Awkward Answers

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First, a cover.

He checked the closet and found an ugly, but huge off-white trench coat he suspected came from Grandpa Granger's earlier years. It smelled of mothballs and mold, but once he had squeezed his wings to his back, it covered him readily and nearly reached the floor. It was a good thing he had lost so much weight. He could just barely move his arms in the sleeves.

His stomach panged, making his knees tremble at the idea of walking all the way to his apartment, but he ignored it. It was never a good idea to work out on a full stomach anyway.

But then he saw the glint of the Granger Mobile's key on a hook by the front door and hesitated. It was an awfully long way to walk, and if he was having problems even climbing a ladder...

He slipped off the key, sending a quiet apology to the older man. A Russian driver's license would mean nothing here, but at least he knew something.

Still, his hands sweat as he opened the door and settled into the front seat. He had to adjust the seat to his longer legs. Stinking tiny Japanese.

The coughing start of the motor nearly gave him a heart-attack as it broke across the silence, making him laugh. Crazy genocidal murderers and death, he was still as stone. Imagining Tyson's grandfather stomping out and yelling at him to get out of his car and suddenly he was a jumpy, guilty teenager.

Really, he thought as he backed out of the driveway, Tyson has no idea what he does.

After all, he had turned a trained killer into an ordinary, teenage boy.

Traffic was all but dead, and the clock on the dashboard told him it was little after five. He maneuvered the streets well enough, though it felt strange to be in a car, especially one as stiff and old as the Granger's Toyota. Exactly twenty minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot of a nondescript apartment complex and turned the motor off. Seeing his home after so long of not being there felt almost as strange as driving the car in the first place.

His apartment was on the third floor on the right end. He jiggled the doorknob, sighed when he realized it was locked and his key in the abyss with his lost cell phone, and went to the window. He pulled out the screen, breathed on his hands so they stuck to the glass, and slid it open.

Has my place always smelled so strong of cheap hairspray? He thought blithely as he slid in and closed the window behind him. He didn't even use hairspray. Unless he wanted to make a homemade flamethrower.

His home was an ordinary studio apartment. He didn't spend much time in it, other than to sleep, eat, and maybe read a book if it was raining outside, so he didn't see the point of wasting his allowance (or rather, his allotted child support squeezed out of Voltaire by the court) on a big place he'd never be in, so he had gotten himself the basics. The apartment building didn't even have a shower, so he had to go to the local bathhouse whenever he needed to bathe. Thus, it held only a futon, his school things, several cardboard boxes of books, a tote of beyblading gear, and some hand-dumbbells he used while reading. The kitchen consisted of only a microwave, a sink, some cupboards, and a small fridge.

"I'm home," he muttered.

His stash of cash was right where he had left it: underneath a loose board on the bottom of the cupboards. There were perks to living small, aka, he had more than enough to buy as much food as he could want. He also dug up his old black leather duster, which, if anything, helped him to stand out less than Gramps almost-yellow monstrosity. Not to mention it was a larger size, which gave him room to breathe.

He didn't bother to unlock the door as he left, but he made sure to put the screen back. Honestly, if someone were desperate enough to break into his apartment, not only would they not find anything, but whatever they did take they'd probably need it more than him. He tossed Gramps coat in the back and slid into the front seat of the car as the first rays of dawn grayed the sky.

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