"We'll be fine. Go already. You'll miss your train," Yor whispers hoarsely from under the covers. She's lying on her side with her back against the cold, pink wall. Her arms hold a slumbering strawberry-blonde child. "Mmm… No, don't come in here. You'll get sick, too. That's the last thing you need." She pulls the blanket to her face. A raspy cough tears up her chest.
"It's probably too late for me anyway. I've been around you two all weekend," he chuckles. It only takes two of his strides to cross the room, giving in to the pull of sprinkled memories: Two worn, well-loved plushies—a penguin with battle scars and a lion-snake-griffin creature—sit at the foot of the overly pink bed. A long-acquired Spy Wars poster proudly claims its territory on the wall. Dreams depicted in crayons and colored pencils are strewn about a simple but stylish wooden desk. Stickers of spaceships, planets, and constellations litter the window, filling the room with an embracing, melancholic rose glow. The lighting showcases the flecks of gold and emerald in his eyes as he takes a knee by the bed.
For the last time, he summons every ounce of training to steady his voice into Loid Forger's smooth, composed timber. "There's stew ready for you on the stovetop. It should reheat well. Don't forget to put it away after you're done with it. And make sure to drink plenty of water."
Yor nods back weakly. "Thank you, Doctor," she teases. Her lips pull into a smile, but even she can't hide her exhaustion from a poor night's rest.
He swallows hard. Hands clammy. Closed eyes search for a last-minute scheme to get out of the inevitable, rushing future—a future dictated by others' whims. That's what this job entails—giving up your will, your desires, your dreams for the greater good. You're nothing but a pawn and your sacrifices are trivial. For the first time, Twilight has no way of wriggling out of this one. No Plan A, B, C, or D. All flow charts end with the memory of Loid Forger scattered to the wind.
"Um, I'm sorry to ask. I know you're not feeling well. There's some paperwork on the dining table. There's no rush. Just- When you get a chance… could you look it over? It's about the lease. Feel free to make annotations as you see fit. We'll go over them when I get back."
Liar.
"Of course," she replies. A feverish chill washes over her. She tucks her head again to cough before popping up, flushed from the force of the cough.
The instinct to worry and fuss over them kicks in. He's dying to reach out for her hand one more time, but he grabs for the sheets instead. "L-like I said. It can wait until you have your strength back." He feigns eye contact by picking a spot on the wall behind her to converse with. Otherwise, her eyes, decadent pools of chocolate-covered cherries, will reel him into the bed.
"We'll take it easy, I promise. I'm just glad she's done with the school year." She stirs in bed to sit up halfway on her forearm. A small groan of discomfort comes from her. "Yuri would get like this, too. He'd work so hard during the school year, but once the summer holidays started, he'd succumb to whatever bug was making its rounds. I guess it got me, too, this time." She presses her lips to the child's forehead. "At least her fever is gone," she assesses. Her fingers run through the child's cotton candy locks.
Unvoiced pride and adoration glisten in his eyes for his "wife" and "daughter." For any other human, the fierce magnetism would assure them this is where their purpose lies. This is where they are needed, where they would be missed. But for Twilight it merely reinforces it's time to go. "I don't know what we'd do without you right now, Yor. Thank you for being here, for being you." He bows his head, farewell disguised as praise and a pretty rouge with which to paint her cheeks.
Surely it's due to her ailments, she reasons.
The moment is interrupted by the lazy clock in the living room. It chimes seven times, unphased by the rude accompaniment of a blaring car horn.
Ugh! He's going to wake her up! he snaps to himself, glaring at the window.
"Loid, go! Don't keep that car waiting any longer," she orders.
He stands and heads for the hall, turning to close the door behind him, but not before looking back at them one more time.
Yor snuggles back into bed.
For a moment, he swears he detects woeful eyes.
Does she know? No, there's no way.
"We'll be fine, and you'll be back before you know it. Take care," she says in her dulcet voice, her last words to Dr. Loid Forger.
