Flashback Fine. Whatever.

[Mittle]

6 Spring 515

Exhausted, sore, cold, thirsty, filthy, ravenous, disheartened and angry, Mitt stomped home in the bone chilling downpour and the sky was as stormy grey as his eyes. It was eight in the morning, and he was supposed to have have been working at the Foundry a bell ago. This would be the second time in as many weeks which of course would get him in more trouble. Fine. Whatever.

As the fifteen year old stood in the main room, Stalker's words smacked him in the face again.
His mother had left him some coffee and half a loaf of bread, despite him being out all night and not even showing up in the morning until now. Vastly hungry, he tore into the bread with large bites, not even bothering to chew it and sucked down the coffee as fast as he could. In under a chime he was left with a few crumbs and an empty cup that he just stared down at. He was still starving. Whatever.

He strode angrily off to work, his overly tight boots splashing and soaking his feet even more with each wet step. The tall young man's mind went back to just a bell ago. It had been incredibly satisfying to open the door, throw the Watcher clothes at Rat's face and slam the door behind him. At least he had that, he smiled tiredly.

For the first time in two years, the fifteen year old walked brazenly to the front of the Foundry..and saw only one Watcher across the street! What the fuck? He'd indentured every single waking minute to Rat to have two overpaid guards and now they were gone! Three large men stood in the alley way next to the building, waiting to catch Mitt alone. But he was completely clueless to it.

Three and a half bells late, he stomped into the Foundry and his father scolded,
"You're late."
"Yea, no shit." Mitt retorted sharply.
A hand as solid as iron and large as an anvil cuffed him so hard upside his head that he stumbled forward nearly face planting into the ground.
"Don't you EVER talk to me like that again. I brought you into this world boy and I'll easily take you out of it." Tirlmon said savagely.

Mitt glared with icy blue eyes,
"Fine. Whatever."

Tirlmon grabbed his son by the back of his dirty soaked shirt and shoved Mitt six feet out the back door.
"Go home and get some sleep. That's enough shit outta you today. And no supper for a lazy, bad mouthing punk like you." From his full six foot two, two hundred and thirty pounds, the blacksmith stared down in disapproval at his son.

"If you ever speak to me like that again, I will beat the life outta you. Get out."

The dazed teen fell face first on the wet filthy stone cobbles and just laid there for a chime.

"Fine. Whatever." he murmured in a haze, his head throbbing.

Mitt slowly pushed himself upwards and regained his feet to finally stand upright. Turning in the wrong and opposite direction of home, he was abruptly pulled into the alley way by six large hands. From the second floor window, Seamus watched with a satisfied smirk. He had waited a very long two years so this revenge was extra sweet.

Thunder and lighting covered the sounds in the alley way for the next hour and finally settled down again back to the steady icy pouring rain. The three large men caught the bag of coins thrown down from the window above and Seamus closed the window with a final slam. The three large guys walked off from the alley and headed to the Drunken Fish for a long overdue drink.

Mitt lay on his side, and just hurt. It was dark and cold out and he was having a hard time just holding onto a single thought. He sat up groggy, trying to blink the rain out of his one good eye, as the other was swollen shut. It took him a few chimes to untie the laces, but he took off his boots with relief and threw them across the street. Too small anyway.

Wincing and hissing softly he rose to one knee gingerly and lurched to his feet. With a painful inhale, he tested his weight on his left knee and decided to just walk on it anyway. It wasn't like there was anything he could do about it. The weight of the one hundred and fifty in gold still tied to the inside of his pants reassured him. Mitt weaved from side to side until he stumbled into the side of a building. Good building to hold him up. Something was sharp when he breathed. Hm. Whatever.

The teen walked along with bare feet, the freezing rain, washing off most of the blood and he carried on to something that might look familiar. Where was he? What time was it? He walked into a solid wall of person and tried to open his eye better as he looked down. Seamus!

"Small accident huh kid? That's a shame innit? Ya know, I heard a rumor your old man is gonna meet a much worse fate tomorrow..."

