Once sunlight peeks from my eyelids, I roll on the rug, cringing at the aches that follow. Yesterday's events rush in like a broken dam, jerking my mind awake like cold water.

I look at the bed. Sandra's lying with an arm slithering down, her mouth like a small tunnel. The bruises on her chin and neck are as big as cheetah's spots, hidden under her ponytail.

I snap out of my reverie, kicking my blanket off and shuffle on my feet. I quickly avert my attention to Miro. Roy's game consoles are still scattered around his bed; he must sneak out to play while we were sleeping.

How many days has he skipped school? With the intensifying situation, his routine won't get back to normal soon. And after there's news about me everywhere, Daily Dose and my usual clients at the cleaning service must think twice before letting me return to the job.

My life has been entirely ruined. But who should I blame? Jorge Zaragoza, the Mantis shrimps, Lin-Irene, or the media?

"Allice?" Sandra calls softly, stretching her arms. She hisses, brushing her sore spots. To the eye, Lin-Irene only hurt her chin and neck. But who knows? "We're home, right?"

Who knows it only takes me three days to refer to this place as home?

🐾

The news of our rebellion group is widely reported across Dogson. While they hide our identities, photographs of Grand-Mad's chipped house and the beaten policemen are surfing like wildfire over the internet, according to Sandra.

"Anything new?" Whisking the egg with normal appliances, Sandra turns around to face me, stifling a yawn.

I shake my head, staring at Channel Four's Mr. Bald Eagle. "No. He's talking about the plan of moving Biliya's capital."

I zone out from the bland screen to the troubles in my head.

Roy and Sandra's parents must've suspected something's off. They didn't go home last night, after all. They might assume it has something to do with their relationship, but it's unlikely that it's their only suspicion.

Not to mention, Lin-Irene is hospitalized. As Dogson's Chief of Police, surely Mr. Lin-Orion's underlings have reported something to him.

"Sandra," I blurt out, staring at the bar table instead of her eyes. The barstool burns me, and I scoot farther. "Sorry, now you're deeply involved."

She chuckles, putting the bowl down. "Allice, ni hen bèn a. I told you—"

"Did you expect things will get this bad?" It's like having Roy's grenade on my chest, only dragging others to trouble with its persistent grapples. "The stakes are too heavy. If your parents know—"

"They must've figured it out already. Roy gave me a pep talk before we met Grand-Mad and the others." She sighs heavily. "We can't hide this forever. They won't accept it, scorning us for bad decisions. It won't last forever, though. And so is the chance against these scheming Highlifes. We can't let them get away with their plans."

My stomach churns. How far should she sacrifice herself before we reach our goal? And how long will it take to get her normal life back after this?

She drops the whisk into the bowl, sitting in front of me and lands a cool touch on my arm. Physical contacts never make me comfortable... until now. "Dogson already waits for too long, Allice. A new mayor might've been erected, but that's why we should move. We know how rotten he is—if only more people see through him."

Her words are enlightening. But it's like a ray of sun trying to barge through thick rain clouds. They aren't enough.

"Allice, look at me." A cloud of doubt hovers over her eyes. "After Roy and I discussed this for the first time, shortly before we met you, I ignored him for two days." She snorts. "I called him from 'unbelievable' to 'a fart-head mongoose'."

I smile at the way she says it, like a stammering baby. She's definitely an effective mood booster. She can be as calm as a flower field, and anxious like a mother hen.

Is she really a Highlife? Or have I known only the bad sides of Highlife all this time?

She pours the eggs on the frying pan, flicking on the stove. "That day at Selenite Landfill was our first hangout. Actually, I didn't agree on his ideas just yet." An alluring aroma wafts across the room. "Sorting out trashes is our favorite activity besides gossiping, foul-mouthing, traveling, and creating odd crafts—well, that's more like Roy, though."

"If we didn't meet, you wouldn't have gone this far." I sigh, accepting the burden that continues to linger on my chest.

"Your aunt would still be caught, Allice," she quietly says, as if keeping a secret from Miro. "We would still come to you. Roy's motivation has always been justice and equality. But mine has been more to... humanity."

Moving two huge chunks of the omelet to the plates and cutting each into half, a small smile plays across her battered features. After placing all of them on the bar table and putting the appliances at the sink, she sits ahead of me as if the topic doesn't disturb her the slightest bit.

And why is she making four portions? Is Roy coming?

"You gave us purposes. It might've sounded like we're taking a toll on your miseries, but we're just... you know, become better after we know you. In manners, in taking decisions..."

Like a beacon in the dark, a question pops in my head. A forgotten one, left unanswered for some time already. "What are you and Roy?"

"I've befriended him since I was able to speak. He's the best friend anyone will beg to have. We both had quite troubled childhoods, and getting homeschooled together sure got us closer." She wrings her hands together, a nostalgic smile toying on her lips. "We're close, but not in that kind of way... get it?" When she looks straight at me with her black pearly eyes, I almost tumble to the floor.

It's like she sees through me. Like, as a whole person instead of a mere newspaper courier or a house cleaner; more than just a nephew, a son, or a cousin. And it makes my heart race faster.