He shuts the door and pauses to press his forehead to the door.
She alone has the power to override his tightly wound mind. She could tell him the sky is green, and unlike the women before her, he holds her words with great curiosity, mulling them over in his mind. Truly perplexed, he reaches for the rose-tinted magnifying glass to investigate further. Where did it come from? No matter, for he always comes to the same conclusion: "So it is." His wife is right. She is always right.
Except today.
But he wouldn't tell her that. This time it is up to her to figure it out, as cruel as it is, but it's hardly the only injustice.
It isn't fair.
It isn't fair how ethereal she looks - a fierce, gentle cryptid enveloping her young.
It isn't fair how they cozied up next to his heart and branded it with their silhouettes.
And it certainly isn't fair how he gave WISE everything they wanted of him—his heart, mind, body, time, and soul. And when it seemed like he finally delivered the perfect package, and it seemed there was nothing left to give, WISE patted him on the head, threw him back into the roulette of missions, and demanded them as payment. What was he to do? He knew better than to grovel, than to want, than to feel. He's a machine, not a man. At least, according to WISE.
It isn't fair…
He orders himself to release his grip on the knob and turns to make his way to the living room. The door at the opposite end of the hallway burns its gaze into his back. "So, that's it?" it seems to whisper.
You see, behind that door is an empty eggshell. A stripped bed, a cold pillow, an empty bookshelf, a floor lamp, and a record player—no records. The lifeless room once brewed jealousy, panic, frustration, hope, and even lust. Now, only dust fills the air. It flutters to the shelves, to the sheets, and to the freshly exposed crevices. Soon she will find it empty of his presence, along with a confusing, gutting letter claiming he has left them for their own good. Wrecked by the mere sight of the door, she'll lock it up for good and banish every trace of his existence from her mind.
Again, the car horn screams, threatening to drag him out of the gooey spell.
Briefcase in hand, Twilight moseyes towards Bond. The Great Pyrenees mix awaits the sunlight by the balcony windows. Carefully, Twilight sets down his luggage and crouches next to his companion. "Take care of them for me," he says, petting the gentle giant's head. Bond gives a huff of understanding and a slow blink. "They're going to need you a lot in the coming days," says the agent shakily, so close to tipping over the edge. "Thank you." He stands again and proceeds to the door.
It is a long enough walk to sink into recollections from the past two and a half years: Moving in with Anya. Shenanigans with Franky. Welcoming Yor. Meeting Yuri—goodness, that was a time. Bringing home Bond. Pages and pages of homework. Books and newspapers devoured. Exquisite meals, prepared and shared. Hot cocoa, tea, coffee, and wine spilled. Gifts exchanged. Hugs abound. Secrets shared, and secrets kept. Joy was blurted, and so would sorrow, along with the broken promises of tomorrow.
At the foyer, he grabs his hat. His gloves wrap around his hands and wrists. The leather no longer provides a snug fit, but it invokes a distant memory of Yor destroying a similar pair during a drunken spar at a colorful castle full of bouncy balls and faux firearms. He tamps down the memory with the rest of the bubbling contents, threatening to shatter the little glass jar in his chest. The weight of it moves him swiftly out the door with the last of his belongings.
That's it. I had my taste of it.
A lump sits in his throat. How much more can the neglected jar withstand before splintering into a million tiny pieces?
You're just tired.
A third blare of the horn snaps him out of his longing.
"I'm sorry, Anya. I'm so sorry, Yor," he whispers in finality, swallowing them into the aching cavern in his gut. They will think he's forgotten about them, but it's all the contrary. He's placing them somewhere safe and out of reach alongside his other prized possessions. Together, they're like a beautiful set of china retrieved only for special occasions, namely the instance when the light leaves his eyes for good.
What a pretty thing they were together. Such a shame today is the end.
Alas, this arrangement was a ticking bomb from the beginning.
3...
2...
1...
