Ladies And Gentlemen, Listen Up Please: Mike (4/29)
Title: Ladies And Gentlemen, Listen Up Please: Mike (4/29)
Pairing: Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray, Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce, minor Artie Abrams/Tina Cohen-Chang
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: AU
Summary: “Sometimes, people are born a little different.”
Chicago is not a safe haven for little boys. It serves its purpose well enough for a grand array of other types: thieves, criminals, taxicab drivers. But boys? Boys don’t last long here. It isn’t safe, and it isn’t nice, and it just is not the kind of city an eleven-year-old should be roaming by himself. Not this part of the city, anyway.
Regardless of this fact, Mike Chang does all right for himself.
He moves down the street, careless of the signs and cars, dodging throngs of people without pause. His is a bizarre sort of grace, the kind that makes other people uneasy when he drifts by them with all the corporeal intensity of a ghost. Sometimes, instead of walking, he dances; their gazes turn awestruck then, their lips turning up in quirkily-astonished smiles. He prefers that, but overall, it doesn’t matter. It’s not like anyone sees him much anyway.
His feet encased in Chuck Taylors so hole-ridden, his grimy socks peek through in numerous places, he trots through a crosswalk. It has been a good enough day-not great, but Mrs. Lowell made a pretty solid pancake breakfast, and none of the other kids tried to swipe his juice this time.They’re learning, he thinks with satisfaction, that nothing good ever comes of picking on him. They’re learning to leave him be, operating on the realization that he wants only solitude and will, in return, offer security of his own very special sort.
All in all, it could be much worse; the life of a foster kid isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, for some.
Of course, he’s not exactly Little Orphan Annie or that Oliver kid, or whatever other stupid interpretations of parent-less pipsqueaks movies have to offer either. He’s just Mike. And Just Mike gets by fine and dandy, as long as no one is chugging his allotted morning apple juice behind his back.
It’s best on days like this, when his chores are done early and he’s allowed to roam free. Mrs. Lowell kind of hates his tendency toward walks like these, of course; she believes their fair city is a dangerous, chaotic hell of a place. Mike, being one of the smallest of her charges, makes her especially anxious.
The fact is, though, Mike’s size also makes him abnormally quick, and he’s as light on his feet mentally as in the literal sense. Eleven years are just long enough for a person to determine the quickest route to invisibility, and Mike has it down pat. He is rarely messed with, and when he is-he runs.
So far, it’s worked pretty much like a charm.
The kids in the home have gotten the point, and so have the good people of Chicago-although, for once, it’s the kids who have a better idea of why. Adults leave him alone because they can sense something strange hovering below his generally-calm surface, and because-in short-he weirds them out.
Kids leave him alone because he can destroy them with a word.
It isn’t anything so inhumane or ferocious as it sounds, of course; Mike likes to think of himself as something of a pacifist, and, even if this weren’t the case, he isn’t much for fistfights. There’s only so much speed and fancy footwork can do in an actual brawl, and he isn’t a fan of his chances in such a situation. No, the destruction is entirely of the reputation variety.
Simply put, Mike Chang knows things.
They’re things he shouldn’t precisely know-things only certain people are privvy to. Secrets, to put a fine enough point on it. Secrets are kind of Mike’s thing, his raison d’etre of sorts. He knows them, often without trying, and he’s very good at keeping them close to his chest.
Or, should the need arise, at dropping them like tokens down a wishing well.
It’s a strange feature of his personality, one he’s never quite been able to locate the source of. It isn’t that he is told these secrets because he’s trustworthy-although he likes to believe he is a fairly upright individual, all quiet and gentle. The thing about secrets is that he sort of…gravitates towards them. Or they gravitate towards him. He’s unable to put his finger directly on that button, but the endgame is the same either way.
Mike Chang knows secrets. He can sense them. He’s good at it.
And as long as this has been the case, the other kids have let him be.
It’s a good enough system; no one gets in trouble, no feelings get hurt, Mrs. Lowell never knows a thing is wrong. Above all, Mike gets to go on these walks, moving swiftly and carefully through crowds that couldn’t care less about his existence. No one follows him. No one questions him. He is a bird, a dove in a clear sky. He is happy-or as near as he’s been in years, anyway.
He takes a right at the next corner, kicking a Pepsi can into the gutter and jamming his hands into his pockets. This secret-knowing thing is good for a number of reasons, and he’s coming up fast on the best one of all. Sure, being left to his own devices is pretty awesome, but what lies around this upcoming set of buildings makes the chance to read quietly without interruption look petty and childish.
He’s nearly skipping when he reaches the line of tables, his eyes darting excitedly from one grizzled face to the next. Experience has taught him to be cool, to walk slowly and contain whatever anticipation is eating him alive-these men are entirely capable of taking apart an overzealous young boy, after all-but it’s hard to keep a lid on his energy. This is the highlight of his week, the pinnacle moment in the midst of dull days. He’s allowed to enjoy it a little. He’s allowed to have something.
Although, to be honest, it isn’t like he’s forgetting the reality of the situation. He isn’t toying around here. This isn’t about entertainment value or sheer boredom.
Mike Chang is here to work.
