Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Going headfirst into a retail job was quite possibly, one of the shittiest decisions you’ve ever made in your entire life, and the list of said shitty decisions had been depressingly long to start with.

Not that it had been much of a choice for you, of course.

The bills weren’t going to pay themselves and you had to support your impulsive spending habits somehow- and your education level didn’t exactly land you a job that the rest of society would have viewed as ‘respectable’. Not that any of it mattered in the grand scheme of things- cash was cash, after all.

You did sort of drive yourself into that corner back in your younger days, admittedly, when you thought it was nothing more than a cheap joke when the professors had told you that your performance in high school would literally determine the entirety of your future.

...In the end, it was a job all the same. It made ends meet and provided you with enough leeway to actually shop for yourself with such delightful frequency that you were, quite honestly, content. Sure, your lifestyle didn’t necessarily reflect the shallow opulence a baby boomer’s paradise, but you lived comfortably enough to where you could remain satisfied with the status quo.

Here's a fun bonus to living in the waking hazard that was the Refuge- the rent was dirt cheap almost everywhere you went. Prices did vary sector by sector, but it wasn't anything arbitrary- rather that prices were determined by the factor of how particularly dangerous it was to live in the relevant sector. Your complex specifically was desperate for tenants, since a good portion of the catwalks leading to it had just... collapsed. Since getting to and from the complex would have been a hassle to begin with (let's face it, nobody is going to be eager to spend 15 minutes waiting just to go up and down the elevator, EVERY SINGLE DAY just to get someplace,) you decided you may as well just take the offer.

Speaking of the catwalks, it... really was an awful shame that the last of them on your exact floor had just snapped off just yesterday and into the crimson depths below- hopefully not on top of some innocent sap who’d been walking below. Believe it or not, debris falling to the surface level at terminal velocity can, has, and most assuredly will kill someone.

Said skywalk was precisely the reason you had been running late for work today.

Had it not been for the unfortunate plunge of Ms. Chapp from Room 404 down the hall just last month, you’d have considered pole-vaulting your way across the gap and to the elevators if it meant shaving a few minutes of time off your hurried crusade to work. Now, you just stay away from the damn things like everyone else. It just wasn't safe.

The sounds of the wailing city had long-since grown deaf to your ears, every window and building booming forth in vibrant shades of red. You wove skillfully past every human, robot, and object-head that had littered the streets, politely ushering yourself between throngs of people and chirping the occasional apology if you bumped into someone- or something. Skid-proof shoes shuffled quietly against the cold pavement as you swiped a finger across the glass screen of your phone, checking for the time.

Christ. You’re supposed to be clocked in within the next 10 minutes.

Your frantic jog through the Refuge quickly malformed into a mad dash straight down the lamplight boulevard, breezing past the rows of phosphor lights and their dim glow, hovering in the air like wisps amidst the chill of the glimmering city. You hadn’t even noticed that quite a number of the posts had already been extinguished, the shadow beneath its dead weight darkened as though a foreboding nod towards the inevitable.

A familiar pressure began welling up in your chest, sharp pangs of pain pumping sharply through your lungs with each breath drawn. You mentally cursed your pitiful physical condition, gravely disappointed that even the looming threat of losing your damn job failed to circulate enough adrenaline through your veins to at least crawl your way to work.

Your breathing grew ragged, fingers brushing back the hair from your eyes. You’d have to fix it once you got there, the thought occurs, pace diminishing to a weakened jog as your eyes swiveled over to the wide opening on the righthand-side of the street, wedged just in between two buildings.

The alleyways.

You typically avoided that place. Hell, most people did. There was no business to be had there and God only knows the kind of shady folk who crawled around within those garbage-caked pathways. There could have been more squares, gangsters, goblins- rabid foxes!

...Well, you were probably exaggerating.

It stank like hell, mostly- though the real zinger was that someone’s undergarments would sometimes flutter off from the web of laundry lines overhead, flapping ominously down from the darkened skies and whapping right into your face. You learned the hard way that only SOMETIMES were those articles of clothing properly washed.

By force of habit, you check your phone a second time. 5 minutes left.

Fuck it.

Staying employed mattered a lot more to you than eternal withdrawal in your comfort zone. You swallowed your pride and veered swiftly over to the right.

You hear it just then- an abrupt shouting had rung through your ears just a second too late, body disobediently freezing in place before your mind has the chance to process the warning.

“W-Watch out!”

The shrill and familiar sound of smashing glass erupted just next to you, panic seized in your chest as you feel something warm and liquidy splatter across your uniform and seep its way through the fabric.

Oh, for crying out loud. This day couldn’t have possibly gotten off to a shittier start.

Your hand impatiently ran across the speckles of phosphor, fingers gliding above the neon-pink constellation that had now unwelcomingly bloomed across your crisp, white shirt. You shuddered beneath the February cold.

Well, this was fan-fucking-tastic.

Phosphor stains were not only notorious for being a colossal nuisance to remove from clothing, but this had been your one and only uniform top. You’d have to drop some cash to buy another, and now it was almost guaranteed you’d be reprimanded by your manager for coming into work like a complete slob.

“Oh shit,” a clumsy tenor breathed out, “I’-I'm sorry!”

A familiar lamplighter gazed over at you, wide-eyed and horrified with the aftermath of his carelessness. His eyes bore down steadily and unblinkingly at you, regarding you in a way one would when gawking at an animal they’d rammed to death with the bumper of their car.

He had been clutching onto the hooked pole for dear life so tightly that his knuckles had turned white, patiently waiting for punishment, scolding; anything. His cherry eyes darted apprehensively, as if an escape from his chagrin were scrawled somewhere on the pavement.

“I-I can pay to have that dry cleaned if you want,” he began nervously, an incohesive string of words tumbling forth from his mouth.

You trembled quietly in your spot, rationalization taking the wheel and steering you down the fact that this man was probably in a more unfavorable position than you were, given how quickly you were able to discern his scraggly attire. Staying mad wouldn't impact the hand you've been dealt with.

You knew who the lamplighter was. Almost everyone did, actually. He’s stopped by the diner before, though the most he’d ever order is an entire pot of coffee (which by the way, you’ve seen him take shots straight from the pot at 200 degrees, which was a downright impressive if not excruciatingly painful feat), and if he was having a particularly good day, an order of pancakes.

You exhaled deeply, nails stiffly digging into the ruined fabric of your shirt.

Somehow, you managed to keep calm. There was no time to even consider scolding him or calling into work to notify the staff that you’d be late. You needed to scram, and fast.

“It’s fine,” you said curtly, finally gazing up at him and the soft lavender of his hair. You hadn’t noticed how tall he was until you were standing this close to him.

“Don’t worry about it,” you cleared your throat, awkwardly averting your eyes.

The lamplighter doesn’t take his eyes off you for a single moment, watching every meticulous movement as if gauging for something. 

“I gotta go-” you squawked uneasily, pivoting on a heel to leave.

“Ah-” he choked, reaching a frantic hand over to grip your shoulder.

“Wait, please, uh… p-please don’t report this to the administration office,” he hastily retracted his hand, gulping. “I can take it out of my next paycheck, really! Just don’t tell them, I-I really can’t lose this job, and-”

He continued frantically and in that perpetual tone of frenzied assurance, giving you few ideas of just how much his employers must have been yanking his chain.

You held enough of both pity and respect alike not to throw him under the bus like that. It wasn’t as if you knew where the office was, anyways- not to mention that you had been a steadfast believer that all industry and retail workers should always stick together. Birds of a feather flock together! Or something like that. 

“I won’t.”

You urged with a strained smile, stepping backward to wedge a comfortable distance between you two. “I’m sorry, but I really need to get to work. I’m already late,” you dip your head low out of courtesy, spinning ahead into the alleyway. You could catch a vague, incoherent bark coming from the man behind you, but he'd long since melted into the roaring cityscape.

It wasn't like you'd never see him again. The city was a lot smaller on the inside, so the probability of crossing paths with him was frankly, very high.

You supposed the thought should have been comforting, really.

So why did it only serve to make you anxious?

-----☕-----

 You lithely turned the sharp corners and hurdled over the toppled trash cans with a display of athleticism only you could consider applaudable, nearly tottering over a dismembered robot arm in the process of it all.

Who the hell was leaving robot gore all over the place? You didn’t have time for this. The manager wasn’t going to buy the “Sorry boss, just I tripped and twisted my ankle when I ran over a decapitated head,” when you show up out of breath for work. You've tried that before.

Then again, it was possible he shook it off as an implausible excuse because you had failed to specify it was a robot head. You were both surprised and mildly concerned that he chose not to press further and ask questions. Boss was an ornery person.

You suppressed the urge to check your phone for the time- the situation was thoroughly unsalvageable. Resigning yourself to the inevitable fate of a late time-punch, you barreled down the avenue of various street vendors and gave a friendly wave to each one, the pace gradually slowing into a fatigued gait as you nudged the diner doors open.

“Oh, hey-” a coworker spoke up, smiling lazily up at you from behind the counter. Their eyes lingered upon the pastel mess smeared on your shirt, trying to inquire with their eyes. There's no time to properly explain.

You ran a quick scan of the lobby, counting out the number of customers in your head- which ones had already been served and which still hungrily browsed the menus. There were about 3 rushes that wracked the establishment each day, and your shift began just after the first two had ended. It was a Thursday, no curveball would have been overwhelming enough to make the day stressful.

Perfect.

“I’m borrowing your apron,” you ordered with conviction, quickly tapping in your employee code into the monitor before pushing past the double doors.

Styling your hair in the back office, you tied the apron securely onto you and looped the string around your waist, double-checking your reflection in the mirror. At least hereditary luck had generously bequeathed to you a doll face, that was half of the reason the customers rarely lost their patience with you. The other factor was because you knew how to maintain your sickly-sweet facade with deadly precision- a cute smile and lilting voice went far in assuaging the customers, and netted you killer tips on top of that. It was all about how you presented yourself- something you had picked up awful quickly in the retail world.

It was as they say- fake it 'till you make it.

Feeling dauntless enough to take on the day (such as it was, lack of sunlight and all), you strode out onto the lobby and tucked a handful of menus beneath your arm, and began the act all over again.

You wondered if the lamplighter will stop by.

...You supposed you should prepare the coffee, just in case.

Chapter Text

Work had been unexpectedly busy that evening for the Red Velvet Diner.

Well, what should have classified as the evening. The wall clock indeed read 9:17 PM in bright neon pink, but the lack of sunlight had only made the act of telling time a complete chore to accomplish. Even with an internal clock, a good portion of people wound up rising at ungodly hours. Wake up, it’s 3:24 AM! Have fun trying to tell the time of day with no sun, loser.

With time, however, you adjusted accordingly without any strenuous effort on your part. It became a little easier each day to go through the daily motions, though nothing could change that one unutterable fact that life was just... so much bleaker since the sun had gone out.

Stressful as it was at times, dinner rushes and high customer volumes always pushed you into a peculiar sort of trance that one way or another, enhanced the manner in which you carried out your duties. You've dealt with worse- this was child's play in comparison to mid-season holiday shopping break rushes or, far worse- kids on summer vacation. Inhaling deeply, you whirled into the kitchen and glossed over the rows of orders, suspended amidst the steam-caked air like overhead fairy lights.

Half a year of practice had sharpened your dexterity to a knife’s edge, and so you expertly maneuvered about the diner with an entire tray of dinner entrees and side-dishes balanced perfectly in both hands. It was difficult to believe there was a time where you couldn’t even leave the kitchen without breaking a platter’s worth of water glasses onto the floor, but those days were long behind you.

Smaaaaash!!!

...Not for the new girl, though.

After courteously serving the last table the remainder of their order, you fast-walked over to the back of the kitchen, you spot the aforementioned new girl hunched over the many shards of broken glass and spilled water, utterly crestfallen at the mess she'd made.

“Jay?” you started, baffled. “What are you doing?”

What little of the staff that actually showed up had been occupied, opting to prioritize customer management rather than help her. It's technically what was written in the handbook, but... still.

Your parental instincts shifted into maximum overdrive at the sorry sight.

“I-I was getting water for the family in table B12,” Jay sniffed, wiping her hands clean with her skirt apron. You quirked an eyebrow, throwing the seating screen a glance. You can't recall seating a family there, and you had been micromanaging several tasks because some of the crew members had conveniently called out.

Luck was just not on your side, today.

“There’s no family in B12,” you answered with reluctance, reaching for a nearby broom, “Just one of the factory scientists. Please don’t try cleaning that, you might cut yourself.” The order came out as more of a friendly suggestion, but you hoped she’d get the message if you just started sweeping around her.

Jay had been hired last week, and was the first of the Glenfolk the establishment has ever had as part of the staff. She was bubblegum-sweet and her cheerfulness was so radiant that even the sun would burn itself out in the attempt to outshine her. Suffice to say, she quickly topped the ranks as the new crew favorite with her endearing personality on its own. The only real flaw with hiring her was that she wasn't capable of reading or writing. At all.

This was apparently a common thing in the Glen, the illiteracy.

The Refuge didn't exactly have an elaborate agenda to push education and refinement outside of the walls, since most of the upper-crust executives didn't perceive Glenfolk as a worthy investment. You’d heard on the news about the oncoming surge of seawater that had begun swamping the Glen, pushing the poor folks further and further inland. They’ve lost an incredible amount of farmland to the sea, causing migration to the Refuge to skyrocket- all in hopes of them finding new opportunities and a chance to escape from... basically, drowning. Experts on the news speculated that in less than a decade, the entirety of the Glen would be submerged underwater, reclaimed by a greedy ocean.

While the inability to read or write in the common language threw a wrench in the plans of most businesses, quite a few industries made the feeble attempt of proving how anti-racist they were by being more inclusive. So long as Jay could wait tables and memorize orders, nobody saw a problem.

“You shouldn’t be serving tables already this early into your training,” you sighed, not even remotely surprised that the other employees had been careless enough to allow for the girl to accidentally break protocols. “You’re just the busgirl for now. I’m supposed to help teach you how to manage order-taking next week; who’s seating the customers?”

“The serverbot, I think… It got busy, s-so I panicked and asked him to help me,” Jay frowned, rising up off the floor and dabbing off the water that had splashed onto her skirt.

You were more surprised the serverbots were already programmed to obey such a new member of the staff. They disregarded your orders for an entire month and a half before your ID was properly programmed into their memory bank. Thanks, guys.

You reassured her to the best of your abilities, then gently instructed her to return behind the counter and command the robot to wait the tables. Jay quietly nodded in comprehension, ocean-blue plumage bouncing as she hop-stepped back to her original post. It was in everyone's best interest that you kept her station far enough where she won't cause any (probable) damage.

Now, you just had to get this mess cleaned up.

-----☕-----

It was well past midnight when the dinner rush had finally trickled to a placated stop.

You were covering Jay for her 40-minute break; God knows the poor girl deserved it. It wasn’t as though the stress of it all hadn’t weighed on your nerves, either- and you felt daft to even consider that today might have been an easygoing day.

Still, you handled it like a champ. It was very unlike you to let it all get to your head- one of your many charms was that you could always maintain your cool, even when situations escalated to terrifying heights.

If anyone had taken note of the unceremonious pink slather on your uniform, nobody had filed a complaint. The apron had covered most of it up, so only the acutely perceptive or nitpicky would have really been able to notice.

Scrutinizing the room for any customers, you dove over to the booth in the farthest corner of the restaurant when you were positive the coast was clear. One of the first things you learned in your time here, aside from the obvious server tasks, were all of the camera angles and their corresponding blind spots. You knew what you could get away with, and where to stay tucked away in the perfect spot to remain unseen. The only prominent issue with that was that other people on shift would notice after some time that you’d eventually gone missing. Funnily enough, being under the radar made you more of a suspect.

You curled up against the seat, leaning your head down against the table tiredly and in hopes that you might be able to settle for a quick nap. The tabletop was pleasantly cool against your forehead, taut muscles slowly uncoiling from the stress of the previous rush as you began to space out.

The shift was about halfway over. There was a noticeable decline in customers once you hit that point, so the only real foe left on the battlefield now was sleepiness, and that was a war you had often lost.

Tucking your knees in, you began to absently swipe across the phone screen, inspecting the various apps and games that you hadn’t checked up on since earlier that afternoon. Curse your coworkers for getting you into Fate Band Order.

You’d been so absorbed in that singular, mindless task that you hadn’t heard the doors open. All of the serverbots had already retreated to the back office until another influx of customers was detected, so the task of seating and taking orders was entirely your responsibility.

You didn’t know how long he’d just been standing there.

It was there in front of the counter where the lamplighter stood, shoulders hunched, sunken eyes brooding over the emptiness of the restaurant.

...Had he always looked like that?

You swung your legs from off the seat, sliding out and hustling over behind the podium. He flinched in the corner of your vision as you approached, right as you drew out a laminated menu from the compartment. Eye contact was attempted to be made as per the customer courtesy regulations, but he was particularly adamant about keeping his gaze away.

“Good evening, and welcome to the Red Velvet Diner,” you began with a well-rehearsed chime. “Table for one?”

You suspected the answer, but making assumptions was one of the worst possible things you could do in a retail job. Besides, you never really know what’s going to happen. Maybe he could have a date coming sometime soon- it’s not like you knew a damn thing about his personal life.

“Er… yeah,” he nodded densely, trailing wordlessly behind you as he soon found himself herded into a booth. You could spot his seat easily from behind the front counter and through the kitchen doors alike, so maintaining a close watch on him wouldn’t have been too challenging. Keeping customers clustered in a single area made it easier to multitask, after all.

“Anything to start with?”

“Just… coffee, please.” He struggled a bit with his words.

You toyed with the idea of asking him if he wanted the entire pot, but you had touched upon a strange sort of boundary with the lamplighter earlier this evening. Even the relationship between customer and employee became sort of muddled with the suffocating awkwardness the two of you had generated around each other.

“I’ll brew a fresh pot right away,” You insisted warmly, sauntering off into the kitchen where the platoon of unused coffee machines awaited.

You went about the usual procedure, dumping the grounds manually into the filter before you strolled back out onto the main floor, wiping down a few tables and pretending to make yourself seem at least somewhat useful beneath the observant eye of the camera.

Every minute or so you checked up on the lamplighter, glancing over in his direction in the case that he needed something else. You caught him hurriedly tearing his gaze away every time, however, as if he wanted something from you but lacked the conviction to ask. The situation grew increasingly uncomfortable on your end, scrunching up beneath the weight of his curious gaze. He was staring so ardently into the table that you half-expected it to just burst into flames, and you wondered if the boredom was really that agonizing.

Meandering back over to the counter, you plucked an old, dusty TV remote from the lower cabinet and pressed the power button. The wide-screen mounted against the rightmost corner flickered softly to life, displaying with time the headline of “BREAKING NEWS: Squares Take out Main Phone Towers in Sector 4,” further highlighting the succulent mood of the diner.

...Wait, what?

You fished for the phone in your pocket, tapping rhythmically against the screen before you saw it. Or rather, you saw a distinct lack of a certain phone icon.

There was no service.

Seriously? You'd just been messing around on your phone earlier and everything was in perfect working order. Had this happened literally in the past few minutes?

It wasn’t as if you were expecting any important calls, but this opted you out of a lot of useful things right off the bat.

The worst part was, you doubted any of this was going to be repaired soon at all. Those damn geometric douchebags had been tearing the city apart for years now, and the Refuge had begun to deteriorate more rapidly once the sun had extinguished. They’d been breaking off pieces of the city at such a devastating rate that nobody could keep up with the reconstructions. Even the scientists down at the plant had abandoned hope of stitching the place back together in favor of preserving the few key components that kept the Refuge alive.

The phone tower was one of them- and that was another asset lost that you weren’t certain you’d get back soon; if it all.

That lingering thought was doing a little more than simply dampening your spirits, but you were never one to wallow for too long. It was better not to think about it. The coffee had been ready for a few minutes now, anyways- whether you liked it or not, you still had a job to do. You whisk away the full pot and snatched one of the biggest mugs you had stocked in the diner, making your way back over to the table where the man had now been slumped over in his seat, appearing a few notches mortified than he'd previously been.

And you thought you were having a lousy evening.

You gingerly poured the coffee into the massive mug, noting with some amusement the way his eyes remained so firmly transfixed as you did so. They were reminiscent of a cat’s eyes, glimmering with a hopeful sort of curiosity that struck you dumb.

You somewhat spilled the coffee as a result.

“Oh,” you gulped, setting the entire pot down onto the table and whipping the rag from your back pocket, sloppily wiping down the mess. “I’m sorry about that,” you stammered apologetically, too scared to look at him for a reaction.

“No stress,” he dismissed it almost consolingly.

“I’ll just… leave the pot here for you. I made too much, so…” you trailed off, unable to pry your eyes away from the broken sight of the man.

You supposed you’d never once really gotten a good look at the lamplighter before, aside from the diluted shades of violet that swept across the field of your vision when you’d briefly crossed paths with him on the busy streets.

He was an unshaven man, the bulk of his scruffy, unkempt hair veiled by the patchwork cap nestled atop his head. His coat had been tattered in various places, hanging loosely from his shoulders in a fashion that had befitted him uniquely, almost as though it had been tailor-made specifically for him. You could readily recognize just how thin he was beneath all of that fabric, however; a bag of bones barely scraping by enough nutrients to drag himself out into the world. He looked so... so old, so tired.

Funny thing was, there was no possible way he was that much older than you were. Maybe a year or two at most, but the morbid exhaustion he wore had masqueraded this fact. He was very young, that much you could tell. The two of you were definitely within the same age group.

What had struck you the hardest, however, were those eyes of his.

Such tired eyes, red like rubies- it’s cherry shine diminished by some unseen weight that made itself apparent in every move he made. It was as though he’d been tarnished so despairingly, plagued by some deep-set enervation that had drained every drop of life from his weary frame.

To shrug it off that he was simply “tired” would have been a disrespectful understatement. While it was not your place to discern just what the issue was, you felt obligated to offer a solution to the problem, whatever it may have been.

There goes that irksome instinct of yours, again. Always trying to dote over every damn thing that crossed paths with you.

He had been staring emptily out the window this entire time, but his eyes swiveled back over to you and the prolonged silence that had been beating you senselessly over the head.

Shit shit shit. Say something, genius.

“Are you ready to order?” you forced out, a strained smile curving onto your lips.

The lilac-haired man stared back at the table, contemplating something with an expression that could only be best describe as pained.

“I don’t have enough on me, right now. So it’s… fine.”

You weren’t sure if you’d just been imagining it, but something about his voice had changed within the past few minutes since you’d last spoken with him.

Concern slammed into you. Maybe you could get away with sliding some toast his way- something small so the management wouldn’t notice when they counted the inventory.

“I can grab you some dinner bread, maybe garlic or sourdough if you want,” you suggested helpfully, gauging him for a reaction.

The lamplighter freezed, clearly doubting the authenticity of your offer.

“Don’t you have to charge for that?” he inquired, looking very wary with the exchange.

“I’m allowed to make exceptions.”

“...Really?” he pressed again.

“Mhm,” you paused, glancing about the room. "But will you snitch on me if I do?” you hummed, the corners of your mouth curled into a teasing grin.

He shook his head vigorously, expression brightening a considerable notch.

“Then we’re fine!” You smiled triumphantly, turning on a heel back into the kitchen. “It’ll be right out, okay?”

“Thank you-” you heard the man call out in desperate gratitude, right as you start up the toaster. Maybe two of each will do, you could get away with at least that much. Maybe discount the coffee, too, but you’d definitely raise questions if you didn’t charge him a thing. Damn.

While waiting for the toaster to warm, you could hear Jay’s petite footsteps echo closer and closer.

“Hey,” you beckoned the avian over as she pranced out from the break room. “Can you do me a favor?” Jay nodded, the lone feather atop her head flouncing.

“When this bread is done, can you bring it over to that man? He shouldn’t ask for anything more, probably, but just call one of the bots for assistance if he does,” you instructed, checking your phone for the time. “Sorry about this,” you exhaled, “But I’m 2 hours behind on my 40-minute break. My feet are killing me.”

“Oh, totally,” she chirped merrily, “I’m sure I can’t drop it if it’s just bread, after all!”

Did… that actually correlate with anything, at all? You’ll never understand bird science.

“You know the drill, Jay. Just holler if it picks up, and I’ll go back out to help.”

“Will do!”

You were grateful you had just left the pot with the lamplighter; imagine the horror if she tried to pour it herself and she’d tripped, drenching the poor man in hot coffee. Those would at least be 2nd-degree burns, since the regulations here were a little shitty regarding coffee-burn lethalities.

Marching out into the shabby old break room in the back, you seated yourself against one of the folding chairs and resumed fiddling with your phone apps- wait.

You didn’t have any service.

God. Fucking. Dammit.

Chapter Text

“H-Hey! Please, wake up!”

Plush feathers brushed lightly against your skin when your heavy eyelids finally fluttered open, a marine-blue silhouette cast overhead.

“...Jay?” you mumbled, sluggishly lifting your head from out of the makeshift pillow you’ve made with your crossed arms.

Oh, shit. You’d just completely passed out on your break.

The metal chair clattered noisily as you scrabbled back up to your feet, the drowsiness beginning to clear away from your muddled thoughts as you got a proper hold of your bearings.

“How long was I out?” you managed a groan, hopelessly blinking away the sleepiness.

“Um… about an hour, I think. I wasn’t going to bother you until after you came back, but you never did, so I…” the waitress trailed off, peering apprehensively around the room.

“I’m 20 minutes late for punching back in?” you interrupted with a start, scampering out the room with a flustered Jay tottering behind in close proximity.

“W-Wait, please! I need your help with something,” Jay chirped tensely, feet pattering daintily behind you. “It’s about that man you told me to deliver the toast to,” she began, and almost immediately after that sentence, you began processing through the potential list of god-awful things that could have transpired in your absence.

“What happened?” You tested, a little fearful of the answer.

“I think there’s… well,” the birdkin was having an apparent struggle to formulate her words, fidgeting with the embroidered lace of her apron. “I guess you should probably see for yourself.”

That didn’t sound like it bode well. At all.

The two of you traipsed back into the dining room, the idyllic tranquility of the empty diner ever-present, that was, until your eyes cast themselves over to the booth where the lamplighter had been seated. Any previous qualms you had against him regarding eating-and-running were quickly put to rest, but you weren’t quite sure if that was the preferred alternative to this.

You could almost immediately tell something was off judging purely by the way that he was positioned. While indiscernible at a first or a passing glance, a few solid seconds of staring had finally alerted you just how bad this situation was.

The man’s shoulders were slumped with his arms limp at his sides, yet his body had been seemingly propped upright in his seat. His head was tilted slightly to the front, giving him the appearance that he’d been dozing off. While the angle of his sunken head was not jarring as you’d expect from someone who looked as though they’ve passed out, it still felt… unnatural. Like a marionette with its strings cut.