He locks the door one final time and places the key on the top edge of the door frame. Yor will find it, along with the countless pages of answers - and undoubtedly more questions - that he left for her at the dining table. He tried his best to provide them with answers to his sudden departure. He owes them at least that much.
No.
No, he owes them so much more, but his profession hinders closure. As long as they are safe and out of his web, he can live with himself, even if they hate him.
Halfway down the first flight of stairs, a blonde woman rushes past him on her way up. He manages a quick "Good morning." At the bottom of the landing, he pivots on his heel, holding onto the railing. It dawns on him: he didn't hear the woman come up the lower stairs or ascend the last flight. No doors were knocked on, and none creaked open to invite her in. Yet, her presence was gone just as quickly as it came. And her face. He can't recall it. Impossible. Even such a brief encounter should've been plenty to etch her visage into his memory. Until now, Yor is still the only person who can evade his detection.
Who was she?
Where did she go?
Did he hallucinate her?
His head throbs. His sleepless eyes burn.
You've really lost your edge, he convinces himself as he descends to the main door.
As ordered, an ordinary black car is ready to whisk him away. He approaches it and raps at the passenger window. The locks pop up. He opens the door and reaches for the shoulder of the passenger seat to pull at a lever. The seat flops forward, giving him enough room to shimmy his suitcase into the car and onto the floor. The seat comes back into an upright position and he lowers himself in.
"Goodness. You were making me nervous. I'm under the Fullmetal Lady's orders, you know. You may be her favorite right now, but the rest of us aren't immune to her wrath," jests the older, mustached agent.
"Sorry, I needed to ensure everything was in order," replies Twilight. The car's engine roars back up again.
"By the way, congratulations on Operation Strix," says the gentleman as he maneuvers the vehicle.
Twilight isn't paying attention. His elbow rests on the bottom edge of the passenger window. Gloved fingers sit on his lips, eyes locked on the window covered in stickers. "Huh? Oh, thank you," he mumbles.
And so, the car departs from the curb of 128 Park Ave.
Again, Twilight sinks into nostalgia as they leave the park behind. It's where he walked Bond daily, and Anya chatted up anyone who would listen and even those who wouldn't. A smile creeps onto his lips, remembering Yor's efforts to train Anya in basic self-defense. What a mess that had been. His daughter punched his target's son for being a little nuisance. Shortly after, a class picture was taken that would hang in Eden's halls forever. His grin boldens, remembering Yor's face buried in her hands, but it's short-lived. His lips fall, and a horrible nausea bubbles in him.
On their left is the bakery where they bought their "wedding cake"—a simple white cake with strawberries and elaborate icing. Every now and then, they would recreate it. He would mix and bake the spongy delight. A second bowl of strawberries would be set out for Anya and Yor to nibble on, otherwise, none would make it onto the dessert. While the cake cooled down, Anya was in charge of making the icing and later painted the sides of the cake. As it turns out, Yor has very fine motor skills and enjoyed adorning the cake with elegant ruffles, swirls, and silly messages. Without fail, Anya would come back to lick the icing bowl, and Bond would sneak a taste. The ritual never failed to perk up the family after particularly rough weeks.
But that was before the call.
He left them the recipe on the fridge as the only other evidence that their time together hadn't been a dream, but he'll never make it again. The mere thought of it churns his stomach worse than black coffee does.
Would it still cheer them up?
They pass the grocery store, the library and the pet store. A couple of blocks over is the tailor, where he met her for the first time and the only time he told her how "pleasing to the sight" she is - a gross understatement.
Idiot. She's gorgeous.
Another block ahead is the corner where he would catch up with Yor on their way home from work. One of their earliest rendezvous had Yor expressing her gratitude for their marriage despite its unconventional nature.
