33 Chapter Eleven: Within, Part II

Mungslev stood in front of the crate, on the opposite side of Arzo. He tried to get Zidane's attention again, roughly tapping the crate with the tip of his shoe.

"Hey."

"He's working," Arzo said, flicking a shell at him. It hit Mungslev square in the forehead. The Spiro wiped a hand over his bangs as if some remnants were still there, his eyes darkening even more.

"You're in a good mood. Can't remember the last time you lifted a finger for someone else."

In less than a second, Arzo had a fistful of his hair, the bottom of his wrist positioned in front of Mungslev's eye. Arzo didn't speak, didn't say a threat like Lance thought he would. They stayed in silence, a tension binding the air around them. A knowing of what a single, precise movement of Arzo's fingers would do. Exactly where the knife would embed.

Mungslev's hair was released. For once, he was quiet; no words left him as he locked eyes with Arzo. With a short, low hiss through his teeth, he turned away—briefly glancing back towards Zidane as he walked away from them.

Lance moved a hand along his face, slightly exasperated. Took him long enough to shut up.

Zidane laughed faintly, bringing Lance's focus to him. "He's lucky he was so good at thieving. I don't think I would've met him otherwise."

Lance hesitated. "What d'you mean?"

"I don't think he would've been around," the crossbreed replied, spinning enough to completely face Lance. "Maybe if the attitude kept up and landed on a bad day, they would've killed him, but given the Spiro to human population here, I don't think that would've happened. They probably would've throw him out on the street, disowned him. I've seen it happen before."

Lance nodded, taking a moment to understand it all and push away the urge to pry into the future. Then he turned back to Zidane, remembering the warning before the last memory transitioned. "Why are you showing me this?"

"There's another one that goes with this memory." Zidane said. "That was just the first time I met him."

Lance nodded again, about to reply when he was suddenly teleported to a different side of the room, where the wall that had been behind him just a moment ago. He sensed Zidane appear off to his left, and turning, he saw the crossbreed on the crate beside him. The child winked, the voice of a teenager in Lance's thoughts.

"Trying to speed this up."

In the next second, Lance heard the glimpse of a voice from behind him. A new memory was playing. Lance watched Arzo move, leaving his position of standing next to Zidane.

"Stay here."

Zidane only looked back down to what was sprawled out on the crate, continuing to organize fruits and vegetables from the plastic bags beside him, placing anything remotely processed into another bag. This task wasn't as automatic as unshelling the nuts; Zidane seemed more hesitant, hand hovering a bag of fruit snacks above the pile of actual fruit before tossing the snacks away.

With only the tiniest sounds from the floorboards, Mungslev stepped up to his crate. He watched Zidane for a moment, and with the window's light coming in, Lance finally saw a glimpse of his eye color. Purple. It was an interesting contrast to the pure orange hair that was tied back and reached the base of his neck, but Lance's focus was pulled to Mungslev's face again. His mouth curved downwards in a frown, disgusted.

"That looks so boring. How can you stand to do that without hitting your head against something?"

Zidane didn't reply. He kept sorting, oblivious to the flash of irritation in Mungslev's face. The young Spiro turned, leaning back in search of Arzo. When he focused back on Zidane, he leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper.

"Hey," he said. "You haven't thieved on your own yet, have you?"

Zidane's hands stopped moving. He looked to the Spiro, who offered him a crooked-tooth grin.

"That got your attention. So you wanna or not?"

Zidane hesitated and Lance could sense his mind working. He watched the crossbreed lean over, looking in the direction Arzo had left.

Mungslev rolled his eyes. "He doesn't care. Nobody cares about anyone here! Why haven't you learned that by now?" Dramatically, he extended both hands out towards the piles. "Oh, right, 'cause you're too busy being boring!"

Lance cracked a smile, having to press a fist against his mouth in order to hold back laughter. Zidane only looked to the piles, no expression crossing his face as he turned back to Mungslev.

Mungslev raised both hands behind his head, focus going upwards. "Ah geez, talkative, too. This'll be fun." Sighing, he dropped his hands, using a pair of fingers to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Just... C'mon. I'll teach you what you need to know to survive around here."

Looking back to Zidane, Lance saw him turn towards the staircase where Arzo had been heading. The main room stayed empty except for a few Spiros sleeping on crates and against walls. No sign of anyone coming back soon...

Mungslev stopped a few feet from the doorway, frantically motioning to Zidane with one arm. He spoke through his teeth. "Come on!"

With one last glance, Zidane slipped off the crate. He followed Mungslev out the door, the Spiro in front of him muttering about how such small feet could be so loud. The scene dissolved and Lance stood in a kitchen he didn't recognize. For a moment, if he stood still and focused just right, it felt like he was in his old home. There was something about it, something that wasn't the dark yellow-orange and white checkered tiles or the scattered leftovers of chopped food on the counter. The feeling was something Lance could only describe as an energy. A feeling that greeted him as if he had been out in the cold and stepped into a house warmed by a fireplace.

It was a realization that only lasted a moment; soon, he heard the whisperings of voices and turned to the kitchen's large window above the sink.

"Don't try and argue with me!" Mungslev's voice. Lance sensed him on the other side of the wall, crouched below the window. "Now you wanna do this or not?"

Lance felt Zidane nod, seeing in his mind's eye the quick movements of his head and his lips pressed together with a subtle tightness. He sensed Mungslev's hand rise, motioning towards the window above them.

