11.1.98
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"Hey, Neetles, whatchya doin'?"

"Nothin'."

"Where you been? How come you weren't in school Friday?"

"I dunno. Don' 'member."

"You don't r'member? Jeez... You okay? You sick 'r somethin'?"

"Yeah. Guess I's sick 'r somethin'."

The green-haired kid hadn't had many friends to begin with, and he was on the verge of losing this one. He looked kind of...wrung out, or strung out, maybe, the tell-tale signs of not enough sleep drawing lines and dark smudges on his already-thin face.

"Guess so. Um... I'll see y'later, or somethin'." The other boy wandered away, soon getting embroiled in a kickball game.

Neets poked listlessly at his lunch, an unappetizing mass touted to be a ham-and-cheese sandwich. The morning's lessons hadn't stuck, washed away by a lilting little chorus of voices reminding of how he'd spent the weekend... Not how he'd have chosen to spend it, if given the opportunity, and the fleeting details were leaving him nauseous.

He knew that he couldn't explain it to anyone... If he told, no one would believe him. Things... Those kind of things always happened to -girls-, didn't they? The stories were always about girls... Little girls, usually. Gods, he was just as sick as J...That Guy, wasn't he? Thinking about this stuff?

Leaving his lunch, he slunk over to the noon duty, arms crossed tightly over his stomach. "I don' feel s'good... C'n I go see t'nurse?" Without even realizing it, his expression shifted to be as soulful and pathetic as possible.

"I'm sorry... Sure, Neetles." The woman nods, smiling gently at the boy, opening the door for him.

His trip to the nurse's office is slow and quiet, Neets trying to decide if he's going to tell her what was making him sick, or if he didn't, just what he was going to say.

"Hello, there, young man... What can I do for you?"

"I... I don' feel good. M'stom'ch 'urts." He sighed and plopped down in the chair provided, studying the nonexistent pattern in the industrial linoleum.

"Knickerbocker, Neetlemyre."

"He's not here."

"Like usual."

"Now, class, settle down..." The homeroom teacher missed the flicker of green and black outside the classroom's door, marking the young man absent for the fourth time in two weeks. He'd had a nearly spotless attendance record, didn't cut classes, seemed to be destined to be a B student... "All right; Klauss, Gerold?"

In the hallway, Neets slouched against the wall and fretted. He wanted to go home; he didn't want to stay, sure that everyone would _know_, without him saying a word... But he couldn't get into trouble, because... That woman, not the one he knew as 'Mom', and the guy that said he was his father, had made it -quite- clear that if the authorities started calling them in for conferences and talks that -he- would be in even more trouble than he wanted to be in.

He had to go in. He could do this... He wasn't going to cry. Only -babies- cry... He was tough. He was -Neetles-, he was... He'd survived last weekend, hadn't he? He hadn't even made any noise, almost hadn't noticed. Part of the young man's mind was revolted that he could find some scrap of pride in what had happened to him, horrified that he could find this -uncaring- in himself. But he'd found it, and it seemed like the best thing for his situation. So, lifting his chin, narrowing his yellow eyes a bit, and standing up straight, he marches into class. "Sorry'm lat'... Clo'k got mess'd up, an' Ah thoug't'w's er'l'er 'n't'was." The lie rolls easily off his tongue, and is accepted with a nod.

If he could just make it 'til the next vacation... Then he'd -do- something about this...problem. He stared vacantly at a stack of drawing pads on the desk before him, trying to remember the last time he'd put pencil to paper, and recalled that a couple of days ago he'd had the house basically to himself and had been able to do more than just aimless doodles... Distantly, he watches as a hand reaches out and plucks the uppermost book from the stack and draws it towards him, turning back the cover. Oh, yes... A study of the plant in the middle of the table downstairs... And on the next page was the stray cat that sometimes yowled outside the back door. He wasn't -supposed- to let it in, but kitty had looked the way Neetles had felt that afternoon - Skinny, underfed, ignored and seemingly worthless.

The tattered little cat had curled up in a splash of sunlight on the table, beside the plant, and had purred at him as he worked. A bit of a smile touched the kid's pale mouth as he looked it over, not noticing as the chill shell he'd been constructing over the last few months slipped back down, letting him be himself again. Neets put the sketchbook down, picking up the next one and thumbing through it. This one was filled with more doodles and less drawings, but the few there were bespoke a rather great store of talent, or at the very least, a good eye for light and shadow and composition.

A clattering from downstairs startles him, and his face hardens as he realizes that someone was home. The recognition of shifting gears, of bringing his guard back up gives him another jolt as well, but Cold snorts and dismisses it. He -had- to be this way, that way he didn't get hurt.

