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[streetpupnik]

Gotham S04E01: Bruce

[streetpupnik]

tatiana-yelchin

“Either, I guess. Though, you get more control when you, like, lift yourself than just pushing off. The problem isn’t the pushing, it’s stopping yourself when you start falling—broke my arm in two places that way.” She hadn’t been pushing down, but forward—something much too heavy to move when she’d been only a hundred pounds soaking wet. She’d tipped right off the edge of the platform and fell the fifteen feet to the ground—not quick enough yet to catch her own weight before she hit. Lifting the arm in question, pulling back her sleeve to show the scar on her elbow—white and pale against her decent tan.

She knew he was saying truths—the unaffiliated were pawns to be played, or moved, or eliminated. She wished it wasn’t the case, but it was—she’d had to end the lives of one too many unaffiliated vilas who threatened the Rosteks’ power. Who were growing too powerful, or too influential, too something, and if they could not be persuaded to join by choice—or force—the option was taken from them. The Rosteks would send an assassin to end their lives, to shave away the damage their possible poor choices could have on the power structure of the city.

Tatiana wished she could tell him that it was the easier choice, but it wasn’t, not in any stretch of the imagination, not even a little. She wished she could tell him to join her in the Rosteks, that she’d protect him—she’d ask Natalia to protect him—that somehow she could keep him from becoming what he feared he always was. A monster. Her soul was already blacker than his shadows, she could dirt her hands for him—become just a little more monstrous just so that he didn’t have to. But the world didn’t work like that, there wasn’t just some abstract balance to keep even. No, it was individual worth—what he could do for them.

“Some of the smartest choices are the hardest ones. Being unaffiliated is—it’s dangerous, really dangerous, but it’s also a choice that’s up to you. After you choose—the decisions aren’t yours anymore, not really. You’ll do things, and become things that—that’re…I don’t know. You justify it in your mind—I would’ve done it anyway because, but that only works for so long until you’re just heavy with it all.” Tatiana’s choices weighed a tone, they sat on her chest like a never ending pressure—a weight that she carried with her because she decided it was much better than the weight of losing everyone she loved. She’d break worlds for those she cared about; shatter regimes and confiscate thrones.

“The choices stop being what you’ll do, but will you do it. Just—yes, or no. I’ve said yes to too many things, and—and, I don’t want that for you. Not if you don’t want it.” A weapon telling a boy to not be a weapon. There was probably something ironic in all that, but she really didn’t have the heart to put her finger on it. He was looping his finger through hers and she was smiling because maybe for a little bit every once in a while she could pretend she wasn’t exactly who she was—Tatiana Yelchina, triad of the Rosteks, who had more kills than she did years alive. Whose bloodline was important because twins and triplets weren’t uncommon for the Yelchins, not in the least. Maybe not her children, but her children’s children.

She watched him eye the shadows skeptically, like they might suddenly spring out without warning—she knew that fear. It’d been laced into her own bones for years until she’d had some breakthrough, until she’d stopped thinking of them as something that invaded her, instead of something she invited in. Tatiana watched them begin to crawl closer—carefully molded, even and careful. Slow. There was the barest shiver in the dark before it lurched forward and through his chest. She reached out with telekinesis just to keep his head from cracking into the cement, though the rest of his body thudded pretty solidly.

A poltergeist, no she didn’t know that feeling, but—

“Cold,” she says, “it sounds cold.” Eyes bright in the dark, eyebrows pinching together. She can remember his fingers—pale, cool, like heat simply escaped him without thought

“You’re afraid.” She muses softly, putting her can down and turning a little toward him—she wanted to check him over, to make sure he was alright, but that wasn’t what he needed. She’d spent countless years cowering at what she was capable of doing, at what her illusions and her mind did without her permission. “And that’s okay. You need to let it breathe—pulling so carefully just makes it, I don’t know, build up. Like water trying to go through a tiny hole in a pane of glass.” She didn’t need hand gestures, but she saw how still thought with his physical body—how there was still some correlation between the two for him. That was good—he was guiding himself without even realizing it, setting parameters.

Waving her hand, the dark split and before them sat a pane of glass—it bisected the whole room, and the other side was filling to the ceiling with water. A tiny index finger sized hole appeared toward the bottom—and easily the water started pouring through. Simple, right—but as more and more water filled the other side, the glass around the hole started to crack. Little fractures splitting and webbing out until it started to shatter—the pressure building, and building, and building until there was enough to break through the glass entirely. Of course, just as the water began to surge toward them Tatiana waved her hand and it vanished.

“Think of it as coaxing, not controlling. Instead of a hole in a pane of glass, think of it as—as if you’re cupping your hands and letting it pour between your fingers. Sometimes you have to dip your feet in the water before you ever consider learning to swim.” She’d been drowning for ages before she learned that—that sometimes she couldn’t stop her abilities from appearing, but she could coax them into something else—horrible monster in the corners of her room turned into characters she could remember from bedtime stories.

Heroes she admired and missed when the lights went out and she was left alone.

Cupping her hands together, they magically filled with water—the barest gaps between her fingers let the water trickle slowly out, the tiniest bit slipping over the tops of her thumbs. “I used to have trouble controlling my illusions—they’d just happen. I couldn’t stop them, or make them exactly what I wanted—not at first—but I could…I could tweak them. Change just enough that they weren’t as scary, or weren’t as loud—just enough, and eventually I could make them whatever I wanted.”

She slapped her hands together and when they open, a dove sat in her palms—cooing and fluffing up, until it too vanished into thin air.

"Kinda like how it's not the fall that kills you, but the sudden stop at the end?" he muttered as he showed him her arm, eyes widened a bit.  "Wow."  He couldn't rightfully say that his ability had ever actually hurt him in any way -- at least, not physically.  Sure, he'd found himself in strange surroundings before, having subconsciously traveled there by accident, and those could have evolved into dangerous situations, but it wasn't like he could push himself hundreds of meters in the air only to fall and crack his skull or anything.  "Well, you know what they say.  If at first you don't succeed ... then there's over 200 bones left in your body.  You'll get it eventually."

Nikolas had an odd and deflective sense of humor.

It was a wonder he could even find the slightest bit of merriment in the middle of this horrendous war.

"Yeah, but ... choosing not to decide is still making a choice," he murmured solemnly.  He paused for a moment, the thought -- the question he was about to ask weighing on his heart.  "Ana ..." he started carefully, thinking perhaps it was a sensitive subject, but ...

"If it's so heavy then ... have you ever thought abut leaving?" he asked softly, sincerely.  "I mean ... could you?  If you wanted?  Leave?"  What was holding her there?  If the sides forced made people do things they didn't want to do, then what was stopping them from leaving?  Did their members really believe that strongly in their respective causes?  Were they forced into it by blackmail or threats?  Were they brainwashed?  He didn't understand.

But if Ana wanted to leave, and if it was possible, then ... why couldn't she?

"If there comes a time when, you know, you decide that maybe being a Lesya isn't for you, then ... you can stay with me," he spoke, his offer genuine, sincerity reflected in those dark eyes.  Not that he expected his new friend to take him up on his offer, but he meant it.  Perhaps it was strange (even a bit too forward), as they were still technically strangers ... in all actuality.

There was something endearing in her words, as she cautioned him against choosing a side.  Ana was the first person to ever imply to him that it was okay -- yes, it was hard, but it was okay not to choose.  Perhaps that was something he needed, needed it desperately, some sort of reassurance that he was doing the right thing.

But at the same time, there was something about her words that Nikolas found harrowing.  The choices weren't about what, but will ... and that she'd said yes to too many things.  And there it was, that trickle of fear slowly tracing his heart with its icy touch again as he barely managed to whisper ...

"... what happens if you say no?"

He supposed it had to be something very, very bad for her to have said 'yes' so many times.  He hadn't imagined the Lesyas in that way, but he supposed it made sense.  He suddenly felt a mild panic -- what if he was one of Moose's missions?  What if every time he declined Moose's invitations, he got Moose in trouble because Moose was failing at his task?

Was he getting Moose into trouble every time?  His brain started to wrack with the thoughts that maybe he should just join the Lesyas to save the man from repercussions -- but argued with another side of himself that he shouldn't do that because then he'd be sucked into that world, too, and put in the same situation and that Moose would just get another mission and start the whole process over again.

He wished he could go back to just being human, to being blissfully unaware that any of this was even a possibility, to being essentially trapped in this Hell.

Just stop thinking about it, Nik.  Stop thinking about it.  Stop it.  He gave his face a vigorous rub with his palms, as though scrubbing the thoughts from his mind, then took a sharp and deep breath.  Pup was thankful for the change in conversation; he'd rather think about one terrifying thing over another.  Even if he did fail at it miserably.  He had no idea that she had been the one to protect his head from impact; he just thought it was how he landed.

"Yeah ... cold ..." was his quiet and tremulous response as he continued to stare blankly ahead with wide eyes.  The sort of cold that seeped into your bones and never went away.  He was scared, yes, terrified of his own abilities and he was sure that didn't help his situation.

But when she said that it was okay to be scared ...

His eyes finally regained some clarity as his gaze shifted to her.  No one had ever told him that it was okay to be scared.  No one had told him it was okay not to choose a side, either.  Just who was this girl?

But she was far more familiar with the Vila world than he was, and she'd had trainers, not to mention three abilities to  deal with, so ... she had to know what she was doing, right?

