Guardian of The Streets, Part II
The slums were nearly universal in their design, as far as Xia had observed. Shabby houses that were rundown and nearly unfit for human occupation. The "shopping centers" were a bazaar-styled outdoor area. The Boss People provided only the absolute bare necessities for life, nothing more. Everything else had to be provided by the people themselves. Some grew vegetables, others used their hands to created different things that people may need, others knitted clothes together. The only way to survive was to pull your own weight, or steal. Xia did the latter, but she had seen plenty of people die on the streets because they didn't want to do the former and couldn't bring themselves to do the latter, or were stopped before they could.
It was another reason she was giving back. She knew how hard it was the toil away day in and day out for very little in return. Life in the slums was hard; the least she could do was make it easier for them for a day.
She found an empty table in the center of the bazaar and set up shop. She started by dropping a scoop of eggs on a plate, along with a waffle and setting it down. She repeated until the entire table was full of plates. People were cautiously watching her, but they all seemed to skittish to step forward. That was until a young boy dared to approach.
"Can I have a plate?" he asked meekly, a fistful of crumpled up money in his hand.
She felt a smile tugging at the ends of her lips. "Sure. Put your money away; it's free."
The kid flashed a toothy grin and snatched a plate off the table. "Thanks, lady!"
The dam had broken. The moment the kid walked away while happily munching on a waffle, scores of people approached and started taking a plate for themselves. Her cooking wasn't the best, but seeing the happy smiles on people's faces at not having to worry about what they were going to eat for breakfast that day made it okay.
The eggs and waffles disappeared far faster than she anticipated. And given how hard food was to come by while hiding underground, she wouldn't be able to come back the next day. She sighed and put the containers away and hefted her bag over her shoulder.
She traveled deeper into the slums, into the "residential" areas. Many were hollowed out and barely standing, but the people inside made it work. She wasn't the best at handiwork, but she was good enough. Years of this helped her improve her skills in too many areas to count. One family needed repairs on the roof, but no way to do them. She had it done in thirty minutes by nailing a piece of wood over the bad area, then nailing a tarp over that to keep the rain off. Where did she get the wood and tarp? That wasn't important. What was important was that when people saw her fix the roof, they started approaching her with different jobs they needed done. Some offered to pay her, which she always declined. It wasn't about making a profit; it was about assuaging some of the worries these people had weighing on their shoulders.
The Boss People weren't going to lift a finger to help. It might as well have been her.
The Slum-Quest of an Unwritten Diary: 01
By the time most of them had noticed, Sigourney was gone. Unable to sleep in such an unfamiliar setting, the girl had bided her time until dawn's approach and while the others were rousing to consciousness, she had already delved out into the cool air of the waking world. The gurgle and growling of her stomach was the only indication that she had forgotten something, but food would wait as she deemed this journey far more in importance. If she was to stay with the rebels, even for another day, she would need the emotional crutch of being able to vent by putting her feelings into words. The slip of paper she had grabbed from the terminal had been nowhere enough to sate her demands, so she would need something more substantial.
A stranger to this center, without currency, and wanted by the authorities; the challenges she faced for a mere notebook were mounting, but she cared not. Her mental wellbeing was reaching a frayed strand, a mere twig destined to be overwhelmed by all the emotional turmoil heaped upon her in the past 24 hours. Despite this, she moved with a purpose although she knew not where to go; for while new to the slums of A-11, Sigourney was well acquainted with the dwellings of the impoverished. Dipping into the damped moss-lined alleyways filled with overflowing dumpsters and discarded trash, the drunkards and despair broken homeless briefly acknowledged her only to disregard within the span of a blink. Questions were never asked in the alleys, and all were welcomed.
Hushed whispers echoed off the brick walls from unsavory deals hidden in the shade, yet she cared not. Her focus was on any visible signs of schools, abandoned or occupied, general stores, or anything else that might house the stationary she sought. The sounds of bells jingling and voices rising and the scent of food cooking from market stalls on one of the main streets caught her attention and stepping out from the alley, the girl would find herself in a bazaar of sorts. Tarps, canvas, tapestries, and blankets shaded the open stalls, with various trinkets and objects hanging or resting on every available surface that the merchants could display them. A majority of the merchants, still shaking off sleep or hangovers through mugs of coffee, ignored her, perhaps sensing that there would be no benefit to helping her, but there were the more eager (or desperate) among them who began to peddle their wares at her. Most of what was flaunted was cheap knock off jewelry and fashion accessories, none of which interested her, and what books she did browse were already inked and titled. Dejected, Sigourney paused in her steps and took in the sight of it all, sorting through the details in an attempt to find something she might have missed.
That was when she heard it.
[COLOR="#8B4513"][B][I]"Phsst!"[/I][/B][/COLOR]
Despite the growing sounds of the markets as they came to life, the voice was as audible as if the speaker were in her very ears... although it wasn't such a pleasant thing. With the next few words spoken, her skin crawled as the voice seemed unnatural. A deep baritone, yet nasally, reminded her of a fly buzzing through a downpour of gravel and the speaker's accent was as if it were broken English, being spoken in another and then another broken accent.
[COLOR="#8B4513"][B][I]"You, yes you! Smol hume child! Very handsome man, yes."[/I][/B][/COLOR]
Disturbance turned to annoyance rather quickly, but she was too concerned about keeping her skin attached as it fought to crawl away from the sound, "Where are you... who-- what are you?"
[COLOR="#8B4513"][B][I]"You come to Mostro."[/I][/B][/COLOR]
Much to her relief, the voice was no longer in her ear, but rather behind her and as she turned, she faced a tent of heavy clothes with dubious clouds of pinkish smoke seeping out. Fighting back the urge to flee from this obvious bad idea, the girl stepped in and immediately regretted it as she choked on the thick clouds of... whatever it was. It was spicy and irritated her eyes, but was also sickeningly sweet to the taste. Through squinted eyes she saw the only occupant of the tent was a cowled and cloaked figure behind a makeshift count of cardboard boxes and dry rotted wooden boxes.
[COLOR="#8B4513"][B][I]"Hallo, smol boi. Mostro wishes you a great tiddy day."[/I][/B][/COLOR]
"W-w-what...?" The girl was dumbfounded.
[COLOR="#8B4513"][B][I]"It joke. Great joke. Many men like tiddy, Mostro say it tiddy day, men feel happy about day and pay Mostro lot."[/I][/B][/COLOR]
She wasn't sure if it was the obnoxious smoke, or obnoxious joke, or the repeated times the merchant had called her a boy, but Sigourney felt what was either a headache or brain aneurysm forming.
"P-please..." She began, "Stop with the greetings... what do you want?"
[COLOR="#8B4513"][B][I]"Good!"[/I][/B][/COLOR] Mostro said, happy to get down to business. Fidgeting with something beneath his cloak, the mysterious merchant apparently dropped something as she could hear glass shattering from behind the counter. Apparently unconcerned with that fumble, he immediately opened up with, [COLOR="#8B4513"][B][I]"Mostro have what smol want."[/I][/B][/COLOR]