“Well, look at that! A rare sighting of the great novelist! Are you even allowed outside?” a mischievous grin peeked over the edge of the barrier that delineated the ground level of the memorial square and the rink below.

It was an immersive cold that greeted the city, and the sun would not slip beyond its veil of clouds for a couple hours yet. The layer of gloom set everything strangely flat and without definition. The crowds of people moving about were sluggish and muted, as if there were a collective malaise that had set upon all of them. The snow on the ground ate sound and muffled footsteps, making the world small and deathly quiet, a diorama pretending at life rather than a bustling metropolis.

“It’s called a job, Meatwagon, you should try it some time,” Winterwing responded, shuffling around in his bag. “It might be a good look on you.”

“Toil hardly matches my complexion,” Meatwagon sighed theatrically, resting against the barrier with his stick. Meatwagon was, true to his name, enormous before putting pads on, and a small boulder of muscle after. He was perhaps the textbook definition of an enforcer, but the sort of drake that would knock out teeth, loose some of his own in the process, and then cheerfully help decide which belonged to whom once they had been collected afterward.

Behind him, the large form of DuCaine’s statue loomed, its features indistinct and dark in the morning light. Whatever scrimmage was happening down on the ice was disorganized and chaotic, more an excuse to not be somewhere else than play a serious game.

Winterwing finally found the bundle he was looking for, and pulled it out. “There are worse things.”

Meatwagon’s face faltered as he looked at Winterwring’s offering. “Paper?”

Winterwing shrugged. “Its easier for me. Squinting at a screen all day and then all night is not great.”

“Old fashioned,” Meatwagon took the pages from his hands, a little more gingerly than was necessary. “I feel like I supposed to frame this and keep it under climate controlled glass.”

“That’s going to make it harder to turn in,” Winterwing mused.

“I dunno, prof’s a weird museum piece, he might be into it,” Meatwagon flipped through the pages, looking more and more distressed as he scanned through them, “Wow, you really went all out on this.”

Winterwing shrugged. “You asked me to edit it.”

“I asked you to take a look at it. Where the hell did you even find a red pen? Do they sell those?” Meatwagon shook his head in disbelief.

“I assumed you didn’t want to retake the class.”

“Listen here, you little shit,” Meatwagon shook a finger, “the guidance says you use a color other than red; red discourages the children.”

“I recommend a snack and a nap,” Winterwing zipped up his bag, and turned to leave. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Now that you mention it, I could use a better goalie,” Meatwagon gestured vaguely to the ice behind him. “Guy we have in there is a little shaking leaf, anything that comes at him is going to take him along for the ride.”

Winterwing looked back to the looming figure of the DuCaine statue, three stories tall and hewn at rough angles, glaring down at them all. At its feet were the few flashes of color he had seen this morning, an improvised attempt at delineating teams. He could have stayed, of course, and maybe even enjoyed a morning of chaos alongside old friends and new strangers, instead of slipping back into the morass of the tired workforce. It was, if had taken a moment to be honest with himself, somewhat tempting.

Wintering waved him off, zipping up his bag, “Not even if the world depended on it.”

“Oh, come on, you’d really rather sit in an office and push actual honest to stars paper around?” Meatwagon waved his homework between them, letting the pages rustle. “This is thrilling to you?”

“No, but I made some suggestions that will help the pacing.”

“You can’t still be mad about that concussion,” Meatwagon complained. “It’s just a little bump, happens all the time, I got three last month, no problem.”

Winterwing faltered in his departure, “What concussion?”

“The one that-” and then Meatwagon saw Winterwing’s amused smile, and made a noise of frustration. “Oh, you’re making a little joke.”

“Those little bumps are bad for your brain, when they say use your head to problem solve it’s not literal. You spend three hours a day lifting, you have the muscle to just punch someone if they’re in your way.”

“See, I thought of that, two of those are from the guys that punched back,” Meatwagon said with mock regret.

“Good to hear you’re making friends with the other children.”

Meatwagon sighed and tossed the essay overt he barrier, onto a pile of what was presumably his belongings. “You used to be the best, you know.”

“Sure, at a tiny high school,” Winterwing said, a glance to the halfhearted game beyond. “I’m sure your guy will be fine, if his posture doesn’t pull something.”

Meatwagon looked back over his shoulder, suspiciously, “How could you possibly see that from here-”

There was a small beep from Winterwing’s pocket, a screen calling for his attention. “I need to take this.” He didn’t, but it was an excuse to disengage. He waved goodbye, ignored any further entreaties to remain, and tried his best to block out all the rest of the noise around him.

Audio only.

“Hello?”

“Hi, I’m looking for a, uh, Winterwing Flashblade?” and a doubtful pause. “Is that even a real name?” He didn’t recognize the username, or the voice. A bare account, without most identifying marks. Feminine, but not local. That didn’t mean much in a city as large as Metro, but did rule out most of his social group.

“That would be mine, yes,” he said.

“Oh, wow, haha,” another pause. “Sorry.”

“Right. Can I help you with something?”

“Okay, okay, look, this is going to sound really weird, right,” she might have audibly took a breath. “I still have your jacket.”