Magic of War

     The world is a broken, jagged place nowadays. Something akin to a mirror, once perfect and smooth and now shattered into millions of pieces when anger explodes in the air. A shattered mirror the cries blood in the aftershocks of anger; sorrow and guilt cracking into any untouched surface. Patrick stares at his broken mirror as the thought crosses his mind, crimson dancing on the fingers tracing the broken pattern.

     He wonders if it'll ever be fixed. The world or even his life. He doesn't think it will ever be fixed; that everything is too shattered to be fixed and glue can only do so much. Even if- even if it was fixed it wouldn't ever truly be fixed. It would just be a facade, something to hide the true ruins and broken edges and the edge you don't see is often the worst.

  

   Patrick is that edge though. The jagged remains of broken happiness hidden behind chubby cheeks and hazy green eyes. He's the embodiment of softness, fat rounding anything that could possibly be considered harsh. He's the broken one pretending to be fixed, to never had shattered before. And maybe that would be true if it weren't for the fact that everything is wrong. 

     Wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong. Patrick stares at himself and he sees a maybe happy person with round glasses and a lopsided smile. He sees a maybe happy person covered with the splinters of disaster stained crimson with misfortune and anger. 

And it's wrong. It's wrong because the maybe happy person sits and watches his reflection and can't even connect with what he sees. It looks false, like someone playing make pretend because he was- he was-

     He was late is what he was he decides with one glance down at the phone on the counter. Only by a few minutes, but that time would only grow because he hasn’t even left his shabby apartment yet. He always had this nasty habit to be late to things, really it’s a shock how his friends still invite him out.

     He’s turning away with one last glance at his bulky, broken reflection; swiping his phone into his pocket as he departs. It’s a quick walk, one room and a thin door being all that kept him from being outside his flat. That thin door being all that kept him from the nipping cold of winter airs that make him grateful for the heavy fur coat he had wrapped around his torso.

     Winter, he decides as he locks the door, is a cruel unfathomable beast that took pleasure in taking heat from others no matter what preventive measures people took against it. His fingers were already stinging and his glasses misted over from the drastic change in temperature. Winter is this distasteful thing that he’d rather not have to deal with. Cold especially was something he didn’t like to deal with, Patrick thinks as he stuffs chilling fingers into the front pockets of the coat. 

     The only thing about winter he could be thankful for was because it made him want to move. Which made the short walk from his flat to the tiny bar tucked between two monopolies much faster. Faster walking means he’s not as late as he could be and Patrick really did hate being late. Something about it crawled under his skin even though he almost always was late. 

     The bar is this cozy place, with warm lights and wooden floors and constant conversation. Nothing overly loud, but this constant chatter that makes it seem homely. He steps in, his breath fanning frozen air in front of him and instantly he hears a loud voice shouting in greeting.

     He blinks green eyes because he wasn’t expecting it and then the greeting rings out again, “Patrick!” And there’s a small part of Patrick that bristles because who-

     And then his eyes are sweeping across the bar with the bustling waiters and the gentle companionship of multiple groups chatting over beers and food and he catches sight of two men just as he hears, “Over here man!” It takes him a second to place them, to place the dark colored man with the jostling mug of beer and the quaint man with the blonde hair and the mild smile. He knows them, he knows he knows them and he knows that’s who he’s here for but he can’t-

     Aiden raises the beer even higher over his head, his grin all consuming and Patrick moves forward with a laugh as he joins them. “Hey, when did you guys get here? Looks like you started without me too.” He’s joking of course, has the wide kind of smile as he steals the seat in front of the two and Aiden explodes with rough laughter as Maxwell shakes his head.

     “You’re late, of course we started off without ya! Should try to be here on time next time.” Aiden’s got these blue eyes, the frosty and silver kind that twinkle when he grins too hard and they set nicely against the dark flush streaked across dark skinned cheeks. Maxwell on the other hand is all amber in coloration, not a speck of red on his cheeks and Patrick can quickly guess who did all the drinking this evening even though both are holding mugs of the golden elixir. 

     “Hey, I got caught up in something; else I would have been here on time.” It’s an excuse of course, the only thing Patrick got caught up with was staring at his brown skin that seemed too thick and the gold necklace that burned the base of his throat. He had stared at the mirror for longer than he should have, something that made him think of his teenage years when he tried to appease his peers. 