The first man catches his eye, curious and amused, and Mike can sense what he’s thinking: new meat. Chump of the day. Target practice, really. He grins.
“Hi!”
It’s all about the show, he knows. These men operate on instinct, hardened and calculating. If they feel, even for a moment, something might be off, he’s toast. It’s happened before, and it’s the reason he is constantly looking for new corners to work. Sticking with the same old tables is a fool’s move, one he is too cautious to make. The show is absolutely everything-putting it on, and knowing exactly when to cut it short and move on again.
“What’s up, kid?” the man asks easily, eyebrows arching over his chipped sunglasses. Mike can read the interest on his face, the unasked question: What’s a kid your age doing mucking about down here?
“Just lookin’,” he replies, shifting from one foot to the other. A picture of ineptitude and innocence. It’s exactly the perfect bait.
And, of course, the man doesn’t take a second to bite.
“Lookin’s well and good, kid, but this here’s a man’s game. You either got what it takes or you don’t, but either way, I can’t have you gaping at my wares like a minnow. Wanna play or not?”
The trick here is not to look too eager, nor too disinterested. There’s a perfect balance, one Mike has spent months testing out in front of the Lowell’s bathroom mirror. He allows it to slide over his features now, dark eyes going wide, lips curling tight over his teeth in a determined scowl.
“I’ll play.”
Of course he will-no boy his age could resist such a challenge. The difference is, most boys his age would be utterly useless in a situation like this; it requires finesse and focus of the highest order.
It doesn’t hurt to be extraordinarily gifted either.
The man smirks, nudging his glasses down his nose and fingering the bent cards on his folding table. “It ain’t free, boy.”
Silently, Mike frees his hand from the pocket of his threadbare jeans, plunking a handful of change and bills upon the table. Five dollars in all-not much, but enough to peak the guy’s interest. Money is money.
Clearly agreeing with the unspoken sentiment, the man runs his fingertips along one tarnished quarter. “Solid. Let’s do this shit.”
He flips the middle card-the Jack of Diamonds-up and down again. The reveal. His hands begin to move, slow as can be. He’s humoring Mike, patronizing him, but the boy doesn’t take it personally. It’s just the way the game works-the hook is essential to pull in the real cash. Without a little optimism, no one would stick around long enough to lose big.
“Follow good and close,” the man intones, grinning wide as the Cheshire cat. “Keep your eyes on the prize, my man, don’t look away, don’t look away. Keep Jack in the hole, keep Jack in your line, don’t take your gaze away for even a minute. Find him and double your droppings. Lose him, lose it all. Follow, follow, follow.”
He stops, spreading his arms. “Point him out, little dude.”
It’s easy-so easy that Mike doesn’t even have to try. It’s supposed to be. He points.
Flip-Jack it is. The man’s eyebrows waggle.
“Ten buckeroos to you, my man, big winnings. What say we go higher? You got a few more shillings in that mothball you call a pocket?”
Obediently, Mike plasters a dumbass grin across his cheeks and draws out five more singles. “I got it. Do you?”
It’s just the right flavor of cocky, judging by the man’s self-satisfied smirk. Mike allows himself a moment of pride before zeroing in again, focusing all his energy upon the cards, the table, the card shark in his shoddily-woven cowboy hat and Kurt Cobain flannel shirt. This time won’t be so obvious-not with the hook buried so neatly under his skin. The man will be trying this time, actively working to strip Mike of his money and his self-confidence.
There’s a sort of poetic justice to what’s about to happen.
The cards begin to flow again, hand to hand, table to palm and back again. The Jack is jumping, too flashy and rapid to follow. It doesn’t matter; Mike hasn’t spared a glance at the bent corners of the three cards even once.
He stares instead at the man, drinking in his image, soaking up the intricacies of his stance, his smile, the flick and flip of his fingertips. Silently, he memorizes every visible inch, waiting for it all to click together.
And then, in the next instant, it does. He sees it like he’s watching a movie, a silver-clear painting upon the man’s thin, bearded face. He sees it-the secret, the truth-and he smiles.
It’s not a guess. It’s not an estimation. He knows where the Jack lies.
Without a second glance, he points left. The man’s smile droops.
“Got it,” Mike says calmly, reaching out a hand and wiggling his fingers. “Pay up, dude.”
The man’s mouth twitches, a sure sign that he’s about to question the exchange. Mike’s feet itch to carry him instantly away, leaving the money and this corner behind. He’s been caught before-not often, not by many, but enough to leave him more than a little gunshy. It’s impossible to explain the things he can do, and even worse when Mrs. Lowell tuts over a black eye or a busted lip. Better to run, to flee, to leave the twenty measly bucks on the table. It will give him the chance, at least, to try again tomorrow.
But the man doesn’t say anything about it; he simply slips a wrinkled ten from his shirt pocket and lets it fall wordlessly onto the small mound already on the table. Eyes narrowed, he watches as Mike reaches slowly for his winnings.
“Wait,” he says before slim fingers can touch down. “One more.”