"Ah sed _don'_ touch me!" Lurching to his feet, slapping at the man's hand, Anger blistering the liquor-simplified thoughts in his mind and reducing them to mere impulses; Hit, Run, Escape... Fear of what might happen to him if he -didn't- leave fed his anger, and he began making his way to the door of the grungy little bar. He couldn't remember how he'd gotten there, he didn't remember why he thought it was a good idea, and he certainly couldn't remember who he'd come -with-.

Someone... He knew that much. The boy desperately tried his best to stomp out into the night air, but the alcohol he'd consumed in the course of the evening was mixing warmly with whatever stuff... Stretch. That was it... Stretch had been the one he'd come with... For... He stumbled and crashed into a short, voluptuous redhead in a tight little dress, losing his train of thought as he recoiled in distaste.

"Neetles! Neetles...Wait for me..." He heard his name being called, but he was too busy trying to disentangle himself from whoever's arms were wrapping around him and stay upright at the same time.

"Leggo... Pleas', lemme go..." The words are soft, almost unheard in the din of the revelers, dripping pain and despair. Strong hands close gently around his biceps and the next thing he knows, he's shivering in the cool of an alley, leaning heavily against the aforementioned Stretch.

The other young man slid an arm around his waist, holding him up, wondering in a vague and fuzzy way if Neetles was going to start crying. "C'mon, Neetles... Let's go..."

A soft rattle, and then a clammy hand wraps around his own, pressing two small capsules into it. Opening his eyes a fraction, he squints at them... Green and gold. What were green and gold? A glass of something cold is handed over, and he swallows the pills without asking what they were, without noticing the burn of the vodka he washed them down with. A few minutes later, the clammy hands are gently brushing over him, and a pale, pale face lined with stark black hovers above, a sing-song spill of nonsense quietly carrying him off into oblivion...

Cracking an eye, he notes idly that he hurts all over.
But who cares? It was nothing important... And We don't even have any bruises. Get up, get dressed, get the hell out of here.
The fragment of Himself, the little bit he never showed unless he could help it, wondered aloud at this...
When did it become We? What happened, when did I split into We?
Then again, why should We care? We _know_ what happened, We know what's _always_ going to happen.
And then Neets clamps down on all the conflicting voices, ignoring them as best he could as he slides stiffly out of the bed. Looking down at himself, he realized it was true... Other than a small purplish splotch on one shin, and a few washed-out yellowy-green spots on his arms, he was just fine. Well, he -did- have a hangover, but the rest of him was all right.

A soft sound from the bed made him look up sharply, wondering if he was going to be ordered back between the sheets. He decided he wasn't up to it, and that he'd do anything to get away, if he was... But Stretch was just turning over, getting comfortable without him there. Shaking his head, he finishes dressing, smoothing black silk down along his arms and smirking to himself at the fact that he wore such a rich fabric.
So... We're going to have to eat, eventually. Where'd We find it, last time? There... That piddling excuse for a pair of pants. Well? What're We waiting for, the Second Coming?
Neets reluctantly sidles into the corner, kneeling and rifling through the pockets. Four dollars and seventeen cents... Well, if he went over to the Mission on Walsover Street...

Brick rough against his fingertips, the wind wandering coolly past, barely stirring strands of emerald hair... Cars roll by, some slowing a bit, others stopping up and down the block. Down the street, a few girls crowd the window of something dark and expensive, laughing over something or other. He'd never been able to find anything funny in what he did, never even really been able to make jokes about it. Or maybe it was that he wasn't -able- to, _yet_. His thoughts didn't go quite that deep, tonight, leaning against the wall of a ruined factory and waiting for the inevitable.

Another dark - They were always dark, weren't they? - sedan, with tinted window, glides by like a shark casually inspecting a dying seal, disappearing around the corner. He sighs softly, peering blandly across the road, towards the yard of an abandoned mill or something, looming rickety and silent behind the minor deterrents of rusted chain-link and riotous weeds. The car is back, murmuring to a stop a few yards away from him. He refuses to look, praying to be ignored, then snorting at himself for even bothering to care.

A shuffle off to his right brings sharp yellow eyes around, a curl of his upper lip letting artificially sharpened teeth glimmer a bit in the gloom. He relaxes, sort of, as the skinny, heavily-made-up girl recoils from him. "Whattaya wan'?"

"The car... Says they wanchya. Hunnerd bucks, y'go."

"Oh." Cold is back, cataloging the various things that could be done with a hundred dollars. A little food, several days worth of showers and baths, and of course stuff to help add to the fog of forgetfulness that veiled most of his mind. He pushed away from the wall, grimness and ice in the lines of his face, the strangely colored eyes...