     Aiden leers, eyebrows wiggling as he says, “I’m sure you did.” Then the drunk man swivels around in his chair, calling out with a raised hand until a nearby waitress starts heading in their direction, “Hey- Hi. I was wondering if I could maybe steal a minute or two of your time and order a drink for my bud over there?” Aiden’s all flirtatious words and beaming grins that has the waitress giving a soft chuckle before agreeing.

     “And that, my friends- is how you woo a lady.” Aiden throws out, smugness dripping from every word that has Maxwell giving a groan.

     “Or how you make a fool of yourself. Seriously Aiden, the poor girl works here. She was simply doing her job.” An eye roll follows the words as Maxwell shakes his head. Aiden lets out an offended huff, mouth opening to retort and-

     “I’m sure you wooed her socks off Aiden, what would your wife say?” Patrick butts in, all smiles and jokes that has Aiden distracted from Maxwell’s words.

     “Why, she’d be proud of me of course! Now, I think she’d be more interested in what you were preoccupied with that made you late.” Aiden’s like a shark after blood, leaning closer with each word.

     “Well, she’s going to be sorely disappointed. You know I already found the one for me.” 

     Maxwell gives a snort at Patrick’s words, “Even I know your job doesn’t classify as the one. Should probably try harder if you want to be left alone.” Which Patrick took offense to. He spent more hours working in his small bakery than he spent in his home so it could definitely be counted as the one. With the amount of time and money he spent on the small shop he might as well be married to it.

     “It does count-“ Patrick is disrupted before he even gets started by the waitress dropping an ale in front of him and filling Aiden’s ever emptying glass of ale but after offering a quick thanks to the waitress he continues, “It counts. It makes me happy. That bakery might as well be my child, I don’t know what I’d do without it. And people don’t understand that. I’ve tried dating but it always ends with her saying me or the bakery. Always complaining that I spend too much time up in my shop and I will always pick that bakery before any person.”

     “And that’s not healthy, Patrick. Really, you’re going bankrupt because of that thing.” Maxwell has that pitying look on his face, where his eyebrows quirk up. He’s got a little pout with sad amber eyes that trace Patrick’s every movement. Patrick gives a grimace and chugs his ale without a second thought. Really, he needs to be drunker for this.

     “Are you planning on opening it again soon?” Aiden butts in.

     “Maybe.” Patrick offers a shrug, eyes skirting to his drink to avoid looking at overly earnest and overly judging eyes. He really needs to be drunker for this, doesn’t need to be dealing with reminders of things he wants to forget like the failing of his bakery. Because his bakery was failing. Was this horrible mess shattered like his mirror and part of him just wants to leave it all behind.

     Knows he has to leave-

     And he doesn’t want to think about it. Just wants to get lost in the amber elixir and forget it all.

     “When you do, be sure to let me know. I can be your first customer when you reopen since I missed last time.” Aiden’s got this cocky grin, spilling the words out into the air without a thought. It brings a smile to Patrick’s lips and he lets loose the promise without a pause.

     Maxwell shakes his head, mouth opening and closing and Patrick just knows what’s at the tip of the man’s tongue. “Been shopping recently? Don’t think I’ve seen that before.” Are the words that escape though and Patrick jumps, green eyes fixing on soft amber.

     “Wha-Oh, this?” Patrick’s hand curls around the golden necklace. “Yeah, found it rather cheap at one of those mom and pop shops. Thought it looked neat.” 

     Aiden’s the one who frowns at him, nursing his drink as he grumbles out, “Are you still going through that mid life crisis shit? It doesn’t fit you.” 

     Maxwell is quick to react, an elbow nudging into Aiden’s ribs as he quickly says, “It looks lovely.” Maxwell is all smiles at this point even as his eyebrows stayed quirked up in that pitying way of his. 

     Patrick sniffs, giving a sigh and-

     He’s back in the bathroom staring at his broken reflection and he has this thought- Looking at his phone and the time and thinking- He’s got this nasty little habit of being late and maybe, maybe he really should take that final step and just-

      Not show up. Because he doesn’t really want to be there. Not really.

     “I should go-“ He offers, scooting the chair back a little but even Aiden in his drunken bliss looks abashed.

     “No, no. Stay. We invited you out right? Ignore me, I’m drunk.” Aiden’s always had this smile that wins the hearts of thousands. This lopsided grin with his light blue eyes, he’s even got a dimple on one cheek. Maxwell on the other hand is all put together with soft smiles, pitying eyebrows and sad eyes that just softly coax Patrick to give up and give in.