"But you're the best friend no one realizes they must have." She looks away, blushing. She nearly spits out more words when the door slams open, followed by a hasty trudging.

"I'm starving. So who's"—his eyes dart to the eggs on the plates, and they widen like a phantom just passes by—"cooking?"

"Oh, Roy, good to see you back. How are they? Settled fine?" She adds a sheepish giggle at the end, still blushing. It's like the words she withheld are crashing down her throat, replaced by the pleasantries to Roy.

"They're fine, though rowdy." His forced smile tries to convey a message. What can it be? "On second thought, I'm not hungry. I'm just stopping by."

Roy's voice must be an alarm clock to Miro. Rubbing his eyes, he hurls the blanket off and trails to the bar table, snatching a glass of water Sandra already prepared. "I hope you don't mind me borrowing your games, Roy." There's barely strength and sanity in his tone, causing us to chuckle.

Like Sandra, he's also an obvious mood booster. When Auntie Morgan's genes aren't acting up, though.

Roy takes the last barstool right when I spoon the egg into my mouth, and I catch a glimpse of his queasy face before savoring the taste. Lucky that Sandra's still busily tending to Miro.

Seriously, what did she season this with? Salt or vinegar? Is there a salt-like vinegar nowadays, and maybe she picks the wrong bottle?

Turns out that Highlifes aren't gods, after all. At least they still have a flaw.

Roy buries his snickers under his coughs. He casts a playful look to me every few seconds as if hurrying me to finish off the rest of the eggs. Which is a necessity; being a Lowlife for nineteen years teaches me about saving food, no matter how disgusting they are. When I chomp down the last spooned egg, he masks his awe and reveals it whenever Sandra isn't paying attention.

To my relief, Miro can finish his portion without complaining. Though his face's muscles twist whenever Sandra averts her gaze.

"So yeah, I'm here to discuss our separate missions." Roy clears his throat after our hellish breakfast time ends. Slightly before, he sends Miro to the TV, giving him permission to use his too-many-to-be-counted game sets. "As I said, I'll be recruiting members and think of a way to lie low, without Jorge knowing. You two should go to The Office and see if there's anything connected to his plan. He can't be directing a zoo-break without an obvious reason."

"But how?" Sandra frowns. "Do you think he'll keep notes in his own office? I mean"—she stammers, as if reliving a bad memory—"I've been there; it was once my grandma's. And you won't know where to look. The whole place is like a library. Or a laboratory, in Jorge's case. And there are only two of us..."

"Three," Roy interrupts, "if you're taking Miro."

I shake my head, sighing. I won't risk another family member. Once is more than enough.

Amidst my despair, a loud grunt comes from Miro's bed. His backpack rattles like a rat is within. As if snapped by lightning, he leaps off the floor and takes the backpack to me, almost throwing it as he pants along, sweat covering his chubby cheeks.

He only ever looked like this when we were heading to Grand-Mad's house.

Roy stares at me with bewilderment in his eyes. "Don't tell me it's..."

Once I unzip the backpack, a metal arm shoots out, the fingers stretching around. I'm yet to gasp when the orange-dominant robot crawls out, its sky-blue eyes hooded with mist. "Xin-Yo has been sleeping since yesterday; what has Xin-Yo missed? And in Xin's dream, Allice Worke, Sandra Hua, and Lin-Roy are planning a visit to Mr. Jorge Zaragoza's office." It bows down, shame evident in his tone. "Xin-Yo might be able to help, though Xin-Yo has only been there once: when Xin-Yo got..." Trailing off, the mist shrouding its eyes becomes clearer, forming unshed tears. Thin white smoke escapes its crooks as if its insides are burning.

"You don't have to if it's still too hard." Sandra gulps. "Besides, I know some insiders. I think we can do it ourselves—"

"Are you sure?" Roy leans forward, quirking his brow. "The Office has a tight security screening, what with all those Tracer screens, Onyx Agents..."

"Migos and Argus will let me pass, Roy." Sandra leans forward as well, her eyes narrowing at Roy's glare. "It's not like they hate me. After all, their incident with you was five years ago. It's not like they're still bitter of it—"

Roy's scoff makes my stomach even more queasy. What incident are they talking about? I've never heard anything going viral about Roy before. "If you ever lose an eye, or a grown tooth, I doubt you'll say that."

Their bickering continues. Words dash out of their mouths in a bullet's speed, barging against each other and becoming buzzing bees to my ears.

In the middle of my despair, I spot Xin-Yo from the corner of my eye, trying to climb to the barstool. I need to scoop it up since it's shorter than the six-year-old Miro.

"Don't force yourself," I mutter as I close the distance between us. "I won't blame you to fear your old master. He's probably the most dangerous man in Dogson."

Xin-Yo chirps weakly, like a hatchling. "Xin-Yo has to, Allice Worke. Xin-Yo knows something useful in Jorge Zaragoza's office."

🐾

Translations

Ni hen bèn a: you're so stupid (Chinese)