You shot Jay a very boggled, intimidated look. She nodded pitifully.

“We didn’t clean the coffee pots with bleach again, did we? I swear, if we just poisoned this guy,” you swore, throwing the coffee pot platoon an accusatory look as if that'd solve anything.

You weren’t sure the restaurant could handle another lawsuit. Ever since the iced caramel mocha incident of 22XX, the Red Velvet Diner had earned some notoriety for clumsy servers and their inattentiveness in watching exactly WHAT they pour into their drinks. The main reason you were hired was that nobody else wanted to apply for a position- and they'd just laid off the dumb sucker who'd done it.

Regardless, there was only one real way to find out just what the issue was.

You ambled on over to the still frame of the lamplighter, wordlessly analyzing the situation that had been sprawled unpleasantly before you. Only crumbs had remained atop the plate where the toast had once nestled, while both the mug and coffee pot both had been completely emptied.

His head dangled low as if ducked, the faint sounds of his steady breathing alerting to you that thankfully, life still flowed freely through his veins. So he wasn’t dead; that was definitely a good start.

While that was an incredible weight off your shoulders, there was still the current matter at hand to deal with- getting him up and the hell out of here. While the diner was open 24 hours, yes, any present individual who has not or possesses no intent of ordering was considered loitering and therefore, needed to be removed from the premise. As the most experienced server in the entirety of the establishment at the given moment, it was completely up to you to deal with the situation accordingly. Whether you liked it or not, you had the wake the poor guy up and get him to go home.

Simply put, you needed to kick him the fuck out.

“Excuse me, sir,” you began, approaching cautiously as though you expected him to lunge at you.

No response.

You placed a tentative knee onto the seat, occupying the space beside him as you gently placed a hand on the lamplighter’s shoulder, proceeding to shake him lightly.

“Sir,” you attempted a second time, a sharp undercurrent of steel laced within your tone. Again, he was devoid of a response.

You took a quick whiff of the air around, suspecting he was a potential alcoholic and simply had a little too much to drink. Given the gloominess in his walk and the lethargic fashion in which he shambled about from place to place, that wouldn’t have honestly surprised you. You’ve seen the after-effects and what it’s done to people, and guiltily considered the idea. The odor that wafted its way up to your nose, alternatively, was unpleasantly musty and tinged with the unmistakable stench of metal and aged phosphor.

You narrowly suppressed a violent cough.

He didn’t reek of alcohol (surprisingly, given how physically and emotionally taxing this profession must have been on him), so you supposed it was safe to cross that one off the list.

Leaving him here wasn’t a probable solution, unfortunately. He needed to wake up one way or another and be out the door before the opening shift comes in- or else the manager was going to have your head.

The lamplighter responded feebly to one of your nudging sessions as you tried to rouse him from his coma, his crimson orbs peeking out hollowly through the thin slits between his eyelids. He stirred only somewhat from his unconscious state, but made no further indication that he planned to arise.

“Are you alright, sir?” you inquired, eyes ablaze with the hope that you might actually be making progress.

“Ngh,” he gurgled flimsily, tilting his head upwards to try and discern whatever had just torn him gracelessly from his dreamland.

Vermilion eyes locked with yours, lucid and unthinking.

“You passed out earlier,” you began nervously with a clear of the throat, linking your hands together and avoiding further eye contact. “Do you have any relatives that live nearby? I can try get ahold of them so they can pick you up-”

The sharp deflection of the realization cuts you short, the idea withering rapidly before you even finish.

The towers are out. There was no service.

You pluck the cellphone from the pocket of the apron, sheepishly investigating if it was possible that maaaaaybe a backup signal had been raised in the short time between the news flash and the unscheduled naptime. The chances were impossibly small, and you weren’t even sure that was how cell phone service worked. Probably not- but it never hurt to check.

...Nothing had changed, unsurprisingly. Goodie.

Reverting your sights back to the lamplighter, however, you found he’d just passed out yet again in his spot. The worker had been splayed inelegantly in his seat, his hat capsized beside the seating to reveal the soft, tousled magenta of his hair. As disorderly as he appeared in that given moment, it was almost...

Well, you'd dare say it was almost charming.

You know, in that irrevocably awkward, baffling sort of way. Yeah, that made fucking sense.

...Lamentably, this only further spelled trouble for you.

You shyly shook him awake again, your distress growing thicker the longer this procedure took. “Please, sir. Where do you live, I can hail a cab-” you glanced helplessly over to Jay who’d been standing rigidly in place, gawkily surveying the entire spectacle as though it were a comedy skit. Interpreting the frustrated motions you made nudging towards the door, she hurriedly scuttled out the diner and onto the streets, presumably to find a cab if she’d been even remotely tuned in.

The lamplighter sinks further down into his seat at such a rate that you had to physically hold him up to restrain him, otherwise, he risked sliding onto the floor completely.

Things were getting more awkward by the minute. You bet the morning shift managers were going to review the security tapes the following day and laugh their pudgy little asses of about how you had to deal with this- great.

Thoroughly exasperated with the conundrum you’d been forced into, you slink into the adjacent spot beside the lamplighter and keep him propped upright with a shoulder, doing your honest best to ignore the smell he exuded. God knows when was the last time he showered, but you couldn't find it in yourself to hold it against him.

If the guy didn’t even have time to sleep, it was unlikely he had time to do anything else, too. To be deprived of such a basic human need was disgustingly cruel- you had half a mind to report this to the unions were it not for the fact that you may have been indirectly placing the lamplighter at possible risk with their employers. You didn’t really want to be held accountable for any probable repercussions, so the plug on that idea was pulled prematurely.

Still, this entire ordeal was incredibly troubling to dwell upon. You’ve gathered enough clues from this one run-in alone to discern that the primary issue was far more than just advanced tiredness or a direct aftermath of sleep deprivation, but you couldn’t quite put your finger on it. Couple that with the implications of malnourishment, you had a recipe for disaster.

How the hell were you even going to do this?

Relax; think. You needed to think.

Waking him up continuously in the hopes of keeping him conscious was not the proper way to go about this- that much was true. It’d have been a fruitless effort given the drastic extent of his exhaustion, and you were a little too timid to persevere such a direct and unhelpful plan of action. You judged his approximate weight based on how he leaned against your shoulder, warily prodding him with an elbow.

...Damn, he wasn’t nearly as heavy as he looked.

You surmised you could actually prop him up with a single arm if needed, though you didn’t quite like the picture this painted in your head. So he was both dead tired and perceivably lighter than a man of his age and appearance should have accordingly been. Something akin to pity bubbled in the pit of your stomach.

Jay poked her head from behind the door of the diner, waving eagerly over to you with her feathers ruffling mutedly beneath the fluorescent glow of the overhead lights. “I got the cab for you,” she chimed melodiously, boasting an excited grin. As much as you loved her smile, she’d been a bit too mirthful than the situation had suitably warranted.

...The fare. You were going to have to pay the fare.

You rummage around the contents of your apron, fingers brushing past the cold condiment packets and towards the buried wad of bills from the day’s tips. You’d been in too much of a rush to grab your wallet earlier today, and this ditzy mishap was just now coming back to bite you in the ass. You hurriedly count out the bills and silently perform the mental math in your head- struck by the disheartening realization that you didn’t have enough to make it to the closest police station or the municipal hospital. Each was well over 20 miles away, and you weren’t capable of squeezing an answer out of the lamplighter to know where would have been the optimal location for him to be dropped off. While the drive would be short, walking to either of the two spots would take hours. Like hell you were going to bother with that.

This potentially left you stranded with two options- neither of which were agreeable.

The first option was the more callous of the two- you could always just leave him here to be someone else’s problem. The opening servers would have no choice but to expel him back onto the streets, but this choice would not be without consequence, regrettably. Your shift wouldn’t end for another two and a half hours- so the cameras would plainly see that you’d just left him there unattended. That’s not something the management would let you get away with, and the severity of the fallout wasn’t necessarily something you wanted to deal with.

The second option, which you dreaded substantially more than the other- was letting him crash at your place for the night.

Now, see. There were a near-infinite number of things that could go horribly, horribly wrong with this idea from the get-go, not to mention how morally wrong it could have been interpreted by others. You’ve watched far too many crime shows and psychological horrors not to predict that a gory or otherwise unsavory fate may befall you if you chose to do this. What if it turned out the lamplighter was a serial killer? While you suppose that would benefit the Refuge and its overpopulation issue, you still didn’t exactly want to… y'know, DIE PAINFULLY.

Keyword- painfully. If you were going to boldly face the sweet embrace of death, you’d rather it end in the blink of an eye like the age-old prophets of the Glen had predicted.

Morbidly enough, they were all dead now. Kicking the bucket before facing the prophecy they foretold- wasn't that unfair?

The alternative, however (which you didn’t consider a viable option because let’s face it, you didn't have the backbone to be heartless), was just leaving him out on the streets to sleep on the sidewalk. He didn’t have anything worth mugging by the looks of it, but you couldn’t make such a merciless choice without it beating down on your conscience.

...Were you seriously going to do this?

An irritated sigh fluttered forth from your lips as you hoist the lamplighter up and off the booth, throwing his arm above your shoulder as you began the expedition out the diner, his feet dragging across the matted rug. At least you couldn’t be penalized too severely, given the circumstances. A few honeyed words to the manager would probably cushion the damage to your position’s legitimacy, but that was more of the blind arrogance reassuring you. You weren't sure how far that'll even go. Up and leaving in the middle of the shift and leaving it up to the new girl- that was criminally irresponsible.

...It’d just be this once. And never again.

You were largely certain that those were someone’s famous last words.

"I'm sorry, Jay-" the words struggled on your lips, though the avian girl only shakes her head with confidence.

"Don't be! Boss told me it never gets too bad around this time, and you taught me how to use the bots properly! I can handle this just fine while you..." she threw Plight a strange look, then, "...while you deal with that. I know you'd have done the same for me."

She wasn't wrong; an inherent aspect of you was simply to look after other people. You always did wonder where you got that from.

Resigning yourself to that reckless excuse of a battle plan, Jay tip-taps nearby and opens the cab door open for the two of you as you more or less, uncouthly stuff the lamplighter into a seat and strap him in. You gave your darling co-worker one last waning smile before retreating into the cab, already planning out the millions of ways this could backfire on you.

“Still out cold,” you mutter to yourself, re-counting the roll of bills just as a precautionary measure out of the paranoia that you may have miscounted. You’d made enough tips from the day to cover a one-way trip back to the complex, but nowhere else was unfortunately within proper reach. Well, nowhere beneficial to your plight. You'd have offered to run back to the diner if it wasn't so fucking cold out. You were surprised that all of the taxis hadn't switched their lights off, yet.

You also really weren’t sure if you should go through with this at all. You didn’t know a damn thing about this man whatsoever- this wasn’t just some fucking fantasy RPG where you brought strangers into your home and suddenly force them to embark on some juvenile quest. He could actually hurt you; or even worse because of your naivete.

You supposed you could just… hide that lamp pole in the closet or somewhere out of reach so he couldn’t just bash you or take an eye out with it. Given his blatant lack of energy, you suspected it wouldn’t really take a monstrous effort to overpower him if he tried attacking you or… something. Were lamplighter attacks even a thing?

“Alright,” the cab driver started smugly, an indiscernible accent was interwoven within his speech. “Where are you two sweethearts headed?”

It just now occurred to you how dubious the spectacle must appear to a third party, a nervous sweat crawling its way down your skin.

“Sector 8, Carnelian Avenue,” you responded promptly, albeit with a tremulous tone, praying to whatever sick God watching that this driver wasn’t particularly conversational. You weren’t in the mood to answer a barrage of questions you didn’t have half of the answers to, and exiting a stressful work shift didn’t exactly leave you in the best of spirits.

You sunk a little in your seat, secluding yourself into a self-contained universe away from the riotous affairs of the Refuge, all colors of the city pulsing in that never-ending shade of neon pink. The city quietly flew by past the tinted window, its restless concerto drowned out by the radio noise that had emanated from the front seat. The flashing neon signs and luminous posters all bleared together in an unsavory blend of crimson so maddening that you couldn’t stare at it for more than a few seconds. You kept your eyes on the back of the passenger's seat without a word.

Your eyelids gradually ease themselves closed, the gentle rocking of the automobile lulling you further and further into the sweet whisper of sleep. It'd have been a bad idea to conk out here, and it was comforting to know that you had the next day off from work to oversleep, certainly- but that might not have been a fantastic course of action with a fucking stranger in your house.

...Maybe you were just tired, too.

Chapter Text

The cab careened smoothly down the residential area where the complex lied, coming to a gentle halt along the curb with just enough momentum to snap you awake from your peaceful half-slumber. Lugging yourself out the door had felt like a monstrous feat in itself to accomplish, and it was quite the motivation-killer knowing that you had an entire person that required assistance just to get out.

Suffice to say, it was far too late to lament your choices now. You already resigned yourself to this, so the only option left that'd keep your pride intact was to see things through to the end.

The ride had lasted a rough 25 minutes, thanks to a bit of an irksome traffic jam that hadn’t been anticipated by the driver. The collapsed phone tower had predictably, been causing widespread havoc throughout the Refuge, since none of the denizens could get a proper hold of anyone. The arrant bedlam that would ensue from the panic sent shivers down your spine- you could have requested the police to pick up the lamplighter to spare you the hassle if that mishap had never befallen the city.

Sure, there weren’t any riots out on the streets and it wasn’t the total anarchic collapse of society, but it sucked a ton. You deduced things were good enough without molotovs being thrown from balconies.

Either way, you paid the full fare and gave the driver what was left of your tips as thanks for hauling two losers down several blocks of the city, thankful that your memory had reminded you to request that he drop you off at the alternate elevator, the one closest to your apartment instead of next closest one, which was... roughly 3 blocks away. You didn’t want to imagine the brutal walk to the alternate elevator entrance had you forgotten. The trip was something you could easily handle alone, but definitely not with a grown man weighing down your back.

You lumbered on over to the elevator with some difficulty, mashing the button impatiently as your foot tapped an erratic rhythm against the ground. The unconscious lamplighter snored lightly in your ear, your free hand keeping him as steady as humanly possible as he risked toppling over without physical support sustaining him.

That damn elevator needed to come faster. You couldn't risk people seeing you in public this.

...Not that you had a reputation to uphold or anything.

It was suspicious from the get-go to just haul around another person out in the open like this, and you knew without a doubt that there a few robots who lived close by that would report you without hesitation for bizarre activity. Damn snitches.

While that was probably the sole purpose of the home security bots in the first place, they still managed to file constant complaints about the noise from your apartment. It wasn’t as if blasting hip-hop was a crime- despite some of the more juvenile lyrics that ensued from your favorites. Still, you had to comply or else an eviction notice was a very probable threat.

The door finally pinged upon arrival of the ground level, the same old elevator chime pouring into earshot and submerging your rapid-firing thoughts with its grating melody. They really needed to change this jingle. It was charming the first few weeks you moved in, but now it just grinds down on your nerves. Maybe you could start a petition or something.

Nobody had been inside- perfect. The “47” button lit vibrantly as you bapped it forcefully, bottom lip raw from the subconscious amount of nervous chewing. So far, so good. The stress of the situation had made the entire process seem more gruesome to bear than it had really been- that tends to happen when one overreacts.

It was fine. It’s okay. You were almost home. There was just the last set of skywalks to traverse, and you were otherwise golden.

Signs of recent construction had become more apparent around the vicinity, the demolished catwalk near-fully restored to it’s previous, brittle majesty. Perhaps with a smooth and conductive workday, your typical route to work would soon be repaired and no more hassling detours would be necessary. Hopefully the squares didn’t just rip it to shreds again- it takes less than a minute for them to deconstruct literally anything they touched, and usually, the damage had to be “squared” away with before any repairs could take place.

...You winced at your own pun and hurried along to the western wing.

While the estimated time was roughly two in the morning, the time of day had forfeited its purpose when their world had been devoid of the sun’s coveted radiance. Someone was still likely to be around doing something-or-other, and it was going to be tricky to pass it off as “yeah, we’re kinda just chillin’-” when almost everyone on your floor knew how much of a loner you were.

...Less internal monologue, more sneaking. You trot as quietly down the hall as circumstances permitted, over to the third door on the right-hand side. You could hear the girl from two doors down practicing her trumpet, at TWO-FUCKING-THIRTY IN THE MORNING. Fiddling too long with the keys could spell catastrophe, but you manage to insert it on the first try despite the strain of another person boring down against you.

How the hell was this bastard still asleep?

The door of the apartment clicked open, hinges creaking in agony from the frenzied urgency of your kick. You checked to see if the commotion had stirred the lamplighter, and nudged the door shut once you confirmed the answer was negative. There was a jolting hesitation as you reached for the lock, awash with the unshakable sensation of anxiety.

This felt… sleazy, almost. Regardless of the good intentions behind this whole scheme, you were tremendously skeptical of the outcome.

...What if he chose to press charges for this?

Shit.

You needed to dump him somewhere. The floor would be sufficient in theory, yes, but that was… a little too crass of a solution, even with the potential paranoia of the lamplighter’s reaction to this whole thing. You wouldn’t win any favors with the court by treating him that way, either. That and, you risked tripping over him with the limited space occupied both by you and the numerous scattered objects that you originally planned to have cleaned up months ago. There were even a few boxes lying around that you never got around to unpacking. It'd happen. You know, eventually.

The couch would have been ideal- were it not located smack in the middle of the miserably-small excuse of a living room, and more importantly; closest to the door. If he arose before you, he might plunder the room for what shabby amounts of valuables you owned and just bail. Getting your shit stolen wasn’t exactly on your to-do list.

The final option, appallingly, was your bedroom.

You shuddered at the mere concept, repulsed by the idea and how it had been, funnily enough, the next optimal solution. Your apartment contained one bedroom and one bathroom, considered the standard around these parts. No more than a single person was expected to dwell in the upper floors, since most families occupied the lower residential areas closest to the surface. It was enforced quite meticulously due to safety regulations, which you didn't think some of these people still bothered to adhere to. Some things never ceased to amaze you.

The bedroom door creaked to hell and back, and you weren’t deep enough of a sleeper to let something like that slip past you if he did try to sneak out. If you kept a weapon within arms reach and hunkered down on the couch, things just might go smoothly.

As smoothly as broken glass, that is.

You tried to speculate this all from a self-preserving standpoint. While getting ransacked wasn’t something you’d really appreciate, you’d rather that be the alternative to being murdered.

It was good enough, you supposed.

You trudged over to the only bedroom in the apartment, half-tempted to use the lamplighter’s weight to push the door open. You settled for bumping it open with your hips.

For a moment, you expected for him to at least stir from the sound of the door groaning at the impact. Were it not for the occasional snores he emitted, you’d think he was actually dead.

“Good night, sweet prince,” you narrated melodramatically to the emptiness as you lay the poor soul to rest, snatching the patchwork cap that flopped off of his head and dropping it off onto the bedside table. You really, really wanted to at least remove his shoes so they wouldn’t scuff up the sheets if he was a thrasher, but God only knows the evil you’d unleash. You could bear to live with handling the aftermath of an extra laundry load, but not so much someone else’s reek.

But oooooh, boy.

Even with the lamplighter alone, you were going to have the wash those sheets several times over to purge the smell for good. The odor wasn’t back alley-tier unspeakable, but the margin just below that was only slight. Nothing that would (probably) choke up the room, but only time would tell the results of that gamble. You could bust out the incense and the various, holiday-themed candles you promised your parents you'd eventually burn through if absolutely necessary.

Just as a safety precaution, you unlatched the pole gingerly from his belt and withdrew it onto the floor, the dulled phosphor jars following suit as you positioned them onto a nearby dresser, right next to a few knick-knacks and some family photos of your summer vacation five years ago. You really couldn’t afford to have the carpets bleached if the phosphor had spilled, and the lamplighter’s deftness was questionable at best as exhibited by the uniform mishap earlier this evening. That pole was going with you and beneath the couch- the damn thing could probably impale you if enough strength was behind it. Shish-kabobbing was strictly forbidden here.

For now, the task had been dealt with. Perhaps not in the most superlative fashion, but it would have to do.

Instincts drove you over to the kitchen immediately after the door clicked shut behind you, rummaging through the drawers for the largest kitchen knife in your arsenal. While the intent to kill was absent, there was no other way you could begin to feel safe with the choices you’ve made unless there was a ticket out of it.

Just in case he really was a serial killer than wanted your blood, you'd at least have a method of self-defense.

...Not that you knew how to handle a weapon. In fact, you could barely wield a spoon.

Your fingers slid quietly against the plastic grip, the blade too large and bulky to be of any sensible use in the household, now as you hadn’t cooked in literal weeks. You practically lived off leftovers and takeout now, since the pizza guy would usually get lost or trapped up on the catwalks by the squares. At least THAT wasn’t your job.

You meandered on over to the half-filled laundry basket sidled next to the couch, slipping the knife beneath a pillow before shimming yourself out of your stifling work clothes. Your eyes were glued warily onto the bedroom door, in case you needed to chuck something in rage or hide your tasty bits had the lamplighter become suddenly resurrected. You haven't had the time all week to do the laundry. Being scheduled 5 days back-to-back with little energy left to get anything else accomplished was... an unfun way to live.

You ultimately settled and threw on just about the only clean article of clothing left, an “I herded rams and all I got was this lousy shirt!” t-shirt that was about two sizes too big. How the hell did you even get this, anyway? You faintly recall that it was from some sort of Secret Ram Club in high school, run by some poor nerd whom you were inclined to believe left the Refuge shortly after graduation. Hmm.

What put you most on edge, however, was the lack of clean pants.

As if clutching the limp hopes that you had somehow made a mistake or... simply lost the ability to discern what classified as “pants”, you scoured the basket to the very bottom before the results came out the same. No jeans, no shorts- nothing. If you started the machine up now and arose early enough before your guest had, you’d at least have something presentable as opposed to being half-naked. But that took time and effort- both of which you were miserably short of.

Lady Luck was doing little more than simply conspiring against you- she’d outright drop kicked you down through all nine circles of Hell.

Holy shit.

In essence, you had been left pantsless in a cruel, unforgiving world, stranded atop the couch in nothing but a baggy shirt and undergarments. You became utterly euphoric upon discovery that you could pull it down a smidgen with enough force, but even that seemed a little pointless if you were going to dress like a fucking slob. A ram-herding tool of a slob, to boot. The shame and discomfiture alone would kill you outright; if the lamplighter never does.

Fortunately for you, some blankets had been left bunched-up on the loveseat that you readily snapped up, cocooning yourself snugly in its warmth as you flicked the television set on with the remote control by your feet. There was nothing good to binge-watch on a Thursday night to keep you awake and on high-alert, but you could probably make do with the broadcasts provided.

Drawing the blankets up close, you sank into the plushness of the sofa whilst flipping through various channels in hopes of avoiding any further morbidity that the news would present. As earlier forecasted, nothing good was ever on this late- even the reruns were drab.

In the end, you resolved yourself to watching a late-night baking broadcast covering the topic of preparing red-velvet cupcakes, substituting the frosting for a wide variety of alternative flavors that would conclusively (in your opinion,) make the cupcakes taste less good.

Thank God you were off work tomorrow. You didn’t have the motivation to do anything but sleep all day, was the lamplighter’s lethargy contagious? Housework had been an imposing chore on the list for so long that it became more of an added feature than an actual milestone for cleanliness.

At some point during the program, your mind had gone on autopilot and tuned out the sprightly hoots of the show hosts, the sounds leaking from the television set now reduced to a subdued droning as consciousness edged itself away from you.

You ducked under the covers and snaked a hand beneath your pillow, digits gliding against the plastic handle. No, it was fine. The lamplighter had more integrity than that to pull anything.

You had to tell yourself this, or you just couldn’t settle.

Regardless of the doubt that plagued you, the sheets were too enveloping and the cushiness of the sofa too enticing; and consciousness soon eluded you as dreamland beckoned from the edges of the darkness.

Chapter Text

The afternoon greeted you with a technicolor screen and a shrill, piercing bleep, eyes unfocused upon the TV. You began groping blindly around the coffee table for the remote, nearly toppling over a glass of water in the process as you fumbled to turn that damn device off. The echoes of the outside city and the quiet babble of the next door neighbors filled the leisure silence, consciousness fading in and out faintly in blips on the outer edges of your mind.

It’s true what they say- the city never sleeps.

Recollection and awakening was a process that took you several minutes into the day to shake yourself loose from, as waking up before noon was virtually impossible given the nature of your sleep schedule. You rose your head slowly from up off the pillow, accompanied by a dull thunk coming less than a foot away from the couch. Peering off the edge of the sofa, you were both disturbed and baffled by the sight of a kitchen knife lying upon the carpet, the dull blade glistening pink from the light of the phosphor lamps.

Huh, that’s a little eerie. Why would you ever need-

Oh, fuck.

The lamplighter.

Realization jump-started you back to life. You unthinkingly kick the sheets high into the air as they fluttered from the center of the room to the other end, draping over the laundry basket and an opened box crammed full of books. You flew over to the door and began inspecting the lock, testing it out before confirming that it was (seemingly) untouched since the previous evening. You began poking and prowling around the living room for anything that seemed even remotely amiss, though nothing had particularly struck you as odd or unusual.

How long had you been out?

Rounding the couch, you lightly tapped the phone screen as the numbers glowed softly on display. You’d been conked out for almost a full 12 hours- that was the first in a while that you’d overslept this badly.

There was snoring from the other end of the apartment, a near-comical rumbling so loud that it had reached your ears even from your sofa-island. That certainly answered one- well, two of your questions. Three, technically, if you were concerned about whether or not the lamplighter had mysteriously passed away in his sleep. You couldn’t even hide a body in a city this cramped, even if the scenic view from the city skyline had magnified its size.

Knocking on the door was one idea, if not a preposterous one. He’d only wake up baffled to be in the residency of an outsider, but you reasoned he’d have been befuddled either way since the outcome of the encounter would essentially turn out the same, whether it be intrusion (on your own property?) or just shaking him like a ragdoll. Not many people reacted well to waking up in a stranger’s home unless it was more or less consensual. Not many people reacted well to being woken in general, if memory served you.

...Delaying the inevitable doesn’t make it any less so, however.

He’d have to wake up eventually, but you just weren’t content to wait for him any longer. Your apprehension had reached critical mass in such a short time span that it nearly spun you forward with reckless duress, the door exasperated with your arrival as it groaned low into the unilluminated bedroom. Your fingers twitched impatiently as you roll your fingers against the smoothness of the handle, stopping just against the knife’s guard as you inched into the room, witnessing that the lamplighter hadn’t so much as budged from his spot.

