no, you don't know me

I guess I'm just one of those common faces. Call me King. 22 | Delma | Telekinesis

[lake-valentine]

[What?

Wait. WHAT?!

No. No way. No freaking fracking WAY. He hadn’t REALLY believed that it was Ryder. Was this really happening? Like what the heck, he’d half just asked it like a bitter-sweet jab at his best friend for being a cocky dipshit and stuff. But now some stranger was saying he actually FOUGHT HIM? 

Are you frakking KIDDING???]

Know him? Yeah I know him! [Woah, he’s already all hot and red in the face and stuff, he can feel it. It’s a good thing he’s outside. It’s like, A LOT harder for him to accidentally throw hundred-year-old trees around with his stupid mind trick (mistakes) than it is like, tables and chairs. 

He once took downa whole bookshelf and almost crushed some kid. 

Weeee how fun is it to be a piece of shit, hazard to children. His life is PEACHY-A-KEEN. ] 

Dude, what happened? That’s my best friend! I swear to f….[okay, if he’s going to threaten a stranger, he better have a REALLY good way to finish that sentence because Lake is like, a baby pomeranian. And he bruises like a peach.] What did he do? Did he piss you off or something? Because I swear he doesn’t mean any harm he just—[but Lake knows now, that he DOES. That, according to Ryder, Ryder does it HOPING to get hurt. To get beat up. Because he’s all kinds of sad and messed up and oh MY God id this stupid fire head hurt him Lake is going to LOSE HIS LID.] 

[notanabbott-blog]

[King almost wished he didn’t find so much amusement in the way this bloke’s face turns completely red as soon as he thinks the redhead and his best friend were in a fight.

He sees the different reactions on the other’s face, one by one. He’s mainly angry, King guesses, maybe some sort of protective instinct that kicked in (people had that, didn’t they?), and he kind of wants to mess with it to see how far this goes.

All in all, he can probably take this one in a fight, if it comes down to it.]

Dunno, mate. He just... asked for it. [He shrugs again, nonchalant, like he goes around punching people for the smallest reasons. Not that he has anything better to do, no one has in the apocalypse. He’s not above picking fights for fun, but with the whole second apocalypse occurrences he’s a little more tame.

It doesn’t stop him from pushing this boy further.] He was really annoying me, y’know? Had to put him in his place, [he lifts his eyebrows with a cock of his head before taking a lazy drag of his cigarette.]

[alexander-donovan]

[He laughs, which pisses Alex off, but doesn’t surprise him. It more grates him in familiar, jagged places, because he’s been here before, both before and after D-Day.

Some things never change. 

There’s something frustrating about his authority not being taken seriously, but he swallows down the sensation of it because he knows that’s precisely the motive. To make him feel mocked, to damage his precious pride because he’s funny, not scary. Yadda, yadda, blah blah. Oldest trick in the book. 

It works, to some degree, because it is annoying, but Alex is used to it. 

But the kid is taunting him now, and it almost seems like he’s asking for punishment. Well, two can play at this game. Donovan keeps his reactions minimal. He won’t take the bait.] 

I doubt you need them either. [His brows lift; a thin, sarcastic smile—] Unless you’ve just had your first period. Congratulations.

[He’s not going to waste his breath asking the kid’s name, because he’ll probably get a lie, so he presses a button on his PDD and checks himself. He laughs when he sees the words on the screen.] 

King. Well that explains a few things. [Your inflated ego, for one, he thinks, but he knows he’s a hypocrite. He drops the Delma’s wrist, but doesn’t move to suggest his dismissal any time soon.] 

[notanabbott-blog]

[Big Guy is angry, and King revels in it. It lifts his chest that much higher and if he were walking, he’d have a spring to his step. So often he feels heavy with the weight of everything he’s been through (like they’ve all been through hell and more if they’re in the colony today), when he gets the chance to piss at the authorities like this, it just reminds him that he’s still young.

Young and dumb and unafraid.

The joke doesn’t offend him, not in the slightest, because it’s a funny remark and it’s just a reinforcement that King has absolute good reason to be doing this.]

Thank you. [He would touch a hand to his heart to marry the sarcastic gratitude in his eyes, if he didn’t think the glance spoke enough for itself.] It’s been such a difficult time. So much blood, you see, I can barely keep up with changing tampons!

