Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ My Tale ❯ Ways of the Street ( Chapter 1 )

Title: My Tale 1/?

Author: Pied Piper

Rating: PG-13

Pairings: none

Warnings: slight swearing (s-word this time), death of a minor . . . rat, more references to prostitution, literary references to a classic (see if you can find it, I think I've made it obvious, but I'm just experimenting with some new techniques here)

Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing

 

 

“Treachery don't come natural to beaming youth; but trust and pity, love and constancy,--they do, thank God!"” Charles Dickens

 

“I have been one acquainted with the night.” Robert Frost

 

 

My Tale: Chapter 1

Ways of the Streets

 

Duo Maxwell hasn't always been my name. No, I had a name before that, a name that was ordinary and American, but I don't remember it now. Whatever name I had, it was abandoned the day I met Solo. When he met me, Solo had said that I have a fine name, a respectable name, but no name for a street rat, or, more importantly, one of his street rats. He wanted me to pick my own name, and until then, I would be known as “kid,” and with a lowercase “k” at that. It was the name he affectionately gave all of his street rats until they picked one of their own. Most of them had a name pretty darn quick, but it took me three years to pick mine. Too bad Solo had fallen asleep five minutes earlier, and too bad he would never wake up from that sleep. As I watched them burn his carcass that night, something inside of me died just as something else was born. I changed that cold night in December, but at that time I never realized how much.

 

 

AC182. Three years earlier . . .

 

`Boys don't cry,” the young boy thought to himself as he trudged along the dirty streets of L2, but he couldn't stop a few tears from trailing down dirt caked cheeks. It had been three days since the “accident,” and he was cold, hungry, and he missed his mother more than anything. She would know what to do in this situation; she would know how to get food. He sure didn't. On the first day of his new life, the boy had tried to steal some food from a vendor, but that had only proved to be a disaster: now, not only was he cold, hungry, and lonely, but he also had a bacon shaped bruise on his arm from where a piece of brick had been chucked at him. But what else was there to do; who else was there to steal from? Perhaps . . . one of the citizens . . .? Yes, that was it. With his mind made up, the young boy set out to look for his first victim.

“That's him,” the boy muttered as he spotted an older teenage blond boy with his arms overflowing with apples. Red, juicy apples, overflowing with nutrients and all those good things in life, and the boy could already feel his mouth watering. Surely the blond wouldn't notice if one went missing, would he? The hungry boy crept towards the blond as quietly as he could, then grimaced as he heard, as though from a distance, the deep rumbling of his aching belly. `Please don't let him hear,' the young boy prayed silently to whatever god would listen, but no god did.

The blond twisted around and peered at the quivering child, then dropped his apples on the dirty ground and picked up the would-be thief by the collar; lifting him as easily as one would lift a sack of feathers.

“You want one of my apples, punk?”

The young child could only nod desperately, hunger having more of an influence over him than fear.

“You want one of these, is it?” He dropped the boy and held up an apple in front of his face, snickering as the child reached for it. “You think I should give this to you, don't cha?” He dropped the apple into the boy's outstretched hands. “You can take it, I've got enough anyway.” He watched the boy eating the apple so fast that he nearly choked, and smirked. “What's your name, punk?”

The young boy quickly swallowed. “Oliver,” he said as he wiped some juice from his face.

“Oliver, eh? I like the name punk better. You got a family, punk?”

Oliver sighed. “I don't . . . I don't think so.”

He smirked. “I'll take that as a no. Well, since you ain't got a family, you might as well come stay with me and my gang; we could use a little punk like you, once you're taught the ways of the street that is. How's about it? We got ourselves a deal?”

Oliver nodded quickly.

The blond haired boy held out his hand. “The name's Dodger, come on, I'll show you to my place.” Not even waiting for a reply, he took Oliver's hand and led him away.

They stopped suddenly in an alleyway and Dodger grinned. “This is it,” he said with a proud smirk.

Oliver looked around. “Where?”

“We're standing on it, punk.” He knelt down and opened a drainpipe. “We live underground, where the cops won't go; safest place around, even if it is a bit wet.” Dodger jumped down and watched while Oliver fell in after him; splashing into a puddle of water. He smirked, and then twisted around with outstretched arms. “Welcome home. Hey, sewer rats, we got ourselves a newcomer!”