It’s a dangerous ploy. It isn’t that he can’t do it again-Mike is pretty sure he could keep this trick up all day, if need be. The thing is, his own self-imposed rules are simple and direct: never take so much in one go-round that suspicions are stirred. And, should such suspicions be brought to light, never stick around to wait them out. Not again. Never again.
Twenty bucks is, for an eleven-year-old, enough. More than. He doesn’t need to go again.
“Why?” he asks, fighting to keep the nerves from his voice. “I won. Fair and square.”
“That you did,” the man agrees thinly, touching a hand to the brim of his hat. “But luck’s a pretty fickle bitch, kid. I want to see what she’s got riding on you.”
It’s dangerous, but the guy flicks a speedy hand out to reveal another twenty, and Mike can practically smell the new bike he’s been saving for. He shakes his head uneasily.
“I don’t have anything else on me.”
The man raises one finger, smiling coldly. “You’ve got that.”
He’s looking at the chain around Mike’s wrist, glinting silver in the sunlight. It’s a simple thing, unassuming. Mike covers it instinctively.
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?” the man jibes. “Afraid you can’t do it again? Come on, kid, it’s just a damn trinket, and besides-with your eyes, what’s the danger?”
Mike chews his lip contemplatively. It’s a situation he would rather not be in; it’s true that he could win without a problem, and he’d be that much closer to the bright red ten-speed in the window of the local bike shop for it. However, he’d also be a little more banged up than he’d prefer, since no shark takes being licked three times in a row lying down.
The only other choice, though, is to lose this chain. And that’s not something Mike will ever be willing to do.
“Fine,” he grouses, pulling his hand back without removing a single dime. “One more. Then I’m going home.”
The man doesn’t dignify his words with a response. Green eyes flashing over the tops of his sunglasses, he flicks the Jack up, almost too quickly to be seen, and begins the shuffle.
It’s ridiculous in velocity, almost sloppy; twice, the man nearly flings all three cards off the table. Another player might be concerned by the messy display, but Mike has seen similar approaches before. It’s all part of the show: make the casual observer believe the shark is losing his touch, and over-confidence will do the rest. It’s a good trick.
Mike’s is better.
He points left.
The man’s fist sinks into the table, wretched. The Jack leaps, a desperate bid for freedom, caught at the last second before escaping onto the next gentle breeze.
“You cheated,” he snaps, accusatory. Mike raises his hands, shrugging.
“Can’t cheat at chance.”
“Had jack shit to do with chance, kid,” the man growls, leaning forward on his hands. “You fucking cheated.”
“There’s no proof of that,” Mike replies, a little more anxiously than he’d like. Swiftly, he makes to sweep the money into his pocket.
A strong hand closes around his wrist. “You weren’t even looking at the cards,” the man insists, eyebrows furrowed. “You didn’t even try, but you got it anyway. Tell me how the fuck you did that, you little twerp.”
Mike winces. The man’s grip is harsh; his fingers squeeze until the bones in the boy’s wrist twist and rub together unpleasantly. This will be harder to explain than a simple shiner.
“Let go,” he mumbles, doing his best to contain the fear rising in his throat. “Let go, I have to go home.”
“Not until you tell me,” the man snarls, employing more pressure. Mike feels his whole back arch, struggling to wriggle free.
“There’s nothing to tell!” he cries. “I just guessed, I just played the game. Let go.”
“I don’t believe that,” the man says softly, threateningly. “I’ve seen some damn funny shit in this city, kid. Some damn funny people. I think you’re one of them.”
“One of who?” Mike whines, bracing his feet against the concrete and heaving his entire body backwards desperately. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, man, I just want to go home.”
He doesn’t like the way the guy’s eyes have clouded over, blazing above his sunglasses. Most sharks get pissed when they’re beaten, but few actually guess at the reason. He’s never had to explain his way out before, and he’s liked it that way. Explanations usually requre actual knowledge, and if there’s one thing Mike doesn’t have, it’s a full understanding of the things he can do.
“Listen, you little punk,” the man hisses, jerking Mike straight into the table. His hips cry out as they connect with the front bar. “I know there’s something up with you. You didn’t look at the cards when they were flying, not fucking once, and that’s just not natural. I’m good at what I do-good enough to know there is no way in hell you picked up the mark three times without trying. Something’s jacked here, and you are going to tell me what it is. Now.”
When Mike doesn’t move to reply, the man shrugs. “Or,” he adds almost carelessly, then snaps the hand around the boy’s wrist until the bones threaten to shatter completely. Mike resists the urge to scream.
“All right!” he yelps, clenching his eyes against the white-hot starburst of pain. “All right!”
“All right what?” the man mutters, easing up a fraction of an inch.
“I-I cheated,” Mike whimpers. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’ll give it back, just please, don’t hurt-“
“How,” the man enunciates, “did you cheat? Little brat like you, I can’t imagine you’re very smart. Had to be something else. Something…weird. Care to share, punk-ass?”
Mike’s tongue feels heavy inside his mouth, his head throbbing with terror. This is bad, very bad, worse than a couple of punches or a damaged wristbone. People like him, they don’t do so well under the hot lights of interrogation. He knows from the movies, from the comic books Mrs. Lowell slides into his desk each month, that differences like his can be deadly. People don’t understand, and what they don’t understand, they study, and prod, and break.
