The Art of Survival
Though a pitch black sky with stars twinkling in the velvet sky is what most people expect to see when the sun sets, that's not the case where I live. No, here the night is illuminated by fluorescent street lamps, looming buildings lined with hundreds of windows on every wall, bright neon billboards and the shining headlights of cars lined bumper to bumper in the streets of New York City.
It's easy to be lost in the crowd around that's exactly what I try to do. Keeping your head low and holding your tongue will get a person far. Especially when theft is a requirement of survival. So I keep my head ducked, my hands tucked stiffly into the hole-ridden pockets of my shabby, ratty old hoodie and move purposefully through the throngs of well-paid business people getting off from their mundane jobs. A baseball cap keep my tied back hair up out of my face, the last thing I need is red strands of hair falling in my face. The cap is pulled low so no one can catch a good glimpse of my face.
Maybe I've gotten ahead of myself. My name is Panic and I'm an orphan. Perhaps that sounds too cheery for a kid with no parents, but it's a fact I'm quite used to.
Because of the no-parent thing, a girls gotta live day to day. Survival of the fittest and what not and to do this, sometimes I've got to do stuff that would've had my mother shrieking her lungs out. As much as I hate stealing death by starvation or dehydration prove to be quite the motivation needed.
Picking a target is harder than it seems. Never go for the first one, nor the easiest target. They never have anything that'll last and if you aren't quick or careful enough you'll get taken away in handcuffs by the cops and spend a while in a holding cell.
A few more careful watching and I find the perfect target, a woman with bright blond hair with a smug face that pinched up. She was quite a familiar face, she was on the news all the time. Even without a mirror, I can feel the dark humored smirk which pulls tightly at the corners of my lips. Moving forward with purpose, I brush past her while she speaks animatedly and quite sortly to someone on the phone. Her pencil dress hugged her body, flaunting her overt sexuality and assets while still classy and flaunting of prestige and wealth. She wore a long coat over the pencil dress with black fur, obviously not real mink, around the sleeves and hood.
As we passed each other, I reach a hand into the pocket of her jacket and move the pocketbook from her person and into the pocket of my ratted hoodie and pick up the pace. The woman hurried on, her tall heels clicking loudly against the cement, not even having taken notice me.
Ducking into the nearest alleyway, I pulled the wallet free and flip it open to see the woman's ID and feel a maniacal grin crawl over my face. A grinning news anchor smiles up at me from the photograph. Christine Everhart.
She now worked for WHiH World News, as subsidiary for Vistacorp. I remember having heard that she once worked for Vanity Fair.
Opening the folded pocket behind all the credit cards, I flip through the bills. Not surprising to see that she hardly had much cash on her. Cards are a more common payment method after all, but the two-hundred bucks she did have would last a good while. A chilly breeze rushed past, sending unpleasant chills down my spine.
Time to go.
Mrs. Meryl Poveen was an elderly woman who owed a small little shop just off the major stretch where the majority of big business had laid roots. She'd moved to New York City many years ago with her husband and their four children from Ireland. Her thick Irish accent hadn't faded with time and her kind, wrinkled face was always a delight to see.
She owned a small little shop where she sold homemade dishes that her mother and grandmother would make. Cultural dishes. All things from dinners to pastries and even desserts.
The building she worked out of was two stories and the staircase which was situated awkwardly in the middle of the store led up to where she lived. Off to the far wall was a door which led to the building beside it. She owned that too, but she never wanted to use it for the shop.
When I first started showing up at Meryl's she always gave me a pastry on the house. Surely she could tell just by looking at me that there was no one to care for me. After a handful of months, she offered the small room through the side door for me to stay. She dug out an old bed that her eldest granddaughter once used and allowed me to have the side room as my own. If I helped her out in the ship, she paid me a small wage.
Nothing substantial, but I always felt that it was owed as she let me stay here without asking for anything. So if she needed a little help, I was more than happy to do so.
I step over the threshold and into the warm, cozy little shop which smell sweet with icing and alluring with the calming coffee scent mingling in. Little four seater tables were pressed against the wall near the door, right under the window. Longer tables to seat six or more shot down the middle of the shop and the ordering desk was all the way at the back.
Mrs. Poveen was bustling around her little shop with plates lining her arms like a menorah holding its twelve candles. Grins and laughs echoed from the various tables and the smell of food was overwhelming. The room was lit dimly by the two elegant chandeliers, each situation on either end of the restaurant.
A small hanging tree for coats was pressed on the other wall near the entrance so the customers didn't have to have their coats thrown haphazardly over wooden chairs. A large rug was splayed across the floor to hide some of the more tarnished wood. The cabin-like walls inside the store were filled with old photographs, vintage signs, cotton wreaths, old cast-iron skillets. Even the small fireplace, which no longer functioned, still retained the old wooden mantlepiece with old scrolling across its face.
