Pinch Hit: "In a Hard Brown Case"
Title: In a Hard Brown Case
Author: ink_n_imp
Person the story was written for: bellumina
Rating: G.
Summary: "Courage is almost a contradiction in terms. It means a strong desire to live taking the form of a readiness to die."
Author's Notes: Fellow, I'm your friendly neighborhood pinchhitter--I know you wanted something complex and dark and philosophical, but this was the best I could do in a pinch! OTL I hope you enjoy it.
The street was quiet where he lived, but the whole city was quiet this time of day. The days of summer were dwindling; the shadows grew long sooner. The dark of winter was coming, and soon no one would venture outside except for in the sun's zenith.
But he was only seven, and he'd forgotten his key, and the door to his house was locked.
The Eaters came for boys like him.
No, no; the Eaters rarely bothered with the city's outskirts. They inhabited the city center, they had no need to venture this far out; the radius of the fear they induced kept all in line, and their food was always brought to them. They had no need to walk the streets at night any more. There was more chance of him getting hit by a car than taken by an Eater.
It was little comfort to him.
He sat on the stoop of his house; he curled into the folds of his sweater. In the large, empty stoop there was no cover, no protection, no place to hide. He pulled the neck of his sweater over his mouth, and begged the world around him silently to not notice the little boy sitting on the stoop in front of the little brick on the quiet city street. He scolded himself for forgetting his keys--he was suppose to be old enough to remember. His mom worked in the evenings and there was no one else to watch him. She would not be back until late at night, and the neighbors around them were not to be trusted.
He began to cry, and he hated himself more for that.
The sound of feet walked down the block; they were fast feet, but not running, just purposeful. They had a quick, steady tempo that filled him with dread, making him bury himself in his sweater. He begged in the barest of whispers; 'Keep walking, don't look at me, keep walking, don't look, keep walking'--
The feet slowed just enough to change the tempo, and did not hit the ground with quite so much purpose. The feet passed by the stoop, but just as he dared to breath, they stopped.
He dared to peek under his elbow.
A woman was looking at him, and she looked both cross and contrite. For the briefest of seconds she seemed to sway between him and continuing along her way, but chose him instead.
"Something wrong, kid?" she asked, pivoted on the balls of her feet, still facing where she had been walking. But had he looked closer, he may have seen the concern under her frowning, serious-minded face.
He shook his head, his voice gone in his terror. But she only frowned more at that.
"It's getting dark, it's not safe for anyone to be sitting outside; get inside, kid," she ordered him. "Well, you heard me; get!" she ordered again, harsher and with a violent wave of her hand.
"Can't," he squeaked.
"Can't?" she repeated.
"Don't have the key," he admitted, whispering.
"No key? Won't they let you in?"
"Mom's not home," he replied, terrified of how he was telling the truth, but unable to answer her otherwise.
"What? How old are you, kid?" she demanded.
"Seven."
"Seven? She left you home alone and you're seven?" The woman looked at her wristwatch, and frowned some more. "When does she get back?"
"Late."
"How late?"
"Nine."
The woman looked at her wristwatch again.
"It isn't safe for kids sitting outside after dark you know," she began. "If you come with me, I'll take you somewhere safe, and walk you back before your mother--"
He jumped up and ran for the corner of the stoop, though there was no where else for him to run.
The woman's face darkened. "I don't work for those monsters," she said, knowing exactly what he thought she was. "I don't bring them their meals." She reached for the cast iron railing of the stoop, and paused there.
Children were not suppose to go with strangers who promised safety and kindness; they weren't even suppose to go with people they knew. Too many had been taken to the Eaters by trusting someone they shouldn't have; it was the first thing his mom had been desperate for him to learn.
"I don't trust you," he told her.
"But you could." She looked at her wristwatch again, and biting her lip, climbed up the stoop stairs towards him, and sat down on the top step.
Between him and her she put down a small suitcase she had been holding; it was a dull brown, with a hard shell.
"Do you know what's in here?" she asked him. "Explosives," she whispered when he shook his head 'no'. "Enough explosives to destroy a house."
And she opened the suitcase to prove it. The white packets didn't look like explosives, but the wires made it look like it could be a bomb.
"Do you know who the Sire is?" she asked, and he nodded. "Do you know how he's the one that's made the Eaters?" she asked, and he nodded again. "Do you know what happens if the Sire is killed?" she asked, but he shook his head.
"They all die; Sire and Eaters. Do you know how to kill the Sire?" she asked, and he shook his head.
"Anything works. Anything that would kill a human would kill him. But do you know how to keep him dead?"
And she closed the suitcase, locking it tight. "Fire. And Salt. But mostly Fire. And I've both in there. I've trusted you; now will you trust me?"