What was at one time an empty sewer was now filled with about eight children, though the cramped spaces made it seem like many more. Each dark haired boy was covered in filth and wore clothes that looked either too large or too small, and even though each had dark bags under their eyes, they all looked alert. “This is Roy,” Dodger, the only blond among them all, began, “Dollar, Eli, Chewy, Homerun, Chico, Jerry and Joey.” He motioned to each boy in turn; a few nodded at Oliver, but most just stared. “Boys, this punk here is Oliver,” They all nodded again in greeting, and Dodger turned back to Oliver. “Girls work at night, so you'll meet them later.” He glared at the other boys suddenly. “What are you doing down here anyway?” he yelled, “shouldn't you be working?” The kids jumped as a whole, then scattered, leaving Oliver and Dodger alone.

“So . . . what do ya think,” Dodger asked, “Home sweet home?”

Oliver peered around the damp gloom of the sewers, and couldn't help but to wrinkle his nose. “It smells funny.” He held his nose for emphasizes.

“Yea, well, we're living in people's shit right now, what did you expect it to smell like, daisies?” Dodger laughed at his own twisted sense of humor, and then stared at Oliver's blank face. “You're potty trained, right, punk?”

Oliver nodded.

Dodger smirked. “Ever wonder what happens when ya' flush the toilet? It goes down here, so don't even think about drinking the water.”

“What do I drink?”

“Whatever you can steal, so we're gonna have to work on your non-existent pick pocketing skills, or you're gonna starve to death. First, though, we gotta teach you some rules.” Dodger twisted around and crouched down to Oliver's level. “Number one: we ain't the three musketeers, so it ain't `all for one and one for all' down here. In other words, you fall behind, and you'll get left behind.” He stood up and sauntered away, then pointed down a long pipe way. “See that yonder pipe? Get used to this view of it, because that's all you're ever gonna see. It's where the girls sleep, and leaving the girls alone is rule number two. On a good night, each of them makes about a hundred bucks, so around here; you treat them like a god, got it? They say bow, you say how low, `cause without them; we'd go hungry. You getting this, punk?”

Oliver twisted up his face as he mentally stored away all this newfound knowledge, then nodded. “Yea, I got it; what's rule number three?”

Dodger chuckled. “Who says I'm gonna tell you rule number three? You'll find that one out on your own, besides, I think two rules are plenty for a stupid punk like you to try and remember. But now we've got to move on to something a little more . . . useful.”

“Like what?”

“Like teaching you how to pick pocket.”

 

“First thing you gotta do,” began Dodger as he and Oliver wandered along the market street, “is pick your victim; obviously. They have to look like a money bags, or it just ain't worth your time.” He leaned against a concrete wall and surveyed the crowd. “So, punk, which or these people do you think would make a good steal?”

Oliver peered around for a minute, then pointed at a man wearing a black suit and paten leather shoes, but Dodger only snickered.

“Yea, he probably does have money, but there's one little problem: he's a guy. Guys keep their money in their back pockets, so they're a little above your level right now. You'd be better off going for a girl with a purse. Someone like . . . her.” He motioned towards a pretty blond female. “She looks like a daddy's girl now doesn't she? You stay here, and watch the master at work.”

Dodger sauntered over to the young girl, then sidestepped and started examining some pears instead. He picked out a few ripe fruits and turned, rather quickly, to alert the vendor of his desires to purchase. Apparently not watching where he was going, Dodger crashed into the female and sent her falling to the ground. “Sorry ma'am,” he exclaimed as he helped her up, “didn't see you there. You're not hurt, are you?”

She smiled and shook her head. “No, I'm fine, thank you. What's your name? You're kinda cute. . .”

“You're not so bad yourself, I'm David, what's yours, cutie?”

A deep red blush spread across her cheeks. “Danielle, my name is Danielle.”

“Nice to meet ya', Danielle.” Dodger bent down to pick up Danielle's purse and the things she intended to buy. She reached out to take them back, but Dodger shook his head. “No,” he began, “let me buy them for you; it's the least that I could do to compensate for practically running you over.”

Danielle smiled as he cheerfully bought her food, and then kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you,” she said, “it's nice to know that there are still a few good hearts left on this god-forsaken colony.” She took her food and walked away.

Dodger watched her go and grinned as he walked back to Oliver, swinging the girl's purse around his fingers. “Catch that, punk? The trick is to distract them, make `em so interested in something else that they never notice their disappearing money.”

