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"I didn't know you drank so early in the morning."
"Umh." Semiu heaved a sigh and peered at Amo above the golden rim of her glasses, holding the tankard to her lips. Her composure was troubling; if Amo hadn't been intently watchful, she would've missed the piqued, muted rage underneath the thick layers of indifference.
"Can I have it?"
"No." Her starched attire did not match the mucky mood. "Kids don't get drunk. And... it's only for today."
"Is it a bad day?"
"Dry your hair, Amo. Squeeze the water out and towel it dry. You're dripping all over the floor." Digressions again. "Then you can go to the library and read that book I asked you to read."
She was right, though. Amo was freezing, and the floor was littered with her wet footprints. Somebody might slip on it and fall. She should clean it up!
"Did you have breakfast?" Amo should not be getting in her hair, yet she was very much in the mood to do so.
"Did YOU? They have garlic bread, salad, eggs, and something else." Semiu doesn't like the smell of garlic bread, which explains why she remembered it first.
"Ice cream? You're not eating?"
Semiu poured herself another generous pint of golden brew into her mug, droning on as she did, "You can't have ice cream in the morning, Amo."
"Still better than beer." Amo swished out of sight, not giving Semiu another second to make a comeback. She was being an annoying little shit, alright—no excuses, but in her defence, she just didn't want her mentor to become a drunkard!
"Amo's head is full of things she cannot describe." Ragdolls like her belonged in the trash; broken things like her were seldom fixed up and made lovely again. Givers were gifted creatures, not saints. One needs a certain level of sensitivity to understand the pain of others. Only someone who has experienced jealousy can recall it. It's about going backwards in time, fishing in the pockets of her memory for feelings. A power like this is not for everyone, but for those who can face and hover in their vulnerabilities—for those who stoop down to pick up all their parts, sharp edges, glaring reflections and all.
The book had a grey leather binding and black engraving on the spine. She raised a brow and thumbed it open without making a noise, glad she learned alphabets from Semiu without protest—partly because of her intimidating aura. Even then, she was not familiar with the terminology; perhaps it's the dialect. The pencil scribbles on the margins looked very recent. She recognised Semiu's handwriting. A book on Feelings. Letters sat on her mouth like heavy rocks she was scared to spit out. Reading about this wouldn't be enough—she’d have to experience it. That said, she could imagine it and create a ghost of the real thing. Amo remembered very little of the scent of her mother's clothes, the dash of frangipani in the front yard before it dried up, the aroma of the sourdough Mama used to make before she stopped making anything... Amo could count on her fingers the things that made her happy and sad, all of them little things.
The nails rapping on the pages she left open cut into her reverie. Her whipping head conjured the flash of his eyes, a chem light snapping out the stillness. As long fingers crawled under her hands over her book and slid down to tug at her wrists, she was plugged with a startling splotch of emotions. The bloody scent of pain emerged from her boots like the dead rising from their graves. Tamsy recoiled, his tense shoulders unwittingly ramming her to the shelves, fazed by the smarting pulsation. He held up his arms, long white sleeves dropping like flapping wings, and jammed the tipping books back into their brackets.
"Easy there. It's just me," he said with a pinched voice. "You okay?" Amo couldn't help but feel guilty for her overreaction once he started to rub her tender shoulders.
"Amo is fine." She almost hurt him. "Sorry for the trouble."
He drew back to shrug it off with an oddly pleasant smile. The old scar on his right cheek stretched and unstretched. "No worries."
The winds were strong. Enjin looked at the dog-eared, mangy map, holding it up against the landscape to see if it looked anything alike. Before them, the chasm was menacingly deep, with the width of a four-lane road. They had escaped death by a hair's breadth. Gris was putting together planks and ropes to bridge the gap between the two flat-topped plateaus, but in this weather, it’d sway and creak and get a bit tricky.
"This is the place."
"You're joking."
