Fic: Chocolate (T)
Oct. 14th, 2011 10:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lenticularstudyTitle: Chocolate
Author: Rose Tinted Contact Lenses (lenticularstudy)
Fandom: Mass Effect
Characters: Male Shepard, OC (Emmie)
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Themes - crime, drugs, poverty, guns; brief violence; OC
Summary: He started on the streets. She's why he didn't stay on them.
Words: 2,555 approx.
Notes: Takes a little of "Old Friends" into account; some possible messing round with canon. For the Girl Saves Boy Ficathon 2011 (my first ever entry).
Old suits, long out of the current fashion. Grave expressions, but their eyes are flickering round the room, as if to take in every detail - as if something's about to attack them.
"We miss our brother more every day," one of them says to Lynette, sighing. "We figured we owed it to him."
Another looks around, stopping when he sees him. He begins to approach, saying to the others over his shoulder, "Yeah, that's him. Spitting image of his father."
His father? So, these are his uncles. Shouldn't he have heard of them before?
Finally reaching him, the stranger ruffles his hair; he grits his teeth, partly because he hates the action and partly because of what he catches on the man's breath - cigarette smoke, things he doesn't have a name for, and sewers. He almost misses the words muttered into his ear as the man leans over him. "Taken a long time to find you, kid. Sit up and shut up."
He nods, his mind blank except for the all-consuming wish that the guy get away from him; he, all of them, make him uneasy.
He pretends not to see the credit chits exchanged, pretends not to be unsettled by the cheesy grin they all simultaneously give Lynette as she says, "Shouldn't have any trouble with him. John's a good kid. Maybe a little serious sometimes, but... a good kid. We'll miss him." She smiles, reading the chit; he's known they were here to take him away for a few minutes, but it doesn't really register until he's being packed out of the door with the meagre possessions he has, trying to ignore the forceful hand on his back.
He takes one last look at the home before he turns to them, raising his eyebrows. "'Uncles'?"
One of them, somewhere near the back, mutters, "Kid's smarter than he looks."
Why have none of them used his name yet?
The tall, lanky guy at the front grins. "We're... some friends of your father's. He kept you pretty well-hidden, I've gotta say, but we're here now." He names each of his cohorts and then says, "I'm Sel, by the way. Welcome to your new life."
When they arrive at the empty, broken-down building, it takes him a moment to notice the age of some of the people leaning against the walls. That's when it hits him: he's just one more stray.
One more stray in the Reds.
He gets used to it, eventually. The dirt on the walls is the same, at least, as are the glares he receives from the some of them.
They never call him by his name; he's the youngest, so it's always simply "kid".
He's overheard the conversations - well, some of them - about how he's too young to do "the heavy stuff", so it's always the small things, enough to get them a few credits, but never to attract the law: mainly shoplifting, tagging walls - sometimes, on the better days, begging. He at least feels a little honest, doing that - hell, it's not like he doesn't need the money.
He hears the conversation a few months after he was "picked up", while packing away some of the gear; it's hushed, but not quite hushed enough.
"I don't think he's got his skills - worst thief I've ever seen. And try and give him any interesting jobs, he just shuts down, or tries to laugh it off. Don't know why we're spending credits on him." The man who he now knows to be Marv exhales a puff of cigarette smoke, as if discussing someone's life is everyday, boring.
He swallows. Being kicked out of the Reds means death. Simple as.
"Look, give the kid a chance." Sel's voice. "He's strong and he's pig-headed. He's got that of his father in him. He'll grow up right, if we let him."
Marv backs down, because you never argue with Sel, and his life is assured for just a little while longer.
Emmie comes a couple of years later - by now, he's tall enough to look Sel in the eye (taller, now he thinks about it), but they still call him "kid", knowing that he hates it. It's the same day they start him running.
He sneaks a glance: ebony skin, hair tied simply back, ragged clothes. About his age, maybe a little older. She saunters in like she owns their little hovel, giving everyone in the place a wide, slightly toothy smile, and the glance turns into an involuntary stare.