The blade had felt stone-cold to the touch, hands shaking uncontrollably from the anticipation as your fingers slithered hurriedly across the wall for the outlet you swore should be around here somewhere, where the hell was it- promptly flipping the light switch as a row of star-shaped fairy lights on the wall buzzed and flickered to life. The room had been small enough that even such a dainty source of light could easily encompass every curve and corner of the room perfectly- and they were softer on the eyes than the high-concentrated phosphor lights that were standard in every Refuge household.

It was a necessity to survival here- and you were off-handedly reminded that the unconscious man sprawled atop your bed had been tasked with the irksome role of delivering it in bulk to nearly every facility the Refuge had at its disposal. Wasn’t there only enough of the stuff to go around, anyway? What was even going to happen when the phosphor’s light completely diminishes?

...Uh oh.

Your gaze bounced back over to the lamplighter and the dreadful volume of his snoring, the sound displeasing enough that the chorus of machinery from the construction crew down the hall had paled in comparison. It was probably best for your sanity if you got him out as soon as physically possible, but you had no inclination to think that the tides would ever turn in your favor, even if you tried.

You crept on over to what should rightfully have been your bed, peering vigilantly down at his unceremonious frame as you held the knife with both hands, thumb circling anxiously against the hilt. You were wracked wave after wave with uncertainty before realizing you’d need a free hand to shake him awake with- it might be beneficial not to brandish anything straight away.

There was mild solace in knowing he appeared to be enjoying his slumber, with the way his limbs were contentedly splayed and bent at awkward and suspiciously broken angles. His shirt had somehow managed to unbutton itself halfway through the tossing and turning, his coat tangling itself between the wave-pattern bedsheets. Pillows were strewn carelessly about the carpet, and part of the blankets had been kicked haphazardly off the edge of the bed, dangling from the end of the mattress. Your speculation regarding his sleeping mannerisms proved accurate, surely, not that it did much to derail from the fact that you would have to clean up this mess later on.

Floating over to the lamplighter, your hand progressively extended itself over to him before quickly retracting in rapid succession, over and over, as if disobediently refraining from stirring the man in from sleep.

It shouldn’t have been that hard- why was this taking so much effort?

“Um,” you began, the uneasiness creeping down your spine, “Rise and shine…! Can you, maybe… get up?” You weren’t sure that such a monotonous wake-up call would legitimately succeed in deterring him, but the act had won you what could only be interpreted as a groan of discontent.

Emboldened by the streaks of progress, you gradually leaned closer as your knee began sinking into the memory foam mattress, the ultimate mark of your hubris- and the direct result of overspending. You once held shallow desires of getting better sleep from one of those widely-advertised foam mattresses as opposed to the stiff hand-me-down queensize you’d been using for your entire childhood beforehand- and by God, you could feel the difference.

Your hand ghosted silently across his shoulder as the original plan to rouse him stagnated all too quickly. About an entire minute had passed between the two of you, as the lamplighter’s mellowed snores had fanned away the inexplicable gap you had somehow torn into the atmosphere.

There was the left-field preoccupation with scrutinizing his details in the petty, obscure fear that movement would only further agitate him when that was supposedly the end goal- and found yourself both enchanted and repelled with your newfound fascination, the rise and fall of his chest with each breath he took, the disorderly uniform and the scruffy, violet hair-

Oh, God. This was bad. This was so, SO bad.

It was like something out of a goddamn novel- not even the Author would be caught dead writing romance this fucking trashy.

You weren’t some kind of predator, you didn’t even ask for any of this in the first place-

“Mmm.”

The brusqueness of his groggy tenor had you petrified.

His limbs stretched themselves outwards and further crinkled the unkempt bed in sluggish, lackadaisical movements before he seemed to withdraw, brushing past your leg with his knee. You involuntarily jerked from the contact with such vehement force that it shook the entire bed, fairy lights clinking against the wall in petite chimes as the neon glow undulated with its movements.

“...Huh-”

God.

Damn it.

You were in the lion’s den, now.

His eyes strained into the shimmering overhead lights, his body growing unnaturally rigid despite the languid movements he'd exhibited only seconds ago. His mouth gradually opened, forming into a twisted frown that had only amplified to you the prevalence of his waking confusion.

After what had felt like an eternity, the lamplighter’s eyes widened like saucers as he shot upwards into a sitting position, staggering you with the force of his kick. You were sent toppling off of the bed with minimal grace, squeaking in alarm. For once, luck had bequeathed to you the good fortune of landing a foot away from the knife that could have effectively ended your life, had the angle been more askew.

“W-where the hell is this?” The lamplighter demanded incredulously, leering dubiously over at you from his (your) perch. His eyes had you pinned with a frightening breed of sharpness, stopping his scan mid-way as his eyes landed around your midsection and from the lack of clothing thereon, completely abandoned ship.

You rocketed up from your spot on the floor and raised your hands in the air, only realizing this folly too late as you’ve effectively and on accidental whim alone, flaunted the large kitchen knife in the open. His eyes immediately tore away from you and onto the weapon, scrabbling madly to his feet as he backed himself up against the wall in sheer panic.

“Holy shit,” he swore, “Were you about to fucking murder me?”

You desperately shook your head to purge the thought, but it was evident by the abhorrence on the lamplighter’s expression that he wasn’t buying it. At all.

“You definitely were,” his voice cracked a little, “You were… you were going to straight-up murder the heck out of me!” he pointed accusingly over in your direction.

“I was not,” you griped defensively, earning you a look from the worker as though he thought you were a complete lunatic.

You quickly re-assessed the situation at hand. You were standing in place, half-naked with a kitchen knife bigger than your head wielded in your dominant hand while your guest (whom you reminded yourself,) had passed out at the diner and was unwilling dragged into your apartment, and was currently on top of your bed and backed up against the corner of the room. Good luck explaining that to the authorities.

Things weren’t really looking too great on your side of the field.

“T-Then what’s with the knife, huh? What, were you gonna like, conveniently lodge it into my ribcage? ” he gulped, his arms ensnared within the string of fairy lights in the process of struggling. You winced as he slipped onto his rump atop the mattress, a hollow thud echoing through as he bumped the back of his head clumsily against the wall. The lamplighter hissed in discomfort.

This guy was a bigger threat to his own life than anything else.

You wordlessly slid the blade onto the dresser and proceeded to raise your hands into the air, hoping to convey that you weren't armed anymore and held no deliberate intent to bring him harm. He scowled at you in protest and proceeded to hold his ground.

“I’m sorry,” you began with a clear of the throat, “It was for self-defense, I swear. I didn’t know what to expect-” the rest of the sentence died on your lips, finding it harrowing to rationalize everything you’d brought upon yourself.

He studied your gesture for a moment with some disdain.

“...Where is this?” he prodded.

“It’s my apartment bedroom. Do you…” you paused to try and formulate the words with a pinch more eloquence than the previous sentence, “What’s the last thing you can remember before you woke up just now?”

The lamplighter huffed, arms crossed. “The toast,” he responded with dim-witted resolution.

You were somehow unsurprised that was the last thing he’d remember.

“Right,” you continued, “I was going to bring you the order of toast, but I had to take my mandatory break and so my co-worker should have brought it out to you. I asked her to.”

He nodded, comprehending, but kept his eyes glued unnervingly onto you. “She did. She, uh…” he did a short cough, suddenly averting his gaze. You quirked an eyebrow.

“...She brought me about, like, 6 plates in a row? I should have maybe… y’know, told her to stop, but I don’t think she knew that she wasn’t supposed to keep giving me more portions. But I was… well, starving. Hadn’t eaten all damn day. I stuffed myself into a coma with 12 slices of toast and almost a whole pot of coffee, and I just… I don’t know what happened after. I felt tired, but I had 4 more delivery spots across the city, so I couldn’t just stop.” He looked as though a child who’d just been caught with his hand jammed halfway into a cookie jar.

You fidgeted uncomfortably, not wanting to instill any alarm by notifying the lamplighter that he’d been out for nearly 12 hours. You hoped he wasn't still on the clock.

“...Well, when was the last time you slept, before today?” You wandered over to draw the bedside curtains just a smidgen, unveiling the veranda that had overlooked the avenue. The passersby appeared so minuscule as they scuttled on the sidewalk below, going about the daily races.

At this, the lamplighter appeared genuinely stumped. “Uh… well,” he frowned. “What day is it?”

“Friday the 10th,” you answered, the crimson glow of the city trickling in through the cracks.

There was some silence, then, “3 days ago. I think."

“...You’re not serious?” you stuttered, flabbergasted by this. “How did you mana-” the question had answered itself before you were even finished with it.

The pity meter skyrocketed to levels previously unbeknownst to man.

The lamplighter gave you a noncommittal shrug, yawning a little too loudly than what was preferable. You were amused at how comfy he’d suddenly gotten.

“That’s been the norm this past month. There are shortages left and right, and a lot of the delivery robots are gettin’ screwed with by the square things. I’m basically doing their job too, without the overtime pay.” he grumbled, scratching the back of his head sheepishly.

“You can’t seriously be the ONLY lamplighter employed in the entire Refuge, though,” you stuttered. He shakes his head dismissively.

“I mean no, but like… most of ‘em just flat out quit already. Nobody wants to do this job. I mean, I don’t want to do it either- but I need the cash.” his lips curved into a grimace. “Hell, I live in the back alley, for cryin’ out loud.”

You gulped. There didn’t seem to be an end in sight to the workload stacked against him, and a part of you felt immensely inclined to at least try and step in- but was that really your place to act? You had your own problems and job to deal with, why pile more work onto your plate?

The truth was, you didn’t know why. That parental instinct of yours just decided to kick in yet again and dictated you should do such. So you obeyed, maybe out of the goodness of your heart, or maybe because you were the type of person who felt the compulsive need to nurture.

“...Come on,” a long sigh fled you, “Let’s chat in the living room. I’ll whip something up for you real quick.”

At this, he was dumbstruck. For a second time, he had been doubting the authenticity of your offer.

“I left the knife in here if that sweetens the deal,” you added, advancing towards the doorway. “I’m really sorry if I freaked you out, honest. I’m not gonna try anything. I swear on my life, “ You pledged earnestly, spotting him turning away embarrassed as you did so, presumably so he didn’t wind up staring at your ass with your back turned to him.

You'd completely forgotten that you were pantsless.

-----☕-----

You drifted over towards the kitchen and began sifting through the barren pantry, salvaging a crusty old box of pancake mix wedged in the corner beneath a stack of unopened cupcake tins. It was a relief, truthfully, to hear the lamplighter’s footsteps approach the dining table. Perhaps it was a sign he was actually beginning to trust you.

God only knows how old the box was, but it was the only filling thing you could actually serve anyone. You hadn’t done the groceries in a while now- and made a mental note to go on a trip after this whole situation had cleared itself up.

“What’s your name, by the way?” you attempted conversation while mixing the batter, brushing some of the stray powder on your cheek with the back of your hand.

“Most folks just, uh... call me Plight,” he chuckled sleepily, “It’s a nickname of mine. Some of the kids at the library started calling me that since it was one of my main delivery spots. They couldn't pronounce 'lamplighter' right, and I guess it got around ‘cuz almost everyone calls me that, now.”

You nodded, following along. “Plight,” you repeated to yourself in a gentle hum. His head perked up at this, as though he heard you beckoning. “My name is-”

“I know-” he intercepted you, expression dropping as he’d realized how rudely that came out. “I mean, like… s-sorry. I mean, I know your name. I’ve read your nametag before,” Plight guiltily amended.

The batter began to sizzle and pop as you gave a short ‘mhm’ before turning the pancake over, finding yourself pleasantly surprised that he had remembered your name. Most of the regulars didn't even bother.

Plight sniffed once, twice- and tapped his knuckle against the tabletop. “Woah. Those uh… pancakes?”

You nodded in the affirmative.

“Just a fair warning, though. The mix is kind of… old. It’s not past its expiration date or anything,” you announced, “I’m using actual milk instead of plain water to hopefully make it taste better. It’s nothing like the stuff back at the restaurant, so sorry if it's different.”

“That’s fine,” the man in lilac assured, “I was just surprised you had mix in the first place. I heard they started cutting back real hard on shipments after the wheat shortages, so they aren’t as available as they used to be.”

That was precisely the same reason your diner had jacked up pancake prices. They'd inflated ridiculously after said shortage, and management didn’t have the finances necessary to keep up the influx of orders with what they used to be charging.

The meal, such as it was, had been done in a matter of minutes. You narrowly scraped enough batter from the bowl to make a stack of three, but you prayed that would suffice. There was a quarter of a stick of margarine butter left in the fridge and the syrup was nearly depleted, not enough to satiate you, but Plight likely didn’t have as big of a sweet tooth.

“Geez,” Plight stiffened before tearing into his breakfast, “You’re making me feel bad.”

Clearly.

“First I pass out during your shift, then you take me to your place and let me stay on your fuckin’ bed, instead of leaving me out on the street like most people do,” he wiped himself with a sleeve, pancake residue smearing his already-tattered clothing, “...And THEN you feed me. I’m sensing an....” he gnawed on his fork, looking in that moment as if he were trying to recall something with extreme hardship.

“An ulterior motive?” you suggested helpfully, hoping you didn't sound too optimistic or else he’d think that was actually the case.

“Yeah, that!” He pointed the tableware over at you. “Dictionary term,” he declared almost triumphantly, fork clicking against his teeth.

Uh, what.

“No, that’s... reaaaaally not what I’m trying to do. Do I really look like that much of a sleazeball?” The silence that followed was not reassuring you in the least bit, as you witnessed that Plight was conflicted with between wanting to meet your gaze and keeping his eyes elsewhere; anywhere.

The realization that you were still pantsless came crashing down upon you like an avalanche.

“Uh, I’m sorry about the indecency, I-”

“I wasn’t looking,” he interjected very suddenly, unconvincingly- his cheeks gradually turning a rosy shade of pink so intense it had put the Refuge phosphor to shame. Plight resumed shoveling pancake pieces into his mouth, as some of it stuck to his unshaven chin.

You felt the heat rush in full force to your face.

Ooooooooh-kaaaaaaaaaaay.

“Great,” you choked hoarsely, hand snaking over in front of your mouth; an involuntary reaction to embarrassment. Neither of you had the gall to look at each other.

The silence that ensued was so thick, you could have sliced clean through it with that knife you left back in the bedroom.

“So,” you began, quickly correcting the retail voice that had kicked in without consent, “...Do you work today?”

“Ngh,” He gurgled suddenly, drumming up a number of concerns from you. “Oh God, I’m going to be in SO much trouble,” Plight lamented, utensils clattering noisily onto the ceramic plate. “I didn’t finish those last deliveries, I didn’t even confirm my time punch, and I don’t know how many minutes of work I’ve been missing-”

“It sort of seems like they're overworking you,” you asserted icily, not towards him specifically, but more towards that manipulative third party. “You mentioned earlier you’re not getting paid overtime for it, right? Not sure what kind of corporation you work for, but that isn’t okay. You need to bring it up with management-”

“That’s not gonna work,” Plight stammered back, head lowered. “It was stated in my work contract that they could push my hours. Said it was my fault for not reading it all the way through, and damn if they’re not right. I was desperate for money, so I jumped at the chance."

You grit your teeth silently, fingers curling indignantly at the hem of the oversized shirt.

After a shared moment of mutual frustration, an idea hit you.

“...Come on, let’s go,” you hopped out of the chair with rejuvenated steps, digging out the least-rattiest pair of garments in the laundry basket, entirely forgetting for a second that someone else had been present in the room as you changed. ‘I wasn’t looking’ your ass. You could feel his eyes on you.

“...Wait, what?”

“I need you to show me where the administration office is,” you twirled his pole playfully from beneath the sofa and tossed it over to him, rapidly tapping away a number that you hadn’t been in contact with since high school graduation. You waltzed out the apartment door as Plight trudged behind you, utterly puzzled.

“Hey, hey! It’s me, long time no chat," you hummed into the device, smirking devilishly.

"So, Gabby at work told me you graduated from law school.”

Chapter Text

Several weeks flew by in relative harmony, following the lawsuit that you and an old buddy of yours had filed against the corporation responsible for writing the lamplighter’s paychecks.

Yeah, that was sort of a wild day.

Rather than the selling point be the inflexibility of the hours as you had hypothesized, it was actually due to an indirect violation of some sort of health code. While it was lovely and all that you won the lawsuit, it was still highly distressing that it was not made possible until long after the signs had been exhibited.

You’d guess now that it happened about three weeks ago, an hour after you’d embarked the morning he had awoken in your apartment, Plight dragging his feet as he pleaded with you not to cause a row with his employer.

You knew better than anyone else the excruciating hell that was the “can I speak to the manager” scenario, and never in your wildest dreams had you envisioned yourself playing that part. You intended to give them a piece of your mind, or in the strong and near-imminent probability that your confidence deteriorated, at least bargain with them.

The rigid bastard didn’t even so much as budge at your concerns, deflecting every argument and suggestion that came his way, all the while choking up your lungs with cigarette smoke that he puffed all over the place like a damn steam train. You regret not taking a shot at his pinstripe suit before the two of you were (rudely) ushered out the tacky office. Plight appeared completely cowed during the entire confrontation, and you couldn’t exactly blame him. Here you thought YOUR manager was unsympathetic- the lamplighter’s boss was the very definition of tactlessness.

Either way, your coworker's lawyer cousin pulled through in the end when you certainly couldn't.

After a good hour of pestering and dogged insistence following that failed persuasion attempt, you managed to convince Plight to seek medical aid in the case that whatever ailed him would not easily disperse on its own whims. You were probably just overanalyzing, but something about his symptoms struck you as... unsettling.

The results came back out a little bleaker than the two of you had anticipated.

Plight had been diagnosed with a form of anemia.

While the cause was primarily due to iron-deficiency dictated by a poor diet and was very much treatable, the key steps to recovery were well out of his reach back then. His work scheduling forbade him from catching a break long enough to eat properly to sustain all of the energy he’d been burning through, and the laughable concept of getting a full 8 hours of sleep was shot down as the Refuge’s increasing phosphor demands gave him no quarter. It seemed utterly hopeless; even the doctor seemed outraged by the conundrum.

Ultimately, Plight was blessed (and the term was used very loosely) to come down with one of the more less severe cases. Out of the many staggering types of anemia and it's volatile side effects listed out on the pamphlet you were handed, you were glad that you caught this before his condition worsened. You weren’t exactly sure why you specifically were handed the responsibility of educating yourself on it, though this was inferred to be the case as the receptionist had mistaken you as his spouse.

You corrected the personnel politely, yet promptly.

You were, however, astonished to learn that Plight’s decomposing health and vigor had not gone unnoticed by the community. It turned out that multiple customers and Refuge citizens alike that had seemingly watched an ample distance from the sidelines had one way or another, either filed complaints or had made active attempts to contact the administration office about his noticeable lethargy. While their efforts bore no fruit, the notion was incredibly touching, at least.

Plight wound up having quite the fan following; though you couldn’t help but selfishly feel as though your actions were the real tipping point for things. It was nice to feel validated.

Without realizing, you and the lamplighter had gotten quite close. You weren't positive if that was either because he felt the nagging obligation to do so, due to your hand in his liberation, or because he genuinely seemed to appreciate your company. You became accustomed to receiving his mid-shift texts (it took the guys a damn week, but they finally set up a second phone tower) complaining about something as unremarkable as another ripped seam in his coat, and you’d respond in-between orders with some petty grievance that you both would find relatable. You poked fun at him at first, mocking his cheap-model flip phone that you hadn’t seen anyone use since the start of middle school.

It was funny, seeing him get puffed up about things.

For a while now, you were dead-set on the idea that Plight only bothered to maintain communication in order to butter you up and get discounts on his meals (he was a regular now, not a day went by where he didn’t drop in at least once to impoverish the diner of its coffee supply,) but such thoughts were cast away in time due to his candid nature. He was as modest a man as he was clumsy, emanating a bumbling sort of aura that you became well-acquainted with as time ticked on.

He was...

He was irrevocably charming in a way you couldn't quite describe.

Today, Plight had invited you over to his place for the first time to have coffee. While the invitation was sudden and unanticipated, you felt like it’d have been disrespectful to decline. It wasn’t as though you had any other plans for your day off, anyway.

It completely slipped by you that he resided in the back alleys, despite him mentioning it once in passing when he awoke in your room. It was likely you either subconsciously overlooked the detail or had simply forgotten, as you didn’t actually think he was serious about it.

“Still can't believe you had a lawyer friend,” Plight’s footfalls echoed through the narrow spaces as he walked.

“My folks said the exact same thing,” you laughed softly, trailing close behind.

You weren’t going to lie; you had your suspicions briefly when Plight was guiding you through those twisting pink-bricked walls, his pace slow enough to where he couldn’t possibly lose sight of you in between hurdling over ripped-open trash bags and steering clear of the spontaneous squares which, sure as hell weren’t there when you last barreled through on the way to work.

In fact, it almost seemed like they were multiplying in numbers.

...You sincerely hoped that for the sake of the Refuge, no; for all of humanity that your mind was playing tricks on you.

You’ve passed several dead-ends on this trip alone to dissuade yourself from thinking that Plight was trying to lure you into something shady- though you counter-argued against yourself that it’s within the realm of possibility that Plight just missed his chances. Repeatedly and in succession. If you were going to be frank, the man was far from being an astute observer. He didn’t make for a very clever criminal whatsoever- but at least that was something advantageous for you.

“You know that those are… deadly, right?” You pointed with an index finger over to a nearby jumble of floating square particles, having occupied itself with ripping apart a robot’s arm from its socket.

Poor thing. You hoped it wasn’t tame.

The lamplighter had been walking far too close for comfort beside the glitchy messes; almost shoulder-to-shoulder. He wasn’t going to have an arm for much longer if his sense of self-preservation was rock-bottom.

“Eh,” he shrugged, paying it no mind. “I know. I mean, I got used to them pretty fast when I got the place here. It’s not like they’ve ever popped up in my house, but I am kinda scared that I’ll wake up one day it’s going to be, like… RIGHT next to me, y’know?”

“Eugh,” you shuddered, “That’d be awful.”

“More than awful. It’d be the shittiest wake-up call ever- you wake up and you just die.”

You chortled, covering your mouth to muffle the noise. The quiet here was downright unsettling; the car honks and rallying cries of the street vendors receding far into the distance. Your voice sounded as though it were ricocheting right off the walls.

It didn’t occur to you until after, however, just how cold the back alley was. It made sense that you wouldn’t be able to perceive it before this outing, as the only experience you ever had loitering about the place was sprinting down at a breakneck pace to arrive at work on time- coming obscenely close an instance or two from narrowly twisting an ankle. A mirthless chill lanced through your body as you scampered several feet behind the lamplighter, who threw you a questioning look from over his shoulder.

“You okay there?” he doesn’t pause to wait, but respectively slowed his pace so you could catch up. "Seem a 'lil jumpy."

“Yeah-” You said, wishing you’d brought along a jacket. “It’s not a bad idea to carry that coat with you, all of the time,” you sighed, eyeing it enviously. Even if it was torn in places and looked kinda ratty, it still served its purpose well. It was very cared-for, and it showed.

“Oh, you cold?” he started, his tone of voice suggesting he was more guilty than sympathetic. “I know Kelvin hangs around one of the dead ends. A lotta people just hang around him if they want to stay warm, but there’s usually more cats than people around the guy. That’s where all the homeless dudes hang around.”

“L-Lovely,” you mustered a dithering chuckle, about to ask whom he had been referring to with such familiarity before he stopped just in front of a small, shoddy garage door, empty beer bottles, and name-brand candy wrappers littering the premise. One of them fluttered up off the ground and whapped lightly against your leg as a gentle breeze picked up. Plight had unlocked and raised the door during the time it took for you to emerge triumphant from a skirmish with a literal piece of trash.

“Aaaaand here we are,” he grinned, motioning into what seemed to be a staircase leading downwards into steep, impermeable darkness.

What, so Plight lived in a literal void?

You peered into the pitch black, convinced you’d stumble and break something of yours without the proper lighting.

“You go first,” you hummed complacently, “-since you’re the one with the light. I can’t see down there too well.”

“Oh, right-” he said, the thought eluding him.

“Watch your step,” Plight instructed from in front of you, unhooking a glass phosphor jar strapped to a belt. Holding it by a wire mesh handle, he descended the steps.

Following suit, you paused once if only to glance at the open space behind you. A cold, unwelcoming chill billowed inwards from the entrance.

“Should I... close that?” you queried.

“Nah, I’ll get it later,” he responded, the rose-glow of the phosphor guiding his way forward.

Just how long did his rendition of 'later' entitle, exactly?

“Sorry it’s so dark. It’s, uh… usually not like this. I haven’t changed the liquid from the lights downstairs yet, so they’re pretty dim. Think they’re out already, actually.”

You hummed encouragingly in response.

The single light he held illuminated a modest chunk of the room, making visible an office desk pushed up against the northern wall and a stack of books just on the leftmost section, the subject text unidentifiable from your current angle. A few empty glass jars were sprinkled carelessly on the floor close by; you could count three of them from where you stood. There sat an exotic, albeit wilted potted plant resting glumly atop the desk adjacent to an antique picture frame, a thick layer of dust obscuring the photograph.

Now that you look at it, there was a card embedded in the dried soil of the potted plant. You squinted to read the faded handwriting, the penmanship clearly belonging to that of a child. 'Thank you for working so hard, Mr. Lamplighter!'

Aww.

He placed the first container gingerly onto the floor, grabbing the remaining jar on his waist and walking off to the opposite end of the room where the rest of the room became visible in full.

The lamplighter’s residence had been so cramped that it had only needed two jars to completely illuminate the room, and it was just now that it began to dawn on you how stuffy it was down here. It was almost a little hard to breathe. It was already starting to give you a mild headache.

...This was less of a house than it was a basement, and you knew damn well what that was like. You’ve lived in one for a while before you had moved into the complex.

Plight had stood up onto what looked to be a bed, springs creaking beneath his weight as he leaned forward to pour the liquid phosphor into a transparent, overhead basin. The bedsheets were ratty and appeared scratchy in texture, parts of the blanket had been patched up and sewn over in numerous spots strikingly similar to his coat and cap- that couldn’t have been an aesthetic choice, right? It was a single bed; so small it looked as though he could barely fit in it himself. It didn’t look very comfortable at all, the memory foam you had back home must have been heavenly in comparison.

“Sorry ‘bout this. Won’t take too long,” he grunted, stepping off the mattress and hopping over to the other end of the room, dragging along what you surmised was the only chair in the room. It was missing its back frame, giving it more of the appearance of a shoddy stool.

