Cold Shoulder - Chapter 1

Epilogues: Cold Shoulder - Chapter 1

A soft crunch can be heard in the still, cold air, a small drift of snow falling under your boot as you walk between buildings five and six, checking the gate and making sure nothing else is amiss. The life of a security guard is largely quiet, especially without any cybernetic distractions to deal with, and you pride yourself on keeping it that way. Glancing at your phone, you see the alarm you've set is two minutes away, and you silence it preemptively. You quicken your pace, slipping into the narrow alley between nine and ten, opening the gate and stepping outside the complex. This gate is far enough off the sidewalk that you can wait here without being seen, given the streetlights being in the wrong place to illuminate the gate either.

You're waiting to spring a trap you've been weeks in crafting, trying to figure out exactly who is utilizing the gate between eleven and twelve to enter, or exit, the complex. Two weeks coordinating with Faz to try and figure out the exact timing (5:10 a.m.), the cut rate security cameras having fogged over during the hours of darkness since their installation certainly not helping matters. You once again resolve to try and convince Marion of the need to upgrade the housings, despite them working just fine when he's on the clock. A soft growl escapes your throat as the sharp scent of yet more snow is redolent in your nostrils. You pull down one side of the bright pink scarf wrapping most of your head (on loan from Bonnie, naturally) and wait for your pigeon.

A minute later, you can hear a soft crunch of plastic, and you take this as your cue. Counting to twenty, you quickly duck out of your shadowed alcove and trot quietly around the back of building ten, finding a similarly dark entrance awaiting you. As you suspected, there is an empty milk jug squashed between the steel fence post and the chain link gate. You glance down the alleyway, spotting a dark figure silhouetted against the faint amber of the sodium vapor lights illuminating the courtyard. Carefully extricating the crumpled plastic, you gently pull the gate shut with a soft click, ducking back out of the alley and back to your original exit point. You surreptitiously re-enter the complex, taking care to keep the spring loaded gate from slamming shut, and work your way back to the front corner of the building. Your heart pounding, you shuck your pink ear protection and peek out into the lighted commons.

The only thing remarkable in the eerie, pre-dawn quiet is two figures standing at the entrance of the next alleyway, clearly having a brief, strained conversation. One is dressed in dirty jeans and a dark brown hoodie, drawn tight over their head, muting the impression that this person is rather tall and somewhat large as well. The other, oddly enough is Frances Weiss, the pale bear clearly worried and somehow stern at the same time. Fran hands over a brown paper lunch bag, contents unknown but not terribly heavy by the look of things, before clasping the mysterious interloper’s hands in hers, appearing to beseech them to...something. An awkward pause follows that is broken by what sounds like Cheeky taking out the trash, the rattling of breaking bottles ringing out in the still winter air.

Your target tears away, almost reluctantly it seems, and Fran looks worriedly after before she follows suit, ducking back around the corner and heading home. Filing that half of the equation away for now, you instead replace your pink frostbite preventer and calmly walk the fifty yards down the front of building eleven, eager to finally solve this little mystery. Just as you turn the corner, you can hear your target, at first gently, then with more force, rattling the now locked gate. They are backlit by the (in this location, anyway) well-placed streetlamp, a disheveled appearance even more apparent as you creep forward to within ten yards and click on your flashlight, the bright LED flaring to harsh life.

“You know, as often as you come to visit, you should probably be paying rent. Why don't we go up to the front desk and see if we can't find you a lease application?” is your opening salvo; exceptionally well-rehearsed, if a bit over the top.

The figure flinches as if struck, shoulders slumping even further, if that were possible, before the soft, almost timid response freezes the blood in your veins.

“We both know that would be an exceptionally bad idea, Mike.”

Your pigeon turns around slowly to regard you, and you can now see just how far Nisha Marigold has fallen. Gone are the garish clothes, the haughty bearing, even the trademark gold lipstick is missing from her chapped lips. Her eyes are bloodshot, lids drooping slightly even as she squints against your light.

“What the hell are you doing here?” You demand, your emotions darting back and forth between shock, anger and bewilderment.

“I'm just leaving. Or trying to.” She says, voice weary and small.

“That's not what I meant, and you know it.”

“Just getting some food. She's a nice lady. Always helping people.” Nisha offers, and you can tell you're closer to the truth, even if you feel she's still holding back. She wobbles unsteadily on her feet, and you can see that's in spite of the cane in her left paw. Her right is clutching the paper lunch bag in a deathgrip, a talisman against the cold for the disgraced ursine.

