Chapter Text
It’s been another agonizing day of scraping by, your body and heart thoroughly burned through by the fires you lit underneath yourself all those years ago. Another day of selling what meager skills you have for any and all cash you can get, memories of days where things hadn’t felt quite so hopeless long since scorched into obscurity.
You grit your teeth and search your pockets for a pack of smokes, a slight migraine already building behind your eyes. Fuck sake, you can’t help but think, it hasn’t even been two hours since my last drag.
Then again, you’ve been tearing open new packs more and more often lately so it really shouldn’t come as a surprise that your body’s dependence on the stuff has grown so exponentially.
...No helping it then.
You’ll have to brave the twilight streets of the City and waste what little living money you’ve set aside to buy a shortcut to the day when all the pain finally goes away. Oh, and you should probably get toothpaste too, you’re pretty sure your breath is treading dangerously close to intolerable territory right now.
Soon, you’re on your way to the convenience store for some necessities. Stuff like smokes, water (the plumbing in your apartment is on the fritz again and turned the water black, which you know better than to try drinking), smokes, aspirin (the headaches and chest pain have been getting worse, more frequent, and nothing else seems to take the edge off besides more smoking), and, of course, some smokes.
Rain pours down from the midnight sky like someone decided to wring-dry every single cloud at the same time, but you don’t really mind. After all, it’s the beginning of summer, so the rain itself is kind of warm and your clothes could use a good rinsing out anyways.
You’re about halfway to your destination, jacket and hat already thoroughly soaked through, when you spot something out of the corner of your eye.
There’s an unfamiliar face sitting all alone on one of the many bus stop benches that still litter the streets in this part of the city. Which makes you stop for a moment because the buses stopped coming through here a long time ago and now the benches are only ever used as beds for desperate people either trying to sleep or manically getting their money’s worth out of one of the numerous working girls that haven’t escaped the City yet.
And the person sitting on the bench certainly isn’t doing either of those things, which only serves to fan the flames of your curiosity.
In fact, now that you’re really looking, the person on the bench is just a kid. Definitely too young to legally drink, let alone to have any good reason to be out in this section of the city at this hour. He’s got bright blue hair, a red hat that’s almost too large for his head (Said hat is currently getting drenched by the rainfall that manages to slip through the myriad cracks in the overhead cover of the abused bus stop bench) and clothes that make you wonder if he fancies himself a rapper or a gangster of some sort.
...Hell, he must be around your daughter’s age, assuming you’ve been counting the years correctly since you were last able to see her-
Like clockwork, the thought of your daughter drags up old regrets and rusted guilt from the bottom of your heart. You can’t help the reflexive grimace that works its way across your mouth at the thought of her being left alone on a bench somewhere neck deep in a place that’s infamous for devouring innocent people whole and spitting out nothing but bones.
…Which is why you soon find yourself helpless to do anything other than make your way over to the strange kid, completely unsure of what you’re hoping to accomplish all the while.
The kid must be deep in thought because he doesn’t seem to notice you, not even when you're practically on top of him. That kind of lack of awareness can be a death sentence here, as you know all too well. If you were so inclined, it would be so very easy to just reach out and take him by surprise. To steal everything that isn’t sown down to his skin and then find ways to tear even those thing off and begin searching for the highest bidder.
...But you don’t.
Maybe it’s because you like to delude yourself into believing that you haven’t sunk that low yet (even though you’ve already done worse for less, in some ways) or maybe it’s because you can practically see the imaginary face of your daughter superimposed on his silhouette, like a ghost of a memory that isn’t yours to hold.
You shake your head and heave out a sigh before greeting the hapless kid, your voice nearly as worn down as your spirit.
“Hey there, little man. You waiting on someone?”
The kid looks up at you with a smile, rainwater running down his face in rivulets that resemble tears.
His answer comes in the form of noises that sound a lot more like senseless beeps and boops than anything else, but you can still understand him just fine. Partially because you’ve lived long enough to pick up plenty of abnormal methods of communication, but also because the kid’s emotions are written so clearly on his face that it’d be impossible not to know what he’s thinking in the moment.
(You briefly think about how this kid would make for a terrible poker player; a thought that very nearly gets an actual chuckle out of you.)