You idly studied the cigarette burns and various dirty coffee mugs on the table, flipping through a nearby book with a familiar black clover printed on the cover to pass the time.

One of the Author’s works. Everyone was a fan of his books one way or another- but you never could wrap your head around the inhuman pace in which he somehow managed to publish them. It seemed physically impossible he put out so many works in such short spans of time- one of the library regulars did the calculations the last time you paid a visit. Maybe the Author was a wizard, or something. Or a time traveler.

Or a supernatural, omnipotent entity.

“There we go,” he interrupted you before you could even begin to invest in the subject material, though the room was now thoroughly lit to where you could look through everything like the nosy person that you were.

...Oh, geez.

The room was analogous to a hazardous waste zone, with actual shards of glass, smashed bottles, and ceramic shards scattered about the concrete floor. Peculiar stains closely resembling phosphor spillage was smeared here and there, one of which lay dangerously close by your feet. Some were more recent than others, the vivacity of the colors fresh enough to convince you that slipping was a feasible threat if you didn’t mind your step. Nothing about the place came off to you as safe or healthy to inhabit- but Plight exhibited no qualms whatsoever.

The interior was in all honestly, a ramshackle as you’d have expected from a location as seedy as the alleys. The walls were dilapidated and discolored from what looked to be age and phosphor damage, chunks of concrete missing in occasional spots. Plight maneuvered about the room with phenomenal ease, chair legs grinding across the floor as he lugged it to the coffee table.

“Right, well-” he began, rather chipper now that he wasn’t stumbling about half-blind in his own house (he's straight-up going to die if he tripped, this you were convinced of,) “I’ll start on the coffee, I should definitely have a few packets left.”

“You don’t need to keep buying them off from us in bulk,” you added, sinking into the seat as the cushion deflated from your weight. “You can just buy them from cans for a lot cheaper.”

Plight froze in place, marveling over this fact as if you’d just blown his mind.

“...Coffee comes from cans?” he wailed excitedly. The alarm was legitimate, far as you could tell.

You wanted to explain to him that it was grown rather than just manufactured in cans, but you wouldn’t be too shocked if they found a nifty way to mass-produce the stuff already.

“Yeah,” you nodded slowly, stifling a snicker.

“Well, shit." Plight made the attempt to mutter covertly under his breath, removing his cap to comb through his hair with his fingers.

It was no news to you that Plight wasn't very well-endowed in the cranial department, but that was cuter than anything else.

...Not that you thought stupidity was adorable or anything- but the lamplighter's airheadedness was... a more acquired trait to get used to. Besides, he wasn't stupid. Just... not the brightest. This thought is further emphasized as you became aware that your arms were folded atop a book that lay open across the table, with more than half of the page's words underlined in bright, red marker.

These... these were all dictionaries. Each and every one of them.

Oooooh boy.

There was the flicker of movement from the corner of your eye as you settled in the squeaky leather of the ottoman, vaguely registering the soft shuffle of clothing as you spotted Plight in the corner of the room beside his bed, peeling off the thick overcoat he’d never once been seen without. His hat plunked off onto the pillow, messy hair bathed in the magenta glow.

The thought occurred to you on both the walk here and the multiple encounters before on just how tall the lamplighter was, but you guessed it must have never really clicked until just now. He stood about roughly 6 feet tall, give or take a few inches. Even without his cap in the equation, the drastic height gap between the two of you was almost shameful- he had several inches over you and loomed so imposingly. If it wasn't for his scruffiness, he'd maybe have a shot at being intimidating.

Additionally, you had previously failed to realize how inaccurate your analysis of his body type had been; the one you made back at the diner weeks ago when he was wasting away in that booth. The only thing contributing to his lightness back could be loftily directed over to Plight’s malnutrition at the time- but the man was truthfully, far from scrawny. You could see that now, plain as day.

The lamplighter was an exceptionally well-built specimen of a man with arms toned and stout, far from unfit. You could see his muscles shift and smolder when his joints moved about beneath the soiled fabric of his shirt, handling the dishes and tableware in meticulous motions you’d never thought he’d been capable of in the first place. He made you feel quite small in comparison, but you had to admit that there nothing underwhelming about the spectacle that was the lamplighter’s appearance, possessing the sturdy build of a lumberjack that you’d never suspected of him. Veiling himself in that coat all of the time, it was no wonder you'd never imagine it.

You were just grateful he had his back turned to you, focusing rather intently on his task of preparing the coffee rather than paying attention to you. The fountain of excuses were running dry, and you weren’t sure if you could chuck up anything plausible if he caught you ogling him so shamelessly.

Your blushing wouldn't really do wonders, either.

Leaning back against the table, your feet slid across the cold floor as the glass pieces clinked shrilly, hands folded atop your lap.

“I hope you don’t hurt yourself when you walk around,” you commented benignly, “There’s a lot of stuff on the floor.” You felt stupid for even having to point it out, but you never really knew what was ever the case with the lamplighter. What if he genuinely didn’t notice?

...Or care?

“Hm? Oh, nah. It doesn’t bug me. Used to get in my shoes sometimes and that’ll be a nasty surprise, but that doesn’t really happen all that much anymore.”

It was very disconcerting, just how casually he spoke about it.

“Anymore?” you repeated, perplexed.

“...Well,” he tilted his head, “It hasn’t happened recently, at least. Which is good, ‘cuz it’s painful to remove and there’s a lot of blood, sometimes.”

Yeowch.

Repulsed by the thought, a shudder ran down your spine as you refrained from hyper-focusing onto the picture that painted.

He approached about a minute after with your drinks, sliding the piping-hot mug of coffee across the table over to you as he cleared the desk, nudging objects off with a rusty tray. The particular absence of cream and sugar was made more dishearteningly apparent as you blinked into the dark thickness of the liquid, rippling in small rings as you dragged it over.

You gulped and gave the drink a judgmental stare, casting a sidelong glance over to the lamplighter who, had been gazing over at you in an expectant warmth, as though desiring approval or some form of validation for his work.

"Thank you very much," you coughed, obligation lurching you overboard and coaxing you into taking a gulp. The coffee’s bitterness nearly made you gag, the acidic taste burning in the back of your throat like bile, raking across your tongue.

Plight had, unfortunately, bore witness to the involuntary muscle-movement from his spot, peering over to you with a doting sort of worry.

“Is it bad? Do you want me to make a new batch?” It was more insistence than it was an inquiry.

“I’m fine,” you sputtered, a knot forming in the pit of your stomach. “I’m just… not used to drinking coffee black.”

Plight nodded almost imperceptibly, fingers tapping against his own cup. “Sorry,” he said finally, “I don’t have any cream or anything here. I usually just drink it straight black and head out,” he explained, appearing very nauseated with himself as though he’d neglected something of the utmost importance.

“Oh, it’s okay-” you trilled abruptly, involuntarily flashing him that retail-honed smile. “It’s not a huge deal, anyway.”

“You sure? I can fix it, I really don’t mind-” he began again, restlessly seeking a chance to amend his mistake.

Choking behind the crushing weight of your guilt, you stare nervously back down into the mug. But you had to resolve yourself for this- for him. Betraying such a puppy-dog eagerness felt like a crime. It wasn't like you to retire so easily.

You didn’t know Plight was the attractive friend here until just now, anyway. There was a sort of unspoken integrity that had to be upheld, after all.

Obligation alone went a long way. Bringing the cup towards your lips, you pumped another gulp down your system and made the valorous effort to down the flavor as quickly as your bodily functions would permit, but to no avail.

You quietly placed the drink back down onto the ruined mahogany of the table, absently blowing at the whirling steam. You had been defeated.

“So,” you began a little helplessly, deducing that conversation was a good way to derail his attention away from you. “You mentioned a Kelvin earlier?”

Plight looked up from his own mug, regarding you lazily with crimson eyes. You awaken to the fact that they accentuated the airy violet of his hair marvelously well.

“He’s sorta like a neighbor. Sits in one spot, mostly, but I guess his joints might start rusting if he’s still for too long. He doesn’t like moving around much, though. Says it upsets the cats.” he explained, taking a swig.

“Cats?” you asked, seizing the chance to distract yourself.

“Yeah, guess they like the warmth. Kelvin practically has this cat posse around him at all times. They like to wander down in here sometimes, which is why I like to keep the door open for them.” he motioned with his head over to the stairs, a drafty current sighing past your legs as if on cue. You shivered.

“He’s a robot, then?” you managed to piece things together from the connotations.

“Yup. Apparently, that was his original purpose. Guess he switched to something else after a while, but wound up coming back. I mean, so long as he’s needed, right? I feel bad that he’s stuck in the gutters all day, but.”

“Is he tame?” you inquired innocently.

“Don’t think so. At least, I hope he isn’t. I can’t imagine it’s fun to lurk around trash bins and drunk assholes all the time, but even then he’d do it for others. His programming is pretty selfless.” he remarked, features alight with some strange crossbreed of worry and malcontent.

You nodded, intrigued. “Are you sure it’s okay to just leave the door open, though? I feel like someone might just… wander in.” Nothing about the notion sat right with you, at all.

“Usually not. I always keep it closed when I’m out, but sometimes I’ll forget to lock it, and some punks might get in. They don’t do much though, I ain’t got anything worth taking. Mostly just leave their booze and cigarette butts lying around,” he huffed in between sips of his coffee, no longer heartily partaking in his drink.

Your own mug had grown cold, having been left virtually untouched. Guilt began weighing down your back.

...That did explain the cigarette burns you spotted on the desk- but to have the only safe space made available to you be infringed upon by random passersby? It was outright horrifying.

“... What time are you scheduled tomorrow?” you asked the lamplighter suddenly, who propped himself up off the wall and over to the sink, depositing his drained mug.

“I start at noon,” he answered, the two of you cringing in unison as the mountain of dishes clattered upon the added weight. He swore to himself as you peeked over.

“Okay,” you hummed, still hunched over from the sound, “I’ll be out and about tomorrow for a while, I’ll meet you up for lunch, then?”

“Uh, sure,” he began, scratching under his chin, “You have plans or something?” Plight began very deliberately, and you swore there was a defensive touch to his voice- as if he thought there was someone else besides him you hung out with.

Yeah, right.

“Sort of,” you avoided elaborating, “I’m definitely going to be in the sector you’re working in. I’ll stop by for a bit and grab us food,” you hummed, scanning about the room and the overall damage.

“That’s fine,” you heard him say from across the room with very thinly-veiled desperation, and a “What are you gonna be up to?” The pout was palpable in his voice.

“Oh,” you sigh, frowning at all of the cleaning you’re going to be doing tomorrow.

“You’ll see.”

Chapter Text

Keeping a herd of robots in a single-file line wasn’t exactly the cakewalk you thought it’d be.

Sure, they didn’t necessarily misbehave or push each other over like a mob of unruly children, but the bots would sometimes stray from the order to stop and analyze a square particle off in some corner of the alley. You expected them to… well, know better than that.

Then again, virtually all of the lovable blockheads were built with some intrinsic, unquenchable thirst for knowledge and learning- it was simply something that was embedded into their code. The newer models were built distinctly sturdier, considered infinitely more reliable than they had been years prior to the discovery of alloy something-or-other down at the mines.

The only reason you knew about the world’s harrowing progress into the industrial age in the first place, was because your father wrote paragraph after paragraph of it onto the letters he’d sent home, back when he was a still a miner who’d been hired for the infamous Barrens expedition. You were but a wee child back then, but could explicitly remember the sight of your mother milling back and forth anxiously between the kitchen and the living room, scared half to death with that perpetually looming possibility that your father could have become just another casualty. Workers were stumbling into the gaping abyss left and right, or being buried alive by a cave-in because of a collapsed mineshaft. The mortality rate was high, and the financial compensation was too low.

Anything that could go wrong, just… went wrong, as decreed by Murphy's law.

At least he came back alive and well- the same certainly couldn't be said for the vast majority of the remaining miners. All of his limbs were still intact, unlike your uncle whose leg was crushed by a boulder thanks to some dumbass who didn't start counting before he tossed the dynamite in. Apparently, they had to saw it off to get it free- but nobody in the family had openly admitted this firsthand until you were in your later years. Supposed they wanted to spare a child the grisly details, though it still would have been cool to know. Potentially scarring, too, but eh.

Somewhere along the line, you took note of this reminiscence and paused to try and recall which turn had led where. The back alley was a labyrinth of dead ends and mile-high walls of graffiti, and cruising through it wasn’t as easy as you presumed it to be the day before. The robots all ceased clunking behind you, gentle beeps and boops emanating from each one as they meandered behind your blundering guidance.

If Plight can do it, so can you.

You fumbled briefly with a crinkled sheet of paper jutting out from your pocket. The transaction receipt for Rent-a-Bot had magnanimously listed each and every one of the names and serial numbers of the units you borrowed- all 6 of them. You really only needed 3 or 4 at most, but it was cheaper to rent the value pack of 6 than just hiring a smaller number individually. Prices had been driven up in the past month due to unexpected breakdowns, and the factory workers were apparently lagging behind on repairs necessary to keep prices reasonable.

A few minutes more of blind roving finally had you stumbling across a familiar, decrepit warehouse door. You could even spot the same bastard candy wrapper that had assaulted your leg the other day; a Bitemargin bar wedged beneath the lid of a rusty garbage can.

Let’s see, there was…

Doing a quick headcount, you noticed the line was one robot short.

“Oh no,” you groaned, grumbling out each individual name on the list as though you were a kindergarten teacher performing roll call.

“J9?” you called twice, three times- and earned no response. “J9, serial number 01837237,” you read monotonously off the paper, discreetly hoping that would somehow land you better results.

There was a series of confused beeping from about several feet down the corner you’d just passed, the beloved bot bumbling down the alley with the box full of cleaning implements you’d "borrowed" from the diner to accomplish today’s task.

“Are you alright?” you asked the small bot, sizing it up for any perceptible dings or bumps. You definitely couldn’t afford the fees necessary if one of them got eaten up by a square particle while your back was turned, so you were hesitant to be so dismissive of these robots.

[THERE IS NO ISSUE PRESENT. I SAW A CAT AND BECAME DISTRACTED.]

“A cat?” You pressed further, reluctant to ignore their earlier absence. The neighbor Plight had referred to yesterday rose to mind; the weird furnace-head with the cat harem. Suppose one of them was trotting around and crossed paths with the bot.

To be entirely fair, you’d have been distracted by a cat just as well if one had entered your line of sight. They were adorable as heck.

[YES, I APOLOGIZE FOR ANY DELAY I MAY HAVE CAUSED. ARE WE APPROACHING OUR DESTINATION?]

You began fiddling with the door upon J9’s arrival, relieved to see that Plight had left it unlocked accordingly as you’d instructed. It was shocking, really, that he didn’t actually bother to interrogate why you’d made such a strange (and sketchy) request in the first place. Surely the level of trust he held for you wasn’t so curiously high- or was he just that compliant?

That… was troubling, in numerous ways. People could have taken advantage of that so easily.

You resolved to make it a point to discuss that with him eventually- but for now, you had things that demanded your attention.

Pushing the weight of the door upwards, you hastily corralled the horde of robots down the stairs, ushering them inside of the lamplighter’s cavern. Once they had all entered with their corresponding box of supplies, the shutter doors scattered dust as they tumbled down.

[THIS ROOM IS A HAZARD FOR AN ORGANIC BEING SUCH AS YOURSELF.] One of the bots observed as you scampered down the steps. They've apparently finished analyzing the room.

Well, they weren’t wrong.

“That’s exactly why you’re all here,” you clapped your hands together in response, briskly swirling around the bots and stepping over a broken glass jar towards the room’s center. “This place needs to be cleaned from top to bottom. I need the floor to be swept, the stains removed from every visible surface, the furniture dusted, the phosphor lights replaced-”

All deeds you probably could have accomplished yourself with enough exertion, but the workload and strain alike would have been astronomical. Nothing you were capable of tackling with only a few hours before the lamplighter’s shift would end, and not without cutting corners.

[WHERE SHOULD THE GARBAGE BE DISPOSED OF?]

Well, the alleys were already caked with trash at every visible corner and crevice. “Anywhere outside, I guess? I mean, at least a few yards away from here,” you gave a noncommittal shrug. All six robots began beeping and blinking red in harmony with one another, as if communicating amongst themselves in a secret code only they could truly comprehend.

[UNDERSTOOD.]

As if on cue, the robots all lowered their boxes in unison and began rifling through the piles of household supplies and cleaning solutions, most of which were a little too potent and volatile for humans to be properly handling. You’re not certain how your workplace managed to smuggle them in from under the corporate’s nose, but it wasn’t as if that was really your concern. Some of the solvents were highly acidic and would probably melt the skin right off your bones if exposed to it for more than a few seconds- so it was best to leave the more irksome tasks up to the bots. Almost all of them nowadays were impervious to chemicals, so that was a juicy bonus.

A good lot of the cleaning equipment you took was rendered unusable by the new chemical laws passed in the Refuge- everything in the workplace’s arsenal was considered too high in toxicity to be safely used by the workers, even with the proper precautions executed. It was now or never.

There were, however, several things on the list that would likely be carried out more efficiently if you personally saw to it. The fastidiousness of a human’s touch was not to be underestimated, even amidst this crumbling, automated world you dwelled in.

A little spring cleaning never killed anyone, though you did wish that springtime in the Refuge was a little warmer. It was late March, and you still didn't feel much of a difference.

You spent hours tiptoeing around the robots as they carried on their duties, occasionally disrupting you from your own objectives to inquire about the specifics of this or that. One of them wound up spitting out the contents of the vacuum cleaner all over the western section of the alleyways, making it even more dangerous for unsuspecting people to traverse. A stray cat had wandered in at some point, attracted by the commotion. The robots all spent a good 15 minutes admiring the creature before finally getting back to work, costing you a bit of time.

In their defense, though, cats were fucking amazing.

...Really, though. You felt as though you were enacting what was practically room service, replacing the bedsheets with something that wouldn't provide its user with a rash, and adding to the mattress with some extra, fluffier blankets you procured from your closet. You flung on some additional pillows and cushions that no longer saw any use on your couch, giddy with the idea that perhaps Plight would sleep better with them in his possession.

You were so enamored with your craft that you failed to realize that the hours had flown on by, only reminded of the promised rendezvous when a faint vibration emanated from your pocket to wrench you away from the task at hand.

“Hey there,” a woman’s voice chirped enthusiastically on the other end as you answered the phone.

“Hey, Jay?” You responded, tone inscrutable over the generated space of a mobile device. “What’s going on?”

“Hee-hee, that totally rhymed-” the birdfolk giggled cutely, “But, oh! Where are you right now?”

You slow blinked. “I’m not scheduled today, am I?” you inquired testily, “I shouldn’t be on the clock today. It’s Sunday- and I can’t come in to help with a rush because I’m out doing something.”

"Oh, I’m not asking you to come in! I’m here to let you know that your boyfriend is here waiting for you!”

You nearly keeled over off the bed you’d been perched on, heart seized in your chest as you recovered from the vehement recoil.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you cried defensively, voice audibly strained.

“But you’re with him almost every day, even during shifts!” She tweeted merrily in response.

“Because we're good friends!” You shot back, “And he’s…. A nice enough guy, I guess.” You puffed up your cheeks, not that anyone but the robots could see. They were indifferent to your struggle.

“You talk about him all the time, though! Remember last week? You told me about the time he tripped over the pothole and grabbed onto you, and he almost pulled down your-”

“OH MY GOD, JAY.” You threw an arm into the air, exasperated. One of the robots stopped their task to look over at you, your verbal distress an apparent point of concern. “We don’t talk about that. Ever. ” You hissed low into the device, eyes narrowing dubiously towards nothing in particular.

“Roger that!” Like water off a duck’s feathers. “But really, he’s been waiting here for 10 minutes now! Are you gonna like, stand him up?”

You worriedly checked the time. It was half-past five, thirty minutes earlier than when Plight had usually embarked on his lunch break. That was… unusual. Plight was the more fashionably late out of the two of you. Consistently so.

“You’re kidding me,” you exhaled, rubbing the bridge of your nose. “Okay, I’m on my way. Get him whatever he orders, and tell him I’ll be there soon.”

“Will do-” Jay chimed.

“WAIT,” you screeched, narrowly catching her from hanging up the phone. “I forgot, he needs to be on a very specific diet because of his vitamin deficiency. He needs his energy back, so get him stuff on the lean-cuisine section of the menu.”

There was a demure “uhh” lingering on the other end as you brainstormed the optimal entrees that would likely support his cause.

“Anything with dairy is ideal- meat is encouraged, too. He’s going to need the protein, maybe go for the T-Bone steak and eggs. Nothing too greasy, either, so go for whole-grain bread. Sourdough is decent if we’re out of stock, but let’s face it- everyone hates wheat bread. Nobody orders it, so we should be good.” You felt as though you were one of those fanatical parents, the types that lived out on the suburbs with picket fences and all.

“I like wheat bread,” You heard Jay coo softly.

“I… okay.” You sighed, “Cool. Tubular. But you get the point. Get him a side salad too- he can’t ignore his greens.”

...'Tubular'? What was this, the 90's?

Jay was humming a tune on the other end of the line as she scribbled down the orders, and finally, “You sound more like you’re married to him already, with how much you know-”

“SHUSH,” you piped furiously, “Just please, hurry and get the orders out to him. I’m on my way.” you huffed.

Then it hit you.

"...Jay? Are you writing this down?"

"Um... yes?" The waitress chirped, who stared down at the undecipherable mess of archaic runes that was her handwriting. Not that you could see.

"Did you learn to write already?" you pushed, like a mother cross with their child.

"...Maybe?"

"Just... just tell the cooks to get started, dear. I'll see you in twenty."

You hung up the phone, directing your attention over towards the group of diligent robots who'd been toiling happily away with their work. They’d made commendable progress- the extra hands had really made a visible difference in mopping up the lamplighter's miserable mess of a house. It seemed almost halfway livable, now- but it was anyone’s guess as to how long it'd stay in such a condition beneath the lamplighter's questionable living standards.

“I’m going to head out,” you declared, “And should return in about an hour and a half. I’d appreciate it if you all wrapped this up by then,” you instructed very concisely, knowing that a misunderstanding or error in communication with a robot could end poorly. Well, they’d probably exhibit a great deal more sass if they were properly tame. At that point, they really should have been paying you to harbor that sort of adversity.

[UNDERSTOOD. HAVE A GOOD EVENING.]

...Man. They were really sweet, sometimes.

Your legs were aching by the time you spun back onto the Refuge streets, placated with the movements of your muscles as they were no longer locked in awkward positions while you pitched in scrubbing the place from top to bottom. All of that hydrogen peroxide was going to find it's way into your dreams.

… Now that you think about it, you supposed it wouldn’t have been too bad if the lamplighter was your boyfriend. He is kind of a hunk, so there weren’t many complaints you had in that department-

Oh, God.

That thought did NOT just cross your mind.

-----☕-----

 The Red Velvet Diner was buzzing jovially with activity.

You zig-zagged past the serverbots and wove your way around the patrons as you spot Plight flag you down in a booth located in the western corner- your typical table of choice when you needed to text where the cameras couldn’t locate you. You only seated the favorites over at ol' faithful.

You dove into the seat feet-first, shoes scuffing up the seating as you kicked your legs up onto the table.

“Damn,” Plight smirked, seemingly delighted with your obtrusive attitude. “You own the place or something?”

“I should, with all the hours I’ve poured into this place. You know I work more days a week than the managers here?” You scoffed, folding your hands behind your head and reclining into the seat. You detected two of the regulars present in the diner, seated several tables away. They gawked diffidently at the spectacle of you out of uniform, unused to the sight.

They can drink it in for as long as they wanted, for all you cared. So long as you weren’t clocked in, you were untouchable.

“Sorry for being late,” you started, wading through a few of the phone apps. “Jay called me up to get me here. I felt like a jerk for losing track of time like that."

He chuckled in a warm baritone, removing his cap and plopping it off next to your shoes. “Been a productive day, I guess. Already finished off a sector earlier than I thought I would, so I came by. ” Plight crammed a piece of toast into his mouth. You contemptuously eyed said toast for its outlying features before noting the color, pleased that Jay had abided with your request of wheat bread. You knew she was your favorite co-worker for a reason.

....Aside from the fact that she was an absolute angel.

Plight, thoroughly miffed at you eyeballing his food with such hostility, made a face.

“You ghud?” he attempted to speak with his mouth full, sputtering crumbs across the table which you dodged nimbly with ease.

“Graceful as always,” you lightly mocked, pulling your legs back and leaning forward to stretch your arms across the tabletop over to him, fingers greedily reaching out for his sleeve as they brushed past the threadbare fabric. You poked the lamplighter innocently on his hand to snag his attention, attempting to decipher his expression. “I really am sorry for taking so long,” you entreated with a withering frown, throwing on the puppy-dog eyes to assuage Plight if he’d been genuinely upset.

His gaze hesitantly shifted down to you, ruby eyes bright and vivid in stark contrast to the pale porcelain of his skin. “It’s cool,” he mumbled inconclusively, chewing a little slower. “I tried texting you that I went on break early, but I guess you were busy with…” he paused, the faint trace of a scowl forming on the contours of his face. “Whatever.”

You finally sat up straight, withdrawing your legs beneath the table properly where they belonged. You held Plight’s gaze evenly, and his countenance softened guiltily.

“Are you mad at me?” you gingerly implored, partially anticipating for him to slap your hand away. He made no effort to retract himself from your prodding, instead appearing increasingly forlorn as you prolonged the gesture.

“No, it's fine," he shook his head with panicked assurance, breaking physical contact as he rested with his back against the seat, head tilted upwards and staring emptily up at the ceiling. “Just felt… weird, today.”

He was deliberately avoiding eye contact, and his dire change in tone was starting to get to you. Apprehension bubbled and frothed restlessly in your stomach, threatening to pull you under.

“Weird how?” You assessed, finding the lively clamoring of the diner to be insufferable. It was difficult to hear him clearly with all of the noise crashing down upon your ears- or maybe the tenseness of it all was just making you irritable.

A prudent silence befell the two of you before Plight contributed.

“I don’t really know how to describe it. It just felt weird.”

That... didn't really help.

You were struck dumb at just how quickly the conversation had gone spiraling south, greeting the serverbot rigidly and with a waning smile as you passed the dishes over towards Plight.

You were thankful that you hadn’t bothered to order anything- your appetite was long gone now.

“Holy fuck,” Plight wheezed, eyeing the steak with predatory urgency. “Did you order this?” The hunger in his voice was satisfyingly palpable.

“It’s for you,” you idly remarked, “You get dibs on anything that comes this way. A protein diet is what the doctor recommended, so I’m sticking close to that. I actually bothered to take in what they said.” you tutted cheekily, using this golden opportunity to turn the tides in your favor.

