"Shove your fucking pity."
The boy's voice, barely audible, faded in the harsh din of Earth's largest megatropolis. Despite his proud words, the boy failed to meet the soldier's gaze, instead electing to stare out into the distance at rows of speeding vehicles. With a quiet sniffle, he sheepishly rubbed at the thin layer of grease and grime coating his face. As he pulled his arms away, the boy stared, silent and stoic, at the deep black marks on the already filthy sleeves of his oversized sweater.
Like a statue, he stood in place, unflinching, even when the soldier crouched down to his eye level. In secret, however, he wished for nothing more than the right to cower under such heavy scrutiny. After all, the boy hated being stared at almost as much as he hated being dirty.
People looked down on him, even if nobody ever had the gall to admit it aloud. Clad in his torn and dirtied clothes, he truly looked the part of the filthy street rat. Compared to the clean cut soldier and the relatively well dressed patrons of the marketplace, the boy looked as if he belonged in a cage or a sewer rather than a shopping center. The boy trembled in silent rage, clenching his fists. His dirty, uncut fingernails dug angry red crescents into his calloused palm.
"Who the hell do you think you are? Fuck off!"
Mustering every last ounce of rebellion, the boy threw together his ugliest, toothiest sneer in an effort to scare the man away from him. Like he expected, the man, after shooting him one last, sad glance, stood and left, entering the fast food restaurant that the boy often frequented yet never entered. With a tired sigh, he sat down, leaning against the cheap aluminum doorframe, no more than three inches thick, which separated him from a nearly unlimited supply of food. He buried his bony fingers through the tangled mess of his hair and snarled out of pure frustration.
It was so close.
Social pressure, however, halted the boy more effectively than any flimsy sheet of scrap metal ever could. He knew better than to drag his miserable carcass into a public building when he looked the way he did. If he wasn't immediately chased out by pudgy, wheezing employees, he would soon be nothing but a spectacle, the target of every last man's wretched stares. As often as the boy attempted to appear above the pettiness of peer pressure, the fact remained that societal scorn did, in fact, bother him. He could feign indifference all he liked. At the end of the day, he could never fool himself for long. Even after a proud victory against a rival gang or a successful theft from a local store, he could ride on that high only for a short period of time before something inevitably sent him crashing down. Perhaps he would hear a couple laughing on the street, and no matter how innocent the situation appeared, a vague sense of vulnerability would force him to ponder: "Are they laughing at me?" Or perhaps he would catch his fleeting reflection in the shimmer of a passing vehicle, even when he reminded himself over and over again never to look into the endless depths of a mirror. The creature staring back at him always appeared less than human.
Absentmindedly, the boy picked at the black, drying scabs on his knee, exposed through the jagged hole in his last pair of thin, worn jeans. He stared out into the swarms of faceless shoppers when he felt his own viscous blood slowly trickling through his fingers. Scoffing in annoyance, the boy bent down, scooping up a handful of dirt and smearing it over the reopened wound.
No matter what, he always preferred the earthy scent of soil to the metallic tang of his own blood.
He closed his eyes and sighed. If his gang leader were there, perhaps he would have praised him for his resourcefulness and forgiven him for his earlier insubordination six days prior.
Wishful thinking.
The Tenth Street Reds had served as both his salvation and his damnation during his tumultuous childhood. While they took him in and made him strong, supporting him long after he had fled the government sponsored orphanage years ago, their services had come at a great cost. In exchange for the gang's food and protection, the boy was expected to serve as one of their many drug mules. Out of the frying fan and into the fire- he escaped one set of masters only to find himself chained to another. As punishment for anything as minor as disrespect towards senior members, the gang withheld his food rations for as long as it took for him pay the loosely defined price of their forgiveness.
Sometimes, a sincere apology and a stolen candy bar would be enough. Other times, they would beat him within an inch of his life, leaving him with broken ribs and dislocated joints, only to be treated once he had bowed low and kissed their feet in supplication. Either way, they never gave him any information regarding his punishment until he had thrown down his weapons and surrendered to whatever cruel fate awaited him.