"But you.." Mitt grunted, trying to get his brain in gear but his head felt strangely tight and not quite connected to his body. Cold clumsy fingers worked at the knot and he untied the money pouch to shove it at Seamus.

"Don't." was all he could manage to wrap his mouth around. It ached sorely, his lip was split and the swelling made it hard to talk.

"It's a small start." he said, shoving the money in an inside pocket of his coat. "Starting tomorrow you're on half wages. Thirty seven five and then there's no more accidents." The old smith walked away whistling cheerfully, heading to the Drunken Fish.

Fine. Whatever.


WC 992

[Mittle]

He was almost there. Mitt knew where he was now-- just a block from home! One weary blue eye locked on the far away target and he took a couple more steps forward. Someone very large and angry got in Mitt's face and he couldn't quite focus on who it was. Familiar though. The guy glared and crossed his arms over his chest. Without even finishing a half a step, the guy knocked him flat on his back and he fell hard.

'Oh it's Grom.' Another muscled man stood over Mitt and he managed to finally focus as he looked up. Basher.

"Did we already kick his ass?"
"I dunno. It looks like it."
"His name's on the list isn't it?"
"You're an idiot Grom, you can't even read."
"So? Did we forget we beat him already?"

"Yesh." Mitt tried to say from the ground.

"Ok then. No hard feelins' kid. Orders are orders. So what time we meeting tomorrow?" Basher asked, picking up Mitt by the collar and setting him upright on his feet.

"Huh?" the fifteen year old managed.

"Hehe kid's dumber than you Grom."
"Shutup."

"Eh?" Tried Mitt again.

"Eight. He said eight. Ya shouldn'ta hit his mouth so hard he can't even talk. Grom laughed and the pair walked off to whatever it was that Muscle did. Mitt had a bad feeling he was going to find out tomorrow. At eight.

Almost there. Just a few more steps. The cold really wasn't so bad once your feet went numb. It was kinda nice actually. His narrow bedroom window was so close. But he'd have to suck in his stomach to get through and he wasn't sure how much longer he'd be able to sneak through it.

Ignoring that it hurt to take a deep breath, he squeezed hard to get through the window. His back and chest scraped against the stone and for a long chime he was stuck, half in and half out of his window. This would be the last time he would ever try to get through this window-but he did have to get through it.

Fine. The lanky fifteen year old was putting on too much weight, too quickly to easily slide through now but he couldn't just stay there like an idiot! He shoved all his weight to the right as much as he could and Mitt's shirt ripped in the front and back as he made it through the window to hit the dirt floor with a crash. At least it was warm and dry in here.

He flung out a long arm and reached slowly to pull the thin cover over himself, face and all. Mitt stayed on his side and curled up his long legs but it didn't help. He used his legs to tuck his large feet under the blanket that reached his waist and laid down on his arm.

Whatever.

His parent's voices eventually filtered through his consciousness and he tried to make sense of them.

"Did you check the Drunken Fish?"
"None of our Foundry guys would ever go there Reine. That's Seamus' favorite place."
"Well he should've been home six bells ago. At least!"
"He's not a kid anymore. He actually tried to get stupid with me so he's no longer your little boy."
"At least let me set out something for his supper. I made maple rum cake at the kitchens today and you know it's his favorite."
"No. He's gotta learn. And missing one meal won't kill him. He's growing up fast just like me. You can't give in at this age. You come down harder, not softer when they start feeling strong enough to take on their old man."
"Alright." she sighed reluctantly. "But you know I won't sleep a wink."
"He's been keeping you awake far too many nights and that's gotta end now. I think I'm gonna sign him up for overtime at work tomorrow. It'll keep him outta trouble and nip it in the bud."

Mitt snorted weakly. 'Fine. Whatever.'


