It's late in the afternoon when the mountains even out and the Interstate Exits every few miles begin growing—more hotels, more shops, more real, sit-down restaurants appear with each passed. Everything seems crowded, from the streets to the parking lots, and they know they're getting close to their next big stop. For some, it will be their final destination on the trip, but, for others, the place is just another exciting place to rest.

They've been travelling nearly ten hours when they finally take their last break before pulling into the new city. The driver announces that they'll be entering Chicago within the next two hours, and a quiet chorus of relieved, exhausted cheers wave through the group they've managed to accumulate since departing New York. Luffy whoops the loudest—Zoro rolls his eyes. As the bus pulls into the large station on the outskirts of the sprawling, windy metropolis, however, he lets himself take a deep breath. This is it—this is the start of his new life.

He stands, stretching as the scrawny black-haired kid bounces on his knees in the seat in front of him, excited to finally stretch his legs. Zoro wonders idly if he'll bolt the minute the doors open; if he'll sprint through the sidewalks without even bothering to get his luggage.

After their first conversation had gone off in what Luffy must have taken as a success, the boy barely stopped chattering for the better part of a few hours, hardly pausing a moment between stories and topics to let Zoro get a word in edgewise. Eventually, he had stopped listening and slipped his earbuds back in, simply content to watch his animated expressions shift with each word. Luffy didn't seem to mind whether or not he was paying attention, and Zoro suspected that he had just needed an excuse to keep himself entertained with the sound of his own voice. No one else complained, but he could see a few of the other passengers eyeing them from time to time, either listing to one of the kid's tales or silently wishing he would shut up.

Luffy remained unfazed, and, after several hours of what could only have been mindless rambling, had dozed off with his chin still on the headrest.

Not wanting to stare at the kid's sleeping face for however long he stayed unconscious, Zoro had pushed him over to the side, flopping the boy down on his own backpack out of view. He would be more comfortable in that position, anyway. Not that he cared.

Now, as Zoro steps into the cool, Illinois air, however, he realizes he has no idea whether the boy will be staying or not. Most of the other travelers will be ending their journey here, but the country still goes on for two thousand miles to the west. It's not as though he and Luffy will ever see each other again, he decides—so, really, it doesn't matter.

Pushing the thoughts from his head, he plants his feet firmly on the ground and stares in either direction down the sidewalk, basking in the familiar shade offered my towering buildings. The city is so much like his own, but still so different in its own way. A welcome change.

This is the beginning—a clean slate. He has come with no goal other than a fresh start, and no plan other than to settle in to the best of his ability. Over the years, he had saved up quite a sum of money, but it won't last forever—and, at some point, he'll have to find himself a new apartment. But the best place to begin is forward, so he puts one foot in front of the other and steps, not looking back.

[break]

He wanders for a while, drinking in the sights and sounds of the bustling Northern civilization as the sky darkens. Eventually, he circles back around to the outer ring of the place, and hones in on a cheap motel with more than its fare share of vacant rooms. He checks in, unsurprised when the glassy-eyed receptionist doesn't comment on his name or request to pay in cash. She's used to not asking questions—it's not her business to care, so long as she gets paid.

Sleeping situation handled, Zoro ventures back out onto the streets. The sun has gone down, now, but the neon lights and flickering lamps brighten the world to the point where night is just another five-letter word, not a time. His stomach growls, and he shuffles along toward the dimmer alleys and backstreets in search of food. He can't afford most of the places near the main street, and a meal is a meal, no matter where it comes from.

After some time, a hole-in-the-wall corner deli beckons him inside with the promise of freshly-cut meat and low prices, so he slips inside and orders the cheapest thing on the menu, thankful that the portions are big and the atmosphere is quiet. It's not an empty place, by any means, but everyone minds their own business well enough. At the counter, he picks up a copy of the local newspaper—the issue is already a few days old, but he doesn't mind. Job offers are never known to fill up quickly, no matter the state of the national economy, and he flips idly to the classifieds section as he munches.