“Good-” Plight barked in between ripping apart the steak with his incisors, completely disregarding the other utensils that would have proved to bear more fruitful results in his quest of eating. “Cuz I sure as hell don’t remember anything the doc told me.”

“I'm aware,” you snorted, absently padding away the table surface with any smears the lamplighter made during his meal. Careless as per the usual, but that aspect of him grew on you almost instantaneously. Jay’s analysis wasn’t entirely off the mark, the two of you did occasionally act as though you were married to each other- such a thought was made more prevalent in scenarios similar to this one. Only a month had passed, and the sight of one of you without the other had become an extreme rarity.

...That was how rumors came to be, though. It might not have been a terrible idea to watch your back, especially since you’ve captured more than your fair share of jealous glares from passersby who would have gladly killed to be in your predicament. They would have been more easily deflected were it not for the ferocity of their envy from coveting your position, and that made you immensely uncomfortable on a multitude of levels. If Plight really did have his own fan club, you were certain someone had probably put up a photo of your face on a dartboard by now.

The lamplighter’s brow creased in discomfort as the incalculable minutes passed, coming to terms with just how callous his earlier attitude had seemed in retrospect.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like a dick,” he grunted finally with some difficulty, distressed by your uncharacteristic silence. You busied yourself with counting the cars that drove past the diner, hands folded atop the table as you watched over it all with a hazy mind.

“It was just weird not talking to you all day,” he admitted, voice laden with reluctance. His eyes darted from side to side, hoping to fixate on whatever held the potential to distract him.

“I just got so…. Used to it, y’know?

Oh.

Oh.

You tapped the surface of the table thoughtfully, drawing your attention back over to the scruffy man and his stiff demeanor. You felt an impish grin make its way to your face, concentrating almost teasingly onto him. Plight scrunched up from this, expression souring.

“What? Did I say somethin' stupid?” he demanded, backing himself up against the seat of the booth.

“So,” you began conversationally, elbows up against the table as you relished the sensation of cornering him.

“You missed me, then?”

The response must have been a dizzying blow for him, because nothing but incoherent babbling spewed forth after you'd pinned him down.

“I’m just messing with you, geez.” you laughed dreamily, drinking in the sight of his flustered, exasperated reaction towards your remark. Did you actually get under his skin, just like that?

“You know what? I take it back. Screw you.” Plight growled crossly, folding his arms across his broad chest. “I’m just trying to be honest, jackass.”

“Hey, don’t be like that.” You coaxed coyly, patting the table with a smug grin. “I have a surprise for you when you get home, too. That’s no way to be treating someone who's doing you a favor.”

He went completely rigid for a second, and you didn’t spare a single moment in derailing his train of thought- especially knowing damn well where you knew it was headed. His facial expression said it all; the vacant, far-out look, an undeniable, perverse tinge of hope glimmering in his orbs.

“Not like that, creep,” you sputtered, jerking backward as you frowned disapprovingly. “It’s what I’ve spent all day doing. I wasn’t ignoring you or anything, I was just really preoccupied with getting this done.”

Plight was thoroughly enraptured in what you were speaking about, now, eyes glistening with childish curiosity at whatever you might have been insinuating.

You cleared your throat, a tad embarrassed by just how fervently he’d been regarding you at that moment.

“You’ll see when you get home, alright? I’m still not done, so-”

“You get me a new place?” he interrupted with gleeful wonder, unthinkingly clasping your hand in his own. It was indescribably warm- and much, MUCH larger than yours, easily engulfing your narrow fingers with his own digits.

“N-No, do you seriously think I can afford that on my wages?” you jabbered, feeling your face flush. If he’d taken note, he’d portrayed no signs of doing so.

“Just… just wait, alright? I’m still wrapping things up. Hurry up and… finish your food, or something,” you nudged insistently, throwing the podium a desperate glance over your shoulder. "And you'd better not waste any of it! This is coming out of my paycheck, you know." He chortled in the background, happily obliging with your demand. It never was quite within the lamplighter's character to turn down a free meal- or any sort of food offering in general.

God, that T-Bone steak was going to be absolutely killer on your check, even with the employee discount.

-----☕-----

 Your joints were screaming for sweet mercy by the time the chores were completed.

Every inch of your body clenched in an insufferable ache as you shambled across the city, those same robots strutting obediently behind you. The soreness worsened the more you pushed yourself.

It wasn’t technically necessary of you to escort the robots back to the Rent-a-Bot building, but the contract made it quite clear that they were basically on the clock until the precise moment of their arrival back at their designated establishment. The robots had their own autopilot mode installed and had the coordinates to the place built-in, so you could have just let them go back on their own and called it a day if you really wanted.

Thing was, the robots were extraordinarily vulnerable on their own. Square particle casualties were happening with such frightening frequency that you couldn’t comfortably sit back and let them wander off on their own. It's... unsettling just how precise these attacks were becoming. Like these things were sentient- could think and act on their own volition.

Knowing your atrocious luck, all 6 were probably going straight to the junkyard if you didn't keep them in line. If one of them wound up getting a face full of squares, that was a 3,000 dollar replacement fee right off the bat that you’d have to cover, and that was on top of the rental costs.

Not repair, but replacement.

The very second a square had made direct contact with anything, that was it. They were done for. They were dead in every possible sense of the word- or at the very least, brutally mangled beyond all recognition. You caught wind that the scientists back at the factory just threw out the scrap metal instead of wasting further time re-purposing it for anything else- anything that runs into a square particle became unsalvageable.

You especially didn't want that for little J9. They were your favorite of the squad.

So, it was in your best interest overall to walk the robots back in order to minimize the damage to your wallet.

The return trek to the lamplighter’s place was more excruciating than you’d have initially hoped it to be, naturally. Quite a few of the pedestrians would shoot you quizzical looks as you dragged yourself like a zombie across the street and lumbered into the shady ol’ back alleys, where they may have assumed you were just looking for a place to keel over and die. You faintly remember reading from somewhere that dogs do that when they're nearing the end of their lives.

You rapped a knuckle feebly against the walls of now-not-so-shitty-looking bunker, signifying to Plight that you’d arrived; he should be home by now. “It’s me,” you rasped breathlessly, uncertain of how much you actually trusted your legs in carrying you down the stairs. They were trembling dangerously by the time you’d made it down, about to readily collapse onto the ottoman before you spot Plight rush towards you with unprecedented speed, scooping you up with his strong arms and crushing you with his bear-like grip.

The scent of phosphor overwhelmed your nostrils as your cheeks became involuntarily pressed into his coat, flooded by the warmth of his body as you discovered you were far too enfeebled to bother freeing yourself. If this was how it ended, you didn't mind so much.

“I-I can’t tell if you’re happy or trying to choke me to death,” your fingers inadvertently twitched and grasped at his sides, hapless.

“You did it,” he laughed hysterically, yet to relinquish his grip, “You actually managed to clean up this shithole of a place! I can see the actual floor for the first time in years, the walls don’t ooze like somethin’ out of a fucking horror film, and- Oh God. You put actual chairs in here-” he spoke so excitedly, bobbing you around back and forth as he swept about the room.

This… was kinda nice, actually.

“Y-Yeah,” you choked, face rubbing ticklishly against the smoothness of his shirt. The aching in your legs had diminished to a dull throbbing when he’d finally set you down, flopping you down onto his bed as he flitted to and fro about the room.

You propped yourself upright against the walls, shyly tugging a nearby pillow over towards you atop your lap.

The phosphor stains had been removed from the floor to the best of the robot's abilities, though the acrid stench of chemicals wafts pungently about the air. Anything metal in the room had been refurbished and scrupulously polished to a gleaming finish, the cigarette burns treated and the plethora of books stacked neatly up on the desk with as much room as was made available. Any stray glass jars had been cast into a cardboard box hidden in the north-eastern corner of the room closest to the desk, safely tucked away.

“Oh, man,” he balked, running a hand through his violet locks. “... How do I even begin to pay you back for this?” his expression turned dour, as if he'd just been locked into another debt.

You shifted uneasily, kicking off your shoes and tucking your legs in atop the bed. That really wasn't what you had intended to do at all, but it was very reasonable for Plight to make assumptions given the unfortunate predicaments he'd befallen in the past. It was only natural for him to think there was some sort of catch.

“You don’t need to,” you started, partially unfocused on the conversation just because of the sheer exhaustion that coursed through your weary body. The day’s events were more taxing on you than anyone could have guessed, but it was worth it.

Plight’s cherry eyes widened in disbelief, opening his mouth to protest- but the words ultimately evading him. “You’re kidding me, right?” he urged, “I can’t just accept something like and not-”

“I did it because I wanted to,” you insisted urgently, perhaps coming off a little more forceful than intended. “I don’t want you to pay me back, honestly. If anything, the only thing I want out of you is to keep the place clean after all this hard work, okay?” You coughed, quietly reveling in how wonderful of a job you and those robots did, sizing up the room in all its underwhelming glory.

Well, they did most of the work, but he didn’t need to know that. You deserved to be spoiled a little, too.

“..Maybe, though... you could make me a bit of coffee? I feel like I’m about to pass out,” you lamented despondently, squirming atop the mattress. You gave him a humble smile. The lamplighter's gaze had been seemingly impassioned within that single moment, as if he saw something within you he'd never noticed before.

The lamplighter grinned from ear to ear, pulling his thick jacket from off his bulky build before arranging the clean trays with small containers of creamer and mugs.

...Wait, creamer? Oh, geez. Did he actually go and-

“Anything for you.”

Chapter Text

Summertime came scorching down upon the Refuge.

Well, ‘down’ would have been inaccurate, given that the lack of sun meant no rays of sunshine would come blazing across the city from above. In actuality, all of the heat came from directly below.

For reasons you never quite understood, the geothermal plants functioned at their prime during the summer, absorbing all of the heat from some underground source that pulsed with energy most notably around this time of year. The energy output that followed meant that power would be overflowing in abundance, so the scientists that kept the Refuge afloat could finally catch a break and slow down the phosphor production. Not that you knew much about how thermodynamics worked, of course- that was a problem best left up to the lab nerds.

Less phosphor meant less work for Plight, who wasn’t going to complain about all of the free time on his hands. Slaving away for a paycheck no longer became as prominent of an issue the past few months. Not since you bought his freedom in the late winter.

Unfortunately, from what you had understood, the factory only managed to draw just enough power to provide for the city alone, and was incapable of storing this power long enough to where it’d have been a suitable replacement for phosphor. Damn shame, too. They could spit out just as much as they took, a fair trade given how one good summer in the Refuge meant a decent rest of the year. As much as you loathed to admit it, cooking alive in this heat was a necessary sacrifice for prolonging the life of the world.

The downside to all of that overflowing energy, though? The excess that radiated from the plants would come forth from every corner of the city, secreting blasts of heat from the numerous vent systems veined beneath the city itself.

In other words? It was hot as hell.

Air conditioners in the city went largely unused until summer rolled around, as it was more common for the Refuge to be chilly year-round rather than be struck with a 1-in-a-1000 heat wave. Some of the newer apartments didn’t even have one installed, which made for an absolutely torturous experience for those who dwelled on the upper, newer floors that were constructed in a mad rush to accommodate the rising populations. A pretty killer oversight, if anyone asked you.

Also? SAFETY VIOLATION!

To top things off, temperatures reached record peaks this year. The weather reporter had been droning on that it was the worst heatwave to have hit the Refuge in years even before the sun had gone out, further discouraging the denizens from going on about their daily lives lest they become toasted alive from their own energy source.

Alas, nothing could put a stop to the inexhaustible tempo of the Refuge.

Children bounced gleefully out of school with stars in their eyes and pockets stuffed to the brim with their allowance. Teenagers, cackling and catapulting packets of jam across the room to each other, often requested 12 orders of the double-chocolate chip mint brownie milkshake with extra whip, cookie crumbs, and hot fudge; only to complain about the extra charge. But the parents, oh God, the parents. Their children scream at the top of their lungs like demon spawned from the depths of hell, wine moms squawking about ‘why is this medium steak only marginally red' which is exactly what a medium fucking steak is supposed to look like, Carol.

Every workday for you had inevitably malformed into a non-stop dinner rush.

While you were thankfully unscheduled this weekend as every other, this heat only made the day unbearable to stew in. As vindictive as your cruel luck would have it, the air conditioner hadn’t been functioning properly when it had been needed most. While the timing was sub-optimal, that was when being besties with a handyman had its nifty benefits!

A phone call and a good 30 minutes later, Plight had shown up at your door completely drenched in sweat, the poor thing; a bag of tools slung over his broad shoulders. He was reasonably exasperated with your summon. It was impossible not to pity him, and you wasted no time in ushering him inside and fetching him a can of soda from your caffeine stash. His coat had been tied loosely around his waist, on the verge of slipping.

...Truthfully, you weren’t sure how much longer of this sweltering suffering you could tolerate. It was barely one in the afternoon and you were melting into the couch, reduced to a loose-fitting tank top and pair of denim shorts that were, frankly, too criminally short for your tastes. You hooked a thumb beneath a shoulder strap, tugging absently as you stared with eyes half-lidded grimly into the television screen that flickered noisily, generating a mindless babble that filled the stuffiness of the room.

The windows had been thrown wide open, a warm breeze blowing through the translucent, pearl-white curtains that billowed high to the ceiling. Everyone else on the floor seemed to have the right idea, judging from the sounds emanating from the outside that flew inwards.

The Refuge sang an endless rhapsody of the enchanting summer.

The apartment next door with that nosy security bot was blasting heavy metal, while the newlyweds across the hall had been engaged in an argument that'd been going strong for a good hour now. Being sandwiched between the ruckus didn't help much with your nerves.

“How much longer?” you wailed impishly, fanning yourself with an old edition of a “Cutest Robots” magazine. The only working fan in your possession had been loaned to the lamplighter while he repaired your particularly adamant air conditioner, hoping that’d motivate his productivity level.

“You owe me another soda for every time you ask me that,” he grunted whilst fiddling with a few of his tools, evidently occupied with his task of getting the air conditioner up and running. Thing was, he was only half-joking.

You let out an unsatisfied gurgle, sliding further down onto the sofa. “What happened to the six-pack in the fridge? I bought that last night.”

“I drank the last can an hour ago. I was actually gonna bug you to get me another one sometime soon,” he wiped off his hand on an old dishrag you kept lying around in the kitchen, turning over to what little of you he could see poking from the couch. “Wanna do me a solid and get me some more from the vending machine down the hall?”

“Not really,” you scoffed, tone drenched in melodrama. “The high today is supposed to hit 105, I could get heatstroke!”

Plight stepped off from the chair he’d been using as a makeshift stool, pivoting the fan’s direction with a foot as he leaned against the top of the couch, nearly jabbing the side of your head with an elbow. 

“From goin’ down the hall to grab me a soda? Nah. ‘Sides, you owe me for not telling me it’s hot as literal hell here on the upper floors.” he remarked with a lazy yawn, unable to invest himself into the program displayed on the screen.

“That’d be because heat rises,” you hummed decisively, bringing your knees up to your chest as you tapped a few buttons on the remote control. “I’d live on the lower floors if I could, but this was the only apartment available when I moved in. It’s not my fault, you know.”

Plight, thoroughly and pettily upset with such composed sentiment, frowned and jabbed you lightly in retaliation. “I’m gonna steal the remote if you don’t do it.” He threatened in faux-displeasure, his touch quite sudden and lingering faintly on your skin.

“Hey, don’t confiscate my remote!” You gave a pout and held the remote close to your chest, fingers tightening protectively and tenaciously around the object. It wasn’t like you really cared about watching the news any further, but it was one of those things you particularly enjoyed having in your possession.

“I’ll coffin skate whatever I want,” he retorted whilst reaching over to snatch the remote from your grip. You relinquished the hold for a moment, though only because the roaring fit of laughter that came thundering forth couldn’t be held back any longer. You were heaving for air by the time you’d finished howling, struggling to process the lamplighter's beloved idiocy.

Plight gazed over at you, utterly baffled by the outburst. Wiping a single tear from your eyes, you stared back at him with a coy grin before whispering back, repeating in that kittenish tone, “Coffin skate? Are you serious?”

“Fuck you and your dictionary words,” he sneered back with a wilting growl, hoisting himself off the couch and sauntering back into the kitchen where he began raiding the fridge. You flipped yourself around and pressed your stomach against the couch just in time to see him leave empty-handed, a visibly crestfallen expression plain on his face. The heartache of a fruitless kitchen search was nothing to sneeze at.

“Isn’t it hot at your place, too?” Another breeze gusted through, buffeting you with its warmth and messing up your hair.

“It’s like a fucking toaster oven down there,” Plight swore ardently, padding away the beads of perspiration from his forehead, “I was going to invite you over to watch somethin’ with me on that new flat screen I bought-”

“Which I’m super jealous of, by the way,” you made a face and interjected, flinging the remote carelessly beside you. It bounced off of the cushion and collided painfully with your hip. Ouch.

The lamplighter grinned smugly over at the display of envy, pointing over with the tip of a Phillips head screwdriver. “I would have been down for Catflix and chill, but I like us both a lot more when we aren’t microwaved."

Your arms dangled off from the sofa, head angled sideways as you wordlessly observed Plight at work. There was something quite enamoring about the way he worked, the way his body moved so fluidly as one to carry out his tasks, the way his hair fell while he toiled away-

Of course, the stifling heat made the position too uncomfortable for you to sit still in. You decided to fish for loose change in order to go retrieve Plight’s payment, opting to get it over with before the laziness kicked in.

“Be back in a minute,” you proclaimed, closing the door shut after receiving the lamplighter’s grunt of affirmation.

The pitter-patter of your feet atop the catwalks reverberated loudly through the metal grating underfoot, only stopping once you’d reached the vending machine roosted on the opposite end of the elevator platform.

You inserted the coins and jammed a finger against the button that would have dispensed you that precious can of Gira-Cola, had the machine not made a rather alarming buzz of protest against this course of action. Baffled, you did what any sensible human being would have done in your situation- and pressed the button again.

Repeatedly.

Over and Over.

“Give. Me. The. Damn. Cola.”

The incessant buzzing crowed out with each subsequent push. Finally, the machine finally took the initiative to give it straight since you clearly couldn’t take the hint.

[THIS PRODUCT IS SOLD OUT.]

You blinked, mind throwing up a temporary blue-screen.

"It’s sold out?”

[YES. PLEASE STOP HITTING THE BUTTON.]

Um.

“You’re kidding me. That’s like, the only thing he drinks!” You grumbled, bapping the button again out of sheer frustration.

[HITTING THE BUTTON WILL NOT CHANGE THE FACT THAT THERE IS NO MORE SODA LEFT.]

Wow. Sassy, much?

Of course, the mechanics just HAD to design dispensers and automated vendors that talked back. These things were all over the city now, too- what were the people supposed to do if they all got tamed and decided not to function because they didn’t feel like it? Or spat out soda cans at people with speeds clocking Mach 7?

Well, it was better than the first model of tamed vending machines they'd installed. They had one at a street corner when you were a kid. It was nice and all, always spat out your favorite soda without any complaints after school- nothing was visibly wrong with it until one night, a very drunk, very angry neighbor of yours had a heated argument with that vending machine about 80's R&B. Turns out, the vending machine was a 70's R&B purist who zapped anyone who had different opinions. Yes- the very first model of tamed vending machines was installed with fucking tasers. It was promptly towed the following morning.

There also weren’t any other worthwhile beverages in this damn thing. Plight didn’t touch anything diet, and Gira-Cola Zero was essentially the same as drinking sludge. Lemonade wasn’t carbonated, he wasn’t a fan of Ginger Ale, Moonkist was basically inferior to orange Phanta, and Fountain Dew had him bouncing off the walls.

You had to bring him back something.

The entire platform jiggled as the cars rushed past hundreds of feet beneath you, unsupported by metal beams. You vaguely remember from science class that heat tends to make things brittle- something you had to teach Jay when handling the coffee pots. They had to be used delicately after they’ve recently finished a batch, or else they’d crack and the entire thing would be rendered unsafe to use.

You briefly wondered how the Glenfolk must fare in this type of abusive weather. Their feathers must have done a superb job in keeping them warm, but they couldn’t exactly pluck everything off once summer was in full swing. Well, not painlessly, at least.

Maybe the Glen swamp water and lakes kept them cool for the summer. Even the community and rooftop pools here were uncomfortably warm and probably crowded right now with screaming kids and… robots and… screaming kid robots.

...Suddenly, you’re struck with a thought.

You sincerely hoped for numerous reasons that Plight had a swimsuit available.

-----☕-----

It was still early in the afternoon when you and the lamplighter had assembled everything you needed to embark on the outing.

The gatekeeper was a colossal guardian bot, a massive scroll tucked beneath one arm. Moss and plant life had taken residency on the surface of its armor plating. You gave it a friendly wave as you passed by before quickly backpedaling over to it.

You made it a point to check if both you and Plight’s names were scribbled on the list in the case that you needed confirmation before entering the gates, since security was getting beefed up more and more lately. A single swing from such a heavy bot could probably send you into orbit if you tried anything funny, so it was safer overall to make sure you had a ticket back in before you decided to break into the city.

The temperature was nowhere near as broiling as it was just beyond the Refuge walls, if not a bit muggier. Nowhere near as miserable as you'd anticipated.

“You never told me that was your real name,” You began absently sorting through the contents of the old picnic basket, having ordered you and the lamplighter’s favorite sandwiches to go when the two of you made the earlier dash downtown.

“...No?” he began stiffly, his shoe colliding with a rock as it spun into the murky waters.

“All this time, it didn’t occur to me that you never actually told me your birth name.” You spotted a ram romping around the loamy soil in the distance, a lone shepherd herding them away from the shoreline. Aforementioned shepherd silently adjusted his glasses as you walked past, observing you from an ample distance. Something about him looked familiar- or maybe that was just in your head.

Plight jammed his hands into his pockets, jacket slung over his shoulder with a plastic bag full of… something hanging from his left arm. “Because it kinda sucks. I hate it.” he sniffed, adjusting his cap. “Haven’t actually gone by it since senior year, and even then I just went by a nickname.”

“I don’t think it’s that bad, honestly. It’s very… Victorian?” you hummed, contemplating what a high-school lamplighter would look like. Maybe he wore one of those cool varsity jackets- everyone looked slick in one of those. “...Charles Thomas, huh?”

He rolled his eyes at you, scratching his chin. “Ugh. It sounds weird when you say it,” Plight dithered for a moment, visibly confounded by something. You weren’t sure if he was actually irritated that you’d said it out loud.

“Relax. Plight suits you more, it’s really grown on me,” You chimed excitedly, basket swaying as you hop-stepped over the muddier parts of the landscape. So far, the Glen had provided you with a seemingly endless supply of muck, moss, and fireflies.

Very beautiful fireflies, you admired.

You trotted over the wooden bridge into the small village, various tarps streaming in the wind as ornate jars dotted the landscape. It took a bit of effort not to trip over one, just due to the sheer volume of pottery scattered about, earning you a few coy giggles from the local children who were delighted at your bumbling. Plight didn’t fare much better, knocking over a jar of water as one of the birdfolk twittered angrily in his general direction, mumbling something about the carelessness of the city folk.

This wasn’t your first venture to the Glen, but it may as well have been given how touristy you’d been behaving. The locals were astonishingly friendly, a few of them chirping about how rare it was to see someone actually come out from within the Refuge, offering you bowls of algae soup as a traditional act of kindness. You sheepishly tucked the picnic basket behind you and politely declined their offers. Jay’s family lived somewhere within this village, you recall. You’d have stopped to say hello had you actually bothered to ask about her parents, but you can tell that Plight was getting rather impatient with this crusade.

Now, if only you could settle on a beach...

-----☕-----

The path was illuminated by the soft glow of the firelies. Most of which were kept in glass jars, presumably left by the locals to navigate across the Glen.

The temperature was, in all honestly, perfect when you’d finally reached the lake. The water was an inviting shade of emerald, a cooling little breeze rippling across the crystalline surface of the pools as the small, white-tipped waves broke lightly against your feet. You knelt over and dipped a hand into the water, savoring the revitalizing coolness. It felt absolutely delightful against your skin.

Plight shuffled behind you, plopping his plastic bag against the ground. “You know,” he started, the mischievous tone palpable even with your back turned, “Hunching over like that is only making it more tempting for me to push you in.”

You looked over your shoulder, smiling serenely. “Can you at least wait until I’m dressed for it?”

“Not my fault you’re in the ideal position.” he grinned mischievously, making his way beside you as he tested the water for himself. “Damn, that feels nice,” he whistled, plucking off his cap and fanning himself with it.

“Right?” you crooned wondrously, “But I need you to stay put for a bit, alright? I’m going to go change behind that tree,” you motioned over to a phosphor tree leaning towards the shore, a sickly light emanating from its charcoal bark.

"Oh?" The lamplighter sat cross-legged atop the grass with his hand jammed in the picnic basket, gazing over to you with an unreadable expression and a very, very skeevy glint in his eyes.

His opportunistic streak was showing again.

You deadpanned and stuck a tongue out, ducking behind the luminous tree and slipping into the swimwear you bought two summers ago, back when vacation outings with your family was a thing you did. You partly wished you could check your reflection to smooth out any faults you spotted.

...It was probably fine. You were satisfied with your body type, and you had a cute enough face to make almost anything work.

Sighing a little more despairingly than intended, you trotted out from behind the phosphor tree and took a seat beside the basket, folding your clothes neatly in a compartment separate from the food. You gazed back out into the surface of the water, hoping to distract yourself from the fact that Plight had been staring fixedly at you since the moment you had emerged.

It… wasn’t working too well.

The lamplighter was in the process of chewing through his sandwich before he’d stopped entirely to gawk at you as if he weren’t capable of balancing two tasks at once.

“Good food?” you inquired, looking out across the water where the thrilling expanse of the open, black sea unfolded just beyond the contours of the lake. The fireflies skimmed in dreamy trails across the air, their colorful glow painting the water in shades of green. They looked like little stars, a shifting constellation dotting the sky.

The scenery was idyllic- even Plight had to pry his eyes away from you to take in the picturesque tranquility of the lake. “Mhm,” he mumbled weakly, wiping the crumbs off his shirt.

You gazed over to Plight a little daringly, wanting so badly to relish in just how quickly he’d turned his head away the moment you had done so. The lamplighter wore his heart on his sleeve, and damn if that wasn’t fun to poke fun at.

“Just take a damn picture, it’ll last longer.”

You chuckled airily, shrouding your embarrassment by as you found the way his body jerked at your words to be so utterly delectable. Plight began choking on his sandwich, coughing up bits of food as he covered his mouth with a hand. Heaven forbid you found immense satisfaction with just how red his face was, watching how he writhed and struggled with smug satisfaction.

