The Heist at Cordia Aquarium

A window on the far wall is ajar. The top of the studio's fire escape peeks into view against a backdrop of grime encrusted air conditioning units balancing on the sills of the apartment building across the street. Elia rolls over to lay on her other side and lets out a snore like a glacier cutting through layer upon layer of solid stone.

Fur-padded feet skitter over the window sill, across the floor, and up into the bed. Sandpaper drags across Elia's face; then again. Her face scrunches up and she flails towards her head with one hand. Sandpaper again. She opens her eyes.

Slit pupils set in the center of deep emerald pools stare back.

Elia rubs the wet patch on her face with the back of her hand and pushes the cat away. "You're nasty."

The cat whacks the hand a couple times with a hiss, then retreats to a pillow on the other side of the bed. Eyes closed, Elia takes a sharp breath of the frigid fall air. "It's not even that late Bamboo."

Bamboo's weight shifts along the bed, moving closer. Elia throws the comforter to the side and opens her eyes again. "Fine. You better not have been licking some other stray right before coming up here."

Bamboo hunches over, her eyes dart between the kitchen and the human with hands perfect for cracking open cans of cat food. Elia swings her legs out of bed and Bamboo goes wild the moment sockless feet touch the hardwood floor. Purring like a well-tuned engine, she leaps off the bed and circles in between Elia's legs.

Elia tip-toes around the slithering trip hazard to the kitchen's mock-mahogany cabinets. Grunts escape on each exaggerated step. "Please — eh — let me — eh — walk."

The kitchen is split into two parallel sections: an island with a sink that looks out over the studio's main room, then a row of counters and appliances against the wall.

Colorful tins of wet cat food teeter in stacks of three inside a low cabinet near the oven, their well designed bottoms meant to fit neatly together merely a suggestion.

Elia grabs one and turns around with a nudge of the cabinet door. Just behind the sink atop the counter, waves of distorted light flow around a pulsing pinprick of space. Her eyes grow hot and try to force themselves closed — like she's flipped on a light after sitting in the dark for too long.

Unlike that, the feeling doesn't fade and her mind turns in on itself trying to interpret what she sees in the bead of unreality at the center. She braces for the next part.

Crack.

Bamboo emerges from the disturbance mid-pounce and settles on her feet with well-practiced grace. She whips the last bit of her tail out of the unimaginable void and it winks out, sending a last wave of distorted light rolling through the air before dissipating like smoke.

Elia's eyes relax and she wipes away a couple tear streaks with her sweater's sleeve. "You could have just jumped, you dick."

Bamboo runs forward to the edge of the laminate counter top and sniffs toward Elia's hand that's grasping the unopened tin. The cat paces the edge, rotating her head to keep the can in sight.

Elia leans her back against a cabinet and slides down with a grunt. Bamboo dives after her, shoving a whiskered nose at the can and rubbing a furry cheek against it. Elia cracks the can open and sets it beside Bamboo on the freezing tile floor. "There, you little devil."

The beige, matte tiles blend together despite grout crisscrossing between them. Elia traces those grout lines with her eyes: Up. Right. Down. Left. Repeat. And her consciousness disappears amid the routine.

Bamboo nudges against Elia's leg, then everything else starts existing again. Like the now-empty can. Elia rubs her eyes with the palms of her hands. How long was she sitting there? Bamboo bats at the can and chases it as it clatters across the floor and disappears beneath the fridge. Two emerald eyes pout toward Elia.

Elia glares back and pulls herself up to her feet with help from the counter top. "What do you want me to do about it?"

Bamboo circles in front of the apartment's door, meowing on every other turn. Elia stumbles through the entrance's hallway. She comes to a stop and fiddles with a stubborn zipper on the front of her navy blue mechanic's coveralls. "Darn thing..."

The zipper jerks halfway up the suit and Elia grunts as pain shoots from her thumb. She lowers the zipper to free the pinched bit of skin and shakes her hand out. "Euh, damn it!"

Red welts form in a zigzag along the back of her thumb. She gives her hand one last shake and zips the suit up the rest of the way.

Directly outside the apartment door sits the stairwell to the shop. Bamboo bounds forward and pushes through a flap in the door at the bottom. A muffled crack echos around the exposed brick walls as she teleports to her favorite spot among the roof's steel trusses. Country music pumps through Otto's radio speakers and filters into the stairwell. Letting her eyes close, Elia shakes her head in between stair steps. He knows not to have that music on.

Natural light falls through a ring of open awning windows set near the ceiling and onto the broom-finished concrete floor. The scent of gas, oil, and grease mix in the air. Feet kick to the beat of the music from under the minivan parked in the workstation on the far wall.

Elia barges over and knocks on the hood. "Turn that music off. I told you not to bring that radio anymore."

