PSEUMINO, VENTO AUREO.

PAWNSHOP I

═ ☆. YOU KNOW WHAT WOULD BE funny?" Narancia asked. "If the pawnshop was closed."

"A pain in the ass is what that would be," Abbacchio muttered. You and Narancia trotted behind him like two kids trailing their parent. The ends of Abbacchio's scarf kept flicking Narancia in the face.

There was really no reason to go to the pawnshop, seeing as the man in the trench coat had been behind it, except that Abbacchio was convinced the pawnbroker was in on the whole thing somehow. You had told Risotto that the old man probably hated your guts and wouldn't want to see you again. But Abbacchio wouldn't change his mind, so, to the pawnbroker you went.

"Why do you have to wear those shades?" Narancia asked Abbacchio. "If you're going for subtlety, that just makes you stand out more."

"I don't need people recognizing me," Abbacchio answered. "It gets annoying."

"What, you mean your eyes? You and Risotto have the funkiest eyes I've ever seen," Narancia said, widening his own eyes to make a point. "Are they contacts?"

Abbacchio huffed in annoyance. Narancia made a face at you. What's his problem?

You shrugged, seeing as you'd made that same face multiple times behind Abbacchio's back. Abbacchio did such strange things, but if you asked about it, you got shut down. It was infuriating. You couldn't help but feel bad for Abbacchio's partner, whoever they were. How did they find the patience to work with him?

The pawnshop was still the jumbled mess it had been when you had visited with Risotto. Abbacchio blinked at the visual assault, and you were satisfied to see him getting taken aback for once.

"Goddamn. Look at all this stuff." Narancia poked at a spring lying on a shelf, yelping when it jumped to the floor.

"Please don't break anything," you said, putting the spring back. "I just know the pawnbroker is the type of guy who'd make us pay for it."

"Pay? For this junk?"

"That is, in essence, what a pawnshop is," noted Abbacchio, inspecting a row of tiny china elephants.

"Why is it so quiet in here?" Narancia made his way down the shelves. "Where's the pawnbroker?"

"Out on break?" you said, reading the taped note on the front counter. You hoped this meant you could skip talking to the old man, but Abbacchio only shrugged. He'd given you an odd look when you'd told him to bring a few extra euros. As far as charm went, Abbacchio would be needing it.

"Do you remember what time you started talking to the pawnbroker?" Abbacchio asked.

You thought for a moment. You gave him a rough estimate, and Abbacchio moved off, bringing out Moody Blues and adjusting its timer.

"Oi, come look at this."

Narancia's neck was craned up, watching a few vintage model airplanes swing in slow circles from the ceiling. The planes were in surprisingly good repair, the colours crisp despite how faded they were. You thought you could make out a tiny pilot sitting in one of the plane's cockpits.

"That red one looks a little like Aerosmith," Narancia said, squinting.

"It does," you agreed, backing up a few steps to get a better look at the plane. "Do you think—"

"They're friends of ours. We were supposed to meet them?"

Your entire body froze. Narancia's face twisted in confusion. His eyes darted over your shoulder.

"What the hell?"

There was something so indescribably unsettling about hearing your voice not come out of your own mouth. It wasn't the odd feeling you got when you listened to recordings of your voice. It was ... bizarre, listening to your voice as other people must have heard it.