thumb on the image until the info bubble popped up, and read the simple, unpracticed scrawl: “You only fall when you look down, Coyote.”
A reference to something she didn’t get.
She set the photo back down amongst the trio, and moved on. In the bare kitchen, the storage unit was beyond empty. A still-sealed instructional manual slipped from inside the door when she opened it, and floated to the ground. Not only was there no food in it now, but she doubted there ever had been. The only window in the apartment, a porthole set partway up the far wall, faced the vast interior chimney between the Four Posts. From it, she could only see brightly flashing signs advertising porn games through the ceaseless rain. Seated upon the sill was a fragile ceramic bird, its bright red paint now chipped and faded. She recognized it instantly. It was from the night they met.
QC had just finished her second stint as a Factory Girl, still utterly convinced that she would make some quick, easy money and get out well before the damage could take - not like all those other, stupider girls. She literally tripped over Red at the top of the stairway leading back up and out of the backstage trough: He was sprawled on his belly directly in front of the exit, giggling happily at something cupped in his hands. She fought back the urge to kick his teeth in, and knelt down to look in his open palms instead. There, shielded from prying eyes, was the little red bird figurine. Red noticed her looking, and defensively shunted the bird away to his jacket pocket. He hopped quickly and with surprising agility to a standing position, straightened himself in a poor pantomime of righteous indignation, and cleared his throat.
“I’m QC,” she spoke, forcing more politeness than usual, so as not to jeopardize her new job, “you work here? Cause if not, you’re not allowed back here, you burnout fuckwad. The fights are over.”
“I work here,” he answered, affronted, “I’m a beta-tester. Very important.”
“Yuh huh,” she rolled her eyes, “what’s with the bullshit bird?”
“Oh man!” His face instantly dropped all pretense and brightened with childish joy. He dug into his jacket pocket and held the bird up before her, too close for her eyes to focus on, “did you see this bird I got?”
“Yeeaaah, just a minute ago? When you were laying on the floor like a cunt, and I almost broke my motherfucking neck?”
“It’s the best!” He proclaimed.
“You’re bleeding,” she noted the nasty cut, still oozing above his left eye.
“Somebody tried to take my bird,” he said sadly, “back before I knew it was mine.”
“You mean you stole it…”
“No. It was mine from before, I just didn’t know it and the shop-keep didn’t know it either. I tried explaining, but he wouldn’t listen. He hit me in the head and I ran away.”
“I have to ask: Are you high, or just…simple?”
“FivepartsBZthreealphaAPSonenonbindingcatalyst,” he recited in a single monotone breath. “New mix. Trying to emulate the emotional mindset of late childhood. Is it working?”
“I…” QC reflexively started to form an orchestra of obscenity to unleash on the man, but his eyes glimmered with earnestness, and she opted instead for: “Yeah. Like a charm.”
“Yes!” He exclaimed, pumping his fist.
The two of them spent the rest of the night in a cramped, four-person micro-diner. The owner gave up on shooing them out to make room for paying customers, when it became obvious that there were none. He fell asleep instead, and snored loudly from a hammock behind the serving counter. As the drugs faded, Red matured (slightly) right before her eyes. Eventually QC found herself talking to a sincere, thankful, very sleepy and very hungover adult male. They’d been something like friends ever since.
The nostalgia was sharply and abruptly broken by her Overdose Alarm. A deep blue light flashed in her peripheral vision, mirrored on her forearm
A reference to something she didn’t get.
She set the photo back down amongst the trio, and moved on. In the bare kitchen, the storage unit was beyond empty. A still-sealed instructional manual slipped from inside the door when she opened it, and floated to the ground. Not only was there no food in it now, but she doubted there ever had been. The only window in the apartment, a porthole set partway up the far wall, faced the vast interior chimney between the Four Posts. From it, she could only see brightly flashing signs advertising porn games through the ceaseless rain. Seated upon the sill was a fragile ceramic bird, its bright red paint now chipped and faded. She recognized it instantly. It was from the night they met.
QC had just finished her second stint as a Factory Girl, still utterly convinced that she would make some quick, easy money and get out well before the damage could take - not like all those other, stupider girls. She literally tripped over Red at the top of the stairway leading back up and out of the backstage trough: He was sprawled on his belly directly in front of the exit, giggling happily at something cupped in his hands. She fought back the urge to kick his teeth in, and knelt down to look in his open palms instead. There, shielded from prying eyes, was the little red bird figurine. Red noticed her looking, and defensively shunted the bird away to his jacket pocket. He hopped quickly and with surprising agility to a standing position, straightened himself in a poor pantomime of righteous indignation, and cleared his throat.
“I’m QC,” she spoke, forcing more politeness than usual, so as not to jeopardize her new job, “you work here? Cause if not, you’re not allowed back here, you burnout fuckwad. The fights are over.”
“I work here,” he answered, affronted, “I’m a beta-tester. Very important.”
“Yuh huh,” she rolled her eyes, “what’s with the bullshit bird?”
“Oh man!” His face instantly dropped all pretense and brightened with childish joy. He dug into his jacket pocket and held the bird up before her, too close for her eyes to focus on, “did you see this bird I got?”
“Yeeaaah, just a minute ago? When you were laying on the floor like a cunt, and I almost broke my motherfucking neck?”
“It’s the best!” He proclaimed.
“You’re bleeding,” she noted the nasty cut, still oozing above his left eye.
“Somebody tried to take my bird,” he said sadly, “back before I knew it was mine.”
“You mean you stole it…”
“No. It was mine from before, I just didn’t know it and the shop-keep didn’t know it either. I tried explaining, but he wouldn’t listen. He hit me in the head and I ran away.”
“I have to ask: Are you high, or just…simple?”
“FivepartsBZthreealphaAPSonenonbindingcatalyst,” he recited in a single monotone breath. “New mix. Trying to emulate the emotional mindset of late childhood. Is it working?”
“I…” QC reflexively started to form an orchestra of obscenity to unleash on the man, but his eyes glimmered with earnestness, and she opted instead for: “Yeah. Like a charm.”
“Yes!” He exclaimed, pumping his fist.
The two of them spent the rest of the night in a cramped, four-person micro-diner. The owner gave up on shooing them out to make room for paying customers, when it became obvious that there were none. He fell asleep instead, and snored loudly from a hammock behind the serving counter. As the drugs faded, Red matured (slightly) right before her eyes. Eventually QC found herself talking to a sincere, thankful, very sleepy and very hungover adult male. They’d been something like friends ever since.
The nostalgia was sharply and abruptly broken by her Overdose Alarm. A deep blue light flashed in her peripheral vision, mirrored on her forearm
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