Under the stadium skylights of Harmony Village Convention Center sat an enormous, two-storey cardboard arch printed with glossy red and gold emboss, announcing Central’s 25th Royal Food and Beverage Expo.

A short distance from the arch, between the bar of ticket-takers and the marketplace - and its wafting odor that was both distinctly fishy and tart - there stood a raised stage, in the midst of some delicate preparations. Lights were being checked, fans plugged in, and wiring were laid out. A stack of chairs was unstacked, lined up. Two attendants unwound a strip of glossy ribbon to hang over a backboard, pinning the fabric up with ruffled amber rosettes. 

In front of the grand stage, on ground level, was a five-meter long stretch of table covered edge-to-edge in boxes and sticky reddish grease.

Much of the complimentary pizza had been eaten in the early hours of the convention, leaving only a smattering of less desirable toppings. Only half the seats were occupied. This left more elbow room for those kind enough to stay and clean out the straggling pieces, and some pleasant - if sloppy - chatter had managed to break out.

Rai’s barista had been right enough to say one did not have to be large to eat well, and the proof could be seen right at the pizza table, where people of all walks found some joy in the remaining selection of pies, as well as each others’ company. Elderly conversed with the youth over a slice of peach curry, eccentric college students offered to help parents finish the anchovy malt mix their child had selected and rejected, and a crew of slim women in pencil skirts and blazers were being fascinated by a very large and earnest diner who was making his way through a gauntlet of crab, olive and cream cheese.

Diverse as the crowd was, this man was a standout. And while one did not have to be large to eat well, he was both remarkably tall and wide. The breadth of his figure was only amplified by a woolen winter coat which went high over his throat, and draped over his knees, and by a mammoth mass of hair, chopped in disheveled chunks, the ends of which flicked down his back and over his eyes like frayed leaves. If he was frowning under the heat, under the sunlight pouring through skylights, he kept it well hidden - under a plastic flu mask. Very little could be seen of his face at all, but he’d gained some fans nonetheless.

“He’s going for it again!” one of the women announced.

The man folded a slice of pizza in half, pressed the fold down pulled the tip of the slice up, expertly trapping the contents of the soggy slab. Then he tugged the face mask loose with a finger and funneled the elongated result into the gap.

His little audience clapped and babbled amongst themselves, which they had been doing between displays.

“He’s a big guy - any of the guys today look like that? I could have sworn...”

“Never seen them in person. Only know the faces - can’t see his face.”

Moving the empty pizza box to the floor, the man turned to them. “What are you talking about?” He had a voice that was polite enough, but slurred at the ends, as if he had just woken from a deep sleep.

The women exchanged glances, and one finally said, “We just can’t believe you’re not competing. You’ve really got nothing to do with the match today…?”

“Me? I don’t… I can’t. I wish I could join.”

“Just saying. Because you have technique - I think you could make it, if you tried.” Five winning smiles shot his way. “Don’t put yourself down.”

“I...” The man’s eyes, behind a long jagged curtain of bangs, flickered. “That would be great. But I wouldn’t be able to pass the test.”

“The test! Do you hear that? Bureaucracy is out of control these days,” said one of the women, balancing a slice of mustard pork pizza on her wrist. “Scaring off new talent.”

“Oh, I know,” the shortest woman piped up. “There’s a friendly exhibition coming up first, for random audience members to try their luck at the challenge before the real thing. But you know the big guns will be watching, and the management and sponsors and everyone in here, and I’ve heard they’ll let you go backstage, you might even brush shoulders with the finalists--”

“No.” the man said, dropping back with surprising speed. The bulk of his hair, coat and sleeves were delayed in following his body, an effect not unlike a tidal wave. “I can’t. Someone like me to be there - they’ve been training so long and I’ll mess it up. I have a, uh, a condition. It’s bad for-” A fit of coughing overwhelmed the large man for a moment, muffled behind his mask.

“Do you need some water?” asked the woman with the pork pizza.

“I’m fine. I just need to step outside for a while.”

“Yes, maybe you just need some fresh air.”

“I need to smoke,” the man said, a little too quickly, and clapped his hand over his masked mouth.

But all he got were sympathetic nods. “I know the feeling,” the oldest of the women assured him. “Sometimes you need a break, and even that isn’t enough without a smoke. Just seeing it all puff away. Need some company? I have a new pack, don’t worry, didn’t touch ‘em with my greasy hands yet.”

