Chapter Text
Movies definitely got the idea of children running from home wrong. In movies and even books, when someone ran away it was dramatic. Usually the middle of the night after a rather drawn out argument, most of the time with a suitcase full of their precious belongings and a stolen credit card. The same person would be dressed to blend in, dark clothing and what have ya. Rain often framed the scene, perfectly enunciating the characters intentions.
This scenario was the exact opposite with Tord.
Tord had a bright red shirt on, and dark gray long sleeves covered his arms. He was wearing shorts, that honestly looked a bit big on him, as well as velcro tennis shoes and mismatch socks. Tord’s hair definitely stood out as well, in a memorable two horned fashion. A bright blue bandage was stuck to his cheek, and a matching one covered his left knee. He didn’t carry much, just a half empty juice box with a bent up straw.
Tord also hadn’t left in the middle of the night. It was mid-afternoon, shortly after most people had lunch. It was a Saturday, and a sunny one at that. No big fight had broken out between him and his parents, in fact, they hadn’t been home all day. But here Tord was, calmly walking away from his house, sipping a juice box. He didn’t plan on coming back.
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Paul and Patryck were just in town for the next two weeks. An undercover mission for Red Army, in which they needed to stay low and find out if a nearby gang was getting ahold of their weapons and illegally selling them off. The two would be positioned in a beaten up house two blocks from the supposed trade area was, on the outskirts of a suburban neighborhood.
Ironically, this was nowhere near Tord’s house. It would take two hours driving in a car to get from their hideout to his home. This means these two points are over a day of walking apart. Please keep this in mind, as it is relevant to the future.
Two days after staking out the trade off area, Paul noticed something quite peculiar. Patryck had cooked ramen for lunch, not exactly romantic, but still good. Halfway through his bowl, Paul thought he had seen someone peering through their kitchen window.
He was probably just being paranoid.
But, there it was again, out on the windowsill. A small flash of something red, and then nothing.
Paul got up, walking towards the kitchen, he peered out the window and didn’t see anything outside. So maybe it was just a bird?
He shrugged it off and sat back down next to Pat.
The same day, shortly after Paul had taken the trash out, he had taken that night’s shift watching for activity at the trading post. He had only been up for a few hours when one of their trash cans from out front rolled down the driveway. Paul stared at the knocked over trash can, when a small thud, followed by a quick clang of metal sounded out from the side of their house. Paul sighed, going to grab a broom. Fuckin’ raccoons.
Trudging outside in nothing but a shirt and some boxers, Paul armed himself with a broom, ready to chase away any animals that got into their trash.
At first glance, Paul thought it was a raccoon. Two dark spikes that vaguely resembled cat ears poked out from inside the waste bin. Raising the broom above his head, Paul whacked whatever was inside.
Upon immediate impact, a high pitched yelp shrieked out from the bin, and it toppled over on its side. A small and rather familiar shade of red flashed from the bin and scurried inwards. Was it a cat? Paul didn’t think so. He crept closer, broom still in hand, and poked at the inside of the trash can with the handle.
More rustling, and a bit of hissing. So maybe this was a cat? Just to be sure, Paul gingerly grabbed the side of the trashcan and turned it towards him. As soon as it was facing him, Paul could see a small red lump in the back. The lump moved, and the face of a small kid was now staring at Paul with an odd mix of confusion, anger, and fear. The kid also seemed to be holding something in its lap. Paul had obviously been staring too long because the child repositioned itself so that they were blocking whatever was in their arms from view.
Paul smiled softly and beckoned for the kid to come out.
“Hey there, I’m not going to hurt you.”
The child made a face like they thought Paul was full of shit. They scooted further against the back of the trashcan.
“Come out, or I’ll get the broom again.”
Obviously, the kid got the message, because now they were scurrying out, and lying at Paul’s feet. Their hands were still covering something like they were trying to hide something from him.
“What do you have there?” Paul asked, helping the kid to their feet. Shit, they were small.
The kid embarrassingly looked at their- shoe? They only had one shoe on. What happened to the other?
Sheepishly, the kid pulled out an instant ramen wrapper. Some crumbs and dry noodles were inside. Paul was surprised, to say the least. He'd expected like, a gun or something. Not a nearly empty pack of- oh . Oh.
The kid was starrily eyeing the pack, slowly, but rather happily munching on dry noodles.
“Are you hungry?”
The kid shook their head ‘no’, but their answer was betrayed by a sharp growl protruding from their stomach. They winced ever so slightly and looked up a Paul. Firmly shaking their head 'no’ again.
“Tell you what,’ Paul sighed, rubbing his temples. “You come inside and let me make you something to eat, and I won't call the cops.”
That definitely got a reaction from the kid, who's back immediately straightened up at the mention of policemen. They suspiciously eyed Paul, who was leading them towards a door. He gently nudged them inside and turned on the kitchen light.
The little kid was wandering around, still clutching their wrapper like it was life or death. Paul told them to sit down, which they didn’t, while he started heating up water. They liked ramen, so naturally, Paul was going to make ramen. While the water was warming, Paul looked over his shoulder at the kid. They seemed to be in a fighting stance like they were ready to run away and brawl at any given second.
“Do you have a name?”
They looked uncertain, like their name was some sort of classified information. Rather timidly, they opened their mouth to talk.
“Tord.”
Tord's voice was wheezy and high-pitched and had a very tired atmosphere.
“I'm Paul.”
Was Tord a boy's name, a girl’s name? Nonbinary? Paul wasn't sure. It was never polite to assume so,
“What pronouns do you use Tord?”
Tord looked at Paul like they had no idea what he was talking about, which they probably didn't. Tord was like, what, four?
“I'm a boy.”
Okay so maybe they- he , did know what Paul was talking about.
Paul added in noodles to the boiled water on the stove. Tord was looking around the kitchen and seemed to be thinking deeply. It looked like he was planning an escape. Good thing the ramen was done. Paul plopped the meal into a bowl, then sat that on the kitchen table, along with a spoon.
Tord wide-eyed the bowl, tentatively stepping closer until he practically threw himself into a chair, making grabby hands at the bowl. Paul slid the food closer to Tord. As Tord grabbed it, the man noticed how he seemed to have rather bruised and bloodied hands, scabs covering almost every inch of space. He was missing a few fingernails as well, while the remaining nails looked to be severely shortened. The scene made Paul wince.
Now that Tord was so close, Paul could properly see the younger boy. His red shirt was stained and faded, and his shorts didn’t fare much better. Tord had a bruise on his right cheek, and a fading black eye to match. He looked tired, the point made by the dark blue bags under his eyes. Tord’s unusual two horned hairstyle was messy and long, resting in front of his eyes. Paul’s eyes darted to Tord’s feet. He was, in fact, missing a shoe.
“Hey Tord,” Tord looked up, still stuffing ramen in his mouth. “Where are your parents?"