[Guilty Gear] Untitled Snippet Thing, Again
An experimental short trying to make sense of that ending where Venom inexplicably acquires a kid in a pool bar. No, I am totally not kidding. Will probably develop into a full-blown arc. Yes. Another one of those.
The face is all huge eyes and strings of hair, greasy blonde tousles falling into her line of sight, sticking to her chin, creeping along the corners of her mouth. The cheeks are smudged with mud, just like the rest of her, the little pug-nose sticky from pulling up the snot one time too many. A dirty little cherub's face, one of many in the streets around this area, the entertainment district, begging or scavenging or lurking at the corners, pulling poses like the hookers around the bar doors at the first hint of breasts in their blouses.
This one doesn't seem like she's offering anything along those lines, thank god - a little too young, for one, just seven or eight, and the clasp she has on his waist is the cautious hit and run grip of an alley cat thief.
"Scuse me," she mumbles, "didn' see," and it's only because the voice is more scratch than squeak that Venom realises she's a little boy trying to sneak his fingers into his back pocket. He's been picking pockets since before he learned to spell his own name, but only a drunk wouldn't notice the fingers fumbling and groping inexpertly for his wallet.
"No harm done," he says, and stands still the extra second it takes for the kid to get a good grip on the leather flap, yanking it out way too fast, driven by fear and not a little frustration.
"G'day, then," the kid says and lets go with a little arm swing that allows him to flip the wallet into his oversized cuff - he's got that down, at least - making to flit off with a little swagger, part pride and part wobbly knees.
Venom watches him go, knows he'll veer left at the next gap in the buildings, and calls, "You sure you want to leave already?"
As expected, the kid freezes up, slowly turning to look back, too aware of predators and yet too much of a boy not to. "Wha?"
"I asked if you were sure you should be going."
The dust-caked glare means the boy's jumped to all the wrong conclusions. "I ain't sellin." He jerks his head upstreet. "Them's for you pervs."
Venom shrugs, and holds up the necklace, a worthless little rosary of glass beads, with a votive picture of the Virgin Mary dangling from the end. "Just wondering if you really felt like parting with that."
"Wha?! That's mine!" the boy shrieks, surprise and anger drowning out the scratch in his voice.
"And the wallet up your sleeve is mine." He can't help the smile, knows it's mean to tease a child, but it's not like the kid can see. The kid makes a choked sound, like he can't decide between making a break for the necklace or dashing off with his prize. Venom lets the beads glide over his fingers, just to entice. "Your wrist work's alright, but your fishing is abysmal. Then again... I'm not a good target to practice on."
The boy hesitates. "Wat'chu want?"
"A proposal. I get my wallet back, you get your trinket back, and I'll forget the last three minutes."
"Fine." Spoken through clenched teeth, and he chucks the wallet at Venom's feet with as much force as he can muster. It bounces on the ground, sliding into the vicinity of his shoes. Venom shakes his head, and wads up the necklace, tossing the mass of beads easily into the kid's expectant hands. On another day, he might find it in himself to feel sympathy for the thought of the kid clutching onto a glass rosary, thinking it important enough to return a wallet full of bills, but in comparison to what some of the guys around here might do to such a twig of a kid, he thinks it's a fair deal.
He bends down, picks up the wallet. "Thank you kindly, then. Good evening."
The kid's still rooted to the spot when he reaches the corner leading to the high-end clubs, staring after him in the part-angry, part-incredulous way children sometimes get, feeling wronged even when they have done the wronging. Venom turns back, flips his hair out of the way enough to show the smirk. "Pro-tip. Find a brick and start lifting it with your fingertips. Most people aren't nice enough to give you another chance rifling around in their pockets."
"Who asked you?!" the kid yells, and dashes off around the next block.
---
It's only eleven when he leaves the club, but the wins have been steady this evening, and it's always better not to win too much, not to play against too many challengers. The high-end patrons are prone to hefty bets, anyway, and building up a reputation as an unbeatable opponent would hurt his business. The cue's gotten a good enough work-out, and except for one gentleman who was a little too interested in his midriff to pay attention to the game, he had decent competition.
The game's half the reason he's doing this. Of course, it's easy money, with enough easy targets, like the guy with the rather obvious glances, but Venom likes being made to work for a win more than he likes putting away a bet, likes the uncertainty brought to the table by a skilled player. He can't remember a time before this when he used to play for the sake of the game, isn't sure he ever really used to play at all, when everything was meant to hone his abilities, a means to an end. Wielding the cue as it is meant to be wielded is inexplicably gratifying.
One of the hookers waves at him from the other side of the street, and it takes him a moment to recognize her in the faux Chinese dress with her hair done up in a knot, in the manner of a lady. Miranda, or at least that's what she calls herself, chatted him up in a bar once, mistook his polite non-interest for interest for the duration of an entire evening. It seemed only fair to treat to a sherry, and she called him a poncy bastard, laughed about her radar being mighty broken, and took to saying "hi" when they happened to pass each other on the way to a job.