Enjin took one long, vacant look at the map, adjusted his choker, and shook his head. The heavy silence lengthened. They should've just taken the zigzag and not crossed over it. They underestimated the mountains, and now their shortcut had steered them right into hot water. "Something's not right. We took the straight line. See..." He poked the parchment. "From here to here."
"So." The real question is... "Are we gonna fight them straight up, or should we run?"
"Wait, let's get to the town first. It'll take one more day. Then we'll see."
Zanka rolled his eyes and scoffed, unable to believe his ears. They were wasting too many resources, too much time and energy, on an uncertain cause.
The man clutched his wounded arm, stood straighter, and grinned wolfishly. People glanced from under the tables, faces somber from disappointment, their morbid curiosity surfacing like lawn blisters about to pop. He undid his shoes and tipped them upside down. Blood splattered on the ground with chunks of glass shards. "Who pulled dis?" He flung his dagger around.
"Ye-er a buncha good fer nothin'."
He frowned and grumbled incomprehensibly. Even with a blade so ridiculously blunt he could hardly scratch his chin with it, people were terrified to utter a word against him. It’s not the weapon they feared, but the long needles that rose from his knuckles.
"Reminds me of Wolverine," hiding behind the counter, a child muttered into his mother's ear. Appalled, she gathered him under her cardigan, shushing him.
They were supposed to be cleaning trash beasts, but the universe enjoyed screwing things up. Hence, here they were, forced up against brutes and criminals. Rudo had crouched under an overhang, waiting for Enjin's orders, when the black jeep roared closer and skidded an arc, flattening the grass and mire underneath.
The backup had arrived—just not how he thought it would.
How lovely!—like the soft hum of blues, a faint speck of light in the mist, an elusive glimpse, impossible to ignore. Ribbons and frills, the clunk of big boots that were bigger than her feet but unmistakably hers, the mellow whiff of soap and orange candies, the earnest hues of the sunset blazing over her big eyes—it was her and her and her, a hundred times more.
"Amo?" What's she doing here?
"Hi." Amo raised a shaky hand, looking everywhere but him. She needn’t be so heavy-hearted or selfishly stubborn, but the thought of Team Akuta in danger did not sit right with her. She may not be of much help—hell—but she wasn't going to get in the way! She just wanted to make sure Rudo was safe. And not just Rudo, Amo thought, tucking a marmalade lock behind her ear. Riyo, Zanka, and Enjin too. He had helped her several times, even when he was the bane of her existence!
"Amo, Fu, Guita and me." Somebody corrected him, and soon enough, four shadows fell on the ground. Cleaners. There were four of them—how could he not notice?
"Tamsy?"
Tamsy whistled, inspecting the surroundings. The front side of the restaurant was completely destroyed. He also did not miss the subtle flush that warmed Rudo’s cheeks at the sight of Amo.
"It was supposed to be just me and Guita. But Fu and Amo insisted on coming along."
"Let’s get to work, shall we?" Enjin yelled from the rooftop of the salon just across the street from the restaurant.
"Motherfuckers." After everything was done and dusted, one of the bound guys—the blue-eyed, thick-armed one in the middle—swore. They did not have the right to behead any single one of them, but these punks deserved worse.
All of them were armed but in civilian robes. Enjin tore open his shirt with the glinting tip of his umbrella. On the pale skin was a seared umber symbol, the insignia of a clan—an itinerant gang of ruffians involved in child trafficking.
"I want to sleep." On their way back, Rudo glanced casually at her boots. The lingering shock, the rattling vehicle, and busy chatter kept them awake even after the full moon adorned itself on the black tresses of the sky.
Amo didn't know much about solid friendships, but she believed in small comforts—like showing up for one another. She cleared her throat and asked in a low voice, "Are you sure?"
"Yeah."
The scent came to him like a calm command, toning down the adrenaline rush and pushing him off the anxious high. The balsamic sweetness that clung to the panes and pillars of a house that belonged to antiquity. Peppermint and sunshine. And he slowly and surely succumbed to a weakness so humane as he laid his head on her soft lap, eyes drooping shut.
There were no lullabies, merely the quiet strokes of her fingertips on his head.