He wasn't stupid- they were playing mind games with him, toying with him, waiting for him to come crawling back on his knees, with his tail between his legs, begging and scraping for their mercy, just as he always did. They were his gods, and he, only a maggot. It was clear from the very beginning that they held all the power- they only wished to drive that message home. Every time the boy angered his masters, he fled their dilapidated sanctuary, forgoing safety and shelter in favor of preserving his pride.
And every time, he inevitably returned.
During his life on the streets, he had endured beatings, and brandings, and broken limbs, all without sacrificing a shred of his honor. Pain alone could never drive him back to the Reds; after so many years of fighting turf wars and smuggling red sand, the boy had become almost desensitized to anything but the worst of it. Pain served as just another constant- an expectation and a silent promise.
Hunger, however, was a different monster, engulfing his mind and body, draining his free will and leaving him as nothing more than a desperate animal, unable to focus on anything more than finding his next meal.
It robbed him of his self-control.
He threw his head back with a broken laugh. Everybody robbed him of something. With stone cold silence, he could endure it all: his parent's abandonment, the hateful stares, the biting insults, the physical abuse, and even the pure humiliation of prostrating himself in front of his superiors. He just couldn't stand the hunger.
One more day, he decided. He would scrounge for table scraps for one more day, and if he still couldn't quell his hunger, he would swallow his pride and crawl back to the Tenth Street Reds. Just one more day to attempt to survive on his own and salvage the pitiful remains of his tattered pride.
Six days without food.
Although logically, the boy knew that plenty of people had survived even longer, his mind tormented him with hallucinations of his own death. He always felt as though he was falling; a part of him wished he actually was.
He shook his head, groaning as a young woman exited the restaurant, allowing the scent of cheap cooking oil to filter through the entrance. He was better than this, but hunger always managed to shatter his resolve and turn him weak. Even the simple aroma of food wafting through the door left him in a daze.
The plotline of his perfect life unfolded before him in a blur of wild color. His mother, tall and slender, just like him, called him down from the kitchen. Summoned by the sound of her voice, the boy raced down the stairs of his shimmering home, all gold and amber, to meet this strange, yet so familiar woman, whose face changed with every fantasy. No matter how his dreams unfolded, however, her smile always remained a constant, blurring into the gentle marigold of the kitchen wallpaper.
Upon his arrival, he pulled out his designated chair at the dinner table and sat down next to an equally strange yet familiar man. The man smiled at him with what could only be described as a father's love. As he looked upon the man's face in an attempt to immortalize his features, the boy realized that the man, his father, shared his dark skin and hazel eyes. With uncharacteristic warmth in his heart, the boy glanced back and forth at his mother and father as they went about their evening routine. He never tasted the food; he never needed to. Despite the lingering emptiness in his stomach, the fantasy was complete. The boy wished for nothing more than to forever trap himself in the tenderness of that moment, with the security of family and the promise of food to come.
Light raindrops against his forehead jolted him back into reality. The boy huddled against the wall of the restaurant, shirking away from the water. With thinly veiled envy, he glared at the restaurant's patrons through the dirty window. Although they occasionally turned in his direction, nobody's gaze lingered on him for long.
He simultaneously rejoiced and mourned the return of his invisibility.
Although remaining unnoticed ensured his safety by removing the factor of unpredictable, potential human threats, just once, the boy wanted someone to look at him kindly, with neither pity nor contempt. Just once, he wanted to feel as though he had the right to exist. He thought of his fantasy and bit the inside of his cheek hard as punishment for allowing himself to indulge in such a frivolous weakness.
When would he get it through his thick skull that nobody was ever going to save him? Even in the orphanage, he was a relic: dirty, unwanted, and uncared for. Potential parents desired beautiful porcelain babies with golden hair and blue eyes- not some sorry, filthy bastard with a bad attitude and a chip on his shoulder. Nobody was ever going to save him.
So didn't that mean that he had to save himself? He nodded, reassured of his own life choices. If nobody would protect him, then he would simply learn to stand on his own two feet. Always. Others before him had survived with less, he pondered. He would persevere; he was strong.