     Patrick opens his mouth, wants to speak- wants to say but drunk people are honest people. He shuts it just the same, after all he’d never say that kind of thing. It wasn’t in him to even think it. But, when he leaves he’ll go to a house with bills he can’t pay and a bakery that can’t be run and a broken mirror in his bathroom that lies to him and this horrible habit of being late to invites that he will eventually stop getting. Instead he just offers, “Sorry. I’m just- It’s been a long week.”

     “It’s been a long week for all of us.” Maxwell says and Aiden perks up like those words were an olive branch that he couldn’t help grasping.

     “Horrifyingly long. You know about that killer Ghost right?” The words slip out in this excited yelp, blue eyes flickering back and forth from Maxwell and Patrick. He doesn’t even wait for an answer before sliding right into the next sentence, “They think he’s here. I’ve been getting two of ‘em in my office every afternoon parading around like they own the place.”

     Patrick spares a second to be thankful as those pitying eyebrows dip down in confusion and Maxwell asks, “Two of… who? The Association?”

     “Yeah! Them magics.” Aiden spits out the word like it’s a curse before dunking down even closer. “They sent out the best of the best too. Man gives me the shivers whenever I’m near him. He’s just like they say; walking skeleton that acts more like a machine than a human.”

     Patrick pulls back with a cringe, “I thought he was just some fable they made up to scare people.”

     “A really good fable if he was one. Everyone says the same thing about him, even other magics don’t seem to want to deal with him. He’s unnatural is what he is.” Aiden gives a faux shiver before ploughing on, “They’ve been here since the start of the week. Been driving me bonkers, they can’t even do their job right- just send us out on trivial matters as if we are their gophers or something. It’s disgusting.”

     “Why would they think he’s here? There hasn’t even been a murder in, what two years or something like that?” Maxwell has his full attention on Aiden, eyes squinting as if it’d help him understand better. Patrick is pretty sure it won’t do anything because none of it really makes sense. Why would the magics think that their elusive serial killer was in the small town of Hezenshier of all places? He’d put his money more on one of the capitols rather than some place bordering the wastelands and he’d have thought that the Magic Association would do the same but apparently not. Makes him wonder if their even doing what they say they are doing.

     “Yeah, that’s what I’m saying! But the other guy, not Death- it’s some other magic. Some tall freak, he keeps saying that the magic led here whatever that means.” Aiden leans back, glancing over at near by tables before staring back at Patrick. “They seem to have some odd obsession with your corner of the woods, Patrick. I’d be careful if I were you, wouldn’t want to come across them. Bad enough to have to see them occasionally at my work place.”

     “What, do they think he’s there? That there is some mass serial killer hiding near my home?” The words escape as Patrick scoots closer, eyes wide because that- that he doesn’t want to think of. He doesn't want to think of the possibility of a killer near his home. With the way his luck is going, with how everything is going-

     “Yeah, apparently. I wouldn’t really worry about that though. Pretty sure their just being inept like usual. Everyone knows the Association can’t do shit. Just, keep an eye out for creepy magics right? I’ve overheard some of their conversations and Death doesn’t seem to care for human life. I can just picture the creepy bastard killing someone and then claiming it to be an accident.” Even Maxwell stares as Aiden as if the words he just spouted was anything but comforting. 

     Because that? That chills his very blood. Makes his heart freeze as everything turns to ice because he’s heard the stories. Everyone’s heard of the stories; of the number one dog of the Association. Death, an unnatural being that might as well be the Grim Reaper himself and one who slaughters without a care in the world. Some even say that the monster of a human likes it. That he likes inflicting pain and agony, that he tries to make the process of dying as slow as possible. They  say that he takes life so that he himself can stay alive.

     “I doubt that they’d do anything like that. Tensions are too high, if Death were to go on a massacre it’d start a war.” Maxwell is all reason and logic, voice taking on this doubtful tone as he says the words.

     “I highly doubt he’d care. The man would probably thrive off the war. What if he really was the Grim Reaper? War would be good for him then.” Aiden argues.

     Patrick doesn’t want this conversation, doesn’t want to hear another second of it. Doesn’t want to add it to his worries over everything by thinking of possible murderers in his neighborhood and the fact that Death might be there. Creepy, monster-like Death that even other magics fear. He doesn’t want to deal with any of that so- “Can we just,” He pauses, trying to think of something but not coming up with anything but then Maxwell saves him.

     “Unlike the police department,” A pointed glance at Aiden before Maxwell continued, “the most I’ve seen of magics was that old leech that’s addicted to coffee. She’d probably be glad to hear that she’ll have work coming her way.”

