The landscape of Sarkosa isn't barren by any means, but it's made up of similar shades of hunter green and dusty brown repeated over and over in cacti, succulents, and spiny bushes. All the plants, spare the odd tree or patch of scraggly grass, look like they'd kill a man if he accidentally tripped into one. Spiny. Armored. A danger to all who come in contact with them. Namjoon can relate.

He stands in the threshold of his front door, propping the screen door open with one sneaker.

He's going on a walk.

The Neighbor is nowhere in sight (he checked twice) and there's no other movement disturbing the lazy heat that could probably fry an egg on the concrete. He's half-tempted to try, but the fridge is disappointingly lacking in eggs.

When the landlord drove Namjoon to the house for the first and last showing of the day, he was too busy pretending to be normal to pay much attention to the neighborhood. Now that he's established, it's time to get the lay of the land.

Or it would be, but Namjoon’s having trouble getting out of the house. Like literally physically forcing his stupid legs to take the final step onto the porch, then continue down the sidewalk. The main problem here is that people will able to see him and he'll have little to no control over it. This isn't home turf anymore, and he's not on top.

The air-conditioning is escaping in icy bellows against his calves while sweat beads on his upper lip and hairline. He has to make a decision if only to spare his wallet from the upcoming electric bill. A third check proves that without a doubt, The Neighbor is tucked away in his house or doing whatever it is that people do early on a Thursday afternoon in the near-desert. It's unlikely he's on a walk with that bad leg.

Rolling his eyes self-deprecatingly, Namjoon makes sure his key is in his pocket, steps onto the porch, and closes the door behind him. He's dressed in what he tries not to think of as his normal person disguise: jean shorts and the powder-blue kitten shirt.

The sun is beating down like it holds a grudge as he begins to walk mechanically, forcefully down the three steps, across the corner of the yard, which is made up of rocks and sharp-leafed bushes, and along the sidewalk gently curving into the distance.

Unable to contain his curiosity, Namjoon covertly stares at The Neighbor's house as he passes by. It’s quiet and still. White, opaque curtains obscure the interior of the living room. He’s not sure why he wishes he could see inside.

To his horror, he’s still staring when the gauzy curtain flicks to the side and a knowing eye looks through the gap.

Startled, Namjoon whips his head around and hurries on, not knowing if the judgmental eyes are burning into his back. His face is hot with embarrassment, shame and the 100˚F heat. The Neighbor is none of his business and they don’t deserve to have a person like him creeping on them.

Again, he makes himself promise that he’ll keep to himself and not bother anyone.

With no music and no company to distract him, Namjoon inspects the houses as he strolls by. When his landlord, Mr. Park, initially drove him through the neighborhood, Namjoon’s only impression was that all the houses looked the same. Some, like his, were shabbier than others, but they were all old, squat, and box-like. Now, given the chance to inspect them at a walking pace, the differences and peculiarities slowly emerge like shy animals pleased with the attention.

This particular house is pale pink, like a conch shell scoured by the ocean, with a bay window protruding from the right side. The house at the end of the block is sporting a square of aggressively healthy grass that glows like crushed emeralds in the sun. It's a wonder it grows that well in such an arid, stifling environment. The owners must have a lot of love and money to coax the little patch of green to life.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he wonders what people will think of his house when they walk by. They'll notice the lack of curtains and see straight to the blank, empty walls. They won't see a couch or a family spending time together in the living room. There isn't any grass, and far from being white, the painted siding is grayish orange with dust and dirt like a craggy, sad face.

He's not sure what he wants them to see instead. Scrubbing the siding seems pointless, and grass is out of the question. Curtains are probably the first order of business. He can't remember if Mr. Park said anything about painting the walls. Well, how about he paints them anyway? Something other than white...or red. Maybe a nice navy blue. Orange? Nah, too eye-searing. He'll have to think on it.

When the street ends, Namjoon picks a random direction and keeps walking, not sure where he'll end up.

"This is weird," he says aloud.

Weird that no one is looking at him or telling him what to do or waiting for him to tell them what to do. Weird that he's all alone. Nice, though.

After six or seven turns, Namjoon is wishing he was smart enough to bring a bottle of water and he's not quite sure how to get back home. He dawdles on the corner of the next block and glances up at the street signs, vaguely miffed that none of the names sound the least bit familiar. Should he turn back and try to find his street or carry on into the maze of almost-suburban housing, possibly to die amongst the tidy, square dwellings, with their cacti, rocks, and spiny bushes? Would his body fit in with the gleaming cars, basketball hoops, and bicycles abandoned on the front sidewalk?

