Chapter Text
Prologue
It goes like this. Every day he wakes up at a quarter to eight, just as the light from the window creeps to his face. He jumps out of bed, throws on some clothes, and hurries out the door.
It goes like this. Every day at 3 he cuts across the park right as the clock tower chimes. He leaps up onto a bench and attempts to jump across to the next one. He never quite makes it, instead splashing down in the puddle between them. Maybe next time.
It goes like this. Every day he climbs the fire escape ladder back into his apartment. He is mindful of the copy of Dracula propping up the window. The main door, he knows, will be blocked by a couch until 1:35 pm. The fly will find its way into the coffee pot in 5 minutes.
It goes like this. Every day at 11, there is a great deal of commotion across the street. He knows the chain reaction that will lead to the mayor covered in glitter, his cat stuck in a tree, and the honoree of the ceremony without pants. He has learned to ignore the commotion.
It goes like this. Every day at a quarter past three he walks away with a bucket of quarters from in front of the candy store, having just impressed the store operator by “guessing” the exact amount within. He is confident. He has the script down to a science, although that is true of many parts of today.
It goes like this. Every morning he walks briskly to his shop. He has only an hour before his only customer of the day will arrive. He quickly sorts through his key-ring, vowing someday to pare down on the number of keys he has. Or maybe just mark the one for the shop. It’s a distant hypothetical, but a nice thought regardless.
It goes like this. Every day.
And then…
Every night, right as the sun begins to sink and the still slightly-cloudy sky is dappled with gold, he quickens his pace. A borrowed bucket swings in one hand. In the other hand is an alarm clock. More on that later.
By now, the arcade should be empty of other guests, which helps him considerably. That means one less script to recite.
The blinking sign rolls into view, and his heart skips a beat.
It's go time.
He enters, briefly greets the owner, and makes a bee-line across the arcade.
The pinball machine sits against a windowless wall on the far side of the room. The wallpaper is peeling, decorated in faded fliers and suspicious stains, and the neon strip light above is dim and flickering. But the machine itself is illuminated in spite of its surroundings, or perhaps because of the contrast. It is simply resplendent.
He sets down the bucket of quarters and inserts one into the slot, and the Chrono Warp 9000 comes alive. Its idle, expectant hum breaks into a chorus. His hands find their place upon the buttons and he releases the first ball. The chorus turns into something between symphony and cacophony. A rhythm forms from the chimes of the machine, the click of the flippers, the clatter of the ball rolling across the field like thunder.
When he first started this hobby he might have gone through half of the bucket of quarters by the night’s end, but lately he finds he uses fewer and fewer as the rhythm of the game becomes almost as second nature as his daily routine. Not quite, though. Certainly not as mundane. Something about this lights up his neurons like the blinking lights of the pinball machine itself. Something about the unpredictable element in tandem with the music it creates. A challenge, the immediate goal being survival, but the purpose being to do so with style.
The alarm clock rings at 9:10 pm. This signals that it is time to leave, or else he will bump into trouble on his way back home. The mayor is only slightly less bedazzled than earlier and still quite annoyed, especially after having to spend several hours trying to coax his poor, stubborn cat down from a tree. He is having a debate with his assistant, and asks him to settle it for them. This takes almost 45 minutes. Hence why he is especially mindful to leave on time.
His feet find their way home almost without his input. By now, the front door is unblocked. He never bothers to lock it in the morning. Now, he slips back inside and lays his head down to dream. Well... Not dream. Not quite. He hasn't dreamed for a while.
It's not supposed to go like this.
Every day has been the same pattern.
Nothing has changed in the countless times he has done this. Nothing! Nothing has deviated from its expected course of events.
And yet there is someone sitting on the bench.