When morning comes, it flitters through the windows unapologetically. The light finds itself directly on their face, where Kwong’s eyes remained open since they initially awoke.

Get up, their mind tells them. You’re going to be late.

Groaning, Kwong propels themselves forward, placing bare feet on the wooden floors of their apartment. They yawn, scratching at the back of their neck as they stand and make their way towards the bathroom. Mornings are easy, the routine efficient by now after having spent the last couple months sharpening it until it required no mental work from Kwong.

Boots are tied, hair is held around the neck by goggles, and a backpack is hauled over their shoulders. Before leaving, they’re sure to water all the plants, careful to maneuver everyone towards the sun as the seasons change.

Kwong finishes, locks the door behind them and turns to make their way down the thirty flights of concrete stairs, only to be stopped by a guilty looking husband.

Jesse sits on the stairwell, taking up the entirety of the narrow aisle, and lights up his second cigarette of the morning.

“You heard us last night, right?”

Not this again, Kwong dreads. They outwardly sigh, hoisting the strap of their backpack higher up their shoulder.

“No, I—”

“I know you did. Everyone in this damn building can hear us.”

“Jesse, I’m going to be late for work.”

“She just gets so frustrating, you know? I think she’s cheating on me. Do you think she’s cheating on me?”

Kwong attempts to ease their way by. There’s a small space where Jesse has placed an ashtray that his body doesn’t cover and if Kwong sticks to the walls, they’re sure they can squeeze through. They nearly make it.

“C’mon, you gotta know something. Weren’t you a cop or something?” Jesse’s hand shoots forward, wrapping around Kwong’s wrist, stopping them in their tracks. Kwong frowns.

“What?”

“Don’t pretend, everyone in the damn district knows. You used to run with the blues, some high ranking official or whatever.”

Kwong wrenches their arm free, mildly enjoying how Jesse stumbles forward, catching himself with the railing. Jesse looks up, and Kwong notes the redness around his eyes.

“Sorry,” Jesse mumbles, sitting back on the step. “Look, I’m just hungover. I didn’t mean to get all grabby.”

“She’s cheating on you.”

Jesse’s face snaps up to face Kwong, their brown eyes wide in surprise. “What? You’re sure? How do you know?”

Kwong shrugs, moving down the steps and away from him. They don’t turn around.

“Everyone in the damn district knows, Jesse.”

Jesse doesn’t say anything in return.

Kwong makes it to the bottom of the stairs without any other surprises. They cross the street, into the massive lot that becomes a sprawling market in a few hours. It’s this market that is considered the center of their tight-knit district, Lokra. Kwong hates how empty it appears during the early morning. Mostly empty.

Kwong nods politely at the elderly women who sit huddled together in lawn chairs, drinking their steaming tea with a watchful eye, waiting for their children to come down and set up their stands. At the very back, hidden behind large carts and vans, sits a clunky machine with faded red paint and the words MIKE’S REPAIRS sprawled over in offensively bold black ink. The motorcycle, a decade old model, is perched on two wooden planks, on account of its lack of wheels.

“Are you going to start for me today?” Kwong asks the bike, clipping the chest strap of their backpack closed and securing it in place. With a grunt, Kwong hoists themselves up, sliding into the old white leather seat and leaning back. The goggles on their neck clank in reminder and Kwong pulls them up to sit tightly over their eyes. They’re about to start the motor when a small slip of paper, resting delicately on the abysmal excuse for a windshield, catches their eye.

“You must be fucking joking,” Kwong says, a gloved hand pulling the paper free and bringing it close enough to read. A parking ticket marked for urgent notice.

“One of your buddies left that for you,” an old woman calls from her place at the circle. The other women remain silent. “Came real early too! Checked the whole lot for you.”

“Ex-buddies,” Kwong corrects, folding the ticket and placing it inside the back pocket of their jumpsuit. “Remember what this buddy looked like?”

The elderly women whisper amongst each other, but otherwise remain quiet.

“I’ll bring you some of those biscotti Mike’s wife makes for your afternoon teatime.”

“He had long brown hair,” one speaks up. “And a thick beard. Very burly.”

Johan? Kwong thinks. What’s he doing all the way out here?

