Nebula and Clyde

Clyde thought his boss' work vacation would be somewhere more congested, somewhere with smog instead of air. He even picked out a book from the library that addressed this area before the trip. It was 20 years old, but it was the most modern the librarian at the desk said they had. So the green and burly trees, thankfully, weren't logged by now, and the town's woodlands hadn't been violated much beyond the innings of a growing place: a large convenience store with a few chain restaurants and, elsewhere, the packaging and shipping plant Ruedi had in mind striking a deal with. Ruedi was there pitching alone—he knew, and Clyde knew, that Clyde would be uneasy knowing what was being pitched, analyzed, and test distributed, although it was possible the distributor wouldn't need to figure it out. It would be a multiday affair.

Clyde, then, focuses on seeing what the more rustic area of the town can offer. And he smiles reading off a painted not printed sign for a bakery. The chippings and re-layering of the paint are evident from years of service. He checks his jean pockets for his keychain, his phone, and his wallet, and he steps inside the bakery. All the colors warm the interior, and the baked goods themselves populate this place. There are muffins, there are cinnamon buns and cakes and donuts and pies. Many of them are a purple or red color of a local set of berries.

The table's appealing. Before he gets comfortable, however, Clyde quietly requests a slice of the menu's more esteemed local berry pie to the one serving as cashier. Clyde, in this same position as the young cashier so many times before, didn't have this true hospitality. Gobeli and Son's has all the colors, and the heating, but the filled seating of locals in this bakery, this place founded with a further element of social gathering more than browsing shelves, elevates the scene like egg-washed dough in a proofer.

With the slice of pie on a plate, Clyde grabs a napkin and fork and sits at the unoccupied table.

Okay... Clyde's eyes wander from the other customers to the floor, his lap, and the table. He spreads his napkin on his lap, and he traces indents of the table with his pale fingers. Was his pink hair and tie really that embarrassing? He cuts a large piece of the front of the pie with his fork, closing his eyes and exhaling. He separates the portion from the rest of it, and he examines the cross-section of the pie. He does take a proper forkful and chew on half of it. It's delicious. But if he is embarrassing, why does it start now, not when entering the bakery? The customer that passed earlier is sitting alone, not with a family, in a smaller table. Maybe this table is for families, and they're upset he used it? Ones with rowdy toddlers who leave scratches everywhere? He waits for such a family looking for a seat.

As if on cue to his thoughts, the door swings open. Again, people turn towards the door, as when he'd entered. But their looks stay for longer this time. A slightly quieter atmosphere settles in, and a dark haired person slowly steps into the café.

"G-good day, 'nessa." The bartender chimes in to break the air. "The usual?"

She simply nods and takes a few steps towards the table Clyde is at before observing that it's occupied. How unexpected. Her eyes distinctly lock with his, at least until he may break away for whatever reason, and there are more curious whispers. "Who is he? Does she know him?"

This almost hesitance is brief though, and she sits opposite him. Places her feet on the table - the scuffed spots on the edge of the table line up neatly with her ankles. Surely it's not the first time she's sat there. She sizes Clyde up and down.

"You're not from here, are you?"

This dark-haired person with their inconsiderate treatment of the front door brought the entire room to awkwardness, and Clyde saw that transformation as well. He quickly lowers his eyes from "Nessa," and, with little effort, the prongs of the fork ooze the pie filling onto the plate. The customers all know this person. It's a small town... Made bigger by him. He pulls his plate further from their feet, and he checks his pockets like before entering the bakery. He shakes his head, and says, "S-sorry." He's to leave when his freedom to move comes back from the burst anxiety. So short it's been too in the bakery.

Any immediate departure is blocked off by the cashier showing up and gently placing down a slice of brownie with vanilla ice cream and caramel syrup, and a cup of hot chocolate to go along. He does not say much but gives 'nessa a vaguely questioning look to which she just shrugs gently.

"You have me curious. What brings you here? It's a pretty calm place all in all, we don't get many visitors... or newcomers." There's a subtly demanding tone to her voice.

Her face had gone to print again in today's edition of the state newspaper, another "missing person" ad, which certainly doesn't leave her less tense. But he seems to not recognize her, and probably hasn't read the papers. At least not yet.

Clyde stares at the items in front of Nessa for an innocent period of time. He continues to hold his fork against his own pie, and his eyes haven't returned this entire time to Nessa's face. "Business, m-my boss brought me h-here." He scoots to the edge of his bench, leaving his fork and plate to the middle of the table. He lifts his napkin from his lap and wipes his lips slowly.

"Ah, hm, you're one of those. I suppose Xebox wants some more customers considering the recent expansion. I guess I can't expect this place to remain small and cozy forever." She lets out a surprisingly heavy sigh, and finally shows some attention to her cake and ice cream. The portions of each are carefully balanced off with each forkful. After a few, she motions at Clyde with her fork. "You should eat. It's good pie. Or is something wrong with it? I can arrange a new one if that's the problem."