But the last couple of weeks had been different. Twilight–or rather, Loid–seemed distant. Then, last Friday, a car pulled up to their intersection, playing loudly a popular jazz tune. Some pedestrians hummed along to it, singing the chorus out loud. Others tapped their feet to the beat. Soaking up the moment, he took Yor's hand and gave her a twirl when the pedestrian light changed. She didn't flinch. She didn't run. More importantly, she didn't pummel him. She welcomed his touch and followed his lead, beaming as he danced them across.
After dinner that evening, Anya wasn't feeling well, so she went to bed early.
And a little later, he got the call. Operation Strix was over. He was expected to be on the first train out on Monday.
Will she learn to hate that corner? Will it darken her mood even on the best days? He wonders.
The older gentleman picks up on the faint cycling of Twilight's expressions as they drive down memory lane. Taking a gamble, he clears his throat. "Listen, Twilight… I know it's none of my business, but- It feels like I picked you up from that door hundreds of times. It's been an honor to assist you on this mission, however small my part was. Through it all, I've watched you become a better colleague, spouse, and father, all while having the weight of the world on you. I don't know how you did it." The man shakes his head in disbelief. Out of the corner of his own sharp eyes, he watches Twilight shift in his seat, a weak attempt to hide his discomfort in the praise. "What I'm getting at," he continues, "is that-… Goodness, peace agreements are being signed thanks to your work. If you wanted a permanent change of pace, maybe something… could be worked out?"
The insinuation is blunt to Twilight. He chuckles and rolls his eyes at the absurdity of it all. "And do what with that 'change of pace?' Be a real father? Be a real husband? Kiss a wife good night? Call her 'sweetheart and darling?'" His voice is a cracked whisper at the last word, but he reigns it in. "Celebrate birthdays, anniversaries, and graduations? Go on real vacations? Watch a daughter grow up? Walk her down the aisle to her best friend with flowers in her hand?" A dense silence overcomes them. He shakes his head in resignation. "Given everything I know, I'll be in WISE's grasp the rest of my life," he breathes. His gaze drifts out the window again. Silent tears blur his vision. They're blinked away.
"In my prime, I had a mission that led me to the most wonderful woman. Thankfully, there were no children involved," says the driver. Twilight's eyes shift in a way that gives away his interest. The gentleman carries on with his reminiscing. "I'll never forget her. She did find someone to be happy with," confirms the colleague.
The thought of Yor and Anya happy on someone else's couch, in someone else's arms, in someone else's heart tears at him.
"I regret letting her go every day. Twilight, if you love-"
"You're right!" snaps Twilight, "It's none of your business." He digs deep, real deep into his training to compose himself. "We long relinquished the hopes of affection and attachment. We do these thankless jobs because no one else can," he says coldly. "I'll always watch out for them from a distance. But I need them far away from all of… this." He waves a hand in the air, exasperated. His body shakes with anger at himself, at the conversation, and at the helplessness.
"My apologies, sir," whispers the driver. His grip tightens on the steering wheel in shame of his provocation.
Not another word is uttered until they arrive at the station a little before 7:40 AM.
"Thanks for the ride. Sorry about earlier," mumbles Twilight. His hat shields his shame as he exits the vehicle.
"No-no. It's my fault. Er, got everything?"
Twilight retrieves his suitcase from the back, nods, and tips his hat at his colleague. He closes the door gently and turns to ascend the steps to the station.
His train is already at the platform, but he has time to grab something to settle his stomach. Coffee? No, too acidic. He decides on orange juice. Also acidic, but he craves something sweet to offset the bitterness of it all. He picks up the newspaper and proceeds to the train.
Passengers trickle in behind him.
He hopes the lonely seat in the back of the car will grant him some privacy, so he pushes onward. Just a couple more steps.
His briefcase slides into the overhead compartment along with his hat before, and now he can rest. The newspaper lies by his lap. He finds a way to nestle his head into the corner behind him and closes his eyes. Please, get me out of here already, he begs.
Doors close around him. Ten more minutes and the train that dropped him off in this dream will hurl him back into reality.
