Facing down is the perspective of the one walking, part of his peripheral blocked by his own body which is primarily clothed in dirty brown rags, a wrinkled half shirt covering his torso with the same material as the pants down to the knees, though both are covered in rips and tears exposing his rough –almost that of a rock– gray skin, his arms and legs both slender. Movement is done with his two exposed feet, wrinkled with scratches on the verge of blisters, for it alone makes contact with the rocky dirt ground, pebbles and protrusions as common as grass in a field: practically composing the floor. The footsteps are in shaky ambles, subtly lacking confident strides not due to the surface posing challenges as said challenges have been adapted to long ago, but rather there’s a sense of urgency or rather apprehension in simply being present.
From the constant influx of distant gentle chatter surrounding him, he’s clearly not alone which he reminds himself with a simple upward gaze, first aligning it straight forward in between the row of buildings along the street if that’s what it may be identified as, those buildings pretty low with only a few stories of height maximum, shaped simplistically in rectangular boxes though not all stories of one building have the same dimensions but instead some are distinct based on either having a slimmer or wider base. They are although composed of the same filthy gold dirt composite, rough like huge sand castles yet the brown tone isn’t as glamorous, the only separate material being the doors in the arched entries made not of a physical material but rather a projected red-tinted barrier, some of which are active though others aren’t. The inactive doorways allow for the passage in and out of the many occupants of the city space, those on the right side walking in the same direction as the one watching them whereas those on the left side instead walk towards, moving like a road would though there’s not a single vehicle in sight. They all dress their rough gray skin in similarly brown rags, exposed feet and hands, some taller than others though they’re all similarly slim for only a few of them even have broader bodies. The most diverse attire piece amongst most of them is the optional headpiece, as some have hoods over their heads, others wear caps or hats, but all those without a physical piece reveal their heads to be entirely bald as in fact there isn’t a single person with visible hair on their head or bodies for that matter. They at least do have familiar structures of adult couples, some of whom are joined with small groups of youths or teenagers likely being their children, though there are many who roam alone, keeping to themselves. This man seems to be one of them as he glances to both sides, nobody beside him though at least that fact provides a clearer view of his surroundings, the various gaps between buildings leading to alleys some of which have devices within them such as dark green dumpsters covered in litter most of which are empty glass containers resembling deodorant sticks, however most inhabitants don’t pay mind but instead go about their day entering and exiting open buildings.
The man’s focus lowers back down to his own body, specifically to a bag in his hands like a drawstring pouch, and while it is closed to prevent visibility of its contents, they do poke the material in the shape of objects also like deodorant sticks. Noticing the appearance of the contents, the man instinctively shakes the pouch a bit, though doing so only triggers the sound of glass bouncing off each other, only more suspicious to which he grabs the bag with his other hand for a quick silencing. He glances around to find that most others pay no attention, though there is an older woman walking alongside a young girl likely around the age of eleven, the woman casting a quick judgemental glare his way before returning her sights ahead while muttering to the child unintelligibly.
Shame blasts his face first, diverting the gaze of even letting the woman in his sight, raising it towards the sky or rather the ceiling as there are no blue firmaments, no white clouds spread across nor cyan sun beaming down. Instead, up above is just a hard ceiling made of natural rock like the ground beneath his feet, still elevated relatively high as it’s far taller than any of the buildings around even with the many stalactites hanging, many of which seem larger than the people walking underneath them. There is not a spec of natural light piercing through as all the light provided in the cavern is emitted from said cavern, various generators spread across the underground city emitting the only luminescence preventing the civilization from living in utter darkness. There are small holes in the ceiling, perhaps tunnel entries that may lead to the surface above ground, however from down below there cannot be seen any exit nor are there available devices to discover for certain. Taking in a deep breath while facing this solid ceiling entrapping the cave city as both a safeguarding shelter but simultaneously a cruel cage, the man readies to return his gaze back down, that ceiling stretching as far as the eye can see, all the way down to the rock horizon behind the many buildings ahead.
That direction is not that of the destination though, for the man turns to his right and diverges paths, passing the crowds who stop or walk around, allowing passage not along the wide gaps between buildings distinctly designed to function as streets, but rather the narrow gaps that form alleys, far more cramped for only a couple people could reasonable stand side by side whereas the street could likely allow more than ten to form a line.