He waves back, and she makes a little V-sign, meaning they both had a good night. Or, in her case, it's shaping up to be a good one. If she's dressing classy, she was probably booked in advance.
A good evening, quiet, and he's looking forward to rounding it off with a shower and a few pages of Blake, when he catches sight of the figure hunched over at the entrance to a back alley, just out of the circle of light from a flickering bar sign.
The kid isn't lurking; in fact, he barely even notices he's been spotted, arms locked around his knees, the long stringy hair falling all around him, and if this were the countryside, it wouldn't take much for the kid to disguise himself as a pile of hay that way.
"Rough day?" Venom says, and doesn't quite know why. There are enough kids like that boy around, if one knows where to look, and enough tears between them all to fill up a river, so there isn't really a reason to be moved to pity by one sniffling little pickpocket.
The kid jerks up, a reflexive shiver running through his body, but he's either too tired or too miserable to spring into the startled street rat run. He can't have been out here for long, unskilled as he is at the craft and unwise in his hiding choices. One of the first things Venom learned as a child was that it was better not to cry where others can see you, and he at least wasn't in a place where children had to fight each other for food or constantly hide from the brutality of adults.
From the looks of it, the boy didn't take his advice to heart, tried his luck on someone else instead, and that someone wasn't as indulgent, half the side of his face a swollen purple, a long crusty scrape running along the temple from where the kid must have gone skittering across the cobblestone. One eye is starting to squeeze shut with the swelling, tears leaving tracks in the dirt. Nothing time won't heal.
"I told you, your fingers need work. Be glad they didn't take a knife to you."
"Shaddup." The kid is wiping at his eyes, takes a moment to noisily pull the snot up his nose. He definitely hasn't been out here long, if the street hasn't beaten the cheek out of him yet.
"I'm heading down to the harbor. There are a couple of all-night stalls. The fish is pretty good."
The boy's eyes light up with the hungry wolf spark that people get when they haven't had a proper meal in a few days, but he's quick to cover it up with a glare. "Told you, I ain't selling."
"And the only thing I'm interested in buying is fish and chips." Venom shrugs. "Good night, then."
With that, he continues on down the street, to the harbor like he said he would, and pretends not to notice the little shadow that has started trailing him, quietly, just out of arm's reach.
-possibly TBC-
----
A/N: Oh Ishi, you have the strangest ideas on how men acquire children. This is just the cosmetic correction. XD Thoughts are welcome.
The face is all huge eyes and strings of hair, greasy blonde tousles falling into her line of sight, sticking to her chin, creeping along the corners of her mouth. The cheeks are smudged with mud, just like the rest of her, the little pug-nose sticky from pulling up the snot one time too many. A dirty little cherub's face, one of many in the streets around this area, the entertainment district, begging or scavenging or lurking at the corners, pulling poses like the hookers around the bar doors at the first hint of breasts in their blouses.
This one doesn't seem like she's offering anything along those lines, thank god - a little too young, for one, just seven or eight, and the clasp she has on his waist is the cautious hit and run grip of an alley cat thief.
"Scuse me," she mumbles, "didn' see," and it's only because the voice is more scratch than squeak that Venom realises she's a little boy trying to sneak his fingers into his back pocket. He's been picking pockets since before he learned to spell his own name, but only a drunk wouldn't notice the fingers fumbling and groping inexpertly for his wallet.
"No harm done," he says, and stands still the extra second it takes for the kid to get a good grip on the leather flap, yanking it out way too fast, driven by fear and not a little frustration.
"G'day, then," the kid says and lets go with a little arm swing that allows him to flip the wallet into his oversized cuff - he's got that down, at least - making to flit off with a little swagger, part pride and part wobbly knees.
Venom watches him go, knows he'll veer left at the next gap in the buildings, and calls, "You sure you want to leave already?"
As expected, the kid freezes up, slowly turning to look back, too aware of predators and yet too much of a boy not to. "Wha?"
"I asked if you were sure you should be going."
The dust-caked glare means the boy's jumped to all the wrong conclusions. "I ain't sellin." He jerks his head upstreet. "Them's for you pervs."
Venom shrugs, and holds up the necklace, a worthless little rosary of glass beads, with a votive picture of the Virgin Mary dangling from the end. "Just wondering if you really felt like parting with that."
"Wha?! That's mine!" the boy shrieks, surprise and anger drowning out the scratch in his voice.
"And the wallet up your sleeve is mine." He can't help the smile, knows it's mean to tease a child, but it's not like the kid can see. The kid makes a choked sound, like he can't decide between making a break for the necklace or dashing off with his prize. Venom lets the beads glide over his fingers, just to entice. "Your wrist work's alright, but your fishing is abysmal. Then again... I'm not a good target to practice on."