The grip around his wrist tightens again. His bracelet digs in deep, biting the skin.
He doesn’t have a choice. His next foster home is bound to be a jail cell-or worse, a laboratory. Closing his eyes, he inhales.
The grip weakens.
Dark eyes snap open, baffled. Looking strangely passive, strangely serene, the man releases him and steps jerkily backwards.
“What the-“ Mike swivels, glancing over both shoulders. The man’s teeth come into light, but it isn’t a smile so much as a forced grimace. As if someone is prompting him with unseen cue cards.
Mike can do some strange things, but he certainly can’t do this.
Behind him, a clear voice rings out. “Now would be a perfectly good time to leave, I think.”
It’s a girl, shorter than him by a couple of inches, with a dark brown ponytail and a nose slightly too big for her face. Her eyes are serious, fixed firmly upon the man behind the table, her small fists flexing against the sides of her sundress.
“Now,” she says again, voice taut with effort. “I can’t hold him for long. Move.”
He gapes at her, and those deep brown eyes roll. “Please,” she adds almost snarkily. The man behind the table gives a little twitch. She bites her cheek.
Mike turns and dashes back the way he originally came, past vendors and tables manned by people who won’t remember his face ten minutes from now. Thirty seconds later, the girl follows, her skirt raging around her skinny pumping legs.
They run until the street clears out into devil-may-care shoppers and business suits going about their day-to-day, stopping at last in front of a bookstore Mike has been known to live inside on rainy days. There, the girl brushes a wisp of hair from her eyes, plants her hands on her hips, and glares with the force of the sun.
“What,” she says sharply, “were you doing back there?”
His wrist still smarts a little, but the money is heavy in his pocket, and there is no sign of the angry card shark. Mike straightens up.
“Nothing,” he replies smoothly.The girl’s forehead creases.
“I find it very difficult to believe that a boy your age was fooling around in some…alley without a purpose. Honestly, do you not value your life in the slightest? Do you know the kinds of things that happen in cities like these to idiots like you? Molestation, abuse, kidnapping-“
“I can handle myself,” Mike interjects. She huffs.
“I think not. I shudder to think what would have become of you if I hadn’t shown up-“
“I was fine,” he grumbles. “I’m a big boy.”
“You’re an idiot,” she corrects primly, smoothing her dress. “But not without talent, I see. What is it, some sort of mind-reading?”
It’s lucky, Mike thinks, that he’s so good at shrouding his feelings. The girl’s question just about stops his heart.
“Um,” he says ungracefully. “Not really. Just…I’m good at finding the truth about things. Telling them from the lies.”
She nods like it’s what she expected. “Very good. Very useful. You seem to control it without a problem.”
He frowns. “There isn’t much to control. I just see things.”
“But sometimes they’re things you don’t mean to see, aren’t they?” she asks knowingly, eyes wide and conspiring. He twists his shoulders uncomfortably, thinking of the very real concern in Mrs. Lowell’s eyes when she looks at him-the fear she tries to hide, that he will be exactly like so many of her other charges, the certainty that he will be equally broken and useless by the time he turns sixteen.
“I guess,” he settles for saying, fidgeting with the chain around his wrist. She nods seriously.
“Well. I’d imagine that will pass as you grow into your ability. I’ve certainly learned to control mine in a short enough span of time.”
“Yours?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow. She smiles beatifically, equal parts obnoxious pride and winsome excitement.
“Like I did back there, with your temper-challenged friend. Why do you think he let you go?”
He doesn’t know. He doesn’t care. He’s mostly just grateful he can still use his hand.
“What’s your name, by the way?” the girl asks impatiently. She’s looking past him, gaze sweeping the street like she’s waiting for something. He frowns again.
“Mike. Mike Chang.”
Her eyes brighten. “Lovely. I’m Rachel Berry. You should come with me.”
That’s all there is: a decidedly lunatic young girl who has doubtlessly saved his life, a name, and a proposition he doesn’t fully understand. She doesn’t expound upon the invitation-doesn’t explain where they are going, or why, or how. She physically can’t be any older than he is, but her eyes are ancient. He knows in an instant that she has seen things-done things-she is neither pleased by, nor proud of. He sees violence in her, barely contained danger, and fear the likes of which he has never known. He sees angry phone calls, disappointed fathers, short work made of a bedroom window on the second floor in the dead of night. A meticulously-packed pink suitcase. A bus ticket.
“Where are we going?” he asks with a shrug.Wherever it is, it can’t be worse than this town, with its pollution and its numb aggression. Mrs. Lowell will be concerned, at first, but honestly, she’s been in this gig a long time. He won’t be the first runaway. Besides, she isn’t his mother. He may care for her opinion, but he does not need her. He never has.
He doesn’t need anyone.
Rachel’s determined expression lightens, her hand moving to grasp his. “Away,” she says simply.
“Why?” he asks. She grins.
“To help. That’s what a super-hero does, isn’t it?”
He supposes that’s true. Which doesn't make it any less strange.
“Super-heroes, huh? Is that what we are?”
