Chapter Text
“Du idiotischer Mistkerl! Warum hast du diese verdammte Tasse fallen lassen?!”
“Sukunakutomo chūmon denpyō wa yomeru!”
“Ich kann nicht alles auf einmal machen, Kaminari!”
“Omae wa mō shinda mo dōzenda!”
Goodness, when would the quarrel end?
17:01, read the pocketwatch clipped to Quinn’s blazer. One break day, just one semblance of a reprieve per week to find some fragment of relaxation from her upcoming work (since it was the closing end of November, there would likely be extra time for Thanksgiving as well…as if she had anybody to celebrate it with) and here she had no choice but to spend it close to the counter holding a working pair so aggravatingly bickering that she would rather stand outside the jail cells of Alcatraz. At least, from how it was described to her in a book, it seemed intriguing enough for a momentary peek…
How long has it been since they had taken her order, again? On a common day, her eyes would have been able to weed out the exact minutes and seconds; today, though, was different. She was well aware of her recent nightmare, the one which gave her so much trouble within the morning sunrise, but what she didn’t realize was just how harrowing it would end up being. Too many extra minutes of preparation, too many extra minutes of thinking. How far she fell, how loud she screamed. How much it hurt. She looked down at her watch again, then back at the poster-plagued wall. Watch. Wall. Watch. Wall. Watch. Mm…eleven minutes.
She sighed, adjusting the strap of her laptop case strung over her shoulder; specially patterned with black perpendicular lines, only with a deep maroon backing rather than her usual attire’s purple hue. On an edge of its smooth lining read Кошкова, embroidered with an immense bout of care. Koshkova. She recalled rereading her page of her senior yearbook, how very talented she was. Quinn Koshkova. Valedictorian, highest honors, scholarships dotting her records like spring raindrops on a window. Ah, if only people realized how she acted instead, no? Perhaps then she would have a far better time around them, and perhaps they would respect her instead of fear for their lives.
She turned to the left to pull a newspaper out of one of the stands, flipping it open. Her focus flitted through the various headers, pages opening and closing at random within her gaze.
THE DYNAMOE SPOTTED BY CITY LIBRARY
She never truly grasped the mindset of this hellion, as it sometimes was with many convicted criminals doing nonviolent law-breaking. Sure, there could be many supposed reasons for their actions – perhaps mental instability, a childish dare, or pure stupidity – but this one baffled her. How he continued to evade capture, too, was an enigma beyond her understanding. What was he doing by a library, anyway?
MOCHARIA LIFE: FILM-FESTIVAL FLOURISH OR FUTURE FLOP?
Still on the fence, she thought to herself. Being the legal counsel of the documentary was nothing but important to her, as were the roles others were pitching and playing into. The question was whether or not the efforts would bind together well enough…
STEAMERS CLUTCH WIN AGAINST FROSTFIELD SNOWMEN
Ah, hockey news. Not exactly something she was always drawn to due to its chaotic nature, but it was a talent she found an upholding for. Anything that took effort, extreme effort, whether from the mind or body, was often a trait she could nod her head towards.
A few more seconds passed, and her bespectacled gaze moved back to the two shuffling figures behind the counter. Although in most places she would not immediately recognize whoever it was Louie had roped into his restaurant chain, New Pepperton was lucky to hold a duo she noted quite easily. The ponytailed, scar-faced girl – as if a thunderous motif wasn’t enough, the lightning-patterned marks were the icing on the cake – was Akari Kaminari, quite the familiar face for a Tacodale-raised citizen such as Quinn herself. Akari was a courier, and an efficient one at that, her motorcycle carrying her to and fro as if it was made of streaks of lightning; no wonder she called it the ThunderVolt. She was in charge of deliveries, a job looked well upon by, say, somebody who practically lived in their workplace. The other worker – tall, scarily burly, and scuffed at multiple angles – was Allan Mariner, one of those hockey players she’s seen every now and again. It was difficult to miss his presence due to his appearance, and sometimes Quinn wondered if he, too, disliked the thought of being feared in public. Quite a stable thesis, she believed, and she had every right to think as such; one of her most drawn-out cases was defending the man against false charges. Evidence this, misdemeanor that, a claim of fifth-degree assault was still nothing to sneeze at. Accusations of sparking a bloody fight in public, yes, she remembered the mugshot and everything. Well, she remembered a lot of things at once, which might also have been a reason why she often spoke of others by their surname. It sounded much nicer to her. Either way, there they were, in the presence of one another.
