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Fenn set aside his broom and wandered into the kitchen. Walking, not fluttering. He didn’t even have the energy to lift himself off of the ground.
The oven door let out a wash of heat. And a chocolatey, slightly bitter smell. His antennae pricked up at it. The brownies he slid out looked… almost like a normal, tasty brownie, actually. Sure, there were some blackened edges, and on taking the first bite, he realized that the coffee sprinklings might’ve been a mistake, but hey, they were edible! Sighing, he set the tin on the floor beside him and munched away at them. Even dragging himself over to the couch felt like too much work. He didn’t even want to think about the effort it was going to take to try and sort out this therapy-counseling-classes mess. How did normal folk manage it? If Manta Carlos wasn’t the issue — was genuinely as helpful as it made itself look — then what was his issue?
He frowned, starting at the ceiling. “Am I... my own problem?”
Fenn would never have said it, had he thought anyone else could hear. Life on this wet rock did feel a
little more secure than life in the Reaches. He had to admit that to himself, at this point. Customers here were slightly less likely to threaten violence, for one thing, and for another, people like Snowflake were more anomaly than commonality.
He was starting to think he needed a change of profession. Whether he’d commit to that thought was another thing, and whether he’d be up to the task was even more an uncertainty, but at least he’d acknowledged it. That was something, right?
The fae rested his head on his hands. “I been living like I’m still in the Reaches,” he admitted quietly, through a mouthful of brownie. “That all I’ll ever be? A gutter bug, selling drugs.”
Heh. Maybe he should be a poet.