Neetles peeks out the window of the tiny, squalid room he'd rented with a small smile tugging at his mouth. For a few days, at least, he was safe. He had enough money, he had a place with a door that actually locked (and he was carefully -not- thinking about just how flimsy it was...), he was all right. For now.

He let the chintz curtain fall back into place, one hand slipping into the pocket of his dark pants, wrapping around the two jet-black cubes that were his constant companions. The tiny smile grew wider, gaining an air of triumph... The dice had been just what he'd needed, night before last...
Why didn't I think of it before? How could I have not seen it?
Too late to be whining about it -now-, stupid. We were just...
Cold never doubted, Cold never faltered. The boy sits utterly still as the bits and pieces of himself wrestle with one another.
Busy. Yes, busy and distracted, because of That Guy. His fault, but Our Fault, too, 'cause We -let- him do That to Us. Riiiight?

I guess so... But...

Shut The _Hell_ Up, Dammit, and Leave Him Alone.
And as suddenly as Anger had risen, it subsided, leaving Him and Boy mumbling softly to one another.

remember, remember the game? that game was Good. not like Bad Stuff...

I remember... It was Good. Almost...fun.

Fun. Other people had -fun-... He guessed that winning the pot had been a kind of fun...

He couldn't remember how he'd found the circle of men, couldn't recall what wrong turn he'd taken in his pharmeceutically-induced haze. Didn't really -want- to, anyhow... But he'd found them, and had very nearly ended up dead, until he'd fumbled the wad of twenties out of his pocket and the dice had clattered to the pavement.

One of the men who'd continued playing -finally- looked up, scowling darkly as he took in the strange features of the rail-thin kid. "He is but a child! Leave him be... He'll not harm us."

At this instruction, not only were Neets' arms dropped, but his money and dice were returned to him. Frightened, the only reaction he could offer was to stare defiantly at all of them. "I jus' wanned t'go 'ome... 'Cept... Dunno w'ere 'tis." The last part of his admission was nothing but a whisper, citrine eyes falling to the pavement, shoulders slumping and weight shifting from foot to foot.

"That's all right, boy... Join us? You can use your own bones, if you don't mind my giving them a look..." The man had a forgettable face, though one could also say that it was as honest and kind a face as ever a criminal wore. Pale hair stuck up in wisps and waves, the mercury vapor lights picking out dim little reflections on his scalp.

Neets frowned, uncertain and more than a bit muddled, still. "Join'ya? Wh'tchya doin'? 'N...Bon's? Y'wanna lookit m'..." -That- does _not_ sound like something he wanted to be involved with. He takes a step or two away from the spot where he was accosted, stuffing the money back into a pocket.

"We're playing a game, child... A simple one, in which we make wagers on rolling certain numbers, then toss the dice. Whoever's number comes up, or does -not-, wins, or loses. That bit is more complex, of course..." Frowning, he notes the lad's discomfort, reviewing what he'd said. Ah! "Bones... Dice, freckled cubes, snake-eyes... Dice, like those you have in your pocket."

"Dice!" A funny feeling flutters near his heart, and he thought it might be a laugh... The game intrigues him, and he moves forward again. "'N ya jus play fer mon'y, rig't?" The suspicion in his voice is hard to miss.

"Yes, dice. I forget, some times, that my words are...antiquated. Old, like me." He blinks oddly at the question, puzzlement furrowing his brow. "Of course we only play for money... Anything else would be...inconvenient. Can't have too many people asking too many of the wrong sort of questions, now."

"Hm." He was reassured, but vaguely.
If We join in, We might win something. Then We might not have to do Other Stuff. Of course, if We lose, We'll be out of money. So, what's it going to be?
winning is a Good Thing.
Shut -up-, you.
"Yeh, 'll join ya." Neetles stepped forward again, eyeing the rather clean alley for possible escape routes. "Whattya do 'bout losers?"

The man waited silently, as did the others, who seemed to look up to him as a leader or something. "Losers? Well... They lose. And when they are out of money... Well, they fill the debt however they can, and they're not allowed to play again for a time. Do you have a name?" The sudden question is accompanied by a darkening of his face and a sharpening of his gaze.

"'N 'ow d'they do th't? I..." He pauses, Cold screaming at him about saying too much to these men... Don't give them any ideas, for God's sake! "Got a name... 'S Neetles." He shifts again under the man's piercing look, wondering what was making him so antsy.

