Edgar (
hate_gettin_older) wrote2016-04-04 11:03 pm
Entry tags:
[milliways: kidplot]
What the hell is this place?
Edgar's only sure of three things: (1) it isn't the Tail, therefore (2) he's not supposed to be here, and (3) he's going to be in the worst kind of trouble if a guard sees him. Or anyone who'll call a guard.
The thing is, he's not sure how this could be the Front either. But he's not sure how it could be anyplace else.
For the moment, he's got to try and get out of sight. Maybe under one of those tables.
Edgar's only sure of three things: (1) it isn't the Tail, therefore (2) he's not supposed to be here, and (3) he's going to be in the worst kind of trouble if a guard sees him. Or anyone who'll call a guard.
The thing is, he's not sure how this could be the Front either. But he's not sure how it could be anyplace else.
For the moment, he's got to try and get out of sight. Maybe under one of those tables.

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"Are you playing hide and seek?"
If so, then Curtis promises he didn't see anything! He'll even say those exact words if anybody asks him.
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"Yeah," he mutters, trying hard to conceal the rush of wild hope that the Front kid might actually believe him.
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His loyalties have been decided! If the seeker'd found him first, things would be totally different, but as it stands: he's got your back, dirty kid under the table.
Satisfied, he heaves himself back upright to continue eating his burger. After a few minutes, he starts swinging his legs again, but in much smaller arcs this time so he doesn't hit Edgar.
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... and promptly feels guilty for lying to him.
He chews his lower lip, watching the kid's feet swinging.
"Hey," he whispers, after a long moment.
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"Yeah?"
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Curtis scrambles for a couple of french fries as he tries to assume an air of nonchalance. (Or what a ten-year-old considers nonchalance. It's gonna involve some too-casual whistling any second now.)
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(But this kid doesn't feel like Front, somehow.)
"Where'd you get that food?"
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Curtis almost points, then remembers at the last second and studiously nibbles on a french fry instead.
"Nobody's there, but stuff'll just show up if you ask for it." That half-excited, half-nervous grin comes back. "They've got everything. And it doesn't cost nothing."
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There's a faint roaring in his ears, like wind battering the walls of the train.
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Probably because the kids definitely outnumber the grown-ups right now.
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"Not even the guards?"
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(Curtis wants to look back under the table so bad. Just staring at the table in total confusion, like he's got X-ray vision, isn't as satisfying as staring at an actual person.)
Low, "You mean like cops? There's none of 'em around either."
Why would this kid be worried about cops?
...Wait.
"Are you in trouble?"
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"None of them around? Like, just now, or ... ever?"
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Okay, if they're actually gonna be talking a lot it'll be easier if Curtis isn't on a chair. After a surreptitious look left, and another right, to make sure nobody's watching him, Curtis grabs his plate and slides under the table next to Edgar.
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It takes every bit of self-control he's got to keep himself from lunging and grabbing the food.
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He's homeless, Curtis realizes, stunned. He's like the homeless people downtown.
(But he's just a kid, kids aren't supposed to be homeless -- )
Curtis sets down the food. Carefully, he tears the burger in half, making sure only one of the pieces has any teeth marks on it. "Here," he says, offering the unbitten half to Edgar. "You can have some of the fries too."
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-- and then he snatches the proffered piece of food and tears into it ravenously, oblivious for the moment to anything else.
It's hot, and layered in a bewildering complexity of flavors and textures, none of them anything like protein block, and there's some sharp and stinging taste buried in it somewhere but he can't make himself care.
(The half-burger is vanishing with alarming swiftness.)
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Maybe he should give him all the rest of his food -- even the candy and the bitten parts of the burger. He can probably get more for himself from the counter, right? They don't stop giving you stuff after you ask for food?
Maybe he'll just share for now and show the other kid how to get his own food later.
"My name's Curtis," he says after a minute. "What's yours?"
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It's a coincidence, he tells himself firmly as he finishes chewing. That's all.
(Curtis -- his Curtis -- isn't going to know where he is. He'll be worried, maybe even scared. He'll be angry.)
"'M Edgar," he mumbles, not looking up.
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"What's wrong?" he asks, smaller than he means.
What'd he say to make Edgar almost spit out his food?
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"There's, uh --" One foot jitters up and down with nervous energy as he gropes for unfamiliar vocabulary. "Something stings. In the food? Sharp, like."
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Curtis hesitates.
"You want me to get you another one? I can get it without the onions and stuff. And I've got candy up -- " He untucks himself and stretches up, face disappearing above the table. Two seconds later he's back with the bowl in both hands. "Here."
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