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The shadows were always the same, no matter the planet or city or neighbourhood. All he needed was night and buildings, narrow back streets with their rubble and stench, the hidden part of everyone's existence. The seedy underbelly. He'd enter, the black cloak wrapped around him, hood pulled low, hiding his face, and he'd melt into it all, the mess, the smell, the dirty life. The shadows.
And he would smile.
He always heard words of praise, for his fair hair, his bright eyes, his smile that made people think of sunshine, he heard words of praise for his soothing voice, his clever, gentle hands, his lips... All those words were irrelevant, empty phrases, dissolving into the darkness of back alleys, but he didn't mind. Not any more.
He was barely making any sound, feet touching the ground with care, finding the way through the mess of the concrete path with ease coming from years of practice. The cloak swished around him ever so slightly, catching into the rubbish here and there but then still following, like a faithful companion, not staying behind for too long. He found the door easily, a slightly darker indent in the wall, and he smiled, the same bright smile as always, hand tightening over the smooth wood of his staff.
They'd laugh at him sometimes, his crewmates, asking why he kept carrying this thing around still. It's not like he had to pretend to be a cleric any more, and even if, the bag with his med-glove would be enough for any official to leave him alone. Mark would just shake his head and say he was just a sentimental sap, unable to get rid of any rubbish at all, not the staff, not the cloak, nothing. They would laugh even more at that, as if he was joking, but the truth was, he wasn't. He was a sentimental sap and his staff... it was part of his past he didn't think he could ever get rid of, even if he wanted to.
The door felt cool under his hands as he stroked the surface until he found a warmer spot, and then he tapped against it gently with the end of his staff, smiling wider as the faint light started shining from it. Two hair-thin wires shot out of the small hole at the top of the stick, latching themselves to the door and the hidden device hummed softly in Mark's grip, starting the work.
He wasn't a brute, he was a gentle man, with his sweet smile and careful hands, and he'd never just barge into anyone's house, anyone's business – anyone's computer system. No, he was a gentle man, quiet and efficient in finding cracks and openings, loopholes he could use and sneak in without being noticed, without making a mess, just touching a thing or two on his way, altering them ever so slightly and leaving like a ghost, no sound, no sign, just a bit of a profit gained.
His crew needed a safe way out, in case something went wrong, and he was here now to make sure of it, to make sure the man on the other side of this door couldn't lock them, even if he wanted to, couldn't make the exit impossible in any artificial way. The holo keyboard shone faintly against his palm as Mark quickly typed lines of code, no needing to see the graphic image of it to know it worked. It was all in his head, always been, and he needed very few devices to put it to use. He really was efficient.
There was a sound then, all of a sudden, a rustle and a quiet gasp, and Mark froze still, barely breathing, tight and ready for anything that would come if he was discovered. But nothing came, and his staff rumbled once again, the wires retracting and the glow fading. His work was done, at least, and so he grabbed the heavy piece of wood, spinning around to face whoever was there to pursue him – but there was no one there. Just another tiny rustle and another hitching intake of a breath.
There, to his left, a pile of rubble shifted ever so slightly, and Mark moved forward, fast and determined, one step, two, crouch, reach out to grab a warm, squirmy thing – a skinny hand, of a skinny kid, trashing and gasping again but not making any louder sounds.
A street kid, Mark knew instantly. The one who minds their own business, stays hidden, stays quiet, sees everything. In a way it was even worse than being caught by the guards of the door owner, and the first thought that went through Mark's head was the one that made him cringe in disgust. Yes, there was an easy solution, but no, he wasn't going to kill anyone tonight.
He could hear a fast, frantic breathing of the kid, he could feel the tremble of kid's body, but the little one was smart already, just sitting there, just watching, just waiting for Mark's next move without doing anything to provoke or betray the kid's own feelings and abilities, or lack thereof. Smart kid, great danger... unless you're a friend.
Mark smiled, knowing very well that the little rat's eyes could see the change on his face, despite the darkness. He smiled because he knew already how to solve it. He knew a lot about smart kids, kids who spent their nights in dark back alleys, kids who knew it's wiser to sit and wait before acting. He let go of the skinny arm and moved his hand to his face, finger against mouth, a shushing sound barely louder than a breath, before he reached under his robes.
There it was, a small, familiar shape, a smooth touch of leather with coolness of metal over it. A small dagger slid our of its sheath and into his hand with just a flick of a finger, and the next moment he was reaching out, presenting it to the kid, handle first.
“Stay smart, little one,” he murmured, smiling once more before dropping the weapon on the kid's lap. “Stay smart and use it wisely, and you'll go far.”
His cape swished and rustled when he got up and turned around, jumping back into the darkness of the alley and back to where he came from. He didn't need to wait and see what the kid would do. He knew they'd do exactly the same thing he had, back in the day. A knife was a bright future in an alley like this one, in this city, on this planet, and Mark was glad he had one to share.
With one last glance over his shoulder, he pulled the hood over his head and stepped onto the brighter main street. His crew was waiting for him.