The room was lively and active with people, from elderly couples seated on the left in the two person tables, to the large groups of family and the couples with their young children who could not stand still and were running wildly around the tables. Chattering rang loudly through the small store, mingling the voices of so many into mismatch on varying conversations.
No one noticed as I slipped through them, their focus on the food and the amicable company and quaintness of Maryl's. Into the secluded room I went, flipping the switch only after closing the door behind me. The place wasn't small and yet it wasn't large either. Medium-sized with two windows on the front where the main entrance door was situated. Pushed to the far wall was the full size box spring and mattress on the floor, missing a frame. A small, rickety old table served as my nightstand. A small glass of water, nearly empty, remained from the night before.
The large windows were covered by dusty, faded-yellow curtains with floral patterns that even the 70s would reject. Hardwood floors and tall ceilings with a nice fan kept it from getting too hot when the heat blazed. The walls were lined with drawings and calculations from the many projects I wish I had the money to work on. Intensive diagrams that detailed the type of materials needed and how to go about creating such an items.
One of the diagrams labeled how to turn a locket necklace into a clever cloaking device, essentially turning the wearer invisible. As ingenious and creative it was, the old copper wiring always janky and easily knocked out of place. A more flexible wiring made of more resistant material would be more ideal, but that costs a lot of money.
Fingering the heart-shaped pendant around my neck, I flop down on the well-worn mattress. A heavy sigh escaping. Just as I tucked my left arm underneath the pillow, a crinkling of paper drew my attention. Pulling the paper out, I carefully unfolded it, trying to remember what might have been important enough for me to tuck under my pillow.
My heart drops into my stomach. How could I have forgotten about this?
Written in big, bold black letters the article read:
Third Anniversary of Stark Expo Reopening
The Stark Expo, the one that was reopened just after Tony Stark revealed his identity as Iron Man. I've gone to the last anniversary, dodging the first as I knew the Stark in question would be there and that was something I wanted to avoid. Truth is that I kinda can't stand the guy. Maybe it's a bit harsh to judge the man by the news reports, articles by magazines and sleazy reputation, but I just want nothing to do with him. I know he'd had a whole turn-around since he was held captive in Afghanistan and all, but I don't know if that would cause such a change. He's probably much like before, even if there's less women in and out of his bedroom, he'd still smarmy and a smart-ass who's rich and stuck up like those snobs who work in high positions those big companies.
Not to mention the fact that he's… well sort of my father. He doesn't know that last bit though, my mom never saw fit to tell him. Figuring with his playboy ways that he'd want nothing to do with some unwanted brat or would go out of his way to ensure she, well… terminated the pregnancy. With as many women he's slept with, it's a wonder he doesn't have a line of children.
I always assumed he bribed, threatened, or even slipped contraceptives into their morning after drinks to ensure nothing ever resulted from a night of sex with random strangers. Now it seems he's given up on that lifestyle and has decided to stop making weapons for the US army and is working on renewable energy sources. He also settled into a steady relationship with his former personal assistant Virginia 'Pepper' Potts.
They were, in a single word, happy together and it looked—from a public standpoint, that everything was well between them. The last thing a steady relationship needed was an illegitimate kid from a past of casual intimacy popping up out of the blue, asking for a place to crash.
Plus with the whole 'I am Iron Man' incident, there's been even more nosy reporters snooping around than ever before. The last thing I need is for those snooping pests digging around in my past and dragging up things I'd much rather forget.
What I really wanted was to catch a break. It seems like I'm always struggling to keep my head above water, desperately trying to keep for sinking beneath the tides. The tribulations of life.
At least, despite it my apparent dislike for Anthony Stark, I had the Stark Expo to look forward to. I did inherent my love of technology, mechanics and engineering from him after all.
A/N
Took me long enough, but after having so many comments about how unlikable and unrealistic Panic seemed it didn't really serve to inspire me to keep going so I figured maybe I should rewrite it from the ground up. Like before, I'll be keeping the original outline (mostly) but will omit and rework certain chapters that seem pointless now or need more work. Like the next chapter with either be removed entirely, or made into something else. So please be patient as I work on this overhaul.
I've also been busy with trying to get my very first house so that's been keeping me quite busy. In March I've got vacation time in from work so I'm planning to re-watch all the Marvel movies to get a better grasp of the characters personalities and how they speak and act. I know it's taken awhile, but I've finally gotten around to it. I plan to start working on the next couple of chapters first before posting anything else.
These new overhaul chapters will replaced the current revises editions, I'll have a note in that will mention it so as to not confuse anybody. Thanks for all the support and I hope this makes up for taking so long.