Oliver couldn't help but to look up in awe at Dodger. “Can I try?” he asked, his voice trembling with anticipation and with the fear of being caught.

His mentor grinned and twisted the girl's purse strap around his wrist. “Nope, not today punk: it's getting dark: you can have a go at it tomorrow.” He looked up at the dimming artificial lights and turned to leave. “Come on, the girls `ill be leaving soon and I want you to meet them before they do.”

The walk back to the sewers seemed shorter than it was before and within seconds it seemed, Dodger and Oliver were dropping into the “hallway.” No longer deserted, the hallway was now bustling with life as a swarm of females flitted around, yelling out to each other as they tried to get ready for . . . something. Oliver gawked at them for a minute, then felt something click in his small mind. “Mommy?” he whispered with a tentative quiver to his voice.

“Mommy?!” Dodger laughed. “You're mommy ain't here punk.”

“Where is she?”

He shrugged. “How should I know? She's probably dead somewhere.”

“Dead . . .” Oliver shook his head, trying to understand. “I don't . . . I don't get it.”

The sigh Dodger gave was mixed with wisdom and annoyance, “She's dead punk, she's gone, as in, never coming back. You got that, punk?”
“Never coming back . . .” A small voice inside Oliver's head began to quiver. `Boys don't cry,' it chanted, `boys don't cry.' Oliver swallowed his tears and struggled to listen to the small voice.

“Aw Dodger, look at you, you're making the poor thing cry . . .” a sweet voice chided, and Oliver soon found himself face to face with a girl whose green hair matched her green eyes perfectly.

The chanting voice shut up instantly.

She smiled gently. “That's better. My name's Ivy, what's yours?”

“Oliver.” His voice seemed small and unsteady; similar to the voice he had heard chanting.

“Oliver . . .” She seemed to be deep in thought, then her face light up. “Oliver: I like that name.” She leaned in closer. “Now, is Dodger making you cry? Because if he is, you just tell Ivy and she'll make him stop.”

Oliver glanced up and into Dodger's glaring eyes, then shook his head. “Now, he's not.”

“Alright, but make sure you watch yourself. Dodger's . . .” Ivy's voice grew softer, “he's a good kid, if he likes you that is, but if you get onto his bad side . . . he can really turn your life into a twisted mess.” One of the girls called her over, and she gave Oliver one last smile before flitting off.

Dodger glared daggers at Oliver, then the daggers seemed to fade away as he shrugged. “And that's Ivy, don't take anything she says seriously. Now, I think it's time for little punks to go to bed.”

Oliver blinked as he looked around. “But no one else is going to bed, and I'm hungry.”

The daggers seemed to be taking careful aim once more. “ Have you done anything to deserve food?”

“You gave me an apple before.”

They fired. “You looked pitiful, and I felt sorry for you. Eli!” Another boy ran up and stood beside Dodger. “This punk here's tired, get him a blanket and find him a sleeping place, will ya?”

Eli mock saluted, and then smirked at Oliver. “Come on, follow me.” He led the newcomer down the pipe opposite the girls', and into what looked to be a hole dug out of the side of a concrete wall. It was dark inside, and dirty, but surprisingly not damp. “We sleep here,” Eli stated as Oliver climbed inside, “Just . . . find a comfy spot, and I'll go get you a blanket.” He ran off.

Oliver couldn't help but to shiver as he tried to find an area that was not too lumpy and not already taken. It was cold, and he missed his mother more than anything. She couldn't be gone, could she? Surely if he went back to the supermarket, he'd find her there, waiting for him. She'd be mad that he left, but she'd be proud that he didn't cry. Finally, after a few minutes of intense searching, Oliver found a space that was neither filthy nor taken and wearily plopped down onto it; listening to the faint sound of running water and the ever present sound of his stomach complaining. Another sound became apparent; the sound of footsteps reverberating off a slightly damp wall, and within a few minutes, Eli appeared, carrying a worn blanket and a steaming cup of something.

“I thought you might be hungry,” Eli explained as he handed Oliver the blanket and cup, “so I got you some soup, better drink it now so I can take the cup back; if you leave it here, we'll have rats, and they bring diseases.” He watched as Oliver all but swallowed the soup in one gulp, and then took back the cup. “Try to go to sleep now; Dodger `ill probably wake you up early tomorrow.”

Oliver nodded as he laid out his blanket, then laid down upon it and closed his eyes; feeling sleep creep up on him like a swarm of disease-ridden rats.