     Aiden’s nose curls, “Ugh, don’t remind me. I can already feel the sickness comin’ on and I haven’t even been around them that much.”

     “Mhmm, should I give her a heads up next time she comes in?” 

     Aiden shakes his head, waving a hand in the air as he responds, “No, no. We technically aren’t supposed to be telling anyone about them being here. Something about catching the killer unawares?”

     “So you told us.” Patrick lets out a snort, shaking his head at the shrugging Aiden.

     “Well, what are you guys going to do? You’re going bankrupt and never talk to anyone whilst Maxwell is only good for small talk and serial killers don’t count as small talk.” Maxwell even looks offended, eyes narrowing before giving a huff and looking back over at Patrick.

     “We always knew Aiden was brain damaged. This is just more evidence.” Patrick falls into laughter as Aiden puffs up his chest, mouth twisted up in some snappy response but before any sound could escape the waitress dropped by with a smile and two bottles of beer.

     “Could I help you guys with anything else? Food, possibly?” Aiden is back to leering at the soft words. Grin this sloppy thing as he tells her, 

     “I could do with your company? These two,” A thumb jerks behind his shoulder, “aren’t being very nice currently.” She gives a laugh, brown hair cascading down her shoulder as she cocks her head to the side and smiles.

     “Surely they aren’t that bad.”

     Patrick gives a smirk, “No, he’s just that bad.” The words have Aiden whirling around, expression screaming that he’s just been betrayed and Maxwell stifles a snort.

     “I expected better from you! Betrayal! See, see what I have to put up with?” He’s back to simpering at the waitress who isn’t even bothering to hide her amusement. Maxwell offers her kindness as he tells her,

     “We’re good. Thank you, though.”  She’s quick to take her leave, letting them know if they need anything, just let her know before turning to aide a different table. Patrick is quick to hide his blooming grin behind his now full drink as Aiden bemoans the loss of his only possible supporter. 

     “You’re married and I’m sure she doesn’t want to be harassed by you.” Maxwell chides, he’s got this smile though like he expects it. Like it’s natural and Patrick takes a moment to wonder if it really is natural. To wonder if this is how it always works between them before he decides- it is. This is exactly how it is supposed to be with Maxwell acting the adult and Aiden acting the flirty teen whilst Patrick plays the middle man. It’s probably always was that way, each with their set ways since the golden days. 

     Patrick, Patrick doesn’t really fit that mold anymore. Doesn’t really see himself ever fitting into a way to mix with them and he feels off with the thought. So he gets lost in the amber liquid as he grins and listens and, well. A drunk man is an honest man and Patrick really doesn’t think he needs to be honest. Not right now anyways. He wants to forget, but there’s a buzz swirling around his head that makes his tongue want to be loose. He can just imagine every word he wants to say floating into the air and he can’t really do that to them. Can’t even do it to himself because he fears of what he’ll hear if he really lets the truth float free.

     “You okay there?” It’s Maxwell, with his never ending worry and those eyebrows start tilting up again in that horrible, horrible way.

     “Yeah, yeah. Just, got lost in thought there.” Patrick waves off the worry, eyes dancing back and forth from Maxwell to the amber poison in his glass.

     Aiden perks up, eyes glinting mischievously as he tosses out, “You think?” It’s revenge for earlier, Patrick can just tell by how pleased Aiden looks as he says those words. Maxwell just swings him an unimpressed look, but really Aiden’s too drunk to care what with how he’s almost emptied his glass yet again. 

     “Which is something I’m not sure you are even capable of.” Maxwell even sounds fond as he says the words even as Aiden jerks away, insulted.

     “Just because-“ Aiden’s loud in his defense and Patrick lets out a laugh before quickly interrupting, 

     “What number glass are you at anyways?” 

     Aiden blinks, attention snapping back at Patrick before he frowns, “I think… maybe four? Or five. Probably five.”

     “What? I wasn’t that late though!” Patrick squints at Aiden who simply shrugs, as if drinking five glasses in what was probably an hour or two was perfectly fine. And maybe it would have been if they were younger, but they weren’t and Aiden’s always been a horrible lightweight.

     “You were later than usual though. I was thinking you actually weren’t going to show up this time.” Maxwell says, as if it explains everything. Patrick can picture them waiting in the bar with theories of why he wasn’t going to show up, or why he was late, or what held him up this time. He thinks of the mirror at home and the wrongness, thinks of the late bills piled on his dinky little kitchen table and- He thinks of the bakery. Old and wretched, dust on every surface from lack of use and no lights working because he hasn’t been able to pay the electric bills again.

