Despite the scary clown mask and aura of murderous intent from the man who was Lights, it was almost comedic in the way he physically recoiled as the cans hit the side of the table. He jumped out of his chair and immediately reached for his knife, “Who the fu–”

“Oh, fuckin’ hell,” his nerves relaxed as fast as they tensed, and the knife softly slid back into its sheath. “You scared the shit outta me. Don’t do that.”

He slammed his hand on the keyboard, and the music stopped immediately. “Wait, no, don’t say that,” he muttered to himself, “Let me, uh– sorry. Didn’t realize there were other people in here.”

There was one universal truth to the world, this land, that he had learned early on and would never, ever lose. It’s why his hand took one of the offered beers without so much as a thanks or a comment on the brand: Free beer was the best beer, and was never to be turned down. The tab busted open the can, and frothy white sloshed out.

Besides, this beer was good. Good enough, anyway.

And from his desk, a straw emerged. Shoved into the top, and he stuck the other end through a slit in the mask. “Don’t need the help– unless you’re a wizard in Sheets. Or know how to make a years worth of backlog disappear.”

“Name’s Lights,” he held out a hand. 

---

Genevieve Cromwell

“Damn,” Lights said. Even the actual Rangers people gave more than half a fuck about had back logs? What the hell were the big bosses doing? Better not be wasting funds on parties and liquor and escorts and shit. He’d pop a gasket– and some heads.

Lights put his drink on the desk and cracked his knuckles. “Sure, but it's your loss– not sure if you heard, but I made the two-person job a one-person job because the two people were actually zero people.”

One who actually knew what and how to get the job done, and one who actively cost him time. Equal sum game.

But as soon as he shook Genny’s hand, he returned his focus to the monumental task at hand: paperwork. Reports needed to be filed, requests processed, and transactions updated. Grunt work for a former grunt man. Except this was also the perfect line of work for normal entry-level rangers. Some things never changed, he guessed.

And for subclass ‘citizens’ like him, he should probably be happy for the opportunity at all. But the mask hid his permanent scowl perfectly, and words were easy enough to fake.

“So... what city is 'yours' then? And how does a guy like me make an application for one," he asked. "Might have to get my foot in the door for one of those early, so I'm not in the back of the line when I graduate."

---

Genevieve Cromwell

“Lilycove, eh? I’d stay there, if I was you,” Lights took another sip of his good enough beer. “Fishin’, the pier, sea right there– what’s more to want?”

Baseball, obviously. But unfortunately, not everyone liked that. So, he had to hold his tongue on that and her visible dislike of the beer. People these days, always wanted to expensive shit. It wasn’t about the beer, it was about the people you drank it with. And what better company than Lights?

Scratch that out. Nix it from the record.

At the mention of the reform program, his hand stopped for a mere fraction of a second. Whatever he was typing ceased, then continued on moments later. Barely noticeable yet significant enough to warrant something at all. Explanation, answer, joke-- but not awkward silence. Or an angry remark.

Keep it cool, Lights. You asked for this to happen. Can’t get mad at her for it.

“Yep,” he said through gritted teeth. “Started back in… March, or something. Hard to remember. Mr. Hotknife– Caleb Harcourt , was– is, my mentor. For better or worse.”

“It’s… nice. I guess. Beats the alternative, am I right?” He chuckled lightly. Cringely. It wasn’t funny, but maybe if he pretended it was, then it would be.

It didn’t work, and it faded until the dull hum of a distant A/C unit drowned it out. Nice, Lights. Not everyone could do social suicide quite like yourself. Should get a medal for the with which you do it.

---

Genevieve Cromwell