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The air in Springfield, Oregon, is uncharacteristically crisp for an April night, carrying the faint, metallic scent of industrial grease and the stagnant water of the nearby docks. Outside Warehouse #4, the silence is heavy, broken only by the rhythmic, distant hum of the city’s power grid. Legs and Louie are stationed near the loading bay, playing lookout for Mickey and Bruno. It’s a routine job—waiting for the muscle to collect a shipment of “imported” Italian silks—but tonight, the atmosphere feels different. The sky is the main attraction.
Legs moves with a practiced, slight hitch in his gait as he unfolds two nylon lawn chairs. He doesn't need to be told; he knows the specific, rhythmic tapping of Louie’s fingers against his holster means the shorter man is getting restless. Louie doesn't ask for the chairs, but he settles into one with a sigh that vibrates through his narrow frame. Louie’s mind is already miles above the warehouse roof. In another life, one where the Szyslak name didn't carry the weight of poverty and his ma had more than a few crumpled singles in her purse, Louie would be sitting in an observatory.
He’d planned for astrophysics, a world of cold logic and infinite distances that didn't require him to navigate the messy, tactile social cues of Springfield’s underworld. But by '79, the dream was a casualty of tuition costs. He’d traded the telescope for a heater, joining Fat Tony’s crew to bridge the financial gap, thinking it was a temporary detour. Decades later, the detour is his life.
Legs, reclining in the adjacent chair, has a much simpler history with the sky. High school was a blur of back alleys and loyalty. He’d stayed in Springfield for two years after graduating just to keep an eye on Louie, who was still finishing up. When Louie finally walked the stage, Legs felt the itch for the horizon. He’d always loved the idea of flight—the ultimate distance from the ground that had always felt too small for him. He joined the Air Force, looking for a way out.
The exit was permanent, but not in the way he’d hoped. 1980 brought the "incident"—a botched landing, a scream of tearing metal, and a surgery that left him with a phantom itch where his left foot used to be. His father, Francesco, hadn't offered comfort; he’d offered blame, spitting words about "Legman incompetence" that fueled a self-destructive fire in Legs for years. It was Louie who had been the anchor. Louie, who visited the VA hospital every single day, talked about the stars until the monitors stopped beeping. When Legs was discharged, Louie didn't just give him a ride; he took him home. He’d spent months helping Legs navigate the kitchen, the stairs, and eventually, the modified pedals of a getaway car.
Now, in the present, Legs sits back and cracks a Duff. He’s a man of few words, especially tonight. He sports a thin, braided rat tail—a style he’d personally find ridiculous if it weren't for the way Louie’s eyes linger on it with quiet appreciation. Legs is on the asexual spectrum; physical intimacy is a foreign language he’s learned to speak only for Louie, and even then, it’s about the soul more than the skin. He watches the moon, which is beginning to take on a bruised, copper hue.
“The Rayleigh scattering,” Louie begins, his voice low and fervent. He’s leaning forward, hands tucked into his armpits to avoid accidental contact with the cold metal of the chair. “That’s why it goes red, Legs. It’s the same reason sunsets look the way they do. The Earth’s atmosphere is filtering out the blue and green, leaving only the long-wavelength reds to bend around the curve of the planet and hit the lunar surface. It’s like... It’s like the moon is catching all the sunrises and sunsets happening on Earth all at once.”
Louie is in his element, his ADHD-fueled brain firing off data points like a Gatling gun. He’s undiagnosed, but the signs are there—the way he avoids eye contact while speaking, the intense hyper-fixation on the celestial bodies, the way he vibrates with a nervous energy that only settles when he’s talking shop. Legs sips his beer, his silence a warm blanket. He doesn't need to contribute; he knows his role is to be the vessel for Louie’s brilliance. He understands that for Louie, being heard is a form of being held.
As the moon deepens into a blood-red orb, Louie’s monologue slows. He reaches out, a hesitant, jerky motion toward the gap between their chairs. Legs reacts instantly. He’s one of the few people allowed in Louie’s "safe zone." He switches his Duff to his outer hand and catches Louie’s right, interlacing their fingers. He feels Louie freeze—that half-second of sensory processing where the brain decides if the touch is a threat or a comfort. Legs holds his breath, a flicker of worry crossing his brow.
Then, Louie’s hand relaxes, his grip tightening in a firm squeeze. “The umbra is total now,” Louie whispers, his voice steadier. “We’re in the deep shadow. Everything is aligned.”
