I walked home with my hands in my pockets, feeling the weight of the cash and the new phone pressing against my thigh. The sun was high, the streets were busy, and I was in a genuinely good mood for the first time in maybe years.
Which, of course, meant the universe was about to ruin it.
"Noel! Hey, Noel! What's up, buddy?"
That voice. That nasally, grating, rat-like voice that made my skin crawl every time I heard it. I'd know it anywhere. I'd heard it enough times—usually right before a fist hit my face.
I turned around.
Bucky was standing about ten feet behind me, grinning that wide, toothy grin of his. His two front teeth—long and yellow, pressing into his cracked lower lip—were on full display. His pink, wiry nose was twitching, sniffing the air like he was trying to smell whatever I'd been eating. Freckles covered every inch of his sallow skin, and his small, black, wet eyes were darting between me and the shopping bag on my shoulder.
He was wearing the same ratty clothes he always wore—a stained jacket that was two sizes too big, jeans with holes in the knees, and sneakers that were held together with duct tape. His fingers were twitching at his sides, those sharp, claw-like nails clicking against his palms.
"Holy shit, guys, look! It's Noel!" He turned his head, laughing, apparently to an imaginary audience. "Noel's out here shopping! Look at him! He got new clothes!"
He doubled over laughing, his bony shoulders shaking. His laugh was this high-pitched squeaking sound that genuinely resembled a rat squealing. It was fitting, really.
What was so funny about this?
I couldn't help but feel anger rising within me...
"What do you want, Bucky?"
"Me? I don't want anything, buddy! I'm just saying hi!" He straightened up, wiping a tear from his eye. "I saw you walking down the street with your little shopping bag and I thought, 'Hey, there's my old friend Noel! Let me go say hello!'"
He stepped closer, his nose twitching again. His eyes dropped to the bag.
"New clothes, huh? Finally decided to stop dressing like a dumpster diver? That's great, man. Real character development." He sniffed again, louder this time. "You smell like pizza. Good pizza. Must've cost, what, fifteen, twenty bucks?"
"Eighteen."
"Eighteen dollars on pizza." He let out a low whistle. "Must be nice. Where'd you get the money, Noel? Your stepmom finally give you an allowance? Or did she let you keep the change from one of her clients?"
He laughed again, harder this time.
I focused on him.
[Name: Bucky Morris]
[Age: 18]
[Rank: E]
[Occupation: Student / Jack Williams' errand boy]
[Ability: Rat Traits (enhanced senses, digging claws, enhanced speed, enhanced agility)]
I focused harder. Deep Focus.
[History: Born in the Flats. Father unknown—mother has had multiple partners. Grew up in extreme poverty. Awakened at age 9 with rat-like traits that permanently altered his appearance. Bullied extensively in elementary school for his appearance until Jack Williams took him under his "protection" in middle school. Has been Jack's loyal subordinate ever since, serving as his enforcer, kidnapper, and general punching bag handler.]
[Secrets: His mother, Linda Morris, is a well-known street prostitute in the Flats who works under the alias "Cinnamon." Bucky is deeply ashamed of this and has physically assaulted three people who mentioned it in his presence—one of whom was hospitalized. He steals from Jack's drug stash regularly and sells it on his own for extra cash. He has a collection of women's jewelry that he's taken from mugging victims, which he keeps in a shoebox under his bed. He once cried during a Pixar movie about a rat who wanted to cook, but will deny it if asked.]
[Psychological traits: Deeply insecure about his appearance and social status. Projects confidence through aggression. Pathologically loyal to Jack, who he views as a father figure despite being treated as disposable. Has an untreated anxiety disorder that manifests as excessive sniffing and fidgeting. Harbors intense self-hatred that he redirects outward at weaker targets.]
I blinked, breaking focus. My eyes stung.
"...Huh."
That was... a lot. The Pixar movie thing was almost funny. The rest was just sad.
But I didn't feel sorry for him. Not even a little.
"So anyway," Bucky continued, completely unaware that I'd just read his entire life story, "I was just wondering—where'd a little Blank like you get enough money for new clothes and pizza? Did you find it on the ground? Did someone drop it and you scooped it up like the little rat you—" This chapter was taken from novelping dot com without permission.
"Your mom still working the corner on Fifth?" I asked.
Bucky stopped mid-sentence. His grin faltered.
"...What?"