The boy stood, wincing at the dull pain throbbing through his cracking joints. With contempt clear in his features, he smirked at the patrons of the fast food establishment.
"Look at you fatasses. Go on and spend all your money on shit you'll never even finish in the first place. I'll just get it all for free later."
The boy laughed to no one in particular as he gave himself his usual pre dumpster diving pep talk. He wasn't just digging through garbage; he wasn't desperate. On the contrary, he was clever, and resourceful, and better than all of those wasteful slobs who took everything for granted and who couldn't survive a day in his shoes.
He was a survivor while they were just cattle.
With renewed energy and a bounce in his step, the boy prepared himself to step out from under the canopy and into the rain. Before he could stray too far from the doorway, however, the boy felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. Despite the debilitating hunger gnawing at his stomach and weakening his already emaciated frame, the boy spun around with ferocious energy, ready to defend himself at a moment's notice. Before he could even open his mouth to speak, the smell of food hit him like a bullet in the back.
He froze as his hazel eyes grew wide, staring at the soldier in sheer disbelief. With a kind smile, the man once again crouched to his eye level with his hand extended forward, holding out a plain white bag containing a single cheap, greasy burger. With fear and uncertainty clear across his expression, the boy drew back, attempting to further the distance between himself and the man.
Nothing in this world was free.
Nobody ever gave him a meal and expected nothing in return. The churches demanded that he listen to hours of their gospel before he ever saw a single grain of rice. As the orphanage staff slowly realized that he would never be adopted, serving only as a constant drain on their resources, they had heaped an endless mountain of chores upon him, working him like a slave, as an indirect payment for their services. At the very least, the gangs were simple- all they wanted was his blood.
Although he never found himself desperate enough to take the offer, a few seemingly good Samaritans had wanted even more.
Despite his attempts to convince himself otherwise, however, the little boy truly was desperate this time. Exhausted, he hung his head in shame and resignation, as he stared down at the soldier's feet, and at the gravel, and even at the grey sky overhead- anything to keep his mind off of the food dangled tauntingly in front of him. Chances were this was all some kind of sick joke.
The boy would light up with excitement and happiness, but mere seconds before his hand could reach the bag, the soldier would tug it away with a cruel laugh. Who knows what would follow. If he was lucky, he would only hurl out a chain of filthy profanities; if he wasn't, the man would hurl something else.
It wouldn't surprise him. It had all happened before.
"…I don't have anything to trade you." Taking a step back, the boy wrapped his slender arms around himself as a weak and ineffective form of makeshift protection.
The man merely laughed as he shook the bag gently and beckoned the boy closer. He couldn't blame the kid for being wary of a man in uniform. Law enforcement had little tolerance for street children. While some officers stuck to their ideals, the soldier knew full well that more than a few others got their daily adrenaline rush from tormenting penniless children. The dirt and squalor made it easy to dehumanize them, the soldier theorized, and the worst of law enforcement officials would be unable to look past the filth and grime to see the human being underneath.
In order to calm the child's fears, the soldier raised his hands in mock surrender.
"No need to run- I'm with The Alliance. I only want to help."
"The… Alliance." The boy had heard that term in the past. He scowled, shooting his eyes upward to meet the man's gaze.
"I… I don't need any of your damned help! I can take care of myself! I'm…" His voice quivered as the pain in his stomach overwhelmed any sense of his remaining pride. Hunger sapped the strength from his bones. In response to the boy's hostility, the young soldier only opened the bag and pulled out the neatly wrapped burger, holding it out for the child. The boy glanced at the burger and back at the soldier, looking for some sign of malicious intent in the other's expression. Finally finding nothing, the boy took a deep breath before diving in, snatching the burger with lightning speed before tearing open the wrapper and devouring the entire sandwich in mere seconds.