He tugged at his collar in a very agitated manner, keeping his eyes level with the lake. “...Didn’t think you were a polka-dot type of person is all,” he cleared his throat, acutely aware of his poorly-veiled attempt of dismissing his actions.

“What, does it look bad?” you tilted your head and blinked innocuously, focusing on his reaction for the sake of amusement.

“Not at all,” he fired back so suddenly that he’d almost cut you off, tearing apart the bread with his teeth.

“...You know you’re not supposed to eat before you swim,” you laughed.

“That’s just a myth.” He waved away the concern, probably not actually knowing any better.

The two of you sat in blissful silence, drinking in the beautiful stillness of the afternoon. Then very suddenly and without warning, Plight rose from his spot and pulled his shirt off over his head, flinging it to the side and kicking off his work pants before he began charging straight into the lake surf. You gingerly removed the pant leg that draped itself atop the basket, peering over into the water as you spotted his head bob up from the miniature waves. He threw his head back, combing his fingers across the damp hair that obscured his vision.

Dear God. And you thought Plight was attractive with his clothes on.

The lamplighter was a bit leaner than expected, comprised of tight muscle and bursting at the seams with vigorous youth. You thought it might have been nice to just sit here and admire the view, and never had you been so horrified with a revelation such as this where you realized in a matter of minutes, you and Plight had switched places as the ogling weirdo. You heaved yourself up off the soft grass and decided to take a run into the lake, before you lost your nerve entirely.

The water was indescribably cool against your skin, the jade pool heavenly clear for a body of water located smack in the middle of marsh territory. Somewhere up ahead, Plight hollered in approval.

He back-stroked over to you, staying perfectly afloat atop the pristine waters. It was made evident that the lamplighter was a much, much better swimmer than you were. You never intended to stray too deep into the waters, the border where the waves erupted from dubiously murky depths, not even the fireflies could pierce. The water farther in was diluted; cloudy. Nothing that could bode well. Horror movies raised you better than that.

You splashed over to him, bobbing serenely as the delicious coolness of the water overtook your senses. Floating peacefully like this with Plight- it was euphoric.

“Told you this was going to be a good idea,” you said so matter-of-factly, smiling.

“Hah,” he smirked, waggling a little to stay afloat, “Not bad. I’ve only ever been here in the past to go fishing, I woulda snuck into the pool parties the frat boys threw here if I knew it was this nice. I thought it was all swamp.”

“You can fish?” You blinked, nudging away a floating moss ball.

“A little. Used to do it a lot when I was younger, but I wasn’t super good.” he bobbed relaxedly on his back, “Maybe I’ll take you one of these days. Lost my equipment, but I’m sure it’s just buried somewhere in the closet.”

“I’ve never gone before,” you announced, swimming circles around him and sizing up his appearance rather merrily. His eyes were facing upwards into the black sky and the storm of fireflies, his expression the most peaceful you’ve seen in a long while.

You took in a deep, calming breath of air. Maybe this was true happiness, watching the time slip from your fingers by chatting together with Plight as you swam, just the two of you drifting lazily circles amidst the sparkling lake. You reached out a hand towards a firefly that flit itself over, entranced by its gentle light. From within your peripheral vision, you caught Plight staring fixedly on you and that singular, languid gesture.

At that moment, you felt something in the atmosphere shift.

Plight abruptly dove under, leaving a trail of bubbles in his wake as you paddled backward from the spot where he’d submerged himself. His silhouette reappeared just moments later beneath the glassy surface, and you felt his arm around your legs faster than the water that forced its way into your lungs. You squealed in alarm, coughing out tiny plumes of bubbles as he dragged you further down, his laughter muffled and charming beneath the muteness of the waves. It was dark, however, so deep down that the phosphor trees and the starry insects blurred and congealed together, as though they were but mere fragments of a dying dream.

Suddenly frightened, you groped blindly out into the darkness and brushed your fingers against his skin, desperately clawing over to the lamplighter as a show that you wanted out, and now. His arms snaked around your waist in response to your distress, pressing you close. You face brushed against his rough, unshaven face, a rather beguiling contrast to the softness of his skin. He was like a siren, a selkie- and he'd dragged you in with laughable ease.

The two of you breached the surface, gasping for air as you angrily broke away from him the moment you were permitted the fortitude to do so.

“C-Could you maybe not try to drown me?” You hacked up freshwater, dribbling down your chin as Plight glided seamlessly over and steadied you with both hands, keeping you from reeling back into the water.

“Hey, hey. I-It wasn't that funny a thing for me to do, and I'm really sorry,” he reassured in vain, calloused hands stroking your back. You would have nestled into it have you not been trapped between the cusp of coughing your lungs out and hyperventilating all at once.

“It-It was so dark,” you choked out, feeling in that moment as if you were a child again. You shivered, the water suddenly arctic against your bare skin. It felt painful. It felt cold.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, holding you just a little tighter. You allowed this, mostly because the strength to rebel ghosted out of your body. At the very least, you could tell that Plight genuinely meant it. “I wouldn’t have let you drown, though. I’d make sure you wouldn’t have gotten hurt.”

He looped an arm around your waist and padded back to the shoreline.

“...Really?” You implored, another cough escaping you.

“Really. I swear on my own life,” he reaffirmed with a flame in his eyes.

Too tired to argue, you settled for resting your head lightly against Plight's shoulder, nibbling quietly on your sandwich as you admired the lake from afar. The bread had gone stale by now.

"...I miss the sun," you said, nuzzling thoughtlessly into him.

"So do I, believe me. So do I."

...

"Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey!”

A voice cheered too dangerously close for comfort, blindly interrupting whatever excuse of a moment was shared between the two of you.

You heard that lilting voice, clear as day and as sprightly as the summer sun, coming east of the picnic bag and pile of clothes you two had discarded. One of the local children, a birdkin of navy-blue plumage, hopped and waved with her wings in the air, chirruping joyfully. Her little bird feet pattered softly against the grass as she sped over to the shore, bounding in her spot.

...How long had she been standing there?

“Uh, hello,” Plight began nervously, waving over to the child, "...Who are you?"

“I'm Alula!" she squawked, clapping her wings together. You swore you saw little black fingers beneath her silky plumage. "What are you guys doing?” the child chimed, her woven dress fluttering and swaying in the breeze. Said breeze wasn’t so pleasant, now that you were completely drenched and exhausted beyond comprehension.

You introduced yourself with a shy smile, and Plight followed suit. Alula repeated your name cutely, as if trying to burn it into her memory.

“Swimming. Well, um,” you cast a sidelong glance back into the emerald lake, glistening innocently as if it hadn’t almost killed you, “-tried to. It’s hot back in the city, so we came here to relax. Sort of.”

“Woooooooooooooooooow!” she grinned from ear to ear, chirping in the most endearing manner as she flapped her arms wildly. “I’ve never seen anyone go swimming in Snake Lake before!”

Somewhere, a record scratched. You and Plight exchanged the same, horrified look before glancing back down at the child, screeching out in unison:

“SNAKE LAKE?”

You and Plight both screamed in sync with each other. For some reason, Alula joined in the session whilst shrieking in an equally loud pitch, a silly grin on her face as if she were playing some sort of game.

“Yeah!” She threw her wings in the air, feathers bouncing cutely atop her head. “Big bro says some of the world’s most venomous snakes live in that lake! It’s why everyone leaves this place alone, but I didn’t think anyone would ever swim in it! You city folk must be like, super brave!”

“Oh my God.” A shudder speared through you, collapsing beside the basket.

“Didja get bit? I hope not, because they poison is supposed to uh… para-lize? It sends you into shock and like, your muscles stop working and you drown! I heard there’s one in the lake that can kill you INSTANTLY-”

"R-Right, okay. Uhh... be quiet for a sec, small child." Plight gently and dramatically nudged his cap in her face, urging her to give you some space.

Plight unfurled his coat and draped it comfortingly over your shoulders, it’s fluffy warmth quickly enveloping you. Now you know why he coveted this thing so damn much- it surpassed most of the blankets you’ve ever owned in terms of comfiness.

“Are you guys cold? You can come back with me to my place if you want! Big bro is making fish stew, and we have like, towels and stuff!" she offered, her hospitality as radiant as her smile. Not that you were particularly averse to the act of goodwill, but it puzzled you just how readily she proposed it. It was likely she didn't know any better if her overly-friendly attitude was anything to go by.

Funny thing was, the towels were the one thing you had completely neglected to bring with you.

“That does sound nice, Alula,” you gave her a wilted, albeit benign smile, drawing parallels to her sunniness with Jay.

“I’m thinkin’ it’s about time we start heading back, actually,” Plight suggested dimly, gently rubbing your back, “Thanks for the offer, though. It’s really nice of you,” he nodded, picking himself up off the ground and packing up your belongings.

“Awww, already?” Alula pouted, skittering up the hill. “Fiiiiine. But if you ever come back though, we should play together!” she waved gleefully, fireflies spinning and whirling near-ethereally behind her.

"I live in the ruins nearby! Don't forget about me, okay?"

You slowly rose from the ground, clutching Plight’s coat almost defensively and wrapping yourself further into it. It held what was unmistakably his scent- you quite liked it.

“I promise I won't,” you called back out, watching her as she skipped across the marsh fields expertly, humming an off-key tune. What a cute kid.

Once Alula was no longer visible from view, your attention shifted back over to Plight.

“You can, uh... have this back,” you sputtered, rather remorsefully removing the coat. “You deserve it more than me.”

“Oh, c’mon now-” Plight chuckled, finding the humor in your modesty. “Don’t be like that. I wouldn’t have handed it to you if I didn’t want you to use it.”

“The cold is nothing I can’t deal with,” The voice that left your mouth had sounded so distant you weren’t positive it even belonged to you, lips pursed into a tight frown. The very sensation of taking his trademark coat from him... it made you feel as though you were infringing on something unspoken. Like you were taking what was his.

Perhaps your apprehension was infectious- you half-expected him to revoke his offer merely because of your callow stubbornness. You tentatively ran your fingers across the plush surface of the coat, pressing delicately against the fabric.

“Are you sure?” you croaked, “-That’s it’s okay, I mean. I don’t...” At the worst possible time, the words eluded you.

“It’s fine, it really is,” Plight said hurriedly, trying his damnedest not to make eye contact. “T-The last thing I want is you getting a cold. I don’t get sick easily, so it’s fine if I just walk around like this,” he laughed in that warm baritone of his. 

“...Hey,” you mumbled as he helped you rise to your feet, “Let’s go over to Ling’s cafe. I wanna bug him for some hot chocolate.”

“He’s going to think we’re crazy for ordering that in this type of weather,” Plight said, guiding you back towards the city gates.

“That’s alright,” you closed your eyes and exhaled, giggling a little stupidly to yourself as you wondered if you’d smell a little like the lamplighter, now, if you steeped in his jacket for so long. “I’m sorry this trip was sort of a bust. I feel like there’s... better things we could have done.”

“Eh,” Plight shrugged, unburdened by the thought. “I really can’t complain. It’s fun, just…” he gulped, scratching the back of his head as he craned his neck over towards the view of the city skyline, entranced by its glow.

“It’s never really boring bein’ with you. And I know that’s cheesy as hell and back, but...”

You laughed out, putting a hand to your mouth as the high of the situation kept you afloat. The lamplighter broke out into a lazy smile. 

"It's fine, it's fine," you murmured, so ecstatic that you felt as though you were fit to burst. His eyes were so bright, so lustrous that it seemed right to just sidle up next to him, watching the Refuge clamor of the city. For the first time in a long while, the ruby glow of the lively city was no longer an irritating eyesore. It seemed all the more beautiful, watching it all with the lamplighter.

"I feel the same way."

Chapter Text

It’d been a long while since the Refuge was graced with a pleasant dosage of rainfall.

The soothing patter of raindrops against the large windows further added to the somber, mellowed atmosphere of the diner that evening, cascading off the glass in neon streaks of violet. The hypnotic spectacle was sufficient enough method of distraction as the downpour had warded off the bulk of the customers, enabling a more easygoing shift in comparison to the summer rushes you struggled with.

The only complaint you had was that it made you feel a bit sleepy. It made it a little harder to stay on your toes.

Only a small number of the patrons remained, thankfully, idly and contentedly watching the sky fall from within the safety of the indoors. The flat-screen television set that hung proudly in one corner of the restaurant was tuned down to a comforting drivel, the forecast continuing onwards despite the lack of an appropriate audience present in the room.

“Summer storm fast approaching from beyond Barrens shores, second flooding expected to hit Glens tomorrow afternoon-”

You paid loose attention to the forecast with half-hearted interest, busied with the task of texting Plight behind the podium where the cameras couldn’t quite see that you were fiddling around with your phone and otherwise shirking your duties. He was complaining for the umpteenth time that shift about how the rainwater had seeped into the jars, diluting the liquid phosphor and lessening their effectiveness of lighting the avenue. Plight lamented how he’d be inevitably reprimanded for this, despite the fact that literally none of it was really something he held any control over.

You sighed. Some things never change.

“Summer storm” was, of course, a more family-friendly and partially inaccurate term that had essentially translated to “typhoon”. Even storms here were considered benign to an extent; while typhoons had their own personal tier of destruction. Figures that the Refuge dealt with a record-breaking heatwave and a massive storm all in one month as if things weren’t bad enough already. Maybe it was a sign of the end times.

While a day or two of drizzling would have done wonders for the outskirt farms and what little gardening hobbyists remained, a typhoon warranted more rain than what would've been deemed necessary. There wouldn’t have been a drought to counteract the excess water, obviously, and that bit about the Glen at risk of a second major flooding didn’t exactly sit well with you, either.

Your thoughts drifted back over to the child you befriended last week on the trip outside the walls with the lamplighter. Alula, you think it was. The little thing couldn’t have been older than 6 or 7, surely, and you found yourself combating the mounting concern on whether or not she’d really be safe with such unholy volumes of rainwater torrenting across their homeland. Traversing the Glen and steering clear of the massive puddles and sinkholes were a challenging feat in itself- not to mention that the entire place was an island upheld by a series of overgrown vines that had yet to wither.

Who's to say it wasn’t just a matter of time? How could you be so sure that this storm wouldn’t be the last nail in the coffin?

Gah. You were making yourself feel anxious.

Alas, Mother's Nature's capricious whims were the world's crosses to bear.

Plopping the phone back into your apron pocket, you whisked up a half-empty pot of coffee from the stand and strolled out into the dining room to refill any depleted mugs, smiling over to the lingering customers in hopes that upon achieving peak satisfaction with your performance, they’ll be more inclined to scram.

You just barely missed one, actually, as you turned the corner and silken sheets of cherry-red entered your field of vision. She was tucked away into a blind spot, well-hidden and seated at your favorite texting booth whilst hunched over her bacon and eggs rather gloomily. Taking that as your cue to step in and offer valid solutions to remedy a potential complaint, you skipped on over and folded your hands together in a dainty, almost pleading sort of gesture, throwing on your award-winning smile.

“How is everything here? Is the food alright for you?” You hummed as sweetly as you could muster, and the woman sat upwards out of alarm, her exasperated visage gradually blooming into a calming grin.

“O-Oh, yeah. It’s just fine, thank you,” a demure laugh escaped her cracked lips. It takes you a second to register who she was.

“Miss Silverpoint?” you gawked, unused to the sight of the woman in anything but a messy bun and burnt apron.

For some strange, inexplicable reason, you were under the impression that her hair would have been… well, longer than this. You hadn't expected it to be so choppy. It had been cut unevenly as though the stylist had either been in a hurry or was just unbelievably incompetent, the ends frayed and a few of the loose, crimson strands sticking out here and there. You had the good sense not to comment, of course, but the poor scientist looked as if she had a hell week.

One part of you was curious. The other simply knew better than that.

“Sorry, I… I didn’t recognize you for a minute, there. Did someone else seat you?”

“The sweet Glen girl, yeah,” the scientist nodded solemnly, staring absently into her cold cup of coffee. You felt as though you were intruding upon on something you really shouldn’t have been.

Clearing your throat nervously, you dropped the retail™ voice.

“Did the food come out wrong? I’d be more than happy to return it to the kitchen and redo the order if you’d like,” you suggested lightly, doubtful if that was really the issue at hand. The pleasantries would not easily dismiss itself from the deep-rooted habits that food service had hammered into you, but Kip seemed amused with it all on the outside.

She laughed in that breathless, melodic giggle, angelic against the muted clangs of ceramic coffee mugs. The indistinct background chatter and subdued raindrops pounded rhythmically against the walls of the restaurant, instilling a misleading atmosphere of peace.

“Oh, that’s alright. I just misjudged my appetite before coming in,” Kip ran a hand through her scarlet locks, regarding you faintly with detached interest. Her mind was clearly roaming elsewhere, that much you could detect from the airy sigh her gaze expressed; the melancholic glint and weary disposition. It was heavily reminiscent of Plight’s back when you had first gotten acquainted with him. The resemblance was uncanny.

It was starting to make you nervous.

Plight was the kind of man who wore his heart on his sleeve, contrary to his pitiful attempts at veiling this inevitable fact- reading him was otherwise second nature to you. From what you could tell from Kip, however, she was molded remarkably close to yourself in terms of mannerisms whilst performing your job, and expertly hid whatever traces of hardship or exhaustion plagued underneath. She was cheerful, curt, and teeming with boundless energy. She wore a mask, and she wore it well.

When she smiled, it overflowed with a tender warmth so genuine and disarming that you couldn’t help but envision what truly lied behind it, if anything aside from a raw, ingenue desire to please lingered beyond the contours of her coral-pink lips.

When you smiled to a customer, it was out of the sheer concern that anything less than a sunny attitude and rosy disposition would earn you jeering scowls and sky-high stacks of complaints from people who just couldn’t be satisfied with anything anymore, always demanding more of you and insinuating that you were nothing less than impertinent in your attitude, even if you had bent over backward for them. It was difficult to stay genuine, to love and cherish what you did because at the end of the day, all it meant to you was a paycheck and a way to stave off the boredom that ensued as you patiently waited for the day that maybe, just maybe that whole thing about the Messiah wasn’t a complete hoax and they really would arrive to herald the beginning of a new era.

When you smiled, it was to steel yourself and dissuade others.

It was a survival tactic.

And that was precisely what you had seen at that moment with Kip Silverpoint.

Now, you didn’t know Kip particularly well. It was more accurate to say that you knew of her, rather than that you knew her personally. It was alarmingly easy to chalk up the entire situation as you reading too much into it, having such a shameless and fervent lack of restraint in meddling in the affairs of others. Funny enough, this was reminding you again of when you had first encountered Plight moping in his booth, when your instincts drove you foolishly towards the path of mercy when there was no logical reason you should have ever intervened. Well, aside from a sort of wrenching, near-suicidal desire to assist.

Then Plight wound up in your bed and accused you of trying to stab him. Good times.

Nefarious thoughts aside, you found yourself once again wrestling with the idea of whether or not you should try poking and prodding for answers you weren’t quite ready to receive. You couldn’t very well go pitying every poor sap that walked through those double doors- you had a lot of those waltz in each day and for the most part, you simply sent them off with a smile and a plastic box full of leftovers- and that was that. That bad habit of yours was going to get yourself way in over your head eventually, if you kept trying to play the chivalrous role with people whom you’ve only met a handful of times.

“That uh, storm though,” you managed, choking out a poor attempt at conversation.

Kip picked up on the attempt, taking gracious pity and going along with it. “That’s technically what it is, yeah,” her lips were pursed into a thin line, raspberry-painted nails shimmering with iridescence.

“That’s going to pose a real issue back at the factory,” she declared glumly, shifting her legs. “All that water is going to tamper with the phosphor concentration, so it’s going to a be a lot of work trying to get the levels back up to where they should be once it passes. Top that off with the more brittle infrastructure that have been neglected, the overall unpreparedness for the rising water levels, safety is going to become a concern and-” she was now muttering feverishly to herself, expression growing progressively more troubled before it soured entirely, then devolving into a broken sort of hopelessness that you felt partially responsible for.

Good going, jackass.

You hummed sympathetically, glancing over your shoulder to check if a customer had squirmed in while you weren’t paying attention.

“Sound like there’s a lot of work on your plate, huh?” you eased your weight against the table and slid the coffee pot her way.

“Yeah,” she muttered, grinning listlessly and pushing the plate away from her, taking note of the coffee pot with a look you couldn’t decipher. “No end in sight. Guess that’s just how it goes, really,” she shrugged casually, dismissing the concern more for your sake than her own. You weren’t buying it.

Crossing your arms, you tapped the tip of your skidproof-shoes against the shaggy carpet.

“I uh, get that it’s an important job, but… I hope you’re not pushing yourself too hard with it all. Nothing is really worth huge amounts of stress, even if people are pushing you.” You felt a little like this type of careless advice might as well send her coursing off the edge of a ravine, but your half-assed attempt at concern appeared to garner some form of attention, shockingly enough.

Kip gazed over to you with a wondrous sheen in her ruby eyes, a smile breaking across her face before she burst colorfully into a jovial fit of laughter, hiding her lips with a manicured hand and the oversized sleeve of her dark sweater.

You felt as though you had suggested something daft, and that perhaps the researcher was mocking you for your mediocrity.

“You’re the third person this week to tell me that,” she watched you inquisitively, “I hope it’s really not that obvious. I’ve been trying to get more sleep so I can get on top of things again, but this month has just been such a hassle, you know? I’m just so behind on everything, and people are hounding me left and right about all of it. I haven’t even had the time to write her any lett-” she halted herself abruptly, quickly derailing that train of thought.

You were more surprised that people still sent letters in this day and age. Still, there was something to be said about the nostalgic value of old-fashioned letter-sending. Possessing the good sense not to pry any further than you potentially already may have, you don’t delve into the topic that could have been.

“Is taking a break just… not a thing? I mean, don’t get me wrong,” you cleared your throat, musing just how disastrously giving incorrect advice could do to someone with a reputable and prestigious position. You weren’t on the same cord as someone like her- for what purpose did it serve for her to waste her time listening to the advice of a modest server?

“I get that your job is important, yeah, but why not just take a break and let someone else handle it? It’s not fair for everything to be your problem, right? I don’t see why it’d be unreasonable if you maybe just… I don’t know. Take a step back for a bit, it can help you see things from a different perspective.” You shoved both hands inside of the apron pouch, fingers thumbing over the phone. It vibrated noisily as you did so- probably Plight hounding you to respond faster. You were sort of ignoring him in favor of chatting up a customer, after all.

The redhead sipped her coffee, gazing out the window contemplatively. “I did consider that, but I’m in charge of most of the current research projects and repairs. While suspending a few of them is plausible due to recent events, there’s just too much to be done. I can’t just neglect something like that, even if it would be nice for me to take a break,” she sunk deeper into her seat, trying very hard not to lose the battle with herself.

You peered down at your phone screen, making out the text “WHAT THE FUCK I’M LITERALLY SOAKED O-” before the alert bubble constraints had cut out the rest. You smiled at this, and diverted your focus back to Kip.

“So you’re sort of locked in place, then?”

She nodded sadly.

After mulling it over a bit, you threw tact to the winds and deduced you may as well tell her what you would have done in her place. After taking stock of the situation, outright admitting that she was imprisoned in a checkmate was quite detrimental to the whole act of playing the supportive third party.

“Just go for it,” you shrugged. Kip stared up at you in a baffled stupor. “It’s your life, too. It’s good to know what comes first, but I think it’s pretty important to go after something you really want. It’s not something I think you should put off, especially with how bad things are going around here.”

Kip visibly winced at this, and you swiftly made attempts to amend the statement. “I-I’m not implying that’s anyone’s fault, but I’m… a-alright, look,” you exhaled gruffly, sliding yourself into the seat across from her and folding your hands atop the table, like you were going to start a lecture.

“You’re one of the smart folks. In fact, you are THE smart folk. You’re the world’s leading scientist right now, right? You know better than anyone else what’s happening here, so just give it to me straight. Do you think things going to get better for everyone, even if you were to kill yourself trying to pick the Refuge from off the ground?”

She appeared too mortified to answer, biting her bottom lip and making herself as small as possible. Had you not caught her off guard with such a direct approach, you were certain she had an excuse at the ready to keep you at bay. Kip does not find it in herself to look you in the eyes.

You exhaled through your nose and sat straight-backed atop the squeaky seat.

“My best friend was like that, too,” you began unevenly, astounded by how confidently you could proclaim Plight as the role of your ‘best friend’ when ‘only friend’ was a more definite term to pin him down as. “He’s wasted years just… blindly following the orders of other people and letting them work him to death. He didn’t know how to help himself, let alone trust that he could get himself out of it. It’s miserable I know, being in a position like that.”

Kip made no effort to meet your gaze, appearing transfixed with her plate of cold food. There was the unmistakable sparkle of wordless understanding in her eyes, however, the only real indicator that you hadn’t entirely encroached upon something you shouldn’t have dabbed into.

“...Sorry, I know I shouldn’t really be going off about things like that,” you muttered apologetically, silently pouring her a new cup of coffee, right as it dawns on you that the entire pot must have gone lukewarm by now.

“No, you’ve got a point,” she responded, enchanted with the concept. “There’s little I can do now, but maybe, just maybe…”

You shimmied yourself out of the booth and reclaimed the coffee pot, restraining the urge to yawn with some effort. “If possible, think of it like this,” you brushed the bangs away from your eyes and gave the dining room another once-over, pleased to learn that the remaining patrons had silently dismissed themselves.

“Imagine that you only have one shot. Say that theoretically, you only had a single chance to do something, or had one shot to fix every little thing that's happened that didn’t exactly go the way you wanted to or turned out in a way you really didn’t like. You’d take it, right? Even knowing that it might have consequences, but it’s still a better alternative than accepting things as-is and staying dissatisfied with it?”

For a moment, you were thoroughly convinced that you’d seriously said something out of line. The conversation petered out uncomfortably, until Kip suddenly rocketed up from her spot, slinking herself out of the booth and hastily slapping a twenty-dollar bill onto the table.

“I have to get back to work now,” Kip trilled hurriedly, taking your hand in hers and squeezing it lightly, fingers applying an unassuming and gentle pressure before she stepped back. “But… it means a lot that you listened to me whine like that. The rest is a tip, but I’ll see you around, okay?” Her hands were so small and fragile that you worried one wrong move would crush them. You ponder what Plight would think if he held a hand this tiny-

...Hm. Plight holding the hand of someone who wasn't you. You instantly bristled at the thought.

Her eyes glittered like evening stars as she spun out into the pouring rain and down the radiant street of phosphor lampposts, waving an arm gleefully in the air before disappearing further down the vendor’s boardwalk, where the magenta glow of the city swallowed her whole.