His attention shifted again to the space before them, watching as there was suddenly a window ... holding back water.  His eyes widened again -- where was the water coming from? what if the glass broke and flooded the bunker and they drowned?! -- wait, no, Nik, it's just an illusion.  It's not real.

But there was a hole at the bottom and water was coming out.  It certainly looked real.  "Uhm ..."  As the other side of the pane seemed to continue to fill with  water, the sheer weight of it had started to crack the surface.  "Uhm ... Ana?"  And as the glass shattered and the water rushed forward, the shadow monster's abilities kicked in instinctively.  The darkness around the room rushed to form a new barrier between them, creating a shield between them and the water, seemingly made of pitch fabric.  His subconscious didn't understand that it was just an illusion, that this wasn't real -- and that new and very dark barrier was the result of that.

His eyes were wide and his heart racing at a painfully fast rate; he could feel the pricks of millions of frozen needles beneath his skin as the adrenaline rushed through his veins.  If he hadn't been so scared that they were about to die, then he probably would have been slightly more attentive to the fact that he'd just done something he'd never done before without even thinking about it.

And as he realized they weren't really in danger, the shadows forming the barrier snapped back to their corners ... and Pup continued to stare wide-eyed ahead, slow but sharp breaths taken with each passing second.

"I ... I ... I-I, uhm, I never learned how to swim, so uhm ... uhm ..." he was trying to quiet his mind a bit so he could better listen to her lesson, but it was proving difficult, and his stammering and stumbling over his words wasn't helping.  

He was content with the distraction of her next illusion -- oh that was so much less dangerous than the last one.  The more she spoke, the more his mind finally seemed to focus on what she was saying, though unfortunately some of her words had been lost in the rush.  He watched as water became a dove, as a dove flew and then ... vanished.

Okay.  That was cool.

"I bet you're a real hit at birthday parties," he murmured, meaning it as a compliment.

[streetpupnik]

help me…

[streetpupnik]

tatiana-yelchin:

“You’re pretty awesome, you know that?” She says, grinning around a mouthful of spaghetti O’s, “All I was willing to read was Harry Potter, maybe some comics. It was like pulling teeth to get me to study.” Eva would scowl at her and Pavlov as they’d scamper off when the teacher’s back was turned—it was never Tatiana’s idea, but that didn’t make Eva scowl any less when she caught them. When he called her Socrates, she laughed, a quick little chirp of a sound that was startled out of her. “I’ve never had, like, a nickname-nickname before. Socrates, I like it.”

Of course she would.

“Okay, so, I’ve never been skydiving, but I have levitated myself pretty high.” She’d been fifteen, and stupid, and she’d really probably shouldn’t have done it considering she would have splashed onto the pavement if Marko hadn’t caught her. She’d been trying to prove how strong she’d gotten, how tight her control was—and it had been all those things, until she’d lost focus and her own body had slipped through her mind. “I can kind of fly, if you use the term fly loosely, and don’t mind the fact that I look like an idiot when I do it.” Mind over matter, that would be the name of her damned autobiography.

“I know him! I mean, kind of—we’ve had, maybe, two conversations.” Gavriil was one of the Lesyas that she was told to pay close attention to—after Rainha and Mikhail, of course. It was interesting that he was spending time trying to recruit someone off the street, but then again, which seemed a very Lesya thing to do. The Rosteks would probably just kidnap him and force him into some cramped little cell—but how could you make a boy who could become shadows stay somewhere he didn’t wish to be? Oh, she had no doubt Natalia or Kir would know how.

“I mean—it’s not my job to get shot, that’d be a pretty garbage job. But I’m—I’m kind of the first line of defense. A soldier, or whatever. I get hurt so that—you know, no one else does.” It was nice of them, to welcome her in—a poor choice, but a really nice poor choice.

“No, no. I think you’re smart trying to stay out of it. It’s—it’s hard, sometimes. Nothing’s ever as black and white as you want it to be, and it’s just—it’s hard.” She comes back around to again—it’s hard. She starts to curl a little, trying to draw herself inward, but the stitching in her stomach pulled, and she hissed a little—nope, none of that for a little while. She wanted to tell him to run away—leave Moscow and find someplace that wasn’t a powder-keg waiting to explode. Someplace that wasn’t on the brink of ruin, held together by monsters with death grips on what they considered theirs. Possession tantamount to anything else in this world—clambering ideologies that warped and bastardized with every generation.

“Yeah, definitely isn’t my crowning moment. But, I mean, it is the first time I’ve been shot, so, those’re some pretty good odds, right?” Now, don’t get her started on knives, and swords, and daggers, and fire, and blunt force—those were all different beasts. Getting shot wasn’t as common as one might think. She eats another spoonful of spaghetti O’s, chewing contemplatively, before she turns to him and extends a pinky. “How about this—when we hang out, we don’t talk about sides. I’ll just be Ana, and you just be Pup.” Whoever Ana is, she can’t help musing, while wiggling her pinky toward him. “Just two friends. Pinky promise.”

Did her eyes look robin-egg blue? It was only a moment, like the color had welled up quickly enough to overwhelm the pale green, but then it was swallowed back down by normal looking hazel eyes.

Tatiana hopes there’ll never be a day that she has to break that promise—that she’ll have to be the monster she knows she is. It would break her in a way that she wouldn’t recover—hitting hard at those cracks in her psyche—those little fractures that started when she was only ten. Spider webbing out, and out, and out until she shattered into a million and one pieces. Broken people never find all the things they lose—they leave little parts of themselves behind on the floor. The things that allowed them to hurt, and feel, and regret in the first place—compassion, love, faith, hope.

Silly things monsters don’t believe in.

“Maybe I can help? I mean—I don’t have your ability, but my illusions are kind of—they do what they want sometimes. Maybe some of the things I’ve learned might help.” She pulled shadows from the corner, dragging the illusion across the floor until it looked like a starless night sky below the edge of the bed—like they might tip forward into nothing if they weren’t careful. And just like that, there were stars—brittle little twinkling stars that looked like they’d been thrown there by mighty hands once upon a forever ago. She’d spent ages looking at the night sky—recreating it from nothing was hardly even a challenge.

Being told that he was 'pretty awesome' actually made a hint of a bashful smile ghost over the boy's face.  "Thanks," he quietly murmured as the faintest shade of rose painted cheeks that were otherwise far too pale.  To be honest, he wasn't quite sure how to take all of her compliments; he just ... wasn't used to kind words and praise like he had been before leaving home.  Nikolas had faced a harsh and uncaring reality when he left a loving and supportive household to dwell in the cold, unforgiving streets of Moscow.  It made sense that the only one who made this nightmare feel like home again ... was another monster like himself.

"Socrates it is, then," he confirmed with a slow nod, relaxing and making himself more comfortable.  Conversations like this were so very rare for Nikolas; these weren't the sorts of things people talked about on the streets.  Usually every conversation was about something someone needed to do or acquire in order to survive, or something to further themselves or their reputations, actions that needed to be taken, words of cruelty and power -- not casual discussions like this, of just getting to know each other.  Perhaps that was one of the reasons why he'd so quickly latched onto Leonid; their interactions had initially been of mutual benefit, with Pup fetching things the precog wanted in exchange for keeping the Rosteks off the shadow monster's scent.  Nikolas hadn't known when it had happened, exactly, but the their conversations had eventually evolved into pleasant chatter like the one he currently had with Ana -- talking about death by peanuts and basically bungee-jumping telekinetic-style.

That was another reason why he liked Ana so much.  She wasn't manipulating him or twisting his arm to get something.  She was just ... talking to him, like a person.  And sometimes, with the harsh reality of being on his own, it was so easy for Nikolas to forget that he was only sixteen years old, that he was still just a kid, that he wasn't an adult yet -- not really -- and still longed to have fun, still yearned for pleasant conversation.  Looks aside, it was his circumstances and attitude that so often made other forget or overlook the fact that he was still young.  And at that moment, he was completely captivated by Ana's words, as though he was a small child engrossed by a storyteller's tale.

"So ... when you fly, is that like ... uhm ... do you use your telekinesis to lift yourself?  Like, are you picking yourself up?  Or are you pushing down on the ground?  And it's, like, the Earth is a lot bigger than you, so you end up getting pushed up instead of, uhm, the Earth getting nudged out of orbit or something?"  Obscure thoughts of a teenager, perhaps.  Nikolas idly wondered if perhaps Ana actually could move the Earth out of orbit.  Was that even possible?  What if a bunch of telekinetic Vilas got together and all pushed at the same spot at once?  What sort of catastrophic natural disasters would await them following even a centimeter of moment from the Earth's orbit?

These were not thoughts that he had before.  Four years ago, before he found out what he was, he would have never dreamed of thinking about a Vila's abilities in this way, having feared them for his entire life, that their powers were frightening ... not ... casual or normal like this conversation seemed to be.  "The Flying Socrates ... well, Hovering Socrates.  Still kinda sounds like a superhero," he mused as he folded his arms on his lap.

Hearing that she knew Moose, too, brought a smile to his face.  Maybe Moscow wasn't as big as it seemed.

"A soldier?" he echoed with a curious arch of his brow, but continued to listen to her explanation.  "That's noble of you, I think.  Is that what happened last night?  You were protecting someone from getting hurt?"  That would ... make sense, though, if she was a Lesya.  He supposed they needed people like Ana and Gavriil to actually provide the protection they advertised.  Still, he didn't want anyone getting shot over him!