Split from the sights of the many crowds of dwellers strolling along the spacious streets, passing in and out of buildings all along the road, only that man walks down that specific alley with his head low and his hand on his bag, a hood over his head somewhat ominously. Only a trio take notice of the one man strolling along down the alley, the one in the center taking a step towards.
Indeed the streets aren’t the smoothest given there were pebbles everywhere and the surface itself isn’t perfectly even but rather jagged from the natural rock, however these backstreets are far worse in that they’re covered in litter, torn up fabrics of clothing and many glassy containers whether it be deodorant sticks or jars, some of which are fractured or completely shattered in innumerous pieces that the exposed feet just have to walk over, the glass shards crunching underneath his feet though oddly enough they don’t bleed but instead the roughy texture seems to better resist penetration. It’s enough that there’s little problem with walking down the alley littered with these shards, and similarly the glass poses little hindrance to the other set of feet walking along the same path although slower, the steps oddly silent as the feet emit a gentle green mist.
Facing forward, the man walks with his arms by his side, one clutching the pouch in his hand. At a closer glance though he isn’t an adult man but instead a teenage boy perhaps around the age of fifteen or so, though the sunken nature of his cheeks and wrinkles on the face make it difficult not to overestimate the age. He faces forward with blue eyes above a frown, his rapid breaths almost as loud as the crunches beneath him, a face of embarrassment or rather guilt yet he continues forward.
Reaching an intersection in the alley, the halfway point where the backs of the four quadrantal buildings meet, the teenage boy continues past a dumpster by the corner, coming to a stop in the center of the intersection where he raises his head to gaze down the empty end of this direction before turning his head to the left then right to assess his surroundings, both lanes also devoid of loiterers.
After a sigh of relief, the teenager turns around back the direction he came and takes a few light steps, but that’s when that relieved expression shifts to horror, for he finds that unlike the other three paths, there are three inhabitants in this lane, all three of them approaching him. They’re all dressed similarly in terms of being covered in rags, all three of them wearing hoods just like him. However they are noticeably taller, seeming to be older more akin to adults if anything.
At first the teenage boy takes one step back while facing them, shocked from the perceived presences right behind him, though he doesn’t immediately register a reason to take drastic action although it is strange that green mist surrounds all their silent feet, but the three men raise their heads to reveal eerily fanatic smiles, the frontmost one asking in a creepy voice, “Got some in the bag? Show us why dun you? Just curious is all. Be a friend.”
That alone is enough for the teenager to determine the danger he was in, turning around and sprinting the other way in terror without another word, though his huffs are significantly louder in panic, trying to escape the group led by the man who reaches his hand out as a wire made of a glowing yellow material protrudes from his wrist, flinging around as he arches his arm back before throwing it forward in a grabbing motion, controlling the wire to extend fifteen feet forward to not only reach the running boy but wrap around his waist, allowing the man to yank his arm back thereby exerting a great force that pulls the boy backwards as if he was the weight of a doll. He slams into the ground only a few feet in front of the three, the wire unraveling from his body which he takes as the opportunity to get back to his feet and try running, but his shoulders are grabbed by the hands of not the man at the front but another one who managed to dash in a flinch, swinging the teenager around before throwing him straight into the side of the dumpster, knocking the boy into the metal body with a thud synchronized to a pained cry.
Back on the floor, the teenager instinctively tries to stand back up only to find himself cornered by the three men to which he lets himself fall again, scooting himself until his back is up against the dumpster, unable to run with his only option to defend himself. The man who had dashed to him smirks while taunting, “Give the sack. Listen to the adults. Come here,” before reaching for the bag in the boy’s left hand before that boy raises his right hand with an aggressive glare, shouting before his hand projects a ring of swirling blue mist, the air between it carrying a light samely colored hue, seemingly vibrating. The ring is about the size of his chest, catching the man’s reaching hand as it fails to pass through the ring.
Tilting his head back in perplexity, the man tries to push his arm deeper into the ring but finds a strange repulsive force field within it rejecting his advances. A perverse intrigue returns his smile as he pulls his arm back and mocks, “Kid can fight back. Wonder if he can-,” before the man speedily bends and reaches beneath the ring, moving at accelerated speeds enough that an afterimage is left from his standing stance and another is generated in the motion between the shift, allowing him to grab for the boy’s pouch only for the boy to instinctively kick the man’s hand with his foot.