The first person she walks up to in the room is him, and her grin turns slightly wider as she leans on the wall next to him; he doesn't have to look up much from the crate he's sitting on, and he realises that she's surprisingly short. "John, right?"
Well, it's hardly like she could call him "kid" - still, it's been a long time since anyone used his name, and he likes it. He nods, frowning, and she holds out a hand. He half-wonders whether it would be possible for such a small girl to pull him up, then realises what she's doing and shakes it, feeling more than a little stupid.
"Emmie," she announces, as he stands. "I'm here for the runnin' too."
He nods again, and starts to walk to Sel; it takes a couple of minutes before he sees she's trailing behind him, unsure of where to go. "C'mon. He's this way."
"So he finally speaks!" She laughs - it has a good sound to it - then catches up with him, not even bothering to run. "How long you been with the Reds?"
He shrugs. "Three years. Give or take."
"Two hours. Give or take."
He knows perfectly well what's in the packets they're given; he also knows he wouldn't touch a drop of it - not that he hasn't had it offered. He's screwed-up enough without drugs, and every time he sees the shaking kids, thinner than the others, who can't get their fix, he knows he's right.
She just raises her eyebrows, turning the packet over, shrugs, and tucks it into her belt with a sigh. "It's somethin'."
He doesn't like talking about what they're carrying openly - almost like, if he pretends hard enough, he can convince himself he's not carrying it - but, as they're threading their way through the back streets, she frowns.
"What is this stuff?"
He shrugs, the old walls coming back up at such an unpleasant subject. "Fetches thousands of creds just for this." He looks at the tiny pack. "Comes from higher up. That's all I know."
"Why kids?"
That's what they are, he abruptly realises, looking at her wide, almost innocent eyes and thinking of his age when he was "found". Kids. "They're less harsh on us; figure we're just high-schoolers messing around. Often we get off with a warning, but I've heard of some that got busted. Short sentence. 'Lenience for age'."
She nods, the ever-present smile having left her face a while ago, and is silent for the rest of the journey.
They give the money to Sel, and, sitting in what's become his corner, as he looks dubiously at what he's been given to eat - shit, is it grey? - he hears familiar footsteps, and looks up to see Emmie sitting next to him. "Hey, loner."
"Uh... hey." He's concentrating more on getting whatever nutrition he can from... this.
"Just thought you ought to know... Sel's puttin' us on more jobs together."
He nods, unsure of what to say to that. "Right."
He's surprised by her "talent" - for someone so loud, who usually makes no effort to hide her footsteps, she's the best thief he's ever seen. Her small frame is usually to be seen wriggling through a window somewhere, and even he rarely notices when she swipes things from stores and traders.
She passes him the bar of - is that chocolate? He doesn't think he's seen it for years; it's a precious commodity, near impossible to find on the streets - while they're on a job, and he has to think back to work out where she could have taken it from. When he asks, she shakes her head, gives him another of her infectious grins. "Bought it fair an' square."
He stares at her, then at it, then at her again. "Sure you don't want this?"
She shakes her head again ("Your cut for the job, partner"), but he stops and gives her half, even with her loud protests echoing down the street. "No problem. Good stuff's hard to find round here."
It's then that he finally returns her smile, and he realises that it wasn't the chocolate he was talking about.
When he hits fifteen, the running stops, and Curt shoves the gun into his hand; he'd expected something used to cause such harm to feel cold, but it's warm from another's hands, almost comfortable in his grip - the fact is both pleasing and horrifying.
He swallows, mouth dry, and looks to Emmie - she's wearing the same expression as she did when she truly found out what the running was, her mouth tight, and her eyes never leave the weapon; she doesn't look at him once.
He wonders why there doesn't seem to be any surprise when he manages not to kill anyone, replacing the cartridge without shooting himself in the foot - years of cleaning up others' guns does that, he guesses.
It's only late at night, when he can't sleep, that he overhears Sel's voice once again, this conversation similar yet very different to the one he heard so many years ago: "He's inherited some of his father's talents, at least."
