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Absolutely no violence in this one. Imagine it as about five hours after the previous.
***
5
The rain was pouring.
Not just your standard, run-of-the-mill pouring, but more of a when-did-I-fall-into-the-river? kind of pouring.
It soaked Roarke’s bones within minutes, but at least the soy dog and fizzy had taken the edge off of his stomach, and nearly tamed it.
The bird squawked unhappily, and forced her way back under the coat, finding a dry spot where the collar overhung the lining and his skin didn’t touch it.
Roarke was sorely tempted to drag her back out and make her suffer with him.
He snorted, turned, and furrowed his eyebrows, as nobody in their right mind- at least, anybody with a pocket worth picking- would be out in this shitty weather.
Most everybody would burrow into their homes, light a fire or turn up the climate control, and either burrow into a chair and talk to somebody or burrow into a bed and find a different way to pass the time.
There wasn’t a frigging punt or pound to be had, and there wouldn’t be for the rest of the day if the rain kept up.
Roarke shivered, rolled his shoulders.
Why can’t they ever let the roof have an overhang around here?
He would have maimed for a dry spot, and possibly killed for some warmth.
Fuck it all. His parents- smug bastards, he thought vindictively, and felt a bit better- were probably nice and warm in the forbidden upstairs.
If he dared to think of so much as crawling up the stairs, his fingers would be broken, depending on how far he went. Top of the stairs warranted one or two; further in was two or three; if he dared for the fireplace, he’d get four, in the form of two on both hands to allow pickpocketing.
He muttered a string of creative oaths in Gaelic, and felt a bit better.
Contrary to what many said, profanity did make things improve.
Lightning flashed overhead, and an instant later, thunder roared like a feral thing, causing Roarke- and the bird- to instinctively flinch.
And, even if he was cold, she burrowed into his side.
The truth was, even if Roarke had taken her small size into account and presumed her to be a kestrel, she was a very late-hatched thing, only seven weeks old.
And, as of now, very, very cold. She shivered, a foreign sensation to her, and tried to gather some warmth from his skin.
White wasn’t very conductive to absorbing weak late-fall sunlight, so, for the moment, she relied on Roarke.
Roarke took pity, pulled in his left arm- careful for the cuffs on the sleeves to not catch the burn that was soothed by the cool rain- and pressed his fingers under her matted feathers, spreading a spark of warmth between them.
The bird might have shuddered in thanks, or just shivered again.
Figuring it out, you and I, aren’t we?
The bird squirmed, chirped a few times unhappily.
I know it’s cold. You don’t need to tell me.
He would have gleefully slaughtered somebody for a fucking dry spot.
Move, he remembered. Keep moving. Don’t stop.
With a resigned sigh, he unglued himself from the side of his building, shuffled into the rain.
The wind blew, and then clawed angrily at his face.
That’s just fantastic. Fucking fantastic.
A hard line of pain knotted inside his right knee, courtesy of that nasty bruise, and bared its fangs.
Fucking fantastic.
If she’d just stayed in the nest, the bird thought mournfully, she could have huddled with the other hatchlings and had a shield in one of her parents. But no, she’d had to go off, be stupid, and show off her shiny new feathers that weren’t even fully developed.
How stupid could you be?
And now she was going to freeze to death inside a coat. With a human.
The shame of it all, she thought, and flexed her toes, the pain in her wing numbing. She would have given a great deal to go back to the warm nest, where food was always nearby.
Roarke shivered again, upped his pace to a brisk walk, desperately trying to warm up. A run was quite impossible with his knee, although the cold was dulling the pain.
Fuck it all! Wasn’t there a corner to be had?
Winter was a bitch, Roarke decided, pulling his arms inside the coat and wrapping his fingers around the bird, pulling her out of her pocket. The previous one had been alright, and the summer pleasant, but this one promised to be a bloody bitch from sodding hell.
His face was going numb.
Roarke shook his head, his hair whipping around his shoulders. He flicked his tongue over his lips, and muttered another inventive string of curses to warm them up.
“For the love of God,” he added, “does it have to be so cold?”
