Title: Savage
Title: Savage
Word Count: 797
Summary: In a dystopic future, where people either have it all or have nothing. Written for bleodswean's prompt: “Why didn’t he come and talk to me himself?"
“Why didn’t he come and talk to me himself first?” Is Larson’s first thought as the human cashier tells him the card has been declined. He picks a second card out of his wallet, fingers twitching on it nervously as he hands it over. It’s weird to have a till manned by a person instead of being automated, but she’s probably one of the elite and they’re allowed their quirks. The card machine beeps awkwardly and the cashier gives him a half suspicious and half sympathetic look.
Larson takes a deep breath. He has one card left, he hands it over, desperately hoping Troy hasn’t cancelled this one too. It’s okay, it will be okay, all he has to do is call Troy up and beg him to allow him a few credits. And then he’ll have time to figure something out. He can’t believe Troy would do this to him. But he supposes he should’ve expected it, they are broken up now after all. In the old days, before The Aftermath (back when machines only ran some of the world, not all of it, and there was such a thing as jobs) it would’ve been a perfectly reasonable, logical thing to do, protecting ones assets.
But this world is a different place, a harsh dividing line between the powerful and the powerless; the hunters and the hunted. He doesn’t like thinking of his life before Troy found him, but the memories rise through him now, thick and bile-like. Like a prophetic nightmare, hands out waiting for his return, whispering laughter through his veins, taunting, did he really think he would stay free for long?
Running. Running. Running. Ravenous and exhausted and bleeding and still running. He’s a survivor, he will survive. The greenery was thick, branches whipping at him, bullets flying at him, too close, too close. Keep going. Keep going. Survive.
The card goes through. Larson sags in relief and rushes around the store adding canned goods to his shop; he can’t take the risk that this one is in the process of being shut down too.
It’s been three hours. He has done six shops. The card is still mercifully working. He decides to call Troy anyway.
*
As the phone rings Larson carefully adjusts his mind set, to back before these past few years of being able to be strong and hold his head high. He’s no longer a lover of one in The Circle, he’s now just a savage again and he needs to affect the humbleness and obedience that comes with it. He still remembers the day Troy met him with startling clarity,
He sits on the cold ground, hunger gnawing at his stomach, people stare and sometimes spit but at least there’s no one chasing him today. He can have some much needed rest. Some throw rotten food at him. At least it’s something to eat. He hates that he eats it. They laugh at this of course and just like that he’s drawing an audience.
There are more people and thus more food being thrown, he hunches over, curling up into himself, but doesn’t make a move to evade or walk away. He knows better. He doesn’t want to provoke someone into chasing him.
The repeated hits begin to hurt, landing on the bruises from previous hits, compounding the cold and hunger he begins trembling. And a little later, to his utter horror, begins to whimper. It only encourages them further. The pelting increases.
He slumps to the ground, lying in a shaking ball, hoarse pleas escaping his lips unbidden.
“Hey guys, chill!”
One of The Circle has appeared. Larson squeezes his eyes shut, wants to just melt into the ground. He’s doomed, there’s no escape now.
“Hey, you okay?”
The Circle member is touching his arm. He’s been asked a question. He has to reply,
“Ye..yes…yes sir.”
“Okay, let’s get you out of here.”
The call is thankfully answered, he speaks softly,
“Hi Troy, I was just wondering whether we could talk about things.”
Troy sighs, “You found out about the cards. I’m sorry Larson. I can’t just let you out, uncontrolled, no one in The Circle would be happy.”
Larson takes a breath, reminds himself he can’t afford the luxury of anger, and pleads, “Can you at least give me a couple of weeks before the last card cuts out?”
“Jeez Lar, do you really think so little of me? The last one isn’t going to cut out. I did have to put a limit on it though. It’s got a stipend attached. It’s not much but as long as you’re sensible, it’s enough for you to not slip back into savage status.”
Relief floods him. Larson despises how grateful he feels. He gasps out, “Thank you.”