"Really?" he quietly asked.  Was he really 'smart' to stay out of the whole gang war.  He fell silent for moment, gaze lowering to stare at the bedsheets between them as fingertips absently tugged at the sleeves of his ratty, oversized coat.  "I'm, uhm ..." he started with a soft hesitance.  "It almost seems harder to be on the outside ... because ... because pretty much everybody is one or the other, and they keep pushing to choose ... they make it sound like you're nothing if you don't.  Choose, I mean.  Just kinda feel like ... like your life doesn't matter, like you don't even register ... and they don't think about the people on the outside, the ones who aren't involved ... and when they do, they just want something ... or they just want to kill them because they’re ... just in the way.  If I don't choose a side, then I won't further anyone's plans ... I won't contribute to whoever's 'Cause' or ... whatever ... so I'm just insignificant.  If something happens to me, it doesn’t mean anything to them.  Just ... collateral damage."

It was a dark and melancholy confession coming from someone so young, but his tone was drenched with a sorrowful honesty that one could clearly tell he was speaking from the heart, thoughts that weighed heavily on his soul that he had never shared with anyone.  It was a harsh truth, one that was difficult for those involved with either side to see.

But when she suggested not talking about sides when they hung out again, the heaviness upon his heart seemed to lift drastically as the light returned to those dark eyes.  It wasn't just the notion that she didn't mind that he wasn't on a particular side or anything.  She really wanted to hang out again?  She really ... wanted to see him again?

Ana really did want to be his friend?  She wasn't just saying those things earlier?  She was actually ... thinking about ... future meetings between them?  Nikolas very nearly wanted to cry -- in fact, tears had laced his lashes, threatening to fall as a genuine smile found his lips and eyes.  His hand lifted, his pinky curling around hers as he stared into her gaze that was almost too blue ...

His touch was just as it had been before, when he'd held her hand -- the shadow monster's skin feeling tepid on contact, the effects of living in the dark and the cold for so long, the sort of hands that felt as though they wouldn't get warm even if he held them in the center of a fire.  To him, she felt as warm as the sun beams he missed.

"Promise," he confirmed with a whisper.

It was the second promise he'd given her.  Why did he make such heartfelt vows to her so easily?  Maybe there was just ... something about her.  He didn’t know what it was, but he supposed ... he liked it.

Ana felt like something -- or someone -- his soul had been missing.

His eyes widened a bit at her suggestion of teaching him, watched with fascination as she created the abyss on his floor.  His position shifted again, the metal bed frame creaking under the quick movements as he sat on his shins and grasped the edge of the mattress with slender fingers as he bent down a bit to stare and marvel at the scene.  For a moment, as the stars came out, he almost felt as though he was home, staring at the sky with Shaylah at his side.

"Even the constellations look right ... how did you ...?" he whispered with awe.

Nikolas knew he couldn't create something like that, but maybe she was right.  Maybe there were some things she could teach him.  Pressing his lips together in thought, his eyes shifted their attention to the darkness of a different corner.  He already knew how to use the shadows to conceal himself, or to cover the lenses of security cameras, but ... he had never actually succeeded with creating something like this, with making a formed shape and holding it.

Part of him was afraid to try it, though ... but having Ana there, he felt that maybe -- just maybe -- he might actually be able to do it.  So he tried to concentrate, fingers mimicking a slight pulling motion, feeling the cold within his bones shift with each little "tug" -- and little by little, the shadows began to shift, moving just slightly with each pull, as though molded by timid and hesitant hands, inching closer ... closer ... until suddenly a large chunk broke away, flying right at him.  It crashed into and through his chest, knocking him back against the cement wall with a SMACK as it dissipated and reformed in its corner.

And Nikolas just stared ahead, wide-eyed, at nothing in particular, stunned and silent for several beats, before mumbling, nearly breathless.  

"I don't know if you've ever had a poltergeist fly through you, but I imagine it feels a little like that."

[streetpupnik]

tatiana-yelchin:

“When I was, like, nine—I ate a few peanuts because I always wondered what they tasted like. My parents wouldn’t even let them in the house, so I had to get them from someone at school.” Tatiana remembered how triumphant that moment felt—trading lunches with someone at school so she’d be able to get the snack she knew they brought each and every day. Pavlov had been giddy with the idea, going so far as to carry the peanuts home in his pocket—Eva had needed some convincing, and in the end she’d merely gone along with it to make sure Tatiana hadn’t died in her brother’s careless care. “Two whole peanuts. Then I had to go to the hospital, but still—.”

Not even getting shot came close to that level of bad ass.

Nikolas’ thoughts were a heavy hum in her mind, like a hummingbird smacking into a clean window—sharp one moment, and then dull and aching the next. He wasn’t used to telepaths, she could tell that—there was no mind block, no filter, and no white noise of non-thoughts. He thought what he thought, and it was up to her to navigate them without absorbing them, without breaching every privacy one might think universal.

Tatiana had never had Spaghetti O’s, she’d never seen them anywhere other than on television or in commercials—she didn’t know what to expect, but little pale circles in tomato sauce seemed about right. Accepting the can with a grin, she stirred a spoon through the sauce as observed how it threatened to congeal with each pass of metal. It probably should have disgusted her, but she eagerly scooped some up and shoved it in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. It tasted artificial, like things she wasn’t really sure how to catalog, but it wasn’t bad. Which might have been the most surprising thing.

“This is really good,” she says ungracefully around the metal spoon, watching him perch like he’s still worried about getting too close, worried about the moment she asked him to leave. It hadn’t been the hardest thing to realize with each new flash in her mind, but she didn’t know how to fix that, didn’t know how to make a boy used to people leaving believe that she might come back of her own volition. Tatiana was pretty good at making people believe, even outside her abilities, but all that thought was derailed when he asked where she lived—and what it was like.

Fuck.

“Oh, I—,” and like that, she suddenly realized who exactly she was—a Rostek spy living in the Lesyas’ manor—making friends with this unaffiliated boy who didn’t deserve to be dragged into the conflict Tatiana was born into. A generational soldier in the coldest of wars. “A manor across town,” this boy wouldn’t make a good Rostek, not at first at least, which made her consider something blasphemous. Maybe he’d be safer with the Lesyas. Maybe he’d remember that hearts aren’t meant to be heavy things—maybe he’d find someone to help him with his abilities until he wasn’t scared of them. Maybe, maybe, maybe—the thoughts flicker like an unsure bird tipping out of their nest for the first time.

Carelessly—but hoping for the best.

Like there was an instinct for this type of thing.

“I’ve actually only been there for a little while—my cousin moved in and I kind of followed just to keep an eye on him.” Truthful lies of omission, maybe the worst skill she’d gotten good at. “He’s only a year younger than me, but—he’s my baby cousin, you know?” Never blatantly lying, never stitching together falsehoods with falsehood—no, she’d gotten so very good at finding some truth that could be mirrored to the opposite. But Nikolas—he wasn’t a Lesya, he wasn’t a Rostek, he was outside and yet right in the middle of this conflict. Stay here, she wanted to tell him, be hidden and safe. Like there was any way to go unnoticed by two clambering powers—someone had to know he was here, someone had to have their eye on him.

Tatiana didn’t like that—she didn’t like the idea of Nikolas having his arm twisted until he made a choice.

Us or them, the most important decision of a young vila’s life.

“They’re good people, even if—despite…I don’t know—I wasn’t really expecting that, after everything I’ve heard.” Good people who would have to die, if Tatiana was going to do her job properly—if she was going to do everything Natalia asked of her. If she was going to keep Kit, and Marko, safe from this brewing war of attrition. Her eyes were lowered, pale and worried, as she tapped her spoon on the rim of her can—she wanted to tell him the truth, wanted him to know her, but she didn’t belong to just herself, she belonged to something bigger than her. People more important than her—Kir’s weapon, Natalia’s legacy.

“The Lesyas,” she says finally, glancing up with eyes so pale green they were almost white, “I’m a Lesya.”

She ... willingly ... ate something she knew she was allergic to?

Just so she would know what it tasted like?  Just because she was curious?  Did she have a death wish!?

"You know, Socrates drank the hemlock because ... well, he was sentenced to death, sure, but he was also curious to know what death was like.  Like ... 'I'm gonna drink this poison and kill myself just to see what it's like to be dead'," he explained as he sat carefully on the edge of the bed.  “Like I said before, I spent a lot of time indoors.  Used to read a lot,” he quickly explained.  It was something that a lot of people took for granted about Nikolas on the streets; yes, he was a runaway, but for those fourteen years before he left home?  He was very well educated.  His parents came from money; they had his entire life mapped out for him from the moment he was born, put him and his sisters in the best schools so that they could excel and ultimately achieve the goals their parents had set for them.  But none of his acquaintances on the street actually knew that about Nikolas Salko, so they were often surprised when he appeared to be knowledgeable about ancient philosophers, or that he was fluent in English, or that he was so well-spoken in general, or that he could correctly estimate the arrival times of supply trucks ...

"I'm gonna call you Socrates," he announced with a definitive nod.  "I mean, you're still alive today, obviously, but you were basically like 'I could die, but fuck it, I'm curious'.  My hero."  He actually smiled a bit at that, a genuine smile that seemed to lighten his face in a way that one could be certain the boy's features hadn't been used to for quite some time.  It was clear that he was starting to relax with her -- now that she wasn't actively dying or anything -- that he was starting to get to know her and ... she was just the same as she was when she'd been bleeding out on his couch.  "Okay, Daredevil Socrates, are you an adrenaline junkie, too?  I mean, have you ever considered base jumping or skydiving because 'why the hell not?'"