A small part of the middle-aged lawyer’s conscience found it rather amusing that these two were entirely adamant on turning each other down like siblings holding a heated rivalry. Most of her didn’t, though. She felt rueful, seeing similar traits clash so hardily. Oh well, what was she to do? The chaos had finally seemed to cease, and she could see the taller of the two beginning to finish her little order anyway.
Her mind began to drift a little as she looked back on her previous nightmare once more. Not only did she recall the experience of its shadowy claws as a whole, but she remembered exactly how she felt both before and after the dreaded slumber…
00:11, read the faint nixie-tube display on the lower shelf’s clock…well, barely; without her glasses, the numbers read as half-blurred masses of light. She’s been laying wide-awake for approximately fifty-six minutes, two seconds. She doesn’t know why, either; Quinn Koshkova, one of the most intimidating presences one residing in or around Tacodale would likely meet, reduced to nothingness by insomnia.
This wasn’t the first time she’s felt this way – perhaps when she’s had too much caffeine too late in the day, it unfortunately happens – though the pang nipping at her wasn’t from anything in her systems. She would quickly come to compare the sensation to her initial breakup with her ex-coworker, if anything, despite that entire debacle’s worth. Really, both sides of that argument knew it was a right decision, a decision to dampen what could have worsened, but Quinn often found it a worthy memory to ponder at times.
No, no, that wasn’t important, she thought. None of this was, none of it should have tethered her. It was technically Thursday; tomorrow, or today for that matter, could always improve, could it not? She planned to take her weekly visit to the Mocharia once the sun began to change its trajectory, and her experiences with such times have been relatively pleasant. Hell, she recalled a day where she was served a nigh-perfect order as soon as she walked in; perhaps a rather odd move, but the two workers marching around seemed competent and trustworthy enough. One of them, actually, she knew just a bit more personally due to assisting in a trial he had found himself in. Fifth-degree assault, claims of provoking fights, she recalled every last detail she fought against.
She was rather good at that talent, remembering names and faces and words. Perhaps that was why many found her to be the highest of the high, even if she didn’t always like the title and attention.
Why did she continue thinking, though? She had sleep to get to, something she was actually looking forward to, and positivity seemed to work its magic for her. All she needed to do was close her eyes.
…
It felt like her bed was caving in below her, her body lowering further and further as she raised back into consciousness. Her reflexes were quick enough to alert her of what was going on, but too slow to let her arms reach for support. Like an opening mouth, both sides of the room were sliding in opposite directions to render the woman helpless. She snapped her eyelids open, blurry and dreading, as she sunk beneath the mattress and eventual smoothened floor. The air surrounding the night sky whirred past her face as she picked up kilometers, plummeting faster, faster, faster. She couldn’t see a thing, not without her glasses, no, everything was speeding by her like she weighed nothing at all. With an instinct she rarely tapped into, her mouth opened to scream for futile help.
“POMOGITE! POMOGITE!”
Her voice cracked with every syllable, agonized from volumes never heard as her mind defaulted to a dialect she was used to. Anyone, anyone at all, she’d take anyone! She’d take anything that would save her, anything from this eerily real feeling!
But nothing came, nobody fell beside the poor, suffering, helpless Quinn. Nothing was around to help, just like it always was. She never needed help, so she never got it. Her form continuously rotated around itself, repeatedly spinning her as her long-sleeved arms flailed in fear she’d barely felt before. Soon enough, the shape of solid ground was careening in her direction; rather, she was careening in its direction. Nothing could be done, nothing was done, there was nothing she was able to do but wait and shut her eyes once again.
