(i apologize in advance for how horrible this is and also how it doesn't really answer the prompt)
Pest remembered reading the Harry Potter books. Well, the first one at least; they were long, those books, and Pest never had a dependable attention span. But there was that line in the first book, the line about Harry being famous before he can walk or talk, being famous for something he can’t even remember, that seemed to snake into Pest’s mind as the days slipped by. It seemed unfair, that Harry got all this fame when he was a baby. That he got all that fame for doing nothing, for simply existing. They had done things, his friends had died, and they were stuck in the blank anonymity of the Block. Time marched on as before. No toasts to what they had accomplished, no mourning for those who’d fallen. Pest could see it in their eyes, as they walked by, heads lowered to avoid the remnants of the teenage gang; they were ignorant. Ignorant of what had happened, what they had done, what had been sacrificed and forged on this ground. Pest stared incredulously as they passed, spitting on the ground they had tread, not caring that he was marking some sacred ground.
Biggz couldn’t see clearly. The world seemed dim, out of focus, and everything was just out of reach. His head pounded whenever he walked past that bin. He tried to grasp the change, to make this new life something tangible, but it always slipped through his fingers. His mum was worried, that he could tell, but he didn’t know how to fix it, how to fix himself. They still haunted the old places, the remaining three, and Biggz watched the South Londoners walk by. The glimmer of trepidation in their eyes as they passed was real, it was familiar, but it wasn’t fit for this new world. They weren’t afraid of the teenagers; they were afraid of the idea of them. Word had spread like wildfire through South London of what these boys had supposedly done; the murdered policemen, the smashed police van, the damage inside the Block. And so young, Biggz could see them thinking as they walked by, speeding up to avoid contact. He shook his head, seeing Pest spit out of the corner of his eye. They had no idea.
Moses wasn’t surprised. He didn’t want the fame, anyway; he wanted to be left alone, to pretend that the world hadn’t changed, that Jerome and Dennis were simply off on holiday. He could tell that Pest and Biggz weren’t ready to talk about, to make this new life real, so they were simply silent. The absence was felt though, on street corners and in alleyways, in elevators and hallways. It still seemed unreal, even to Moses. He half expected reporters to stop him on the streets, asking him why he had decided to kill the first one, demanding to know why the attack was so localized. He was disappointed and relieved when they didn’t. His uncle came home a few weeks later, stinking of something Moses would rather not put a name to. Moses told him what had happened, as he quietly helped his uncle to bed, a dance he was accustomed to. Laughter bubbled in the back of his uncle’s throat, bursting forth in a bark. “Oh, boy,” he had said, “the stories you tell yourself. Sure, sure, you stopped an alien invasion. You’ll be asked to run for prime minister next. Everybody’ll be wanting you to protect this country.” Still laughing, he had drifted off to sleep. He didn’t want the fame, Moses told himself, watching uncle doze, he didn’t. He just wanted recognition.
Pest remembered reading the Harry Potter books. Well, the first one at least; they were long, those books, and Pest never had a dependable attention span. But there was that line in the first book, the line about Harry being famous before he can walk or talk, being famous for something he can’t even remember, that seemed to snake into Pest’s mind as the days slipped by. It seemed unfair, that Harry got all this fame when he was a baby. That he got all that fame for doing nothing, for simply existing. They had done things, his friends had died, and they were stuck in the blank anonymity of the Block. Time marched on as before. No toasts to what they had accomplished, no mourning for those who’d fallen. Pest could see it in their eyes, as they walked by, heads lowered to avoid the remnants of the teenage gang; they were ignorant. Ignorant of what had happened, what they had done, what had been sacrificed and forged on this ground. Pest stared incredulously as they passed, spitting on the ground they had tread, not caring that he was marking some sacred ground.
Biggz couldn’t see clearly. The world seemed dim, out of focus, and everything was just out of reach. His head pounded whenever he walked past that bin. He tried to grasp the change, to make this new life something tangible, but it always slipped through his fingers. His mum was worried, that he could tell, but he didn’t know how to fix it, how to fix himself. They still haunted the old places, the remaining three, and Biggz watched the South Londoners walk by. The glimmer of trepidation in their eyes as they passed was real, it was familiar, but it wasn’t fit for this new world. They weren’t afraid of the teenagers; they were afraid of the idea of them. Word had spread like wildfire through South London of what these boys had supposedly done; the murdered policemen, the smashed police van, the damage inside the Block. And so young, Biggz could see them thinking as they walked by, speeding up to avoid contact. He shook his head, seeing Pest spit out of the corner of his eye. They had no idea.
Moses wasn’t surprised. He didn’t want the fame, anyway; he wanted to be left alone, to pretend that the world hadn’t changed, that Jerome and Dennis were simply off on holiday. He could tell that Pest and Biggz weren’t ready to talk about, to make this new life real, so they were simply silent. The absence was felt though, on street corners and in alleyways, in elevators and hallways. It still seemed unreal, even to Moses. He half expected reporters to stop him on the streets, asking him why he had decided to kill the first one, demanding to know why the attack was so localized. He was disappointed and relieved when they didn’t. His uncle came home a few weeks later, stinking of something Moses would rather not put a name to. Moses told him what had happened, as he quietly helped his uncle to bed, a dance he was accustomed to. Laughter bubbled in the back of his uncle’s throat, bursting forth in a bark. “Oh, boy,” he had said, “the stories you tell yourself. Sure, sure, you stopped an alien invasion. You’ll be asked to run for prime minister next. Everybody’ll be wanting you to protect this country.” Still laughing, he had drifted off to sleep. He didn’t want the fame, Moses told himself, watching uncle doze, he didn’t. He just wanted recognition.
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