It was a small room in a small apartment building. It smelled musty, but everything was tucked away in shelves and boxes. He sat on the chair by the table--he didn't feel safe, but he did feel safer than before. Anything felt safer than being outside as it got dark.
She ran through the apartment with an absent, harried air; she was constantly checking her wristwatch now. She took out cookies and milk, and chocolate, fruit and cheese. It looked as if she was making her cupboard and refrigerator bare to find him things for him to eat. "Don't know what you like, so enjoy whatever you pick," she told him, dumping the food in front of him.
"Where are you going?" he asked as she carefully grabbed the brown suitcase and opened the door.
She froze at that, and he found himself growing scared again. She stood in the doorway, and said nothing for far too long.
"If you knew someone who knew how to make the world a better place, but they didn't do it because they were scared, what would you think?" she asked.
"I don't know--I think I'd think they're a chicken," he replied, softly.
"Would you hate them?"
"I don't know--I think I would," he said, growing confused. He didn't want to be in this place anymore, having this conversation with this woman.
"Why?" she asked. Her free hand was gripping the doorway, and it looked painful.
"I think…because if they were the only one who could make the world better and no one else could, they should," he reasoned, bringing his knees to his chin, "because no one else could do it."
"Would do it," she whispered. "Would." She looked at him then, and smiled. "If someone comes saying Joanne sent them to walk you home, go with them. You can trust them."
And she blew out of the apartment with the same purposeful footfall, the door shutting behind her.
When the door opened again, he had drunk the milk and eaten the cookies.
"Hey," the man at the door said. His voice was soft, his eyes were red, his face was blotchy. "Joanne told me to take you home if she didn't make--she told me to take you home if she wasn't back before nine," he explained.
There were people on the streets, rare after dark, unheard of in such numbers. The few speaking were speaking in a bare hush; they had blank faces, wild eyes, and drooped shoulders like dolls whose strings had been cut. But he couldn't understand; there was no fear on the people's faces, but there wasn't joy either. Only confusion.
"What happened, mister?" he asked, tugging on the man's sleeve.
The man seemed startled by his voice, and swallowed. "The Sire was killed tonight; all the Eaters are dead."
"They're dead?" he repeated, and the feeling in his chest wasn't joy, it wasn't fear; he felt hollow and light like an empty bird's cage, like a latch had been opened and something had been freed. It was unpleasant. It was frightening.
It was hope.
Author: ink_n_imp
Person the story was written for: bellumina
Rating: G.
Summary: "Courage is almost a contradiction in terms. It means a strong desire to live taking the form of a readiness to die."
Author's Notes: Fellow, I'm your friendly neighborhood pinchhitter--I know you wanted something complex and dark and philosophical, but this was the best I could do in a pinch! OTL I hope you enjoy it.
The street was quiet where he lived, but the whole city was quiet this time of day. The days of summer were dwindling; the shadows grew long sooner. The dark of winter was coming, and soon no one would venture outside except for in the sun's zenith.
But he was only seven, and he'd forgotten his key, and the door to his house was locked.
The Eaters came for boys like him.
No, no; the Eaters rarely bothered with the city's outskirts. They inhabited the city center, they had no need to venture this far out; the radius of the fear they induced kept all in line, and their food was always brought to them. They had no need to walk the streets at night any more. There was more chance of him getting hit by a car than taken by an Eater.
It was little comfort to him.
He sat on the stoop of his house; he curled into the folds of his sweater. In the large, empty stoop there was no cover, no protection, no place to hide. He pulled the neck of his sweater over his mouth, and begged the world around him silently to not notice the little boy sitting on the stoop in front of the little brick on the quiet city street. He scolded himself for forgetting his keys--he was suppose to be old enough to remember. His mom worked in the evenings and there was no one else to watch him. She would not be back until late at night, and the neighbors around them were not to be trusted.
He began to cry, and he hated himself more for that.
The sound of feet walked down the block; they were fast feet, but not running, just purposeful. They had a quick, steady tempo that filled him with dread, making him bury himself in his sweater. He begged in the barest of whispers; 'Keep walking, don't look at me, keep walking, don't look, keep walking'--
The feet slowed just enough to change the tempo, and did not hit the ground with quite so much purpose. The feet passed by the stoop, but just as he dared to breath, they stopped.
He dared to peek under his elbow.
A woman was looking at him, and she looked both cross and contrite. For the briefest of seconds she seemed to sway between him and continuing along her way, but chose him instead.
"Something wrong, kid?" she asked, pivoted on the balls of her feet, still facing where she had been walking. But had he looked closer, he may have seen the concern under her frowning, serious-minded face.
He shook his head, his voice gone in his terror. But she only frowned more at that.