[It’s probably offensive in more layers than he can pinpoint, and he sees some people glance their way at his loud volume. The other checks the watch on King’s wrist and he follows the shift in attention, watches as his information shows on the tiny screen. Whenever that command is given to the machine, there’s an irrational fear that his real information might show up in big bold letters (Elijah Abbott! Daddy’s Boy! Rich Snob!), but the anxiety only flickers through him for a split second.]

Pleasure to meet you, sir, [he smiles, easy and light, rolling his hand around when the grip is released, seeing the faint reddening outline of fingers.] May I go now, or are you planning on giving me a spank? Can you really use force on people like this? I’m just a kid, mate.

[dulciius]

[Natalie hums something of a chuckle at the teasing words that lad spits, no part of her offended. She was never one to be too concerned with labels and designated titles; and if a hippie she acts as, a hippie she would not mind being labeled.]

Oh indeed, my friend. Tie dye, flower crowns, and acid–some good shit. [She drops a lid in a wink, and you’d never know where to draw the line between truth and fiction with her. The same run-of-the-mill small town kid with a jersey for every season turned somewhat of a free-spirited wanderer–Nat would say she covered quite the spectrum of stereotypes.] Although I wouldn’t trust any acid they offer you here. Hugs not drugs, kids. [Natalie parrots, and her grin is a nonchalant one that flows just as the shrug on her shoulders does.]

[Leaning back against the trunk of the tree behind them, Nat turns her gaze to the stranger, tilting her chin up in quick appraisal of the red head. There’s a few tropes she can think he might paint into, but she thinks it might be funnier to hear him voice his own truth–or lie, she knew better than to trust the words of a stranger, especially one with the mischievous cut to his smile like this one.]

So if I take the title of the jersey wearin’ hippie, which one are you claiming? 

[notanabbott-blog]

[He kinda misses that, the way society used to hold itself so carefully built in the hands of unchangeable groups. What a dream it was to “find yourself”, to put yourself in a little box and then meet your designated friends from the same box.

Nowadays, outside, they are all killing each other for a pint of water and cereal bars. And in the colony, there’s hardly any space for expression. There are weirdos, he supposes, and people who have their gangs, and of course, the houses. But it’s not like before. It’s based on a muted dictatorship that inks your arm and they judge each other by that. He misses judging people on their haircut and clothes they wear, instead.

“Hugs not drugs” makes him let slip a genuine chuckle, because it reminds him a lot of the dumb posters he saw hanging around the walls of the rehabilitation facilities he’s been in. Light-hearted and hippie-sounding, the slogans and campaigns they offered were nothing like the aggressive ones in high schools, where you could see pictures of people dying from drug abuse. He couldn’t tell which were more ineffective.]

I’m the teenage dirtbag, of course, [his grin is sly, and of course he doesn’t believe it. He’s anything but the guy dropping his books on the school hallway when the jock runs into him. He’s the one in leather jacket skipping class and living off his dad’s money, but he won’t give her the satisfaction.]

[owen--organized--chaos]

[Oh. Right. Owen nods, one-two, one-two, and he frowns, looking away quickly.] Yes. I mean, no. You did not. I am sorry. I am sorry. 

[His stomach turns, and he yearns for Mr. Landon. Misses him immensely, all of sudden. Feels sick with the ache of it.] 

It was nice to meet you, [he manages to get out, starting to step away. He knows when he is not welcome, and it would be well for him to get out of this conversation anyway, desperate to leave this anxiety behind.] 

[notanabbott-blog]

[King feels a pang of regret in his chest. It’s not often he feels it, because it’s his second nature to close himself to any emotion that hit too close to home, but it’s hard not to when this guy looks so devastated.

He doesn’t know how to apologize because he never learnt to. So he doesn’t. He can’t, not even if he wants to.

He sucks it up, like he always does, and looks the other way so he doesn’t have to watch the way Owen’s face is so sad.] ‘Ts fine, mate. Good to meet you, too. [At least that he can offer, and be half genuine about it, too.]

[notanabbott-blog]

Burdensome // Self-Para

The feeling of not being anyone’s first.

Of feeling so small and so insignificant, feeling like there’s not a single soul that really cares.

He made lists, sometimes, in his head. He would lay on his bed when the tears were muted, on the days he couldn’t get up because his heart was so heavy it kept him down. He counted people: everyone he knew, one by one. He crossed names off, hoping to prove himself wrong.

Trying to find one single soul who his disappearance would impact. It’s not that he considered taking his own life, it was just a listing exercise. His father would be sad, his mother would cry and double the pills. His sister would visit a therapist once a week for a month or two.