WC 672 Total WC 1664

[Mittle]

7 Spring 515

Reineli pressed a cool wet cloth to Mitt's forehead and face, making clucking sounds with her tongue as she frowned in concern. She didn't know who had done this to her boy, but she'd give 'em what for! He'd been beaten, that was clear but she was also worried about his rising temperature. This was only the second time he'd ever been ill, thank Izurdin.

Her quick ears picked up the sound of Tirlmon getting out of bed and she stalked over to him angrily with dark blue eyes meeting his grey ones.

"Did you beat my boy yesterday?" Reine demanded of her husband as she drew herself up to her full five foot three inches.

"What? No."
"You said he tried to get stupid with you."
"I didn't beat him Reine, he got a disrespectful mouth on him so I cuffed him and sent him here to go to sleep. I told you that already last night."

She used both of her small but capable hands and dragged the large man hard by his belt buckle. Tirlmon struggled not to fall to his knees as she held on with an iron grip to move him over to look in Mitt's room.

"Did ya do that to my boy?" the mother asked in a threatening and severe slow voice.

Tirlmon looked down at his son with concern and shook his head no firmly. He'd never beat him like that and the man knew better than to ever piss of Reine!
"I have no idea what happened to him."
"It must be gang things. And now he's feverish too."
"Regardless, we can't afford a healer or for either of us to miss work."
"Where are his shoes? I don't see them anywhere."
"I dunno. You know he just throws them away when they get too small."
"What that boy costs in shoes and food alone astounds me!"
"Well you did say he's -your- son.."
"Alright off with ya. I'll make a nice big breakfast for both o' yas since I'm up early and send ya off to work. Go clean up and get dressed. Now." The woman looked at Tirlmon with icy blue eyes.
"And you'd best not be knockin' about my son or I'll give ya an ass kickin' to remember!"
"Yes ma'am!" The tall man said, putting up his hands and walking back to their bedroom.

Mitt smelled food under his nose and a wave of nausea rose up. He put up a large hand to shove it away and turned over on his battered left side to dry heave. Blech. Food. Gross. He opened an eye carefully and looked around. It was early morning and he could see a large breakfast and his dad's huge mug of coffee next to his right arm. Shivering hard, he clutched the blanket around him more closely. The blankets! Plural! He could see both his mother's and father's blankets piled on top of his own, making a nice warm cave over him. His father's shirt was rolled up beneath his head, making a good pillow and Mitt leaned back into it to look at the ceiling.

He hurt in places he didn't know existed but he figured that was probably the whole point of yesterday. Slowly he rolled back to his side and looked at the coffee. A big piece of maple rum cake was set on a plate next to it and he tightly clenched his stomach at the thought of food. Ugh. No. But coffee, now that he'd give a shot.

Mitt grasped the large mug and brought it to his mouth to sip cautiously. It was still hot so they couldn't have been gone very long, he reasoned. Like hot ambrosia, he sipped at the rich black coffee and worked himself into a sitting position. The room spun and he quickly set down the mug to lean back against the wall, listing heavily to one side. The vertigo in his aching head was a night mare. It didn't make much difference if his eye was open or closed. Maybe a little better open? He squinted and prayed for it to pass, his eye moving back and forth as he felt the room moving too fast to keep up with. A tight pressure pushed at the back of his head and a ringing started in his ears that only seemed to get louder.



WC 736 Total WC 2400

[Mittle]

Something icy touched his face and he frowned, shoving it away with his entire long frame shivering.
"Stobbit!" he murmured, trying to get away from it.

"Stay still like a good boy now. I don't have much time and took lunch off ta be here." his mother scolded gently.

He opened one sleepy blue eye and looked up at her. She was clearly exhausted and strands of light brown haired wisped around her face as she wrestled with him. Mitt put up a hand on hers and pleaded.

"Shtop. Ish cold!"

"Well that's your fault for getting a fever in the first place." she snapped. "Put your hand down and deal with it." he submitted tiredly and shivered again under the blankets.

"Why didn't ya eat your breakfast? And where are your shoes?" Reine asked, trying to distract him.

"Not hungry. Dunno. I'm freezing here!" He shoved away the warm damp cloth and held her little hand in his.

