C:\>Redemption Arc (One Good Day is All it Takes)

"You could say that I oversee the redistribution of wealth to the downtrodden."

"'Downtrodden,' in this case, meaning yourself?"

"I'm a visionary, Pat. So what if my methods might, under this hideous regime, be labelled as criminal?"

"Yeah, well, just make sure you tell that to the cops when they nail you."

Patricia Coot (Pat to anyone who cared about their wellbeing) hadn't smelled a god-damn thing in 20 years, owing to a lifelong love affair with the Marlboro Man. But if there was one thing she smelled every single time, it was bullshit. And there was never a shortage of it in her line of work, her little pawn shack a magnet for wannabee grifters the world over. But never, in all her years, had she met one who was quite as full of it as Orson Caldwell. The obviously stolen watch wasn't exactly helping his case.

"Just you wait," Orson said to her, "I've got something big cooking."

She let a smile scrape over her gappy teeth. "Cook it outside, dickhead."

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These people are all sheep, Orson thought to himself as he squeezed through the implausibly thick crowd, all the streets in the area blessedly empty except for the exact one he needed to go down. Pat had been a wash, but there were other shops who took a more...wordly perspective. That was the problem with people, he concluded as he swerved a stroller aimed directly at his ankle. It's not that they didn't believe in anything, it's just that the things they did believe in were utterly backwards. The accumulated wisdom of society trickles into the cracks in their awareness and distills into plattitudes and storybook morals that doggedly refuse association with the real world. Everybody knows you're not supposed to steal, right? It impinges on the "rights" and "safety" of other people.

But what about his rights? What about Orson's right to financial stability, to material abundance securing a long and prosperous life without the yoke of backbreaking labor? All his life, he had been kept down. All his life, the people around him had silently agreed that he was less than nothing, and so deserved nothing at best. So to him, it really was about redistributing the wealth of those fat dragons sitting their illgotten hoards of gold. At least then, things would be fair. At least then, he could finally make something of himself...He marinated as he tried and failed to hustle his way to the door of his shitty little studio, the company of roaches increasingly seeming the better option.

The grassy tang of freshly cut tulips assaulted him suddenly. Trails of plump bumblebees drew his eyes to the slapdash little cart selling enormous bouquets of all kinds- roses, daffodils, great big bushels of unnamable windflowers...hell, even fully grown sunflowers still on the stalk. He turned away, vaguely uncomfortable, almost embarrased that his attention had so easily been stolen. He noticed a big space opening up in the middle of the crowd, and he could make out...kids? Yeah, kids-- running, playing, drawing in the middle of the street with chalk, blowing dishsoap bubbles into the waning sunlight. Then he heard the music coming softly from a crusty old speaker further down the way, and over it a voice was thanking everyone for all their time and effort.

A street fair? In this part of town? Where the pimps had pimps and the rats shared needles? But there it was, little stalls scrapped together from old pallets lining the sidewalks, each selling or giving something away for the sake of giving. A worn looking woman who'd set up near his door was handing out suncatchers made from cut-up soda bottles and glitter glue. She gave him a syrupy smile, then caught herself as if surprised by it. As his feet fought him on his way to the door, Orson heard someone calling him.

"Glad we picked today to visit," his brother Milton said, stony politeness balanced by his wife Ayla's easy warmth. Milton Caldwell, of Walsh & Caldwell, was everything Orson was not. Favored son. Academic wunderkind. Accomplished professional. Filthy rich. Milton was a lot of things, but frivolous was not one of them. He knew his brother had come for a talk, one of many they'd had about Orson's future, the choices he was making, etc., and frankly he was sick of it. All his brother ever did was remind him how every choice he made was wrong. But today, Milton surprised him.

"Hungry?" he simply asked. Orson Nodded. The tacos they got were cold and somehow slimy, but he ate. It was warm, but a breeze had kicked up that made the streamers strung zigzag overhead bounce with a lazy rhythm. Ayla had been chit-chatting with him about favorite books. He half-assed a joke, and Milton laughed. So did he. A feeling was welling up from deep within him, one he couldn't quite name. He took in a long breath, smelling the flowers again, and let it out slowly.

He almost didn't notice the commotion suddenly erupting a moment later. To his great surprise, flames were quickly spreading from what looked like the remains of the taco stand's geriatric propane cannister. The entire structure was quickly eaten up, and before he could even process it his body was forcing him toward the smoke and the shouting. People shoved past eachother, knocking one another over as they tried to escape the spiking heat. He saw the soda bottle lady go down, and he fought his way through to her, pulling her to her feet and settling her on a curb some ways away. Her hands and elbows were badly scraped, but she seemed mostly alright. She cried in his arms, letting him hold her as Ayla jogged over with some clean napkins. He heard Milton behind him, and found him on hold with 911.

"Yes, I'll stay on the line," Milton said distantly, his usual mask of professionalism now red-cheeked and scattered. Orson looked up at him, Milton's eyes locking with his. Orson felt his throat clench up, and he went fishing for something in his pocket.

"Here," Orson said. He was holding the watch. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Milton said, and pushed his hand back, smiling. "Keep it."