Brona's Application


Written by Septia.


“Want a Cup?” 
	Brona looked up at this question, staring at the satyr across from the painter-taped room. She was in a house… How long had it been since last? Her, in a house? On a visit? That's almost, something that people do. 
	“Cup' a what?” she curted. 
	The satyr held up a kettle. “Tea.” 
	“Yeah… Imma be fine without.” 
	Steam flumed through the spout as the satyr portioned tea leaves. “So, don't got a place to call home?” 
	“Bit 'of an assumption,” Brona mumbled in response. 
	“I saw you follow me yesterday, you slept outside the Hall,” the satyr said., “or just wanted sleep by the garbage? I'll admit, in those tatters you kinda blend in with em.” 
	Brona clicked her lips, glancing down at the patchwork of browned cloth covering her body – making her look like an ironed feather duster. “I got a place.” 
	“What's it like?” 
	Brona thought back to Jylf park. “Big yard, pretty view.” 
	“Lots of furniture?” The satyr asked as he poured some water. 
	“All over the place, get guests on the regulars, got lots of sun.” 
	“And are all the furniture benches? Because you live in a park?” 
	“Yeah, I live in a park,” Brona relented,, “how'd you know?” 
	“Experience, mostly.” The satyr then sighed. “You are free to stay here, sure that Prachio could put you to use.” 
	Brona scoffed. 
	“I didn't mean it like…” The satyr wavers, “You said you knew Cofn? Did you ever stay with her? Cannot recall seeing you when I worked there.” 
	What was this… tension? It hung in the air, tasting of licorice. Brona looked down at her hands. “It's been a while… once, was weary ah letting me stay with her, as she should 'av.” 
	The satyr scoffed out a snicker. “She'd have thought twice about hiring me, were she to know me as well. She's a sweet thing,” they paused. A quiver running up their side, as he leaned over the counter “Just… a tad, misfortuneate.” 
	The quiver infected Brona in turn. “Yeah…,” Brona stared a her hands, clenching them, and seeing how four fingers on each hand pointed right back to the upturned shoehorn hanging around her neck. 
	“Do you… Think she's, still in town?” Brona mumbled. 
	“She posted a final salary in my mailbox, and that was the last I saw of her.” 
	“Mmm… I get it…” Brona responded, twirling a finger through her gray, poofy locks. “Have ya looked for her?” 
	The satyr looked away. “Thought about it a lot. Though, sometimes people just need space. Away.” Rhythmic thuds and a scramble of metal crept closer -Kkth-clrlp- -Thnnd-Dksllt- As a face – framed in creamy pale drills of hair – peeked into the kitchen. “Met, I got the lower hallway's corners painted up. You make breakfast or something?” She turned towards the table. Her gaze clashed with Brona's. Eyebrows raised, then furrowed with a tilt of her head – the drills bobbing. . “Sis, where did you find this one?” 
	“Picked them off the street,” Met said. 
	Tam turned back to Brona without a word. “Why?” 
	Met continued, “any reason I shouldn't do such a thing?” Met said, with a layer of accusation sandwiched in his words. 
	“You're fine, you're fine.” Tam sat at the table. “You can call me Tam. It is ok, I will let you,” Tam said with a bit of a smirk. “And what can I call you?” 
	Brona stared back at the soft lips forming such a smooth beckon.
	“I'm Brona.” 
	“Oh? So you do have a name.” Met walked up with a tray for the 2 cups, and a bowl of sugar. 
	“So where dis sh-. He, pick you up?” 
	“They're old friends of my boss.” 
	“Oven lady?” Tam asked. 
	The two nodded. 
	“Shame, good bread through.” 
	A silence settled as Met poured some tea for themselves and Tam. 
	“So what do you do now?” Tam wondered. 
	Brona looked between the two's teacups. Thinking back to Cofn, who always saw through everything. She considered lying. Though not having been asked this much, she didn't have a lie on hand. “I’m the spirit of misfortune.” 
	Tam scoffed. “Join the club,” she said, spooning sugar into her tea. A few seconds of Met’s and Brona’s reactions upholding the stiff seriousness did she start to digest what had been said.
	“'Av to say, makes it hard to stick around people for long.” 
	Tam laid her brow into folds. “To what extent does it go?” 
	A gesture from the guest came as a response. “Bet that isn't sugar.” 
	Tam drank down a swig of her tea. Her face scrunched up, cheeks roll of sparking hot brine, but forcing it down in a chug. “I'll confirm that was salt…” 
	Met picked up the “sugar” bowl.
	“Must have stirred up which was which when I handled the renovations,” Met said and lifted the mug to her face. 
	“And what you took in yours, is mostly not milk.” 
	Met halted the cup before it reached his lips, -Slpthth- after a light smatter on the table they looked up. High above to the white, turgid drying paint on the ceiling, from which one splotch was dropping. “Guess that's why Cofn wouldn't let you stay,” Tam mumbled. 
	Brona shrugged. 
	Tam's brow furrowed. “If you can control fortune, what are you doing here? You should be living it up, get all the free stuff you want.” 
	“Didn't say Ah Could control anything, and it's not fortune, just misfortune.” Brona fiddled with the horseshoe hanging around her neck. “Thought I could,” she eventually continued, “For a while.” 
	“And?” Tam asked. 
	Brona thought back to the horseshoe toppling down from the foreclosed bakery's sign. “It didn't.” She scrunched up, laying her head down on the table. “You know what it feels like, to 'av all you've worked at for my ‘ears, just snatched outta ya?” 
	Met's expression fell, glancing at Tam. 
	Tam's lip twitched. A palm searching and grabbed the empty air in front of their chest. 
	“Ah've really tried, too. But there's always a bunch ‘a losers ending up in trouble around me.” 
	“It won't be any problem,” Met said. 
	Brona tightened her grip, and raised a fist high, -Kkkc-Thhdd- and slammed it into the table. Both cups tipped over, as did the chalice of salt. She rose, taking in a deep breath, and slowly forming the words, “I'm everyone's problem…” She paused. Then stood from the table. “Won't be staying.” 
	Met's expression soured. “That is not a reason to get back on the streets. We'll make room for you here, Prachio always does.” Met looked towards his sister for support. 
	On the other hand, Tam had their brow in deep folds. 
	Tam scooped up their mug and swirled the saltwater tea in the jug, bringing it to their lips in contemplation. After a few sips, her lips curled into a smirk. A smirk that gave Met the chills, one he hadn't seen for a long while. “Carry misfortune wherever you go, eh?” Tam pondered. 
	Brona squinted. “Issa bit more complicated than that, but… yeah.” 
	“Mmhmm hmm…,” Tam scoffed and scritched their upper lip. “I think I know just a crow you could fit right in.” 