She realizes he's planning to be up and away, and feels a bit sorry for laying it on quite thick for such a squishy and easily intimidated guy. But she is very unsure how to compensate for it without dropping too much of a guise.

Clyde nods, and folds the napkin beside the plate. His foot dangles from the side of the bench and table, and he brings the plate of pie to himself again, taking nothing more than a couple grams of fillings to his mouth. He examines her feet in his peripheral vision. Unusual shoes for this area. Perhaps she's wealthy, too. "N-no, it's delicious. The crust is golden—it's not a store's... filling's not too sweet. Baker and recipe are—c-class." He nibbles more, and he flashes a glance at customers other than Nessa. It's likely she didn't need all that information. He says to Nessa, looking at the cashier, "I need to... to go."

She can't help but notice how much his eyes wander, how attentive he seems to be, his very detailed mannerisms and comments. It's making her increasingly uncomfortable too. Does he know? Is he only acting this well? The thought of letting him go seems scary, all of a sudden.

There's a distinct tone of determination in her voice to mask a slight worry, as she speaks. "No, you don't." People look up. The fleeting attentions peak even more. It's as if everyone in this place knows something Clyde doesn't. And 'neesa is in the center of this.

So many watchful eyes—so much muted gossip captured in an image. Clyde feels he's done something very incorrect, maybe the decision to sit down at this table, or any empty booth, or maybe they just realized he was a stranger after the woman pointed it out or like...

He drops his fork on the plate and his eyes water. What matters is he can't sit here. He stands up from the bench and scurries out the booth. He sniffles, and he trails behind him, "S-Sorry," writing over a demand with an apology. He pops the front door open and closes it behind him with more than modest care, continuing to cry.

Well, fuck. There's no way all that wasn't genuine. Her heart sinks. She doesn't have much composure left wither and even if she were to not care about the boy leaving, she really can't be seen having an emotional episode over this.

"Charlie, put his on my tab, if he didn't pay yet. I have... Matters to attend to." She swiftly leaves, exiting with a dignified stride over running but once out of the door she's in full sprint after Clyde. As he's probably too busy crying to keep his attention peeled, she can silently catch up to him and pull him aside to an alley. A hand against the wall cuts off his immediate exit; he'd need to go through or around her.

"Listen. I'm sorry. I... can try to explain." Without people around, she's startlingly more delicate and youthful in her speech, let alone caring.

Clyde makes a girlish yelp and sobs against her arm, pushing with little progress. He starts to backup instead from Nessa, not turning around. His eyes wander everywhere as they blink out new tears, even passing her own eyes. He snatches his smartphone from his pocket. The model is almost as old as a flip-phone.

As his eyes wander about, there's a few discarded newspapers strewn about. One of them is folded up partway through.

The bottom half of one page bears a picture that, while dated, is unmistakably the woman in front of him. "Have you seen this person?" It reads, and some smaller print that seems to be about a reward. She's not taken note of the same, as it's behind her currently.

All this while, she seems... Distressed. Frustrated. "Stop. Please. I just want to talk."

Clyde backs from the loose newspaper pages and the stranger more, running his back into a brick wall. He fumbles to even open the call menu on the phone... He says, in a warbled voice, "W-What did I do w-wrong—I will do anything—I I I I'm—" He shuts the phone, understanding the phone can't get help in time and it's to her request to comply, whoever she is, whatever the bounty to her name. "Okay," He sniffles.

She sighs in relief as he puts the phone away. "You did not do anything wrong. Yet. I am not looking to cause any problems at all but I need to be sure you won't do the same. Until then I can't let you go." She crosses her arms, tail swaying from side to side. "You'd very easily get yourself involved in things you do not want to be anywhere near."

"...Is t-this the explain?" Clyde asks, wiping his left index finger against his eyes. He takes a short breath. "I won't involve... I'll stay in the hotel every day." He nods, and wipes his eyes again. They look a bit swollen, for now. Nothing wrong, apparently, except he's still clearly overstepped with the wrong people...

Wow, this guy really is extremely a pushover. Nebula steps over to the side, sitting down against the wall and resting her head back against the crusty bricks. "No, no. You're free to enjoy your stay. I really don't intend to ruin your visit but I suppose I have already succeeded in doing that. But to be very clear and simple, my existence here is a secret and if you don't do your part in keeping it that way, then you'll be past a boundary more grave than you could imagine. Until then, you're very welcome here."

"The name's Vanessa, by the way. Some call me Nebula. I'm sure you'd find that out eventually anyways, so might as well be formal about it."

Clyde is too far to just run past Nebula, and even so... She's really been giving mixed signals for the past couple minutes. Why is she nice now? Is she just presenting a farce? He pushes his hands into his pink hair, and steps forward. He says, "Y-you're so popular, Nebula... Secret to who?" Authorities on this newspaper headline? "Nebula... Is your nickname because of— your hair?" He, somewhat, anticipates a harsh disapproval to emerge now that she's extended kindness like when she asked him to eat the pie in front of her.

