Chapter Text
The door was pulled closed, and the lock clicked into place. Steps that shook the ground faded down the hallway, away from the apartment. The steps continued down a set of stairs, then another, getting fainter as they went. A vehicle starting up, before pulling away from the complex.
An abnormally small boy peeked out from behind the leg of the coffee table pressed against the wall. He breathed through his shirt to avoid inhaling the mounds of dust and dirt that was piled up and forgotten behind the furniture. The boy named Mob then stepped out from his hiding place, destined for the couch by the television set.
His human host was... predictable, to an extent. As most humans are. He would often come home late, very late, with slow, dragging steps, exhaustion evident in every footfall. His first stop was usually the kitchen, in which he wrenched open the fridge, stared at it for a while, before abandoning his search there and open the pantry instead. There was a very high chance then that he would snag an instant noodle packet (or a ramen cup if he was feeling especially low on energy) and set about making that.
Armed with his meal of choice, he would then retire to the couch, cigarette in hand, switching on the television to whatever appealed to him at the time. Often mediocre movies, particularity those that aged poorly. He would then end up falling asleep there, on the couch, snoring loudly until the sun came up the next day, noodle container laying empty and forgotten on the floor.
The small boy made his way over to the couch where, sure enough, sat the empty bowl, fork within, with a tiny puddle of broth at the bottom, long since gone cold. Perfect.
Mob climbed into the bowl, before kneeling down and cupping some of the broth in his hands. He slurped it gratefully, despite the bland flavour, and the stickiness it would surely leave on his palms. There wasn’t quite enough for a full meal, but it was all he could get. Sadly no stray noodles were left behind this time.
He rose to his feet, and stepped carefully out of the bowl. It would still be a while before Reigen came back to the apartment. Mob glanced towards the kitchen. Maybe there’d be something he could grab there...?
He’d searched many times before now, and the most he could find in the pantry was some baking ingredients such as flour and sugar, a forgotten measuring cup or two, and a literal mountain of cup noodles. And those were fine, if a little hard to open. To be honest, he was getting tired of the same thing every day. But... he grimaced. Beggars can’t be choosers.
His current living space was less than ideal. The ever-present stench of cigarette smoke was everywhere, and it had taken mob weeks to get used to it. There was also the constant smell of rotten food, from the containers on the ground, to the herd of beer cans hidden in the corners, to the forgotten vegetables in the drawer of the fridge. And the dust was everywhere.
But there had been a family of mice that lived here in the walls before Mob had, and the critters had already cleared paths through the insulation for quick, easy travel from room to room. They had promptly left after the smoke had become unbearable. This meant that he didn’t have to carve the tunnels himself, and according to Mob’s mother, that was quite a demanding task. And Mob was not skilled in athletics or in carving tunnels, or much else for that matter. It was worth braving the smoke, even if it was at times overwhelming. He’d take what he could get.
Mob hummed, thinking. Reigen could be gone for anywhere from several hours to a few days. He wasn’t sure exactly what Reigen’s job was, but he’d mentioned having to do a “stake-out” on the phone once, whatever that was. Mob didn’t really care that much to find out.
He headed towards the kitchen, at a steady pace. He had plenty of time. He could check the junk drawer, the garbage can, and maybe the bedside dresser. Anything he could use. He’d found a few fishing hooks a while ago and fashioned them together into a pretty functional grappling hook, which he carried with him at all times, hung around his waist. It made getting onto the countertops way easier.
Mob unhooked the grappling hook from his belt (which was made from an old shoelace) and swung it in a circle behind his head, gathering momentum. He then launched it as high as he could, hoping it would snag on the edge of the countertop. It took him a few tries, but eventually it caught, and Mob pulled himself up the rope, gasping and wheezing from exertion the whole way up. His arms trembled from carrying his weight up the incline, and with great effort, he hauled himself up onto the countertop. He collapsed in a heap, trying to catch his breath. Now it was just a short walk to the junk drawer. He reminded himself that there was no rush, that he could take as long as he needed to.
Mob rolled himself onto his hands and knees, before pulling himself up, making his way to the drawer a few paces away.
He pushed it open, before hopping inside.
There were tons of goodies in here. Rubber bands, thumbtacks, nails, string, old pencil stubs, an eraser, an old matchbox. He had to be careful not to take too much though. Mob picked through the materials, trying to determine which would be the most useful to him. He decided on a rubber band, a nail, and the matchbox. He could only carry so much, after all.
He used the rubber band to attach the matchbox to his back like a backpack, and dragged the nail behind him to the corner of the counter. Starting a ladder of nails on the wooden side of the countertop sounded like a good idea, but it would have to be pressed right up against the wall so that it wasn’t too noticeable. He’d had one in his old home, and it made it much easier to climb up the incline. The single nail would start as a place to hook the grappling hook, if he jammed it just underneath the lip of the counter.
Mob kneeled on the flat surface, now right on the corner of the counter. It didn’t quite line up with the wall, and there was a space between the wall and the wood, just large enough for him to squeeze into. A perfect spot to place a grappling anchor.
Quick steps were heard coming down the hallway. Probably another tenant, but just to be safe he dove towards the safety of the gap between the two surfaces. Pressed tightly against the wall, he hid between old wrappers and crumpled take-out receipts, breath held.
To his surprise, the door was flung open, and a disheveled Reigen stumbled into the apartment. Mob hadn’t even heard him return. He couldn’t see Reigen from his hiding spot, but he heard him speed-walking around the apartment, stopping frequently to search through piles of junk on the various tabletops.
He heard an aggravated sigh. “Leave it to me to forget the one folder I need... “ Reigen was muttering, shuffling papers around, flitting from one pile to another. “... living room, by the door, the kitchen...?” Mob heard the steps approach the kitchen threshold. His heart was in his throat. He pressed himself to the wall, intending on keeping as much distance from Reigen as possible, and tried to control his breathing.
He was stuck. The only way out of his cramped position was out into the open, where he was not planning on going just yet. Not until the threat was gone.
He heard the steps enter the kitchen, before stuttering to a stop a few steps in front of the counter Mob was wedged behind. There was a pause, in which Reigen reached out towards an open drawer... the junk drawer. Mob had forgotten to close it. He’d forgotten to close the drawer in his haste to get away.
Mob brought a hand to his mouth. This was bad. Surely he’d be found out now, there was no way Reigen wouldn’t figure it out...
Reigen closed the drawer quickly, before stepping towards the balcony door, away from Mob’s hiding spot. The boy allowed himself a moment to breathe, still on high alert. Reigen checked the lock on the glass door, before moving to the window on the far wall, checking the lock on that one as well. He turned on the spot, hand on his chin, his brow furrowed in thought. After a few moments, he shook his head and caught sight of a folder on the arm of the couch, grabbing it and leafing through it. Satisfied, he strided past the kitchen and back out the front door. The lock was engaged, and the door handle was shaken to ensure it was assuredly locked. Hurried steps continued until out of earshot.
Mob let out a breath, trembling in every limb. He closed his eyes, willing himself to calm down. Stepping out from behind the wood, he made it back to the baseboard-made-door hidden behind the coffee table. Not exactly a successful outing, but he did get a little something to eat. That would have to be enough. At least he wasn’t seen. That would have really been a disaster.