No better time to find out.

Namjoon takes another left and walks and walks until he's half certain his feet have taken him in a wobbly, oblong, circle and the familiar shabby white house will be just around the next corner.

It's not. 

Instead, he's pleasantly surprised to see a low, sprawling brick building and a neat little park rise from a break in the houses. At first it makes no sense, but he quickly realizes it's got to be a middle or elementary school.

The park is empty, which he doesn't expect considering it's early afternoon.

No, it makes sense after all. It's summer break.

Before he's aware of it, he's crossed the street on a direct course for the park equipment. Four black swings hang limply from their chains, wilted and still in the heat. It's been a long time since he last played on a playground, more than fifteen years. He doesn't have any siblings, so no nieces or nephews to take out on a balmy spring day and exhaust themselves playing tag or tackling each other down the slides.

As always, he keeps a vigilant eye out. If there happen to be any children, he'll keep walking past as if that's been his intention all along. If the place is empty, he's got his sights set on those damn swings.

Within a few minutes, his tennis shoes crunch through the gravel of the playground. Three feet in and he's already got a sharp rock wedged in his shoe, stabbing the sole of his foot with every step. Namjoon just kicks it to the toe of his shoe and keeps walking, enjoying the way the gravel shifts underfoot. It's a bit like walking on the beach, something else he hasn't done in too long.

Stupidly, perhaps, he stands in front of the swing for a sweltering minute. His shins are sweating, it's so hot. Wiping his hands on his khaki shorts, Namjoon carefully arranges himself in the swing and sinks into the flexible plastic seat. It's just wide enough that the chains don't pinch his hips and the black seat is so hot from the sun that he can feel the warmth instantly seep through his shorts. When his tongue swipes his lip it's salty and the chains are on just this side of too hot to grab.

Settling his hands in his lap for now, Namjoon gently kicks his legs back and forth to gain some momentum. Despite not having touched a swing in more than fifteen years, the effective childhood technique comes back like it never left. Everyone knows how to swing, Namjoon included. That's at least one way he's as unremarkable as everyone else.

In no time, he's flying back and forth, smiling at the wobbly, curling sensation that overtakes his stomach at the top of the arc. He had to grab the chains or risk falling off entirely and, after a bit, the heat of the metal has ramped down from "a hot stove" to "a steering wheel that's been sitting in the sun." The sky is immense in this deserted desert city, stretching away and around the earth in a fiercely blue dome. Namjoon trains his eyes on it and doesn't let go, swinging back and forth, back and forth. Sweat gathers on his lower back and trickles down until it hits the top of his shorts and soaks in.

Awkwardly, he realizes he might start crying. All the pressure in his head is draining toward his eyes, which are prickling painfully.

There are worse things to be than a grown man crying at a public park (he knows quite a few off the top of his head), and he can almost let himself go there except that while he's been lost, someone snuck up on him. Multiple someones. There's a loud chatter of young voices approaching his position at a concerning speed.

Blinking rapidly, Namjoon drags his stare away from the sky and down to the gravel and grass. Two girls, probably about seven or eight, are streaking toward the swings, whooping and hollering while a man in his late 20s is trailing behind with his hands in his pockets.

Losing some of his momentum, Namjoon watches them approach while trying not to look like he's watching. He hates how suddenly self-conscious he's become. An adult hanging out by himself in the park is weird. Like "I'm looking for children to abduct" weird.

Before he can come to a stop and beat a hasty retreat, the girls are already upon him.

"Hi!" the first one chirps, completely unafraid and unselfconscious. She plops onto the swing next to Namjoon and immediately starts pumping her legs to get going.

The second girl claims the far swing, but yells over to Namjoon. "I hope you don't mind if we swing with you!" She's already about six feet in the air, whooshing past at high speeds.

It's only when Namjoon comes to a stop, shoes filled with gravel, that he realizes the two kids look exactly the same. Identical twin sisters, it seems. They're enthusiastic and bright, hollering at each other and competing to see who can go higher as the fabrics of their matching dresses flap madly in the sudden pull of wind.

"They're my kids, my only kids. They're only six years old, please, please no..."

Namjoon shakes his head once, sharply, and stands.