Word Count: 797
Summary: In a dystopic future, where people either have it all or have nothing. Written for bleodswean's prompt: “Why didn’t he come and talk to me himself?"
“Why didn’t he come and talk to me himself first?” Is Larson’s first thought as the human cashier tells him the card has been declined. He picks a second card out of his wallet, fingers twitching on it nervously as he hands it over. It’s weird to have a till manned by a person instead of being automated, but she’s probably one of the elite and they’re allowed their quirks. The card machine beeps awkwardly and the cashier gives him a half suspicious and half sympathetic look.
Larson takes a deep breath. He has one card left, he hands it over, desperately hoping Troy hasn’t cancelled this one too. It’s okay, it will be okay, all he has to do is call Troy up and beg him to allow him a few credits. And then he’ll have time to figure something out. He can’t believe Troy would do this to him. But he supposes he should’ve expected it, they are broken up now after all. In the old days, before The Aftermath (back when machines only ran some of the world, not all of it, and there was such a thing as jobs) it would’ve been a perfectly reasonable, logical thing to do, protecting ones assets.
But this world is a different place, a harsh dividing line between the powerful and the powerless; the hunters and the hunted. He doesn’t like thinking of his life before Troy found him, but the memories rise through him now, thick and bile-like. Like a prophetic nightmare, hands out waiting for his return, whispering laughter through his veins, taunting, did he really think he would stay free for long?
Running. Running. Running. Ravenous and exhausted and bleeding and still running. He’s a survivor, he will survive. The greenery was thick, branches whipping at him, bullets flying at him, too close, too close. Keep going. Keep going. Survive.
The card goes through. Larson sags in relief and rushes around the store adding canned goods to his shop; he can’t take the risk that this one is in the process of being shut down too.
It’s been three hours. He has done six shops. The card is still mercifully working. He decides to call Troy anyway.
*
As the phone rings Larson carefully adjusts his mind set, to back before these past few years of being able to be strong and hold his head high. He’s no longer a lover of one in The Circle, he’s now just a savage again and he needs to affect the humbleness and obedience that comes with it. He still remembers the day Troy met him with startling clarity,
He sits on the cold ground, hunger gnawing at his stomach, people stare and sometimes spit but at least there’s no one chasing him today. He can have some much needed rest. Some throw rotten food at him. At least it’s something to eat. He hates that he eats it. They laugh at this of course and just like that he’s drawing an audience.
There are more people and thus more food being thrown, he hunches over, curling up into himself, but doesn’t make a move to evade or walk away. He knows better. He doesn’t want to provoke someone into chasing him.
The repeated hits begin to hurt, landing on the bruises from previous hits, compounding the cold and hunger he begins trembling. And a little later, to his utter horror, begins to whimper. It only encourages them further. The pelting increases.
He slumps to the ground, lying in a shaking ball, hoarse pleas escaping his lips unbidden.
“Hey guys, chill!”
One of The Circle has appeared. Larson squeezes his eyes shut, wants to just melt into the ground. He’s doomed, there’s no escape now.
“Hey, you okay?”
The Circle member is touching his arm. He’s been asked a question. He has to reply,
“Ye..yes…yes sir.”
“Okay, let’s get you out of here.”
The call is thankfully answered, he speaks softly,
“Hi Troy, I was just wondering whether we could talk about things.”
Troy sighs, “You found out about the cards. I’m sorry Larson. I can’t just let you out, uncontrolled, no one in The Circle would be happy.”
Larson takes a breath, reminds himself he can’t afford the luxury of anger, and pleads, “Can you at least give me a couple of weeks before the last card cuts out?”
“Jeez Lar, do you really think so little of me? The last one isn’t going to cut out. I did have to put a limit on it though. It’s got a stipend attached. It’s not much but as long as you’re sensible, it’s enough for you to not slip back into savage status.”
Relief floods him. Larson despises how grateful he feels. He gasps out, “Thank you.”