Normal conversation for a normal teenage boy, surely.

He pulled himself onto the bed a little more, walking back on his hands until his spine pressed against that cement wall and his legs crossed in front of him, hands on his lap as he watched her eat.  The smile stayed as she voiced her approval.  "Good.  I'm glad you like it," he replied.  "Sorry that it's cold, though.  It's a lot better when it's heated up, but ... I don't have a microwave, so ..." he just sort of trailed off at that as he gave an apologetic shrug.

When he asked about where she lived, Nikolas nearly tensed again at her initial reply.  A manor?  There were two manors that he knew about that were filled with their kind -- and he'd only visited one, in secret, and it was the one he least wanted to go to.  Ever.  But his friend was there -- Leonid was there -- and he only ever traveled the shadows into Leonid's room, in an effort to remain unseen by the other Rosteks who resided there.  For a moment, there was that mild panic that maybe she really was a Rostek.

He would ... he would still be her friend, her Puppy, if she was one, but ... he'd have to ask her to keep their friendship a secret from the other members.  He was trying to stay off their radar, trying to avoid them when he could, but ... Ana?  No, no she wasn't a Rostek.  She didn't FEEL like a Rostek.  

And he wasn't afraid of HER.

He was just afraid of THEM.  Even Leonid frightened him sometimes.

Nikolas watched her as her eyes became a pale green, seemingly captivated with how her gaze could keep changing colors like that, mildly wondering if maybe it was reflecting her emotions in some way or if it was just something an illusionist did.

His fears were quelled when she proclaimed she was was a Lesyas.

Relief poured through every cell of his body, the tension visibly leaving every fiber of his muscles as he shifted his position on the bed to face her, folding his legs in a criss-cross as a small but sincere smile painted his lips.  "Do you know Moose, then?  Well, Gavriil," he clarified, the image of the other darkness manipulator crossing his mind.  "He's a Lesya, too.  A bodyguard, I think, but he ... he has the same ability as mine, it's just ... he's a lot better at it and he tries to teach me things, but I don't think I'm quite getting it.  But he, uhm ... he keeps asking me to join.  Says I'd be safer with them, but ..."

He motioned to her.  "Can't be too much safer if, you know, you're one and you're getting shot, so ..."  He just let the sentence fade at that.  "But that is nice of them, to welcome you and cousin into the house.  Not sure it's worth getting shot, but it's nice of them," he added.  “I’m not ... I mean, that’s not really something I think I could do.  So ... don’t try to recruit me or anything like that, okay? Because ... this isn’t a very, uhm, efficient way to advertise.  Not that I don’t think you’re awesome -- because you are, super awesome -- but, uhm, the whole getting shot and almost dying in an alley way really is a bad marketing strategy.”

[streetpupnik]

firebreathcr:

“No, you’re right. Poor choice of words.” Faddey paused, considering again. “You’re right. ‘Hiding place’ would mean I mean to get it back, which I don’t. No. So maybe — it’s more like a friend who had a poor day so you give your extra food to them.” Faddey nodded to himself, remembering the few blessed times that had happened to him. It had won him respect from his fellow street children. Respect and silence in the fact he had sometimes painted his nails in a bottle of stolen nail polish, a color as blue as the sky on the best of days. Even then, he was an outsider to his peers and as suspicious of other’s intentions as this boy was.

“What do I get out of this?” He sipped his tea again, before answering his own question. “Nothing, I suppose. Not having to carry a box of food back on the Metro.” He shrugged, setting down the cup. “Nobody cares about you. I knew that feeling. But that changed,” he cleared his throat. “When a woman, a stranger like I am to you, did something like this for me once. She sat me down on a stoop next to a construction area and gave me a loaf of bread. Talked to me.”

Once again his shoulders rose in a causal shrug, easy going like he never was in Poshlost. There was nobody here to judge him, sitting across from a child that clearly didn’t belong here. If any of the pricks around them were, screw them. It wasn’t like he would see any of them again. A small grin graced his features at the thought. “Of course, you don’t have to talk to me. You can take the food and run, it wouldn’t matter to me either way, you’re your own independent person, who can make their own choices.” His tea was empty now, so he folded his hands and considered the boy across from him. “But I want to tell you what she told me.” 

He waited for one of the infrequent pauses in the ravenous consumption of the food before he spoke. “Even on your worse days, when you don’t feel like you could take another step, much less ever smile or laugh ever again… You are stronger than you think. You’ll make it through it all.” He leaned back, once again, an easy shrug rolling off his shoulders. “It has been something that has become a mantra for me. ‘You are stronger than you think.’ So yes, I got something out of it, I wanted to pay the favor forward. I’m Faddey, what’s your name?” He paused again, tapping his fingers against the table. “Of course you don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to.”  

A friend having a bad day?  Now, that was something to which the boy could relate.  The stranger's reason made sense to him then.  Maybe it made Pup relax a little -- just a little, because the suspicions still ran high in his mind as those dark eyes remained locked on this stranger.  What did they want?  What was the catch?

Apparently, there wasn't one.

But Pup didn't believe that.  There was ALWAYS a catch.  Did they want him to steal something?  Did they expect some sort of sexual favor as payment?  Did they want him to rough someone up for the sake of intimidation?  There had to be SOMETHING they wanted.  People weren't just nice to street rats for the sake of being nice; there was always some sort of benefit they hoped to get out of it.

His eating had slowed as his listened, however.  Was this woman even a real person?  Or was it just some fantasy this stranger had concocted for the sake of reeling in the unfortunate youth of the streets, weaving the tale of a kind and generous woman with a loaf of bread and good advice like she was some sort of fairy godmother or something.

There was no doubt that Nikolas did not belong in that chair; his hair was a tangled mess and oily from lack of a good wash for days, he was dirty and smelled slightly of dog, he was pale as a ghost and gaunt as a ghoul wrapped in such dark clothing from toe to chin that one might assume that he was hiding something ... and they might be assuming correctly, or simply conclude that he just didn't like to be exposed.  People who passed by on the sidewalk rubber-necked to see a boy who was so very obviously out of place sitting at a table of an outdoor cafe; some probably thought that person in a nice suit sitting with him was actually someone doing charity work for the poor, underprivileged youth of Moscow.

Nikolas had stopped eating as he continued to listen; he wasn't full by any means, quietly suckling the remaining morsels from his fingertips as he continued to stare at the stranger.  They were giving him their food, so he might as well humor them by letting them tell their story.  Maybe that was what this person wanted?  Someone to listen to them?  But the more Nikolas listened, the ... 'quieter' he became -- not that he said much anyway, but something about his demeanor did shift, made evident by a very slow and subconscious pull of his right knee to his chest.  The tip of a nearly index finger was still caught between his teeth, enveloped by pallid lips as he appeared ... very nearly enraptured by this stranger's story.

He strongly doubted that he was stronger than he thought.  Maybe, as far as his ability went, he could attest to that -- sometimes, he did things subconsciously that frightened, that he didn't know he was even capable of doing -- but when it came to will power, to the strength it took to survive the streets, Pup wasn't sure he had that in him.  He was afraid -- all of the time, he was afraid, and he hated t o be reminded of just how afraid he was, just how naive he was to the world and its atrocities.  No, he was fairly certain that the only way to survive this horrible place, this war between the Vilas, any of it -- was to keep running and hiding.  There was no strength in being a coward, but to Nikolas, being overly cautious and avoidant were the only ways he knew how to survive.

Besides, he wasn’t sure if he deserved a fate nicer than the one he currently had.  He was a monster, after all.

Pay it forward, huh?  Did that actually work?  Because the times that Nikolas had tried that himself had always backfired.  But maybe ... he could have a little hope; after all, he was the one this ... Faddey ... person had intended the favor for; perhaps he should just accept it and not let their attempt go to waste.

"Pup," he finally muttered around the tip of his finger.  "They call me Pup."  Obviously, it wasn't his real name, but it was how most people on the streets referred to him.  His fingers drifted away from his mouth and into the sleeve of his oversized coat again, arms folding across his chest as his left knee finally rose to join the right so that he could prop his chin upon them; an odd position perhaps, as his toes of those worn-out and grimy sneakers curled around the edge of the chair.  Again, those dark eyes seemed locked upon Faddey, staring at them intently -- it wasn't an intimidating gaze, but it certainly held the impression of a stray dog attempting to determine whether this person was a threat or a friend.

"So if you were like me once," he began, the lower half of his face sinking behind his knees, watching Faddey over the curve of stained fabric, "how did you get out of it?"  Because this person CLEARLY did not look the part of a street rat anymore.  However, Nikolas wasn't sure if he wanted to know.  "And don't feed me that line about going back to school and getting a proper education because we both know that's bullshit."  

[streetpupnik]

tatiana-yelchin:

She could almost taste the silence. It was the strangest, most lovely, thing. Laying as she was half sprawled on the bed, she could easily fall back asleep—she didn’t have the roll back, and back, and back in her mind until she wasn’t perking up at every wayward thought. The Lesya manor had too many children thinking, and dreaming, and wondering—too many thought tossed carelessly out into the world with no regard for who was listening. But here, she felt Pup’s mind like a pressure—a weight she knew was there, but wasn’t actively alert, wasn’t shifting and moving and filling the silence.