~ 1 ~


-Kktth-Dnnnk- The warehouse door broke under the battering ram, a squad storming through. An officer called out, “On the ground, this cockfighting ring is busted. You're all-.” But then stopped, looking through the warehouse while the teams swarmed in and got the suspects prone. There were people stripped to their birthday suit in all in large cages, holding cells, and chests full of clothing.. This wasn't like any cock-fight bust she'd been through…but people kept in this condition, of all manner of species, with such neglect… Casting the thoughts away she kept instructing the other officers, whatever the situation was, they had to deal with it. 


All the captives wrapped in rescue felts lined the wall, each being systematically interviewed. Seeing work progressing smoothly the officer dialled their superior: “Hello, Kass? I have resurgent reports regarding the operation.” 


“Uh huh, Ah huh….” Kass Portsson picked up a phone from the floor as she listened, staring at the flip screen that hovered over a private number. “Officer, would you mind confirming a matter for me?” 
	“Of course, what is it Kass?” 
	Kass clicked dial. On the other end of the receiver she could hear a faint -Bbzzr- -Bzzrtz-. 
	“Hang on Kass; one of the suspect's receivers just went off, we'll have to track its location before-.” 
	“It’s origin is coming from my current location.” 
	“Oh? How come?” 
	“Remember how I mentioned I was going to investigate the Synd gang situation? It appears we've, I believe we can link these cases without a doubt.” 
	“You mean to say, you are have located a head of the organization?” 
	“Affirmative.” 
	“Superior, shall I send backup?” 
	Kass peered back into the room. “There is no need, they are quite, indisposed.” 
	A scene laid painted out in the dingy appartement. Towards the entrance a rug was flipped and folded in like an accordion back towards the door, as if someone had tripped. The line of destruction and displaced rugs were connecting the entrance with the display ahead… A lower pair of legs flailed haphazardly through the air, fed down into the splayed, upturned pink hind of a crumpled prawn anthro. Just prior to the twisting legs their lap sunk into the pucker, a delivery boy apron trailed down, matching the colours of the cartons. To the side laid a paper bag, exuding its content in a splayed heap of plumb pirogi cartons, a box of salt cracked open and scattered from the maw of the bag. The pucker, rosy and pudgy, warping and twitching like a pool floaty around the delivery boy's hips -Chhpslt- -Cchrlph- faintly twitching and gnawing on them even as the rest of the prawn's body laid unconscious.
	The prawn themselves was contorted in a compromised position, down at their abdomen broad domes of the delivery boy shifted and twirled, broad expanses of punk fuchsia skin warping and billowing under the pummel and desperation from within, only to sink back down and steamroll the scales flat against the strained occupant. The prawn… laid with their head square against the foot of the wall ahead of them, an indent in the plaster of where their forehead made impact. One of the prawn's hands was outstretched, grasping towards where Kass had picked up the burner phone. 
	Seeing the line of devastation in the room leading up to the knocked out prawn and writhing would be victim, almost brought a snicker out of Kass’s grizzled lips. Almost. 
	Extraction will not be an issue, though I would appreciate a medic team to assist in… Extraction. Or, extrusion.” 
	“How so?” 
	“We got an 891 on my location.” 
	“Roger, reconvene at station.” 
	“Affirmative.” Kass hung up. Looking down at the still, faintly groaning prawn, and bring up a pad to note down any information she could find from the phone. 
	“Guess it just wasn't your lucky day.” Afterwards, she noted the open window, clattering in the wind.


Brona twirled a horseshoe around her finger, staring down at the window on the building across the alleyway. 
	“Guess Imma be alright with the past week of roof, food, and board, almost got used ta sleeping below a ceiling.” She peeked under one of the flaps of loincloth making up her excuse for clothing, underneath laid a mark with the Synd gang’s brand of loyalty. -Crkkrth- Brona ripped it off, and let it fall into a gust between the buildings, ferrying it away on the winds. “Brona stared in through the window for a while longer, mulling over what she'd accomplished in a week, gaining trust, observing the practices of the Synd from within, making leeway for the right few accidents to occur. Her lips trembled, wavering upwards… then slackened into a frown. 
	“I didn't even do anything,” she muttered, and turned her back, “I was just a problem…”