come, nor worry less while he'd continue to comb Archbury's virtual lands. For any interviews and impressions, he hadn't any origins that'd explain such motivation to service. For all the preaching, he hadn't any exploits to regale from his pulpit, no examples to lead from.
Only obvious legacy to observe, was all these ostentatious showcases, and in so doing, remind him of those unnameable few who'd promise tickets to Heaven, indeed audiences with God, for quite a price.
Then there was the mystery visitors of late as he'd keep exploring—decision made then to dust his hands and do something of actual worth. With his Symphod hovering beside, he'd go and grab what'd rescue his place, and steal a glance toward the ship.
"Been keeping me safe out there, old girl. 'Bout time I gave my thanks."
Working Bessie's windows and fortified shell, it wasn't just with imaginary batons where he'd try to compose himself. Vinyl records, cassette tapes, CD albums, live concerts, soundtracks, even YouTube rips to return to worlds of euphoria, return to being hooked on classics, return to thundering along to his heritage.
Lost frequencies now, and likely forever; all that was left, he'd reckon, were memories of the world's greatest Mum, tireless in her pursuit of a proud home, and of special drives country-wide over true blue radio, only stopping off so both Thomas senior and junior could indulge.
"I know I no longer belong, but for however long I did… Thank you. Here's to this idiot's tale, and to the ending it deserves."
"Yo, Thomas!"
A great piercing sound to stagger back and almost overboard; whistle being the source, would look about and spot Leela upon the rail, a casual lean to take.
"This where you been, huh? Was gonna axe what all the OTs and early starts were about."
"Not entirely. Had hopes of learning 'bout Reggie at first, but came up emptier than I'd like. Now just reminiscing on smooth golden magic. So what brings ya here?"
"Well, usually I'd have evening plans, but none wanted in tonight."
"Why not Zoidberg?" would grin.
"Like hell, wise-guy. Which only leaves one."
"It does?"
"I just figured that maybe, I don't know, if you wanna—"
"An offer then? Y'know, why not? But lemme go freshen up first."
Signing off nine a day for three days straight, was sure of delivering most of their backlog if not all of it; perhaps Mr. Conrad's heart would grow several sizes—so above microscopic perhaps—when Monday came calling.
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Had she been a betting woman, she'd have once laid her lifesavings that nobody like Thomas would ever darken her doorstep.
Yet there he'd follow, taking in for the first time what she did every day; peeling green walls, stained burgundy rugs, and those worn oak stairs of her tiny, portholed shipwreck, couple miles from West 57th where HQ would reside.
Being among that bustle, years of ups and downs to weather them, yet as night-time arrived and she'd scan her index, would smile to still call it home. One her Officer wouldn't quite share, as he'd step inside and take it in.
"Never made it to a mansion, but my oath… You return here, in spite of all the money you must've made?"
"Apart from being used to little better than our homeless, do ya really think all I'd live on is an armchair and giant TV?"
"Now that you put it that way, makes a whole lotta sense."
"I'd bet it does. Still, couple of plants did cross my mind, maybe a print or two. Your thoughts?"
"I wouldn't care a great deal, usually, but place could use a little colour. Get 'em all, I'd say."
"I'll keep it in mind. As I do, go straight through, take the last right, then right again."
They'd reach her bedroom in a matter of moments, where she'd watch him look down that lone window, lost in more than its dull reflection.
"Pretty surreal, isn't it? Wonder if we would've been here, had you lost your mind two blocks down?"
"Or even had you kept your hands clean… She's a funny if fickle mistress, Lady Fate."
"Yeah… There's something I need off my shoulders, if you don't mind—bed's yours."
Fishing through her bedside table, to the tune of knees slapped out of rhythm, would haul out her photo album; the same 'Happy Memories' that no-one—not even at HQ—had any prior knowledge of. Secrets she hoped would remain so, as he'd shuffle in closer, and she'd flick to the final page.
"This letter to convince my Warden of my alien roots, place me under state care literally from day one. Still can't crack that code, and it's been thirty damned years—worse yet, who originally wrote it just went and vanished."
"Puh, you're not kiddin'. Who were the wingdings who thought talking in DNA sequences, scissors on LSD, lightning zaps, and broadcast towers were a good idea?"