“Yes, she is.” you concur, voice coldly flat. “She's probably the only one around here who would be, when it comes to you.” You add, twisting the knife. Even with how happy your life has become, there is still a dark place in your heart, and it's been under wraps for quite a while now.

“I know.” She concedes, seeming to visibly wilt under your ire.

"And yet you chose to come here anyway. I am *literally* incapable of guaranteeing your safety here, Nisha." you add, ever the watchful guardian, even for someone who's caused so much pain.

"I'm not asking you to." she says, voice barely above a whisper.

"Then what *are* you asking for?"

"Like I said, just here for something to eat."

"So pop some hot pockets in the microwave." You reply testily.

"Shelter doesn't have a microwave." She says, eyes downcast again.

"Shelter?" You ask, her word choice coming out of left field it seems.

"That was part of the plea agreement. Full restitution. Corporate lawyers were *very* thorough. The car, the jewelry, the bank accounts. Most of my medical settlement. Disability is garnished for the next twelve years. Even the house my father built with his own paws. We'd put it in my name for tax purposes." She clarifies, voice filled with regret over what was, at the time, surely a prudent decision. You leave her words hanging in the cold, still air for a pregnant pause, pondering what she's said.

"You look employable, what's the deal? Don't you have a degree?" You demand, your voice becoming exasperated.

"I have an associate's in accounting and a felony conviction for embezzling. *Nobody's* going to hire me, least of all as an accountant." She growls softly, both embarrassed and growing testy herself.

"And whose fault is that?" You fire back angrily, your temper relishing the fact that you've got a valid target for once. Probably not a good time to dwell on the fact that even as run down as she is, Nisha's a fair sight larger than you are. This last comes to the fore of your consciousness as she takes a quick step toward you, closing most of the gap between you.

"Listen, I didn't..." she manages to bark, before her cane tip lands slightly askance on a patch of ice, the wobbly bear crashing heavily to the ground at your feet. A harsh, hissing intake of breath lets you know that hurt, and, scarily, you're not the least bit concerned about it. What does soften your stance, however, is the soft sniffling you can hear. This is coming from Nisha, who is cradling her paper bag, now smashed flat and dripping with slush. She remains fixated on her ruined meal for several moments, before angrily flinging it into the nearby wall.

"I don't *have* options. Not any more." She pronounces glumly.

"You *always* have options. It's just a matter of what you're willing to do." you pronounce, standing over her, uncomfortably close even for you. The bluff of authority is enhanced as you place your fists on your hips, trying your best to be intimidating. You can't help but wonder at what she's thinking, as her gaze slowly tracks upward until her dark eyes are looking directly into yours. Slowly, she grimaces, anguish turning her face into a mask of agony before she looks away, shoulders quaking slightly as she softly sobs.

Wait. Not anguish.

*Betrayal*.

Before you can ask, or even think about what she's feeling, she reaches forward, paws trembling as she latches onto your belt buckle, fumbling for several seconds before she manages to unfasten it, and getting your gloved hand slamming down immediately over it.

"What the fuck?!" you demand, and Nisha flinches as if she's been flogged. Hastily refastening your belt, before Beanie even gets a *hint* about it being undone, you gawk at the cowed bear, even more confused than you were mere seconds ago.

"I thought... you wanted..." she begins, unable to even voice what she was about to do.

"No. That's not... What the hell happened to you?" you ask softly.

"Prison..." She begins. "Wasn't kind to me. Wasn't one of those cheesy movies, that's for sure. I thought all that was behind me. Then I got out. Court-mandated halfway house. I'd just traded Katherine for Lloyd. At least Kath pretended to give a damn about me. She'd want to cuddle after..." she says, her voice a soft, cold monotone before trailing off entirely.

"Lloyd? Why do I know that name?" you ask, a nagging thought in the back of your mind.

"Runs the St. Vincent the Redeemer Home for Wayward Youth. Doesn't just handle kids anymore, but they haven't bothered to change the name." she says, a slight bit of sarcasm trickling into her weary voice. You'd always heard rumors about the place, but nothing concrete until now, and you silently thank the powers that be that you never had the chance to get a bed there during your stint of homelessness.


“We all have choices. I've made some pretty bad ones, and now I'm paying the price for the rest of my life. Another week and I can move out of St. Vincent’s at least. Have a couple spots staked out where I can squat. Most of the other bums don't want to mess with a bear, at least.” She mutters, a soft puff of breath expressing what mirth she can find in the statement.

“Don't you have any family?”