In the meantime, he is cloaked in the low roar of passengers getting situated. Business people flap the pages of their newspapers. A woman furiously scribbles notes into her manuscript. At the other end of the car a match strikes the side of the decorative box it emerged from, produces a brilliant flame, and lights the contents of a pipe. The sweet smell of tobacco fills the cabin and Twilight's lungs. He welcomes it and curses it. He yearns for a draw, but he has long given up the vice. At this point, it would send him into a pathetic coughing fit. Finally, a woman with two children attempts to get comfortable. An infant girl sleeps in her arms, and a boy–4 or 5 in age–tries to sit excitedly next to her.
He envies them, all of them. Wherever each of these strangers is going is better than his destination, several feet underground, down a dimly lit hallway with ugly, flickering, fluorescent lights. Doors line the cement walls, each leading to a tiny, frigid room fitted with a rickety bed, scratchy blankets, a desk, a chair, and a single light bulb overhead. As soulless as it is, it's the safest place for a spy like him. The roof over his head is designed to give him the best odds of survival should another raid occur, god-forbid. And at the end of the hall are all of the amenities he needs to stay alive. There's a communal bathroom with leaky showers. The water isn't warm, but it runs, usually. There's a weight room, a sparring room, and a shooting range. And here, he doesn't have to cook. He could, but his time is better spent doing other things, not to mention that the task of preparing food has become so intimate and identifying of Loid Forger. It's simply best to eat whatever is provided for him.
For the most part, Operation Strix concluded some time ago, except for reports and other paperwork he had yet to submit. Intentional or not, he was stalling. In a final attempt at self-preservation, Loid re-iterated the physical boundaries he and Yor had delineated at the onset of their "marriage."
Ever the attentive wife, Yor knew something plagued her husband. Being freshly reminded of their contractual situation, she withheld from asking what ailed him. Then, he was the first to break the rules by dancing her across the street. She was convinced that whatever weighed on his mind the past few weeks had cleared up. Surely, her husband was back to his stoic yet doting ways. And he was. Briefly...
After dinner last Friday evening, Yor washed the dishes while Loid put an achy, glitchy Anya to bed with a chapter of her favorite comic. Just as he was leaving her room, the phone rang. It was a succinct call that seemed oddly timed even to Yor. Upon hanging up, her husband detached from her again and reached for his preferred chair in the living room. He tucked his head in defeat, pulled off his glasses, and toyed with them between his thumb and index finger.
The dark cloud over his busy mind was back.
It was cruel, but a part of him wanted Yor to see him like this. He wanted her to reflect on this moment and realize that it hurt him, too. That he wasn't a complete monster void of emotion.
Concerned, Yor shut off the water and dried her arms and hands. Instinct led her to approach him from behind, pulling him towards her. His shoulders pressed against the back of the seat, allowing Yor to wrap her arms around his head, and her hands sat on his chest. Unbeknownst to him, she guided his breath.
He sighed. She hadn't caught him off guard. He was being greedy. So why not take a little more? He accepted the burn of her fingertips into his chest through his shirt. And instead of archiving it into his brilliant, cramped mind, he embossed the moment into his empty skin. An invisible, searing tattoo, he'd carry the feel of her forever.
Why did she have to choose tonight of all nights to hold him like this?
His head dropped to the side.
"Bad news?" she asked.
"Yes, a little. It's just work stuff... about a patient. Don't worry," he replied, feeling the bitter, prickly lie coat his tongue and throat.
"I'm sorry. We should head to bed anyway," she added.
"Yes," he said, standing quickly as if he received an order. "Yes, good night, Yor Briar," he said robotically, disappearing into the hall leading to his chamber.
"Goodnight, Loid," she whispered, disheartened, into the lonely living room. She turned off the lights in the kitchen and retreated to her quarters.
Needless to say, Twilight didn't sleep much that night, or the next night, or the next. Instead, he spoke to the moon about everything left unsaid, what could've been, and his most profound wishes.