Rachel’s grin goes even wider. “What else?”
He doesn’t have an answer for that.
Pairing: Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray, Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce, minor Artie Abrams/Tina Cohen-Chang
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: AU
Summary: “Sometimes, people are born a little different.”
Chicago is not a safe haven for little boys. It serves its purpose well enough for a grand array of other types: thieves, criminals, taxicab drivers. But boys? Boys don’t last long here. It isn’t safe, and it isn’t nice, and it just is not the kind of city an eleven-year-old should be roaming by himself. Not this part of the city, anyway.
Regardless of this fact, Mike Chang does all right for himself.
He moves down the street, careless of the signs and cars, dodging throngs of people without pause. His is a bizarre sort of grace, the kind that makes other people uneasy when he drifts by them with all the corporeal intensity of a ghost. Sometimes, instead of walking, he dances; their gazes turn awestruck then, their lips turning up in quirkily-astonished smiles. He prefers that, but overall, it doesn’t matter. It’s not like anyone sees him much anyway.
His feet encased in Chuck Taylors so hole-ridden, his grimy socks peek through in numerous places, he trots through a crosswalk. It has been a good enough day-not great, but Mrs. Lowell made a pretty solid pancake breakfast, and none of the other kids tried to swipe his juice this time.They’re learning, he thinks with satisfaction, that nothing good ever comes of picking on him. They’re learning to leave him be, operating on the realization that he wants only solitude and will, in return, offer security of his own very special sort.
All in all, it could be much worse; the life of a foster kid isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, for some.
Of course, he’s not exactly Little Orphan Annie or that Oliver kid, or whatever other stupid interpretations of parent-less pipsqueaks movies have to offer either. He’s just Mike. And Just Mike gets by fine and dandy, as long as no one is chugging his allotted morning apple juice behind his back.
It’s best on days like this, when his chores are done early and he’s allowed to roam free. Mrs. Lowell kind of hates his tendency toward walks like these, of course; she believes their fair city is a dangerous, chaotic hell of a place. Mike, being one of the smallest of her charges, makes her especially anxious.
The fact is, though, Mike’s size also makes him abnormally quick, and he’s as light on his feet mentally as in the literal sense. Eleven years are just long enough for a person to determine the quickest route to invisibility, and Mike has it down pat. He is rarely messed with, and when he is-he runs.
So far, it’s worked pretty much like a charm.
The kids in the home have gotten the point, and so have the good people of Chicago-although, for once, it’s the kids who have a better idea of why. Adults leave him alone because they can sense something strange hovering below his generally-calm surface, and because-in short-he weirds them out.
Kids leave him alone because he can destroy them with a word.
It isn’t anything so inhumane or ferocious as it sounds, of course; Mike likes to think of himself as something of a pacifist, and, even if this weren’t the case, he isn’t much for fistfights. There’s only so much speed and fancy footwork can do in an actual brawl, and he isn’t a fan of his chances in such a situation. No, the destruction is entirely of the reputation variety.
Simply put, Mike Chang knows things.
They’re things he shouldn’t precisely know-things only certain people are privvy to. Secrets, to put a fine enough point on it. Secrets are kind of Mike’s thing, his raison d’etre of sorts. He knows them, often without trying, and he’s very good at keeping them close to his chest.
Or, should the need arise, at dropping them like tokens down a wishing well.
It’s a strange feature of his personality, one he’s never quite been able to locate the source of. It isn’t that he is told these secrets because he’s trustworthy-although he likes to believe he is a fairly upright individual, all quiet and gentle. The thing about secrets is that he sort of…gravitates towards them. Or they gravitate towards him. He’s unable to put his finger directly on that button, but the endgame is the same either way.
Mike Chang knows secrets. He can sense them. He’s good at it.
And as long as this has been the case, the other kids have let him be.
It’s a good enough system; no one gets in trouble, no feelings get hurt, Mrs. Lowell never knows a thing is wrong. Above all, Mike gets to go on these walks, moving swiftly and carefully through crowds that couldn’t care less about his existence. No one follows him. No one questions him. He is a bird, a dove in a clear sky. He is happy-or as near as he’s been in years, anyway.
He takes a right at the next corner, kicking a Pepsi can into the gutter and jamming his hands into his pockets. This secret-knowing thing is good for a number of reasons, and he’s coming up fast on the best one of all. Sure, being left to his own devices is pretty awesome, but what lies around this upcoming set of buildings makes the chance to read quietly without interruption look petty and childish.
He’s nearly skipping when he reaches the line of tables, his eyes darting excitedly from one grizzled face to the next. Experience has taught him to be cool, to walk slowly and contain whatever anticipation is eating him alive-these men are entirely capable of taking apart an overzealous young boy, after all-but it’s hard to keep a lid on his energy. This is the highlight of his week, the pinnacle moment in the midst of dull days. He’s allowed to enjoy it a little. He’s allowed to have something.
Although, to be honest, it isn’t like he’s forgetting the reality of the situation. He isn’t toying around here. This isn’t about entertainment value or sheer boredom.
Mike Chang is here to work.