“Dad's been dead and buried for years. My brother still lives at home. Mom? Not really an option.” She says, nearly choking up again.

“She's your mother, Nisha. There's no way she doesn't still love you.” You try to reassure her, stopping short as you wonder why. What was it Beanie keeps telling you? Stop paladining?

Still, you can't help but look down at the black bear and feel pity.

“I know she does. And I know she'd take me in if she could. Her current living arrangements… wouldn't allow it.” She adds, choosing her words carefully. Whether she's being evasive, or just diplomatic, you can't readily tell.

“She on public assistance?” You ask, knowing that there are often restrictions on criminal association for people in that position.

“Something like that.”

Sighing, you shake your head, not quite believing how quickly the bear has morphed into a sympathetic figure, in spite of her crimes. You've been on the street, without anyone to look out for you, and it was the worst time of your life. And that's without having Nisha’s health issues to deal with on top of it.

Still, you're stunned at what you're about to do.

Reaching out a hand, you get a very cautious, hesitant gaze from Nisha's bloodshot eyes. After several moments of disbelief, she grips your hand in her massive paw, her still-considerable bulk a chore to lift up. The both of you grunt from the effort, but at last she gets her footing, a soft clack echoing through the alleyway as she brings her cane to bear again.

“Okay. Couple pointers. Cavanaugh Park. Not as much public traffic, but the panhandlers skip it because it's slim pickings. Nice and quiet, and close to several abandoned warehouses. I'll let Fran know where to find you.” You add, seeing her face grow more somber. “I'm serious, Nisha. I know Faz pretty well, but he still scares the crap out of me sometimes. If he'd been the one to find you, I can't say for certain how he'd have treated you. You can't come around here anymore. I don't want to get the police involved, and neither do you.” You admonish her, knowing that she's likely on some form of probation or another. “I don't want Fran to have issues either.” You add, getting a silent nod from the black bear.

With that, you step past Nisha, unlocking the gate and opening it for her. She regards you curiously for a moment, lips slightly parted as if she can't find the words, or is merely unable to muster the courage to say them. With a heavy sigh, she clamps her muzzle shut before ambling through the open gate. You shut it behind her, making sure the lock is functioning properly. Looking up, you can see she's still standing there like a statue, her back to you.

“I'm sorry, Mike. Truly.” She says softly.

“For?” You ask suspiciously.

“All of it. I did things…” she begins before you cut her off.

“I'm not the one you owe an apology to, Nisha. You know that.”

“You're the only one I haven't *given* one to. That was part of the elocution. You were the only one who wasn't there at the trial. You wouldn't have even been hurt if it wasn't for my… indiscretions.” She says hesitantly.

“That's one way of putting it.” You retort dryly, causing her to slump a bit more.

“And after all that, you still came to my rescue. I called you my hero, Mike. I've never meant anything more in my life. I can't ever hope to repay you for that.” She adds, and you can't help but be moved at just how sincere she's coming across. Even before you knew exactly why, she'd struck you as… insubstantial, at best; at worst, an outright fake. However here, she feels as real and earnest as you've heard *anyone* speak, let alone the fact that we're talking about Nisha Marigold here. You regard her for several quiet moments before speaking.

“You be careful out there.” You admonish her, surprising yourself with your own earnest concern. Weren't you wishing she'd die in a fire not five minutes ago? Things are never quite as they appear around here it seems. You've been in the complex for a little over a year now, and have slowly learned to hold your judgement until you know all the facts. Looking up from your musings, you catch the barest glimpse of her dark brown eyes looking back over her shoulder before she turns away from your gaze, hobbling down the alley and disappearing from your sight.

It is then the true import of this episode hits you, and you're now dreading what you have to do. Sighing heavily, you look to the ground again, shaking your head to try and dispel the cold grip of disappointment threatening to overtake you. You blink, spotting the mangled paper bag lying on the ground. Stepping over to retrieve it, you're bewildered to find the sole contents to be several slices of cinnamon toast. Hardly a meal, despite Nisha’s assertions to the contrary.

Setting aside this mere curiosity for a true mystery, you slip back out of the alley, dropping the bag into the first trash bin you find. A short, brisk walk to get the blood pumping later, you find yourself at the door to 1104A. Taking a deep breath to steady your nerves, given how charged this conversation has the possibility of being, you knock three times on the door; assertive, not aggressive.

There's enough of a pause that you wonder if you were heard, or perhaps Fran is dodging you. Getting a little paranoid there, Mike. Just as you're about to knock again, you hear the safety chain, and then the deadbolt rattle open.

