Disclaimer: The mutant/human concept belongs to Marvel, as does AoA, TCP belongs to Kielle, and no money is being made. This is my first attempt at a serious fic, so let me know what you think.
Darwinian Age
The summer moon hides behind the clouds, casting the ruined city into darkness, sending small scavengers from their bolt holes in search of 'useful'. Metal, decent cloth, anything that can be sold, or re-made into items society desperately needs, for whatever purpose.
A chill wind blows mouldy paper and garbage down an alley, masking the slight sounds of an approaching figure. Small feet carry it to the mouth of the alley, revealing to it, the street beyond. Eyes old well before their time peer from an emaciated face, covered in a protective layer of dirt and matted, snarled hair.
Pausing, hidden in the black shadows of a rusted, abandoned derelict, the eyes move from side to side with practiced caution, watching for movement. It places a ruc-sack, made from a tattered sheet found long ago, on the crumbling, debris littered ground, and listens. It takes a single step out of the shodows, towards the street.
Sudden movement from down the street sends it fleeing back into the deep shadows of the alley.
Another figure creeps down the street blending into, or attempting to, the somewhat darker shadows of the empty, barren buildings. It is intent on the gleam of metal on the streets, caution giving way to greed, as it gathers up the 'useful'. The fickle wind, that hides the one, blows the clouds away from the moon, briefly revealing the figure in the street, exposing it to the denizens of this city like a spotlight on something the old ones called a "performer". Then the moon hides away, turning it's face from the earth below
In the alley; it pulls back further into the shadows, in the street; it pays no attention, continuing to paw over the debris oblivious.
In the alley it twitches, hearing something alarming. It closes it's eyes, listening, nothing...nothing...footsteps. Moving quickly, quietly, but not urgently, it is not only scavengers that come out on the dark nights.
With swift efficiency the figure in the street is surrounded, the others moving with practiced ease in a pattern about it. A shriek reaches the ears of the figure in the alley, and the tang of fresh blood. Not much, just enough to hurt, not kill, not yet. It keeps it's eyes shut, lest the reflection off it's pupils give it away.
There is the sound of ripping cloth, dull thuds of a body being beaten, the smack of flesh on flesh, moans and harsh laughter. A sudden wet, ripping sound, and an agonized howl, followed by an unpleasant stench. The steps of the others fade into the distance, not quickly, not quietly, but triumphantly carrying their pizes. It is not only scavengers that travel the night.
When all is silent, but for the whisper of the wind, it opens it's eyes and peers cautiously out into the street. All is quiet, and still as it was before, but for the figure in the street, and that is unimportant to it. But what the body will call, is. Standing slowly it inches into the street, it has a few moments before the eaters arrive. It runs silently to the body, combining the contents of their sacks, then it turns to the body itself, stepping carefully over puddles that weren't, avoiding geting any of the potential 'useful's'...moisture on itself. With experienced hands it runs over the body, stowing away bits of 'useful' into it's pockets and bags. The body twitches.
It pauses a moment, taking in it's surroundings, ignoring the eyes gazing up at it imploringly. Quickly finishing it's search it gathers it's ruc-sack and retreats to the alley. It does not think of the body in the street, it is not 'useful'. It fades away into the night, it's footsteps covered again by a rustle. But not of garbage on stone, but by the rustle of others, the eaters, descending on the body.
When the moon dares show her face again, all that remains in the street is an empty ruc-sack, and damp patches where the moisture could not be gathered.
***********
In a small hole, deep underneath a large structure meant to house many people it sorts out it's take. The 'useful' will be traded for food, odds and ends it can use itself are set aside into convenient nooks, the rest will be burned or re-made and sold. Exhausted, it rolls itself into a ball and sleeps.
***********
The moon comes out once more, the clouds roll away, and the scavengers still active return to their burrows to await the next dark night. It glows softly on our alley scavengers shelter revealing a battered and burned sign, cracked and warped lying on steps that once led to the building, "Emerson Elementary".
The small scavenger sleeping contentedly below would have gone here, had the war not become what it had. This fall, it would have started first grade...