The first man catches his eye, curious and amused, and Mike can sense what he’s thinking: new meat. Chump of the day. Target practice, really. He grins.
“Hi!”
It’s all about the show, he knows. These men operate on instinct, hardened and calculating. If they feel, even for a moment, something might be off, he’s toast. It’s happened before, and it’s the reason he is constantly looking for new corners to work. Sticking with the same old tables is a fool’s move, one he is too cautious to make. The show is absolutely everything-putting it on, and knowing exactly when to cut it short and move on again.
“What’s up, kid?” the man asks easily, eyebrows arching over his chipped sunglasses. Mike can read the interest on his face, the unasked question: What’s a kid your age doing mucking about down here?
“Just lookin’,” he replies, shifting from one foot to the other. A picture of ineptitude and innocence. It’s exactly the perfect bait.
And, of course, the man doesn’t take a second to bite.
“Lookin’s well and good, kid, but this here’s a man’s game. You either got what it takes or you don’t, but either way, I can’t have you gaping at my wares like a minnow. Wanna play or not?”
The trick here is not to look too eager, nor too disinterested. There’s a perfect balance, one Mike has spent months testing out in front of the Lowell’s bathroom mirror. He allows it to slide over his features now, dark eyes going wide, lips curling tight over his teeth in a determined scowl.
“I’ll play.”
Of course he will-no boy his age could resist such a challenge. The difference is, most boys his age would be utterly useless in a situation like this; it requires finesse and focus of the highest order.
It doesn’t hurt to be extraordinarily gifted either.
The man smirks, nudging his glasses down his nose and fingering the bent cards on his folding table. “It ain’t free, boy.”
Silently, Mike frees his hand from the pocket of his threadbare jeans, plunking a handful of change and bills upon the table. Five dollars in all-not much, but enough to peak the guy’s interest. Money is money.
Clearly agreeing with the unspoken sentiment, the man runs his fingertips along one tarnished quarter. “Solid. Let’s do this shit.”
He flips the middle card-the Jack of Diamonds-up and down again. The reveal. His hands begin to move, slow as can be. He’s humoring Mike, patronizing him, but the boy doesn’t take it personally. It’s just the way the game works-the hook is essential to pull in the real cash. Without a little optimism, no one would stick around long enough to lose big.
“Follow good and close,” the man intones, grinning wide as the Cheshire cat. “Keep your eyes on the prize, my man, don’t look away, don’t look away. Keep Jack in the hole, keep Jack in your line, don’t take your gaze away for even a minute. Find him and double your droppings. Lose him, lose it all. Follow, follow, follow.”
He stops, spreading his arms. “Point him out, little dude.”
It’s easy-so easy that Mike doesn’t even have to try. It’s supposed to be. He points.
Flip-Jack it is. The man’s eyebrows waggle.
“Ten buckeroos to you, my man, big winnings. What say we go higher? You got a few more shillings in that mothball you call a pocket?”
Obediently, Mike plasters a dumbass grin across his cheeks and draws out five more singles. “I got it. Do you?”
It’s just the right flavor of cocky, judging by the man’s self-satisfied smirk. Mike allows himself a moment of pride before zeroing in again, focusing all his energy upon the cards, the table, the card shark in his shoddily-woven cowboy hat and Kurt Cobain flannel shirt. This time won’t be so obvious-not with the hook buried so neatly under his skin. The man will be trying this time, actively working to strip Mike of his money and his self-confidence.
There’s a sort of poetic justice to what’s about to happen.
The cards begin to flow again, hand to hand, table to palm and back again. The Jack is jumping, too flashy and rapid to follow. It doesn’t matter; Mike hasn’t spared a glance at the bent corners of the three cards even once.
He stares instead at the man, drinking in his image, soaking up the intricacies of his stance, his smile, the flick and flip of his fingertips. Silently, he memorizes every visible inch, waiting for it all to click together.
And then, in the next instant, it does. He sees it like he’s watching a movie, a silver-clear painting upon the man’s thin, bearded face. He sees it-the secret, the truth-and he smiles.
It’s not a guess. It’s not an estimation. He knows where the Jack lies.
Without a second glance, he points left. The man’s smile droops.
“Got it,” Mike says calmly, reaching out a hand and wiggling his fingers. “Pay up, dude.”
The man’s mouth twitches, a sure sign that he’s about to question the exchange. Mike’s feet itch to carry him instantly away, leaving the money and this corner behind. He’s been caught before-not often, not by many, but enough to leave him more than a little gunshy. It’s impossible to explain the things he can do, and even worse when Mrs. Lowell tuts over a black eye or a busted lip. Better to run, to flee, to leave the twenty measly bucks on the table. It will give him the chance, at least, to try again tomorrow.
But the man doesn’t say anything about it; he simply slips a wrinkled ten from his shirt pocket and lets it fall wordlessly onto the small mound already on the table. Eyes narrowed, he watches as Mike reaches slowly for his winnings.
“Wait,” he says before slim fingers can touch down. “One more.”
It’s a dangerous ploy. It isn’t that he can’t do it again-Mike is pretty sure he could keep this trick up all day, if need be. The thing is, his own self-imposed rules are simple and direct: never take so much in one go-round that suspicions are stirred. And, should such suspicions be brought to light, never stick around to wait them out. Not again. Never again.
