A Day, Unimportant [WT/Jamie]

[d4 Panda Scope [Gayton]]

[googlefont="Mali:400"]

Today was a good day.

Well, actually... It was just alright-- but, alright is good.

Max got cocky and challenged a guy way bigger than him. He got crushed. It was kind of funny, but I did feel a little bad when everyone laughed at him.

But then he took it out on Cayden. It's just terrible. Cayden hates being in the training center, and he's much smaller than Max. I hate that he had to take that from him. But it did make Max feel better.

Max got a good laugh from it, and he called it for the day. It was actually kind of odd, Max leaving before the rest of us. Valerie's were notorious for being among the last to leave the center, and that's because of Max. Hopefully father didn't get too upset when Max got home.

Right as the sun began to set, Cayden walked home with Jed and Guy. I knew Cayden would avoid looking at my father for several days, at least until the black eye he got from Max healed. Father would be upset with Cayden if he saw that. Luckily, dad doesn't pay much attention to him and won't notice.

I had planned to go home with them, but as they started to pack a girl had caught my eye. She was very pretty: blonde hair to the crook of her back, deep brown eyes. I pretended to work a short sword while I watched her.

I did eventually wander off, playing more with the blade than looking at her, so when she left I hadn't noticed. Who knows how long she was gone before I realized? With that I decided it was time to retreat home.

After changing from my sweats and into a purple jacket and tight jeans, I pulled my hair back into a messy, half-assed pony tail. Bag in hand, I left.

The training center exits right onto a paved pathway leading to the still bustling streets. Blacksmiths and shop owners were beginning to call the day done. Door locked, people fast-walked, ready to be home.

Dark blue had primed the sky, making way for an inevitable black to plant it's roots until morning. My mind was focused on the pillow, no doubt pining for my head to return to it. Chin up, as dad had taught me, I journeyed forward---but, before I could get more than a few steps away, I was stopped abruptly as my body collided with someone. I tumbled forward.

I turned around immediately, apologizing, "Oh my. I am so sorry. I wasn't--" I cut myself off as I take in who I see. A boy, not much older than the twins, walking towards the center.

"Oh! Hi there. Sorry about that," beat, "It's awfully late to be going in, huh?"

Word count:456

[WT]

Your parents think you're at Fausta's. That's not your usual strategy, and it itches at the back of your mind even as you make your way through town; they trust you, and lying curdles something in your gut that doubting them never touches. They've never minded you trying to find your own answers in the world, but you know they would scold you for the same reasons you keep swearing off these trips—you could get lost, you could fall out of rafters and break a leg, you could get caught—and hearing it from them would only make you feel worse the next time your resolve broke. You've already tried making it to the training center across town after they went to bed, though, only to realize you wouldn't get any sleep that night and turn around. This was the only way to leave early enough.

Wearing your black and grey night clothes in the fading daylight feels almost as strange as weaving through crowds with the weight of your equipment on your shoulder, but no one else looks twice at you as you near the center. They're all scurrying in other directions, rushing for last-minute errands or to get home in time for dinner, and a skinny thirteen-year-old with a bag and a book flies well below their radar. If anyone is looking at anything outside of their own bubbles, it's probably the loud argument outside the tailor's shop—something about an older woman trying to barge in after he flipped the sign, not caring that the tailor himself was only still inside to clean up for the night. That's where your own eyes are, half curious and half cautious, when you slam into a soft wall.

You go down hard, failing to cushion yourself on your arm and slamming your right hip directly down on your bag. Nothing crunches—courtesy, you hope, of the old socks wrapped around your plastics to keep them from clinking saving the day—but your heart still hurtles into your throat as you roll off the bag and tear it open. You scraped money together for that flashlight for months, no way can you afford to replace it—but no, when you click it the light blinks on, clear as ever. Thank goodness.

"Oh! Hi there. Sorry about that."

The rest of the world falls back into place as you look up and realize you forgot to so much as wonder who you ran into. She seems fine, at least, and she doesn't sound angry even though the whole thing was probably your fault for not looking where you were going—a relief, since she has at least half a foot on you. You bury the flashlight and scramble to your feet, rubbing your hip a little with one hand and waving off the apology with the other, as she adds, "It's awfully late to be going in, huh?"

"What? No, I'm not, uh—" Without a prepared excuse, you stumble and finish helplessly on, "I guess?" Then you blink, taking in exactly how close you are to the training center, and blurt, "Wait, were you training? Now?"