The drought of gossip ended today.

Edna had stayed in the building since the fire for something like 36 hours; she was too busy. She strolled the halls, with the murmurs of worried voices, crying women and dogs, and the yelps of the same ol' crack addicts. She tried to piece it together, the super was counting on her.

No, not counting on her, forcing her - blackmailing her. He had told her that someone had died, and it hadn't been an accident.

"Now figure this shit out before tenets stop moving in."

Sure, people had died in this neighborhood. Plenty of blood had been spilt. But it had never been due to an outside conspirator, or at least that's what she had pieced together so far.

So now Edna made her way through the halls, weaving between the leaking pipes, peeling wallpaper, and other damages she was meant to fix. She had other things to fix. People were talking again, but no one was really saying anything.

What she has gathered so far:

- The paper said it was the librarian.

- No one really cared.

This town was a shit hole, and Edna was just a pawn. She had no goals, no values, no morality. She was a human recorder. Clearly, no one in this town actually cared for the people. She had heard the librarian had not died quietly, but Edna knew she would die in silence, and soon, her secrets overwhelming any original thought.

She was trying to make her way to the rooftop.

The streets were a mess; everyone, the drunk homeless, the firefighters, the owners of every shop in town were shuffling around screaming. No one could move more than an inch in a minute. The flames reflected in every single person's eyes back at me.

Edna had been at the library, reading up on her suspicions of the man on the roof. She had gone in partially blind, hoping the sucker of a librarian wouldn't question her motives, searching and searching through the stacks for any glimpse of the word. She thought nothing of the questionable noises she heard outside - breaking glass, screams - the men in the alley supplied enough similar noises everyday to numb her to them.

After a few hours of fruitless search, she made her way back onto the streets to find the chaos. She hardly recognized the street. The prostitutes, normally posted up hollering for business, were drunkenly writhing under the flash of tourist's camera (why there were tourists? - that was the last thing on her mind.) The screams she had heard had seemed harmless; now the sheer volume made her cover her ears. Everything, the fire hydrants, the broken storefronts, the broken people, glowed in the blazing night.

As she walked, or harassed, her way towards her home, her eyes remained focused on Wilshire Tower. She had too much on her mind to process the fires, the alcohol, the fucking crazy people. She had to get to the roof.

Edna squeezed through the crowd, smashing on broken bottles left by fleeing idiots. At one point, her foot landed on something soft, not glass-like. There was blood covering his face, his eyes were shut, and there was a strangle pleasant expression written on his face. This town could care less about the ones it killed, she thought, as her finally made her way to her front door, I could care less about the ones I killed. She needed the roof; she knew he'd be there.

She rode the elevator anxiously, staring wistfully at the ceiling, imagining the object of her curious desire resting on the building's edge, staring. She didn't love him; this wasn't a normal emotion. She was transfixed by his power.

Edna slowly pried the door open and stared.

"I know who you are," she said carefully, as not to reveal to much.

"I know."

Oh hell. "I know what you are," Edna blurted. If she was wrong, she was probably dead. If she was right... she was probably dead. But she walked forward, unaware of what was to happen next.

Edna went looking for sympathy.

Her eye had healed slightly from her fall the other day, but there was definitely bruising that should concern someone. What if she was bleeding into her brain? What if the fall had bursted an aneurysm? At the very least, she thought she should get some time off from the super. She made her way down to his apartment and knocked on the door. It took him forever to turn the doorknob, and when it opened, his figured clouded the door. He was hunched, pale, and wouldn't look her in the eye. He looked like he'd seen a ghost. His frightened and distraught eyes confused Edna. She hadn't told him anything yet. All of her secrets were safe, they couldn't have been what messed him up. Frankly, Edna knew, they would fuck her up like he looked if she let them. So no, that wasn't it.