"Shtop mom. You eat it. Not hungry."

Reine sat back on her knees, now truly worried. Had her boy ever refused food in his life? Not that she could ever remember.

"I have ta get back ta work and I'll be late if ya don't eat something right this chime."

Feeling harassed, he grabbed a random piece of meat and put it in his mouth.

"Habby?" he asked, his mouth stretched painfully full.

"Yes. I'll be home in six bells so finish your coffee too. I made some more fresh." She said, on her way out the door. While she wanted to do more, there was only so much to be done for the situation.

Tirlmon stood looking in and listening from outside the narrow bedroom window and watched Mitt spit out the food the moment her back was turned. The fifteen chimes he'd taken to get there was all he could spare and it would take another fifteen to get back.

"Obey your mother and eat that right now." He suddenly scolded with a smile, making Mitt jump. The father jogged back to work double time, with a slight smile on his face.

"Vine. Whaddebber." he tried to say, exhaling in irritation. He was just a little cold that's all. He needed to get outta here before they came back tonight so he could meet Basher. At eight.

Out of sheer habit, he lifted the coffee mug and drank down most of it, only realizing after the fact, that it was his father's pint mug. What he really needed to do was get some damn shoes. But where? He'd given that nice chunk of change to Seamus. He still had a little leftover from his pay but that was supposed to be for food. If he'd tried to live off the small amount that his parents could spare, he'd be a walking skeleton.
Mitt shrugged. He wasn't hungry at all so he'd just buy some boots--at the cobbler's shop that he was at the other day. He could barely squeak out the five silvers but the tall teen desperately needed some boots. That was a plan.

A dark blue eye looked over balefully at the food and decided to put it in the floor level cupboard where his father kept his not secret stash of food for himself.

First things first, could he sit up? Slowly he edged himself to a sitting position, and looked around cautiously. The whirling sensation wasn't so bad now, so he rolled to his knees. Still okay. He put out a hand on the wall and pulled himself to his feet very slowly. Yes!

With shuffling steps, he gathered up the plates of food and brought them out to the main room. He set them on the counter and opened up the cupboard expecting a hoard of everything. It was bare. Mitt frowned for a moment as his eye drifted to the four plates of food he'd brought from his room. Did they...? No. Nope. He wasn't having it.

Mitt firmly placed every last bit of what was obviously his parent's own breakfast and lunch meals into the cupboard and slammed it closed. Not hungry. He walked toward the door, his back firmly turned away from what had been a needless, unasked for sacrifice.

He took off the blankets and set them on the counter, obviously not going to walk outside in them and headed out. While Mitt definitely didn't have the physical resources to jog over to the cobbler's he could still walk, so walk he did. It wasn't raining today so that was at least something.

A six foot tall guy with no shoes and a ragged torn shirt stomped into the cobbler's door, whacking his head on the top. He winced and ducked his head to enter the shop and each of the people turned to look at him.

"Boots." Mitt said, slamming down five silvers on the counter.

The grinch fisted cobbler that had bullied that woman the other night, now looked him up and down with a scornful eye.
"I don't think a bum like you could afford it."
Mitt shoved the silver forward and loomed over the man, shoving his beat up face into the old man's.

"Boots. NOW." His voice low and deep, he worked at keeping his words clear despite the swelling.

The shifty eyed old man took the silver first, looked down at the guys big filthy feet and went to get some shoes from the rack. Mitt watched with amusement as the short man teetered precariously on a ladder, trying to reach the top shelf by standing on his tip toes.

'I might be poor but my boots are top shelf.' he thought to himself, a bit silly. He shivered hard again, holding onto the front counter for support. Using both small hands the old cobbler returned with two large new sturdy boots and set them on the surface with a loud thud.

Mitt immediately grabbed them and sat down on a chair to put them on. The wood creaked under his weight and the other shoemakers eyed him nervously with quiet distaste. It wasn't often the likes of that kind of bum came in there with straight out money.