“No, I have to smoke alone. The, uh, doctor said I shouldn’t spread it.”

A murmur of disapproval, aimed this time at the bureaucracies and hubris of hospitals. 

“Thank you for worrying about my health,” the woman laughed, “but as I said, I’m likely too far gone for you to do much damage. I’m more likely to be damaging your young health, pushing you with my habit.”

“No,” the man said, scrunching his face behind its wall of hair and plastic film. “It will definitely be worse for you.”

“Oh, sweetie,” was the retort.

The man looked longingly over the length of table at the final two pies. One of them was a deliciously neglected veal and garlic combination, nearly an entire pie that everyone else must have coincidentally missed - just a his luck! He’d be able to finish one more before having to run out for a smoke. He wasn’t having a bad time with these kind ladies either: it was stressful answering all their questions, but it was nice being treated like you were famous. He found that being ‘cosmopolitan’, as Doctor Cadmus would put it, was often worth the stress. All it meant was a little extra smoke later.

He reached across the table.

---

Few sights were as unsettling as Trae - in full winter garb and a face-obscuring mask - extending his massive reach across a row of tables for a greasy pizza that appeared to be coated in gravel. This was what Sao believed, until Trae retracted back into his seat with his meal, where a posse of attractive, sharply dressed women began to fawn over him.

In his distant memories, the ones that had graced his childhood before the clouded phase of his teen years, Sao recalled a painting he’d seen during a class called History of Art. A wreath of women, in the nude save for in tenderly applied leaves and sashes, with flowing locks and half-lidded eyes, draping themselves over a fat, bearded man. This was a duke, said the caption, and the proof was in his fine vest and whisk collar, and his arms spread proud before a feast of roast poultry and wine, garnished with globules of ripe fruit - interpreted as apricots - the color of skin. Sao had been mildly spooked by the intense incongruity of the man and little balls of flesh were sitting on the table, but the longer he looked at it the more he thought it utterly hilarious. He could not believe the excess luxury, their faces, the way he knew no man or woman would ever take part in such nonsense, yet here they were, forced into being by someone with more skill - and paint and comedic timing - than Sao would ever have. He and his classmates would have been seven or eight, they were expected to be uncouth little monsters.

Well, here he was, in the modern age, with a modern duke, and he knew the old tutors would have been very disappointed with his development.

Sao sputtered. Rai did too, but Sao didn’t quite hear the humor in his tone.

“Trae!” Rai began his charge, ignoring the stares of Trae’s fellow eaters who were placed around the edges of the long dining table (another scene wrestled from an old masters’ painting, Sao thought). His footsteps landed with soggy crunches. The ground was turfed with stained cardboard and paper plates.

“Rai, there you are. Did you get your coffee?”

“What in the world are you doing?”

“Finishing up.”

“No kidding.” Rai began stacking the boxes in his usual, thunderous manner of stacking anything made of paper. “Were you here this entire time? How much of this did you eat? Cad’s going to obliterate the both of us if someone launches a complaint.” Oil sprayed from between sheets like a demonic sprinkler. Sao imagined Rai was glad to be wearing gloves, if gladness were even possible for him at present.

“I just had some. Do you want any? Sorry I didn’t save more, but this one’s about full - it’s veal and-”

“No!”

Trae rocked back. “The event’s starting soon. I didn’t want the pizza to go to waste.”

“Oh, come off it,” said one of the smartly dressed women. “Of course he didn’t eat it all, look around the table, everyone’s got more than enough. You don’t actually think anyone could eat that much on their own, do you?”

“Ma’am, he has a fairly serious condition. If he pushes himself too much, there could be some… health risks.”

Even with Rai’s cutting delivery, this bit of information did earn him a few concerned glances. Trae’s mask and overcoat did suggest some sort of sickness. Rai continued with renewed ease, “Has he been smoking? At all?”

The crowd heaved a collective groan. When it was clear nobody would stop him, Trae dislodged a slice from the box and began to fold it. Without making contact with the table, Sao tilted forward to have a closer look at the wood-colored shards that were spurting from the end of Trae’s origami. “Nice to see you again, Trae.”

“Oh, you’re…” Trae inspected his pizza for answers. “I remember, you’re Sao. Rai’s friend.”