But then, what? They had each other. They wouldn’t lose a part of themselves with him, they wouldn’t be devastated forever, they wouldn’t go to bed every day after that feeling empty and lost. They would move on because they had other people, they had their firsts, the people they shared a little bit of themselves with.

He didn’t know what that felt like, but he missed it.

His fuckbuddies would probably spare the news a glance when they caught it on a newspaper in a coffee shop, maybe sigh and think about it for a day. Maybe they would feel heavy for a while. His friends would hardly even give it more than that. They had other lives to live for.

It feels crushingly lonely, though he spends most of the time surrounded by people. Even then, when he didn’t want to leave his room, a worker would leave breakfast on his table. He slept through it and they would bring in lunch. He slept through that too and they served him dinner with a concerned frown that didn’t meet their eyes. Quick feet and agile hands leaving plates and drinks for him, rushing because they were afraid he might break on them. Whether they were afraid of Elijah throwing an angry fit or crying compulsively on their shoulder, he didn’t know. Maybe both ideas scared them.

This numbness that holds hands with his lists hurts, crawls up his ribs with its dainty fingers and makes home between his lungs until every breath is such a burden. He feels broken and he’s alone. No one puts him first. He's not the keeper of a part of anyone’s soul.

He crosses through names on an opposite list. People he would move on from if they were gone. Every name is eventually flicked off with a moment’s hesitation. His parents, he’d miss them. His sister, she was barely ever around already. His friends were never his, but his name’s; and his friends were fun but nothing more than an easy fuck when he needed one.

It started when he was so young, then, and as early as that, so fractured. His mother would sit on his bed, comb his hair back and tell him to try some pills; a slave of the pharmaceutical industry, she was, but Eli never blamed her. She searched for his eyes and he stared at the crumpled sheets beside her thigh. He didn’t want those drugs and she always gave up on it so quickly.

And then he grew into his long arms and the freckles left his cheeks to make way to harshly defined structures and purple stains under his eyelashes. He replaced the feeling of breathing under the covers by alcohol sliding down his throat, and he chased the shots with lines of bright powder that didn’t lighten his gray, clouded body.

He dragged himself up with a chest heftier than lead and he shifted his feet until he was in the nearest bar, with the nearest almost-friends, sniffing near-happiness. He thought it meant he wasn’t a kid anymore, that he could deal with it now, that being a grown up was just finding escape from that same shit pile he sometimes got stuck on. 

In the end, he’s still the same, a big-bodied child who’s no one’s first and has no one to lose. He’ll tug his lips into a smile to bare his teeth like a wolf and he’ll tell himself he’s strong and tough, but he’s alone and empty.

He makes lists because he’s addicted to the numbness they bring, so he writes imaginary timers right next to the imaginary crossed out names. His family would take a couple months to get over his demise. His regular fucks would spare him a day. His friends would offer him a few hours, at most. His foes might even find joy in the news.

He’s no one’s first and no one shares a piece of themselves with him. He tells himself it’s for the best, that he is stronger like this, that his hands are too spiny to be held and his skin too calloused to do good.

He tells himself his own soul is already heavy enough to carry.

[notanabbott-blog]

[owen--organized--chaos]

[He smiles tentatively. It sounds like a story in a book, something that happens to characters, not people in real life. And it is nice, sometimes, when storybook things come to life. When people’s lives are as magical and serendipitous as the things that happen between pages—the things that are interesting enough that someone wants to write them down. 

It reminds him that life is just a series of things that people want to write down. And maybe that is a good way to make himself feel better about the times he feels sad.] 

Really? That is interesting. My sister had a birthmark like a dragonfly. [He feels the draw to explain the reasons those things make him happy, but he can’t find the words, can not, so he stays quiet, after that.] 

[notanabbott-blog]

[There’s a part of him that is actually amused by this boy, but there’s a bigger part that knows he can’t be. For one, King’s rude even when he’s not trying to be, so making friends with someone that looks as fragile as Owen doesn’t seem like a good idea on the long run. Furthermore, making any kind of friends is not a good idea.

Luckily he has nothing to miss, because he doesn’t know what it’s like to have a best friend or a long-term relationship or anyone to really count on, but it doesn’t keep him from feeling any less lonely, in the end.

Feeling like an asshole is familiar, however, so he welcomes it, taking another drag of his cigarette to blow smoke around his words.] Didn’t ask, mate.