She knew he was awake before he got up—like turning a radio dial through static, slowly rotating, and rotating, and rotating until there was the slightest blip of noise. A voice, a word—anything that didn’t fit perfectly in that static. Pup’s mind was a gradual alertness—flowers, breathe mints, spring sunlight. Little glances of images connected to something—a word, a thought. It was the strangest thing to realize people didn’t think in words, not always, not specifically—it was an abstract language of symbols that it had taken her years to be even vaguely fluent in.

Warmth, hot chocolate, a hug, sunlight—and like a fractured cracking thing, his mind woke up fully. Like a faraway thought, she could see the night through his eyes—blurry hazy thoughts of why the floor, and not the bed—where was she. It was the strangest thing to hear thoughts about herself; it was specifically the ones she tried to push out and away; listening in was rude, it was a privacy no one should expect to have breached. But oddly enough, even with her focus more in place, the lack of white noise made pushing his thoughts away harder—it was a jumble of conflicting images, at-odds words. It was a single mind, with a singular linear narrative.

Keeping her own eyes closed she relaxed—breathing a little deeper than she should have, her stomach protesting at the wide breaths, she exhaled all that air in one surprised puff when he wiggled her big toe. Fun fact? She was ticklish, which would explain the yelp and laugh that followed as she dramatically wiggled all ten of her toes. Cracking open an eye, she was greeted with her very practical barrier—she hadn’t even thought to dissolve it after she changed, she forgot that casual illusions might not be normal for everyone. The blue-green haze shimmered, and melted away into the half-light of the bunker.

“Hey,” voice a little raspy from sleep, but she didn’t feel like she was actively dying, so that was a ridiculous improvement in her opinion. “I’m feeling pretty good, all things considered.” His mind was whirling again, she could taste the distress—but it wasn’t bright like panic, and it wasn’t coppery like fear. It smelled bitter, tasted like silence—felt like winter. Tatiana would never be able to explain the way thoughts interacted with her senses—the way her brain interpreted abstract ideas. Like the empty dark flashing like warnings in her mind from his.

Patting the bed beside her, she focused and sat herself up properly—mind holding firm when her body threatened to collapse back onto the bed. “I could eat.” Grinning at him, while trying to comb her dark half-wet hair back behind her ears. “Definitely not a vegetarian—I’ll eat anything. Except peanuts—those’ll kill me.” Marko still wouldn’t let her live her last willful encounter with peanuts down. “Or, like, maybe just close my airway a little. I have an epi-pen in my coat, so a peanut butter and jelly sandwich isn’t completely off the table.”

She wanted to sooth away his distress, wanted to push those thoughts form his mind—but they were his, and just because she could do something, doesn’t mean she should. “Thanks, this sweater’s kind of the softest thing ever.” Hunching a little to hunker into the collar—it was pretty big, half hanging off her narrow frame, but the way she had it wrapped just looked cozy.

“I hope you don’t mind, I kind of—,” she trails off, to all the things neatly stacked and piled—so much more floor!—and what garbage had strayed from its designated place was corralled. “—I’m a cleaner.” Tatiana said it like it was a vice—some bad habit she’d picked up over the years. Though, it should rightfully be last after murdered, liar, and monster. But, who’s counting?

Perhaps a little bit of a smile found its way onto his melancholy features as she yelped at his touch, as she laughed just a little.  Was she ticklish?  He almost wanted to try again on the other foot just to test his theory, but no, no he wouldn't do that.  Boundaries, Nik.

Still, hearing her laugh -- even if brief -- was a relief to the boy, that even after everything she'd been through, that despite her circumstances, she could still manage a little twinkle of happiness.  He became momentarily distracted by the dissolving of the partition between them, lashes fluttering rapidly as he was startled by it.  Cool, he thought.  Having that illusion ability certainly had its functional perks.

"That's good," he replied as she insisted she felt 'pretty good'.  She certainly looked a little better; though perhaps that was because she had cleaned herself up a bit and wasn't, uhm, dying ... at least, not from what he could tell.  Still, she probably should see a legitimate medical professional and not some sixteen-year-old kid with basic knowledge of first aid. His gaze shifted to her hand as it patted at the bed and, for a beat, he hesitated -- but there it was again, that shadow of a smile tracing his lips.  She was actually inviting him closer -- not because she was bleeding out, but ... actually, willingly, inviting him closer.  And maybe, just maybe, that made his heavy heart a little lighter as he inched closer, taking a seat on the edge of the bed, if only for a moment, catching his bottom lip timidly between his teeth.  He did not, however, sit upon the bed fully.  He really wanted to -- to pull himself onto that twin-sized mattress and properly sit next to her, but ... he refrained, still concerned with overstepping his boundaries just as she was worried about overhearing his private thoughts.

But he wasn't thinking about that.  Instead, he wondered if perhaps she was hungry.  He knew that he was -- but then, Pup was always hungry; the fact that he was so skinny would be testament to that nearly unending appetite.  Her grin was contagious as it spread onto his own face and he instantly hopped onto his feet again, striding across the room to the cabinet he had deemed as his 'pantry' to peruse its shelves for one of the recently-acquired cans of Spaghetti O's and can opener.  Turning to face her, he gave Ana a sympathetic look as he cranked the can opener in his hand, successfully removing the lid with a light waft of the scent of tomato sauce.  "Peanuts will kill you?" he asked, flabbergasted.  He'd heard of people being allergic to peanuts, but he'd never actually met one before.

"That's ... really sad actually," he continued as he slipped the detached lid into the trash and set the can opener aside.  "I mean, how do you even live?  Like, peanut butter sandwiches make up 80% of my meals."  Gotta get that protein somehow.  Gathering a spoon and a bottle of water, he suddenly paused, giving his surroundings an odd look with a furrowed brow.  Why ... did things look different and ... slightly out of place ... and ... organized?

Thankfully, Ana explained without him having to ask.  A quiet snort escaped his nostrils as he dunked the spoon into the Spaghetti O's and wandered back over to her, sitting on the edge of the bed as he offered her the can and bottled water.  "The respectful ghost strikes again," he mused, daring to pull one knee onto the bed, tucking his foot under his opposite thigh as he watched her.  "It's fine, really," he assured her.  "I guess the place could use a little cleaning, I mean, I didn't really think I was that messy, but then, I don't really have company ... like ... ever?  So ... I don't really notice those things."

He paused again, pressing his lips together for a moment as he thought.  "Ana ..." he started, perhaps a bit sheepish.  "Where do you live?  What's it like?  I mean, obviously not all of us live in bunkers, so ..."  He knew that she had an older brother, but that didn't mean that they lived together, right?  She could have been homeless for all he knew.  Or she could have come from a neighborhood that was friendly toward Vilas.  Was it a neighborhood he could maybe find refuge in?  And perhaps a few new allies?  Maybe more friendly monsters like Ana?

[streetpupnik]

firebreathcr:

The boy sat down, eyes roving around like he expected an officer to appear from beneath one of the white table-clothes of the outdoor seating to put him in handcuffs. He snatched up the bread he had his hand on before Faddey had caught him, wolfing it down after a quick word of thanks. Faddey smiled, leaning back in his seat to give the worried waiter who was approaching his table a glare over his cup of tea. The man scuttled away, and Faddey returned his attention to the boy who was looking at him carefully.

His young friend’s words made him chuckle into his cup. How ironic. He would never force a person into sex work, it was to be a choice freely taken, yet he knew other avenues to the same fate existed. Just look at Andrei, or some of the more unfortunate older woman who had stayed with Alina far longer than him. Whether for cash for unseemly habits, a simple lack of opportunities, or even the scenario his table companion came up with — he knew not all sex workers came to the life like he had. So this child was smart to think about those possibilities. He certainly had been scared, his mind jumping through tragic ends, when his mentor had lead him away from the burning bodies. Look how that turned out now.

“No, no. Nothing like that, I wouldn’t wish anyone a life like that, least of all a child like you.” He shrugged, thinking about an answer that would allay the boy’s fears about the excess food. “You know, when you’ve had a particularly good day and have a couple extra rubles? How your extra money burns a hole in your pocket and you want much more than you can possibly have. So you buy too much food, and have to find a hiding place for it.” He set down the teacup, filling it again from the pot. 

“I had one of those nights, and my eyes were too big for my stomach. You’re that hiding place, for all the extra food — far better than a junk car’s trunk, a hole in the ground, an empty drain pipe, or any place I would have found so long ago. You have far more use of my extra food than what I would.” He paused knowing this explanation might have caused more questions than answer them. After all, he was still dressed in his finest suit from an out of house escort that went far better than he hoped. His tea had cooled enough for him to sip again. “I use to be like you, but I’ve come into my own. For now. I thought I could spare some of it for someone who was me.”

Bites were large and chewed as quickly as possible before swallowing; one might suspect the boy might choke due to the speed at which he ate, but he didn't show signs of stopping anytime soon ... or using utensils, either.  Pale, slender fingers had escaped the sleeves of his oversized and ratty coat to tenaciously grab and shovel as much food as physically possible into his mouth, suspecting a swift escape was imminent despite the stranger's reassurance that such devious fates did not await Pup ... at least, not as far as they were concerned.