Okay, so you may have just suggested something potentially dangerous to her, but it was anyone’s guess as to if the seeds you’ve very carelessly sown would ever bear fruit at all. You were leaning more towards no, but that was likely just the pessimism talking over you. You waved back, watching her form dissipate and taper into the long shadows cast by the rosy, omniscient skyscrapers.

You hadn’t noticed that entire time as you’d been so absorbed in the morbid conversation with Kip- that the rainfall had devolved into a vehement downpour, crashing down thunderously atop the slick pavement. Plucking up her plate of untouched food and mourning over the wasted strips of some perfectly good bacon, you deposited the entire thing into the sink before you trot sleepily out from the kitchen and roosted yourself behind the podium.

You wandered around the restaurant aimlessly less than a minute after, finding no enjoyment in frothing amidst your own restlessness. The diner had gone quiet, but the world outside was anything but still. It felt as though time had reached a pristine standstill when you spoke with Kip, when in reality you’d only burned through about ten minutes at most. Jay wasn’t yet back from her designated break, and even with the lingering knowledge of another person’s presence in the diner ringing in the back of your head, you felt…

Alone.

There were no customers to tend to, no small talk or meaningless laughter. You twitched and ached, curling yourself into the booth where Kip was seated and crammed yourself as far back into the corner as you could. Plight hadn’t responded after you’d sent something back behind the counter.

It was finally beginning to dawn on you why Plight had been so dour those many months ago, back when you performed spring-cleaning on lunatic mode. The gravity of the situation didn’t truly register then, how deep down the chasm had traveled. How much those little interactions with Plight meant to him, and just how dependent he’d grown on all of it. He fed off of your attention more than the discounted meals you flung his way, as if the only he continued to bother with the pressure of it all was because, at the end of the horizon, he had you waiting patiently on the other side.

He needed you.

And here you were, unable to articulate the significance of this epiphany as the storm brewed onward in your heart, lost in thoughts all alone when you realize that you needed him, too.

Chapter Text

The moment couldn’t have arrived any faster when Plight had barreled awkwardly through the front door, shoes squeaking against the small-squared tiles by the podium with each weary step.

You didn’t even think twice to consider just how pathetic it might have looked when you shot out as you did, all too eager to bunny-hop over to his side. In reality, you weren’t actually expecting a visit from him at all this evening, since the restaurant was notably out of the way from his Thursday routes. While the inherent attraction to caffeine failed to sway his hard-headed judgment, you expected him to wise up and just head home for the day since the weather had cranked the dial up to 11.

You were still glad he was here. Worried sick about his health and what the storm would do him, sure, but relieved all the same that he showed up.

“Fuck, dude,” he growled, whipping the hat from off his head and brushing the droplets from his matted hair.

Poor Plight was absolutely soaked down to the bone. His clothes had been dripping wet, hanging heavily over his body as a puddle began pooling at his feet from the sheer volume of water that his coat had been sponging up.

“It’s really comin’ down out there,” Plight remarked, as though this hadn’t yet been brought to your attention. His condition alone was a reliable testament to the cruel and unusual weather that raged outside.

“I didn’t notice it was that bad,” you lied in his favor, throwing the window an uninterested glance before ushering Plight into his favorite booth, several seats away from the view of the television screen.

“Need a menu?”

Plight was a bit of a wild card in the sense that you could never flawlessly predict what his orders were going to be. They followed a particularly carnivorous pattern, though, so you could always manage to narrow it down to a few reliable options when you made a game of it. Even that in itself waned depending on his mood, however, so you wound up abandoning the prospect entirely to make it easier on yourself.

“Nah,” he began worming himself out of his coat, grimacing at how uncomfortably the damp fabric was clinging to his skin. Your gaze lingered a bit longer than it should have. “Got it memorized by now.” He playfully tapped a chin, before-

“Let me get a fuckin’, uhh…

“Oh, you are NOT pulling that one on me,” you wailed exasperatedly, absently clicking the fine-point pen in your pocket while waiting for Plight to articulate his order.

The unspeakable noise Plight exuded was some horrendously awkward mishmash of chuckling and a failed attempt at a snort.

“It’s like, I want coffee, but...” he fiddled with the idea, recovering from whatever the heck had just recently transpired.

“But it’s also 3 in the morning,” you asserted cheekily, “So that might not be a great idea.

“Meh,” he griped, still wrangling with his own garments.

You thought for a moment, half-tempted to lock the door from the inside so nobody else could slip in.

“...Give me a few minutes, actually. I’ll hook you up with something.”

You plopped the empty notepad away and turned on a heel into the kitchen, ducking behind the stove and scouting the perimeter for the chefbot in case he’d chase you out. Stingy little guy.

You weighed out the pros and cons of giving Plight hot chocolate as a substitute for his usual poison of choice, though the act of pre-heating the saucepan and rummaging through the shelves for materials was already a direct statement of where your favor truly leaned towards. Because you know, sugar was totally a great alternative to caffeine. Go, you!

You ultimately stuck with a personal recipe rather than the pre-packaged nonsense that was enforced at your workplace, since the latter was not only extraordinarily cost-effective but time efficient. Two vital things the higher-ups valued above all else, you bitterly mused, health and safety included.

Gently humming the first song that came to mind, you whisked the cocoa and sugar into the pan before adding the tablespoons of milk, fumbling a bit with the recipe and precise measurements as you strained to recall if it was either 2 or 3 tablespoons that should have added. You supposed more couldn’t hurt, since Plight had it in him to consume multiple servings on his own.

Either way, a little treat like this wasn’t going to kill him. Plight wasn’t diabetic (you made damn sure to check with his doctor before you sent any desserts to his table) so that was one concern you could safely cross off the list.

Wait, was it… medium-low, or medium-high once you added the rest of the milk? You were under the gnawing impression that it should have been boiling faster than this, but you couldn’t exactly whip out your phone to check when the cameras were located in the bottom left corner of the kitchen. Of course, they wedged the sucker up there in the ideal blind spot.

You supposed since the recipe was technically still a work in progress, a miscalculation or two was excusable for now. You poured the contents of the saucepan into one of the larger mugs, topping it off with a generous spiral of whip cream and gently threw on a pinch of chocolate sprinkles, all to make the concoction more aesthetically pleasing. Not that it had really mattered to Plight in the end, but the execution still mattered! You only wished you had some prettier confections in stock for the season to at least bump it up to award-winning status, but alas, the midsummer provided very little in the way of seasonal platters. Which was… surprising, given it was a season of great monetary gain. Summer vacation usually meant more people with too much free time and money burning in their pockets.

Oh well.

You skittered on out and slid the mug over, swiping a bit of stray whip cream off your index finger with your tongue. Not a very professional display, but you were in good spirits, here. Had there been other patrons abound with their beady little eyes and haughty glares, you would have thought twice before doing something that was, according to the employee handbook, considered unsanitary.

“Fancy stuff,” Plight wolf-whistled, eyeing your handiwork with reverence.

“I may have, uh… messed up, sort of. Just a word of warning.”

Plight dipped in a spoon and slowly stirred, regarding the beverage in a manner that wasn’t quite critical, but very mindful of the warning you graced upon them.

“So long as you didn’t mix in curry powder instead of cocoa,” he said, finally taking a swig. While secretly delighted that your offering had seemingly passed his quality check, his last remark made your stomach churn.

“Oh please, please tell me there’s a story behind that,” you chuckled excitedly and took the seat opposite of him, elbows propped up on the table. “We don’t even have that stuff, here. Chili powder, I think, but the color is totally different. I wouldn’t mess up that hard, trust me on that one.”

“Good on you,” he chortled, “-cuz I most certainly did, once.” Plight set the mug down and blew away the whirling steam, the sweet scent lofting over. “Tried to help a buddy of mine with the flu years back. He uh... didn't appreciate the mistake, but his nose wasn't stuffed up anymore after that.”

“Dude.” You snickered, eyeballing the window studiously in such a manner that most people would have felt inclined to backpedal out if they saw how badly you wanted to be left alone.

The atmosphere was no longer the same, asphyxiating haze at it had been minutes before, though the oppressive and intruding rainfall lingered to blot the otherwise would-be tranquil stillness. You gazed out onto the boardwalk, across the street into the distance where somewhere, just beyond the rolling morning mist of the gentle sea, lied the ever-present silhouette of the imposing Factory and its cold machinery.

“...The head researcher showed up today,” you began conversationally, making out the opaque shapes of the lampposts obscured in the fog. They were like miniature lighthouses, tall and radiant amidst the weaving summer gloom that blossomed beneath the waves.

Plight took another, more resigned sip.

“Dr. Silver- somethin’?” he tested. “Or one of the other mooks?”

“Silverpoint,” you corrected benignly, kindly motioning with a finger around Plight’s mouth. “- you’ve got a lil’ something there-”

“I-I got it,” he padded the leftover cream away with his jacket, the wet plop audible as he set it down. You couldn’t help but smile.

“Yeah. Short red hair, safety goggles on her head,” you browsed down the mental checklist of descriptors to use, but the name alone would probably get the point across. You didn’t think there was a single soul within the Refuge who didn’t know who she was. Leading researcher and all that jazz- heaven only knew the ungodly amount of pressure that entailed with such an esteemed title. It almost made you feel grateful that you’d completely tanked the chem portion of the final semester in Junior year. You retook it twice before bombing that, too, and the counselor just took pity and switched you back into Bio. The only thing you ever retained from that regardless, was learning that the mitochondria was the powerhouse of a cell.

You know, knowledge you could clearly exploit to the fullest extent as a member of the waitstaff. Ugh.

“Yeah, I’ve seen her around. Only really spoke to her a handful of times,” Plight adjusted the straps of his suspenders, a careful pause partitioning his words. “...Short hair, huh? Thought it was longer at some point. Maybe. I dunno,” he waved off the detail drearily, “I can’t trust my own faulty memory nowadays.”

Was it really? Not that you could ever really tell, bun and all, but…

“No kidding?” you marveled, picturing the woman with long, flowing tresses. “Guess she cut it or something, then. Wouldn’t want her hairdresser’s number, though.”

“Yeah,” he sighed murkily and with just enough deliberation that you couldn’t quite let the subject drop then and there, not with your curiosity nagging you.

There was a solemn reflection flickering in his eyes; a withering candlelight. His mouth upturned into a wry grin, the shrill clinking of a spoon against ceramic splitting the mood.

“High-pressure job and all. It’s never a good sign when the smart folks start to worry,” he murmured thoughtfully, “Being the maintenance guy sucks like hell, but at least it isn’t entirely gonna be my fault if the world kicks the bucket I couldn’t find a solution. That’s the good thing about folks like me- all we gotta stress about is the small stuff. Course, dealing with a lot of small stuff too can get overwhelming with time.”

While that could have been provoked more delicately, you think, Plight didn’t seem particularly miffed at your indelicacy of pushing the topic.

“It all starts adding up, in the end,” you nodded sagely.

“She’s hung up on something, I think,” Plight sniffed, casting the empty mug to the side and tugging loosely at his shirt collar. “Don’t know what, though. Never asked. It’s none of my business,” he spoke so casually, dismissing the concern with a vigilant mulishness.

"You think so?" you blinked, curious as to how he'd ever draw that conclusion.

“...You think she has second doubts about everything?” You proposed, “As in, maybe she… doesn’t really want to be in charge of all of this, anymore? It’s kind of a lot for one person. Even if the responsibility is split between a bunch of the other scientists, I still think it’s too much.”

Metaphorically speaking, the Refuge was a golden cage. It would be unanimously agreed upon on that a person would find themselves to be much happier locked inside of this crimson cradle than be miserable trapped outside of it. Therein lied the prominent issue of living here all your life; you knew every street corner, alleyway, and apartment complex down to the numbers and zip codes.

You knew the Refuge like the back of your hand. And in possessing such knowledge, you felt trapped.

You knew there was nowhere to run. That there was nowhere to hide when pandemonium inevitably breaks loose one day, when the Messiah never arrives and it’s the realistic bad ending scenario you tried very hard to keep locked away in the back of your mind-

Maybe Kip Silverpoint had realized that, too. Perhaps she was as much of a cornered rat as you and Plight had always been.

The lamplighter groaned low to himself, exhaling glumly.

“If you ask me, none of this is really worth the effort,” he peered into the mug, “Because all we’re doing is pretending nothing bad is happening. We’re making do with the fact that everything is shit, and trying to make a living when there’s no worthy end result. I mean, the same goes for me, too. Do I want this lousy job when the lamps keep extinguishing every other minute? No. But do I have a choice?” he strained, leering. "There’s always going to be bad times that’ll wake you up to the good stuff you weren’t paying attention to,” he looked over towards the rain-streaked windowpane, trickling in luminous gradients of pink and purple.

Aaaaaand that was your cue to cut the conversation short.

“Wow, that’s... pretty profound of you,” you hurriedly praised, mouth agape in blissful awe.

The lamplighter sized you up with a cautionary gaze.

“Uh… what?”

“You know, like... what you said. It was kinda insightful.” You elaborated further but to no avail, making a strange gesture with your hands as if that would somehow get the point across more fluidly. “I mean. Pessimistic, yeah, but it sounded cool.”

“You’re acting like I know what some of those words mean,” he guffawed.

Well, he got bonus points for trying.

“I was trying to give you a compliment,” you gave a wanton huff and crossed your arms, tossing your hair back in an impish display of melodrama.

“You and your dictionary words, I swear,” he mock-wallowed in tandem with your comical lament.

The little diner erupted brightly with your sonorous laughter, the cacophony drowning out the distant sound of the storm’s persistent fury.

“Mmm, I’m really going to hate the jog home in this weather,” you grumbled dolefully, dejectedly observing the petite rapids swamping past the dips in the street corners before channeling into the storm drains, off the metal platforms overlooking the velvet docks.

The buses weren’t in service this time of day, much to your disappointment. Graveyard shifts for you meant a clock-out time of 4 in the morning, too early for a gracious serving of the sane customers to arrive but also, too inconveniently early in the day for anything else to be operating. The first one didn’t arrive at the stop until 6 in the morning, and even taxis wouldn't want to operate in treacherous conditions like this.

“You... shouldn't do that,” Plight spoke suddenly with a jarring, foreign urgency unbeknownst to you. You turned to place assurance before the words dropped dead where they stood, his expression the most grave you’ve ever seen.

“...Huh?” You blubbered, uncomprehending. Plight’s visage softened a little, as if compensating for the muffled outburst. He took in a deep breath, ruby eyes shaded beneath an inauspicious sheen.

“Sorry, I-I mean... You really shouldn’t. It’s… that’s not a great idea. You live on the upper floors, right?” He verified, the assertiveness unnerving to you.

“Yeah,” you affirmed, squirming uncomfortably. “Same place as always.”

Another, longer silence battered you relentlessly. You did a mental rewind the entire conversation in your head as though a VHS, scouring every vowel and syllable for anything that might have tipped off just why Plight had abruptly switched gears. Maybe you had said something wrong.

“You should just stay at my place for now,” he suggested, though ‘suggest’ was a disarmingly lighter tone to describe the truth of how he phrased it. “Ground levels are the safest. The skywalks are known to snap under pressure, and the metal is gonna be slippery to walk on. The grating can even give out on you,” he began spouting, the most informative you’ve ever known him to be.

This all seemed so unwarranted, so alien to you that you couldn’t help but push back a little.

“I’ll be fine,” you insisted petulantly, “You know I’m one of those grossly careful types. I can watch my step.”

“It isn’t up to you what happens up there,” he jabbed back with a dour expression so feral you could sparsely decipher the same person as the Plight you knew. “Accidents can happen, I’ve seen it with my own two eyes.” he spat back with some decisiveness.

He… wasn’t exactly wrong, in a sense. The heat made things brittle; that was just a grade school-leveled knowledge of science even you could comprehend. When something unused to immense heat comes into contact with a cooling agent, which was in this case, the aggressively-pouring rain, things were more likely to break. In similar fashion were the coffee pots, which if still high in temperature after being filled with hot coffee for so long, were known to crack or shatter if put under cold, running water. You’ve actually lost a fair amount that exact same way.

The urge to retaliate bled dry from your body.

From your peripheral vision, you spotted Jay stick out a jovial leg out onto the dining room, behold the scene for about a good 5 seconds, before performing a sharp pirouette back into the office.

“Right,” you chimed hoarsely, absently smoothing out the wrinkles in your uniform. “I didn’t consider that, sorry.” Wait, why were you the one apologizing, here?

As if the weight of it all had just now plunged him beneath the surface, he shot you wide-eyed, apologetic look.

“Oh no, it’s- I mean. You couldn’t have-” he floundered to amend his attitude, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to hold it against him.

“Dammit, I’m sorry if I came off as a dick. I just can’t- I don’t want anything bad to happen to you,” Plight corrected himself, audibly restrained by something other than the immense guilt of his tactlessness.

“...I won’t be imposing?” you asked, finding little option to accept the invitation if he's going to be this insistent.

“Not at all,” he piped back, “A-And sorry if it’s… creepy of me to ask, it’s just-”

“It’s fine,” you forced a laugh. "You're just worried, right?"

“...Yeah,” he shook, breathless. The color had drained completely from his face, and you've never seen him look so frightened of something in all his life.

In the end, that was enough.

Exhaling a deep breath and producing a cell phone from your pocket, you slid out from the seat with the empty mug in tow.

“I’m off in 15 minutes,” you announced, a little less energetic than you had been minutes before, “I just need to get some things cleaned up and we can go to your place.”

With muted acceptance and an anxious nod, the lamplighter waited patiently and willed for the end of the shift to approach a little faster.

Chapter Text

The summer rain spilled forth from the sky, as though a shower of needles against bare skin.

You wished you had the foresight to bring an umbrella to work- you could have warded off the bulk of the downpour. In retrospect, you’d only been obeying the day’s forecast which had quite explicitly, explained that rain showers would remain pleasant and light just a little after midnight, then stop entirely for the rest of the evening until had morning.

It hadn’t crossed your mind just how severely the weather was impacting the city until you’d subjected yourself to it firsthand. Entire intersections were flooded, and even the crosswalks were swamped thanks to the inadequate supply of storm drains to diverge the flow of water. The pipe systems would spit it all back offshore, but that was with the assumption that the sewers could handle the massive influx of water.

The Refuge just... wasn’t built to handle something of this scale. To be completely frank, it wasn’t built to handle very much of anything properly.

Seasonal storms seldom became this intense, especially within the Refuge walls. Average rainfall was one thing, but something this devastating? Could the foundation that kept this place afloat even hold under something this brutal?

Within less than a minute of exposure to the rain, you were drenched from top to bottom. Without much in the way of protection, the rain left a lingering cold that stung even beneath the petty layer of your blouse. Sickness was an inevitable possibility if you didn’t pick up the pace.

You screwed your eyes shut as you shuddered beneath the merciless weight of the elements, marching wordlessly into the night while trailing the lamplighter’s erratic steps. Plight’s long legs strode far beyond you, so absorbed in himself that he forgot you completely. Breaking into a light jog, you quickly mirrored his pace and drifted through every twist and turn of the pink labyrinth with practiced ease.

By this point, the alleyway may as well have been your second safe haven. You knew your way around it intuitively.

Even then, it took entirely too long to get to the underground bunker that was Plight’s little retreat.

You squeezed through the shutter door,  ecstatic at the wave of heat drifting past as you clambered down the staircase. It’d been a little while since you last hung out at his place, come to think of it. You don’t typically recall the room to be this warm. Or… well-lit, for that matter. The fact that you hadn’t slipped down the stairs and broken something was a miracle in itself, given that Plight’s man shack was always dark as sin.

Thanks to his more robust paychecks coming in as reliably as they were, however, a few homely additions found themselves nesting proudly within the household as if trophies of his successful endeavors.

The most notable was that infamous secondhand couch he’d pawned off the shadier street vendors parading the lamplight boulevard. That one had been unusually eager to have the furnishing relieved from his possession (which of course, you advised strongly against purchasing, given that there was no conceivable reason someone should be selling a couch in such perfect condition at that jaw-dropping low price unless something was gravely wrong it.) Unusually squeaky and heavier than its appearance had prior suggested, it took only two days an emergency phone call from Plight during a lunch rush for you to understand just why that was.

A rather tenacious and overtly aggressive family of mice had taken up residence in the damn thing, waging war against Plight in a custody battle for the couch. You stunned silent at just how a pack of rodents kept Plight confined to a corner of the room with naught but a broken broomstick at his arsenal.

The mice, cornering a human.

Oh, how the tables turn.

After that whole fiasco, maintaining the pristine condition of the house and steering clear of contraband couches became paramount. Though the former sort of did a flying leap out the window once you tried to concoct a smoothie for Plight with his new blender (keyword being tried,) and hadn’t bothered to check if the lid was securely tightened, causing the visceral remains of strawberries and bananas to spew freely out like one horrendous pink cyclone, spilling onto everything including the kitchen sink. The aforementioned incident would remain eternally smeared onto the left arm of the couch, dull and unsightly against the green tartan.

Ah, so many memories in this place alone. The recently acquired flatscreen he’d been saving up more than half of his paychecks for, the neatly organized row of coffee tins and porcelain cups of cane sugar, the tall furnace robot, and the mountain of cats occupying the empty space between his bed and the desk...

...Wait, what?

“Wh-” you gasped, nearly toppling the chair over as you scrabbled off in alarm.

“What, is it another hobo?!” Plight hollered in distress from up the staircase. “I’ve got a baseball bat under the bed!”

[Please, do not scream. The cats do not like loud or sudden noises.]

The robot spoke patiently, his tone mellowed and benign in contrary to his hulking stature. Soothing, like lemon tea with lots of milk and honey. It was completely unlike the mechanical, rhythmless babble of the usual robots posted here and there, instead outfitted by a charismatic undertone that swept you off your feet.

He was exceptionally tall, built lankier than most models you’ve seen. Even whilst in a sitting position, he towered easily over both you and Plight. You estimate he was approximately nine or ten feet tall at his full height, give or take a few inches. Remarkably well-dressed for a robot located smack in the gloomy slums of the city, he was a dapper-looking fellow outfitted in a slacks-and-suspenders combo, topped off with a stylish bowtie. An objecthead with a massive, extraordinarily well-lit furnace, silvery puffs of smoke billowed from numerous pipes and tube systems atop his head, filling the room with a peculiar, clear haze that wasn’t harmful to your lungs.

Your mouth gaped open to speak, though all thoughts became silenced by the timid mewling of a cat.

Plight descended the steps with bumbling motions, exhaling a relieved sigh upon the sight of the robot. He mindlessly crumpled his coat into a creasy ball, flinging it carelessly across the room where it landed less than a foot away from the robot with an audible ‘splat’. One of the cats flinched at this, hissing and retreating behind the robot’s gangly leg.

“That’s not a hobo,” Plight grunted, taking the seat across from you at the weathered dinner table, placing his elbows atop the thick-covered dictionaries he hadn’t opened in weeks. “That’s Kelvin, the robot I was telling you about. He’s cool.”

The lamplighter blinked, lips pulled into a terse frown.

“Not like, temperature cool, I mean. Cuz he’s not.” He stumbled, correcting himself.

“So in other words… he's hot?” You gave a wicked smile, shifting your legs beneath the table and waggling your eyebrows.

“Yeah, that’s what I-” he turned to you with his cheeks suddenly puffed up, “NO. BAD. That was NOT what I meant and you know it,” he growled brusquely, drawing more attention from the robot who was very clearly growing short with the conversation's noisy turn.

[Please. They are trying to sleep.]

You puckered your lips and snickered stupidly, kicking off your shoes and placing them beside the chair legs. Your soggy socks followed suit, jammed inside of your sneakers as your wet feet plopped against the cold stone floor.

“Oh, hush,” you tutted, folding your hands together while throwing Plight a patronizing smile. “The kitties are trying to sleep.”

You could spot the rebuttal evading his lips, withering against the receiving end of your words. At the end of the day, it was cute to see that Plight had the integrity not to ruin a kitten’s sleep with the usual horseplay. Besides, what kind of monster just wakes up a sleeping cat? Only villains do that.

“Kelvin, huh?” You hummed the name aloud, surprised by the way it rolled so pleasantly off the tongue.

[I apologize for arriving unannounced in your dwellings. While it isn’t something I normally do, the cats were going to require shelter from this weather.]

There was a gentle, unassuming authority to Kelvin's voice module when he spoke.

Both you and Plight gave a simultaneous nod, deeming his decision to be more than reasonable. It wasn’t like any of the local strays had anywhere else to go, so you deduced it was better to offer them shelter here rather than have it be someone else’s problem. Worriedly, you dwelled upon the possibility that Kelvin was not able to corral all of the stray cats in time before the torrents had worsened.

“S’fine,” the lamplighter began, rising up off his seat and shambling over towards the bedside dresser. “Can’t have you or the cat posse out in this weather, huh? Man, it’s been nasty these past few days,” he mourned with a click of his tongue, rifling through his drawers and procuring shirts and sweaters of varying sizes, holding them out under the flickering magenta of the phosphor and squinting at each article of clothing.

[The worst I have ever seen. The cats had foretold this weather just days in advance, actually. I know only after spending so much time around them that their mannerisms are not completely meaningless. I believe I have rounded up all of the ones that roam the alleyways, but it is the lost humans that are a more pressing concern.]

Right. The homeless and less fortunate who didn’t have access to certain resources- they wouldn’t have much in the way of luxury to really defend themselves from something like this. You never knew that Kelvin took care of humans as well, and Plight’s stunned silence spoke volumes of his awareness of the matter.

A sudden shudder cleaved your thoughts in two. Your work uniform, now thoroughly drenched and clinging loathingly against your skin, had begun to make you itch.

Without much in the way of warning, something came hurtling across the room at top speed and whapped lightly against your face, catching you thoroughly off guard with a muffled squeak as you clawed this thing off of you.

“I swear to God Plight, if you just tossed your underwear at me-” you wrenched the thing off of you, a loose strand of thread caught in your fingernails. He’d thrown you a baggy, oversized sweater, the patch needlework interwoven carefully into the wooly material as you returned Plight’s gesture with an inquisitive look. To no avail, that soon proved- as his back was turned to you.

“Won’t it get wet if I wear it over my uniform?” You reasoned.

“What? No, you’re supposed to take off your wet clothes and wear that instead.” He threw you a quizzical look from over his shoulder. “You’re gonna catch a cold if you stay like that.” Plight corrected, as if that was the most natural conclusion to come to. His assumption was by no means an inaccurate one to make, but a more pressing issue to address was that… well, how could he just… you know, declare something like so boldly?

You felt your face heat up, burning a fierce cherry-pink at the notion of undressing in his house.

[You can place your damp clothes next to me. I can help dry them off much faster.]

Kelvin offered benignly, his nonchalance only stockpiling your mounting embarrassment.