There was a church in the north, he knew. Sometimes it was warm, but it wouldn’t be on a day like this. His father had taken him there a few times, mostly just to make an impression on others. See? See the power I have? See how I can come right among you? See how much control I have over this runt?
It was one of very few places where he’d never been hurt.
He ran his tongue over his teeth as a hard gust of wind ripped into his skin, and turned the raindrops into little knives.
Need a dry spot, need a dry spot. Where?
All of the houses were sparing, the streets only offering meager benefits. The stalls in the black market’s square, however-
Yes!
Utterly forgetting the nice and numb bruise on the back of his knee, he broke into a run.
The stalls in the black market had tin roofs, Roarke remembered vividly. It was a place where you could buy smuggled- real – coffee in one spot, turn around and buy a boomer, and turn again and buy a shiv.
It was a place that bustled with life at nearly all hours of the day.
He slipped and nearly fell on his face, much to the bird’s chagrin, as she chattered angrily in a firm dressing-down.
“Shut up,” he muttered, regaining his feet and breaking back into a sprint, the motion sending warmth back into his limbs.
His breath misted in the cold air.
A turn here, a turn there…
Yes!
The stalls were fairly complex counter-like affairs the color of good, solid dirt, and despite their appearance- he knew because he’d seen it himself- they could be collapsed and carried away at the mere thought of the word garda.
Ignoring the ten or so others- it was a slow day- he homed in on a familiar face, strode over.
“Six-fingers,” Roarke began, “Fancy seeing your pretty face here today.”
Six-Fingers Logan, true to his name, drummed the fingers on his right hand- including his extra one- on his counter. “It’s a question of whose face is prettier, boy-o.”
“Ah, come on,” Roarke grinned, even though it hurt, thinking of the twenty-one pounds he still had in his pocket. “What’ve you got today?”
Despite himself, Logan smirked with distinct fondness. Whenever Roarke managed to save up a good bit of money- usually in credits- he came to Logan, who he’d met in very similar circumstances; the first rain he’d encountered, in fact.
He’d been running for it, desperately cold, when he’d chanced upon the black market and duck under the nearest stall.
And, even though they’d been startled by each other- so maybe Logan had nearly gutted him with a shiv- it was the start of a mutually beneficial partnership.
And even though he knew the boy could never afford it, he decided to show off the jewel of his latest shipment.
“Got a nice and shiny shiv in today,” Logan said, digging under the counter for it, as he’d decided to just possibly keep it for himself. “Imported from South Sudan,” he added reverently, pulling out a light-tan deerskin sheath. “Damn near impossible to break, sharp as a dog’s teeth, and as pretty as a naked woman.”
Roarke leaned onto his toes, interested.
Logan wrapped his fingers firmly around the shiny black handle of the thing- it glimmered in the light, but in a deliberate way- and slid it out of the sheath.
The blade was black, and somehow iridescent; as Logan twisted his wrist, the cords of color in the metal shifted and changed, going to pitch-black to silver to white and everything in between.
Knowing the boy had a strong sense of pride, Logan passed the knife to Roarke.
It was light, but solid enough for him to know exactly where it was; the balance fit him perfectly, and as his sliced at the air once or twice, he admired the straight, dagger-like shape of it, the little serrated teeth by the hilt.
“How much?” he asked reverently, handing back the knife.
“Intercepted shipment of American spec-ops equipment,” Logan continued. “Very, very black market, but untraceable, as it was carried to lovely Dublin Town in a smart man’s-“
“I don’t really need to know,” Roarke smirked. “How much for the knife, leaving out your smart man’s ingenuity, among other things?”
“Fourteen thousand pounds,” Logan said unhesitatingly.
Roarke leaned back on his heels. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Nope,” Logan said honestly. “It’s worth ten times that in the right spot, kid.” You’ll never afford it. I really want it for myself.
Roarke flexed his fingers.
He really wanted the shiv.
“Fourteen thousand, kid,” Logan repeated. “No less. I could get ten times that for it.”
Roarke looked at him distrustfully, but wriggled behind the counter, where it was quite dry, and pulled out the book he’d found- had it really been a couple days ago now?
Happily, it had been mostly spared from the rain.
He flicked through the first pages, settled in, and began to figure it out.