"What," he croaked hoarsely. She was observant enough to recognize that this wasn't the time for sympathy, at least from him. "Get to work; I haven't heard anything in days," he spat. "I don't want you leaving this building 'til you figure out what all is going on in this shit hole." The door slammed in her face.

Well, so much for that.

So, she began her rounds. She started at the first floor, saw nothing but dust mites and heard nothing but the rap of her own feet on the concrete floors. On the second floor, again only dust, but this time she heard something coming from the floor above. The thud of her sneakers now competed with the fierce clacks of stilettos radiating from floor 3. Oh shit, Edna thought, Courtney Red. Finally out of her room.

Edna stepped back onto the elevator to find that Braxton kid (her head had been clear enough one day to finally comprehend him) standing anxiously by the buttons. He jumped when her weight shifted the platform slightly, almost as if he was expecting it to fall. Maybe it was this head injury, but Edna suddenly felt compelled to pay attention to this kid in his oversize suit. Something was different about him today. But right as she was about to open her mouth to comment, the chime sounded and doors opened, and a tall, haughty woman with red stiletto boots walked on.

"Oh, Edna!" she exclaimed. "Heard anything interesting lately?"

Now Edna didn't know whether this woman actually knew about her secret job and was trying to pilfer stories, or was just way too cheery and oblivious to understand what was going on around her, but Edna hated her. There weren't many people, other than her parents, that she could label with "hate," but this woman was one of them. She was uppity, annoying, and seemed to have no clue that she was living in a pit of despair.

Edna made some inaudible noises in response, averted her eyes, and rode to the roof just to assure she would not be headed in the same direction as Red. When the approached the roof exit door, abundant sunshine poured through the small barred window; she intended to sit out for a while. After all, the last couple times she'd been out here had been at night, and for very different reasons. A grin slid across her face. She pulled at the door. It was locked.

"Oh no." The thought flicked on in her mind and Day's sullen face accompanied it.

There was something poking in her arm. She grasped at it without opening her eyes, and felt... a small tube?

When her eyes flicked open, she was blinded by the fluorescence, and her memory immediately flashed back to yesterday. It was yesterday, right? She was lying in a hospital bed and her head was throbbing. Before she had a chance to gather her bearings, a decrepit-looking nurse screamed at her. "GOOD, you're up! It's time to get the hell out of here." She stood over Edna, rapping her pen on the bed frame, staring. "No insurance, no doctors, no bed," the nurse rattled off as she pulled out the IV puncturing her arm.

Hardly conscious, Edna crawled out of the bed and walked through the swinging doors and back out on to the street. She stood there for what seemed like hours, trying to figure out where she was, what had happened, and how she looked - a ratty-clothed woman with a huge bloody bandage over one eye swaying with the wind.

She studied her arms, which were slightly scratched but not much worse for wear. A loose white armband hung around her right wrist. "Edna J. Nox, Age 19." Edna. She had hated her name from the first time it left her mouth as a toddler. E-d-n-a. Images of horribly-aged women in nursing homes clouded her mind. Her damn name had been the first glance into her lifetime of spite towards her parents. It was always the little things. On her birthday, she asked for red shoes and got blue. They packed her a PB&J every day in elementary school; jelly made her cringe. As Edna got older, the disconnect between her parents only grew. The night after her 18th birthday, she slipped away on a Greyhound.

A few miles down the road, she finally glanced the overpass that signaled the entrance into her little shanty of a town. As she made her way down Katz, a single white feather flew past her head. It looked like a chicken feather, but that made absolutely no sense. Was she hallucinating?

As Edna walked back through the foyer at Wilshire Tower and rode the elevator back to the 12th floor, she expected glances. She spent her working days trying to stay hidden and out of the way; the lack of attention was getting to her. Surely, she thought, someone cared she was a ratty bloody mess. But no one even turned their head as she shuffled by, grasping her bandage. She entered her room intending to change, but soon realized that her only last clean shirt was on her, caked with blood and shredding. Maybe, she hoped as she gathered her clothes and headed to the laundromat, someone on the street would have enough decency to wonder.