 

Everyone was asleep when Oliver awoke, and he laid in his “bed” for a fair while, wondering whether he should get up or try to go back to sleep. It was dark, and cold, and ever so quiet that, despite the snores, Oliver could hear the faint patter of little rodent toes. And then, the footsteps of something bigger, something slower . . . didn't alligators live in the sewers? Finally, Oliver couldn't stand it anymore; he'd rather get eaten by the alligator then lay in here all night. With that in mind, he climbed out of his blanket and, stepping over the sleeping blond between him and the exit, made his way out of the sleeping area and into the long pipe that still seemed foreign to him. The pipes lead to another pipe, which lead to another, which lead to a ladder, which then lead to the upper world. Oliver wandered for a while, knowing that he should be asleep, but something kept driving him to go on, and so he did.

It was dark outside, though not like the stifling darkness of the sewers, which clung to your body like a thick blanket that threatened to grab hold and choke. No, this darkness was open and full of lights and sounds that beckoned Oliver forward like a moth is beckoned toward a flame. Oliver eagerly became acquainted to the night; exploring the many alleyways and avoiding any and all humans who came into his sight. He watched a brown rat sniffing some still burning cigarette embers, and could have sworn he heard Eli behind him. “Rats bring diseases,” he was saying, but this rat seemed harmless enough. Suddenly, it gave a loud squeak as its coat caught on fire. Filled with panic and fear, the rat ran blindly into a pile of old newspapers, which erupted into flame. `Guess they also bring fire,' Oliver thought drying as he watched the newspapers twist in the flames.

He heard a step behind him, and he spun around, looking just in time to see a woman with flaming red hair run around a corner. “Mommy?!” Oliver tried to cry, but his voice caught as he ran after her, only to run straight into Dodger.

“What are you doing, punk? I thought I told you to go to bed, “ Dodger growled, his eyes red with anger.

“I . . . I saw my mommy . . .

Dodger's eyes darkened. “I thought I told you that your mom was dead! Never coming back, remember?!”

“But . . .”

“No, buts! Get back in bed!” He began to advance on Oliver, but Oliver side stepped and twisted around, running all the way back to the sewers and into his blanket, practically tripping over the blond haired boy asleep by the exit in his haste. He closed his eyes, and soon drifted off.

 

Oliver awoke the next morning to the feel of a rough hand on his small shoulder. “Rise and shine, punk,” he heard Dodger say and, with the apprehensive obedience of a child awaiting a scolding, he rose.

But no scolding came. As if the events of last night had been but a mere dream (had it?), the blond haired Dodger helped Oliver up and handed him a biscuit. “Here,” he said, “eat this. You'll need your energy for today, just in case you get caught.”

“What do I do if I get caught?”

“What do you think? You run, and don't look for me to help either. Remember, everyone's on their own out here; that's the ways of the street. Now come on, we've got to get going.” He twisted around and led Oliver out of the sewers and into the small market, which, despite the early time, was already bustling with energy.

“This is the perfect time for a beginner like you to pickpocket,” Dodger began as they intermingled with the many shoppers, “most of the people shopping are moms with one too many kids to look after; they make easy targets. Watch.” He sauntered over to a young woman with a little baby girl in one hand and a boy looking to be no older than Oliver in the other. The young mother seemed to examine some magazines for a minute, and then she made her way over to the vendor to purchase one. Just as she set her purse down and turned to her magazine, Dodger snaked by and stole it. He smirked as he tossed the purse to Oliver. “Easy as pie, now you try.”

Suddenly, the young woman let out a shrill cry. “Someone stole my purse, oh my god, someone stole my purse!”

Oliver started to run, but was caught by Dodger. “Guess I should tell you rule number three now, since you're about to figure it out for yourself.” He had a twisted look in his eyes as he articulated each word slowly. “Don't trust anyone.” He yanked Oliver's hand and the purse into the air and waved it around. “Is this your purse ma'am? This punk almost ran into me in his mad rush to escape.”

Oliver's eyes grew wide as realization hit him like a swarm of rats and he struggled to escape Dodger, and finally did, only to run straight into a policeman. He barely even noticed as the policeman grabbed him and began to tell him about the prison in store for him; all Oliver's attention was on Dodger, who was being rewarded for his valiant efforts. `Boys don't cry' he heard his mom say, but try as he might, Oliver couldn't stop a tear from leaking out.

 

 

TBC . . .