"Don't let them scare you away," a voice says, badly startling Namjoon and shredding the ghosts in his head. His hand snaps to grab the holster tucked beneath his arm, but there's only empty air. Awkwardly returning his hand to his lap, he reluctantly makes eye contact with the man who's accompanying the girls. 

With tousled, dark hair, a long face, and a slightly smaller stature than Namjoon, he's goofy, but attractive, and only a bit young to have two eight year old daughters.

When Namjoon's finally able to wrestle his mind back to the other man's comments, can hardly remember how to respond. "Uh, it's no problem," he says quietly and steps away from the swing. Walking away is the smart thing to do, but before he takes another step, the man introduces himself.

"Hoseok," he says, holding out a confident hand.

Namjoon grasps it automatically and they shake once, firmly.

"Namjoon."

And damn but he hasn't been able to get rid of his businessman habits. Hell. So what if he just gave out his real name and it doesn't match any of the documentation or identification he's used in this town? Not like Hoseok is going to check his driver's license to prove his identity. He doesn’t have a driver's license in the first place.

But Hoseok just says, "Nice to meet you," and gestures to a wooden bench off to the side like he wants Namjoon to stick around for a while and chat. The dark-haired man's clearly at ease with himself and gives the shrieking girls a little wave, which they bravely let go of the chains to return.

Namjoon crunches through the gravel after him, wondering if all the rocks will ever come out of his shoes. He hasn't "chatted" with someone in quite a while and is worried the ability's escaped him entirely.

They settle into parched, sun-bleached wood that's been rubbed down to silk-like smoothness from the touch of many hands and backsides.

"You're new in the neighborhood?" Hoseok asks.

It's obvious Hoseok already knows the answer to that question, but he probably doesn't want to sound too nosy. 

Namjoon nods. "I moved onto Saguaro Avenue last week." Either Hoseok keeps tabs on all the residents within a mile radius of his house or he saw Namjoon move in, which would mean they live on the same street. Immediately, he thinks of The Neighbor, but he's never seen anyone else coming or going from that house. Not that he's been looking.

"Oh, so do I," Hoseok replies. "Maybe we're neighbors." His eyes check on the girls often. In the short time they've been talking, the twins already abandoned the swings and are now attempting to run up the longest slide in the park at the same time, shoving each other as they slide back down.

Namjoon shrugs a little. "We could be. I haven't met my neighbors. I, uh, don't get out much."

Hoseok chuckles. "I don't blame you staying where there's air conditioning and a humidifier. These devils drag me out of the house and run me in circles 'til I think I'm about to pass out from sunstroke every time they come over."

"Your kids seem really...energetic," Namjoon says. He isn't sure how to compliment them without being weird.

Hoseok outright laughs, shooting a big grin at Namjoon. "As much as I love them, they're my nieces and that's how I like it. They'd probably kill me if I had them 24/7. You haven't even heard the word troublemaker 'til the pair of them are off in the corner, plotting."

"Sounds like fun," Namjoon muses. He doesn’t intend to have kids and grew up an only child. Yoongi was the closest he had to a kid brother, but their relationship was too stiff and fraught with formality, ambition, and skill for either of them to truly let their guard down.

The conversation's come this far and he hasn't ed it up, which means it's time to exit stage left before everything crashes and burns. Namjoon stands and wipes his hands on his pants again. Hoseok is looking up at him, smiling faintly.

"It was nice to meet you," Namjoon says, and he means it. There's something easy about Hoseok. He's got these quick, measuring eyes that have to be picking up more than he lets on, but miraculously, he doesn't bring any of it up. That's Namjoon's favorite trait in people right about now. For a split second, he considers how Hoseok would be in the organization, at the compound. A lighthearted demeanor and even lighter hands, he'd excel as a negotiator, probably, or an enforcer if he didn't mind getting his hands too dirty. Smoother than Yoongi, and probably quicker on the uptake, though Yoongi had a stubborn streak a mile wide that made him damn near impossible to stop.

Deftly shutting down that line of thought, Namjoon looks up at the sky again. The twins' chirpy laughter sounds distant and the sun is so damn hot.

Hoseok's standing too. He holds out his hand again. "Same to you. I'm sure we'll see each other around the neighborhood. Don't be a stranger."

They shake hands for a second time and with a final, parting nod, Namjoon wanders away.

Don't be a stranger, huh?

On the contrary, he's getting stranger and stranger with every passing minute.