“Augh hurts,” cries the man who pulls his arm back, to which the man in the center reaches his own hand, secreting that yellow wire from his wrist to which the boy aims his hand forward, projecting a second ring that catches the wire, freezing it inside the halo, but to that the man just leers before toying, “See how many walls he can put up. Come on,” before he pulls the wire back and throws it again concurrently as the dashing man shifts in a blink again to the side for another reach during which the third man reaches his own hand coated in the green mist, forcing the boy to hastily aim his hand to all three advances, forming another three bands though they’re notably smaller by about a half size. Noticing the immediate reduction in power, the three men continue relentlessly, the center man aiming his wire for the neck, leg, and chest one after another as the speedster constantly dashes for new positions similarly to the third man throwing his other arm before trying to kick the boy.
The boy does indeed manage to cover most openings with hoops albeit the first few fade away, struggling to maintain many of them at a time which only feeds into the three who continue their beatdown until one of the third man’s kicks isn’t blocked off, instead hitting the boy’s ribs. He groans in pain and readjusts to form another halo between him and that man, though that allows for the speedster to reach his hand out for the pouch which does miss and instead grab the face, at least missing the bag and allowing the boy to rip the hand off before forming another protective ring though that results in the depletion of one of the halos in front of him, allowing the center man to throw another wire that reaches the bag which he pulls back on, warranting an instinct from the boy to clutch onto the bag with both hands desperately as the aperture widens, enough force exerted to allow one of the contents to slip out: a deodorant stick-shaped container housing a familiar radiating teal gel-like substance, most of the container being transparent but for one of the flat butts that has a black rubbery strip. Upon witnessing that syringe fly out of his pouch for the three to see, the boy’s frantic face becomes all the more terrified, for he knows that sight would only fuel the men who do indeed smile perversely, knowing full well there are many more in that bag.
At first the boy tries to reach for the slipped stick, but his hand is forced up to project another ring shield to block another attempt to snatch the pouch with a wire before he has to block the man with the misty hand, though he isn’t able to stop the speedster from grabbing at the bag, able to tug it before the boy shrieks and knocks the elbow down, retracting the speedster’s hand but leaving his guard down for the sack itself to be kicked, the soft material of the pouch allowing the kicking foot to reach the boy’s stomach, leaving an impact given that the teenager physically recoils with a cough.
He manages to at least recoil in a way where his body coils around the sack, protecting it from the three men who mercilessly begins beating him, whether it be grabbing his head, repeatedly jabbing his shoulders and ribs, or pulling for the sack which forces him to coil further, eventually unable to even aim his hand to form more rings, letting the three beat down on him without obstacle. He groans from every kick, every grab, every jab, over and over again of varying rapidity, unable to use his own powers as protection as he instead uses his own body just to shield the pouch. His cheeks are repeatedly tussled at, unable to ward the hands off anymore, his shoulders kicked in, bruising his body as his clothing of course offers practically no padding.
Gritting his teeth to better bear the pain, the boy tries to open his eyes against the instinct to keep them squeezed shut, facing forward to find that right in front of him on the ground is that one stick of gleaming teal liquid that had slipped out. It sits just within a foot of him, ignored by the three men who are focused on beating his body in hopes for it to lose grip of the whole supply. The teenager’s weary eyes fixate on the stick, the almost entrancing gel texture of the substance, pulsing abnormally as if struggling to contain its own power, condensed so purely of it. Packaged in that small container was that power, staring right back at him, almost as if offering itself especially since it’s being taken by no others.
Unable to deploy another halo as just raising his hand in the correct angle would open his window too widely, for he knows his power at its natural level is insufficient in even repelling three people, he understands well that he’d need an upgrade in output to ward off these assaulters. In fact, the solution is right in front of him, and so he reaches for it.
Grabbing the stick off the ground with his right hand, the boy hastily tries bringing the black strip over to his left forearm, the closest part of his body for an injection. He clenches his jaw further to prepare himself for the pain that comes with an injection, knowing there was no alternative, but in notice of that act the three men try to reach for that right arm in prevention, wrapping the yellow wire on his forearm to pull it back while kicking his shoulder and knocking his cheek on the other side where further down the lane approaches another silhouette of a man in a jacket, a bandana over the head.