This did not quell the boy's suspicions, however, as he kept dark and wary eyes upon the person sitting across from him.  Judging by the way they were dressed, they were certainly well-to-do, or at least give the impression that they were.  The explanation about extra money burning a hole in his pocket did make sense to him, but Pup had a tendency to store that away for a rainy day.  This stranger did not know that his guest actually came from money, a very wealthy family in fact, and living on the streets had been a very rude awakening; it had made Nikolas very mindful of his finances to the point that he was not quick to spend what little he had because he was unsure of when he would acquire money again, had become extremely thrifty and saved where he could.  He wouldn't think of overindulging himself.

In fact, that had been the reason why he'd come topside this evening -- to, ahem, acquire steal money.  The food was just the first stop in a long night of errands.  '

"No, not really," he quietly commented with his mouth full, now keeping that dark gaze locked on the stranger, indicating that he did not, in fact, know what that felt like.  "Must be nice, though."

About to shove another oversized morsel into his mouth before he'd finished the previous bite, he paused as the stranger's words started to sink in.  Chewing a bit slower, his eyes narrowed slightly in suspicion.  "I'm the hiding place?" he echoed as slender brows furrowed and arched in confusion.  "Generally, when people hide something, they expect to get it back.  It's gonna be kinda hard for you to get this food back in a way that isn't unhygenic or make you sound like you're some kind of serial killer."  He squinted a little more, suspicious.  "What's the catch?  Like, what are you expecting to get out of this?  Because people aren't just nice like this to strangers without expecting something in return."  The way this person kept referring to him as a 'child' made Pup's soul churn slightly, a faint and heated prickle under his skin.  He was used to being called 'kid', sure ... but straight-up 'child' was just ... odd, at least to Nikolas.

So this well-off stranger was like him once?  And they were just being kind for the sake of ... what?  Karma maybe?  Pup finally relaxed a little, some of the tension visibly leaving his body as he took another bite.  "Thanks ... then ..." he murmured between chews.  Obviously, the boy wasn’t used to people just being kind to him for the sake of being kind, so this was a nice change.

[streetpupnik]

Nikolas liked the quiet.  Most of the time, it was just him in the bunker -- just the hum of the small fridge in the corner and the quiet whir of the laptop's fan.  Occasionally, he'd play a little music softly from those speakers, but even at a low volume, it almost seemed too loud in the solitude of the bunker.  Were it not for those appliances, the room would seem like a tomb, and the two of them sealed away forever like a couple of pharaohs just living their afterlife.

He had no idea that his little space would bring his new friend a different kind of peace.  The thought had never crossed his mind -- pun not intended -- that telepaths might find crowds noisy; before he'd met Ana, Pup had always thought of telepaths as consciously listening to the minds of others; it never once occurred to him that it would be difficult for one to 'shut it off', so when she said that she had problems with control sometimes -- specifically when she was under duress -- it had been a little surprising.  But then, she also had three abilities to deal with.

It was a testament to just how ... naive this teenage shadow monster was about Vilas.  Yes, he had been raised to think of Vilas as frightening creatures with terrifying abilities, that most Vilas thought themselves superior to humans and would abuse their power ... he never thought to research in depth about the different types of abilities they could have, about how it would affect everyone differently.

Nikolas personally didn't feel superior to humans; he just felt ... different than them.  But mostly, he was more frightened of humans than he was of other Vilas ... though ... recently, that fear had started to become a bit more equivalent.

Some of the Rosteks he had met, some of the stories he had heard ... they frightened him; they frightened him that the Rosteks would kidnap and violently rip Vila children from their families, often times killing the ones they didn't need; that they would kill other Vilas simply for disagreeing with their ideas or being in the wrong place at the wrong time, or even just associating with someone that didn't meet their approval.  He thought he'd be safer in Moscow because the Vila population was larger and he might find a few allies along the way among his own ... he hadn't expected the monsters to be hunted by other monsters.

Nikolas wanted to protect Ana from the monsters among monsters.

He had no idea she was one herself.

But Ana was nice and not at all how he imagined a Rostek to be; there was no way she was one.  In fact, that telekinetic who shot her was more likely to be a Rostek ... right?

Having her in that bunker was actually ... soothing; her company comforted his soul.  Sure, he had the friendship of most of those stray mutts on the streets, but even then the loneliness dug its teeth deep within his heart.  But now?  Sometimes, one doesn't realize how lonely he is until he actually has someone there ... and perhaps Pup was selfishly dreading taking her back to where she belonged ...

She belongs here.

No, Nikolas.  No, he told himself.  She has to go home.

But I might never see her again.

Ana, as though she could read his thoughts -- and actually probably had -- assured him that their friendship wasn't just a fleeting encounter, that this arrangement wasn't temporary.  A weak shadow of a smile formed on his lips, though sad it seemed.  He hoped that was true.  He wanted to believe it.  He hoped she wasn't just saying that because she wanted to leave.  It didn't occur to him until then that maybe she was just using her telepathy to tell him things he longed to hear so he would let her go and she could be free again.

Lashes fluttered a bit as he shifted his dark gaze tiredly to look to her.  Zvezda?  Really?  More like a black hole, he thought ... but still, something about the way she had called him 'star' made his heart lift a little.

"You're already the best friend ever," he murmured as his lids closed in a mirror of her own, basking in her touch as he started to drift already.  "I love your eyes," came his drowsy but honest whisper, scarcely audible even in the silence of the bunker.  Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he heard the rest of her words, and yet they didn't seem to register as he had faded fast, the sleeping pills locking him back into a deep and dreamless slumber.  And he remained, just like that, curled up next to the couch with his knees to his chest, leaning into the cushions as his cheek rested on that heated blanket.

His sleep went undisturbed for quite some time in the quiet of the dark bunker.  He did float a little closer to consciousness, however, as there was movement on the couch, as Ana made herself get up, as there were sounds of heavy exhales and a rattling pill bottle ... but it wasn't until those warm blankets were draped around him that Pup offered any semblance of a reaction, just the slightest shift in his position to curl into himself a little tighter, pale and slender fingers pulling the soft velour fabric even closer around him, to his chin, and then settling into stillness once more.  

He lived in the darkness, was surrounded by the darkness all the time; when he traveled through the shadows, it was always cold; the chill stuck with him, sank deep into his bones in a way that Nikolas thought he would never shake.  He might have claimed his reasons for completely covering himself when out was to protect himself from harmful light -- and while that was true, it was mostly because ... he was cold.  Always cold.  He'd resigned himself to the fact that he would always feel half frozen, had accepted it as just being part of his ability, but ... those blankets ... those blankets felt really, really nice.  Even subconsciously.

And maybe, just maybe, there was a hint of a soft and contented whimper caught in his throat before he fell silent once more.

He did stir again, briefly, as the sound of running water quietly echoed throughout the bunker; he was unable to differentiate if that was the sink or the shower ... and yet, it wasn't enough to pull him fully from sleep as he became still again, the pills coupled with exhaustion pulling him under once more.  It would be difficult to wake him fully.

If he had known that she was sorting and organizing, that she was tidying the bunker, he probably would have watched in awe at first as to just how she accomplished that using her telekinesis, but then would have done the polite thing and protested the respectful ghost for carrying through with her promise of neatness.

Perhaps it was the constant movement behind him, the sounds of struggling and breathing that finally pulled Nikolas back to the surface, his lashes parting sharply as dark.  Why was he on the floor against the couch?  Why did the air of his bunker smell like flowery soap and mint?  Why did he feel warm ...?

Actually, feeling warm felt good and the heat trapped with him in the blankets very nearly lulled him back to sleep, that is, until he remembered exactly why he was on the floor -- his eyes opened wider as his head perked up, the haze clearing almost instantly from his mind.  "Ana?" he softly called out, reaching forward to pat down the cushions as though she'd somehow sank into the vinyl and he could stir her up.  But then he turned his head and stood quickly, the blankets falling haplessly to the floor as his eyes scoured the darkness.  

She had to be there somewhere!  She couldn't just leave ... could she?  Maybe she made her escape somehow; maybe Moose had come for a visit while he was sleeping and she convinced him to take her home.  Maybe he'd just dreamed everything and he was still dreaming.  There was a moment of sorrowful panic as he spun in place, searching ... and then noticed an odd ... bluish greenish curtainy thing?

"Ana?" he asked in a hushed tone as he approached the partition, back aching stiffly from the odd position in which he'd slept.  Once close enough, he peered around the edge to find her lying on the bed which was ... clear of the items he had dumped on it ... that is, except for the clothing he had acquired for her, currently on her body.  Her much cleaner body.

She was actually really pretty ... when ... she wasn't caked in blood.

Reaching carefully around the divide with a hesitant hand, Pup pinched the great toe of her left foot between his thumb and forefingers, giving her foot a little and quick wiggle before snapping his hand back like he'd touched a hot iron.  He didn't want to invade her space too much if the partition was up for privacy's sake; nevertheless, he stayed behind that panel, just cautiously peering around the edge, one dark eye watching her timidly.

"Hey ..." he whispered.  "How are you feeling?"  He knew he was awake enough, knew he had the energy now to take her topside and home if she wanted; he probably should have told her that first thing ... but he didn't.  He didn't for a very selfish reason.

He didn't want her to leave.

"Are you hungry?" he continued, doing his best to hide that his heart was crumbling at the thought of her inevitable departure.  "I didn't know if maybe you were a vegetarian, so I got Spaghetti O's ..."