Twenty bucks is, for an eleven-year-old, enough. More than. He doesn’t need to go again.
“Why?” he asks, fighting to keep the nerves from his voice. “I won. Fair and square.”
“That you did,” the man agrees thinly, touching a hand to the brim of his hat. “But luck’s a pretty fickle bitch, kid. I want to see what she’s got riding on you.”
It’s dangerous, but the guy flicks a speedy hand out to reveal another twenty, and Mike can practically smell the new bike he’s been saving for. He shakes his head uneasily.
“I don’t have anything else on me.”
The man raises one finger, smiling coldly. “You’ve got that.”
He’s looking at the chain around Mike’s wrist, glinting silver in the sunlight. It’s a simple thing, unassuming. Mike covers it instinctively.
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?” the man jibes. “Afraid you can’t do it again? Come on, kid, it’s just a damn trinket, and besides-with your eyes, what’s the danger?”
Mike chews his lip contemplatively. It’s a situation he would rather not be in; it’s true that he could win without a problem, and he’d be that much closer to the bright red ten-speed in the window of the local bike shop for it. However, he’d also be a little more banged up than he’d prefer, since no shark takes being licked three times in a row lying down.
The only other choice, though, is to lose this chain. And that’s not something Mike will ever be willing to do.
“Fine,” he grouses, pulling his hand back without removing a single dime. “One more. Then I’m going home.”
The man doesn’t dignify his words with a response. Green eyes flashing over the tops of his sunglasses, he flicks the Jack up, almost too quickly to be seen, and begins the shuffle.
It’s ridiculous in velocity, almost sloppy; twice, the man nearly flings all three cards off the table. Another player might be concerned by the messy display, but Mike has seen similar approaches before. It’s all part of the show: make the casual observer believe the shark is losing his touch, and over-confidence will do the rest. It’s a good trick.
Mike’s is better.
He points left.
The man’s fist sinks into the table, wretched. The Jack leaps, a desperate bid for freedom, caught at the last second before escaping onto the next gentle breeze.
“You cheated,” he snaps, accusatory. Mike raises his hands, shrugging.
“Can’t cheat at chance.”
“Had jack shit to do with chance, kid,” the man growls, leaning forward on his hands. “You fucking cheated.”
“There’s no proof of that,” Mike replies, a little more anxiously than he’d like. Swiftly, he makes to sweep the money into his pocket.
A strong hand closes around his wrist. “You weren’t even looking at the cards,” the man insists, eyebrows furrowed. “You didn’t even try, but you got it anyway. Tell me how the fuck you did that, you little twerp.”
Mike winces. The man’s grip is harsh; his fingers squeeze until the bones in the boy’s wrist twist and rub together unpleasantly. This will be harder to explain than a simple shiner.
“Let go,” he mumbles, doing his best to contain the fear rising in his throat. “Let go, I have to go home.”
“Not until you tell me,” the man snarls, employing more pressure. Mike feels his whole back arch, struggling to wriggle free.
“There’s nothing to tell!” he cries. “I just guessed, I just played the game. Let go.”
“I don’t believe that,” the man says softly, threateningly. “I’ve seen some damn funny shit in this city, kid. Some damn funny people. I think you’re one of them.”
“One of who?” Mike whines, bracing his feet against the concrete and heaving his entire body backwards desperately. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, man, I just want to go home.”
He doesn’t like the way the guy’s eyes have clouded over, blazing above his sunglasses. Most sharks get pissed when they’re beaten, but few actually guess at the reason. He’s never had to explain his way out before, and he’s liked it that way. Explanations usually requre actual knowledge, and if there’s one thing Mike doesn’t have, it’s a full understanding of the things he can do.
“Listen, you little punk,” the man hisses, jerking Mike straight into the table. His hips cry out as they connect with the front bar. “I know there’s something up with you. You didn’t look at the cards when they were flying, not fucking once, and that’s just not natural. I’m good at what I do-good enough to know there is no way in hell you picked up the mark three times without trying. Something’s jacked here, and you are going to tell me what it is. Now.”
When Mike doesn’t move to reply, the man shrugs. “Or,” he adds almost carelessly, then snaps the hand around the boy’s wrist until the bones threaten to shatter completely. Mike resists the urge to scream.
“All right!” he yelps, clenching his eyes against the white-hot starburst of pain. “All right!”
“All right what?” the man mutters, easing up a fraction of an inch.
“I-I cheated,” Mike whimpers. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’ll give it back, just please, don’t hurt-“
“How,” the man enunciates, “did you cheat? Little brat like you, I can’t imagine you’re very smart. Had to be something else. Something…weird. Care to share, punk-ass?”
Mike’s tongue feels heavy inside his mouth, his head throbbing with terror. This is bad, very bad, worse than a couple of punches or a damaged wristbone. People like him, they don’t do so well under the hot lights of interrogation. He knows from the movies, from the comic books Mrs. Lowell slides into his desk each month, that differences like his can be deadly. People don’t understand, and what they don’t understand, they study, and prod, and break.