He struggles to bring his hand down to his arm, maintaining a tight grip on the stick, digging his fingers into the hold, trying his best to curl his bicep to reduce the distance between the black strip of the syringe and the gray surface of his skin. He gradually gets closer, only for the tug to pull his arm slightly back, only to bring it closer, again for it to be pulled back, battling in this tug of war as he screams through gritted teeth in desperation, his only hope of leaving with his supply, that very supply being that sole hope.
“GET OFF HIM!” abruptly shouts a fifth voice different from the three assaulters as well as the victim, all four of them immediately turning towards the direction of that voice coming from the same lane they entered. From turning their heads, they all simultaneously place their eyes on that figure who raises his arm to reveal a heavy metal pistol immediately aimed for the speedster, glaring forward with a black rag over his head like a bandana, dressed in a strikingly blue heavy leather bomber jacket with golden yellow stripes as highlights and a fat fur collar padding his neck. That man takes one step forward, keen eyes focused, to which the three men slowly take a step back from the boy.
Wide eyed in dread, the three men just stare at this intrusive man as the teenager tries to face him too, struggling to even lift his own head, the stick still in his hand though he doesn’t plunge it into his arm despite no longer having resistance applied. He instead just watches as the three men stare back, the one in the center first to speak angrily, “Hell you are? His old man? Left the runt to run ahead with your goods?”
However the teenager just stares fearfully at the man, clearly not finding the immediate relief that’d come from being rescued by a familiar figure, for it’s clear with his gaze alone that he has never set eyes on this being.
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This very fact is confirmed by this fifth man who simply answers, “Not my kid.”
Chuckling from the brief response, the center man shrugs his shoulders before questioning in a mocking tone, “Why you care then? Not your kid not your problem. Less you want his stash for yourself.”
As though a revelation just hit him, that man smiles even wider and nods his head before affirming, “Must be it right? Think you can swoop in party us all. Think again. We hit the jackpot we not gonna just donate it.”
“Dun want no hits for myself,” declares the gunman who takes another step forward before appending in a tone more menacing, “Get out here or you three get this. Lucky you get a choice. Think you should take it,” slightly adjusting his aim, keeping it aligned, steady.
Staring straight down that barrel with that sadistic smile, the center assaulter slyly commands, “Get him Tan,” a command directed to the speedster given his immediate reaction turning to him before answering apprehensively, “Uh Cos? Too far to reach. Cun get to him in one sprint.”
Suddenly that confident smile contorts to a grimaced dread as that man, Cos, glances at the speedster bewildered before muttering, “What you mean? Cun get my wire on him in time. Arm not that fast.”
Watching this collapsing interaction another foot closer as the gunman takes another step forth with that steady aim, he pressures again: “Sounds you got your decision. Should take it soon. Getting impatient. Finger might just pull itself.”
Now being the one to grit his teeth, Cos faces forward and shakes his head as he stumbles back one step, ventilating in disbelief: “No no. Guy not even an Exhuman. Just some man with a gun. Nothing special about him. Come on. We got him. Sin help me.”
However, to that plea, the third man who was enveloping his hands in mist, the one to allow the three to have silent steps, shakes his head before admitting: “Know cun do nothin. Hell to do? Sneak right on him?”
Tsking from that reminder, Cos shakes his head before facing straight at the gunman before exclaiming, “This not about you. Why you care? You an Exhuman or what? Need a gun cause you not strong enough? Sure you dun want a hit? If you an Exhuman fight me like one. Hidin behind metal. Weak.”
Staying put at the distance he’s at, the gunman just steadies his aim, keeping it still on Tan, the speedster who’d still likely pose the greatest danger. His enraged glare doesn’t deviate either, his tone only further growing in a cool resentment when threatening, “Not feeling like answering. Maybe gonna just pull this trigger three. Would save time.”
Realizing just how stone cold this gunman was, understanding he posed the power in this situation, the centermost assaulter that being Cos swallows before taking another step backwards, shaking his head as he murmurs, “What to do. Wire wun reach in time. Gonna gun me before. Psycho dun know why he even here.”
He takes an additional step back to which Tan inquires nervously, “Bouncing now? Gotta be like six in there. Can take him together. Dash at him while you wire. Sure not fast enough to hit both of us.”
“But fast enough to hit one,” argues Cos before he shakes his head, coming to his decision as he turns around and begins sprinting the other way through the intersection, to which Sin immediately follows without objection though Tan stands his ground, instead turning back to the gunman while claiming, “Can take him. Dun run-,” though he abruptly silences upon returning his gaze to the gun barrel aimed straight for his head, now being the sole target remaining, the sole focus for the gunman as the advantage of numbers has been eliminated and the gunman’s cold face only shows confidence in landing his shot.
