Anon E. Moos, Day 2, Part 2

”Motherfff...”
>Resisting the urge to punch the steering wheel, you force yourself to calm down, your hands holding the wheel in a vice-like grip, your knuckles turning white.
>Taking deep breaths, you look out of the driver's-side window, pointedly ignoring the white Audi that just cut you off.
>To your left you see the familiar scenery of suburban Canterlot flying by, two-story houses with imposing fences hiding—what you presume to be—immaculately tended gardens, the occasional weeping willow or madrone rising high above the castle-like walls.
>Honestly, it makes for quite a picturesque scene, a kind of universally applicable example of suburban America.
>A flash of red light in your peripheral vision makes you snap back to attention, your foot slamming down on the brakes just in time to prevent you from rear-ending the asshole in front of you.
>Taking another look at the car in front of you, you briefly consider just stomping on the gas instead and ramming into the—presumably new—A6.
>If nothing else, you'd at least get revenge (and something to laugh about.)
>...
>Revenge?
>Really?
>Count to ten, Anon.
>You're overreacting, and overreacting pretty hard, at that.
>He just cut you off.
>No sense in making this bigger than it has to be.
>Calm down, and get your fucking eyes on the road.
>...
>With a sigh, you release the steering wheel, your gaze now firmly fixed on the stoplight, your teeth clenching, silently wishing for time to pass just a little faster.
>The day has been stressful enough as it is, what with Duane practically having a mental breakdown in your living room and some jumped-up cop threatening to arrest you.
>On top of that, your shift was probably the most boring one you've had so far, the uncharacteristically slow trickle of customers leaving you alone with your own thoughts for most of the day.
>Combine all of that, leave it to stew in a nearly hundred-degree car during rush hour, and you're left with someone who's about five seconds and one snide remark away from jumping out of his car with a tire iron in one hand and a list of future victims in the other.

>Your basket loaded with groceries and a case of beer in your right hand, you walk down the condiment aisle, feeling utterly lost.
>Not five minutes ago, you remembered that your “guest” doesn't even have any clothing of his own, save for a worn-down jumpsuit you're fairly sure he'd rather burn than wear ever again.
>Considering the “slight” size difference between you two, you're pretty certain that you'd have to somehow find your childhood clothes again just to find something that would fit him.
>The thought of him walking around in a graphic polo and cargo shorts sends a shudder of disgust down your spine.
>Nobody should have to endure that.
>So now, you're feeling decidedly lost, your lack of knowledge on the monolithic superstore making itself painfully obvious.
>You exit the aisle, your eyes scanning the rows of goods and produce, trying to find someone that could help you, the weight of your shopping growing more and more apparent with every second that passes.
>Not finding anyone despite your best efforts, you give a sigh and turn around, doubling back the way you came.
>And bump into a store worker, the boxes of spaghetti in her hands falling onto the tiled floor from the sudden impact.
“Oh, shit! I'm sorry–”
>Internally cringing at your clumsiness, you put down your shopping and give her a quick once-over.
>Well, it's no wonder you didn't see her before.
>She's seems to almost blend into the background somehow, with even the garish blue employee polo looking more subdued than usual, the woman—or girl, now that you think of it—practically the definition of a wallflower.
>There's a subdued, tired, slightly stoic air about her, half-lidded pale green eyes quietly observing the world.
>Looking at the gaunt face, high cheekbones framed by straight, grayish-violet bangs, the completely neutral expression not betraying the slightest hint of emotion, you feel a slight spark of recognition flicker in the back of your mind.
>And promptly die off the next second as you both kneel down to pick up the boxes of spaghetti.
>She's been completely silent the entire time, and you're not sure if she heard your apology, or if she even pays any mind to you.
“So, uh, sorry about that...”
>”It's nothing.”
>Her reply is curt, noncommittal, the tone in her voice completely flat, almost devoid of any emotion.
>Unsure of what to say, you hand her the last of the spaghetti and stand up, brushing imaginary dust off your knees.
“Hey, uh, by the way? I'm looking for some clothing for a friend of mine. Do you think you could help...?”
>”Yes, I can.”
>She looks straight into your eyes, unblinking, her expression completely unreadable.
>And goes around you, walking off briskly, boxes of dry goods clutched in her arms.
>After a couple seconds, you snap out of your stupor and take off after her, basket in hand, all the while wondering just who you are dealing with.