Nothing to do but wait.
Just wait…
Wait…
…wait? She didn’t feel the impact, not even a light thud. She didn’t hear it either, strangely enough, nothing but the shivering beats of her heart. The gusts had ceased entirely, as if she’d stopped falling entirely; and rightly enough, her inquiries were confirmed when she opened her eyes.
She was back in her own room, back in her own safe space; albeit on the floor with blankets surrounding her. Not a long fall, and the fluffed-up stature of the fabric covering her body only further stifled what sound could have been made. With exhausted weakness from her…surely brief nightmare, she stood to put on her glasses and glance at her clock-
"Ahem."
"Ah-" The lawyer was soon snapped out of her trance-like inquisition, blinking a few times as her focus unblurred. Oh, it's Allan.
“Order number 7,” mumbled the visibly battered barista as he came forth with a finished creation: a pecan-milk Papaccino and a plate of pineapple upside-down cannoli, considering what the workplace itself was. His tone was audibly drained of energy someone of his caliber may have, not fully, but enough to be concerning; seeing someone he recognized and respected, though, enticed a slight smile at the edges of his mouth.
With the usual look in her expression, thin eyebrows tilted slightly inwards to resemble faux annoyance, Quinn moved her gaze to look the man in the eyes. Although he was certainly tall, approximately six-foot-four or so, she herself was not at all short; therefore it did not take much of a craned neck to lock pupils. “Took quite long enough,” she replied hastily, although she soon realized her thickly-accented tone and shook her head. “Ah, apologies, Mr. Mariner. I have had rather odd morning.” English was by no means her first language – her parents struggled with it, and she was self-taught – so there were bound to be slips. They were minuscule, however, and in turn nobody wished to bat an eye even if they had the courage to. Her eyes flitted towards the order itself, every detail being picked up at a blistering speed.
“Err, sorry for the wait, lady,” said Allan, breaking the silence with a voice as battered and crooked as his teeth. “Had some, no, just a few- uh-”
“Relax. I could hear it from my spot in line.” Quinn waved a hand dismissively, using the other to adjust her halfmoon glasses as she continued her pensive judgment. “Mmh…good, very good,” she finally concluded, inducing a sigh and mutter from the worker as she placed a tip into the partially-full jar and continued her docile speech. “Ms. Kaminari is not giving you too much trouble, is she?”
“Uh...no. No, not at all, we just…disagree on some things.” Allan leaned over, elbow resting on the table with the back of his hand supporting his head. He personally didn’t mind a little conversation from time to time, especially at the point of his shift where he’s just about ready to switch out of a Mocharia mentality, though he wasn’t aware of Quinn’s exact stance on this.
“You two seem to disagree on lot of things.”
“Hah! Y’got me there real quick. It’s almost like you’re a lawyer or something.” The hockey player scratched the back of his neck with a sheepish chuckle as he was refuted.
“...Perhaps.” Quinn did not change her tone nor expression whatsoever; keeping a poker face was something she was oddly accustomed to. Her hands interlocked with one another, fingers curling up passively like kittens in a litter. “I would hope the Cold Cuts would have players with working passion, I understand that much about hockey. I truly respect importance you might serve to your fans.”
Allan gave a shrug and slid the brimmed beanie off his head to reveal the pompadour-like mass of hair sitting above his scalp. Dark, shimmering strands that had most certainly broken free from the prison that was hair gel waved with every bit of movement from the man himself; some of them even attempted to shield his mug from the woman he spoke to. “Yeah,” he began as he pushed some of these obstructions away from his eyes, “thanks. You’re from…Tacodale, that right?”
“Correct.”
Before speaking up, a sort of cross between a chortle and a snort left the tall man’s throat. “Mm, we play the Supremes soon enough, I think in a week or so. If you’ve the time.” A pause cut into his words for a few extended moments. “Y’know, you never struck me as someone who likes hearing about what I do.”