[alexander-donovan]

[He’s not sure what it is about young kids who call themselves ‘rebels’, but they all seem to share a specific trait—that arrogant, fuck-the-police, laugh. The flippant chuckle, like the whole world’s a joke—they all do it. And Alex sometimes just wishes he was in on it. If he found humor in as much as these dumb kids did, he’d probably have plenty fewer kinks in his neck.

But Alex is tense, more often than he isn’t. And when he isn’t, he’s usually at least a few degrees of serious. His good days, his relaxed days, are rare, and usually more found in units of hours, or moments. He can’t remember the last time he spent a full day relaxed. 

But does anybody?

Clearly, he’s not hurting the kid, though his grip reflexively loosens a touch at the words.

“Not that I’m complaining.”  Donovan doesn’t react, though he’s tempted to roll his eyes. He does, however, turn the young man’s wrist in his grip, peering at the tattoos. Delma. Infected. Class 1. Alex re-tightens his grip and looks back at him.

I’m waiting, [he deadpans. The kid still hasn’t answered his question.] 

[notanabbott-blog]

[The grip on his wrist loosens, though it wasn’t a big deal in the first place, and he’s almost sad it’s gone. He pouts, then, though he’s sure it’s more just a reflex of standing up against anyone, that given mockery that’s always dancing on his lips.

There’s a thrill in being defiant like this, more so than stealing from old ladies’ purses, and King thinks that maybe he should just be picking on authorities instead. Bad case scenario they get him killed or expelled from the Colony, and he can’t see them as bad outcomes, not when he hates the place so much.

The man doesn’t react to the flippant flirt on King’s tone, and it reminds him of his old man’s security guards. Emotionless, tough, stood like a rock wall right out his bedroom door. He almost misses it, because back then it was fun to fuck with them, too.

He feels his wrist sting when the grip retightens and there’s a giggle being stifled behind his lips because the joke is on Big Dude, seeing as King is such a raging masochist. It’s fun more than it is alarming.]

Oh, let me see... [He squints for a second, pausing to think of an excuse. He has none, but he wants Big Guy here to get even angrier, so it’s not a problem. He hopes he’ll have his arm twisted around his back like cops did in movies.] I got nothing, mate. Just having good old fun stealing from old ladies. Surely they don’t need all of the shit they carry, am I right?

[boone-ellis-blog]

[Oh God, there it goes again: Boone is old, old, old. He’s old, and the first thing he finds himself wanting to say is: “there’s more to life than getting laid, son.”

He’d say he’s becoming his dad, but his dad had never really been anything like that. His mother, either. Neither of them had been the type to dispense life lessons, neither of them had been the type to—parent, he guesses. His mother had been preoccupied—(the nice, euphemistic way that Boone still tends to prefer to put it, when someone isn’t nudging him to do otherwise)—with her own problems. His father with being a father to a newer, younger son: a blank slate, a fresh start. He hadn’t had much room to apply his newfound wisdom to Boone.

So Boone isn’t his dad, and he isn’t his mom, but that reaction feels distinctly—dad-like. Like someone else’s dad. Someone else’s lame, lame dad that no one ever listens to.

Yeah, that’s Boone.

It’s surreal. Like staring at some funhouse-mirror version of himself where he realizes that all of the things he used to be, all of the things he sees in this cocksure redhead standing in front of him, are nowhere to be found in him, now. They’re completely foreign.

He isn’t the teenager who’d been kicked out of both of his homes, who got by on nothing but charm and bravado and the conviction that his life wasn’t a sinking ship—even when it obviously was. When he didn’t care about anything more than where his next hit or his next lay were coming from—even when he’d had plenty of opportunities to wake up to his real problems like, say, something bleeding out in front of him, because his employers wanted to “teach a lesson.”

He is the man, or he tries to be the man, that he wishes the younger version of him could have known. And yet, now he has absolutely no idea what to say.]

Thanks for your input. It’s more absurd than it is—inspiring. [Ooh, nice euphemism, Boone.] Thanking you for the laugh more than anything else. 

[notanabbott-blog]

[The man doesn’t look like all bad company, if he’s being honest, but King can’t stand the look in his eyes.

It’s the look most “grown-ups” send his way, so he greets it like an old friend. That tired, sorry glance they give, squinting eyes and pulled up eyebrows and contorting lips. This one in particular seems to be accompanied by an amused look, something like a twinkle in his eyes, and maybe King is more like an animal in a zoo than he initially thought.

