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mod_kyloren_awakeningHe was sitting alone. That was good. Things had less of a chance of going wrong when he was alone. The Cleavers (they had a real surname, but Ben never bothered to remember it. They baked brownies and had married-dates and thought picnics were just swell--they were the Cleavers to him) would have to punish him if he got into another fight before school ended for the summer.
Really. That's the way they put it, stern and disapproving. We will have to punish you, young man.
It was stupid. They were stupid. But they were nice-stupid, and that was a change, so he was trying. To make a change. And just trying in general, he supposed. Sitting here alone, sketching in his notebook, earbuds blocking out the worst of the New York City hum.
"Hey. Hey, you. Kid."
Don't look up, don't bother, just keep drawing the line of this hand. It was a good hand, strong if a little cruel, with knuckles split by an old scar and a constellation of freckles. He drew freckles a lot lately. Maybe it was the first heat of summer coiling up in his brain.
"Hey. Fuckwad. Are you listening?"
No, obviously. Except, damn it, now he was. Ben looked up with a sigh, carefully closing his notebook around his pencil. The Cleavers were nice, but they weren't nice enough to buy him good art supplies. He'd scraped together what he needed for this one, and it had to last him, even if that meant drawing on both sides and making each image cramped and small and...Brainiac-sized. Wasn't that right? Brainiac, shrinking Superman's world.
The boy was towering over him. Smirking. There were two others behind him. All three were at least twice the size of Ben, and he didn't have to wonder what they wanted. They all wanted the same thing, everywhere. The trick was letting them think they'd get it before the jaws of the trap snapped around their fat little necks.
He thought he saw mouths shape something, a word he didn't like. Ben frowned, tugging out his earbuds and setting his battered old hand-me-down ipod aside. The music kept blaring, violins soaring high, high, high in a warning wail. "You don't want to do this," he said, as calmly as he could.
"And what the fuck is it we don't want to do?" The biggest of the three was looking down at him like he was getting ideas, bad ideas, wrong ideas. Ben felt a prickle of awareness, fight or flight rushing through him, crashing behind a sick gut-wrench of recognition. Oh, he knew this game. "What goes on in that head of yours anyway?"
"Nothing I like," Ben said simply, then launched himself at the leader, punching hard straight at his throat the way Siri taught him. They both went down like a crashing monument, Ben letting out a strangled laugh at the shock in those watery blue eyes.
Then he was being yanked away by bruising hands, and the fight was on--blood, bloody, bloodbath, teeth flashing and blows raining and the kid who started it all, who said that word curled on the ground clutching his throat and going purple from the strain of trying to breathe.
He hated that he liked the sight of that; he hated that he liked the bright flash-bang of pain as boots hit him in the ribs. He gasped breaths and saw starbursts of light and fought because he knew if he didn't, he would drown.
Really. That's the way they put it, stern and disapproving. We will have to punish you, young man.
It was stupid. They were stupid. But they were nice-stupid, and that was a change, so he was trying. To make a change. And just trying in general, he supposed. Sitting here alone, sketching in his notebook, earbuds blocking out the worst of the New York City hum.
"Hey. Hey, you. Kid."
Don't look up, don't bother, just keep drawing the line of this hand. It was a good hand, strong if a little cruel, with knuckles split by an old scar and a constellation of freckles. He drew freckles a lot lately. Maybe it was the first heat of summer coiling up in his brain.
"Hey. Fuckwad. Are you listening?"
No, obviously. Except, damn it, now he was. Ben looked up with a sigh, carefully closing his notebook around his pencil. The Cleavers were nice, but they weren't nice enough to buy him good art supplies. He'd scraped together what he needed for this one, and it had to last him, even if that meant drawing on both sides and making each image cramped and small and...Brainiac-sized. Wasn't that right? Brainiac, shrinking Superman's world.
The boy was towering over him. Smirking. There were two others behind him. All three were at least twice the size of Ben, and he didn't have to wonder what they wanted. They all wanted the same thing, everywhere. The trick was letting them think they'd get it before the jaws of the trap snapped around their fat little necks.
He thought he saw mouths shape something, a word he didn't like. Ben frowned, tugging out his earbuds and setting his battered old hand-me-down ipod aside. The music kept blaring, violins soaring high, high, high in a warning wail. "You don't want to do this," he said, as calmly as he could.
"And what the fuck is it we don't want to do?" The biggest of the three was looking down at him like he was getting ideas, bad ideas, wrong ideas. Ben felt a prickle of awareness, fight or flight rushing through him, crashing behind a sick gut-wrench of recognition. Oh, he knew this game. "What goes on in that head of yours anyway?"
"Nothing I like," Ben said simply, then launched himself at the leader, punching hard straight at his throat the way Siri taught him. They both went down like a crashing monument, Ben letting out a strangled laugh at the shock in those watery blue eyes.
Then he was being yanked away by bruising hands, and the fight was on--blood, bloody, bloodbath, teeth flashing and blows raining and the kid who started it all, who said that word curled on the ground clutching his throat and going purple from the strain of trying to breathe.
He hated that he liked the sight of that; he hated that he liked the bright flash-bang of pain as boots hit him in the ribs. He gasped breaths and saw starbursts of light and fought because he knew if he didn't, he would drown.