“I’m his colleague.” Sao became aware of several womens’ eyes, tiny gemlike glints, now aimed his way. He smiled back at them, and they began to sparkle. “So, Trae, have you been well?”

“I’m good, I’m always good. Haven’t been sick or hurt or anything if that’s what you mean.” Trae’s pillowy face scrunched under his mask, perhaps he was grinning. “Hey, if you’re both here, does that mean you’re on a case?”

“I’m not getting paid overtime, but Rai has certainly been working the coffee circuit.” Sao laughed. “No, I came to the convention alone - had to set things up for another acquaintance of mine. Rai and I happened to run into each other.”

“Lucky you. Found some good stuff to eat?”

“Naturally - how could I not? I have several bags to take home later. Not sure how I’ll make it on the bus, but I’m not leaving any of it behind.”

“Aw, I haven’t had a look around yet.” Missing out on busloads of goodies clearly instilled more regret in Trae than any punishment Rai could dish out. “Is the market still up? I heard them taking down something, all that crashing. I hope I’m not too late.”

With a silent prayer for the lost abalone and strawberries (and god knew what else had fallen in the meantime) Sao said, “The stalls are supposed to stay up until the end of the day. There’s still plenty left.”

Trae was immediately absorbed in what fantastical sights and sounds and tastes lay in wait, plotting out his course for when he rose from his free pizza. Sao gave him some recommendations, with embellishment - rich marbled meat, glazed rainbows cake and flake pastry, bubbling drinks piled high with cream and sprinkled with confetti, all handed out with a smile if you took some time to explore. Trae lapped it all up while Rai found a chair to collapse in, and stared at them in disbelief.

Gesticulating at a large, overdressed creature like he were its primary teacher - the stack of eclairs this tall! - Sao was struck by a strange feeling of imbalance. He and Trae had only met briefly during a case at Central hospital - where Trae worked. At that time, Sao had been wrapped up in a hazmat suit, courtesy of Rai, but even behind the crinkling plastic visor he got the distinct, even suffocating, impression that he was dealing with an overgrown child. Trae spoke simply and had a playful gait, he was blind to common faux pas and flailed at common tasks. He was also easily harnessed by snacks and praise - a gentle giant out of a children’s film.

It was exactly that television quality that made Sao stop and think. A study in facades himself (though he didn’t like the sound of that, it would raise too many questions) doubt took hold of Sao when he compared real-life Trae to what he’d heard of him. From Rai he learned Trae was a Life Fountain. With a pure bloodline and the species' signature healing strength which Rai lacked, Trae had survived over 200 years to find his calling at the hospital as a sort of magical medical provision, boxed away until called on. 

Secretly trawling through records over a few lunch breaks, Sao found no note of where Trae came from, but that dedication to maintaining innocence did not speak of someone born into the role of a benevolent power, descending from lofty heights to join humanity out of love or duty. He had interests, but it wasn't the type one might call 'childlike wonder'. On the contrary; on the day they met, Sao had found Trae covered in his own blood, pining for chips, with his body sealing itself up from a terrible disembowelment at the hands of a culprit the police were after - and Trae thinking himself no worse off than if it were a stubbed toe. The case came to a head when Trae, between the police, a sobbing, fragmented family and a nervous killer, had shrugged, yawned, and smoked the whole scene into peaceful, stable oblivion, as if he'd had enough drama for a day; hit pause and come back later. Three unprepared souls ended that morning comatose.

They could have ended up worse. That was the point - to avoid three more deaths, Trae put the would-be corpses to sleep instead. Rai had been there at the time, he had been the one to give Trae the command. Trae only acted on Rai’s orders when he felt like it. Sao doubted Trae dragged heels out of malice - if Trae were to put his powers toward harm, they’d be feeling it - goodwill among men wasn't top on his list of priorities. When he feigned it, things went smoothly, but it hardly felt like conversation. It was like talking to a stuffed toy - empty but pleasant. Rai wasn’t so lucky. Trae always seemed to give him trouble. In that way, Trae was more honest toward Rai than anyone else.

Did Rai know it? Was he aware that he’d landed himself a friend and assistant who were predisposed to giving him a hard time, even if they were fond of him? He probably did - even if he couldn’t know for sure, Rai was the sort to assume hardship on himself. Sao paused so Trae could chew on his pizza, and felt a little sorry for his poor supervisor, whom he gathered was tasked to watch Trae.