Had he made the most of it? Had he taught them enough to get by? Would they move on?
And when the night was darkest, he confessed he envied the little one the most. She would get a million more hugs from her Mama. He only got one. One for a lifetime. It was already more than he deserved.
The moon bid him goodbye, and the sun came to reason with him again. She scolded him.
"Oh, sweet, foolish boy. You got your hopes up. This was never meant to be," chided the sun.
"I didn't mean to. I swear. I didn't mean to..." he pleaded, clinging to his sheets and pillow.
At some point, the sun stopped berating him, and Yor was the first to wake up. Upon finding her more disoriented in the kitchen than usual, he insisted on taking her temperature. She had a slight fever. Then Anya missed her morning cartoons, which prompted the observation of her vitals. She, too, was under the weather. So mother and daughter confined themselves to the pink room and found comfort in each other's arms between pecks of food, sips of water, and doses of medicine.
No stranger to multitasking, Twilight tended to both of them while stealthfully packing his belongings and preparing for his departure. It was part of his penance, he realized. He may not have loved them from the beginning, but he did until the very end.
WISE often got onto him about the expenses incurred by raising a family, but he worked out a deal. In exchange for a successful mission on his part and heartache on theirs, Anya and Yor would want for nothing. Loid Forger's final wish was for his family to be cared for perpetually. Anya was to continue receiving the best education possible at Eden College. Yor would receive a monthly sum equal to a late husband's pension, allowing her to live comfortably with her child without arousing suspicion.
As a final precaution, Twilight took it upon himself to find Yor a suitable match. Much like his initial quest for a wife, he hired the assistance of his friend, Franky Franklin. Together, they pulled the records of the eligible bachelors in Berlint to find her a partner - well, four. As such, four dates were cleverly crafted for Yor to attend, hoping one of them would sweep her off her feet.
Of course, such planning didn't come without commentary from Franky. And while Twilight would've preferred absolute silence, at least he wouldn't spend his final night alone.
"I dunno, Twilight. You think this is what she'll want? Who knows how hard they'll take this?" whispered Franky under the light of a floor lamp.
They froze. Down the hall, Anya or Yor heaved a painful cough. The silence resumed, and so did their work.
"I've been under the same roof as Anya and Yor long enough to know what kind of person they need. I've compiled a list of characteristics Yor's future husband must possess. His willingness and ability to comfort her through her grief is one such trait, along with his acceptance of a child who is not his own. These four - particularly these three - should fit the bill."
"Man, you're twisted..."
"More like thorough. Plus, she doesn't have a choice. She'll need a spouse in order for Anya to remain at Eden and not be ostracized. WISE can only pull so many strings."
"But-...," retorted Franky, prompting Twilight to flash his eyes at him. A chill ran down Franky's spine despite the bowl of stew in his hands. He recoiled further and handed Twilight another mountain of papers.
"Here's the last stack," Franky sighed.
Twilight's eyes glazed over in an attempt to have the task over with...
Having burnt through his patience, the older child on the train books it out of his seat and up the aisle to Twilight's side.
"Theo! Theodore, get back here," pleads his mother.
"Papa!" he chirps, pulling at the fabric on Twilight's sleeve. The spy's heart jumps into his throat and chokes him, his hands visibly shaking.
"Forgive us, sir! Your hat. Up there. It must've reminded him of his father," starts the woman as she moves to bring the boy back to their seats, but the rest of her apology doesn't register.
He can't take it anymore. As soon as the child's grip releases from his clothing, Twilight dashes for the lavatory cabin behind his seat.
Fingers fumble for the lock. Thrice, it slips from his grasp. When it's finally in place, he presses his back into the wall, wraps one arm around his waist, and lets his weight slide down the wall. Hot, repressed tears run down his face. His free hand flies to his mouth to stifle his heart. It's too late. A sob trapped in his chest since that call tears from him, and the glass jar erupts, scattering years of painful splinters up his throat, into his eyes, to his stomach, and through his lungs.