“It ain’t dirty, I promise.” Plight shot back, still fumbling and folding articles of clothing. “...Way too big,” he grumbled beneath his breath regarding a pair of sweatpants, too fixated on his own task to pay attention to anything else.

You weighed the sweater pensively in your arms, gliding hesitant fingers over the beige knit pullover. The more time you wasted ruminating, the colder you became. The button-up was clinging painfully, incessantly- hugging your soaked skin so tightly that it physically ached you. The instinctual desire for warmth triumphed and overshadowed the glum disbelief of it all.

Right, well...

“Alright, just…” you eyes squeezed shut, gripping the sweater with whitening knuckles as a discontented sigh fled your lips. “Don’t turn around, alright? You’d... you'd better not look,” You clucked with a cheeky scoff, fabric rustling softly as you slowly unbuttoned the drenched shirt.

“Huh?” Plight snorted, completely and hopelessly tuned out to what you’d said and in fact, acted conversely to what you had warned him specifically not to do just seconds ago. He whirled around to the scandalous sight of you, his best friend, caught in the process of undressing halfway. Your hands slipped and fumbled over the buttons, growing progressively more frustrated in your efforts upon failing such a simple task. It was dumb luck alone that saved him when your back had been turned fortuitously.

“Geez. Do I need to ask Kip if I need a Ph.D. to unbutton a damn shirt while it’s-”

[Mister Lamplighter.]

Kelvin spoke in a tone contrary to their usual warmth, nearly discernable as chiding. You stopped undressing midway from the shock alone.

[Your friend has told you not to look.]

Plight handled the matter as delicately and responsibly as one could muster under restrictions, turning back around at breakneck speed to stand straight-backed facing the wall with frightening concentration. Faced dyed a beet-red, he slapped the side of his face ashamedly as if to rouse him from whatever trance had enraptured him,  diverting his wandering thoughts to something, anything that wasn’t an indecent image of you.

Your heartbeat stuttered, as if your brain was frantically mashing the button to detain yourself from getting carried away with your thinking. Right. You were reading too much into this, that was all.

“I don’t really mean to sound pushy, but uh… am I getting... you know… pants?” You squirmed yourself out of the dripping uniform top, peeling the obstinate sleeve from off your arms, shivering at the biting cold of bare skin exposed to the frigid air.

At that moment, a bunched-up pair of sweatpants had chucked itself at the back of your head. It tickled just slightly, though a displeased kitten had taken obvious offense to the gesture of a foreign object landing close to where it slept, sunset-hued stripes bristling out as the little thing hissed and retreated further behind the bastion that was Kelvin.

“Your hospitality is staggering,” you snickered to yourself, gradually shimmying into the clothes he’d flung your way. The sweatpants were, as you’d anticipated from an earlier remark, definitely too big for you. Not quite baggy enough to slide off your hips, but the waistband wasn’t tight enough around your waistline and threatened to slip if you didn’t make a conscious effort to keep it right. On the contrary, the knit sweater was snug and toasty, absolutely enveloping you in its entirety. Though while it was in all honesty, a smidgen too scratchy for your tastes and slipped dangerously off a shoulder in an asymmetric fashion.

There was still the... unspoken problem of yours that you weren’t quite brazen enough to approach. Where you know, the rain had seeped so badly into your uniform that it’d reached your undergarments, but even all of the riches in the world could never convince you to dare touch ground on a subject like that. A pair of cold undies wasn’t going to kill you, so long as the shock of embarrassment didn’t beat it to the punch. You kneeled to pick up the sopping wet pile of clothes, correcting the creases as best as you could before laying them flat against the concrete floor in front of Kelvin.

“Thanks for the clothes,” you nodded to Plight with a gentle smile, but the wall of his back was stone against your gaze.

“Yeah,” said Plight hoarsely, voice breaking awkwardly. He made a show of feigning preoccupation with the task of organizing his clothes, but you memorized his habits enough to know that cleaning, organizing, or any related synonym didn’t exist in Plight’s dictionary.

And there were many, many words that weren’t in his dictionary, to begin with.

You allowed for your lofty gaze to fall elsewhere, waiting for when Plight gave you the signal that he’d been done changing himself. You opted to pay more attention to his guest, the robot whom you’ve never personally had the opportunity to become familiar with, outside of playful banter with the lamplighter. A generous distance strayed between you and Kelvin as you took a seat on the floor across from him, legs crossed and arms at your sides. Your eyes glittered with excitement and adoration, studying the colorful meadow of furs.

“Is it okay if I pet one?” You braved the fiery brilliance of the incinerator with a gleaming smile, but the flickering flames mellowed to an apricot glow upon the request. The ensuing silence was contemplative, but not at all heavy. Kelvin tilted his head upwards by a fraction of an inch, the movement nearly indistinguishable had you not been eyeing him for a reaction.

As if to appraise your approximate worthiness to do so...

[You may.]

Kelvin conceded, giving consent.

Suppressing the urge to squee in delight, you wiggled excitedly over to the mound of assorted cats, picking out your favorite breed from the fluffy crowd. There was quite the respectable collection amassed here, cats from all walks of life partaking in the warmth Kelvin offered.

A Barrens Fold, Glen Mackerel Tabbies, Refuge Shorthairs; all clustered together in an amalgamate pile of whiskers and fluff. The urge to flop on top of it all and rest your head against Kelvin’s chest was, frankly, increasingly tempting.

A cautious hand drifted over to the cat of your choice, hovering just above the small creature that sniffed you with a delicate nose. You patiently waited for the cat to give approval when it nuzzled affectionately into the palm of your hand as an indication of acceptance. Alight with giddiness, you ran a careful thumb atop their fuzzy head and scratched lightly behind the ears, soft purrs rumbling tremulously beneath your tenderness.

“Do you take care of them all?” you whispered quietly, smooth purrs submerged by the tempo of crackling embers.

[Somewhat.]

Kelvin angled his head down, mindful of your presence.

[The cats mostly know how to take care of themselves. They seem to return to me one way or another since it is my warmth that draws them in each time.]

“That’s a form of nurturing,” you gave an encouraging chime, scratching lightly beneath the cat’s chin with an index finger. “Is that your purpose? Warmth?”

[It was for a long time. It still is.]

His answer is simple, but earnest.

[It was my original purpose. One way or another, I found myself gravitating back to it. Mostly because of the cats, as they were the ones who found their way to me. So long as I am needed, I remain.]

You shifted your legs, adjusting to a more comfortable sitting position as you spared the cat more of your cumbersome smothering in favor of letting it catch up on its beauty sleep. Plight shifted in jerky movements along the corner of your vision, locked in a losing battle against a long-sleeved shirt. You chuckled at the sorry sight and drew your head back, tracing nonsense shapes into the ground and bathing in the stillness.

“Alright,” grunted Plight, lifting a hefty mountain’s worth of blankets from a cabinet before hurtling them carelessly onto the couch, hands planted pridefully on his hips as if he’d just done God’s work. He motions to you with his head, brushing back some of the lavender locks from his eyes. “You get the bed. I’ll crash on the couch while you’re here.”

“...Oh,” you anxiously tugged the hem of the sweater, “Are you sure that’s alright with you? You shouldn’t feel obligated to do that.”

“Course it’s fine!” huffed the lamplighter as he did a pretentious moonwalk into the stained loveseat, landing with a muffled, melodramatic thud. “I’m the one who asked you to stay here, remember? I’m willing to own up to that, y’know.” He pumped a reassuring arm into the air, gesturing a thumbs-up in what he presumed was your general location.

Your weight sank into the mattress as the bedsprings creaked beneath your unfamiliar presence. Your fingers caught themselves upon the familiar sight and velvety texture of the galaxy-printed comforter you’d loaned him during that spring cleaning session ages ago, along with an entire sea of blankets that once belonged to you. It was reassuring to you that he’d still kept these. A pleased smile crept upon your lips as you lost yourself within the plush mound of pillows and blankets, burrowing beneath the sheets and nestling your cheek against the patchwork pillowcase.

His nostalgic scent had imprinted itself upon the sheets, having long since overwritten yours beneath months of exposure. It was familiar and grounding, the kind of earthly comfort only aged linen and fresh coffee could provide. Intoxicated by the overwhelming urge to slumber, your consciousness ebbed and flowed, much like the sea.

The phosphor jars swirled softly in ethereal, rose-colored specks of glitter, blinking out of existence once Plight had thrown a dishrag over the jar. In just a few hours, you knew it would lose all concentration and wink out entirely.

“Night,” said Plight, waving an arm that was lost in the darkness. “Night to you too, Kelvin! And your sixteen cats.”

[Seventeen. And good night, you two. I shall remain vigilant in your stead.]

The roaring furnace had quieted into a pleasant, subdued crackle, the foot of the bed aglow in a mesmeric spectrum of warm colors.

You drew the comforter past your chin and sank further into the bed, gravitating further and further away from consciousness.

“Sweet dreams,” you whispered back before dreamland had whisked you away.

-----☕-----

It was a world of deep blue.

All vision was obscured by a thick, murky haze that stained the world a black ultramarine. Gently, softly- the vast, nightmarish expanse of blue was suffocating in the way it wrung the very life from your lungs.

The cold, a blistering absolute zero that could rend and rip through sinew and bone, enough to throw anyone into swift shock should they become exposed, swallowed you whole with monstrous gluttony. There wasn't even time to panic. No thought, no warning.

You were drowning.

Body limp and lifeless, greedy currents swept you further and further away. The sound throbbed and echoed, rushing through your ears, eyes glassy and glazed like that of a dead fish. A whirlpool of bubbles floated from your gaping mouth to the blackened surface of the water, where a disfigured silhouette warped and waited in anticipation. For what, you don’t know.

Something, or someone, called your name.

Once, then twice. Beckoning, shouting, then reaching a fevered crescendo as they shrieked in desperate pitches, longing for a response that would never come. You wanted to do something, anything to assuage the voice, experimentally wiggling your fingers and toes only to discover that all feeling and sensation in your body had been smothered down to complete numbness. You were a perfect doll, frozen amidst the arctic embrace of the undertow.

It is a child’s voice- agonizingly familiar as it pleaded for you, sobbing your name zealously as though a prayer. A young girl, calling you back to where you belong on the surface as you felt yourself gradually submitting to the pull of vacuum, throat sore and swelling from the water that threatened to burst your lungs from the inside out.

You knew this voice. Somewhere, somehow, you have heard this voice before. 

Heart seized and beating like a broken drum, breaking into a thousand pieces, shattering and splintering and every nerve feels like fire, it's so cold that it feels hot and nausea skewers through your spine and it hurts it hurts but you can’t remember her name-

You are dying, you are dying, the everlasting blue claimed you as its own lovely prize and you are dying-

...

And you jump-started back to life with a terrified wail, having kicked off the galaxy comforter with tremendous force amidst your wild thrashing.

Your chest ached and heaved, breathing in desperate gulps of air. Your eyes, open wide and unfocused on the withered world around you, gradually attuned to the familiar, velveteen glow of a phosphor jar. There was extraordinary difficulty in trying to properly control your breathing when your skin felt tight and cold sweat drenched your forehead. It hadn’t even registered that Plight stationed himself beside you all this time, palm rubbing circles against your back while his free hand clasped reassuringly around yours.

Frantically, the lamplighter repeated your name.

“Hey, hey- it’s okay,” he whispered determinedly as though an irrevocable mantra, herding you with a single arm and drawing you into his chest. Unthinkingly, you wove trembling fingers into his shirt and crumpled yourself meekly against his body, burying your face into the crook of his neck as you choked out a strangled sob.

You squeezed your eyes shut firmly and hiccuped, fingers spasming for control against his shirt before your grip slipped and slackened entirely. Plight reassuringly stroked the back of your head in slow, deliberate motions, combing his fingers softly through your locks as he rocked you gently in his arms.

“It was just a bad dream, everything’s alright,” promised Plight, unperturbed by your outwardly childish behavior. Strong arms circled defensively around your body to keep you rooted firmly, as though something was liable to tear you away from him was he not on high alert.

“I… I dreamt I was drowning,” you croaked, the very image of the blue expanse sending white shocks through your submerged brain. Unconsciously, your nails had begun digging a little too heatedly into the fabric of Plight’s shirt. “It felt so real, like… like it was..."

“But it wasn’t,” Plight enunciated with a doting cluck, shaking you lightly. “You’re alive and well, and I’ve got you right here. I won’t let anything bad happen to you,” Plight murmured into the top of your head. The lamplighter's voice was thick with conviction, his very presence stabilizing your mood.

“Alright? I’ll be here to keep you safe.”

With a defeated nod, the two of you sat blanketed beneath a comfortable, calming silence. Marinating within the tranquility Plight had offered, you nudged him faintly with an elbow, untangled your limbs from his, and rose with unsteady feet to get a drink of water. His words, albeit pandering to your romantic daydreams, nonetheless drilled itself a permanent hole inside of your sleep-hazed head.

You made an involuntary reach for his coffee mug, appropriately labeled ‘World’s Okayist Employee’, and poured water from beneath the squeaky faucet. Cooling against your raw throat, you gulped it down and exhaled deeply. The onslaught of rain made itself apparent as it battered a merciless rhythm against the surface of the shutter door, reminding you still of its presence.

Deep, calming breaths. A single sip of water. Rinse, repeat.

Until the buzzing thoughts taper into nothingness, until the anxiety had flushed itself from your system. You repeated this process for a few minutes or so, at least until the mug had gone empty and you slid it back to the dishwasher rack.

“I think I’ll be okay,” you decreed with a shaking voice, meeting Plight’s apprehensive gaze with an earnest smile.

While evidently unconvinced, Plight showed no indication that he intended to press the topic any further than necessary, retreating obediently back to the couch.

“...Don’t be scared to wake me up if you need me, alright?” His ruby eyes fixed firmly upon your own, the features of his handsome face sullied into a worried frown unlike anything you’ve seen before.

He was truly, deeply worried for you.

“I will,” the response was fluid and automatic, the thought alone gracing you with enough solace to properly settle down.

Resting your head a second time, you lost yourself amidst the sea of pillows and blankets, staring wordlessly at the blank ceiling with an unsteady heart. In a matter of minutes, you had drifted off onto an immaculate, dreamless sleep.

...But even still, the echoes of that dream girl’s cries would not falter.

Chapter Text

It was the buzzing of your phone that woke you this time.

You rolled over in bed and swiped the phone screen, neglecting to check the number before answering. The sheets were so cozy that you didn’t want to bother sitting upright to answer a single phone call. 

“Hello...?” You mumbled sleepily, not entirely awake.

“Yo,” said the voice. You sat bolt upright, recognizing the voice anywhere. Oh, God. It was your  manager . 

“Boss?” you stammered, drawing the blankets over your lap to stave off the cold. “What’s wrong? Are you short on people again?”

“Yes and no,” they responded. You heard them exhale on the other end of the line. “Don’t worry, I wasn’t calling to make you come in. I’m calling to see if you know what’s up with Jay.”

Jay? Didn’t she work the graveyard shift with you last night? Why were they scheduling her back to back like this?

“I didn’t hear anything from her,” you rubbed your eyes, instinctively headed towards Plight’s coffee machine. The new day dawned chilly, and Plight’s little basement got awfully cold. “Did she not show up for her shift?”

You dumped the coffee grounds into a filter and clicked the machine on, peering around the room for any sign of Plight. His wet clothes were gone and there was no sign of his coat or pole anywhere, you presumed he still had to go to work. You sighed and balanced the phone carefully on your shoulder, leaning in to speak.

“Sure didn’t. She’s not answering her phone, either.” said your manager with a touch of worry. “She’s always been pretty punctual about these things, so it’s kind of unlike her to do something like this. You two are pretty close, so I thought I’d ask if you knew what was up.”

You refrained from pointing out how unreasonable the scheduling was. Talking smack directly to your boss’s face was a pretty effective way to get yourself fired, and you weren’t really in a rush to lose your job. Even so, you suspected that maybe the abysmal scheduling played a part in why Jay was absent. 

“I haven’t heard anything,” you frowned, voice taut with concern. “I haven’t spoken to her since our shift last night.”

“Hmm,” your manager contemplated this, though something in his tone hinted that he wasn’t satisfied with your answer. “...Any chance I can get you to cover her shift?”

Aaaaand there it was.

“Sorry, boss. I have some important errands to run today,” you lied straight through your teeth, topping off your coffee with cream and mounds of sugar. You watched quietly as you stirred the coffee, sugar crystals melting into the broth.

“Figures,” the huffed, mood as foul as ever. “Well, let me know if she contacts you.” 

You gave an affirmative hum and hung up gratefully. You made your way to the old couch and curled up against the cushions, leaning against the arm to better view Kelvin and his many cats.

“Morning,” you said pleasantly, sipping your coffee with a contented smile.

[It is technically 12:47 in the afternoon, but good morning nonetheless.] Kelvin answered. [Do you normally wake up this late?] 

“Er… depends,” you answered guiltily, too ashamed of your sloth to respond honestly. “Did Plight leave for work?” You switched topics, eager to get the spotlight off of you.

[I believe so. He left roughly three hours ago. He also specifically instructed me not to wake you up.] The cat closest to his leg flopped over on its back, paws in the air. 

“...He still works in this weather, huh?” You said, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. You drew your knees up to your chest and flipped on Plight’s fancy new television, tuning down the volume so the cats wouldn’t be disturbed by the noise. 

[He works harder than most of the humans I’ve seen.] Kelvin spoke from behind you, the glow of his furnace casting shadows across the room. [It’s quite the terrible job he has. Most of the red phosphor has supersaturated, so he works around the clock to ensure it doesn’t crystallize. It is an important job, but very terrible for him nonetheless. I cannot imagine the stress.]

You closed your eyes and breathed in the sweet scent of freshly brewed coffee, the hot steam ghosting against your chin. Inevitably, your thoughts were corralled to Plight and of how soaked and miserable he must be in this awful weather. You wished he’d woken you up. You would have gladly taken the bus back home if only to lend him your umbrella. 

The pretty newswoman said something peculiar in that instant that grabbed your attention. 

Flooding in the Glen had become so severe that the Refuge declared a state of emergency. The news cut out to live footage of the sector gates, crowded with Birdfolk who were desperate to enter the city. Although the mayor had declared the Refuge be on lockdown, forbidding both exit  and  entry of the city, people still lingered outside of the gates. There was footage of the guardian bots, colossal arms outstretched to block as much of the corridor as possible. Birdfolk trickled in one by one, aggressively squeezing themselves through the cracks and openings in its defenses to sneak into the city. Some have lost their homes, their families- and came to the Refuge seeking… you know,  refuge , as the name implied. But they were being turned away in huge numbers, and the ones who didn’t take no for an answer fought for their lives to slip into the city. They had just as much of a right to live like anyone else, and yet they were being denied entry?

You clasped your hands around your mouth, in shock at the sight.

“Why won’t they let them in?” You said fiercely, mug slamming hard against the coffee table. 

Kelvin tilted his head up to face you, glowing a gentle amber. Many of the cats were startled at the outburst, paws outstretched, pupils blown wide. 

[I’d assume it is related to the overpopulation issue in the Refuge. I have heard bits and pieces from passersby, but the collapsing infrastructure has always been of concern. I believe accidents peaked this year. Many believe that taking in others will only worsen the situation.]

“But this is-” you stammered, motioning wildly to the television. “It’s… it’s unfair. How horrible,” you said, perilously close to tears. 

[I don’t disagree.] Said Kelvin. [I am, unfortunately, getting mixed signals from my coding. It is our innate responsibility to preserve the life of others. We may not allow humans, even through inaction, to come to harm. And yet… I am told it is a necessary action to preserve other lives. Sacrificing lives to save lives… is not something I comprehend. I am unsure if I ever will.] The robot crossed both of his gangly legs, quietly watching the cats clamber into his lap and curl into him. A gentle sentinel, forever watchful of the creatures he loves most. 

“...I’m sorry,” you sniffed apologetically, clicking the television off. “I kind of... freaked out,” you wandered over to Kelvin, kneeling hopefully beside him. He picks up your clothes from a nearby stool, neatly folded and smelling faintly of linen and fresh cotton. 

[There is no need to apologize. I am sorry there is little I can do to offer comfort. I’m not used to helping others with emotions. The only comfort I can provide for you is warmth, if you are willing to accept it.] 

You cradled the clothes, hugging them close to your chest in hopes that their warmth would seep into you. You looked up at Kelvin and gave him a small smile, genuinely delighted by his words.

“That’s sweet of you,” you said with a weak laugh. “...Thank you, Kelvin. Do you mind if I change my clothes?” You asked out of politeness, unsure if the robot would mind. 

The line that separated a tamed robot from a normal one was a blur at times, and Kelvin walked perfectly between the two like a tightrope act. He most assuredly spoke differently than the other robots in the Refuge. It’s possible that the mannerisms other people have bled into his personality- perhaps Kelvin would not be tamed by any one person, but collectively by multiple people. If one is loved by many people, after all, then they, in turn, may learn to love many people. Taming was an arduous and mystifying process, but you’d be lying if you said it didn’t fascinate you.

[Not at all. Do you intend to go out?] Kelvin moved his head up slowly, watching you with concentration. 

You fitted yourself in your uniform, looking as crisp as ever. You gave Kelvin a confident smile and planted your hands on your waist. 

“Mhm. There are some things I have to do,” you said decisively. “...Oh, but first,” you hummed, making Plight’s bed and tucking the sheets properly. You didn’t have time to scrub and clean the rest of the place, as cathartic as cleaning would have been, but you weren’t so uncouth as to leave the bed messy when your host had let you stay the night.

[I cannot suggest you go out, but… I don’t wish to interfere. Please, be safe.] Kelvin warned softly, slinging an arm over his knee. [The Lamplighter will be…  displeased  if anything bad were to happen to you.]

You contemplated Kelvin’s words and said your goodbyes as you ascended the stairs, an ominous sensation roiling in your heart. You unlocked the shutter doors and hoisted them open, facing the battering rain with a stoic expression. 

Flashes of the nightmare flicker to life in the back of your head. Legs knotted in your blankets, suffocating, fully convinced that you were going to drown within that deep blue dream. You can still remember the sensation of the currents pulling you down, the sky dark and furious above you, and the sound of a girl crying your name, over and over. Of your vision disintegrating, of life being squeezed from your lungs. 

Walking through the pouring rain, face set in fierce concentration, you tried to pinpoint who the voice belonged to. Sometimes, dreams were completely nonsensical and had no distinct connection to reality. Dreams don't always have meaning behind them, but bits and pieces of your memories and fears are bound to melt into them, knowingly or not. The human mind was funny that way. You sighed, exasperated and tired of brainstorming. You slunk into the elevator and leaned against the railing, the cheery music fading into white noise as you dwelled upon the dreary news.

You thought back to the early summer and that awful heatwave. Plight had almost drowned you in that lake, but you couldn’t help but smile fondly at the memory of that emerald lake, beautiful and gleaming with fireflies. There was that little girl, too, you wondered if she was okay in this weather- you felt bad that you hadn’t had time to visit and say hello since then. 

Although a month had passed since then, you could still envision her innocent smile when you closed your eyes. Her indigo plumage, the way she flounced atop the grass with dance-like steps, and the way her voice reached a high soprano when she sang. 

“Don’t forget about me, okay?”

You’d forgotten her name for a moment there, which was an awful shame considering that you and Plight had introduced yourselves.

...Right, you. You gave her your name. 

That’s when it hit you. 

The voice, the silhouette- it was the girl in the dream. The one that cried, the one that screamed, the one that begged for you to come back- oh God. Oh, God.

No, dear God, not her. 

Alula.

When the elevator doors flew open, you broke into a sprint and barreled down the catwalks, making a beeline for your apartment complex. 

“Please,”  you found yourself begging.  “Please be okay.”

 -----☕-----

Once home, you stripped off your clothes with frightening speed and fast-pitched the uniform across the living room. You dunked it into the overflowing laundry basket, where it joined the other articles of clothing you promised yourself that you'd eventually wash. You unloaded the entire basket in a rush and started up the laundry machine- the dryer could make quick work of the load when you got back. 

Rummaging through the closet, you fitted yourself in the biggest, baggiest raincoat you owned and threw on a few extra layers underneath for good measure. It was key to retain as much warmth as possible, estimating that the Glen rainfall would not be treating you kindly. One of those yellow sou’westers would have been useful right about now, even though they just about looked awful on anyone who wasn’t a mariner. 

You couldn’t shake off the feeling that no matter how many layers you tacked on, that you were still somehow vastly unprepared. Like you were forgetting something. Something  very  important.

Your common sense, maybe. 

You made it a point to send Plight a quick text before you left your apartment. You rotated your aching shoulders and fought against the stiffness of your body, keeping yourself limber.

Lastly, you reached for the jar of red phosphor you borrowed from the lamplighter. Flicking up the hood of the rain slicker, you cautiously maneuvered atop the catwalks and took the passage closest to Ling’s Cafe. 

There’s no way you could slip past one of the main gates. It was futile to try and weasel past the guardian bot, and they were going to close down the sector gates in as little as an hour. Once those doors were sealed, they weren’t going back up until the mayor gave the order.

....But there was no such thing as a truly impenetrable fortress. Even the Refuge, the last bastion of civilization, had holes in its defenses that one could use to their advantage. One such hole in the wall was a passage from the old days, back when they carved out emergency exits for workers who built the steel wall. Most of the passageways were boarded up by the cops or had caved in outright, but it does little to deter those who seek to trespass. 

You and your old college buddies used to sneak out into the Glen through those old passageways, smuggling coolers full of alcohol. It wasn’t often that you went out with them, you weren’t much of the partying type in the first place- but it was fun and exciting to explore someplace new with people you cared about. It’d been years since you’d last used this passage, but you were pleasantly surprised to see it relatively untouched. 

Inside was sheer darkness. You felt around the wall and swung the jar forward, bathing the cryptic staircase in a pink glow. It was a frightening sight, seeing the stairs drop off into complete black about three feet from you. With each step you took, the phosphor pushed back the darkness. You were wandering into dangerous territory, both figuratively and literally- and you couldn’t stifle the thought. Is this what the world would be like when phosphor finally runs out? 

Eternal, unforgiving darkness? Bumbling about in the dark until each and every one of us met their demise? How long did this world have left until this nightmare became a reality? 

You shook your head, trying to stave off the negative thoughts. They weren’t of any use to you here, and your life was frightening as-is, thank you very much!

There in the distance was a speck of green, glowing like a light at the end of a long, unforgiving tunnel. Miraculously enough, there were no square particles in sight, nor was there a sign of a guardian bot on patrol. Looks like your gamble paid off- you found yourself a straight shot to and from the Glen. 

Now came the hardest part. Trying to find a needle in a haystack. Or in this case…

Two children lost in a storm.