Sao sighed, trying to ignore the smell of abalone in the stuffy heat. He tugged the sodden box over with his fingertips and asked, “What sort of topping did you say this was again, Trae?”

One of the ladies helped him pull a slice out with her intricately painted nails, and another produced a clean napkin for him, so his jacket might maintain its luster. No stranger to a messy pizza himself, Sao deftly folded his slice into a slim and (relatively) clean strip, hot on the heels of Trae who had started another. The woman with embellished nails followed suit, and soon the veal-and-garlic pie was gone. Rai was retching.

“That wasn’t too bad,” Sao said. It wasn’t a lie, but his throat was starting to tickle. 

Trae coughed.

He was offered water, but declined. When the farce finally shot out his nerves, Rai jumped to his feet, tensed like a string. Sao did not believe for a second that he’d really tackle Trae to the ground (or be able to if he tried); Rai appeared drained. The lunchtime display had been too much for him, the fire was waning, he was all ashen desperation.

In his mind’s eye, Sao saw the room in the hospital from the day he’d met Trae; all Trae had done was open his mouth and out came chaos, every inch of Sao’s vision had filled with smoke, churning, endless clouds that could blow, bend, distort him and all else where they stood. Surely, Trae wouldn’t release all that in such a place…? No, unlike Rai, Trae was no consistent picture. There was a reason he had to be watched.

Sao suppressed a cough of his own, and rasped, “Trae, perhaps you should have your smoke break now. Some fresh air will help. We can meet back up with the ladies later.”

He hurried to recommend some excellent coffee to the ladies as a diversion. There was only minor quibble about getting up from the pizza table now. He had their combined throat-rending experience to thank, and even Trae seemed unable to voice any more excuses. With a slight gurgle, Trae waved a wooly arm and departed.

“Remember, Trae. Other side of the building.” His piece spoken, Rai relaxed his arms, folded them and frowned. His chair had disappeared. “Unbelievable. You got him.”

“Looked like he was choking.”

“He was.” Rai’s tone dropped. “Of course, being what he is, he’d never die of suffocation or the like, but if he suppresses that smoke of his - his aura - too long, it bubbles up and sometimes it pops out as something a little worse than just gas.” He shook his head. “And he could wind up with a throat full of tumors if it goes on too long.”

“Oh, lord,” Sao croaked

“The lord has no say when it comes to him.” Rai sighed. “Your throat’s going out too. There’s water by the stage, go get some so you don’t lose your voice. I might need you to talk him into leaving when the time comes...”

It took a while to reach the table handing out water. At first, Sao thought they were in a queue, but they were simply being swept into a growing crowd. By the time he picked up a bottle, he could no longer see the edge of the mass of bodies. The pizza table had been shoved aside and the foyer was packed.

Before they could try to break free of the crowd, a group of sweating middle-aged men rambled up and surrounded them, pressing them almost flush against the stage until Rai started frothing about personal space, notably including Sao’s skin condition in the mix of deterrents.

The group didn’t seem offended or alarmed, and didn’t move back by much - there wasn’t much space to give. Their mouths were thoroughly engrossed in some exciting chatter about ‘average pounds’ and ‘heads per minute’ and several names Sao did not recognize - but one that he did.

“Ah, here to support Nero?” he said. His throat felt cooler already.

“Who else?” Nods of approval. “You know him? Of course you do. Our old faithful, isn’t that right? Was there for his first ever trophy, White Stadium, back in the day, he was the original cool and you know what, he still is. None of that shiny new boy-toy nonsense. You know, twelve years ago if we saw--”

Sao nodded along with them, politely, until they resumed their talk of numbers. To Rai he whispered, “Don’t tell the gentlemen; Nero’s a strong contender, but words is half the money in the stadium is on Cadoc.”

“Huh.”

“Yes. He’s got this technique, have you seen the videos?”

“No. But I’ve heard.” 

Rai, who had a pallid coloration on the best of days, never looked as grey as he did then.

The spotlights above the stage snapped on, alongside the familiar initializing crackle of the soundsystem. 

Sao had just about resigned himself to five more minutes of failing soundsystem, so he and the crowd gasped when he heard the announcer’s voice for the first time, slicing through the din sharp as a razor: “Alright, everybody! Welcome! Let’s hear those voices - who’s ready for the International Meat Cup Semifinals?”