"Hey, do you mind? Much as it mightn't make sense, it's still near and dear to me."
"Of course, sorry Leela."
With that she would travel through time, to the first photos of older orphans cradling her; mere months old when they sat her among rusted robot parts and busted TVs, snapped photos with a stolen camera, then ran giggling for their lives.
"Abandoned Property, yet looking back, kept wishing that'd been the truth. Had the Warden not found me, covered in my filth and crying my lungs out, odds are I'd have starved there."
Found the kid flushing red, as next came elementary age; outside the Orphanarium, thick eyeglass and braces out while two other children would point and jeer out a broken window.
"Warden's photo to present our case for funding, I'm sure you can entertain why. Don't believe that smile for even a second; asshole was willing to blame me for our Mayor cutting back again—food and lodging first to go, as if we ever had enough."
Tell-tale veins out his neck to pay a nervous glance, before she'd flip to the fanciful attire and all of senior prom; what should've been her crowning moment to that point, one's hand in hers as a bonus.
"Not many to stand where I did, yet those few to enjoy better endings. Day I earned my black belt, any tough talk would go silent real quick. Finally earnt my peace, or so I would believe… That taped 'X' you see? Was told it'd get a better shot, instead I'd be drenched in soup broth, cold and greasy."
The kid's jaw clenched so tight, could swear to cracking teeth, "If ever I find those little fuckers, may I've learnt of mercy before that day."
"Be doing them a favour, really. If memory serves, most of 'em are on the streets fighting off the shakes, or forced to sell their organs just to survive. I'd be the one who'd laugh last; crossing paths nowadays, never been above laughing again."
That, along with beginning the actual happy memories, to really cool off any tempers.
In front of ochre-red studio walls, wrapped tight, her head to nestle on Fry's shoulder. Riding the Mecha-Hexadecapus, wild flails and screams—how close they'd hug then. A hand-in-hand stroll down Monument Beach, over sand and sea, to goof off among the wonders of his ancient world. And finally, the laydowns and cradled chins, whispers of 'overtime' at HQ, to thrill him to shivers.
"My entire life, through all these adventures, THAT was the love I'd always crave. Only to take most of Fry's for granted—every high, every low, and every day—like an absolute idiot. Could always count on his shoulder… 'Till the day came when I couldn't."
"Even for having my own, yours is a heartache I'd wish on no-one."
Appreciative rub of knee to think about closing her book, end that journey for right now, until a page slipped just enough for costumes to catch his eyes.
"Whoa, wow… Please gimme that."
"I'd rather I didn't, but, guess I WAS gonna relive it sooner or later."
Better days of beating crime, to admit to given time; never got old leaping into action, and sometimes for serious commercial dollars. Same said for the flight of footwork or her fists that'd leave any crooks out cold, their collars firm in her gloved hands as she'd pose for the press.
"Was well on our way, to being the hottest caped crusaders across the nation."
Wry smile to remember Rat King's constant thirst for pictures—even against calls to crimes in progress—that'd grow to titters as Thomas, seeing each shot get hogged, began to grow bored. Short-lived fun and games, it'd seem, when he'd grip his neck hyperventilating, and her collection would slip and hit the carpet.
"Chriost dean trocaire, it can't be…"
"What, what is it Thomas?"
"Y-y-you don't see it?"
"How can I when your eyes are outta your head?"
"That night in New Jersey, when the Admiral paid a visit… I swear if this ain't their—"
"You telling me that Admiral and Yesterday are one and the same? Damn you, I never got to bury the body."
"Who else wears that style you'd know of so well? Met that bastard only a day, and I know I won't forget for what he'd—"
"Just get out, it's getting late."
"I'm sorry, I just really think—"
"I said GET OUT!"
Away he'd scurry for those windy streets, as she instead cracked open a beer, kicked off her boots, and settled in for some television.
"Bet he wouldn't like it one bit, the jerk, to be told his family was still alive…"
Spirits still bitter when she went to bed after, especially as the impossible started to invade her head—the desire she remain alive, the sprinkles of familiar moves, the declarations that he'd be back. Challenges of old convictions, to perhaps plant the littlest seeds of hope.
"Never buried the body, but couldn't go back to confirm either… Could it be, for all to happen since?"