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Narancia’s feathers were scattered across the pavement. He’d tumbled once again, each time falling further, the ground coming at him much more quickly than before. Sometimes Narancia felt that he was an imposter, a humble plot in the garden surrounded by statues of gold, heaps of gems and fruit upon their altars. He also knew this affliction was chronic, existing long beyond the companions to whom he’d tethered himself as a child, stumbling in their wake. He supposed he didn’t expect this gift of shelter and sustenance to be a paradise, he was not so naive, but he couldn’t help but feel the disconnection between him and the others. The others had been recruited due to their unique abilities, and he couldn’t help but feel that he was more of a charity case in nature. He remembered the frown that curled itself onto Buccellati’s face when he mentioned it. “We are all here due to dire circumstances, Narancia.” His voice carried the gentle patience that Buccellati often had with his subordinates, but Narancia could tell that it did indeed bother him.
Objectively, Narancia knew they were all here because they were ill-suited to where they were before and had been soured to the world around them, but he couldn’t pretend not to see how the others had arisen, blooming after they’d been transplanted into different soil. It may have been a transfer from sand to clay, but some roots manage better there, growing long and thick. Narancia, instead, found himself taking off his muddy shoe, only to find sand trickling out of it.
Narancia knew that the partnership between his capo and Abbacchio was unmatched, as they’d spent what seemed like countless years standing back to back, their breaths perfectly in sync. They possessed something that was nearly a telepathy, working through obstacles by simply glancing at each other. Abbacchio looked up to Buccellati, considering his opinion above all, but at the same time stepped backward, casting out the net that would catch his capo in the case that he stumbled. He never did, but Abbacchio knew that even a bird who could fly across oceans had to land sometime, and Abbacchio stood, ready to catch him. And he was glad to give his time in such a way. The strength of this bond brought Narancia comfort. In his experience, kin had a tendency to disperse. Whatever this bond was, it enriched him, and he felt the strength to continue. Though compared to something made of silks, what was his contribution? He was a simple bolt of twine, rough and spindly. But at least he knew that there was a purpose for it, and even if it were messy, somebody had taken the time to weave it.
Or Mista. He glowed with the vitality of the sun itself. Ever since his first day working for Buccellati, he could intuit the intricacies of the machine, seamlessly inserting himself and inspiring bold and successful plans. It had been as if his life leading up to this point was just him waiting idly for his niche to open, unfolding a piece of universe for this star to shine his light. Even though Mista burnt through the great storehouses of Bruno’s patience, Narancia noticed the glimmer of pride from the corner of his eye as he looked over at him, even if his intention was to scold him. Mista was undoubtedly Bruno’s pick to train into a future capo position. It wasn’t that Narancia truly envied such a status, but he did desire that sense of mentorship, of someone taking the time to come close and look over his shoulder.
Or Fugo. He did not possess the same telepathy that Buccellati and Abbacchio shared, but his mind was sharp and focused, crisp autumn air, and he had grown such a sense of intuition of their capo that he often predicted Buccellati’s plans and delivered support before it was asked of him. Fugo was somebody to whom Narancia was close and trusted very much, but he was also acutely aware that in any other circumstance, he might have never meshed well with Fugo or had grown such a sense of understanding. Fugo excelled at everything he touched. Narancia was unsure he would be asked to do anything for Buccellati that Fugo could do better and more quickly. Fugo was not training to be a capo, but he would always be a strategist, a trusted advisor to somebody very important. Yet, it was Fugo who had discovered Narancia and stood above him until he answered, who made him have to stare into his intense gaze. When Fugo insisted, it was quiet but firm, and when they first appeared together in front of their capo, Buccellati acted as if Fugo had already made the decision and it had already been enacted. That he was simply being alerted to the order.
Narancia may have noticed such a disparity, but he could not imagine an alternative. And maybe he was too hard on himself. He was here, and he hadn’t lost it yet, and this existence was offered to so few. He’d never before experienced such a feeling of belonging. How each of the others were willing to set something valuable into his cupped hands, trusting him not to drop it. And even when he did, they would rip their eyes away in frustration, but would always return to him. They never gave up on him, never left him on the side of the road, never reached the end of Buccellati’s mercy. There was always another mission for him, and he was pleased to contribute. And what took years to develop were the small aspects, the edges, though strange shapes, fit together and became one. Narancia knew never to underestimate the great adhesive force of time. Soon, somehow, he became a fixture of the team. He was the one who opened the gates to let the floodwaters pour out. He was the one who set fire to the enemy camp. He was the first face the target saw as they pounced.
What was such an association, accumulated as time spat them out? And all because of a dangerous organization, a shadow lurking behind the everyday operations of this city. Or was it in spite of it? Regardless, it was the anchor to their destinies. Was it that the anchor held them in place so they didn’t drift away? Or was it pulling them down deeper and deeper into the black depths of the sea? But maybe there was something comfortable about the depths, like being tucked into bed under a heavy blanket, blind to the endless spinning of the universe.