"Then, there you go."

A moment later, Lance saw Zidane's fingertips on the windowsill, heard the brief scrapes of his feet against the base of the house like he was trying to pull himself up.

"Stop-stop-stop."

Zidane's legs halted and Lance felt a light, familiar pressure below one of his own feet. Hands that had joined together, waiting for him to push off.

"Now go."

Zidane rose up, hands still on the windowsill while he looked into the kitchen. He stayed there in silent amazement until Mungslev snapped at him from below.

"What are you doing? Climb in!"

Quickly obeying, Zidane grabbed the other side of the windowsill and brought his leg up as well. He stayed like this, fully straddling the windowsill, side of his face pressed down, expression slightly confused like he was wondering if he was doing it right.

Mungslev groaned, a sound that eventually became muffled as he put his face in his hands. "Idiot... Completely useless. I can't believe you're still alive."

Mungslev stood up, coming into Lance's view before pushing the leg Zidane had placed inside the house in. He picked up his other leg, directing it over the window all while giving quiet instruction.

"Here, just move this... Now put this over. Good, now sit up. Idiot."

This last word was muttered under his breath as he watched Zidane sit on the windowsill, now completely inside the house. The crossbreed looked around for a moment, taking in the quietness of the kitchen before Mungslev pushed him, the force not enough to knock him off balance.

"What're you doing just sitting there? Come on!"

Zidane stood, foot slipping into the sink. He caught his balance on the windowsill behind him, staying still as he registered what happened. Putting both hands to his eyes, Mungslev turned away.

"The noise. Why are you even here? This isn't even fun anymore..."

It was at these last words that the blue in Zidane's eyes diminished, darkening to a near black. Carefully, he let go of the faucet and stood upright in the middle of the sink. He made his way over the counter, turning around to momentarily hang from the ledge and drop down. As his shoes made contact with the tile flooring, Lance noticed a wince on Mungslev's face, but the Spiro continued watching, the side of his hands pressed above his eyes. It almost seemed like binoculars at first; his thumbs created half-circles around the bottom of his eyes. But his other fingers were in a position that mimicked blocking the sun, close together as if he were waiting to fold them over and cover his sight.

Zidane stopped a few feet into the kitchen, noticing the bags placed on the table nearby. He turned back to Mungslev, who quickly nodded with wide eyes and an open mouth. Quickly, before Zidane had really begun walking again, Lance realized he wasn't tall enough to reach up and grab the bags. He watched as Zidane stopped at the table, this realization coming to the crossbreed as well. Without trying to stand on his tip-toes, he looked to the chair beside him and stepped up onto the seat. In a way that mirrored Arzo's method, he slipped his arm through a bag, sliding it off the table as he brought it towards him. Whatever was in the bags was heavy, nearly slipping from Zidane's grasp as gravity set in. The plastic bag wrinkled loudly at the sudden drop, a few cans knocking together and interrupting the silence.

Lance looked with Zidane to the doorway close by; a swinging door in the corner of the room that had yet to move. Another sound of the bag brought Lance's focus back, and with tension rising in his chest he watched Zidane carefully lower the bag down onto the floor. A few more bags followed, ones filled with lighter items like bread and fruit. And then, as the third one settled onto the floor, the sound of voices drifted in. Footsteps accompanied them, steps that were quickly getting closer to the swinging door.

Something seemed to shift in Mungslev; before Lance could turn and look to him fully, he was through the window and crouching on the counter with one foot in the sink for balance. A hand was outstretched, motioning for the bags.

Without much care for the noise, Zidane grab the lightest of the four, running until he was close enough to begin tossing each one. Mungslev caught them, robotically slipping each one through his hand. When he held all three, his eyes widened in silent motion to the one bag still left; the one with the cans.

As Zidane went back for it, Lance noticed the door. The footsteps had stopped, but the voices were just outside. The door was opened slightly, like someone was holding it from the other side.

For anyone else, the cans would have been easy to carry. There weren't many of them, but for Zidane the weight was enough. The bottom cans brushed against the ground, both of his arms struggling to carry them to the counter. The kitchen door opened as Mungslev opened the swinging cabinet beneath the counter, taking a step down to the inside shelf to lean forward and grab the bag from Zidane. He helped the crossbreed up as well, the cabinet's shelf acting as a ladder-like step, and within moments Mungslev had dropped out of the window with the bags, Zidane stepping over the sink to follow.

As his foot met the windowsill, the kitchen door swung closed. He turned, Lance following his gaze to the back of the room. A man stood there, body hunched with age. An onset of wrinkles rippled through his skin, but despite the lines, Lance was drawn to his eyes. They were kind, unbelievably soft; like the kitchen, they seemed to possess the same warm energy. His mouth curved upwards slightly, but most of the expression was in his dark blue of his eyes; the wrinkles beneath them curving upwards, crinkling the lines on the side of his eyes, the deepest out of all of them.

Mungslev's voice broke the silence, urgent whispers catching Lance's focus and bringing it back to the room, back to the window Zidane stood in front of, one foot on the ledge. Zidane looked back, meeting the old man's eyes again. The man kindly motioned with his head to the window, the smile unwavering.

Go.

Still seeming to be in a daze, Zidane finally moved, giving one last look before slipping out the window and dropping onto the ground below.