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Albin’s day normally consists of early morning wake up calls, left over spaghetti salad so kindly provided by his roommate née best friend Solum Bufo, and toilet paper. Just way too much toilet paper.
The slog of the thirty minute commute to the Mothership office co-working space, nine hours of prestidigitations, mind-numbing small talk and then back again has him feeling particularly worn down today. It’s not even the end of his work week, when supervisors would be breathing down his and his fellow’s necks for unmeetable quotas. And Albin takes that personally.
The cable car that stops six times before it reaches his neighborhood is moving at a snail’s pace this evening. Some belligerent rat-person is hollering about the sins of Mothership and a pair of C or B class synth-knights have taken it on themselves to re-educate them, and now it’s everyone’s problem. “Lies and conspiracies! She’s not even that tight of a grandmotha! Has anyone even seen her kid? Or her kid’s kid?” Albin’s heard this before. He can’t even begin to feel the righteous anger for the rat-person- he’s so tired and just wants to be home.
“All right, all right, that’s enough-“ Before the synth knight finishes their rebuttal, the rat-person head butts him. Albin kisses the thought of his welcoming bed goodbye for the foreseeable future.
The scrap that ensues has him and his fellow commuters putting away their reading apparatuses before ducking and dodging flying debris and people alike. He almost makes it out unscathed when, through the cacophony, a shoe clocks him squarely in the nose. He thinks, “Yes, of course,” and promptly passes out.
In the interim, he dreams of the countryside where he grew up on the outskirts of Ezry with parents he can’t quite remember. This was, of course, before his time at The Launchpad. He meanders through half formed memories and swims through adventures that only children can go on. And Albin feels yearning he hasn’t in years. For what exactly? He can’t pinpoint. But there’s something there. Something-
It’s the sensation of freezing cold on his cheek that jolts him out of this half-lucid state and into stark reality. The frigidly cold hand is withdrawn and Albin can only stare up at the giant of a man leaning over him. The man’s skin is tinged a frostbittenly blue and his eyes squint into slits as he gives the boy-wizard a once over.
“He’s alive, told you, Callie.” Before Albin can respond, all three feet of Sol rockets into his arms. “Albie! Thank goodness, we were so worried! Well, I know I was, I’m sure Calder and Callie were too,” Sol’s concern makes Albin smile.
“No, no, it’s fine, I’m fine, Sol. Who are..?” Albin looks up at the man-giant and a particularly wet looking Eladrin.
“Oh! Yes, Albie, this is my squad, my team! Guys, this is Albin.” He sits all the way up, as Sol leans back, giving him space. Albin gingerly touches his nose and winces before swinging his legs to the side of the bed and standing up. “Terribly sorry to make your acquaintance in this state,” Albin says holding out his other hand. The woman, Callie, quickly shakes his hand and smiles a watery thing back at him.
“If it’s all the same, we met on that cable car, so it’s not the first time! Or well, it is, but with all of us being upright and chatty!” Albin’s hand goes slightly limp as she speaks. “I beg your pardon?”
The enormous man, Calder, sniffs. His eyes narrow once more as he looks down at Albin. “It’s not like he’d remember that, Callie,” Calder says, gravelly voice coming off kind of standoffish. “You got beamed by that boot. Collapsed right on top of us. It was kind of a lot.” Albin watches as the unfairly tall, sort of blue man before him speaks down to him. His eyes impossibly black and impossibly thin. Albin begins forming words before his brain can catch up.
“Well, I’m sorry for all of the trouble I’ve caused,” comes his quick retort, defensive and embarrassed. Calder raises both hands, as if to placate. Albin finds it patronizing.
Sol later tells him that Calder was only squinting because he too was clocked in the face and was trying to keep his nose from bleeding (something his older brothers no doubt jokingly told him when they were all children) which was a wild excuse in the first place. But months and a few drunken ramblings later, it holds water. The world’s tallest softy who reverted to childhood antics when he was embarrassed is someone Albin now also considers a friend (?).
When Ezry’s bubble finally bursts, Albin is justifiably concerned. "Yes, oh who will be there to prestidigitate the t.p.?" Calder's sarcastic question finds a little purchase in Albin's thoughts, but more thought-provoking than originally intended. Who would do the menial, thankless, brain-melting tasks? Someone else, thinks Albin as he goes from being dragged hand over fist to flat out running alongside Duck Team into a glittering new existence with infinitely less toilet paper and infinitely more honest to Pelor adventures.
(It doesn’t hurt that the 7’7” half-giant is easy on the eyes, either.)