She pinches the bridge of her nose and looks around, then notices the newspaper he surely must have spotted earlier. "Even people with power make mistakes. Depending on who you ask, you'll get a lot of different stories about what happened. And I can't tell you which ones are real, if any. I am... popular here, yes. I have to be. Everyone knows that trying to give me away would cause problems to everyone involved. It's to protect both myself, the people here, and..." She sighs deeply. She goes to scratch her arm, and in pushing up her sleeve she reveals a rather intricate tattoo involving two crossed swords, and a four pronged star bearing the letter "A" in fancy cursive font. "The people who are looking for me are not good people, no matter what they may try to say."

Clyde approaches the tattooed arm, and he gets enough of a look at it. Then he stares at Nebula, softening and refilling like after a semi solid squished down. "Okay... What will 'they' say?" He pauses, letting Nebula perhaps answer that if she chooses. "What's it m-mean?" He reaches to touch the tattoo, his chin still up. His motion of a sniffle, the twitch of the nose, doesn't make a sound here.

"I suppose I should let you know my side of the story, if it'll help you understand the situation and help you believe my situation. See... What would you suspect are the odds that the vice president of a mafia organization gets killed accidentally? I still plead my innocence in the matter and it was ruled as such, but naturally these people only see eye for an eye. And my associates would be much the same." She taps her tattoo. "The Astralytes. The name probably doesn't tell you anything, and for good reason. Ideally we'd be off the radar entirely and I'd just be an unseeming girl in a small town, but. I'm the standing chain in an inevitable feud of revenge that could escalate horridly if I can't stay hidden. So, please. You don't need to think I'm a good person in any sense, but many innocent and guilty people alike are at stake. Much everyone in this town knows this, or at least knows that I'm too important to make unwise decisions around. Newcomers like you, and inevitably the people on your end that may end up cooperating with Xebox, are a bit of a problem to me. Usually I can try to let word of mouth catch up to people before introducing myself, but. I'm very sorry it all had to come this way, today. I really did not mean to scare or intimidate you this much, but. It was necessary. For your sake, for mine, and for many others."

Clyde holds the tattoo and touches her hand in that too, for many seconds. He separates from her and says, "Your life is v-very busy. I... I think I will stay away. You're just trying to make me s-stay—away." He walks from her, toward the street he ran in from, and he looks back, tip toeing. His hands fold over his lap. "You really scared me.. Don't worry—you did it, N-Nebula." He puts his hand on his phone in his pocket, and clutches it tightly. And he walks slowly to the street, still seeking some form of a final permission to exit onto the street. He's stiffening again, and sweating. He's hiding his face.

Nebula does not feel the need to pursue any more. She sighs, deeply. "Go. I won't stop you. I believe you've gotten the point I was trying to make, and that's all I needed."

There's a clear weight and discomfort to her words. She really wishes it didn't have to be this way, she knows she hurt him and ruined his stay here. But there's not much that can be done, it wasn't her fault that this odd pink fellow appeared the same day her face had gone to print again. If he'd already known by that point, it could have been much worse.

"You didn't tell me your name, anyhow. But... I really don't think it matters any more, I suppose."

Clyde stops at the outside of the alley, and he leans on the brick corner of the building. He's quiet, even for him. The sun is really warm in the cold. The pie in his stomach is upsetting his system.

Clyde turns the corner, abandoning Nebula. He could still find something to do tomorrow, something that wouldn't likely bump into Nebula or her web of needs and troubles and image... There were some less enjoyed buildings.

Vanessa's stomach is heavy, too. She doesn't want to cry here though. She should head home, where she can have her emotions in peace, with no one looking. It slowly dawns on her what kind of scene she caused earlier with a vast amount of onlookers, and knows that will leave some manner of impact. Will people be worried on behalf of Clyde? Who knows. She struggles to care right now but knows she will before the day is over.

Clyde should have had a good chance to cover some distance by the time Nebula stands up again, brushing herself off and making sure she looks passably fierce again before silently and casually strolling out of the alley. She doesn't bother scanning for any looks she might be getting, she needs to be in control of the situation. Her pace is still somewhat hasty by the time she has walked the relatively short distance home to her residence. She lives upstairs to a long since abandoned storefront, with windows boarded up and somewhat shabby looking exterior. Her upstairs residence windows always have blinds down, cracked just enough for some sunlight to make it through when desired.

Clyde, too, had made it to his hotel. He thought about telling Ruedi about what happened over the phone. But, well, he'd probably get them both into trouble instead of just himself. And he didn't really know how false the stories she told were, or how true. He wondered if he wanted to know. Or if he should. He closes the book he brought about the area early, a hundred pages left unseen. This book really was outdated, if her story was true. The political scandal section was more a telling of how peaceful and crime-free the region was... He sleeps in a bit early, bored. The paperwork and handbook from Xebox on the table was already managed.