>A few seconds of undignified jogging later, you find yourself beside her, the girl's steely gaze fixed on some indefinable point in front of her.
”So, uh... where is that clothing thing?”
>”I'd point you to it, but my hands are full.”
>Her reply silences you, the girl's deadpan delivery and matter-of-fact tone nipping your attempt at conversation in the bud.
”I'm going to drop these off here. I'll be right back.”
>Again, she brushes past you and walks off, leaving you standing in the middle of another empty aisle with a confused look on your face.
>And mere seconds later, leaving you alone just long enough for you to cast a couple confused glances at your surroundings, she returns, the same deadpan look on her face as before.
>”I'm sorry about the inconvenience. The clothing section is that way–”
>She points towards the far end of the store, her whole arm and hand extended.
>”–right past the snacks aisle. Men's are on the right, women's on the left. Do you need anything else?”
”I... I don't think so. Thanks.”
>”Have a nice day.”
>Just as she's turning away, however, you remember just what caused the spark of recognition from earlier.
>She's looks about the same size as Duane.
>And you have no idea what Duane's size is.
”Hey, uh... actually, I think I still might need some help...”
>With that, she freezes in place and turns back, the same stony gaze still solidly fixed in place.
”So, uh, listen, I don't actually really know my friend's size.”
>Her only reply is a blink, her pale green eyes staring through you, her reaction–or lack thereof–making her opinion of you painfully clear.
”I know, I know, it sounds stupid. But, uh, his phone is dead, and I don't really know where he is right now, so...”
>”That's too bad, sir. I'm afraid I don't know his size either.”
>Ignoring the barb, you press on.
”Well, uh, see, the thing is... you're pretty much the same size as him, as far as I can tell, at least. So, if you just have the time to spare...”
>Upon hearing your words, she closes her eyes, breathes in deeply, and exhales.
”Uh... miss?”
>With that, she opens her eyes, her pupils now small enough to be barely visible, the two black points seemingly burrowing through you, your eyes watering at the sudden change.
>”Sir, with all due respect, I'm almost through the workday. I've been here for the last nineteen hours–”
>Her tone, formerly calm—almost phlegmatic—now has a definite edge to it, and you suddenly find yourself feeling more nervous than you'd like to admit.
”Well–”
>”The only thing I have left to do is restocking shelves. After that I can go home and sleep.”
”Uh, I... I didn't know. Sorry.”
>With that, she sighs and lets her gaze fall onto the floor, her shoulders slumping for the briefest flicker of a moment, before she pulls herself together, her pupils now almost back to normal, her cold green eyes back to burrowing into yours.
>”It's nothing. I don't know what came over me.”
>She looks away for a couple of seconds, blinking a few times, clearly deep in thought, before looking back at you.
>”I could write my size down, if that would help.”
>You nod, blinking a few times in response and looking away, your mouth suddenly feeling drier than before, your gaze finding it's way to a pyramid of tomato sauce cans behind the girl.
”Yeah. Yeah, that would be... great.”
>A few quiet seconds later, with you in the middle of a thorough inspection of your sneakers, she hands you a slip of squared notebook paper, the letters and numbers written onto it all done neatly and evenly, in a style you could almost swear was copied letter-for-letter from a computer screen.
>”Here you go, sir.”
”Thanks. Uh, have a nice day, miss-”
>You look down at her name tag, wanting to at least give her a proper farewell for her help.
>And as you see the name emblazoned on the red-white-and-blue plastic, you feel the force of realization hit you like a train, the reasons for the flicker of recognition from before making themselves painfully apparent.
>She looks just like him.
>She's got the same turned-up nose, his high cheekbones, her hair—although longer and neater—is practically identical to his.
>Actually, the only things that are strikingly different between them—apart from gender—are their eyes, with her cold, passive pale green ones standing in stark contrast to his, the blue orbs barely concealing his emotions, at best.
>Everything about her practically screams “Duane” and you still weren't able to recognize it until now.
>And then, you remember his words from earlier, what he told you after you threatened to throw him out.
>'They always used to come visit me once every three months before that, but after that...'
>After that, they stopped.
>After that, they abandoned him.
>Doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out the rest.
>Doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that you're standing face to face with a traitor, a betrayer, that you're talking to one of the people that left Duane to his fate.
>Suddenly, a rush of anger flares up inside you, your fist clenching around the handle of the basket, a faint creak emanating from the tortured plastic, your white knuckles holding it in a vice-like grip, wanting nothing more than to punch out the woman in front of you.
>With a sharp inhale, you give her a tight-lipped smile and a curt nod before pushing past her, regret flooding you mere seconds later.
>Turning around, you turn your head towards her, your voice barely more than a hoarse, angry whisper.
“Bye.”
>And with that you leave Maud Pie behind you, your fists clenched and your heart thumping, your feet taking you towards the clothing section, and far away from the woman behind you.