The domestic peace is shattered by a discordant CRASH from inside Warehouse #4. It’s the sound of heavy timber splintering, followed immediately by the sharp, echoing CRACK of a gunshot.
“What the fuck!?” a voice screams—Frankie the Squealer.
The two men are up in a heartbeat, years of instinct overriding the tranquility of the eclipse. They don't let go of each other's hands until they reach the heavy steel door. They slip inside, sticking to the deep shadows cast by stacks of crates labeled 'OFFICE SUPPLIES.' Thwip-thwip-thwip! Legs feels a series of dull thuds against his chest, a strange, wet impact that doesn't feel like lead. Beside him, Louie grunts as he’s hit, the force knocking them both back behind a stack of industrial-sized pallets.
“Louie! You okay?” Legs hisses, hand going to his holster.
“I’m… I think so,” Louie pants.
He peeks around the corner. A few yards away, Frankie is writhing on the concrete floor, his hands clawing at his face. Bright, neon-red splatters are smeared across his eyes and forehead, looking ghastly under the dim warehouse lights.
“Frankie!” Louie shouts, staying low. “Can you open your eyes? You hit?”
“No, it fuckin’ burns!” Frankie wails, kicking his legs. “My retinas are on fire! You can—ugh, I can’t see a damn thing!”
Legs leans out, squinting through the gloom. “Who’s shootin’? Is it the Yakuza?”
“No!” Frankie yells, wiping unsuccessfully at the sludge on his face. “It’s Fatso Simpson and the Clown! But only Fatso’s got the heater!”
Louie’s brow furrows. Homer Simpson and Krusty? “What’d they steal? The silk?”
“A damn violin and five grand from the petty cash safe!” Frankie bellows, his voice cracking. “You gonna let me talk now, or are we gonna have a Q&A while I go blind?!”
Before they can move, the sound of a sputtering engine roars to life. Through the gaps in the crates, they see the silhouette of a beat-up sedan—Homer’s pink car—burst through the rear exit doors, wood splinters flying. Krusty’s high-pitched, panicked laugh echoes back into the warehouse as they peel away into the night. Legs stands up, holstering his weapon with a look of profound annoyance.
He walks over to Frankie and hauls him up by his collar. “Come on, Squealer. Let’s get you into the light.”
As they lead a stumbling Frankie toward the loading bay, Frankie pauses, blinking rapidly. The red goo is dripping off his chin. “Hey… you notice you guys ain't in pain no more?”
Louie stops, looking down at his own shirt. He touches a wet spot on his abdomen and brings his fingers up to his nose. It smells like chemicals and cheap acrylic. “Wait a second…”
Frankie winces, finally managing to crack one eye open. “The Clown… he had some kinda high-powered paintgun. Shot pellets in my fuckin’ face. You guys only got hit in the torso. It’s just hobby shop red.”
Louie looks at the "blood" on his hands, then at Legs, whose black suit is now dappled with drying crimson spots. “Shit,” Louie mutters, the adrenaline fading into embarrassment. “We shoulda kept shootin’. We let ‘em walk for a goddamn art project.”
“Fatso had a real gun, though,” Frankie adds, clutching his side. His shirt there is actually torn, a dark, genuine stain blooming. “Nicked my side. But honestly? It ain't as bad as the paint. This stuff is stingin’ my pores.”
Legs and Louie exchange a look. The eclipse is still happening outside, the moon a silent witness to their incompetence. They lead Frankie out to the lawn chairs. Legs gently pushes Frankie into Louie’s chair and pulls out his burner phone.
“I’m callin’ Dr. Nick,” Legs says. “Tellin’ him it’s a ‘house call.’ He’s the only one who won’t ask why the Mafia got taken down by a birthday party entertainer.”
Legs hands his half-finished Duff to Frankie, who takes a desperate swig. With only one chair left, Louie sits down first, and Legs carefully lowers himself into the same seat, perched on the edge, his arm draped protectively around Louie’s shoulders. They sit in the cramped space, two middle-aged hitmen covered in craft supplies, watching the Earth’s shadow slowly retreat from the moon.
“Next time,” Louie mutters, leaning his head against Legs’s chest, “we bring the goggles.”
“Yeah,” Legs agrees, his fingers finding the familiar, comforting texture of Louie’s hair. “And maybe more ammo.”