nostalgia ✔️ | tough series bonus

↳ 6.1

THE RING OF alarm woke Marvel up from his sleep and he slid off of his tiny bed, walking around his tiny apartment to get himself ready for the day in a robotic manner.

He played a voice message in his phone as he brushed his teeth:"Hey, babe. It's Rosie. I know that I should say this to you in person, but it's midnight already and I'm so excited, so... Happy Anniversary! You mentioned that you're working in the morning then you have a Modern Art class at noon, am I right? Let's meet up afterwards. Call me. Love you!"

"Hey, Rosie," Marvel recorded a message back as he put on his socks and shoes, "Happy Anniversary! I'll pick you up at four today, in front of your campus building. Is that okay? Love you."

Then he put on a face mask and made his way into the bustling street of supposedly-Flare-free Denver.

Everyone, Marvel was a very strong boy. Watching his mother got shot to death and his sister kidnapped by the said killer in front of his very eyes were traumatizing, yes, but he never believed in the phrase 'giving up'. So, he picked himself up (after crying every night to sleep for at least two months, of course, but that's understandable).

He was found by good, uninfected foster parents, then studied his way through school, entered the prestigious Denver College of Art, worked multiple part-time jobs to loosen the financial burden he put on his parents' shoulders, and met the love of his life, Rosie, in History of Flare minor.

Losing his birth family so abruptly made him realize that life... tomorrow was never promised. Hell, the next second wasn't promised. His mother and sister weren't spared, but he was, so he had to make sure that he wasn't left to live in vain. He had to live for them. He had to, for Marla.

"Good morning, Marvel!"

"Good morning!" Marvel grinned hugely despite having half his face covered by mask and closed the door to the coffee shop behind him, "How are you, Bethany?"

"Good, good," Bethany replied, nodding her head, "It would be better if you change in a jiffy and help me out here, though."

"Whoops, give me a second." He hopped over the counter in a playful manner and entered the locker room —ignoring Bethany's remark of "Dude, act like your age! You're freaking twenty-one!"

The day started out busy as more and more people dropped by to grab a quick breakfast, then it slowed down for a couple hours before picking up again near lunch time. That was when an unfamiliar Hispanic man bought four packages of lunch with a special W.I.C.K.E.D. card.

Most of the customers here were regulars, so he looked incredibly out of place.

Jorge Gallaraga, it read.

"Mr. Gallaraga?" Marvel asked, raising his eyebrows. "Are you new in town?"

"Yes, just a few days for business," the man replied quickly, "Can I just pay?"

"Oh, of course," Marvel said, rather taken aback by his rudeness. He pushed the Android Smartlogic machine towards the customer, "Here. Your passcode, please."

Mr. Gallaraga punched in his code in a jiffy, took his tray, and scurried off before Marvel even had a chance of saying 'thank you, have a nice day!'

He nudged Bethany, who was mastering the cashier on his left, with his elbow and whispered, "Beth. That guy I was serving, he's from W.I.C.K.E.D.."

"Thank you, have a nice day! W.I.C.K.E.D.?" Bethany frowned for a second before smiling brightly once more per the cafe's standard operational procedure, "Fancy. Reckon he knows the real development stage of the Flare cure they promised us since decades ago?"