He tied up the new boots firmly and stretched out his legs, leaning back in the chair to wiggle his toes in them. This time the chair made a cracking noise and Mitt immediately rose from it.




WC 1,072 Total WC 3,472

[Mittle]

Mitt caught a glimpse of himself in the shop's mirror as he stood up and just stared for a chime. His face and neck were red and mottled with fever, his left eye was a purple swollen mess as was his mouth and lip. Three gashes, bumps and bruises over his cheek and temple. His shirt was literally ripped in two and was just a rag with sleeves that didn't hide the bruises on his ribs, chest and stomach. Damn.

"Hey ugly. Ya bought yer boots now git out! Yer scarin' the customers!" yelled the cobbler.

He was probably right. Mitt turned to leave and again walked straight into the top of the door frame and bounced off painfully.

Hssst! That hurt!

Mitt ducked carefully and looked down at his brand new boots as he walked out and around the corner. Hunter, Stalker, and Tracker watched Mitt go and murmured something between them.

So now the tall young teen intended to make it the fifteen blocks to Rat's Meet room. He needed to kick his ass anyway about the missing Watchers at the Foundry. He walked with a slow unsteady weaving stride, and looked unremarkably exactly like any other beat up, dirty drunk walking through Sunberth.

Mitt shivered again and tried to walk faster but that wasn't a good idea. He immediately returned to his shambling gait that was at least mostly upright as he moved on the side walk very close to the buildings. He kept out one large hand trailing along the wall to help keep his balance and kept walking.

The sky grew darker and the sun began to set, along with any lingering warmth. Finally arriving, Mitt peered around him and guessed he had about a bell or two to yell at Rat before meeting Basher. He opened the door but he'd been ducking through this door frame for a year now and made it through okay.

"Basher did a damn good job. I need to give him a raise." Rat said from his comfortable chair.

"Ware a mah goshbam washers?" Mitt tried and frowned. And tried again very slowly, leaning heavily on Rat's desk.

"Where are my gods damn Watchers?"

"Not my problem that YOU pissed off Hunter. Besides. You still owe me.." he paused to look down at his book, turned a page and dropped his finger on a sum. "Just over two thousand kid. I own your ass."

Mitt still leaned wearily on the desk with both hands now, sweat dripping off his face and down his neck. Rat shoved his hands back with a shoe in disgust.

"Don't touch my shit ya filthy kid. And seriously either wear a shirt or don't at all. That rag is ridiculous. Sit in the chair you sweating pig."

The tall teen had entirely forgotten about it and pulled off the shirt slowly and painfully to toss it on the floor.

Rat looked at the creative series of gashes and bruises and wondered at how he'd even thought about retiring Basher after seeing Mitt. The greasy older man had thought his Muscle was getting too close to thirty now, slowing down and just couldn't take the pace anymore. But if he and Grom could dish that out on Mitt, then he'd keep them on for sure.

As if the wheels were turning as his beady little eyes lingered on the busted ribs, Rat asked the teen,
"Did ya get that at the Foundry or my Muscle?"
"Work." he answered shrugging painfully. Why does everyone want to really talk when it hurts to?
"Noted. So Grom and Basher didn't lay a hand on ya?"
"Nope."
"Starting tonight, you'll be the new lead Muscle then."
Mitt just stared him with his one good eye and his shoulders sagged.

"Fine. Whatever."


WC 632 Total WC 4,104

[Mittle]

Basher and Grom ducked through the door and seemed to take up every spare inch of space in the room. The brothers both looked and acted so much alike that it was hard to believe that Rat hadn't taken on Grom in steady work. At least that was until you found out that Grom didn't follow orders like Basher did.

"Hey boys, just wanted to give ya a nice heads up fer doing such a bang up job wit' Hammer last night."

Grom smiled dumbly but Basher didn't say anything and looked down at Mitt.

"Why do ya guys lie to me?" Rat stood up and walked slowly to the brothers, lifting his eyes but keeping his chin level.