Not for the first time, he wonders who his father was, then decides it's probably better not to know; there's a rustle from a few feet away, and Emmie turns over on thin, moth-eaten blankets and looks him in the eye, her gaze and her mouth saying nothing, but he has to look away.
Soon after that, they stop calling him "kid", and the gun stops feeling quite so heavy in his hands.
Emmie glares at him whenever she sees him with it, even if it isn't out; just knowing it's there is enough, and she mutters, "Dunno why you take that thing wi' you."
"Self-defence," he answers simply, ignoring the murmur of disquiet in the back of his mind at her expression.
They're leaning against a wall, in one of the scummier back streets, when they see the promo on the side of a building.
His eyes flicker to it idly, and he mutters, "Alliance. Guess it'd just be one more gun to hold."
She gives him yet another stormy look, then relents, saying, "Might give you a chance to get off this rock."
He shrugs, turning her words over in his mind, and then Sel calls them; they run to find him, and he pretends to forget the advert.
He stops one day, takes a look at the signs at the nearest recruitment point; there's travel, sure (there's a sign indicating that recruits are taken to the base on the Citadel, that station where the rich and the aliens live), and the thought of fighting for something, not just to stay alive a little longer... He looks around, sees one of the soldier watching him, and moves away quickly, shaking his head. He's being an idiot - the Reds need him.
He's a couple of days away from his eighteenth birthday - Emmie's already hit it, and keeps making jibes about being an adult; she says it's one of the few things she still remembers from before the Reds - when he's given the job.
He frowns at Sel, noticing the now entirely grey hair and the new wrinkles on the man's face. "You want me to... what's the guy done?"
Sel shakes his head. "Nothin' you need to know about. Spread the word a little too far maybe, got us too famous with the wrong people." He gives him a solemn look. "You know what to do. This is how we deal with it."
He nods, trying to ignore the bile that rises at the back of his throat - the thought of actually using this thing on someone... he's shot many walls, but this? This is different.
Her expression is one of revulsion when he tells her just what the job is. "You're not gonna do it, are you?"
He shrugs, but he can't stand to meet her eye. "Better than getting thrown out of the Reds, I guess." It means he's alive for one more day, and that's all he can ask for.
"No. You're not." She looks at him, her eyes sad. "Sorry, John."
"Wha - ?" He feels his head hit the wall, and then the world goes black.
She is standing over him when he wakes, her expression stern. "Go. You're gettin' out of here."
He frowns, and then spots the gun - his gun - in her belt. "What're you doing?"
She shakes her head. "You're too young for this, haven' got blood on your hands. Me, I've got too much."
He stumbles to his feet, rubbing his head. Frustration rises in him at her cryptic answer, and he asks her, simply, "Why? Why this?"
"You need to move. Just, go, get outta here. You know what the Reds do to chickens." She sighs, looking down at the gun, still strapped to her hip, then back to him. "Simple truth is, I'm savin' you," she replies, placing a palm beneath his chin, "because there's somethin' in you still worth saving. Don't matter what they said about your papa, you were never born to be a Red."
Go? Where to? Her words from before ring in his head - "Might give you a chance to get off this rock."
"I... The Alliance," he decides. "Ship leaves today."
She gives him a smile, but her eyes are sad. "Good luck, Johnnie-boy."
Her lips are on his before he has time to register what's happening, and he thinks he tastes chocolate, then she's pushing him forward, looking over her shoulder. "I'll tell them. Now run."
He starts to say something, ask why she never told him, but has no idea what to say. Instead, he nods and runs.
He looks back once, and, when he does, she is still watching him, a small smile on her face.
He sees the looks some of the other recruits give him, and ignores them - instead, he looks out of the window, watching Earth disappear beneath him. She's down there, somewhere.
When they reach the atmosphere, he shuts his eyes and exhales, gradually becoming aware of something in his
pocket. He reaches down to get it, and forgets to breathe for a moment when he sees it, turning it over in his fingers. When did she - ? When he was unconscious, he guesses.
No note of explanation, no weapon. Just six carefully wrapped squares of chocolate.