Every inhale hurts. He prays the next one will be his last, but his treachery is unworthy of such an easy escape. And frankly, Death is bored by it all, so she sends an acquaintance in her stead. Guilt is ordered to hold a hot poker to his chest. It makes him writhe like a fish in a net, sinking deeper and deeper into despair, all efforts against the snare futile.
Fine, if Twilight is out of commission, then it's time for Dr. Forger to step in. Breath! In for four counts. Hold for seven. Out for eight.
Four, seven, eight.
Four, seven, eight.
Four, seven, eight.
Over and over until exhaustion overcomes him, sapped of any vigor for life.
A trembling hand reaches into his pocket for a handkerchief, but his glove gets in the way. He rips off both in annoyance and curses at the accessories as he tosses them away. Free of the material, he dives into his pocket again. To his horror, his hand pulls out a different item - the little blasted sheep keychain cherished by his daughter. On the ride home from school, its little arm had almost torn off when it caught on a seat. He promised to mend it. Evidently, it came to reside in his pocket as another broken promise.
"Oh, God, what have I done?" he sobs. Fingers rake through his hair in anguish. He brings the toy to his chest, clutching it akin to rosary beads, and buries his face in his fists, wallowing in his emotions again.
The innocent wall before him receives three good kicks from him.
"Anya... Yor... Yor, darling, I'm so sorry," he laments to the tiny room.
Then come the sharp, electric pulses. They have him folded over himself. Right when he thinks he has a chance to recover, a hand squeezes his heart again. The pain comes in waves, stealing his breath until he can't tell if he's sitting, or on his side, or upside down.
Four, seven, eight.
Four, seven, eight.
Four, seven, eight.
An animal instinct has him rocking back and forth to self-soothe.
Four, seven, eight.
He peels himself from the floor into a seated position.
Four, seven, eight.
The storm of emotions subsides. He stands, using the tiny sink to hold his weight at his hips as his legs threaten to give out.
He splashes water on his face and dries himself off. A damp handkerchief pressed to his neck helps him regain his senses.
He loathes this feeling. Every time the salty drops burn his cheeks, he's alone, and another chunk of his heart is torn from him: his mother, his friends, his daughter, his wife, his dog, his home.
For years, his brain worked tirelessly to build cages, labyrinths, and entire forests to keep his heart untouched and pumping, sometimes against his will. But sooner or later, the stupid little creature gets out and finds something from which to leech hope and love. Each time, it gets a little wiser.
When he was assigned Operation Strix, his heart was a starved, shriveled thing. Yor and Anya's, however, were plump and succulent. Famished, his heart wound vines and tendrils around theirs, silently cocooning them to feast on, and they were, oh, so willing. Over the years, his heart bloomed to match their pace and color. It settled into something beautiful and out of this world, but the condition is entirely dependent on them. Being pruned of each other means certain death.
The train jolts.
Desperate to survive, the vines and tendrils anchor themselves painfully.
"No! No, no, no!" He shoves the little sheep back into his pocket.
His fingers reverse the lock mechanism, and he throws open the door. Every head in the car whips in his direction. He notices but doesn't care.
He grabs his hat and yanks his briefcase from its resting place. It catches on the overhead compartment, resulting in several curses at it.
"Come on!" he chastises the bag.
Prying eyes eat him up.
He gives the luggage a yank at a different angle, and it releases. He dashes for the door.
"Hey, pal! The train is already moving," calls a man.
Unphased, he opens the door. It produces a cacophony of surprise from the passengers. The mother clings to both of her children. The other woman grabs dramatically for her pages. "He's mad!" yells another man.
It's now or never. He leaps.
A slight miscalculation in shifting weight plus a slippery dress shoe sends his shoulder and face into the platform. His briefcase lands with a clatter.
It has been years since he looked so clumsy performing a simple stunt.