He remembers his family, then, though it’s not like he ever forgets them. The condescending roll of eyes even when he did something right. That was the thing about building your own empire of bad reputations: not only would you never again be taken seriously, but your loved ones would also be irritated at you by default, leading to a lot of eye rolling and groaning no matter what. He could walk into his house and declare he just saved millions from poverty and all he would get was a grunt of recognition.

It drove him insane, to say the least, and it taught him that it was useless to try and change himself. He was his family’s burden and he would be the heaviest goddamn burden mankind had ever seen. He was good at it (and nothing else).

The mere thought of serving as laughing matter to this man leaves a bitter taste in his throat, a cold shower of annoyance that washes his face of any trace of a smile that was there.]

Well, mate, if I was here to amuse you, I’d rather be getting paid for it. So instead of ‘thank-you’s, try throwing me a pack of fags next time, [he shrugged sharply, and motioned to the cigarette in his hands as if to make his point again.

[notanabbott-blog]

All Those Friendly Faces // Nadine & Elijah

[Boredom was eating him away, like it always was. He liked the times where they had jobs or training to do but hot damn did he hate the free time. 

Before D-Day that would’ve been an unlikely thing for him to say, since free time was what he lived for; dirty alleyways, cigarettes, alcohol, all those comforting fumes and smells and tastes. He misses it, being reckless. It’s bitter nostalgia in his throat how he doesn’t have anyone anymore. Even if his friends back home were as fake as they come, it was still someone. People to share fags with, casual hookups, drinking buddies... He sometimes wonders if they’re all dead.

On these days when he feels heavy and his memories threaten to suffocate him, he wanders off. King will walk and walk, urging his mind to not think of anything but the shuffling of his feet on the ground.

Luckily, the colony is big enough that he still hasn’t figured out all there is to it, so he can still get somewhat lost.

He doesn’t know where he is right now, but it’s no reason to fret. The hallways are all the same and if he walks for long enough he’ll return to the same spot he started off in, so he chucks his hands in his pockets and enjoys the view of the familiar walls. There are some doors and he tries to peak, but they’re mostly locked and only silence greets him when he presses his ear to them.

He has no intent of hesitating when he sees someone else walking in the opposite direction he is, but he glances on her direction and suddenly he halts. He almost doubles over with the weight his feet suddenly take without previous warning sent to his brain.

Sometimes he sees people he thinks he knows. Sometimes he sees faces he thinks he’s run into on the street before. But her, he remembers her.

He can’t say her name or even pinpoint what part she played in his sad, sad life, but the certainty that she is a familiar face drops heavy in his stomach and he panics. He would turn and run off if he wasn’t so frozen in place. “Maybe she won’t remember you, maybe your mind is so bored that it’s playing tricks on you”, he tries to tell himself.]

[He averts his eyes when he realizes he’s staring, tries to duck his head down to maybe go unnoticed even though he’s sure she caught sight of him already. He continues walking, but it’s hesitant and awkward and his face is turned so pointedly away from the woman that it should look ridiculous.]

[redeemingsniper]

[Noah never liked this day of the year. This day marked the day where Noah’s life changed. Where he was able to relax and stop scavenging, and in a sense rejoin civilization…He gained all that at the cost of his parents, however, and sometimes the price took it’s toll on him. Which was why he was currently standing outside in a t-shirt and shorts as he moved the bow of his violin gracefully and elegantly against the strings. 

The familiar sound relaxed him. Just about any type of music did. There was something about the beat and the…The purity of it that called to Noah. Even if some songs talked about sex and drugs, they were still pure. Pure happiness…

Noah’s bow stopped as he sensed the eyes on him. He hadn’t noticed that he had an audience. His music was personal to him…Especially on this horrid day.]

U-Um…Can you p-please leave? 

[Noah hadn’t intended on it coming out as an insult but…His music was personal. It was like his own private diary. And most people would hate it if people read all their secrets and sorrows. Noah didn’t want people hearing his.]

[notanabbott-blog]

[King felt a particular ownership to the outsides. It was a public space, but he could guarantee that no one hated the Colony as much as he did, therefor he should be allowed to own the outside grounds. At least that’s his thought.

He’s guilty of staring, he’ll admit. He doesn’t hear music all that often now, since D-Day, and it’s refreshing, the ups and downs, the short notes and the elongated ones. He doesn’t understand shit of it but he’d been dragged to one or two operas before the first meteor shower.