He's nearly finished with his meal when a shout sounds from outside, and he glances up toward the glass storefront. This is the city-noise resounds aplenty through the backstreets—but after a day of peace and quiet on the road, he's not quite used to the racket just yet. A few other patrons look up for a moment, but most don't pay any mind to the sound. It's probably nothing.

A moment later, Zoro is up and throwing his trash away, paper in hand and ready to make his way back to the motel for the evening. Three steps onto the sidewalk, however, he realizes what the commotion was—and still is—about. Around the front of the little deli is a covered city bus stop. It's one of those plastic-domed things with advertisement posters on either side and a less-than-comfortable bench for the unlucky passengers who have to wait a while for their ride. And, sitting cross-legged atop the whole thing, is a boy, gazing up through the lens of a camera at the twinkling lights of skyscraper windows against the night sky. There are two men below, trying to get him to come down before they call the police or he gets himself hurt, but he isn't paying attention to either of them.

It takes Zoro a moment to recognize the faded T-shirt in the yellow-tinted glow of Chicago's nightlife, but, when he does, he can't help the incredulous "Luffy?" that falls from his lips when he does. At his name, the boy finally turns around, blinking down at the sparse crowd of curious onlookers and passerby scurrying around his perch. When he sees Zoro, however, he grins, raising one hand in a frantic wave.

"Hey!" He calls, beaming, and one of the men turns to Zoro with a glare.

"You know this kid?"

"...No, not really." Because he doesn't—the boy is just some kid he met on a bus. Nothing special.

"Whatever. Just get him down, 'fore the cops show up for him distrurbin' public property or somethin'. The last thing we need 'round here are police." Zoro doesn't comment, but shrugs noncommittally and turns back to the boy on the bus stop.

Luffy, however, is already scrambling to the edge, camera strap around his neck and backpack in one hand. He drops ten feet to the ground with ease, landing in a crouch before bounding over to Zoro's side, smile still in place. Zoro raises an eyebrow at him, and gives a shrug in greeting. "...Do I want to know?" He doesn't, not really—but he has the feeling he's going to be told, anyway.

"I was taking some pictures!"

"No shit." Zoro doesn't ask for an explanation, already anticipating the inevitable ramble.

"—And the best places to get shots like that are from high up, you know? But it's hard to get up into the buildings, so you just kind of have to make due. The higher up you are, the less glare you get from the street lamps and stuff. I like sitting on the lights best, but the stop was right there and it was perfect and—"

Zoro shoves both hands in his pockets, and starts back in the direction of his motel, not caring much if the kid follows but aware that he will. When they stop outside the building entrance and Luffy still hasn't quieted, however, Zoro isn't quite sure what to do.

"Well, this is my stop," he interrupts gruffly, crossing his arms. Luffy blinks again, pausing mid-sentence with a hum.

"I should probably find a place to sleep, too, I guess," He nods, slipping his camera back into his backpack. There's a pause, and the boy looks in either direction back down the sidewalk. It occurs to Zoro, then, that this kid might be just as alone as he, but neither says anything on the matter. If he doesn't ask for help, Zoro won't give it. With another smile, Luffy shrugs. "Maybe I'll see you around or something!" And, without waiting for an answer, he turns around and wanders off into the night, a skip in his step as he tries to hop over cracks in the old, crumbling sidewalk.

[break]

The next morning, Zoro wakes up before the sun, jerked out of sleep by a few questionable noises right up against the wall of the room next door. He doesn't have the energy to walk over and confront the tenant, so he settles for pounding a few times on the wallpaper above his headboard. Nothing happens, so he slumps back down and burrows into the scratchy motel sheets in some vain attempt to muffle the sounds.

Eventually, he dozes off again, but not for long, and soon his cell phone alarm is buzzing on the bedside table, screaming that it's time to wake up and do something productive with the day. Zoro disagrees, but crawls out of bed, anyway.

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, he splashes some water on his face, thinking of his next move. It's a new morning in a new city—the first official day of the rest of his life. Might as well get into some good habits while the slate's still clean, and getting to know the city while it's still under the sun isn't such a bad idea, either. So, he grabs the same ratty sneakers he's worn for the past three days and slips on a pair of loose shorts—one of the three pairs he'd managed to stuff into his backpack before leaving New York—and stretches for a bit, before jogging down to the lobby and out the door.