     He doesn’t think it’d be strange if he didn’t show up.

     Doesn’t stop him from feeling that sting of guilt as he offers a bashful smile, “Sorry.”

     Maxwell is full on pitying again and Patrick can’t stand it. Everything about him becomes stilted, like a doll with rusty joints and he can’t. He can’t deal with the pity and the underlining disappointment that he’s the only one with the failure of a life in their tiny trio. Patricks frozen stiff, staring down at his drink and wanting to drink it but-

     Drunk people are honest people and Patrick really doesn’t want to be honest right now.

     He wouldn’t be able to handle it if he was.

     And he can’t even handle this- this stillness of forced companionship when half of his mind is still staring at his phone because he’s got this horrible habit of being late and he’s late.

     “I- I think I need to call it quits.” He interrupts, doesn’t even know whose talking as he looks up to stare at his two friends from- from sometime. High school maybe, time blurs for a second and he’s not sure.

      Maxwell is all pity as he says, “Okay. You’ll come next week right?”

Aiden isn’t so pitying, he’s got his eyes squinted as he stumbles out the words, “You just got here.”

     “Yeah, yeah. I’ll be here next week.” It tastes like a lie as the words leave Patrick’s lips. He’s not sure if he’ll be able to stop staring at the phone next time. If he’ll be able to get his body to move away from the shattered pieces of the mirror. He’s not even sure if there is going to even be a next time.

     That doesn’t stop him from throwing down a few dollars to cover his part and then some of the bill. He flashes a smile, small and unfocused even as he says, “Sorry about calling it short again.”

     Then he’s gone. Out of the small warm bar with the warm lights and the comforting chatter and into the unforgiving cold as winter winds rip through the streets. Out into the freedom of the outside and away from old friends and pitying eyes.

     Patrick pauses, for one second to watch as his breath withers away into the air before he shuts his eyes and huddles against the cold and just walks without a destination in mind. Just walks in one direction and tries to ignore the soft buzz ripping through his head, drawing every horrible thought out into the open for him to see.

     He thinks drinking was a mistake. Usually, he’s much better at ignoring and forgetting but something about the poisonous drink keeps making him think it’ll help him forget. And maybe it would, if he was someone else. But he isn’t. He isn’t someone else, he’s just Patrick. Fat Patrick with the bankrupt bakery and midlife crisis that he really is too young for.

     He doesn’t feel too young for it though, feels like he’s got hundreds and hundreds of years and memories packed up into his mind. He’s pretty sure he’s been through too much to be told that he was too young for something, even if he doesn’t want to register his actual age. 

    If that wasn’t enough, now he’s got thoughts of Death and magics singing along his head. He’d have thought he’d have enough to deal with without having to worry about the nightmare inducing machine of the association. Apparently not. Part of him wishes he just sat and stared at that stupid clock on his phone so long that he’d have missed that conversation. Surely even staring at his own reflection would be better than finding out one of the most terrifying magics was sniffing around his neighborhood.

    He gives a shudder, folding in closer to himself as if that’d help even though it wasn’t the cold that made goosebumps raise on his flesh.

    And there’s a thought, one he’s had for a while but-

    He’s staring at one of those small travel planning agencies with newspapers and maps strewn about the windows and he freezes because there is this thought. One he’s had before, but never really considered fully but it’s suddenly so much more tantalizing. Something says everything will be better and he finds himself walking towards it and opening the door and-

     There’s a sharp little ding that has the shop keeper perking up to give a grin and a welcome.

     The place is really dingy  and yellow with traveling supplies tucked in one corner and food in another. It’s a right mess, even the counter a chaotic organization of knick knacks. Not something profound or interesting or fancy, if Maxwell was there Patrick would bet anything that he’d be getting tugged away.

     Maxwell isn’t there though, so Patrick just gives a grin and walks further in and turning down one of the aisles that’s layered with newspapers. He skims through, spotting some from a year ago and then his eyes skirt to the floor of the aisle to find a kid. That gives him a pause, foot stuttering in the air before he finally decides to drop it on the ground anyways. The crinkling of paper meets his ears the second his foot touches the ground.

     The child doesn’t even flinch, just keeps perched on the ground holding one of the many newspapers sprawled around them. “That’s a lot of newspapers you have there.” Patrick finds himself saying and suddenly the child looks up. Patrick’s heart slips as if on ice, plummeting down to his stomach the second he sees the gaunt face with the hollow eyes.