Immediately understanding this, Tan stumbles back away from the gunman who this time simply baits, “Try.”
Horror floods Tan he’s unsure if he’d even be able to dodge a gunshot, standing in front of both of his comrades who had stopped to watch in anticipatory terror, Tan gulps before turning around and racing among the other two men, the three of them fleeting the alley.
Trailing the three runaways though at a drastically slower speed, a casual stroll instead of a frantic sprint, the gunman makes his way towards the teenage boy still on the ground, back against the dumpster, curled up to protect the bag. In his right hand he still holds the syringe, though his wrist wobbles despite there being no external forces pulling at it. He raises his head to track the gunman who lowers his arm, though keeps his weapon out as if still prepared to use it.
Surmising such returns the boy to a panic, clenching his teeth, his whole body shivering, but he tries mustering the strength to steady his hand still gripping the syringe before beginning to bring it down on his arm just as the gunman’s eyes widen and he desperately exclaims, “Hey hey hey now,” which does successfully freeze the boy, the rubber grip just now touching his skin but the liquid remains in its vessel. The gunman slowly holsters his pistol in his jacket’s pocket simultaneously as he reaches his other open hand forward, his tone switching to a gentler one as he attempts to calm: “Not gonna hurt you. Got no reason to take that hit.”
Leaving his weapon in his pocket, the man returns his arm to his side while keeping the other raised towards the boy who, while doesn’t inject the syringe’s substance, still doesn’t move as it’s clear there’s a lack of trust that’d allow him to uncurl.
Understanding this at one glance, the man sighs with a head shake before stopping in place a few feet from the boy but not coming any closer. He readjusts himself, letting himself remain in the boy’s gaze unobstructed, and once doing so he gently introduces, “Name is Mavrik. Got a name kid?”
Still the boy doesn’t uncurl his body, however he does steadily raise the syringe off his arm, still close enough to inject in a single second. He gulps and takes a deep breath to recover the wind that’s been beaten out of him before answering in a voice still clearly weary from the battering: “Junco. Sir. Name is Junco.”
“Junco,” repeats Mavrik with a steady head nod, tilting his head before raising it to the ceiling as he comments in relief, “Glad you got one. Question sometimes awkward when they dun.”
Oddly enough the boy, Junco, chuckles to that comment before shaking his head and immediately apologizing, “Sorry sorry. Mean no offense. Just know what you mean.”
He steadily places the syringe in his hand back into the pouch still open, letting it slip inside, the sound of glass clattering as indication of it returning to its placement. He lets out a relieved sigh, though keeps it buried in his body.
Noticing that defensive position, Mavrik tilts his head before inquiring: “Must got hits for weeks in that. Not surprised you got jumped. Walkin with it on full display. Askin for a fight.”
Aggression shows in Junco’s glare that’s cast onto Mavrik, keeping his body coiled, seeming to have only grown more distant as he accuses, “So you tryin take it huh? Knew coulden trust you. Just want it for yourself.”
That sudden outburst pushes Mavrik back, taking a few steps away with his hands in the air, assuring in shock to that acceleration: “Hey hey said dun want it. Got no use for it even if I wanted it.”
Anger turns to confuddled intrigue, Junco tilts his head as his eyes widen, asking more innocently: “So you not an Exhuman? Guess that why you carryen metal…. “
Sighing from the misunderstanding to his somewhat vague words, Mavrik shakes his head and takes another step forward, keeping his head low in his sober clarification: “Not like that. Was…an Exhuman at least. Before.”
That clarification only serves to further perplex Junco who slowly uncurls his body, beginning to straighten his back while quietly wondering, “Was? Mean your powers? If you had it you have it. Got a mental block or some?”
Sighing with the shake of his head from the second miscommunication, Mavrik paces towards Junco slowly, his strides steady so as to not cause sudden stress. He stops beside the dumpster to rest his arm over it, letting it support his body so he can lean on it during which he better recounts in a tone more somber, “Born an Exhuman. Guess still have to be one then. Yeah mean my powers. Could use them not too long ago. Pretty good with them too. Got into a fight few weeks back and lost. Hit by something and after waken up just diden have it. No changes since.”
