"Stop requested."

That's the fifth time this street. Daniel's head somehow leans harder against the window, tight coils of dark hair cushion the glass. That's seven people who would have the entire bus hear that robot's emotionless edict for the hundredth time before they walk a block themselves. Five stops in a row, and the bus panders to it. The bus company, that is. The driver just does what she has to, and Daniel understands that completely. She's a nice lady, the driver, often reminiscing about life with the elder man who is a fixture of the front seat. They laugh about luck, and laugh about tragedy all the same. Eavesdropping on them is wholesome, if not especially entertaining, entertainment. One of the few human interactions he considers himself a part of, to be honest. Next semester, he'll be shafted to the route that runs half an hour prior, and he dreads the inevitable silence that will haunt those transits.

Ever since the thought came to him, a month or so back, that days go by without him saying a single word, his lack of socialization sticks with an awful pertinence. It's easy to be silent. Easy to be alone. Yet introspection makes him feel sick about it.

It hits him like a slap, the hand of the man a seat behind. Stinging briefly seizes his shoulder. The audacity of it means that awe, more so than ire, takes control of his turning face. The man a seat behind is quick to feign innocence, open hands protect his sleazy face and his sleazier sunglasses. Daniel would never do anything to either of those, but eternal, internal, indignation would be a given if it weren't for the murder victim on his palm.

"Skeeter," he explains. He wears his smile like a sticker. What remains of the insect is smudged under the seat. Pleasant.

"Oh," Daniel dallies, "Erm, thanks."

This man is a curious presence. It was a couple weeks ago when he first joined the route, and he has been a mainstay since. With his outfit, he made a strong first impression. He's got rectangles cut out of most items, most notably an over-sized hoodie with basically the entire front scalped off. It looks like he's wearing swiss cheese. Then there are the sunglasses before sunrise, and that devilish smile. Nobody bothers looking past a first impression like that. Oh, and where others walk, he rolls. That's right; Heelys. Like a time traveler back from whenever the nineties become cool again. He's thirty or forty or something, remarkably spry for his age; a fact which almost goes unnoticed due to his sloven upkeep. Unruly tan hair sits on his head like an overgrown fern, stubble edges his features. What isn't cut out of his clothes is grimy and wrinkled. Mom would have him by the ear.

He gets off at a new stop each day, and takes to the city like a lost child, carrying nothing but his self. Watches out the window rather than pulling out a phone (that probably doesn't exist), looking for something to catch his eye, and pulling the cord like a sneeze whenever it does.

"You go to Trent don't you?" he asks. It sounds like some hamlet, huddled in the alcoves of the British coastline, but Trent is a university. The college which Daniel attends. One of those schools that try to hide their shortcomings with some highborn name.

"Yeah." But how he wishes he could say no. Lying would be futile; the man has stayed past his stop a few times now, and asks this question not to learn, but to talk. Daniel doesn't want to talk, it makes him feel like a tool by association. Gossips rule the belly of the bus, and they'd judge you by your name. This guy's opportunity frosted over in the morgue soon as they saw him, but Daniel has been lucky enough, quiet enough, to avoid stepping on their toenails so far. Keeping it like that would be nice, but looking unlikely. He can feel their sideways eyes jump on his back when the man a seat behind starts up again.

"Know a kid called Warren? Last name."

Daniel pretends to think. Eyes and lips in a nervous dance that looks choreographed even though it isn't supposed to. Then his head shakes decisively. No more questions, please.

"Well you do now!" Blossoming with self-pleasure he unravels a hand over the back of the seat. As soon as Daniel moves towards a reluctant shake, he withdraws his hand to scuffle the boy's hair. "I'm kidding, I'm kidding. That would've been pretty slick though, no?" he laughs a very 'ha ha' laugh, "but nah, it's just this guy I used to run around with. His ex's kid is supposedly at Trent. Gonna be some soil scientist; save the world. Buy his pops a mansion. Haha!" He recounts the information like he doesn't believe a word of it. Daniel exhales slightly harder than usual out his nostrils.