In all honesty the melody is soothing, and there’s something sweet (if a little creepy) about watching someone lose themselves to musical instruments. In his head, he’ll tell himself he’s sticking around just because picking a fight with this bloke sounds like easy fun.]

Me? Oh, don’t worry about me, [he scoffs with irony, and refrains from the cliche of pointing out that’s a public place. He wishes he had a cigarette now, but he’s rationalizing his stash. He pulls his legs up to a crisscross position on the bench he’s on and leans his head on a hand, expectantly.] You can go on, mate.

[notanabbott-blog]

Would you be reunited with your family if you could be?

Nuh-uh, mate.

[notanabbott-blog]

What do you think your father is doing right now?

My money’s on ordering people around, like he loved to. Maybe giving other teenage boys shit for being gay, now that he doesn’t have me anymore. I hope he has some more puppets to master, wherever he is. ‘S either that, or he’s six feet underground.

[notanabbott-blog]

[owen--organized--chaos]

[Owen’s frown starts to fold in a slow wave and the red-head spells out letters that to not make sense. It takes him a moment to piece together, and by the end, he flushes, and looks down.]

Sorry, [he says, knowing now that he being made fun of.] I can not help it. I know it is strange…. [He doesn’t know what else to say, so he scrambles for the only thing he can, the thing he’d first reacted to when he’d heard the boy’s name.] King. [He wants to spell it. His mouth opens, but he’s nervous, now. He swallows tightly. He’ll have to spell it later, tonight, when he fixes his mistakes. Many mistakes made today. Many. Many.] That is a nice name. I like it. Do you know why you are called King? 

[He asks it, but he has a suspicion he should be walking away, instead. It does not seem like this person wants to talk to him, but Owen has a hard time being rude, even when he has the right to be.] 

[notanabbott-blog]

[The boy blushes and looks away and King almost feels bad. It wasn’t his first intention to pick on him, not with the spelling at least, but he’s not giving in to the apology that wants to slip out. He presses his tongue against the roof of his mouth as if to make a point to himself.

He hums at the question, however, thinks about it for a second. He knows why he named himself King, of course, but he’s trying to decide whether or not he wants to say it out loud. It reminds him of his mother. He bumps his cigarette against his kneecap to shatter some ashes onto the ground before he speaks.]

I have some freckles that make out a crown on my shoulder. The group I was with decided to call me King. [He finally says, (half) frankly. A part of him wants to play nice and spell out “King” for the boy, this time right, but then again so what if he upsets yet another person. One less to try to make friends with him. It should be a good thing.]

[aigul-wolf]

[alexander-donovan]

[It happens quickly. So quickly he almost doesn’t see it.

But he looks over just in time to spot a citizen reaching carefully into someone else’s bag, trying not to be seen, or heard. Pick pocketing likely happens on a more regular basis than he’s even aware, especially in the hub, where it’s filled with people trying to wrangle things in and out of the Black market. And it’s not his job to monitor it. But he’s passing through, and he happens to catch sight of it, and just in time, he steps up, and grabs their wrist before they even see him approach.] 

Hey. [The voice makes the pick-pocketer start, and the victim spin around, looking surprised. The older woman glares at the thief, checking her bag before scurrying away quickly.

Alex doesn’t loosen his grip as the woman walks away.] Go ahead, feed me your excuse. Entertain me, [he scowls.] 

[notanabbott-blog]

[He’s bored.

There’s only so much you can do at a place like this. King feels like little Elijah all over again, a young teen looking up with curious eyes as the adults speak about things he doesn’t understand yet, promising him he’ll sit with them when he’s older. Elijah wanted to be older then, to grow up and be like his father. It’s a laughable memory now.

So he pickpockets, sue him. He used to steal cigarettes and booze from small stores back in the day, but stealing from purses and pockets was never a thing he tried, so he’s excited. Apparently his hand is light enough and the people are distracted enough, so he’s successful. He steals a cigarette from a man, and a pair of reading glasses from a woman, and a little bottle cap from someone else’s pocket. Stupid useless things, apart from the fag, but he enjoys the amusement.

His wrist is caught and he jumps a little, looks up to the man holding it and a rushed laughter leaves him, half entertained, half startled.] Hey, big guy, [the authoritative tone does nothing to him, and he doesn’t even try to pull his hand back.] Rough hands there, mate, you’re hurting me. Not that I’m complaining.