**
***
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
-Roarke
Fourteen Thousand
5
The rain was pouring.
Not just your standard, run-of-the-mill pouring, but more of a when-did-I-fall-into-the-river? kind of pouring.
It soaked Roarke’s bones within minutes, but at least the soy dog and fizzy had taken the edge off of his stomach, and nearly tamed it.
The bird squawked unhappily, and forced her way back under the coat, finding a dry spot where the collar overhung the lining and his skin didn’t touch it.
Roarke was sorely tempted to drag her back out and make her suffer with him.
He snorted, turned, and furrowed his eyebrows, as nobody in their right mind- at least, anybody with a pocket worth picking- would be out in this shitty weather.
Most everybody would burrow into their homes, light a fire or turn up the climate control, and either burrow into a chair and talk to somebody or burrow into a bed and find a different way to pass the time.
There wasn’t a frigging punt or pound to be had, and there wouldn’t be for the rest of the day if the rain kept up.
Roarke shivered, rolled his shoulders.
Why can’t they ever let the roof have an overhang around here?
He would have maimed for a dry spot, and possibly killed for some warmth.
Fuck it all. His parents- smug bastards, he thought vindictively, and felt a bit better- were probably nice and warm in the forbidden upstairs.
If he dared to think of so much as crawling up the stairs, his fingers would be broken, depending on how far he went. Top of the stairs warranted one or two; further in was two or three; if he dared for the fireplace, he’d get four, in the form of two on both hands to allow pickpocketing.
He muttered a string of creative oaths in Gaelic, and felt a bit better.
Contrary to what many said, profanity did make things improve.
Lightning flashed overhead, and an instant later, thunder roared like a feral thing, causing Roarke- and the bird- to instinctively flinch.
And, even if he was cold, she burrowed into his side.
The truth was, even if Roarke had taken her small size into account and presumed her to be a kestrel, she was a very late-hatched thing, only seven weeks old.
And, as of now, very, very cold. She shivered, a foreign sensation to her, and tried to gather some warmth from his skin.
White wasn’t very conductive to absorbing weak late-fall sunlight, so, for the moment, she relied on Roarke.
Roarke took pity, pulled in his left arm- careful for the cuffs on the sleeves to not catch the burn that was soothed by the cool rain- and pressed his fingers under her matted feathers, spreading a spark of warmth between them.
The bird might have shuddered in thanks, or just shivered again.
Figuring it out, you and I, aren’t we?
The bird squirmed, chirped a few times unhappily.
I know it’s cold. You don’t need to tell me.
He would have gleefully slaughtered somebody for a fucking dry spot.
Move, he remembered. Keep moving. Don’t stop.
With a resigned sigh, he unglued himself from the side of his building, shuffled into the rain.
The wind blew, and then clawed angrily at his face.
That’s just fantastic. Fucking fantastic.
A hard line of pain knotted inside his right knee, courtesy of that nasty bruise, and bared its fangs.
Fucking fantastic.
If she’d just stayed in the nest, the bird thought mournfully, she could have huddled with the other hatchlings and had a shield in one of her parents. But no, she’d had to go off, be stupid, and show off her shiny new feathers that weren’t even fully developed.
How stupid could you be?
And now she was going to freeze to death inside a coat. With a human.
The shame of it all, she thought, and flexed her toes, the pain in her wing numbing. She would have given a great deal to go back to the warm nest, where food was always nearby.
Roarke shivered again, upped his pace to a brisk walk, desperately trying to warm up. A run was quite impossible with his knee, although the cold was dulling the pain.
Fuck it all! Wasn’t there a corner to be had?
Winter was a bitch, Roarke decided, pulling his arms inside the coat and wrapping his fingers around the bird, pulling her out of her pocket. The previous one had been alright, and the summer pleasant, but this one promised to be a bloody bitch from sodding hell.
His face was going numb.
Roarke shook his head, his hair whipping around his shoulders. He flicked his tongue over his lips, and muttered another inventive string of curses to warm them up.
“For the love of God,” he added, “does it have to be so cold?”