“You never struck me as one to judge a book by its cover, Mr. Mariner.”
“Ach, bitte- whatever, heh. But- actually, don’tcha got a job to get back to?”
“Ne sovsem.”
“...’Scuse me?”
“Not really. Today is less stressful for me, so I have enough time for quick talk.” A sigh left Quinn’s mouth before she continued. “Although, I do know how busy your own schedule is. I should be letting you go-”
As if perfectly calculated, the two’s chat was cut off by a third presence, a slightly shorter (but not small) woman donning a similar work attire as Allan; any green accents were simply replaced with orangish hues. Tinted goggles already lowered over her coldly-squinted eyes, she glared up at the man with a piercingly incendiary scowl. “You big oaf- why’re you just standin’ around?! I’ve been cleanin’ up back here all alone-”
“Well, sorry for wanting to socialize, unlike you.” Allan put a hand on his hip and almost scornfully pointed at Akari, right between her eyes. His teeth were visibly clenching against one another, rather violently in fact, as he spoke up; it was additionally ascertained that, for Quinn’s sake, he was stifling any tone-raising to the best of his ability. “I’m tired, frankly pretty hungry, and even then I’ve a game later. So I don’t wanna fuckin’ hear it.” As he breathed, the air entering and leaving the gap in his teeth whistled lightly in a futile attempt to ease the mood.
“Oh, waga kami yo!” Akari threw her hands in the air in a sort of mocking disbelief, stepping back. “You and your excuses! I’ve a brother to check on, goddammit!”
“Who, the gay computer guy? Seems like he’s holding up just fine with Drakson and all-”
“NOT FOR THAT! Ugh- lucky for me, turns out he’s gotten himself drunk all the way in Oniontown or something stupid like that…too many glasses of cider-”
“Well, no shit he did if he’s all the way in that hellhole of a place-”
“How was I supposed to know he was going to get distracted to X and back?! Sure YOU wouldn’t have fared any better, and unlike your sob stories there I actually don’t have the fucking time to sulk!”
Allan’s fist suddenly slammed into the counter, the bellicose nature implanted into his mind kicking in as he closed in on his coworker. “V- VERPISS DICH!” Akari had struck one too many beams supporting the barricade hiding a subzero anger. “WH- WHO do you THINK you are, Kotzbrocken-?!”
“I’m SUFFERIN’ in your goddamn presence, THAT’S what!”
“WELL, NOW SO AM I!-”
The aggressive back-and-forth quarrel between opposing sides, words being fired with gunshot-speed every which way, would have gone on far longer had it not been for a third party stepping in.
“KHVATIT! Vy oba vedete sebya kak zhivotnyye!”
Quinn’s raised voice echoed throughout the entire lobby, a sound so ice-cold that it caused both workers – even Allan, who was completely used to freezing temperatures and had heard this very voice before – to stop in their tracks entirely. He’d heard that tone already in court; he knew full well that she was dead serious for that very moment. Clearing her throat, the lawyer lowered her timbre to prevent damage to her precious vocal cords. “I apologize for my outburst, but please…keep your yelling down, especially here. I really should be going now, but would both of you be so kind as to behave?” To her peers, the shift in her words was abrupt, almost supernaturally so.
Akari made no effort to croak up a reply, but Allan responded with a hefty nod. “Yeah,” he said, “good idea. Wouldn’t want you roped into anything you’re not feelin’ like dealing with. I- We’ll be closing up shop now.” He glared at his coworker as he finished his words, then pivoted around to begin dismissal; Akari followed soon after, but not without a comment of her own: “Itsuka…kare o korosu…”
…
Right, then. No need to stand around, now. Quinn passively turned herself around, carrying her plate and cup towards the building’s exit. This evening was particularly warm for this time of year, even though the sun was clocking out early; since it was late, she could comfortably find herself a spot to settle in for a few minutes. If, of course, somebody didn’t get the same idea as her, that was…
…but why would that be?