Frowning from that story as the man appeared more sentimental, making sense since the story was one of loss. Junco lowers his head as he leans straight, his back resting against the dumpster, letting the pouch sit on his lap no longer being protected. He just stares at it and the gentle teal glow emitting from the opening, contemplating. He sighs before shrugging and admitting, “Never heard of a fight enden like that. Figured coulden happen. Strange.”
Standing on the other side of the dumpster with his head low, Mavrik briefly mentions for clarification: “Not from here. Visitor from another world,” though he’s immediately cut off as Junco’s eyes widen and he turns to the man before exclaiming in panic: “RAIDERS?!?”
Mavrick’s head raises from the abrupt interjection, his face stunned before realizing the words he spoke led to that conclusion, shifting back to a solemn expression as he shakes his head and explains: “Sorry not raiders. Actually we were the raiders. Came in with one of those flyen ships so tried stealen one. Chased us down before we could control it. No pirates though.”
From bewilderment to simple quiet intrigue, Junco returns his gaze back ahead, staring at the wall on the other side of the alley before questioning, “Odd. Never heard of visitors other than raiders. Sounds they still did one on you.” A sudden epiphany comes to the teenager though as his eyes light up once more, and with a smile he turns back to Mavrik before suggesting: “Admit dun know how they cut your power. But have you tried a hit? Maybe it can kick your power back.” He turns back to his pouch, reaching his hand inside and offering: “Can give least one-,” though now he’s interrupted as Mavrik steps toward him with his flat hand out in a quick rejection: “No need,” which stuns Junco who faces back.
Frowning down at the boy who seemed genuinely enthusiastic about his idea, Mavrik sighs before taking another step now at Junco’s side to make his declination: “Haven done a hit since. Dun wanna. Actually think losen my power was good thing. Haven messed up as much since.”
Bewildered by that incomprehensible refusal especially since the boy was offering one of the syringes he was so desperately fighting to protect just earlier, Junco blinks twice before asking bluntly: “You crazy? Never heard an Exhuman say like that. Got power with it. Can defend yourself. Can fight back. Can-,”
“Can lose everything,” once more Mavrik interjects, though this time his voice has a far more depressed tone, frowning more so with his head low. Junco silences once again, watching the man turn to face the same wall as him before seating himself down, letting his back lean against the dumpster amongst the glass litter permeating the alley.
Staring at said litter that glistens from the dim artificial lights above, Mavrik faces forth as Junco stares at him, listening as the man recollects somberly: “Can defend yourself. True. But get too greedy and others wun be your worst problem. Chased the hits too much. Figured more I did stronger I be. Better can protect friends. Was the reason I dun got them. Did too much wrong takin them. Not gonna let myself do that again.”
Mavrik’s head slowly turns as he panoramically gazes with a sorrowful expression around the alley while Junco’s focus returns to the floor, or more specifically the sack in his lap. Both of them remain silent for a few moments. After contemplating on a response, digging deep as his eyes sharpen in an effort to ponder greater, the only response Junco can muster is a simple: “Ah,” as his expression softens again, for there were no words that could easily chain from the weight just spoken.
Taking in a deep breath before then releasing it back out, Mavrik clears his head and climbs back to his feet, advising in grunts from exercise: “Not tellin you to stop using your powers. They a gift. Can do a lot of good with them. Protect who you care about. Just tellin you intentions not gonna change an overdrive. Move too fast and you crash with everyone you drivin.”
After getting up to his feet he pats down his leather bomber jacket, smoothening the creases in the aged material that has miraculously maintained its color. He takes another glance down the alleyway from both sides as Junco’s knees begin to slide towards him, resulting in his body naturally curling to protect the sack as if suddenly defensive once again. Wrapping his arms around his knees to form a wall that nurtures the sack from potentially falling, the teenager softly acknowledges grimly: “Know even if you dun use the hits you can make use of them. Could sell them. Maybe trade for something you want. Maybe get people to watch your back. Right about this sack carryin a lot. Lotta options you got takin it.”
Turning his head to stare down at the boy with a stupefied face from the strange comment the purpose of which had to be determined as it simply seemed against any of the boy’s objectives, Mavrik raises his eyebrow before querying: “Tryna get me to steal it or somethin? Reverse thinkin at play? Baitin me?”