While he was sincere in caring about her appetite, he knew that with her telepathy it was only a matter of time before she figured out that he was just stalling.

"You look nice," he added quietly from his 'safe zone' behind the partition.  

In the musky, quiet dark of the bunker, she could hear the silence so much easier than ever before—there wasn’t half a dozen thoughts tangling through her mind. The thousand and one things everyone around her worried about constantly—the thoughts and worries projected into the ether for her to navigate. She didn’t need to know that Peter had a dentist appointment, or that Miriam was having an affair—she longer for the day that she didn’t have to try keeping out of those thoughts. That her mind stayed within her and didn’t wander like a lost pet in the wood—but here, this far down, with only Pup’s mind as company.

She felt a kind of peace she didn’t know possible.

His thought were splashing of color on the dark, little pin pricks of light that flashed and curled and showed her a trail of images to couple with his words. Simple things. Easy to sort through and categorize.

He was worried for her—and Tatiana couldn’t blame him, he definitely wasn’t seeing her at her best—but she wanted to tell him she was that people should be worried about. She’d spent her whole life making sure of that, but it wasn’t something she was eager to prove to Nikolas, it wasn’t something she wanted him to think of when he saw her. She liked being this person—non-threatening, good listener Ana; just your regular neighborhood gunshot victim.

“We’ll take care of each other, you and me.” She promises with that curling half smile that was slow and lazy. The pain medication making her expressions sluggish, making every reaction lag just a little before it settled in swirling eyes and loose features. “Friends are important to me, Puppy—I want you to understand that—that this isn’t just, I don’t know, temporary.” She lied and killed for a living, she embodied death in a way very few could understand—even those with higher body counts and more vision blood. She was a triad; death was itched into her genetics, and it was pressed irrefutably into her very bones.

“Get some sleep, Zvezda. You deserve it.” He looked dead to the world, waging a losing battle against unfocused eyes and drooping lids. She wasn’t doing much better herself—everything felt cottony and quiet inside her. Absent in a way she had never appreciated—she was a vila tethered to her own mind, any disconnect from that made her abilities unpredictable. Made them strangers sharing her body. Settling back, everything ached, everything throbbed in a way she couldn’t define—like she knew it was there, but the pain had thinned and traveled and moved until it was misplaced.

“In the morning—afternoon?—I’ll be the best friend ever.” She promises, eyes already closing, fingers running through his hair one last time before they curled half-limp beside her. “I’ll get better, and we can go looking for a television.” Yawning so wide her jaw clicked, eyes blinking open hazily to peer at him—bright, blistering blue for just a moment, before they curled mint-green. “I haven’t gotten to go shopping in—in, I don’t know, forever. It’ll be fun.”

Words slurring, half-mumbled and low as she closed her eyes again and settled down to sleep. Closer to passing out, but who was counting.

Keep reading

[streetpupnik]

firebreathcr:

The boy he was faced with was hollow cheeked, long haired, covered in dirt. Eyes wide and wild like a caged animal. A child of the street that would appear and take what they could get their hands on and then disappear into the shadows like a breeze. A kid who knew pain before anything else, and expected nothing more than what they could scrounge for themselves. Faddey knew what path this child would take, he had gone down it. But he also knew how much a simple act of kindness could sustain him when he was on the streets.

He listened closely to the child’s fearful whisper, feeling the tension he could feel even with his hand only wrapped about the thief’s wrist. Faddey’s three fingers nearly encircled the boy’s wrist he was so thin. A ghost being buffeted about the streets of Moscow, trying to find a safe place to rest for a moment. Faddey would provide that, at least for a little while. The child turned his heart over. “No trick. I’m not calling the authorities or anything like that.” He let go of the boy’s wrist, gesturing towards the empty seat across from him, then the half finished plates. 

“There’s too much food for me to eat and I’m sure you want more than a bit of bread, child. Don’t worry, I’m not going to do anything bad or ask you to go anywhere. I was like you, I know what’s going through your mind.” 

Skepticism was necessary.  Skepticism kept you alive.  Skepticism was what kept a kid of the street from playing into a trap.  Too many kids had been snatched from the streets and in their own homes by people posing as friendly, wolves in sheep's clothings with intentions that were not in the least bit innocent.  Pup's heart still thrashed about in his ribcage, threatening to crack his sternum from within, striking his lungs to the point the organs had been stunned, that they couldn't fill with air between the jolts, that he couldn't breath as he felt every nerve ignite like white hot pin prinks, his wrist caught.

But this stranger assured him their kindness was not a trick.  Pup knew those could just be words, his brain screaming that he needed to get out of there, but as this person went on another tendril of doubt began to trace the edges of his skull.  What if this stranger was being sincere?  What if they were like Ana and that kindness was real?  Of course, such a thing was highly unlikely.  The streets were cruel.  But at the same time, hunger was a powerful motivator and ... they did release his wrist.

Still, he gave the stranger a suspicious and wary stare as careful steps took him to the unoccupied chair, cautiously accepting the invitation as he took the seat.  He supposed that if he needed to make a quick get away, the shadows cast by the table would be well enough.  It would just mean he'd have to steer clear of this particular area for a few months.  "Thanks," he muttered through his teeth, still unsure, eyes still scanning the area out of habit.  Tension still visibly possessed every muscle in his body, giving this boy the likeness of a skittish mutt.  He went for the bread first as it was the quickest and most filling.  Protein would be next for the sake of energy.  

"Do you?" he asked quietly as he quickly chewed through feverish bites.  Again, he was doubtful that this person would understand what was going through his head at that moment.  "I mean, besides the suspicion that you're just being a distraction so your accomplices can grab me from behind and sell me to some sex trafficking ring?"  If this stranger was legit, if they were truly sincere with their offering and had no ulterior motive, then Pup would feel guilty and apologize.  "And why you would order so much food if you weren't gonna eat it?"  Again, that skepticism was what kept him alive.  

[streetpupnik]

firebreathcr:

Faddey was eating, in the rare instance, away from Poshlost. A place in Leyas terrority, a late night cafe that would be open until well into the morning. He had finished eating on the sidewalk, now he just watched the people hurrying past to get home. It was peaceful, until a hand reached for a piece of bread. 

Faddey knew what he would find attached to the hand he grabbed to stop the food from fleeing. A street child, like he had been once. He had done the same, grabbed food off plates as he passed by to satisfy a hunger that never left his body.  

“Sit down, child. You’re not in trouble. I have too much food here.”

Just one piece of bread, just one, wouldn't do any harm for him to take it, would it?  No one would miss it, right?  It'd just be thrown out at the end of the night, wouldn't it?  And there it was, his quick movement was countered by an equally fast grasp by a hand that was less than idle, ensnaring the stray within its grasp.  A startled but quiet yelp became caught in his throat, not escaping his lips but scarcely audible just the same.  For the last two years, when someone touched Pup, it was very ... VERY rarely out of kindness.  Before meeting Ana, his street life was filled with shoves, grabs, punches, throws -- those were what this boy was used to, so when this stranger caught him, it was only natural for Pup to immediately try jerking his hand away in a wide-eyed panic. Had this stranger seen him pull from the shadows?  Were they going to turn him in?

Being told to sit only prompted the boy to stand and stare at his captor, heart racing and pounding frantically within his chest, a very real fear in his gaze, ghostly pale face half obscured by the mess of dark hair.  "Is this a trick?" he asked on a rapid whisper.  The offer of food from a stranger was too good to be true and highly suspicious.  "Are you trying to stall me until the authorities get here?"  He was tense, ready to run at any second, dark eyes scanning their surroundings to look for any sign that he'd been made.

[streetpupnik]

[streetpupnik]

tatiana-yelchin:

“It’ll never—it’ll never be okay, Pup, it’ll never be better—but I.” How could she tell him that she knew she wasn’t well, that there was some little disconnect in her mind that had been flipped like a switch when she was ten. Some manner of coping that kept her alive, kept her sane—kept her a semblance of the person she was, even if she sometimes felt like an actor playing the role of Tatiana Yelchina. How Marko’s grin, and Kit’s crude jokes were like echoes belonging to someone else—no, it’d never be okay, it’d never be fine, but she had to be. She couldn’t wallow, she couldn’t harbor what ifs because that was what killed a person.

She watched the shadows—they gathered and sharped, like contrasting edges of a blade. She wasn’t afraid, she wasn’t even worried; she knew what it meant to have abilities tethered too closely to her emotions. “But that’s why I have to be okay,” she whispers to him—thumb running along his knuckling soothingly, trying to say without words that his apology wasn’t necessary. “A traumatized ten year old, with three very dangerous abilities—I could have hurt so many people if I didn’t learn how to be alright.” If she’d crumbled like she’d wanted to, if she’d actually been unable to breathe like it felt those first months.

“He was killed,” even now she didn’t know the specifics—didn’t know the absolutely. It was a kind of ignorance she needed to keep going.

The bullet was a wonderful ice breaker—she couldn’t help smiling up at him. She’d always been taught to catch her ammunition—leave nothing behind, no indication of what had happened. “Of course I kept it,” she lulls while blinking sluggishly though a cottony relief—everything still hurt, but it was like she couldn’t exactly put her finger on where. Stomach region, on the side. “Next time my older brother tries to act tough, I’ll be able to pull it out, like, but have you been shot?” It was such a sibling reason for keeping something that could have killed her.