“Oh! Hello, Michael. You're a bit early, aren't you?” She asks, clearly surprised, and incorrectly deducing your purpose here. “Please, won't you come in?” She adds with a smile. A purple knitted shawl covers her shoulders, a necessity given how, well, unheated the apartment seems. It's not as cold as outside, but most of your makeshift family cranks up the heat during the winter months, the hens especially not tolerating the cold it seems. “I was just about to set a pot brewing.” She says before trundling off to the kitchen.

You take a slow look around, the decor decidedly country kitsch, with cornflower blue the predominant color. It's hard, honestly, to tell how much of this is April’s doing, and what the old-fashioned bear matron contributed. Deciding that you don't need to stretch this out any further, you stride off after Fran, finding the heavyset bear in the kitchen, dropping slices of bread into the toaster and pouring a carafe of water into the coffee maker. Turning to look for something else, Fran jumps when she sees you at the kitchen doorway.

“Oh! Didn't hear you there. You'll have to make do with my meager kitchen skills, I'm afraid. April's gone in early, something to do with a problem Miss Chichi had with the ovens I think? I do make a mean slice of cinnamon toast.” She says with a toothy grin. She really is a sweet lady, and you can't help but be pained at what you know you have to do.

“So I've heard.” You say non-committallly.

“Bonson certainly loves it. Even if he can't keep it down right now.” She says, giving a soft sigh.

“What's the matter?” You ask, immediately shifting gears.

“Poor dear’s got the flu, I think. Been throwing up all night. Just barely got him to sleep. I'd let you visit, but he really needs his rest right now. And I think I'm down to my last face mask. Can't have you getting sick any more than I can afford to.” She adds, spinning to open the refrigerator for the butter as the toaster pops, disgorging four slices. Fran gingerly picks them out with her clawtips, dropping them onto a plate and slathering each with a generous amount of butter before dusting each slice liberally with brown powder from a beaten old aluminum shaker.

“And there we are!” She says with a small measure of pride, setting the white porcelain plate in front of you. The pattern of blue flowers around the perimeter is elaborate without being ornate, obviously the regular dishes will do for now. She looks at you expectantly, a motherly smile evident as she waits. Looking down, the sight is a simple plate of toast, smeared with a brown sludge of melted butter and sugar. The *aroma* however, is simply heavenly. You realize you're practically drooling and take a large bite, finding the palate even better than advertised. You give a soft moan of delight and take another, even larger bite, taking in every flavor you can. There's clearly something more complex going on here.

“Is that nutmeg? A little clove?” You ask, Freddy’s training evident as Fran starts, her face reflecting apparent awe at your simple deduction.

“Yes. At least, I'm pretty sure. Whatever is in pumpkin pie spice, anyway. Told you I wasn't much of a cook.” She admits sheepishly.

“It's delicious. Just the kind of thing to warm you up on a cold morning.” you pronounce, your smile brittle at where you're about to go. “I need to talk to you about your friend.”

“Oh? Is April's birthday coming up? Honestly I think of her as far more than a friend at this point.” Fran says glibly, almost too perfect an attempt at deflection. Time to drop the hammer.

“No. Nisha.” You say flatly, and she deflates, her smile growing sad for a moment before you see her set her jaw like only a mother can.

“What about her?” Fran asks cautiously playing it close to the shawl now. Trying to be as diplomatic as you can, especially given your utter lack of any other reason to bear the pale bear a grudge, you continue.

“Are you aware of everything she did, everything she *tried* to do to a lot of my family? April chief among them, I might add.”

“Yes. Quite aware.” She replies, eyes half lidded and downcast, voice barely above a whisper.

“And you still help her? I know you've been feeding her since at least November. I just didn't know it was her until this morning.” You state, trying to read the suddenly quiet bear.

She sighs softly, gaze slipping even further away from yours. “I couldn't *not* help her, Mike. She has so many misdeeds to her name, yes, but she's paid the price and then some. You've seen her, before, and now after. Tell me she didn't end up as bad or worse than some of our friends.”

“As the result of her own actions, yes.” You retort acridly.

“We all make mistakes. Some tiny and insignificant, some huge and life-changing. Then there are the mistakes you can spend the rest of your life trying to atone for, and still come up laughably short.” She says with a wistful tone.

You take another bite, both to allow yourself time to think, and because this is damned delicious toast. “We’re not talking about just Nisha anymore, are we?”

“No, we’re not.” She affirms. “Give me a minute to get the coffee on.” she asks, toddling back to the kitchen counter with a purpose beyond simply evading your inquiries.