So Edna walked up the alley and crossed over the basketball court to reach the laundromat. She took no notice when her sneaker stepped down upon a slowly fading stain on the blacktop. She reached the front door, only to pull fruitlessly. She knew that woman is always here, that asian-looking one. Oh well, she'd have to wait. She knew all hope for attention was lost, however, when she slunk down against the laundromat's window, and immediately blended in with all of the other homeless miscreants in this town with no one who cared.

Those damn carnies are ruining her business. She doesn't tell the superintendent anything - she doesn't get paid. And she needs to get paid. The pathetic residents of Wilshire Tower would apparently much rather carp on about their problems to a money-wrangling psychic than their blaring TVs and peeling wallpaper. She wandered through the halls and heard nothing but faint tunes humming from the flashing carnival down the street, and decided she'd try again in the morning.

As she exited the front door, the glaring sunlight temporarily blinded her, then permanently hid back behind the onslaught of approaching clouds. She glanced around, and noticed that same damn cop standing on the corner, staring angrily at a bus as it pulled away. There was probably a 90% chance he wouldn't recognize her, she figured. He fell into the 10% that day, and started calling after her. What a goddamn memory.

"Hey, you!"

She took off running. Might as well check out this carnival while she was at it.

But she couldn't go straight down the street. She saw that man with his animal mask standing in front of that old library. He always stared at her with the most uncomfortable intensity. Maybe he knew her secrets. No, it was a detour for Edna.

And hey, she'd give that damn cop a workout for his gut.

Hah, she sighed and turned up the alley as it began to pour.

As she hopped off the trodden path and onto the basketball court, her shoes began to slither on the increasingly wet pavement. Her face smacked flat on the pavement, and everything went black.

When her microwave stopped humming, she knew she was in trouble.

The onslaught of sudden darkness always causes problems in this building. Everyone is screwed up enough without the monthly blackout, robbing the halls with whatever light seeps through from the dilapidated street lamps outside. She normally waits it out, burrows within her sheets, and tries to elude the sounds of cracked-out residents screaming bloody murder. Normally, it works. Her broken window is rarely a problem. Tonight, however, the flimsy sheet of Saran-wrap covering the holes was easily perforated by the throbbing hail. She had to move.

She ventured down the twelve flights of stairs.

Below her lived her current interest. The information she had quietly gathered over the last year or so proved to be her only entertainment. She tended to hang a little closer to the broken doorknobs of tenants with domestic problems or loud phone voices. But she had never heard anything about him, nor from him. She broke into his apartment one day and broke his heat, hoping he would complain to her boss. She stole the "2" from his apartment number, one of his apparent fascinations (1123?), expecting him to request her. He never did. She pressed her ear up to his door tonight, but heard no noises from within.

A few floors down, that damn little kid (Brayton? Satan? She never listened when he told her) stood by the elevator doors. He always asked her questions about her life; she was always silent. She rushed past this doorway, hoping he wouldn't catch a glimpse of her scurrying past, and headed for the street to poach her daily pack of gum.

She's spent her life running.

Everyday she evades the cop chasing her. She doubts he'll ever catch her; she doubts he even gives a shit. There's plenty more for him to deal with than a 19 year old girl stealing a box of gum everyday.

She stands at street corners.

She passes judgment at the hookers; they epitomize desperation daily. Hell, not that her living is much more honest. Her insecurities taint the 5 cents she earns from every piece of gum. But it's how she pays her rent.

That, and working for the superintendent.

She's known as the repair woman, but she fumbles with the wrench. No, the superintendent hired her as a pair of ears. Every night she hides beneath her mangy blue jumpsuit, riding the elevator, walking the halls, and listening to every useless morsel of quiet conversation. She tells the superintendent each word. Except if it's interesting. Those stories she hides behind her broken bed frame, broken dresser, and broken thoughts.