Chapter Text
In the posting, she asked to meet at a café in town. "peregrino", she texted. "it's down by the flooded parking lot on the south side of Quinpool, it smells like caramel and i'll be wearing a Talkers hat. you can't miss it."
If I could count the amount of times that I smelled caramel in this weird, damp city, I'd have a math degree.
Turning a corner in Sunken Halifax was like walking through bomb after bomb of sensory overload. The sweet smell of candy and chocolate would follow me down the road long after I had plugged my nose. My shoes were soaked by constantly moving water, no matter how shallow it seemed, and my skin was starting to feel the cold. People were scream-laughing pretty much everywhere, talking loud enough that I could hear their words without understanding their conversation. I kept walking under giant, tilted buildings that had settled into their neighbors, with the little streams of the sun that barely crawled their way in through breaks in the levees. The trek through Quebec--or Nunavut, I couldn't remember the stupid province names--was bad enough just to get here, but it was all going to be worth it. New start, new me, and the rent was free.
Anything to get away from the Hellmouth.
I stopped to ask someone sloshing by if they could just tell me where to get to Peregrino, or even where Quinpool was, and they responded by saying that the water knows where you need to go so you should really just follow the current, and also it's polite to Google local customs before you come to the city, not that I'm calling you rude, but it could help out a lot. I smiled and gave my best apology and stamped away, dipped a finger in the water underneath my shoe since I couldn't really make out much in the weird bobbing lantern-lights, and found a direction to go--a knee deep street with a single-person canoe, and a sign that said "free paddling".
"Take me away," I say, just under my breath.
The water splashes at the back of my ankles to respond.
I started rowing; not that it seemed to be doing anything. The water kind of just moved the untied paddle-boat along whatever current it had decided to go, and I really didn't have a choice in the matter. I flipped out my phone in the other hand and looked at the listing again. 2500 square foot apartment, south of Quinpool, one roommate, two bedrooms, two bathrooms. Rent and utilities free. Must be a cool person. A cool person. I don't think I've had a solid conversation with anyone in the past month, and I'm neck deep in moisture from gods know where. It's really strange to see that people were just constantly okay with getting wet, around here. It wasn't even just Halifax--Canada, in general, was this kind of swampy, moist mess covered in water pretty much everywhere you went, and folks were just okay with it, I guess? They drove through it, laughed through it, and I swear I saw a few of them get submerged deep under and just walk out the other side without even pausing the conversation. Maybe I just need new clothes.
I passed by a couple walking through what looked like a mangrove forest, each of the branches gently drooping from spindling vines that crawled up bent and broken lampposts, towards slivers of sunshine that pierced through the still dark. I passed by moss marching slowly up the side of a battered and broken concrete department-store-turned-restaurant. I passed by a pipe that gushed water that sparkled with bobbing lanterns slowly making their patrols throughout the city. Then, I smelled caramel.
It was a different kind of caramel than I was used to, at this point. That sweet, stick to the back of your tongue flavor felt synthetic and chewy; this one smelled nutty, toasted, and warm, like roasting a marshmallow over an open flame. I turned my head to a neon glow, and read the light out loud.
"Peregrino," I mouthed, the wind barely escaping my lips. It wasn't a bruised or broke-down place like so many I had passed, but it still looked as ramshackle as anything else. Mismatched brick tile on the front side covered up old wood, and a concrete side wall had hanging moss creeping off the top. Windows, without glass, gently letting the little breezes in; I guess they didn't care about the water. I sloshed out of the paddleboat, and stood at the entrance. I looked across at the spaces at the front, saw groups at some tables collectively nursing paper cups, until I saw a fly on the wall with her feet on a table and a hat on her shoulder. "M.T." it read in red; the initials of Canada's premier Blaseball team, the Moist Talkers, with blue and white accents to boot.
"I've never seen one like that in the merchandise shops," I said, clumsily breaking the silence while keeping my footing on the wet, orange-and-white tile. "Are you Greer?"
There was no response. She didn't even move to acknowledge me. Her face faced the open air, betraying nothing about her demeanor. Had I not made a cool enough impression?
"Uh, I used to have some Sunbeams jerseys. No-Stars Lars, and all that. I heard they were the old ones, from back when they started it the first time," I spilled out, my tongue moving on its own. I swallowed, not good at silence. Need to make conversation. I should really sit down.
"And, um. I wasn't just into the big names. I liked--y'know--uh, number..." I scrabbled around in my brain to find a specific memory. "Shoot. Zack Sanders?" I offered, my posture practically prostrated in front of her.
She snorted. I froze.
She turned her head over. I gasped.
Her eyes were closed and her mouth was barely open. A drop of drool dripped from the side of her face. She snored.
I buried my head and my hands and exhaled with everything I had left.