It's raining.

Perhaps, he thinks, shorts weren't the best idea. He makes due, though, and tugs the hood of his sweatshirt snug over his head, glad he doesn't have anything worth worrying about in the sure case that his pack is soaked straight through. The list from yesterday's paper is crumpled and torn in his pocket, and as he splashes quickly through puddles gathered in the uneven sidewalk concrete he wonders if he should have picked a destination before setting out into a place where a single glance could ruin the thin scrap of (what might be, but probably isn't) his hope for continued survival.

Instead of taking that risk, he resigns himself to walking for a while until he comes to someplace relatively dry. Here, the awnings outside passing shop doors are old, riddled with holes and not good for much more than scattered shade on bright days. Still unused to the land's lay, he wanders, weaving between buildings and across streets still busy despite the roaring downpour. There is no joy here, he thinks. At least not today. Rushing passerby push past him, those not in coats holding dark umbrellas and folders and the occasional briefcase over their heads in a futile effort to keep their faces dry. The surrounding structures, large enough to block out the sun, do nothing to stop the storm.

Eventually, he comes across what may have at one time been a park, but with the passage of time and a lack of consistent care has become an overgrown mess, a forgotten forest in the midst of crumbling apartments and questionable marketplaces. It's surrounded on all sides, from what he can tell, by an ancient, rusted barbed-wire fence, bent in most places at the hands of drug-dealing kids and shrubs that tower over the top, and completely collapsed in others. Weeds have taken over the grass, spilling out onto the sidewalk and forcing their way up through the concrete cracks, and the it's almost impossible to see anything inside other than the thick tops of rain-weighted trees. As he passes, he sees a flash of color through the dim haze of the storm, and decides to move faster. This is the kind of place where, shielded from the streets, bad things happen.

Suddenly, the fence shakes, and he almost (almost but not quite) jumps.

"Zoro!"

He freezes, nearly tripping over an uneven patch in the sidewalk, and there he is. Pressed up against the metal and having somehow halfway to the top, the kid is staring at him with wide eyes and that same stupid grin.

"What the fuck?"

Instead of replying, Luffy just laughs. Like him, the kid is wearing nothing more than a pair of ragged jeans a sweatshirt sporting a bulge the perfect outline of a camera pressed against the fabric, but he doesn't have his hood up, leaving his dark hair drenched and dripping, tangled with leaves and grass.

They stare at each other for an eternity, one too shocked to move and the other not having had a plan in the first place, until eventually the monkey (because that's what he looks like, he thinks—backed up against the green and gripping on the fence with his hands and feet, he gives off the kind of carefree, reckless vibe a primate in the wild might) speaks up. "I can't believe it's you!" he says, giggling again.

Against his better judgment, the other man shakes his head. He doesn't care—he really doesn't—because what that kid does it his business and has nothing to do with him. But for some reason, the universe keeps shoving together, putting them in the same place at the same time for no real reason than (probably) to torture him. But he's here now, and he's confused, and he's honestly a little curious. "Why are you in there?"

"'Cause I slept here."

"What?"

"I said 'cause I slept here," the kid says, frowning at him and speaking slow like he's too stupid to understand such a simple statement. Like it's the most reasonable answer in the world, and he doesn't get why he's thrown off by it.

"You spent the night... in there?" he replies, just as drawn out, double-checking that he'd heard right. Luffy nods. "Why?"

The kid just shrugs. "'Cause I felt like it."

"Jesus."

Luffy laughs again, grinning wide, and he sighs—because what else can he do? And then, suddenly, the kid is climbing to the top of the fence and leaping off, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet as he lands deftly on the sidewalk. "Where are you going?"

He grunts, and for a moment considers just walking away. But something about this—about their third meeting by chance, about the fact that they've somehow found each other again in this huge city—pushes him to respond. "Walking around." It's not a lie.

"Sounds fun! I'll come with you!"

And he does.