Author: Rose Tinted Contact Lenses (lenticularstudy)
Fandom: Mass Effect
Characters: Male Shepard, OC (Emmie)
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Themes - crime, drugs, poverty, guns; brief violence; OC
Summary: He started on the streets. She's why he didn't stay on them.
Words: 2,555 approx.
Notes: Takes a little of "Old Friends" into account; some possible messing round with canon. For the Girl Saves Boy Ficathon 2011 (my first ever entry).
Chocolate
They're too cheap to afford datapads here, so it's a tattered, yellowing book he lowers to survey the group who have entered the room; with the noise of the other kids, he's been reading the same paragraph five times anyway.Old suits, long out of the current fashion. Grave expressions, but their eyes are flickering round the room, as if to take in every detail - as if something's about to attack them.
"We miss our brother more every day," one of them says to Lynette, sighing. "We figured we owed it to him."
Another looks around, stopping when he sees him. He begins to approach, saying to the others over his shoulder, "Yeah, that's him. Spitting image of his father."
His father? So, these are his uncles. Shouldn't he have heard of them before?
Finally reaching him, the stranger ruffles his hair; he grits his teeth, partly because he hates the action and partly because of what he catches on the man's breath - cigarette smoke, things he doesn't have a name for, and sewers. He almost misses the words muttered into his ear as the man leans over him. "Taken a long time to find you, kid. Sit up and shut up."
He nods, his mind blank except for the all-consuming wish that the guy get away from him; he, all of them, make him uneasy.
He pretends not to see the credit chits exchanged, pretends not to be unsettled by the cheesy grin they all simultaneously give Lynette as she says, "Shouldn't have any trouble with him. John's a good kid. Maybe a little serious sometimes, but... a good kid. We'll miss him." She smiles, reading the chit; he's known they were here to take him away for a few minutes, but it doesn't really register until he's being packed out of the door with the meagre possessions he has, trying to ignore the forceful hand on his back.
He takes one last look at the home before he turns to them, raising his eyebrows. "'Uncles'?"
One of them, somewhere near the back, mutters, "Kid's smarter than he looks."
Why have none of them used his name yet?
The tall, lanky guy at the front grins. "We're... some friends of your father's. He kept you pretty well-hidden, I've gotta say, but we're here now." He names each of his cohorts and then says, "I'm Sel, by the way. Welcome to your new life."
When they arrive at the empty, broken-down building, it takes him a moment to notice the age of some of the people leaning against the walls. That's when it hits him: he's just one more stray.
One more stray in the Reds.
He gets used to it, eventually. The dirt on the walls is the same, at least, as are the glares he receives from the some of them.
They never call him by his name; he's the youngest, so it's always simply "kid".
He's overheard the conversations - well, some of them - about how he's too young to do "the heavy stuff", so it's always the small things, enough to get them a few credits, but never to attract the law: mainly shoplifting, tagging walls - sometimes, on the better days, begging. He at least feels a little honest, doing that - hell, it's not like he doesn't need the money.
He hears the conversation a few months after he was "picked up", while packing away some of the gear; it's hushed, but not quite hushed enough.
"I don't think he's got his skills - worst thief I've ever seen. And try and give him any interesting jobs, he just shuts down, or tries to laugh it off. Don't know why we're spending credits on him." The man who he now knows to be Marv exhales a puff of cigarette smoke, as if discussing someone's life is everyday, boring.
He swallows. Being kicked out of the Reds means death. Simple as.
"Look, give the kid a chance." Sel's voice. "He's strong and he's pig-headed. He's got that of his father in him. He'll grow up right, if we let him."
Marv backs down, because you never argue with Sel, and his life is assured for just a little while longer.
Emmie comes a couple of years later - by now, he's tall enough to look Sel in the eye (taller, now he thinks about it), but they still call him "kid", knowing that he hates it. It's the same day they start him running.
He sneaks a glance: ebony skin, hair tied simply back, ragged clothes. About his age, maybe a little older. She saunters in like she owns their little hovel, giving everyone in the place a wide, slightly toothy smile, and the glance turns into an involuntary stare.