Otto rolls out from under the car, grease smudges stretch across his bald head. He dabs away sweat with a rag and speaks in a thick Polish accent. "Oh! Sorry, boss! Didn't realize you were going to be down this early. I pulled your next car in for you by the way." His brows meet in the middle and he nods. "I- I think it's the right one."

Elia nods back toward the Camaro occupying her station. "Yeah, you got it right. Thanks for that. But music: off."

"Sure thing, boss."

Elia starts back toward the Camaro. In between Otto's and Elia's spaces, Duffie works in the cab of a chrome 1957 Chrysler 300C. Elegant curves stretch past the headlights and swooping fins jut out along the trunk. Elia pats one of the fins and lets out a wolf whistle. "Better be careful with this one, Duff."

Duffie looks behind themselves out the rear window, the pillar of puffy brown hair on their head bounces with the movement. "Morning, Elia. Golly are you right, I'm scared to even be sitting in here."

Elia steps into her workstation. Her belt hangs over her tool cabinet with a pair of pliers threatening to stumble out of an overstuffed pocket. Her gloves wedge open the top drawer; she pries them out and slips them on. Now to change these brake pads.

An hour goes by and the job is finished. Sweat clings to every inch of Elia's body, staining the armpits and chest of her coveralls. She rubs excess grease on her knees and drapes her tool belt back across the cabinet. Break time.

Her office is separated from the rest of the shop by a wall with a window spanning most of the office's width. Just inside, a metal desk is littered with paperwork that should have been filed away in one of the file cabinets lining the wall behind it. A flag of white, sandwiched between amaranth pink, then sky blue peaks from the corner of her bulletin board. The board itself is filled with thumbtacks, dingy forgotten vacation photos, and pictures of foreign cars on standard printer paper.

Back throbbing, Elia collapses into the chair behind her desk. She opens the fridge nestled under one of the desk corners. Rows of soda sit parallel with all the brand logos facing forward except for one can. She twists it to the appropriate orientation and cracks the tab on a separate one.

Carbonation sends misty droplets of water popping out the top of the can, hitting any nearby surface. Elia rotates toward the bulletin board and upturns the soda. It rushes out in a translucent red river. Sweet sparks with hints of manufactured strawberry play across her tongue and crackle down her throat with a gulp. Nothing quite like it.

A knock rings off the metal door near the shuttered garage ones. It echos around the concrete room, and a meow joins in from the rafters.

Otto rolls out from under his car, greasier than before; Duffie leans back in the plush upholstery of the 300C; and Elia swivels her chair back around to face the window, mid drink. She takes a moment to lower the can.

All three mechanics exchange glances. Elia stares, alternating her glare between the other two. No way she's interacting with someone this soon after waking up, even if she's just sitting here drinking soda.

Duffie steps out of the cab and guides the door closed. "I've got it."

Otto wipes more sweat off his head. "Thank you, friend! I'm on a roll over here."

Elia searches her office for another distraction and finds a half-finished crossword puzzle from yesterday's newspaper. She racks her brain between sips, but glances at Duffie's empty workstation instead of focusing. What's taking them so long at the door?

The crossword lay unchanged next to a discarded, chewed pencil. Elia slumps and inhales. Fine, she'll check on them.

Duffie leans out the door, wedging it close to their body with their only visible arm and foot. The desperate voice of a person with dwindling options slips past regardless.

"— just so I can get back to work. Then I can —"

Elia lets a sigh out and taps Duffie on the back. "I can take it from here." Don't be her...

Duffie doubles back out of the doorway. "Thanks!" Then adds with a whisper: "Good luck."

Past the threshold, a priest with wavy black hair leans on a cane. Her head dips and she raises a hand in a meek wave. "Hey Elia. I was just running an arrangement for my motorcycle by Duffie."

Elia huffs and crosses her arms. "Really now? What kind of arrangement?"

"One that gets me on the road and gives me the means to pay you."

Embers of anger coax into life inside Elia's chest where it burns an unwanted hole. Her eye's narrow as she searches Thea's face. "Sounds like I get shafted with that deal." Thea's features, her attitude. They're too familiar.

Thea raises the cane and her eyes go wide. "Y- You get shafted without a deal! I can't make money like this."

"And I can't pay my bills off charity. Got plenty of jobs right now without pilling your's on top for free."

Thea's hand trembles on the cane. "We can work something out! I've always been a good client, right? I've not done anything wrong, right?"

Embers ignite into a steady blaze and Elia starts to close the door. "Get out of here and figure something else out."

"Elia, please! I just need —"

Elia slams the door, stomps over to her workstation, and picks another thing to fix on the Camaro. Guilt tripping? Not this time.