"Fifth Street. That's where she works, right? The corner near the liquor store?" I tilted my head, keeping my expression completely neutral. "I heard she's got a discount on Tuesdays. Two for one, or something like that."
His eyes widened. "Shut the fuck up."
"What? I'm just asking. I think it's impressive, honestly. A woman her age, still out there hustling. That's dedication. That's one hell of a work ethic."
"I said shut up." His voice had dropped. His hands were clenched at his sides, those sharp nails digging into his palms hard enough to draw blood. His nose was twitching violently now, his rat-like features contorting with barely contained rage.
"Does she still go by Cinnamon? That's a cute name. Very fitting for a—"
"SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH!"
He lunged at me. I sidestepped—casually, almost lazily—and he stumbled past, his claws swiping at empty air.
"Whoa, easy there, buddy. Just making conversation."
"I'LL KILL YOU! I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!"
Sigh.
"You're not going to kill anyone, Bucky. You're going to stand there and listen while I tell you that your mother is a whore. Because she is. She's a literal, actual whore. And everyone knows it. The whole school knows it. The whole neighborhood knows it. Jack knows it. Ron knows it. The guy at the liquor store knows it. The homeless guys on Fifth Street definitely know it—they're probably her best customers."
Bucky was shaking. His entire body was vibrating with rage, his face red, his eyes wet. His claws were out, fully extended, dripping with his own blood where he'd been squeezing his fists.
"And you know what the saddest part is?" I continued, my voice calm and measured. "You're so ashamed of it that you beat up anyone who mentions it. But you can't beat up everyone, Bucky. You can't beat up the whole city. Your mom's a prostitute, and that's just... a fact. Like gravity. It's always there, pulling you down."
"..."
"Speaking of which—how's the shoebox collection? Still keeping all that jewelry you steal from the people you mug? That's cute. Real classy. You and your mom both making a living off other people's bodies. Like mother, like son."
"WHO TOLD YOU ABOUT—" His voice cracked. He was actually crying now, tears running down his freckled cheeks, mixing with the snot from his constantly twitching nose. "YOU... DON'T KNOW ANYTHING! YOU'RE A BLANK! YOU'RE A FUCKING NOBODY!"
"A nobody who just bought new clothes and ate an eighteen-dollar pizza. How much did you eat today, Bucky? Did you eat at all? Or did you spend your last dollar on whatever cheap shit Ron's been selling you?"
"..."
He stared at me, his chest heaving, his face a mess of tears and snot and rage. His claws were out, his body was coiled, and every instinct he had was screaming at him to tear my throat out.
"You... what the hell happened to you?..." He slowly cooled down and started looking at me cautiously.
Oops.
Did I gave too much?
He must've noticed that something about me was different, and his rat-like senses—enhanced as they were—were picking up on it. The way I was standing. The way I'd dodged his lunge. The calm, unbothered tone of my voice. The fact that I wasn't flinching, wasn't cowering, wasn't doing any of the things I normally did when he confronted me.
"...You... how did you even...?" he muttered, his voice low and suspicious. "You're... different."
"No, I'm not. I'm the same Noel I've always been. I just finally decided to stop pretending that your bullshit bothers me."
"You're lying. Something's different. You—"
"Hey, Bucky." I smiled. Not a fake smile. Not a nervous smile. A real, genuine, slightly unsettling smile. "You want to know where I got the money?"
"..."
"Follow me into that alley." I pointed behind me. A narrow alley between two buildings, dark and empty. "And I'll show you."
He stared at me. His rat-like eyes narrowed, his nose twitching as he sniffed the air—probably trying to detect fear, trying to figure out if I was bluffing.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because I don't want to do this in public. And because you want to hurt me. And I'm giving you the opportunity."
"...You're serious?"
"Dead serious."
He looked at me for a long moment. Then he looked at the alley. Then back at me.
His claws gleamed in the sunlight as he raised his hand, pointing those sharp, bloody nails directly at my face.
"You're dead, Noel. You hear me? Dead."
"Sure. After you."
I turned and walked into the alley. Behind me, I heard Bucky's footsteps following, his sneakers scuffing against the pavement. His breathing was heavy, ragged, still choked with tears and rage.
I smiled.
[Gen 2 parasite.]
[Drain cap: 12%]
[Lifespan: 19:47:33 remaining]
"In here, buddy. Nice and private."
The alley swallowed us both.