The first person she walks up to in the room is him, and her grin turns slightly wider as she leans on the wall next to him; he doesn't have to look up much from the crate he's sitting on, and he realises that she's surprisingly short. "John, right?"
Well, it's hardly like she could call him "kid" - still, it's been a long time since anyone used his name, and he likes it. He nods, frowning, and she holds out a hand. He half-wonders whether it would be possible for such a small girl to pull him up, then realises what she's doing and shakes it, feeling more than a little stupid.
"Emmie," she announces, as he stands. "I'm here for the runnin' too."
He nods again, and starts to walk to Sel; it takes a couple of minutes before he sees she's trailing behind him, unsure of where to go. "C'mon. He's this way."
"So he finally speaks!" She laughs - it has a good sound to it - then catches up with him, not even bothering to run. "How long you been with the Reds?"
He shrugs. "Three years. Give or take."
"Two hours. Give or take."
He knows perfectly well what's in the packets they're given; he also knows he wouldn't touch a drop of it - not that he hasn't had it offered. He's screwed-up enough without drugs, and every time he sees the shaking kids, thinner than the others, who can't get their fix, he knows he's right.
She just raises her eyebrows, turning the packet over, shrugs, and tucks it into her belt with a sigh. "It's somethin'."
He doesn't like talking about what they're carrying openly - almost like, if he pretends hard enough, he can convince himself he's not carrying it - but, as they're threading their way through the back streets, she frowns.
"What is this stuff?"
He shrugs, the old walls coming back up at such an unpleasant subject. "Fetches thousands of creds just for this." He looks at the tiny pack. "Comes from higher up. That's all I know."
"Why kids?"
That's what they are, he abruptly realises, looking at her wide, almost innocent eyes and thinking of his age when he was "found". Kids. "They're less harsh on us; figure we're just high-schoolers messing around. Often we get off with a warning, but I've heard of some that got busted. Short sentence. 'Lenience for age'."
She nods, the ever-present smile having left her face a while ago, and is silent for the rest of the journey.
They give the money to Sel, and, sitting in what's become his corner, as he looks dubiously at what he's been given to eat - shit, is it grey? - he hears familiar footsteps, and looks up to see Emmie sitting next to him. "Hey, loner."
"Uh... hey." He's concentrating more on getting whatever nutrition he can from... this.
"Just thought you ought to know... Sel's puttin' us on more jobs together."
He nods, unsure of what to say to that. "Right."
He's surprised by her "talent" - for someone so loud, who usually makes no effort to hide her footsteps, she's the best thief he's ever seen. Her small frame is usually to be seen wriggling through a window somewhere, and even he rarely notices when she swipes things from stores and traders.
She passes him the bar of - is that chocolate? He doesn't think he's seen it for years; it's a precious commodity, near impossible to find on the streets - while they're on a job, and he has to think back to work out where she could have taken it from. When he asks, she shakes her head, gives him another of her infectious grins. "Bought it fair an' square."
He stares at her, then at it, then at her again. "Sure you don't want this?"
She shakes her head again ("Your cut for the job, partner"), but he stops and gives her half, even with her loud protests echoing down the street. "No problem. Good stuff's hard to find round here."
It's then that he finally returns her smile, and he realises that it wasn't the chocolate he was talking about.
When he hits fifteen, the running stops, and Curt shoves the gun into his hand; he'd expected something used to cause such harm to feel cold, but it's warm from another's hands, almost comfortable in his grip - the fact is both pleasing and horrifying.
He swallows, mouth dry, and looks to Emmie - she's wearing the same expression as she did when she truly found out what the running was, her mouth tight, and her eyes never leave the weapon; she doesn't look at him once.
He wonders why there doesn't seem to be any surprise when he manages not to kill anyone, replacing the cartridge without shooting himself in the foot - years of cleaning up others' guns does that, he guesses.
It's only late at night, when he can't sleep, that he overhears Sel's voice once again, this conversation similar yet very different to the one he heard so many years ago: "He's inherited some of his father's talents, at least."