“Don’t forget the biscotti, Ah Kwong!” The women call together and Kwong waves in acknowledgement, turning their attention to the bike and starting the engine. It only takes one try for a hum to vibrate at Kwong’s legs. Hot air funnels through the bottom of the machine, jolting it upwards into the air. Once the small bulb on the dash switches from red to blue, Kwong steers the bike out of the parking lot and pulls onto the street. They ignore the half-hearted calls of anger for kicking up dirt.

Mike’s Repairs hides itself behind the fish market at the docks in Arklo. The business is set up within a warehouse that once harbored luxury cruises before Crosstone’s wealth became an enclosed point deep within Metropolis. Now, there’s only the market, the fishing boats, the repair shop, and the endless streams of factories that have cropped up in the graveyards of greener times. Their fog darkens the area to a perpetual grey. 

“You’re late,” Mike grunts upon Kwong’s arrival, feet jutting out from under a lifted automobile, its tires turned inwards. Kwong frowns, walking over the protruding limbs and dropping the parking ticket onto Mike’s chest as they pass by. Their focus is on the cork billboard on the back wall, orders neatly lined up. Mike’s daughter, Abby, sits beside it, typewriter settled under her fingertips when she casts Kwong a smile.

“Good morning!” She greets happily, moving thick braids away from her face. “I saved you some biscotti.”

“’Morning,” Kwong replies, hearing the screeching wheels of Mike escaping his place from beneath the car. “I promised some women in Lokra I’d bring some back with me.”

“That’s where you’re living now, right? Lokra’s a pretty crowded place—”

“What the fuck is this? You got a ticket?! Again!” Mike sounds incredulous, maneuvering to Kwong and his daughter, waving the yellow paper between his fingers. His head meets Kwong’s shoulders, dusty brown hair shaved close to the skull, and from this angle, Kwong can make out the gnarly scar that crosses from ear to ear.

“Johan, apparently.”

“They really have it out for you, kid. You’d think after quitting, they’d leave you alone.”

“You’d think,” Kwong agrees.

“It’s a social circle thing,” Abby provides, already placing the biscotti into a clear box container. “I was reading about it for class. You used to be one of their own. And they think, you know—?”

“I didn’t.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Mike grunts, folding the ticket and handing it back to Kwong before turning towards the billboard. “Just pay up quietly and move on. Those boys in blue will get bored of you eventually.”

Kwong frowns, taking the ticket, ignoring the grease stains all over it. “I have a feeling that won’t be the case.”

“Why?” Mike says, plucking one of the orderly assignments, and then another. He glances down at his choices and hums approvingly. He barely looks at Kwong as he extends them but when Kwong reaches out, Mike’s free hand extends to grab at their wrist.

Kwong can feel the metal gears shifting underneath thick leather gloves.

“You still seeing things, Kwong?”

Kwong glances down to catch Mike’s eyes. “No, not in two months.”

“Are you lying to me?”

“No.”

“And the dreams?”

“Haven’t had one since I moved.”

“Kwong—”

“Dad,” Abby interrupts. “Give them the tickets! They’re on the clock.”

Abby stands up, snagging the assignments from her father. The movement causes Mike’s grip to loosen and Kwong gently pulls themselves free.

“Here, Kwong,” Abby says, smiling. “One order in Dowwell, one in Lokra and the last one is in the Melos District. Huh, that’s a bit far?”

“It’s fine,” Kwong replies, taking the offered assignments. “I’ll get started now.”

“Excuse me for giving a fuck. I’m just a senile old man,” Mike sulks, turning back to his project.

“I appreciate it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mike sighs, laying back down on the wooden plank and rolling under the automobile. “After finishing those orders, take the day off. You look like you haven’t slept in years.”

Kwong nods, despite Mike no longer being able to see them. “Alright, thanks.”

“Don’t forget this,” Abby says, passing the box of biscotti along. “I’m sure the grannies will appreciate this.”

“Don’t let them hear you call them that.”

Abby laughs, and Kwong is back on the diesel bike. It takes three tries this time for the engine to start, but Kwong isn’t in a hurry.

THE STRANGER, Pt.2