Twelve Days of Fruk

Day Eleven: Future Style

"How may I help you today, sir?" Francis laughed, amusing himself with a sad joke.

"Very funny," a man choked out, catching his breath. He leaned on the one glass window that was still fully in tact, and nearly doubled over. "I'd like to see you run for several miles and joke!"

"Alright, alright, calm down," Francis chided. "I've got some water in the back of you'll give me a minute." He heard a 'Thank you!' from the front of the shop as he went to the back to grab a canteen. When he came back, and gave it to the man, he was nearly shocked at how fast it was downed. This man wasn't fucking around.

"Thanks again, sorry for snapping there," he said in a long exhale.

"It's fine," Francis dismissed. "But what I'd like to know is who you are exactly. Not many marathons are run anymore!"

"Oh haha, yes, I look like a marathon runner," he joked back. And he really didn't. His hair was blond beneath a layer of ash and what looked like engine grease. His face was covered in it, too, along with dirt and dust. Clothes torn and sneakers worn out, he looked like a proper mess. Francis wasn't much better in the clothes department, all of his being a size too small and worn out, but he always made sure to keep his hair up and brushed, as well as wiping off any sort of dirt if it got on him.

This man obviously didn't give a single shit about any of that.

"Anyway-" he sat down in one of the old plastic chairs in the front room by the window. "-The name's Arthur. I'm sort of a criminal at the moment, and I need a place to hide out. This looked like a nice enough place, but I didn't think there'd be someone in here."

"Well, my name's Francis. And did you really think a building just stayed nice on its own?" Francis rested his elbows on the counter in front of him. "Listen, cher, I'm not saying you can't stay here, but I've got to know what the hell they're after you for. I value my safety, I'm no fool. No idiot has hair this nice." He swirled a finger around his slightly messy locks. Arthur smiled at this, and it somehow looked both sweet and completely out of place on his face.

"I might have killed a mecha a year back, and they've been-"

"YOU KILLED A MECHA?" Francis slammed his hands on the counter, his eyes wide and mouth hanging open. "What the hell?"

"Oi!" Arthur hissed. "Don't be so loud!" His eyes shifted back and forth, as if he expected one of them to bust through the window and incinerate him on the spot. "And in my defense, they killed my baby brother, and I wasn't exactly thinking straight!" He was still seated, his leg bouncing angrily, one of his hands clenched in a fist until his knuckles turned white.

Francis bit his lip. He wasn't exactly sure how to respond to this. He resumed his previous position, legs swinging beneath him as he leaned forward onto the counter, his old plastic bar stool creaking as he shifted back and forth.

"Sorry for snapping," Arthur said, letting out a sigh. "I just, even if it's been a year, it's still tough, you know?"

"What happened? Usually the mechas don't go after citizens?"

"He was out after curfew, as he got lost coming home from work. He was sixteen, and he worked in the government orchards. They'd transferred him to another field, and he didn't know how to get home from there, and, well..." He trailed off, not having to explain any further.

"Oh," Francis sighed. "I, I can understand a bit, I used to have a son, but since he got sick often, we used up our monthly medicine and he passed away about four years ago when he was still two. Believe me, I hate those mechas like any man in the world, so I can see why you're fighting them." Francis choked up a little.