There was a church in the north, he knew. Sometimes it was warm, but it wouldn’t be on a day like this. His father had taken him there a few times, mostly just to make an impression on others. See? See the power I have? See how I can come right among you? See how much control I have over this runt?
It was one of very few places where he’d never been hurt.
He ran his tongue over his teeth as a hard gust of wind ripped into his skin, and turned the raindrops into little knives.
Need a dry spot, need a dry spot. Where?
All of the houses were sparing, the streets only offering meager benefits. The stalls in the black market’s square, however-
Yes!
Utterly forgetting the nice and numb bruise on the back of his knee, he broke into a run.
The stalls in the black market had tin roofs, Roarke remembered vividly. It was a place where you could buy smuggled- real – coffee in one spot, turn around and buy a boomer, and turn again and buy a shiv.
It was a place that bustled with life at nearly all hours of the day.
He slipped and nearly fell on his face, much to the bird’s chagrin, as she chattered angrily in a firm dressing-down.
“Shut up,” he muttered, regaining his feet and breaking back into a sprint, the motion sending warmth back into his limbs.
His breath misted in the cold air.
A turn here, a turn there…
Yes!
The stalls were fairly complex counter-like affairs the color of good, solid dirt, and despite their appearance- he knew because he’d seen it himself- they could be collapsed and carried away at the mere thought of the word garda.
Ignoring the ten or so others- it was a slow day- he homed in on a familiar face, strode over.
“Six-fingers,” Roarke began, “Fancy seeing your pretty face here today.”
Six-Fingers Logan, true to his name, drummed the fingers on his right hand- including his extra one- on his counter. “It’s a question of whose face is prettier, boy-o.”
“Ah, come on,” Roarke grinned, even though it hurt, thinking of the twenty-one pounds he still had in his pocket. “What’ve you got today?”
Despite himself, Logan smirked with distinct fondness. Whenever Roarke managed to save up a good bit of money- usually in credits- he came to Logan, who he’d met in very similar circumstances; the first rain he’d encountered, in fact.
He’d been running for it, desperately cold, when he’d chanced upon the black market and duck under the nearest stall.
And, even though they’d been startled by each other- so maybe Logan had nearly gutted him with a shiv- it was the start of a mutually beneficial partnership.
And even though he knew the boy could never afford it, he decided to show off the jewel of his latest shipment.
“Got a nice and shiny shiv in today,” Logan said, digging under the counter for it, as he’d decided to just possibly keep it for himself. “Imported from South Sudan,” he added reverently, pulling out a light-tan deerskin sheath. “Damn near impossible to break, sharp as a dog’s teeth, and as pretty as a naked woman.”
Roarke leaned onto his toes, interested.
Logan wrapped his fingers firmly around the shiny black handle of the thing- it glimmered in the light, but in a deliberate way- and slid it out of the sheath.
The blade was black, and somehow iridescent; as Logan twisted his wrist, the cords of color in the metal shifted and changed, going to pitch-black to silver to white and everything in between.
Knowing the boy had a strong sense of pride, Logan passed the knife to Roarke.
It was light, but solid enough for him to know exactly where it was; the balance fit him perfectly, and as his sliced at the air once or twice, he admired the straight, dagger-like shape of it, the little serrated teeth by the hilt.
“How much?” he asked reverently, handing back the knife.
“Intercepted shipment of American spec-ops equipment,” Logan continued. “Very, very black market, but untraceable, as it was carried to lovely Dublin Town in a smart man’s-“
“I don’t really need to know,” Roarke smirked. “How much for the knife, leaving out your smart man’s ingenuity, among other things?”
“Fourteen thousand pounds,” Logan said unhesitatingly.
Roarke leaned back on his heels. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Nope,” Logan said honestly. “It’s worth ten times that in the right spot, kid.” You’ll never afford it. I really want it for myself.
Roarke flexed his fingers.
He really wanted the shiv.
“Fourteen thousand, kid,” Logan repeated. “No less. I could get ten times that for it.”
Roarke looked at him distrustfully, but wriggled behind the counter, where it was quite dry, and pulled out the book he’d found- had it really been a couple days ago now?
Happily, it had been mostly spared from the rain.
He flicked through the first pages, settled in, and began to figure it out.
**