     The kid- boy really, the jawline being too sharp to be a girl- wasn’t really that much of a kid. Too old, with the black eye bags swallowing up the pink abyss of half dead eyes. He’s got this stringy, curly brown hair, something soft dipping into a decrepit face with a harsh frown. Bleak eyes blink up at Patrick before, in obvious dismissal, gliding back down to the newspaper cradled in the boy’s hands.

      Patrick has half the mind to just turn around and walk out but something- something about the kid-boy- just. There’s something. Something that makes him pause and lick his lips as his heart works on climbing up off the ice. 

     “What do you need all this for? Some school project?” Those eyes slowly drag back up to stare at Patrick and Patrick can’t help but feel like something is wrong. Like how his broken reflection was wrong. 

     “No.” The voice isn’t exactly young, but it isn’t old either. It’s just this flat hiss of an unhappy kid that wants to be left alone. Normally, normally that would stop Patrick. Hell, normally Patrick wouldn’t even bother some weird starving child surrounded by newspapers but-

      There is something, that makes his skin crawl and he thinks he knows the boy. He doesn’t know where, except he does but he doesn’t dare to think of it. Doesn’t dare to pay attention to the memories flashing through his hazy mind.

     His heart beats again, back in its proper place as it rushes to make up for time wasted. Hands a clammy mess as he forces them into pockets and his voice this oddly stilted thing as he says, “Then what are you doing?”

     An innocent question, but at the same time not because he’s glanced at the headlines that the boy was staring at. It’s a feeling, an itch crawling up his spine and the child just blinks at him.

      Blinks before calmly, oh so calmly folds up the newspaper in his hands and gets up and-

     Leaves.

     He’s gone in a few short strides with the newspaper tucked to his side. With a stolen newspaper tucked to his side and a mess left behind in the aisle that Patrick was standing in. Previous thought shatters as the child just walks out with stolen goods and the shop keeper simply watches without moving a muscle.

     “What-“

     “Don’t mind him. Mihr’s an odd one. What can I help you with?” She’s leaning over with that same welcoming smile as if hoping to beckon Patrick towards her. Patrick is still stuck in the mess of strewn about newspapers and a thief of a child but he still has this niggling thought.

     A thought only made worse by the itching of his skin and the wrongness of recognization. “Are you- He just took a newspaper.” And maybe it is a small thing, maybe a few dollars but it’s still a robbing. The shop keeper just shrugs throwing out a,

     “He’s got a subscription here anyways. Only thing I would have given him is a receipt. So,” She’s prompting, a hand swirling in the air as if to say your business is? Patrick frowns, eyes flickering over to her and her messy bun and wide eyes before staring down at the scattered bits of paper on the floor. Newspaper folded open to big bold titles of Murder of Maysworth and Downtown Homicide of Three and other similar trends.

     “Dark interests he has.” The words are dragged out, dangling out in open air as Patrick suffocates like the fish on a hook he is. The itch is still there, a feeling of his skin drying out as he waits exposed in the chilly, cluttered shop. Patrick licks his lips before bending down to pick up the mess and hastily shoving the newspapers amongst all the other newspaper piles before he says, “And I was- Traveling. I think, I think I’d like to travel.” 

     “Any place in specific or just an idea? Have you ever travelled before?” She squints at him, dark eyes watching as Patricks stumbles over to the chaotic counter. “And thanks, usually he doesn’t leave a mess when he’s doing his thing. Then again,” She throws a smirk at Patrick, “usually people don’t bother him.”

      Patrick doesn’t say the first things that come to his mind. He doesn’t say so a random kid usually looks up murder and nobody cares? Doesn’t say usually I wouldn’t bother him too but my usuals never seem to be happening anymore. Instead he says, “The Qleehl Mountains. That’s- I think those would be nice to visit. Travel. Hike.” He doesn’t add run away even though the words are stuck to the tip of his tongue.

     The girl, Sanvi according to the name tag on her t-shirt, gives a snort before reaching for one of the magazines dolled up on the side. “How about we do something a bit less… dangerous? This is your first time hiking right?” She’s flipping through the magazine, dark eyes calculating as she looks for something. Patrick’s guess is she’s looking for a suggestion going by the title of Best Sights in NorDale.

     He doesn’t want suggestions though, the itch only craves for one thing and he can’t get any further away from everything- from bills and a run down bakery and pitying eyebrows and Death- than the Qleehl Mountains. There’s nothing further away from reality than the mountains of spirits of the olden age. “Do you have nothing on how to get there?” His voice is harsh and abrupt, startling Sanvi from her quest on finding safer destinations.

