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A transgressor’s life meant many a night camped under the stars, with your own jacket as a bedroll and nothing but a rock for a pillow. Vicious was used to it, but expected complaints from his new companion.
With his tailored clothes, Kanata looked like the sort of boy acustomed to feather beds. But once again, Kanata surprised Vicious. He slept on the ground without complaint. He was unlike Misella, who spent her evening staring into the campfire with the flames reflected back, and who clearly took some masochistic pleasure out of discomfort.
Kind of a buzzkill, that one. Vicious hoped they could ditch her on the road somewhere, but so far, no cigar.
One night, as it was Vicious’s turn to keep watch, Kanata spoke up from his bedroll.
“Vicious, can I ask you something?”
He laid on his stomach, head propped up on his elbows. His eyes were alight with curiosity.
“Go on, kid,” Vicious said. It was bound to be something amusing, at least.
“Why is your stain of guilt on your stomach?” Kanata asked.
“Oh, checking me out, are ya? Didn’t see you for the sort, Kanata,” Vicious said through a smirk.
Kanata blinked at him. Probably a good thing the pyro chick was soundly asleep. She’d have set him alight for that one.
“Because I was just thinking- both mine and Misella’s stain- it’s on our hands. Does it have something to do with the manner of sin?”
Well, shit. The kid would pick to be perceptive about this, of all things. Vicious took a deep swig of the cider he’d pilfered from the farm in the valley.
“It’s a nice night. Do you really want me to sour it with tales of awful murderous transgressions? Release the howls of the vengeful damned into the night?” he said.
Still lounged on his stomach, Kanata took a moment to think. “I don’t know,” he said calmly. “Maybe you had a reason to do what you did. I’m starting to think maybe you’re not as bad as everyone says. ”
“Hey! I am absolutely as bad as everyone says,” Vicious said, terribly offended.
“You saved me,” Kanata pointed out.
“That’s different, that is,” Vicious said.
“How?” asked Kanata.
“Maybe I have a soft spot for other damned souls, that’s all,” Vicious said, waving his hand airily. “Cast out from society, us criminals and villains might as well keep each other company, right?”
But at the mention of his crime, Kanata’s face turned downcast. His father’s death was still raw. He sank down from his elbows, gazing at his hand. The mark there-- the stain of guilt, for all to see.
“We can’t ever go back, can we?” he said. His voice was heavier with knowledge and grief. Pampered provincial son no longer.
“Nope. On the upside, at least we have booze. Catch.” Vicious tossed the cider bottle across to Kanata. So caught up in his guilt, it only narrowly avoided hitting him in the face.
“What? I’m not old enough,” Kanata said, distant.
“Uh, you’re a transgressor!” Vicious said.
Weirdly, this didn’t cheer Kanata up.
Even fucking weirder: that Vicious cared in the first place. What was that all about?
With a great, put-upon sigh, Vicious heaved himself up, plonking his butt down next to Kanata.
“You asked about this thing?” Vicious gestured to his stain of guilt. Kanata pulled himself out of his stupor, curiosity getting the better of him. He nodded.
“The village where I grew up was a shithole. And I was an unwanted bastard- you know what that is, right?”
Kanata flushed gently. “Uh, yeah.”
Vicious drank. “The lord who had the misfortune of ruling over the godforsaken pit of a town was my father. He had a bad habit of bothering the maids, or, hell, anything with a skirt and a pulse. So I was born. Not a big deal. Plenty of people on this earth who are unwanted.”
“Vicious...”
“Don’t give me those sad eyes. I told you, I don’t give a damn. Anyway, once a year everyone in the village got together to hold a ceremony, to praise the spirits, or some bullcrap. Everyone cooks up a great feast. And the centrepiece of this feast is the sacred taco.”
Kanata was still gazing at Vicious with wide eyes. “The sacred...”
“Taco. Right. Super sacred. Ultra holy and all that. Garnished with sacred salad leaves grown at the sacred spring. This year, it was my father’s turn to put the thing together.”
Vicious paused, for dramatic effect. Kanata was waiting with bated breath.
“Anyway, I ate the sacred taco. The spirits rained fire down upon the village for my sacrilege, and my crime was broadcast onto the Vision Central. My father pointed his quivering finger at me and said ‘Vicious, how cooooooo---uld you?’. So I flipped him the bird.”
Kanata’s jaw couldn’t be any closer to the floor. “So the stain of guilt is on your stomach because...”
“Because I ate the forbidden taco, yeah. Definitely.”
“But… why?”
“I was hungry. Why else?”
Kanata turned very quiet in contemplation. Vicious considered that perhaps the special quality that had drawn him was actually that the lad was rather simple.
“Thanks for telling me, Vicious,” he said at last. The sincerity in his voice did something funny to Vicious’s chest.
“Get some sleep,” he said, smacking Kanata on the shoulder. “We’ve got a busy day tomorrow, lots of transgressing to do.”
Kanata chuckled. Vicious felt relieved.
“Goodnight Vicious.”
“Goodnight kid.”
Vicious laid awake for some time. In the firelight, Misella turned over. Perhaps she’d not been so deeply asleep as he’d thought.
The air suddenly seemed to heat up. Quietly, so not to wake Kanata, she whispered in a dark tone, “Forbidden taco? You’re full of shit.”