thick shades wedge themselves on the stern bridge of his nose. hiding his austere gaze, the apothecary hunkers down in the seat front of mclaren. no announcement. no permission asked. a bag with a kecleon logo hangs from his stiff forearm.

"hey." elijah pulls out a hoodie from the bag. it's obviously oversized. he flings it like a dead meowth toward her. "people might think you're doing some shitty cosplay, but we're still undercover. got it?"

he grumbles.

"that's yours, by the way. don't need to pay me back."

mclaren mcflurry

when mclaren returns with her "minimum wage" fries, elijah plucks one. tax for using his time— not that he really minded. it was getting stuffy in his little shack.

he shoves the french fry into his greedy mouth. it disappears into a terrible gnashing of starch. "code name will help. you might get on a list." the apothecary does not stop stealing fries. "we'll get out of the shadows, eventually. what's your name? i'm supposed to get to know you better."

elijah's eyes sharpen. on the table, his propped up elbows look like prison bars.

mclaren mcflurry

"the mc-thing. that a nervous tick?" elijah says as the butt of a fry disappears under the bars of his teeth.

he sucks the salt off a fingertip, letting it pop wetly as it leaves his lips. again, he steals. tugging away an impossibly thin napkin, he rubs his wet finger against it. it wrinkles and tears immediately. elijah crumples it into a ball.

"elijah. your name's not claren flurry is it?"

mclaren mcflurry

elijah brings a finger to his lips. a speech impediment. he's worried he has offended her— and he hides his frown. to mask it, he licks phantom salt.

"don't correct yourself." elijah offers— then takes a gravely detour. "takes longer to get to the point."

hooking his finger under the bridge of his sunglasses, he slides them down his nose. his sharp gaze cuts above the thick black frames.

"rocket's been disbanded. no one knows about the 'new one.'" he whispers. "anyway, we're unfortunately getting to know each other because i'm supposed to help you. orientation. but late. i guess." he rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck.

"pass me another fry."

mclaren mcflurry

"fuck the museum." elijah takes mcflurry's fry offering like a blind and voiceless deity. as he chews on another defenseless fried potato, he continues, "place needs some new exhibits anyway. shit's getting old."

as his counterpart explains her file, elijah feels sorry for her. the insecurity swells from her in incessant ebbs.

"defensive. that's nice." elijah's stomach rumbles. maybe he's already had too many fries. "nothing wrong with that. we had a problem of batshit crazies being in rocket, setting fires to places and whatever. what wormadam form? answer carefully or i'll steal your soda too."

mclaren mcflurry

"plant? good choice."

elijah spares mcflurry's soda, maintaining the odd moral code of a fast food court. he crumples another napkin between his fingers. the grease lightens the colour before it tears once again: a widow's veil of failed missions and scummy diets.

"as for the why... anything a museum has is worth money." elijah pushes his shades back, fitting them squarely on his face. he leans back in his chair. "even if it's a trash cloak wormadam. by way of being inside of a museum, the value goes up."

he crosses his arms.

"you're not being paid for the assignment you botched. you know that, right?"

mclaren mcflurry

"online mcpatrons?"

as mcflurry speaks of another world entirely foreign to this old-fashioned man, elijah scratches for understanding with the rough bristles of his brows. the sudden collection of garbage distracts his shaded gaze.POG

"don't worry. this is being chewed out." elijah sighs. "don't look like such a sorry fuck."

with a deeper sigh, one that carves a valley within a valley, he stands and shoots an offer.

"if you're really short on cash, how about we embark on a mission together. i've got some seniority, so i can help you pick and choose. how about that?"

mclaren mcflurry