Turbinio

Just a Glass of Water

''What? Who do you think you are, approaching like that?'' Diego pointed his index finger at you and said with the deepest rudeness.

''Huh? Don't you remember me?'' You braked the wagon. ''In the first stage. I don't know if we introduced ourselves properly, but I'm (Y/N), the hawker.''

He stared at you coldly for a few seconds and also stopped his horse. He was definitely in a hurry, but something made him wait. His menacing look and smug hat - though not as smug as Gyro's belt - made you smile reassuringly.

''What do you want? Why are you here?'' He questioned in a steady tone. ''What are you doing on the runners' route if you're just a street vendor? Don't tell me you're also participating in the race.''

You knew more than the basics of many languages, and this was no different with English, but there was something about Diego's accent that you just couldn't match. You only understood a word or two, otherwise, your mind could only process his rudeness, which added to the accent. For a moment it occurred to you that your pronunciation and accent also didn't help those who spoke to you, but Diego's European aspect irritated you. The pettiness, the snobbery, you couldn't handle it.

He waited a few seconds for your answer, looking deeply into you with that cold eyes. He snorted as if he was making fun of you and seemed to read the incomprehension on your face. At that moment, you answered the question you assumed he had asked with the words ''street vendor'' and ''route''.

''I'm not a runner, I'm just a hawker.'' You just repeated a phrase you've been saying since you set foot in San Diego. ''I called you because I was worried, you look dehydrated. Are you okay?''

That question only seemed to piss him off more. He muttered something rude and unintelligible, shook his head sharply, and raised his voice.

''Then you must be blind. I'm fine.'' He persisted, but you could feel how dry his mouth was from the effort of yelling at you. ''Get out of my way before I lose my patience, and don't bother me again!''

Why did the most popular runners always want to get rid of you? First Gyro, then Sandman, and now Diego... were you really that unpleasant? No, impossible. Mountain Tim was a real gentleman and Johnny is nice too, the problem wasn't you.

''I don't charge for a glass of water.'' You quietly insisted. ''We're 16 miles from Monument Valley and there's no water well on your route, so don't pass up the chance.''

He stared at you silently, nudged his horse, and galloped off. He really was a nasty fellow, there was no doubt about that. You snort and roll your eyes, flicking the Cadichon's reins and continuing on your way just after Diego disappeared into the sandy horizon. An intrusive thought came over you and you felt ashamed of it: but why were all those runners so pretty?

On your journey, you met many beautiful men - and perhaps secretly, women - but there was something special about these runners. A certain charm. Of course, to you, they were very similar, but at the same time, they were unique.

You shake your head in denial, brushing those thoughts aside as if they were pesky insects, and think about talking to Cadichon. If she could talk, she would certainly tell you to be ashamed of yourself for showing a spark of interest in these men.

That's when you remember what happened a few hours ago. You remembered Gyro's injured leg and Johnny's obvious lack of preparation.

''Dios mio, Cadichon, those idiots are chasing a terrorist!'' You exclaimed immediately, feeling a chill in your stomach.

You didn't know if they were still alive. Of course, your tourniquet would help, but Gyro had already lost a lot of blood before you came. Haste dominated your mind. It was only a few more miles to the finish line and you had already accepted the delay the broken wheel was giving you, but you needed to know if Gyro and Johnny were okay. You didn't want to admit that you were worried about them, so you convinced yourself that you just wanted to get there as quickly as possible just for the sales.