THE ABSURD STAGE
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Adilof Broxtler and Shyblance stepped out of Café at a slow, unhurried pace. The wooden door closed gently behind them, leaving behind the faint scent of coffee and firewood clinging to their clothes.
The morning streets were still calm. The air was clean, a result of the new city filtration system pushed by Lenan's administration. The sky was clear, sunlight slipping through the gaps between buildings, reflecting on last night's puddles, turning the sidewalk into a living canvas.
Shyblance walked ahead, stretching her arms up high.
"Feels like my body just realized... not every morning has to start with an alarm or hand-to-hand training."
Broxtler walked behind her, eyes scanning the surroundings—not out of suspicion, but because it was second nature. But this time, his gaze moved slower. He noticed things he usually ignored: a cat sleeping on a motorbike, a little girl laughing at a drifting balloon, a colorful mural on the wall of an old furniture shop.
Shyblance stopped and looked back.
"Hey. You're still trailing three steps behind me."
"Reflex."
"You know, in a normal life, when a guy always walks behind a girl, it means he's too shy to walk beside her."
Broxtler didn't respond right away. He stepped forward, walking beside her. But his expression looked like someone who had just stepped out of zero gravity.
Shyblance gave him a look.
"See? Not that hard, right?"
"I feel like a beta program forced into release before debugging."
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THE STREET BOOKSTORE
A few blocks later, they passed a small bookstore with a faded wooden sign that read: "The Page That Never Sleeps."
Shyblance stopped.
"Let's go in for a bit."
Broxtler raised an eyebrow.
"A bookstore?"
"Yeah. You can't live on stats and planning alone, Broxtler. Sometimes your brain needs... inefficient nutrition."
They entered.
The inside was a drastic shift from the outside. Quiet. Wooden walls lined with shelves packed with books in every language, size, and color. In the corner sat a large, worn-out sofa that still looked inviting, and a wall clock that ticked slowly, like it was reading too.
Shyblance walked along the shelves, brushing her hand across the spines of the books.
Broxtler stood still in the middle of the room.
"I have no idea where to start."
Shyblance pulled a thick black-covered book and lightly tossed it to him. He caught it.
"Title's The Man Who Never Cried. It's... basically you."
Broxtler opened the first page, read a few lines, then went quiet. Shyblance watched from behind the shelf.
"You like it?"
"The words are... too emotional. But... structured."
"Like a heart trained by the military?"
"Like me, but with a poet license."
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STREET MURALS & WILD THOUGHTS
Leaving the bookstore, they walked through a narrow alley filled with murals. One showed a face—half human, half machine.
Shyblance stared at it for a while. Broxtler stood beside her.
"You know, sometimes I think... maybe you were a cyborg. A failed assassin project who lived too long and turned into a lonely man."
Broxtler looked at the half-machine face.
"And you? Built as a weapon, but never given a manual on how to laugh."
"And now... here we are, rereading life without a manual."
They both chuckled.
"Ever thought of living like a real civilian? No HQ, no alarms, no missions?"
Broxtler was silent for a while.
"I have. But every time I try to picture it... it ends with—"
"You doing combat drills in the kitchen again?"
"Or pretending to be a paperboy with a hidden camera in his hat."
"Oh god."
"But now... that image is starting to change."
Shyblance looked at him, serious.
"Because of me?"
Broxtler stared into her eyes. Long.
"Because of us."
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TIME MOVES SLOW
Time moved slowly, as if it knew they needed this day.
A day with no rush. No data, no strategy, no bullets. Just two people slowly learning how to be... human.
As the sun began to set, Broxtler asked softly:
"Was today too normal?"
Shyblance shook her head.
"Today... was perfect. Because you finally smiled without being forced."
Broxtler shrugged.
"It was just... facial muscle chemistry."
"But your heart moved too."
They walked again. Slowly. And in all the silence of the world outside, Broxtler no longer heard the machine inside his head.
Only his breath, Shyblance's footsteps, and a world that, finally, felt at peace.
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THE POSTER THAT CHANGED THE DAY
After walking for hours, Shyblance slowed down as her eyes caught a large poster displayed on the glass wall of a small theater building:
> "OPEN STAGE NIGHT – Anyone can perform. Anyone can be a star. FREE ENTRY!"
Her face lit up like a child spotting fireworks.
> "Broxtler, listen. This... this is our chance to make an absurd memory!"
Broxtler squinted at the poster.
> "An open stage? Most likely filled with amateur acts and no quality control."
> "Exactly. And that's the point. Once in a lifetime — you, Adilof Broxtler, Mr. Coldblooded, go on stage like a clown with memory loss!"
> "I don't understand why we... should."
> "Because we can."
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INSIDE THE THEATER
They stepped into the small venue. The stage was modest, with heavy red curtains and lighting too bright for comfort. A handful of people sat relaxed in their seats — one wore pajamas, another was feeding a cat out of a tote bag.
Shyblance wasted no time signing them up.
> "Signed up under Adilof Broxtler."
> "Excuse me?!"
> "Relax. I'll be on stage with you."
> "That doesn't—"
Too late. Their names were called.
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THE PERFORMANCE
Shyblance pulled him onto the stage. The spotlight hit their faces.
The crowd roared. Someone shouted, "Yo! Cosplay couple!"
Shyblance grabbed the mic. Broxtler stood frozen like a malfunctioning statue.
> "Hi everyone! We're performing an absurd improv about a romance between a shy human and a lost alien!"
The audience whooped.
Broxtler turned slowly.
> "I'm... the alien?"
> "Ssshh! Improv!"
She dropped to one knee and began:
> "Oh Mister Alien! Why do you always walk three steps behind my heart?"
Broxtler hesitated, then raised his hand to his forehead in an alien salute.
> "Because... I detected... your pulse was unstable."
Audience: "WOOOOOO!!!"
Shyblance rolled her eyes.
> "You make me tremble like toast in a microwave!"
Broxtler blinked.
> "That's... not a functional analogy."
> "Improv, Broxtler."
He sighed and spun awkwardly like a confused ballerina.
> "I came from the galaxy of Feelings. But I fell onto your planet... and I don't want to go back."
Audience:
"LONG LIVE INTERGALACTIC LOVE!!!"
Someone threw a clown hat on stage. Shyblance picked it up and placed it gently on Broxtler's head.
> "Now you're officially the Alien of Love."
Broxtler gave her a look that screamed "You will pay for this."
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AFTER THE SHOW
Back in the audience, Shyblance couldn't stop laughing.
> "You said galaxy of Feelings! I didn't know you had that kind of brain cell!"
Broxtler took a sip of water, deadpan.
> "My emotional CPU is currently rebooting."
> "I'm proud of you. Today you weren't just a man... you were an absurd alien full of love."
He cracked a smile.
> "I feel like a rejected character from a bad teenage movie."
> "But the audience loved you. They loved... us."
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ON THE WAY HOME
They walked again through the quiet street. The sky was growing darker, streetlights flickering on one by one.
Shyblance still chuckled now and then, replaying the show in her head.
Broxtler silently reached into his jacket and tucked the clown hat deeper into his pocket.
> "Why are you keeping that?"
> "Proof. That I once... malfunctioned on purpose."
And for the first time ever...
Adilof Broxtler — the shadow, the city's silent protector — felt alive not because of a mission...
...but because he had learned to laugh at himself.
And Shyblance?
She knew then that love didn't come from flowers or sweet lines —
but from watching someone choose to be weird... with you.
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