The boy hesitates. "Wat'chu want?"
"A proposal. I get my wallet back, you get your trinket back, and I'll forget the last three minutes."
"Fine." Spoken through clenched teeth, and he chucks the wallet at Venom's feet with as much force as he can muster. It bounces on the ground, sliding into the vicinity of his shoes. Venom shakes his head, and wads up the necklace, tossing the mass of beads easily into the kid's expectant hands. On another day, he might find it in himself to feel sympathy for the thought of the kid clutching onto a glass rosary, thinking it important enough to return a wallet full of bills, but in comparison to what some of the guys around here might do to such a twig of a kid, he thinks it's a fair deal.
He bends down, picks up the wallet. "Thank you kindly, then. Good evening."
The kid's still rooted to the spot when he reaches the corner leading to the high-end clubs, staring after him in the part-angry, part-incredulous way children sometimes get, feeling wronged even when they have done the wronging. Venom turns back, flips his hair out of the way enough to show the smirk. "Pro-tip. Find a brick and start lifting it with your fingertips. Most people aren't nice enough to give you another chance rifling around in their pockets."
"Who asked you?!" the kid yells, and dashes off around the next block.
---
It's only eleven when he leaves the club, but the wins have been steady this evening, and it's always better not to win too much, not to play against too many challengers. The high-end patrons are prone to hefty bets, anyway, and building up a reputation as an unbeatable opponent would hurt his business. The cue's gotten a good enough work-out, and except for one gentleman who was a little too interested in his midriff to pay attention to the game, he had decent competition.
The game's half the reason he's doing this. Of course, it's easy money, with enough easy targets, like the guy with the rather obvious glances, but Venom likes being made to work for a win more than he likes putting away a bet, likes the uncertainty brought to the table by a skilled player. He can't remember a time before this when he used to play for the sake of the game, isn't sure he ever really used to play at all, when everything was meant to hone his abilities, a means to an end. Wielding the cue as it is meant to be wielded is inexplicably gratifying.
One of the hookers waves at him from the other side of the street, and it takes him a moment to recognize her in the faux Chinese dress with her hair done up in a knot, in the manner of a lady. Miranda, or at least that's what she calls herself, chatted him up in a bar once, mistook his polite non-interest for interest for the duration of an entire evening. It seemed only fair to treat to a sherry, and she called him a poncy bastard, laughed about her radar being mighty broken, and took to saying "hi" when they happened to pass each other on the way to a job.
He waves back, and she makes a little V-sign, meaning they both had a good night. Or, in her case, it's shaping up to be a good one. If she's dressing classy, she was probably booked in advance.
A good evening, quiet, and he's looking forward to rounding it off with a shower and a few pages of Blake, when he catches sight of the figure hunched over at the entrance to a back alley, just out of the circle of light from a flickering bar sign.
The kid isn't lurking; in fact, he barely even notices he's been spotted, arms locked around his knees, the long stringy hair falling all around him, and if this were the countryside, it wouldn't take much for the kid to disguise himself as a pile of hay that way.
"Rough day?" Venom says, and doesn't quite know why. There are enough kids like that boy around, if one knows where to look, and enough tears between them all to fill up a river, so there isn't really a reason to be moved to pity by one sniffling little pickpocket.
The kid jerks up, a reflexive shiver running through his body, but he's either too tired or too miserable to spring into the startled street rat run. He can't have been out here for long, unskilled as he is at the craft and unwise in his hiding choices. One of the first things Venom learned as a child was that it was better not to cry where others can see you, and he at least wasn't in a place where children had to fight each other for food or constantly hide from the brutality of adults.
From the looks of it, the boy didn't take his advice to heart, tried his luck on someone else instead, and that someone wasn't as indulgent, half the side of his face a swollen purple, a long crusty scrape running along the temple from where the kid must have gone skittering across the cobblestone. One eye is starting to squeeze shut with the swelling, tears leaving tracks in the dirt. Nothing time won't heal.
"I told you, your fingers need work. Be glad they didn't take a knife to you."
"Shaddup." The kid is wiping at his eyes, takes a moment to noisily pull the snot up his nose. He definitely hasn't been out here long, if the street hasn't beaten the cheek out of him yet.
"I'm heading down to the harbor. There are a couple of all-night stalls. The fish is pretty good."
The boy's eyes light up with the hungry wolf spark that people get when they haven't had a proper meal in a few days, but he's quick to cover it up with a glare. "Told you, I ain't selling."
"And the only thing I'm interested in buying is fish and chips." Venom shrugs. "Good night, then."
With that, he continues on down the street, to the harbor like he said he would, and pretends not to notice the little shadow that has started trailing him, quietly, just out of arm's reach.
-possibly TBC-
----
A/N: Oh Ishi, you have the strangest ideas on how men acquire children. This is just the cosmetic correction. XD Thoughts are welcome.