"Neetles. Ah... Strange, but then again, they call -me- Quire. That is Blade, that is Freye, and that one with the smirk off that way is Alek. As in 'smart-alec'." Quire points to each of the people in turn, shrugging easily. "Oh... Usually they move things for us. Or deliver papers to people... Odd jobs, mostly. Nothing..." His eyes narrow again, raking the young man from head to toe.

Neets shivers once, another new sensation drifting through him, though -this- feeling is...pressure. In his head. Strange... He attributes it to an unexpected side-effect of whatever he'd swallowed hours ago.

"Nothing...Carnal, I promise you."

And what was more, the others promised, as well. Once Quire had defined the word for the boy, Neets had relaxed, and the game was on.

Stalking along the sidewalk, occasionally re-reading the address on the box he carries to make sure he was going in the right direction, he reminded himself that it could be quite a bit worse. All he had to do was hand the box over to whoever answered the door, wish them a good day (Quire had insisted), and go.

He wished that he hadn't lost...
But there's not a lot We can do about it, now, is there? Our own fault, for not counting Our money before we showed up. And for going halvsies with Stretch. That was dumber than not counting-
That Is Enough. It Was Needed, Or Do You -Want- To Remember Every Single Detail Of The Night Before Last?

Several people gave the slender boy shaking his head vehemently wide berth as they passed, unsure of the reason for his mutterings and not wanting to interfere if they could help it.

Neets, ignoring the passersby as usual, wanted the bits and pieces of himself to be quiet and let him just... Something. Forget, be normal, be alone inside his head... The choices were almost endless. Well, not all -that- infinite... Sighing, he checks the nearest house number and starts walking again.

There had to be something he could do to get away from this. There was always killing himself... But every method he could come up with was painful and about as likely to fail as it was to work. He'd had enough of hurting... So suicide was out. What did that leave? Finding some rich guy with a soft heart and getting himself set up as a... whatever it was. Slave? Boy, some kind of boy... Didn't matter. Despite the stories he'd overhead, he doubted it happened all that often...

Sighing, he turned over and tried to get comfortable. That was a laugh... Cardboard and some old-to-the-point-of-disintegration foam padding was not exactly an innerspring mattress. At least it was dry in here, though the damp cold from the rain outside crept in and seemed to pool around him. Maybe... Maybe he should get up and go back to the corner, and see if he couldn't - No. Doing That was -not- worth the few hours of being warm it might bring... And if he was unlucky.. No. No question about it, he'd stay right here. And probably freeze to death.

Well... Hypothermia was supposed to end one's life by sending one to sleep, feeling falsely warm... That might not be so bad. But what about- Neetles sat up, suddenly, very nearly cracking his head on the low ceiling of the disused drainpipe he'd taken to sleeping in. Someone, something he hadn't thought of in... How long? Years, it felt like... His mother... And most likely father. Family...

Oh, -now- We're really in trouble... Family. If We had one, don't you think they'd have been -looking- for Us?
maybe... maybe they don't know We're missing.
Right. People don't just lose their kids like they lose keys or glasses or something. How dumb can We be? Maybe hypothermia -has- set in, isn't it supposed to make Us stupid, at first?
I have to have a family. I mean, people aren't just...hatched from an egg, like birds, or grow in ponds like weeds and slime and stuff. People... Women have babies, so some woman had to have me...
Cold grumbled softly, then grudgingly conceded the point. Okay, so some woman had Us. That still doesn't mean We have a family... What if they're all dead? What if they don't want Us back? Think about it. What are We? What do We do for money? What family, in their right mind, would-
How Many Times Do I Have To Tell You To Leave Him Alone? What, Do You Like To Make Him Cry?
it's a possibility... but they can't be! they just -can't-!

It was odd how often Anger took on almost maternal overtones... But he wasn't crying, not yet... He didn't know if he knew -how- to, or if he ever had. But at least he had a starting point, now, something to keep him from welcoming the idea of discovering just how mortal he was... And even better than that, he had something else to keep him occupied -- How was he going to -find- them?

What did they look like? Hm. Good question...

Like Us, of course.
Highly Logical. Any Other Suggestions?
green hair? maybe?
Maybe. And yellow eyes, perhaps. What else?

He didn't know. The biology class he'd started hadn't gotten into genetics, and... He couldn't remember much of school at all. He could read, and write, and do basic math well enough, but everything else was a blur.

Giving up on both school and sleep, he pulls a tattered sheet he'd found somewhere closer around himself and scrounged around for any memories of his family. Well, there was... Himself. And... Himself, and... Well, he vaguely recalled a woman that had taken care of him when he'd been much smaller, but she was as dim and unfocused as school was.

But there had been -someone-. That was enough to give him something he guessed might be hope...