According to the kid, he’s waiting for a ride to an important event and this is the designated meeting spot that his ‘benefactor’ gave him. Information that only serves to make this whole situation even more suspicious, if such a thing were even possible.
You take a shot in the dark, secretly hoping that you’re not somehow getting involved in something too troublesome.
“Mind if I ask what kind of event it is?”
Honestly, part of you didn’t really expect the kid to even answer.
You’re a stranger (an overtly homeless-looking stranger) who randomly decided to walk up and start poking your nose into his business. It probably doesn’t help that your hands are starting to shake from the lack of any smoking over the past few hours. You must seem more like a desperate junkie trying to sweet talk your way into some pity money than anything else, but the kid ends up surprising you.
He casually explains how he’s in love with a girl, how the girl’s parents are apparently very overprotective of their daughter, and how the only way he’d been able to convince them to give him a chance is by impressing them on the only stage they value. Which, as it turns out, is through rap battling with some of the biggest rising starts in the City’s underground scene.
A situation that hits painfully close to home for you; not that you’ll ever tell the kid. Your messy past is something you’ve resolved to silently carry around with you until you finally die and drag all of that regret down with you into the abyss.
You do, however, see the value in maybe giving him a little bit of advice so he at least has a fighting chance at turning out differently than you. Assuming the kid even wants it in the first place.
“Hmmm… Do you know who you’re going up against tonight, little man?
The kid strings together more of those odds sounds of his, the overall picture they paint is one of the girl’s father himself being the first opponent he’ll have to take down.
That… doesn’t really give you much to work with since you don’t know the guy’s name. With such vague information on the contender in question, the number of helpful tips you can provide is woefully small.
Then again, the basics are always a good place to start when it comes to things like this. So, considering the kid’s youthful appearance, his experience is most likely limited to friendly competition and solo, self-styled practice sessions.
Something has to be better than nothing, you suppose.
You feign contemplation, bringing a hand to your chin. After a few seconds on silent musing, you lay out an invitation in the form of an innocent question.
“Well, want a bit of friendly advice from someone who used to be in the game?”
The kid’s face lights up and he hurriedly beeps out an enthusiastic ‘YES’, sending your brain into overdrive as it stumbles through remembering how to properly smile. You get about halfway there before abandoning the effort altogether, but you do feel more than a little pleased the kid’s so sincerely interested in what you have to say.
Been a while since someone cared.
“Remember to breathe.”
The kid’s forehead scrunches up a little as he contemplates your words, his confusion plain as day. You don’t really blame him either. This is one of those things that sounds like common sense, but when the pressure starts mounting, even the most obvious things can become obscured and difficult to remember.
So, you throw the kid a bone and elaborate a little.
“See, with this sort of thing, the challenger is always at a disadvantage because the other guy will get to set the pace. Plus, odds are it’ll be in a venue you’re probably not used to, and that makes it really easy to get nervous and lose your focus.”
His attention is firmly fixated on your face now, his eyes tracking each movement your lips make.
“If you get swept up in the other person’s tempo, then you’re own rhythm will get all distorted by trying to keep up. If you aren’t careful, then you’ll wind up trying to take a breath and realize too late that you’ve been so focused on keeping pace that you haven’t been remembering to properly breathe.”
The kid’s eyes slowly go wide as he does his best to visualize the scenario you’ve laid out for him.
“...But, if you manage to keep a leash on your breathing, really control your body’s natural flow, then you’ll be able to keep pace with them and keep going strong until the end instead of folding halfway when they really start turning on the heat.”
The kid’s furiously nodding along with your explanation now, his confusion having melted away after your tiny bit of clarification. Droplets of water wind up getting flung off his hat’s brim as he moves his head, the overall energy of the motion not too dissimilar to an excited dog shaking itself off after a bath.
However, the muted irony of your guidance doesn’t fully escape you.
For all your preaching on the importance of breathing, your own lung capacity has dwindled to less than a fraction of what it used to be. Even on a good day you don’t think you could hold your breath for more than fifteen seconds, give or take. And the part that’s cosmically hilarious is that all the damage to the organs that carried you through the early years of your life has been entirely self-inflicted.