"It's getting dark, it's not safe for anyone to be sitting outside; get inside, kid," she ordered him. "Well, you heard me; get!" she ordered again, harsher and with a violent wave of her hand.
"Can't," he squeaked.
"Can't?" she repeated.
"Don't have the key," he admitted, whispering.
"No key? Won't they let you in?"
"Mom's not home," he replied, terrified of how he was telling the truth, but unable to answer her otherwise.
"What? How old are you, kid?" she demanded.
"Seven."
"Seven? She left you home alone and you're seven?" The woman looked at her wristwatch, and frowned some more. "When does she get back?"
"Late."
"How late?"
"Nine."
The woman looked at her wristwatch again.
"It isn't safe for kids sitting outside after dark you know," she began. "If you come with me, I'll take you somewhere safe, and walk you back before your mother--"
He jumped up and ran for the corner of the stoop, though there was no where else for him to run.
The woman's face darkened. "I don't work for those monsters," she said, knowing exactly what he thought she was. "I don't bring them their meals." She reached for the cast iron railing of the stoop, and paused there.
Children were not suppose to go with strangers who promised safety and kindness; they weren't even suppose to go with people they knew. Too many had been taken to the Eaters by trusting someone they shouldn't have; it was the first thing his mom had been desperate for him to learn.
"I don't trust you," he told her.
"But you could." She looked at her wristwatch again, and biting her lip, climbed up the stoop stairs towards him, and sat down on the top step.
Between him and her she put down a small suitcase she had been holding; it was a dull brown, with a hard shell.
"Do you know what's in here?" she asked him. "Explosives," she whispered when he shook his head 'no'. "Enough explosives to destroy a house."
And she opened the suitcase to prove it. The white packets didn't look like explosives, but the wires made it look like it could be a bomb.
"Do you know who the Sire is?" she asked, and he nodded. "Do you know how he's the one that's made the Eaters?" she asked, and he nodded again. "Do you know what happens if the Sire is killed?" she asked, but he shook his head.
"They all die; Sire and Eaters. Do you know how to kill the Sire?" she asked, and he shook his head.
"Anything works. Anything that would kill a human would kill him. But do you know how to keep him dead?"
And she closed the suitcase, locking it tight. "Fire. And Salt. But mostly Fire. And I've both in there. I've trusted you; now will you trust me?"
It was a small room in a small apartment building. It smelled musty, but everything was tucked away in shelves and boxes. He sat on the chair by the table--he didn't feel safe, but he did feel safer than before. Anything felt safer than being outside as it got dark.
She ran through the apartment with an absent, harried air; she was constantly checking her wristwatch now. She took out cookies and milk, and chocolate, fruit and cheese. It looked as if she was making her cupboard and refrigerator bare to find him things for him to eat. "Don't know what you like, so enjoy whatever you pick," she told him, dumping the food in front of him.
"Where are you going?" he asked as she carefully grabbed the brown suitcase and opened the door.
She froze at that, and he found himself growing scared again. She stood in the doorway, and said nothing for far too long.
"If you knew someone who knew how to make the world a better place, but they didn't do it because they were scared, what would you think?" she asked.
"I don't know--I think I'd think they're a chicken," he replied, softly.
"Would you hate them?"
"I don't know--I think I would," he said, growing confused. He didn't want to be in this place anymore, having this conversation with this woman.
"Why?" she asked. Her free hand was gripping the doorway, and it looked painful.
"I think…because if they were the only one who could make the world better and no one else could, they should," he reasoned, bringing his knees to his chin, "because no one else could do it."
"Would do it," she whispered. "Would." She looked at him then, and smiled. "If someone comes saying Joanne sent them to walk you home, go with them. You can trust them."
And she blew out of the apartment with the same purposeful footfall, the door shutting behind her.
When the door opened again, he had drunk the milk and eaten the cookies.
"Hey," the man at the door said. His voice was soft, his eyes were red, his face was blotchy. "Joanne told me to take you home if she didn't make--she told me to take you home if she wasn't back before nine," he explained.
There were people on the streets, rare after dark, unheard of in such numbers. The few speaking were speaking in a bare hush; they had blank faces, wild eyes, and drooped shoulders like dolls whose strings had been cut. But he couldn't understand; there was no fear on the people's faces, but there wasn't joy either. Only confusion.
"What happened, mister?" he asked, tugging on the man's sleeve.
The man seemed startled by his voice, and swallowed. "The Sire was killed tonight; all the Eaters are dead."
"They're dead?" he repeated, and the feeling in his chest wasn't joy, it wasn't fear; he felt hollow and light like an empty bird's cage, like a latch had been opened and something had been freed. It was unpleasant. It was frightening.
It was hope.