     “No, I do but- You do realize that’s through the wastelands, don’t you? And the monsters of the night? It’s a death trap, especially for an amateur.” She looks back down to the magazine she was swiping through before flipping it upside down and pointing at a picture of a lake. “If you’re wanting to explore nature, I’d suggest this place here. You can camp out by the lake and it’s surrounded by gentle rolling hills. Not to far of a drive too.”

     “I’m not an amateur.” The words are thick and sour in his mouth. Something that seems to bubble up and choke him preventing any other words from escaping.

     “Sure you aren’t. And where else have you gone then?” She pushes the magazine towards him, a silent look, see this is what you want. Not those mountains.

     Everywhere, is what Patrick wants to say. The Qleehl Mountains is the next thing that wants to slip out of his mouth and then- does it matter when I’ve lived the life that I lived? He makes sure to never let the words even float in his mouth, choking them down before they even have the chance to escape. That way leads to madness because really, some would say he’s lived the most boring life.

     He recognized things he shouldn’t have recognized though. That should say something. He wants to go the mountains of the dead, that should say another.

     “Does it matter? I just want a map, and maybe anything else that would be helpful. You’re just supposed to give me the information I want, not-“ Patrick waves his hand to gesture at Sanvi as if to say whatever it is you are trying to do. Her smile completely drops off, dark eyes more of a frozen lake than Aiden’s blue eyes could ever hope to be. Something dark and petrifying; something that reaches out and tries to drown you. 

     Patrick’s gaze skitters off to the side as Sanvi glares at him. The itch is still there, and fear is bubbling out as thoughts of frozen lakes slide over his buzzed minds like glaciers slide over rolling plains. The magazine is still there, showing off some stunning lake and he thinks-

     It’s frozen now. Frozen and dead. Ice has already crawled over the bodies of the deceased, hidden them away and isn’t that an unnatural thought to have. 

     He knows why he has it though, even if he’ll never actually admit it. After all, drunk people are honest people.

     Patrick never should have drank anything. It’s harder to lie when your brain is more of a static mess that buzzes when something familiar pops up. He’s never been good at lying in the first place.

     Sanvi slams something down on the counter startling Patrick from his thoughts. “Here, one map of the wastelands. We do not have any kind of map for the Qleehl Mountains, but that’s because most people who go there never come back.” Sliding the map forward she reveals a small pamphlet and she goes on, “And here’s the contact information for the stables a bit north of here that hold exploration parties in the wastelands. They also rent horses there. Given, they may not lend one out to you if your going to the Qleehl Mountains. Most people want their things back after renting them out.”

      Her eyes are still a black abyss, frozen and unforgiving but Patrick is distracted enough by the map to not drown. To not think of hidden horrors that lurk in the abyss. “Thanks, how much would this cost?” He’s already fishing out his too empty wallet before he’s said the entire sentence.

     Sanvi looks unimpressed, “It’s 7.38. Do you really want to pay that much for you ticket to death? There are cheaper routes to go.” She takes the money Patrick thrusts at her anyways and Patrick can’t help the feral smile he gives her,

     “Thanks, but I’m not going to die.” To be honest, he doesn’t even know if he’ll go. It’s a gamble, a gigantic gamble and he isn’t even sure if he’ll get anything out of it. Doesn’t even know why he’d want to outside of this horrible itch, this urge to just go. That everything will be better, that there is something out there for him.

     Sanvi is doubtful, it’s written all over her frowning face but she still says, “Well thanks for your business. I’d still reconsider, the lake is rather beautiful this time of year. All frozen, in the moonlight it absolutely sparkles.”

     Patrick doesn’t say anything, just gives that sharp smile and tucks the map and pamphlet away in his pocket. He doesn’t say what he wants to say, doesn’t say I know. Doesn’t say and it’s terrifying.

     He doesn’t say that it wasn’t frozen two week ago. That it was very much not frozen; that the water licked up the shore in frigid waves that introduced frost bite to any vulnerable flesh. He doesn’t say that, instead he just takes the map of the wastelands and the pamphlet of the stables and leaves the shop keeper to her disaster of a shop with the messed up newspapers shoved in some random shelf.

     The bite of fresh air brings back the realization of the fact that he was still sitting on bills that were going unpaid and he was going bankrupt an he just bought a map. A map that probably had nothing on it because it was on the wastelands. 

