Author's Note: Well, this short piece was written for the drabble contest, round two. The theme challenge was based on ten years into the future and this is my interpretation. It's Skittery-centric and is done in the first person. I hate it when I use that POV since I usually think it comes out like crap, but I figured it suited the purpose for this piece. I basically just jotted down Skitts' feelings very simply. I only had 1,000 words, after all. And this bit was 1,000 words on the nose.
Disclaimer: Skittery and Racetrack (as well as the Tibby's diner) belong to Disney.
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Renegade
06.13.06
The jig is up, the news is out, they finally found me.
Renegade, who had it made, retrieved for a bounty.
Never more to go astray, this will be the end today of the wanted man.
- Renegade, by Styx
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I almost couldn't believe it when I found myself sitting at a corner table in the forgotten restaurant. I was absently swirling the spoon amid the lukewarm liquid in the coffee cup when it actually dawned on me that I was sitting in Tibby's. The last ten years hadn't been kind to the place.
Or maybe I was letting my distorted memories make the place into something it never was.
I don't know why I came back. Maybe because I had no other place to go. Maybe because I was sick of running already. Either way, there I was. For the first time in almost a decade my well-worn boots had brought me back to Manhattan.
I should have known better than to think that I would be invisible in the City; with a population as big as the one Manhattan had, I figured there would be no chance that I'd be found. If there was one thing I've learned after all these years, it's easy to get lost in a crowd. That's how I've survived this long, after all.
But I forgot about the others. They were as invisible when we were boys as I became as I aged. Surely one of them would have been forced in retaining such a life. And, as I sat, hiding myself away, it never occurred to me that one invisible man could spy another.
"Skittery? That can't be you, can it?"
Skittery. Damn, I haven't been called that in years. I haven't been really called much of anything except 'damn bum' and 'fucking thief'. Curiosity got the better of me, I admit, and I looked up to see who the voice belonged to.
I almost wished that I didn't. I recognized who it was, alright. Racetrack. I know I look like shit – I've been scrounging around for too long now and God only knows how long it's been since I've had a proper wash – but what the hell happened to him?
His hair, greasy and plastered to his head, was still the same dark shade but his eyes, once lively and full of sass, seemed dull. He had put on a lot of weight – at least he's been eating; I haven't had a real meal in ages – and his threadbare clothes seemed stretched around his middle. His teeth, stained from years of smoking, were clamped on a cigar butt, his cracked lips spread into a wide grin. He seemed happy to see me.
If only I could say the same of him.
He got a good look at my face and, despite the whiskers, he knew it was me. "Skitts, you rascal, it is you," he said and, without an invitation – good ol' Race – he took the seat opposite of me. "Where the hell have you been? God, it's been so long," he said, as he slammed one of his pudgy hands down against the table.
"Around." It was vague enough answer. It better be enough of one.
Race nodded. "You've been around for years now, Skitts, eh?"
"Yeah." Maybe if I answer each of his questions with a short answer he'll get the hint and leave me alone. He was making me nervous.
But he was Race, after all, and kept on going. "Let's see, I haven't glimpsed your ugly mug since… well, Jack went out West a year after that strike we did, just after the turn of the century, and you were already gone." So Jack did get out West? Good for him.
I could feel Race's eyes on me and I kept my face straight. If only he doesn't mention what caused me to leave…
But he was Race, after all, and knew just what I didn't want to hear. He snapped his fingers. "I remember. You left right after the accident."
The accident. Involuntarily, my face muscles twitched.
Did he see?
"Yeah," he continued, "right after Dave's kid brother – what was his name? Les? – got runned over by that carriage." He lowered his voice and leaned in. "You know, Skitts, I heard the kid was pushed."
My face twitched again. My hand shook slightly.
That time, I know it. Race saw.
Abandoning my coffee, I got up. "Nice seeing you again, Race," I said – but I didn't mean it. I just had to get out of there.
Race nodded and left his seat. "Busy?"
"Yeah." I started to walk away. I really had to get out of Manhattan. It was a mistake coming back.
"Skittery," he called, and I paused. I couldn't make my escape that obvious.
"Yeah?"
"Meet me here for breakfast tomorrow. We can talk some more?" I hesitated. I had to get out of there. "I'll treat," he added.
And that sealed it. It really had been ages since I had a real meal.
---
I should have known. No leopard can lose its spots. I was a criminal, a thief, an accidental murderer – a renegade. I know that. Ever since that night – no, long before that, I just hadn't run yet – that's all I've been. That's all I'll be.
And Race, well, we all knew what he was like. Even when he was a kid, he would do anything for a penny. Always down at the tracks, he was. If he could get something out of turning an old pal in – and a wanted man at that – he would do it. As I slowly made my way to meet him for breakfast that next morning, I knew it. He had just sold me out. Poor Race. The ten years had really been unkind to him.
So, rather than be caught, I ran again. Lowering my hat so that it covered my eyes, I turned on my heel. Neither Race nor the cop that was waiting with him saw me go. They were blinded with the dollar signs in their eyes.
I was still a renegade. I was born one and I will die one.
Here's to you, Manhattan – and to another ten years.