Classified - Chapter 7
Warning: sexual harassment. The salty blade. Anxiety. Nonexistent update schedule. Et cetera.
291.6.8.17
The girl’s ears involuntarily twitched up as she held her bowl out to be filled with salad; she habitually smoothed them down against her head, both actions being so normal to her that she scarcely noticed doing them, paying attention instead to the spinach dropped into her dish. Her nose twitched. Her leg twitched. She coughed.
“Chicken?” the next cafeteria lady offered, not unkindly, but the girl shrank back from the meat.
“No, no, no,” she said quietly, and scurried, embarrassed, toward her usual tiny table in the corner. She couldn’t help hating meat; it came with being essentially part rabbit, and she wasn't feeling well to boot.
She kept her back to the corner and her eyes scanning the room as she ate because anything could happen in this part of town, but the dining hall was mostly occupied by single mothers with small children; a disproportionately large amount appeared to be mutts or affiliates, like herself. Good. Regular humans and Elementals could be… scary, because when they came to the Little Nether, they usually came drunk or drugged up or looking to become as such.
And besides, who has ever heard of a rabbit who wasn’t constantly anxious?
The line for food lengthened as the dinner hour carried on, and the girl watched nervously as the hall filled even to the point where the tiny tables in the back, like hers, were being shared. Finally, the moment she dreaded came: a man, a human from the looks of it, approached her. “Min’ if I siddown?” he half-slurred, plopping into the other chair before the girl could form a response. He was large and tanned and scruffy and in need of a shower. She noticed his plate held only chicken and cringed internally.
“M’name’s Brek,” he said over a mouthful of poultry. “What can I call you, bunny-girl?”
She was too scared to answer, and stood to leave despite her half-full salad bowl.
Then he grabbed her arm.
“Wassa matter, bunny-girl? Can’t a guy make conversation?”
“Please let go,” the girl said, though it was practically inaudible in the crowded dining hall.
“Wuzzat?”
“Please let go,” she cleared her throat and repeated, though Brek only smiled devilishly. He reeled her back, using his long reach to push her into her chair without even standing, and shifted his grip to her hand. “Please let go!” She tried to wrench away, but she may as well have been trying to escape a fur trap. The few people around who noticed gave no thought to her plight; these things happened every day, and they had other worries.
“Wan’ some chicken?” He held out a piece of grilled poultry, which dripped with fatty juice. It was disgusting. He shoved it at her so she smelled it without meaning to - smoky and putrid; it worsened her headache - and she did her best to shrink away further, leaning back as far as she could. She’d had such encounters before, and they never turned out well. His hand grazed her breast as he reached toward her face; the gesture might have appeared to be an accident, but it was clearly intentional.
“I can’t BELIEVE you’ve done this,” someone said loudly, approaching the table. “How uncomfortable does she have to be before you care? Never mind that she’s, like, eleven. Stop, Brek, just stop.” The speaker, almost silhouetted against the bright light of the dining room, towered over the offender. He produced a plastic baggie of something dull green from his pocket and tossed it on the table. “Take it, give me the money, and go. Now.”
“Or what?” snarled Brek.
The newcomer pulled up the hem of his threadbare maroon hoodie at the side, revealing a straight, bright, bluish knife with a leather-wrapped grip and a simple transparent plastic sheath dotted with flecks the red-brown of dried blood. “Or you might find a little thorn in your side.”
Brek was off faster than a scared rabbit, leaving only a half-finished plate of chicken, a wad of cash, and an empty space where the baggie had been.
The girl was dizzy.
“I’m Lachlan,” the remaining boy introduced himself, not unkindly, as he held a hand out to the shaking girl. With the other hand he slipped the money into his pocket and his hoodie back over his knife. As if in response, the rabbit-eared girl fainted.
She felt something soft under her head, a kind murmur in her ear. More dizziness. She cracked her eyes open a bit and instantly regretted it. The dizziness subsided a couple long seconds later, and she tried instinctively to sit up as she opened her eyes in full, but she was pressed down gently. “Don't try to get up too fast or you’ll collapse again. It's okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” She was on her back on the floor, looking up at blue, blue eyes. Lachlan was no longer wearing his hoodie; she presumed it was currently serving as her pillow.
“I’m Lachlan,” the boy repeated as she came back to her senses. “Don’t be scared. I’m a bit of a dealer, but nothing you should be afraid of. What’s your name?”
“Kara,” she responded softly, grabbing the leg of the table to help pull herself up. “My name is Kara.”