The grip around his wrist tightens again. His bracelet digs in deep, biting the skin.
He doesn’t have a choice. His next foster home is bound to be a jail cell-or worse, a laboratory. Closing his eyes, he inhales.
The grip weakens.
Dark eyes snap open, baffled. Looking strangely passive, strangely serene, the man releases him and steps jerkily backwards.
“What the-“ Mike swivels, glancing over both shoulders. The man’s teeth come into light, but it isn’t a smile so much as a forced grimace. As if someone is prompting him with unseen cue cards.
Mike can do some strange things, but he certainly can’t do this.
Behind him, a clear voice rings out. “Now would be a perfectly good time to leave, I think.”
It’s a girl, shorter than him by a couple of inches, with a dark brown ponytail and a nose slightly too big for her face. Her eyes are serious, fixed firmly upon the man behind the table, her small fists flexing against the sides of her sundress.
“Now,” she says again, voice taut with effort. “I can’t hold him for long. Move.”
He gapes at her, and those deep brown eyes roll. “Please,” she adds almost snarkily. The man behind the table gives a little twitch. She bites her cheek.
Mike turns and dashes back the way he originally came, past vendors and tables manned by people who won’t remember his face ten minutes from now. Thirty seconds later, the girl follows, her skirt raging around her skinny pumping legs.
They run until the street clears out into devil-may-care shoppers and business suits going about their day-to-day, stopping at last in front of a bookstore Mike has been known to live inside on rainy days. There, the girl brushes a wisp of hair from her eyes, plants her hands on her hips, and glares with the force of the sun.
“What,” she says sharply, “were you doing back there?”
His wrist still smarts a little, but the money is heavy in his pocket, and there is no sign of the angry card shark. Mike straightens up.
“Nothing,” he replies smoothly.The girl’s forehead creases.
“I find it very difficult to believe that a boy your age was fooling around in some…alley without a purpose. Honestly, do you not value your life in the slightest? Do you know the kinds of things that happen in cities like these to idiots like you? Molestation, abuse, kidnapping-“
“I can handle myself,” Mike interjects. She huffs.
“I think not. I shudder to think what would have become of you if I hadn’t shown up-“
“I was fine,” he grumbles. “I’m a big boy.”
“You’re an idiot,” she corrects primly, smoothing her dress. “But not without talent, I see. What is it, some sort of mind-reading?”
It’s lucky, Mike thinks, that he’s so good at shrouding his feelings. The girl’s question just about stops his heart.
“Um,” he says ungracefully. “Not really. Just…I’m good at finding the truth about things. Telling them from the lies.”
She nods like it’s what she expected. “Very good. Very useful. You seem to control it without a problem.”
He frowns. “There isn’t much to control. I just see things.”
“But sometimes they’re things you don’t mean to see, aren’t they?” she asks knowingly, eyes wide and conspiring. He twists his shoulders uncomfortably, thinking of the very real concern in Mrs. Lowell’s eyes when she looks at him-the fear she tries to hide, that he will be exactly like so many of her other charges, the certainty that he will be equally broken and useless by the time he turns sixteen.
“I guess,” he settles for saying, fidgeting with the chain around his wrist. She nods seriously.
“Well. I’d imagine that will pass as you grow into your ability. I’ve certainly learned to control mine in a short enough span of time.”
“Yours?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow. She smiles beatifically, equal parts obnoxious pride and winsome excitement.
“Like I did back there, with your temper-challenged friend. Why do you think he let you go?”
He doesn’t know. He doesn’t care. He’s mostly just grateful he can still use his hand.
“What’s your name, by the way?” the girl asks impatiently. She’s looking past him, gaze sweeping the street like she’s waiting for something. He frowns again.
“Mike. Mike Chang.”
Her eyes brighten. “Lovely. I’m Rachel Berry. You should come with me.”
That’s all there is: a decidedly lunatic young girl who has doubtlessly saved his life, a name, and a proposition he doesn’t fully understand. She doesn’t expound upon the invitation-doesn’t explain where they are going, or why, or how. She physically can’t be any older than he is, but her eyes are ancient. He knows in an instant that she has seen things-done things-she is neither pleased by, nor proud of. He sees violence in her, barely contained danger, and fear the likes of which he has never known. He sees angry phone calls, disappointed fathers, short work made of a bedroom window on the second floor in the dead of night. A meticulously-packed pink suitcase. A bus ticket.
“Where are we going?” he asks with a shrug.Wherever it is, it can’t be worse than this town, with its pollution and its numb aggression. Mrs. Lowell will be concerned, at first, but honestly, she’s been in this gig a long time. He won’t be the first runaway. Besides, she isn’t his mother. He may care for her opinion, but he does not need her. He never has.
He doesn’t need anyone.
Rachel’s determined expression lightens, her hand moving to grasp his. “Away,” she says simply.
“Why?” he asks. She grins.
“To help. That’s what a super-hero does, isn’t it?”
He supposes that’s true. Which doesn't make it any less strange.
“Super-heroes, huh? Is that what we are?”
Rachel’s grin goes even wider. “What else?”
He doesn’t have an answer for that.