     The wastelands, miles and miles of flat, barren land. There’s nothing that can be used to identify where you are at, it all looks exactly the same except for the sparse few trees and in winter- In winter it’s even worse. Feet of snow piled up on ice with harsh winds that make the snow form into rolling hills like the sand dunes of the desert. Patrick just bought a map that most likely just portrayed the locations of the edges of society, maybe a few of the more permanent tribes and towns that dot the outskirt of the wastelands but nothing that actually defines a trail for the wastelands.

     Nothing that will identify where he’s at once he’s actually out on the frozen desert. Then after the wastelands he has the Qleehl Mountains to worry about. The steeping slopes with the thick forest of pine trees engulfing the base. Supposedly, somewhere, there’s a lake. The lake of the forgotten they call it. The lake where magic originated and where sacrifices were made. 

     There’s a reason they call the Qleehl Mountains the mountains of the dead. They say the sacrifices at the lake corrupted and now haunt the frosted lands in differing forms. Monsters of the night, spirits that possess the living and turn it something darker, something mutilated. 

     Patrick is pretty certain that it is just rumors. Fables to scare off the youngsters, to keep them away from the wilderness that consumes all lives that dare to enter. Something is there though, he can tell by the ants crawling under his skin. The never ending itch that pushes him to think of braving the wastelands, the unknown. 

     Then again, that itch could very well be the fear of returning home to the broken mirror that lies to him and the Grim Reaper that crawls around his neighborhood. Could be the fear of recognizing a face he should never had recognized, of seeing it and knowing deep down that something bad is going to happen.

     Something absolutely terrible.

     His mindless walking leads him close to the bar he left, back in the direction of his rundown bakery and empty home. He pauses, a hand clutching on the most likely worthless map that he just wasted money and he wonders if they are still there. It’s only been an hour or so and they usually, when they were younger, stay out late. Aiden always tried to be a night owl and Maxwell caved so easily when it came down to the puppy dog eyes Patrick and Aiden would throw at him.

     Patrick doesn’t even remember the last time they stayed a whole night out. He remembers- something. Something nips at the back of his mind, a sharp edge of glass slicing into his buzzed mind. When he peeks through the window they aren’t there. Of course they aren’t, Maxwell has early hours and Aiden has a wife to come home to. Patrick has… nothing really. He has nothing which is why he’s standing there with his fingers strangling a map leading to nowhere.

     “Are you okay?” A voice rings out, snapping Patrick out of his musings. He searches out to the owner of the voice before coming upon a girl with burning hair and smoky skin. She’s got these green, green eyes that make Patrick think of home even if he doesn’t know anyone with bright emeralds for eyes.

     “Ah, yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” He tries for a smile, something charming and smooth. Something that would make Aiden puff out his chest in pride and it feels wrong. Like he’s misleading, lying. He feels like the broken mirror spilling out lies and chaos amongst the cracks of reality. He still smiles.

     “If you’re sure…” She sounds all kinds of skeptical and her green eyes are squinting at Patrick as if to try to figure out if he’s lying. He just smiles, hoping against hope that the glue worked and his facade looks real. That he looks like the maybe happy person he used to be. Whatever she sees seems to satisfy her, a killer smile crossing her lips as her eyes took on a positively shifty kind of mischief. “By the way, I’m Miranda.”

     Miranda throws out her hand like an attack, all aggressive motions with a touch of an absolutely feral grin. Patrick in kind is more skittish, more akin to the rabbit than the wolf with his mind still diving down the hole of the possibility of the Qleehl Mountains. “Patrick.”

     Her hand is warm. The kind of warmth Patrick has missed. He wonders when the last time he was even hugged. When he himself was wrapped up in a warm embrace, not when he simply watched others embrace. The handshake is a short one, Patrick quickly retreating and shoving his hand in his pocket with a baleful smile as Miranda grinned at him.

     “Well Patrick, would you like to have a drink?” The words are a snare, something dangerous and lethal and unknown. Patrick thinks back to his home, to the bills on the counter and the broken mirror in the bathroom. A finger touches the crumpled map of a frozen death trap. He thinks of walking home in the dark of night with the unforgiving winter winds freezing his skin and knowing that Death could be lurking behind any corner. He thinks of the face he recognized when he shouldn’t have and the itch that’s been crawling under his skin ever since. A memory plays in the back of his eyes, of Aiden and Maxwell saying he needs something other than his bakery.

     Just like that, Patrick is snared. “Yes, I’d love to.”

     Miranda grins like a predator that just caught their favorite meal.