Not for the first time, he wonders who his father was, then decides it's probably better not to know; there's a rustle from a few feet away, and Emmie turns over on thin, moth-eaten blankets and looks him in the eye, her gaze and her mouth saying nothing, but he has to look away.
Soon after that, they stop calling him "kid", and the gun stops feeling quite so heavy in his hands.
Emmie glares at him whenever she sees him with it, even if it isn't out; just knowing it's there is enough, and she mutters, "Dunno why you take that thing wi' you."
"Self-defence," he answers simply, ignoring the murmur of disquiet in the back of his mind at her expression.
They're leaning against a wall, in one of the scummier back streets, when they see the promo on the side of a building.
His eyes flicker to it idly, and he mutters, "Alliance. Guess it'd just be one more gun to hold."
She gives him yet another stormy look, then relents, saying, "Might give you a chance to get off this rock."
He shrugs, turning her words over in his mind, and then Sel calls them; they run to find him, and he pretends to forget the advert.
He stops one day, takes a look at the signs at the nearest recruitment point; there's travel, sure (there's a sign indicating that recruits are taken to the base on the Citadel, that station where the rich and the aliens live), and the thought of fighting for something, not just to stay alive a little longer... He looks around, sees one of the soldier watching him, and moves away quickly, shaking his head. He's being an idiot - the Reds need him.
He's a couple of days away from his eighteenth birthday - Emmie's already hit it, and keeps making jibes about being an adult; she says it's one of the few things she still remembers from before the Reds - when he's given the job.
He frowns at Sel, noticing the now entirely grey hair and the new wrinkles on the man's face. "You want me to... what's the guy done?"
Sel shakes his head. "Nothin' you need to know about. Spread the word a little too far maybe, got us too famous with the wrong people." He gives him a solemn look. "You know what to do. This is how we deal with it."
He nods, trying to ignore the bile that rises at the back of his throat - the thought of actually using this thing on someone... he's shot many walls, but this? This is different.
Her expression is one of revulsion when he tells her just what the job is. "You're not gonna do it, are you?"
He shrugs, but he can't stand to meet her eye. "Better than getting thrown out of the Reds, I guess." It means he's alive for one more day, and that's all he can ask for.
"No. You're not." She looks at him, her eyes sad. "Sorry, John."
"Wha - ?" He feels his head hit the wall, and then the world goes black.
She is standing over him when he wakes, her expression stern. "Go. You're gettin' out of here."
He frowns, and then spots the gun - his gun - in her belt. "What're you doing?"
She shakes her head. "You're too young for this, haven' got blood on your hands. Me, I've got too much."
He stumbles to his feet, rubbing his head. Frustration rises in him at her cryptic answer, and he asks her, simply, "Why? Why this?"
"You need to move. Just, go, get outta here. You know what the Reds do to chickens." She sighs, looking down at the gun, still strapped to her hip, then back to him. "Simple truth is, I'm savin' you," she replies, placing a palm beneath his chin, "because there's somethin' in you still worth saving. Don't matter what they said about your papa, you were never born to be a Red."
Go? Where to? Her words from before ring in his head - "Might give you a chance to get off this rock."
"I... The Alliance," he decides. "Ship leaves today."
She gives him a smile, but her eyes are sad. "Good luck, Johnnie-boy."
Her lips are on his before he has time to register what's happening, and he thinks he tastes chocolate, then she's pushing him forward, looking over her shoulder. "I'll tell them. Now run."
He starts to say something, ask why she never told him, but has no idea what to say. Instead, he nods and runs.
He looks back once, and, when he does, she is still watching him, a small smile on her face.
He sees the looks some of the other recruits give him, and ignores them - instead, he looks out of the window, watching Earth disappear beneath him. She's down there, somewhere.
When they reach the atmosphere, he shuts his eyes and exhales, gradually becoming aware of something in his
pocket. He reaches down to get it, and forgets to breathe for a moment when he sees it, turning it over in his fingers. When did she - ? When he was unconscious, he guesses.
No note of explanation, no weapon. Just six carefully wrapped squares of chocolate.