“My first act as your friend is gonna be bringing you a portable television for your man-cave. No self-respecting teenager should be without one,” no she didn’t know how old he was, not in number—but his thoughts had a weight to them. It was how they slanted his view of his parents, of his sisters—a feeling to him, rather than a number. Watching him toy with the bullet as the meaning of her words fell into line for him—what exactly she’d done. It was in the pinch of his brow, the bobble of his throat as he turned and slid to the ground.

She listened—Tatiana was good at that, at just being there when someone had something to say. A horrible truth, or a beautiful lie. The world had both in abundance. His easy forgiveness made her heart twist in a way that was unsettling because it was usually reserved for those who she’d pledged her life for—family, blood and chosen—but this boy. This boy she’d known only for hour had somehow wormed himself into that dark protective place that was what made Tatiana truly dangerous. She couldn’t help how she reached for him—to let him known she was still with him, to sooth him. Running fingers through his hair, resting her palm on his shoulder when her arm felt too heavy to keep moving.

His words curled like a story for her—coupled with those flashes of thought that accompanied words. Little flickers of his life like a stuttered and broken motion picture. The look on his mother’s face when she suggested getting a dog, the calm acceptance of Shaylah when he appeared in her crate—it was like a strobe light splashing upon the frames of his life. Stop motion tragedies she could do nothing about. She burned with an anger for what his family had needlessly put him through—didn’t they realize what a wonderful boy he was? Didn’t they realize he was more because of who he was? That tight little anger she harbored for humanity flared and coiled, flickering like shadows in her foggy mind—her abilities tethering themselves to this shadow carver’s plight.

Physically, she couldn’t move—but a telekinetic could do anything her mind wished—forcing her body to roll slightly so that she might press her forehead into the dark of his hair. It hurt, fuck did it hurt, but she couldn’t just not do anything. “I’m so sorry, Puppy.” She murmurs, “I can’t imagine being scared of—of the people you love. That’s terrible. I’m so glad you had Shaylah—that you could see yourself through her eyes if only for—for a moment.” She wanted to make grand declarations, she wanted to tell him she’d get Shaylah this instant—that he could have her back, no worries. But she understood the desire to protect someone, to think of them more than yourself. She’d work it out, she’d—she’d done more difficult reconnaissance missions.

“Hate can be a—a blinding thing. Makes it difficult to reasonable, even with yourself.” It wasn’t an excuse—it was an explanation. She wanted to tell him that there was no way his family could ever hate what he was, more than they loved him. She wanted to tell him he was better off away from them—from humans—but despite her own biases, she knows that isn’t the truth.

What a sad tragic pair they made—whet-toothed monsters with tear tracked cheeks and bright eyes. “I’m glad you told me; you shouldn’t have to keep that alone,” she says, smiling softly, “what a terribly tragic pair we make.”

One moment, two moments. “But if you ever wanted to not be here—if you wanted to be somewhere else.” Home, or some other hypothetical. Somewhere even the telepathic illusionist couldn’t thing of. “I’d help you. I promise I can be—be useful when I’m not shot through. Even if it’s just for a visit, or to stay, or anything—anywhere—I’d help. I’d keep you safe.”

No.  No, it would never be okay.  Even revenge on the terrorist who'd taken away those innocent lives wouldn't make it okay.  It wouldn't bring back the dead.

"You know ..." he started upon a shaky and quiet tone as the adrenaline of his emotions started to fade, "... you don't always have to be okay.  I mean, if you ever come to a point where you just need to ... let it out and fall apart and ... not be okay?  I can--I can take you somewhere.  Just ... just tell me and I'll take you some place where you can do that."  Why was he saying that?  He barely knew her, so why was he offering such an intimate space to her?

Maybe because it felt like the right thing to do.  Like trying to save her life.

Upon learning the terrorist had been killed, Pup nodded sharply as he stared at their hands.  "Good," was his tight response.

He did smile, just a little, when she confirmed that she kept the bullet, though tilted his head curiously when she mentioned her older brother.  It was a little confusing at first, because he thought she said her brother was dead, but then he realized that was her triplet brother and that people can obviously have older siblings.  Duh, Nik.  "Super bad ass," he agreed with a light smirk, completely going along with her plan to one-up her brother on the toughness-o-meter.

"A television?" he echoed in disbelief.  "You really don't have to do that."  It would be cool, sure, but she didn't have to go through the trouble or spend money on him or anything like that.  Yes, he had managed to stop her from bleeding out, but it wasn't like she actually owed him anything.  He didn't do it so he would have someone indebted to him.  He just ... did it because he didn't want her to die.

Still, it would be nice to have a TV.

"How about your first act as my friend is that you ... get better?" he suggested innocently as he pulled his gaze away from her bullet and giving her a small smile.  "We'll work out the other stuff later."

In truth, quite possibly the best thing she could have done for Nikolas Salko right then, was to listen to him -- listen to him tell his story, a story that he'd never told anyone ... not Moose, not Leonid, not anyone.  He wouldn't tell Gavriil because he was fairly certain that man would do everything in his power to get Pup home to his family so they could reconcile their differences -- but not every family was as open-minded and accepting as Gavriil's own parents were.  And Leonid?  Leonid would probably think less of Pup for having a human family, and Nikolas was 99% sure his friend would conspire to make their lives hell before killing them ... and Nikolas didn't want anything bad to happen to them, honestly, they were still his family.  He still loved them.

So he kept it all inside.

But Ana?  Letting it out to Ana felt ... good.  It felt safe.  She ... felt safe.  Besides, being a telepath, she probably either purposely or accidentally heard a lot of people's secrets anyway.  He might as well tell her, verbally, himself, the whole truth.  He could feel his throat becoming hot and raw, sore, unused to speaking for so long.  He could feel the heat as he exhaled a trembling sigh, feeling her run her fingers through his hair.  His hair ... wasn't soft, no.  It was oily and somewhat stiff, tangled from the lack of a proper scrubbing and care for days.  Some days, he just didn't think about taking a shower or he didn't have time.  Most nights, he just forewent the idea altogether in favor of finding something to eat.  When you're hungry, hygiene is the last thing on your mind.

The kindness in her touch was welcome, and he even basked for a just a few seconds in just that, how nice it felt, for once not tensing at the contact, actually welcoming it.  Part of Pup screamed at him for liking it, that he wasn't supposed to like it, that he was a monster and he didn't deserve people being nice to him ... but most of the boy just accepted it, too exhausted and heartbroken to resist anymore.

What if he liked it too much?  This arrangement was only meant to be temporary after all.  Once he was strong enough, he'd have to take her back.  Would he ever see her again after that?  Was this friendship just a pipe dream?  He really shouldn't get too used to it, to having her around, to kindness and gentle touches ...

It was a big city, and after he took her back to wherever she was supposed to be, the odds of seeing her again were very ... very small.  She still had a family, an older brother, trainers, a life to get back to ... she had better things to do with her time, probably responsible and grown up things, that she didn't need to waste it with some street rat.  That realization had started to sink in as fresh tears welled behind his eyes, tears he wouldn't let fall, not this time.

He'd just enjoy their friendship now, however brief it may be.

His fingers tightened around the bullet in his grasp.

Nikolas understood now why the monsters in the stories really kidnapped people.  It wasn't because they were mean or wanted to hurt them ... but because they were lonely and couldn't keep friends any other way.  There was a very large part of him that didn't want to give Ana back to the world at all, but he knew that was just him being selfish.

Damn it, one of the tears escaped, followed by a sniff and a jerking breath.  He tried to push the sadness down, tried to keep himself together.  

Hearing the slight movement, feeling that slight pressure against his head as she pressed her brow into those dirty, messy locks that held the faint smell of dog and grime, his eyes fluttered open for an instant, as though reminding himself he was still in his bunker before the lids fell shut again.  He listened to her condolences, heart sinking as his emotions were put into words --

Scared of the people you love.

Yes.  Yes, that was an adequate description of everything.

He swallowed hard, feeling as though hot pads of steel wool were caught in his throat.  "I think that's the most I've spoken at once in years," he deflected with a faded hoarseness to his voice.  A quick expulsion of air escaped his nostrils at the thought of them being a tragic pair, followed by another sniff.  "Yeah, I guess we are ..." he whispered in agreement.

Opening his eyes again, he rolled his head to the side so that he could press his brow to hers, turning his body a little to be in a slightly more comfortable position.  Her proposition was tempting, he knew that ... an part of him wanted to take him up on her offer, his heart aching for it ... but his mind telling him no ... no, he didn't deserve that.  "Thank you," he murmured as his tired and tear-stained eyes remained distant.  "But I think ... I think the only place I want to go right now is ... to sleep."  Though that was partially a lie.  He knew that he needed to sleep, his body was screaming for it, but he ... didn't really want to.  Sleeping meant spending less time with her before he had to take her back.

But at the same time, he was seriously fighting to stay awake as those heavy lids fell again and his dark lashes crashed into each other.

"But if ... if you find yourself in trouble again, then you can -- if you can find a way to use your telepathy to find me -- then ... I'll come to you.  I'll take you somewhere safe.  I promise."

[streetpupnik]

i made a lot of gifs for @dctvcountdown 1/40 → gotham 1/6: bruce — “i’m learning to conquer fear”

[streetpupnik]

[streetpupnik]

He didn’t know where he'd ended up this time, just that he smelled food and, much like the hungry street rat that he was, Pup very simply stepped from the shadows to grab a bite from the nearest plate and then wander off.