Not that the kid will ever know.
A quick glance at your cracked phone tells you that you’ve been sitting with the kid for close to ten minutes and there’s still no sign of the ride he’s supposedly waiting for. You can’t help the obnoxious surge of guilt that rears its hypocritical head when you consider cutting your losses and continuing on your way to the convenience store.
… … …
Fine, it’s not like you’ll die if you delay your body’s fix a little while longer. At least, you’re reasonably sure. Like, a solid 60% sure.
For reasons that you’ll never quite understand, the kid warms up to you at a breakneck speed. He’s soon practically talking your ear off at a mile a minute about the girl he’s going to all this trouble for. And, against all expectations for someone his age, he actually talks about something other than her body.
You end up sitting there in the twilight rain, not more than two working streetlights in sight, and just listen to him describe someone with the kind of attention to detail that only love can inspire. Almost two hours pass by in a flash, your hunger for a fresh smoke all but forgotten as you marvel at the purity of this kid’s affection for a girl you’ll never meet.
He recounts the time they’d gone to see a movie and a thunderstorm rolled in by the time they were leaving, revealing her intense aversion to thunder and lightning. A fact that he clearly views as a cute and endearing character trait, despite how easy it would be to tease someone for a fear like that.
Then he tells you about how much she apparently loves the holidays. When you ask ‘which one’, he just laughs and beeps out ‘all of them!’. Christmas, Halloween, Easter, Thanksgiving, it doesn’t matter. She just enjoys dressing up and spending time with the people she loves, regardless of the reason.
It eventually devolves into the kid listing out minor things that he loves about her, to the point where you’re almost worried that he might just turn into dust if this girl ever decides to break things off with him. You’ve seen love-struck people before (and you should know, you were once one of them), but this is almost on a whole other level.
It does make it a fair bit easier to understand why the kid is so willing to battle his way through the City’s roster of talent to force the girl’s parents to accept their relationship though. He’s certainly got the heart, but whether he has the skill is something that remains to be seen.
Eventually though, a nondescript, black van rolls into view with the Dearest emblem in place of a license plate and its headlights turned off. Details that instantly set the hairs on your neck standing on end. However, your worries do little to dissuade the kid from quickly hopping to his feet and walking forwards to meet the van.
You come dangerously close to reaching out and pulling him back, irrationally afraid that he’s unknowingly walking to his death, the phantom of your estranged daughter still lingering atop him. If it really were her, you’d rather let the underground’s King and Queen cut you open and eat the rotten fruit festering inside your guts than watch her get into a van that belongs to that purple skinned demon.
...But this isn’t your daughter. It’s just a stranger.
So, you do the one thing you can for a life that’s blissfully unconnected to your own.
“Hey, little man!”
The kid turns to face you, the van’s engine thrumming like a hungry beast as its doors slide open in front of him.
“...Remember to breathe.”
He looks surprised for but a moment before practically beaming a smile your way as he sends you a confident thumbs-up. If you didn’t know any better, you’d be willing to believe that the kid’s smile is the reason why the rain suddenly stops. You return the gesture, trying and failing to keep your hands steady all the while.
You’re about to let this bizarre chapter in your life come to a close, your thoughts turning back to the remaining distance standing between you and your next smoke, when the kid calls out to you in that chipper beep-boop voice of his.
“...My name?”
You can’t remember the last time someone asked you that. Can’t scrounge up an instance of someone caring enough to want a name to go along with the tired face, the decaying body and the bloodied hands.
“...It’s Garcello. What about you, little man?”
He boops out an answer before the van’s doors finally slam shut, dooming him to whatever fate he’s resigned himself to suffer through for that girl of his, and promptly roaring off into the night.
You stand next to the bench a while longer, mulling over everything. The forgotten sensation of being seen as a person, of knowing that someone else out there wants to remember you.
It feels… pretty good.
Good enough that, when you finally reach the store, you actually forget to grab a new pack of smokes. You fall asleep later that night with your head oddly free of pain and your chest warm with something that isn’t proof you’re already one foot in the grave.
Your last thought before blissful oblivion takes you for the four hours you have left until your next job is hoping things work out for the kid.
...Someone deserves to finally get a happy ending in this City.