"I like you, dude. What's your name?"

"Daniel."

"What's your last name, Daniel?"

"Fry," he says, biting his lip hard, but a second late.

"Daniel Fry! Yes. Well, I'm P.G. - with dots. Honest this time." He extends his hand once again, and this time the shake goes through. Just barely: Daniel pinches P.G.'s fingers for a fleeting wriggle. An awful decision, but better than making a fuss. How many morning transits are going to be ruined by this man, this 'P.G. with dots'? Suddenly, next semester can't come quick enough, and the silence it promises turns seductive. The fact that P.G. so casually omitted his own last name, but knows his, screams something you hear about on crime procedurals.

Another stop rolls by, and a silly, instinctual, idea grips his body; it tells him to go. His legs are set to walk out to a street which he has no business being on, and only a fleeting sense of direction. A junction swamped with coffeehouses and construction cones. Fluorescent with a double-pump of cream. Resisting, he grips the armrest so hard that the plastic might melt. Only loosening up when the bus leaves, and he remains. Nothing is going to happen. He's not going to have to talk to this guy for the rest of the year, and he's certainly not gonna end up diced in his basement, or some roadside ditch. P.G., from what he has deduced, is a socially inept goofball. If Daniel understands anything, he should understand that. The only difference between the two being that P.G. doesn't realize his defects, or hasn't the prescience to hide them.

Perhaps buttressed by this inkling of a comparison, Daniel ventures to ask a question. "What happened to all your clothes?" Regret sets in via the cat-centered idioms that yell at him in his head.

P.G. is wry, he must get this a lot, but you can't saunter around town, starting up random conversations in clown garb without paying the price. "I took a box cutter to them." He pauses, and acts like he won't continue without prompting, a commodity Daniel isn't willing to splurge. Eventually, he picks up again. He can't help himself. "Took out the brand names. No way imma walk around like some billboard. Pay me for it, and maybe. Maybe! But like this? No chance. And these companies are all awful places; you know what they do to their workers?" Daniel nods, he doesn't really though, not in any detail.

"That's smart."

"Oh please," he bats away the flattery, "it's ridiculous. Though I suppose it's what makes me, me." He finishes with an exaggerated flourish. A surprising moment of sarcastic self-awareness that changes everything Daniel thought he knew about him. What once were gimmicks now look natural on him. Conscious decisions with the intention to self-efface. Weaponry to commit social suicide.

"Anyways, when I see all those pretty kids strutting 'round with brands on their chests, I guess they may as well be repping the dollar bill itself."

Daniel cringes. It's not exactly a nuanced view, but the gist of it is fair enough. He hates the trend too, not enough to cut anything up, not enough to bring any undue attention to himself, but still. Can't find a t-shirt without words on it anymore. He certainly gets where the anger to rebel is coming from.

He hates that he has to think. Why can't he just be lonely with that awful pertinence? Maybe this and maybe that and he has had it up to here with maybes. When he is alone he is a god. An inconsequential god, without the mysticism, and the power, and the cults, but one that exerts complete control over the corners he hides away in. No variables, and definitely no variation! His two commandments?

"Stop requested."

P.G.'s finger is hooked around the cord. "You almost missed your stop," he says. "Catch ya later."

"Oh. Thanks." It's probably the first thing Daniel has said today that he means. Mom's eggs weren't actually good, and he likes P.G. a lot less than he leads on, but this was truly nice. Saves him a walk from wherever the next stop is - he doesn't know. Quickly, he stuffs his backpack shut and slings it over his right. They're talking in the front, but he hasn't a clue about the content, which is nice for a change. Every part of him feels light as he drops to the sidewalk. The wind is bitter like it always is before dawn, but the air is pleasant. Seems like it has been humid for a month before now.

He walks on with a frown, undecided on whether it is directed at this particular bus ride, or the classes that loom ahead.

After lectures, it's the 705 again. Westbound now.