Chuckling from the immediate inference of hostility after he had jumped to the same conclusions when first meeting this strange man, Junco shakes his head in amusement before explaining better, “No no. Rather keep to myself. Just sayin still could gain a lot from this. Dun think I could catch a shot if you tried either. Or in a shape to try. Sure you know that too. Makin me wonder why you not doin it then.”
A silent pause follows as though the man’s brain had frozen from the perplexing objectives of the teenage boy, but once the pieces of the puzzle slide into place, a gentle smile encroaches on his face before he sighs with the shake of his head now as the one in amusement. He steps forward before turning to the boy, facing him to placidly decline: “Got what you sayin. Would be the logical choice. Know well I could take you if I want,” to which the boy lowers his head and shuts his eye in fear of where he might’ve dragged himself.
“Still dun want to though,” the man determines before reaching his hand out to the boy who raises his head in mystification, having believed he dug his own grave. Instead the man just smiles warmly to him, assuring albeit in a melancholic undertone: “Got no use for nothin. Not for me myself.”
Solid contact of gazes is established between the teenage boy and the man who pushes a friendly smile though through eyes dry of dismal, that of a broken man deprived of his former bombastic drive albeit the one that perhaps did bring his family to their downfall. Even then he still tries to offer a source of kindness, a selflessness perhaps partially derived from a lack of self to preserve, but one that he extends in the protection of this boy living in a world where those he didn’t know should be assumed his enemies.
Understanding the genuinity of this offer, Junco raises one hand up to grab onto the offered hand, keeping the other gripping the pouch. He’s allowed the help to raise himself back to his feet though the man struggles slightly, stumbling backwards in an effort of exerting enough force, resulting in Junco nearly stumbling forward after getting to his feet though he stops himself and steps back, accidentally letting his pouch swing lightly into the dumpster as the sound of clattering glass can still be heard against the dumpster’s thud.
Sighing disappointed at the immediate act of suspicion as that clattering could draw in others seeking to plunge for their own benefit, Mavrik shakes his head with the uncertainty of this boy’s fate. He remarks with a light tone more sarcastic, “Maybe should take it off your hands just for your own good. You tryin to get yourself killed? Just for a hit?”
Chuckling back from the comment that he can tell isn’t a genuine demand for exchange, Junco brings the pouch by his side and lets it steady itself before comprehending in an acknowledgement: “Shoulden walk around with this much outside. Got it. Just dun want my old man seein this. Woulden like the sight I imagine.”
Huffing through his nose from the mention that this boy does indeed live with his parents who furthermore are unaware of this stash, Mavrik raises his head to the ceiling while assuring: “Wun snatch it from you. Wun make you throw it out. Just sayin it not the solution to all your problems. More wun make things better. Just make you feel it is till you wake up and then you miss what you had. Woulden want my kid to fall like that if I was your old man either.”
Nodding somewhat guiltily from the brief lecture that he does understand to be in good faith, Junco acknowledges more sincerely: “Got it sir. Got what you sayin. Wun forget it. Promise.”
Returning his gaze back to the boy, the man smiles once again before placing his hand on the boy’s shoulder, patting it before he turns around and begins a slow stroll back towards the front of the alley in the direction they came from, offering back in a voice whose optimism rises beyond its natural gloom: “Gonna walk you back out of here. Least till you not alone. Come.”
Instinctively the boy glances back at the intersection he was approaching before, recalling his original purpose in coming to this secluded location. He glances down at that very purpose which resides inside the pouch, not a single syringe lost, all of them on him, usable by just applying contact with a press.
However the boy then raises his head and turns to find the man slowly ambling down the lane out, and after a brief moment to ponder his options, the boy sprints after the man a few strides before reaching his side where he can then slow to a samely paced stroll. He stays by the man’s side as the two walk together towards the exit of the claustrophobic backstreet, passing the dumpster and continuing over the litter whether it be ripped rags or shattered sticks, though they continue unhindered. They just make their way towards the source of sound that is the street up ahead where the crowds continue to walk back and forth within the cavernous city. For they all reside beneath the vast rocky ceiling high in the air above the dirt buildings, homes for all these people.
Perhaps they may live a tortured life in a cruel world where they’re stripped of all they have from both outside invaders and local neighbors alike.
But perhaps their life is not one entirely devoid of a pure generosity, good born from tragedy, hoping to at least redirect potential misfortunes so they avoid the same anguish.