A small Hand holds the Weight of the World

The taxi rolled through the streets of Brooklyn, its suspension groaning with each pothole as if the vehicle itself were sighing under the weight of its passengers and the enormity of what it carried: a small girl in a pink dress, a plush rabbit of indeterminate magical importance, and three men whose capacity for normal human composure had already been tested to its limits. The city hummed around them, indifferent, pigeons fluttering like tiny gray specters above, the sunlight glancing off asphalt and windows, painting everything in strokes of ordinary reality that seemed almost cruelly mundane compared to the extraordinary tableau inside the back seat.

Delia had decided that the appropriate response to a car ride was conversation. Not silence, not observation, not polite contemplation. No. Conversation. And not casual conversation. Important, significant, piercing conversation.

"So," she said brightly, her voice ringing like a bell forged from sunlight and candy, "do you have any kids, mister?"

Bill, seated in the front, turned halfway around, his spine bending in protest to the laws of ergonomics and propriety. "What? No. I'm a soldier. Soldiers don't have kids."

"Why not?" The tilt of her head, the slight widening of her eyes, the way her lips parted just so—all these details combined to create a moment of scrutiny so profound it might have caused minor earthquakes in distant, less prepared galaxies.

"Because we're busy. Fighting. Saving the galaxy."

"That sounds exciting. Do you kill aliens?"

"Sometimes."

"Have you killed a lot?"

Bill glanced at the driver, who was pretending with only moderate success not to listen, his mustache quivering faintly as though straining to contain laughter or horror. "That's... not really dinner table conversation."

"We're not at dinner."

Ham Duo leaned forward, his face nearly level with hers, speaking with the careful gravity of someone attempting to explain thermonuclear physics to a creature whose head barely reached his shoulder. "He's killed plenty. Lots of aliens. Big ones, little ones, ones with tentacles. He's very good at it."

Delia's eyes widened to the size of small saucers, glimmering with excitement, and her ringlets bounced subtly as though the air itself wished to participate in her awe. "Wow. Can I see your gun?"

"No."

"Awww." She tilted her head, a minor frown forming, her lower lip protruding just so, creating a perfect, tiny O of disappointment, a manifestation of cosmic injustice rendered through the lens of childhood sweetness. Mr. Bunnikins shifted slightly in her grip, as though sharing in the moral weight of her reaction.

Splock sat rigidly in the corner, a statue in a purple robe, his face turned toward the window, his reflection showing eyes that stared at nothing, consumed entirely by mysteries incomprehensible to the small mind beside him. Since entering the vehicle, he had not spoken. He had not breathed in any noticeable pattern. He had, for all practical purposes, become an inert monument to quiet dread and the elegant terror of pointy ears.

Delia noticed him immediately. "Why is that man so quiet? Is he sad?" She leaned slightly toward him, the pink folds of her dress fanning outward in careful arcs, Mr. Bunnikins lifted as though to inspect this silent figure more closely, her entire small form radiating curiosity and innocent concern simultaneously.

"He's... thinking," Duo said, his tone a careful blend of explanation and apology, as if the gravity of the boy—or man—beside them required negotiation with forces beyond his own comprehension.

"About what?"

"Stuff."

"What kind of stuff?"

"Complicated stuff. Adult stuff."

"Oh." She considered this, tilting her head in a motion that seemed to slow time itself, the ringlets around her face bouncing just enough to catch stray rays of sunlight. "Is he a wizard? He looks like a wizard. With the robe and the pointy ears. Wizards are cool."

Splock's ear twitched. The movement was microscopic, almost imperceptible, but it was enough—a singular, monumental concession to awareness in a world otherwise dominated by stillness and the tiny, unstoppable force of a child's curiosity.

The taxi pulled up to a modest medical clinic—a two-story building with a faded sign reading BROOKLYN WOMEN'S HEALTH CENTER. Bill pulled out a wad of cash and peeled off several large bills. The driver stared at them.

"Uh, pal, I can't make change for this."

"Keep it."

The driver's eyes bugged out. "Keep it? This is—this is like three times the fare."

"Consider it a tip. For not asking questions."

They piled out onto the sidewalk. As the taxi pulled away, Duo grabbed Bill's arm.

"Where did you get that kind of money? And don't say 'savings.'"

Bill glanced around. Lowered his voice. "The tent. When I landed on Damien Thorn's tent. There was a lockbox. With cash. Lots of cash. I figured he owed me for the broken ribs."

"You stole from a psychic?"

"Borrowed. With no intention of returning." Bill shrugged. "He was charging fifty dollars for aura cleanses. He had it coming."

Splock opened his mouth.

"If you're about to say that was unethical," Bill cut him off, "remember whose outfit you're wearing. The one with the stars. The one from the same tent."

Splock's mouth closed. He looked down at his purple robe. His expression suggested he was recalculating several moral positions simultaneously.

He pushed open the clinic door. The waiting room was empty—a minor miracle, or perhaps just the luck of a Tuesday morning. The receptionist was a young woman with too much eyeshadow and a nametag that read Tina. She looked up from a romance novel.

"Can I help you?"

Splock approached the desk. His voice, when it emerged, was the same monotone it had always been, but there was something underneath it now. Something tired.