For a moment, he lost himself in a pleasured haze, finally having something settle in his stomach after what had seemed like an eternity. As he licked the remaining ketchup from his fingers, however, he remembered that the soldier was still standing over him, scrutinizing his every motion. He whimpered, suddenly recognizing the peril of his own vulnerability. Silently, he cursed, biting the inside of his already bloody cheek as punishment for his lack of self-control and his overwhelming stupidity. He owed the soldier now. Regardless of the other's words, he could take them back at any moment, and the debt would still stand.
Personal experience taught him long ago that he could never get something for nothing. Even if the food came at no personal cost to him immediately, he would incur a heavy debt, to be cleared with a favor anytime in the near future. Though no written agreement bound him to the debt, his honor depended on his ability to pay it, and on the street, reputation was all that mattered. Once somebody fed you, saving you from yet another sleepless night of crippling starvation, you forfeited the right to say no. It was the unspoken rule of the streets, and it was simply their way.
Instead of making demands, however, the man simply looked at him with a mix of pity and respect, as he patted the boy on the head, tousling his greasy, unkempt hair as one would with their own child.
"Are you still hungry?"
Regardless of any previous reservations, the boy frantically nodded. He had already dug his own grave, after all. He owed the man anything and everything just as payment for that one burger alone. If he had already tasted the poison, he may as well lick the plate.
With a kind smile, the soldier wrapped his arm around the boy's shoulders and led him into the restaurant. Even as the boy ordered item after item, his savior never once showed any sign of irritation or disgust, and as the pair sat together in a booth, he merely watched with mild interest as the child devoured everything in sight. Halfway through a chicken sandwich, the boy looked up at the smiling soldier- dark skinned with light brown eyes, just like him. A strange sense of comfort and familiarity fell over him as he studied the wrinkles and contours of the soldier's face in order to burn the image into his memory.
He looked around at the other tables, the majority of which seated families with children his age. A bitter combination of envy and disgust rose in the pit of his stomach. To him, coming to a damn fast food restaurant was the highlight of his life; to them, it was just another afternoon. And yet, somehow, those coddled, bloated children, the ones unable to survive without parents, the ones who cried over scraped knees and lost toys, and who failed to possess even a fraction of his courage, were viewed as superior to him in every way. As if the dirt somehow erased his humanity. It wasn't fair.
His vision blurred as warm tears pooled in his eyes, threatening to shame him should he prove careless enough to let them fall. The soldier, who kept silent when the boy needed his distance, moved to sit on the child's side of the booth. He placed a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder, offering a hug without ever directly asking for one. The little boy liked that about the soldier: he never pushed, only offered.
Everything was his choice on his terms.
Despite his lingering sense of innate pride, the boy, desperate and long deprived of any gentle form of physical contact, clung to the soldier, pressing his cheek against the man's chest as he wept out of bitter sorrow and overwhelming gratitude. For the first time in many years, the boy allowed himself the vulnerability of feeling safe.
Although he knew it was wishful thinking, and that it could never, ever be true, the little boy still felt the need to ask. With the remnants of quickly drying tears still lingering in the corners of his hazel irises, the boy glanced up at his savior, squeezing him tighter still.
"Mister… Are you my dad? Did you come back for me?"
The man patted his back, but kept silent.
"No, I don't have any children. But you're a good boy; any man would be lucky to have you as his son." He forced on a smile for the boy's sake.
"You sure you're not?" the boy pouted, "When I was in the orphanage, the nurse always used to say that my dad's name was the same as mine. What's your last name, mister? I just… I want to make sure."
Despite his better judgment, the soldier chose to humor the boy. "David Anderson- Alliance Navy." He straightened his back and performed a quick salute in an attempt to lighten the mood. "And you, Commander?"
A rare smile broke through the boy's usual cloud of gloom. Nobody ever asked for his name before. His first name was insignificant- something he chose for himself only because nobody had ever bothered to give him one to begin with. His surname, however, served as both his greatest shame and his most precious treasure- his father's first and only gift to him. On one hand, the name branded him as a bastard and a fool, who still clung to the hope that his father may one day return to claim him as his own. Even still, the boy loved the name, for it was his- a gift, something given to him to mark his right of passage into the world. Something that reminded him that he was human. It was his most holy prayer and his most foul curse.
"Shepard."