"Do I look stupid to you?"
"No boss."
"Hammer c'mere."

Mitt groaned and stood up unsteadily. He took a step backwards to lean his long weight against the wall to prop himself up.

"I said over here."
Mitt glared with one icy blue eye and answered slowly, "No." Because if he tried to walk too much right now, he knew he'd face plant for sure.

"See boys? That's the new lead Muscle now." Rat said, walking over to Mitt and pointing at a long and charmingly colored bruise across the top of his ribs.

"Put our your fists boys." he said, motioning the two brothers over. They complied but looked confused.

"See those marks?"
They nodded, not seeing anything unusual.
Rat punched his fist into the bruise and Mitt grunted and closed his eye.
"See my fist don't fit that bruise. Now look at yer fists. Do they fit that mark?"
Neither brother moved or said anything.
Rat pointed to Mitt's mouth and eye.
"Yer fists don't fit those marks either do they?"
Basher looked ready to bolt but Grom just stood there confused.
"Grom get out. I'll send someone if I need ya."
The man looked ready to protest but his older brother shook his head quickly for him to shut up.

"I ain't takin' no orders from no gods damn kid!" Grom yelled, slamming the door behind him.

"Now Basher how long have knowed each otha?"
"Since I was twelve."

Mitt's eyebrows shot up in surprise, not liking that coincidence at all.

"And you're what, twenty nine? thirty now?"
"Yeah."
"Gettin' tired? Bones achin'?"
Basher nodded. It was nice to be appreciated and get some sympathy so he smiled.
"That's what I thought. See Hammer here wants to help ya out ya know? He looks up to ya, don't ya Hammer?"

Mitt looked at Basher. The guy was about two inches taller so technically he was right. Kind of.
"Yeah."
"Show him the ropes, let him help ya out when I need ya too, okay?"
"Okay."
"Ya know it's Meet Night tonight so ya help him out if he looks confused, coz he looks up to ya."

A very small knock was heard and Basher sat down in the chair while Rat sat on the edge of his desk.

"Come in." Rat answered.

Oh Mitt remembered that greasy pleased tone the first night. He wiped the sweat from his face with a forearm and winced as the sweat stung his open wounds.

A little girl walked in the door and her face was the epitome of innocence with her big brown eyes.

"She'll be assassin or Daggerhands." Basher whispered to Mitt very quietly.

"Alright you remembered what you did to that bully at school?"
The little girl nodded, her brown curls bouncing and she smiled. She walked to stand in front of Mitt and he wanted no part of this. The girl looked up at him with the most adorable expression-
"Now kid."
And punched him directly in the groin. Mitt leaned forward unable to breathe at the searing pain that shot out to his toes and grey spots swam in his vision. Only after a solid a chime, could he finally exhale again and unshed tears remained in the corners of his eyes.

"Good job Slip!" Rat cheered her on. "Face, eye contact, and hit." He looked at Basher and the muscled guy immediately got up and moved to a small stool in the corner.

"Have a seat while we talk business."

Mitt made it over a few steps to Basher and asked,

"Am I gonna be taking hits like you have for the next fifteen years? Some even from kids?!"
"Probably. Once he finds what works, he sticks with it."
"So he knows exactly what he's gonna do with kids the moment they come in here?"
Basher nodded.
"Soon as he names ya, he's got ya pegged for life."
"So I'm just supposed to be a punching bag now?" Mitt asked noticing that at least he was talking a little easier. He must be feeling better now.
"Nah there's variety in this job. Some days you're the puncher, and on Meet Nights, we're intimidation. The big scary guys that kids are supposed to face and not be afraid."
The teen stared at Basher with one good eye and noticed that Basher's 'accent' seemed to disappear the more he talked. Odd..
"Good acting job back there by the way. You had her totally convinced she's gonna grow up and be a good killer some day. Plus it puts Rat in a good mood with stuff like that."
"What?"
"I got good grades back in school too. Hammer." Basher gave him a long slow stare.




WC 906 Total WC 5,010