by Chustang Sundust
The echo from the gates slamming shut seemed to last forever, rubbing
the cruel facts into his face. Sunlight was not helping his situation,
either, even though it was a beautiful morning. Yeah, the teen who
stood
outside the tall steel fence thought to himself bitter sweetly.
Beautiful day to be exiled from the only place I was even semi-welcome.
He betrayed no regret on his face and his steel blue eyes were as steely
as their color. After all, he had wanted to get out of army camp like
a
dog out of a kennel, and now, standing at the butt of the rebuke, out
in
the cold April wind, he felt like he should of been happy.
But why aren't I?
His uncertain, bittersweet gaze matched the raggedness of his
jagged-cut, rust red hair, and he shoved his hands into his pockets
before turning and walking away.
The warm rain soon became more than just a relief from the bitter play
of the wind, but the closest thing to a shower he would see in weeks.
The sky had clouded up just in time to set the mood for his train of
thought, and it cut streaks down his dirt-smeared face. The streets
of
Sentinel III were misted over with a ghostly silver haze, giving the
headlights of the cars a strange tone as they cut past in the rain.
None
of the people gave a second glance to the army camp outcast who wore
camouflage cargoes, a white tank, and slowly rusting dog tags.
He lifted his head slightly, running his fingers through short red
hair, and brushed away the rain from his face. The lanky teenager who
had only fifteen years under his belt felt it loosely rock on his hips
as he walked, which meant he was missing the slop the drill sergeants
claimed to be food. With hungry puppy eyes, he rubbed his stomach and
tried to console its starving rumble.
"Perfect little world, perfect little crappy world...." he mumbled
to
himself, as he shoved his hands even deeper into the large pockets
once
more. The redhead's temper began to shine through, as fiery red as
his
hair, and he was soon preoccupying it with the angry kicking of the
nearest can. With each jolt, it clanked noisily down the street, and
he
gave the aluminum the short version of his opinion of his mournful
life.
"Why is my crappy little world always smashing the dirt from the bottom
in my face while I'm looking for my notch at the top? Oh, I know!"
*Smash!* "I know exactly why! I'm so young and healthy, it's just great
that I have nothing good like a warm bed -" *Smash!* "-or a meal on
any
sort of table-" *Smash!* "-or a home!" *Smash!*
In the rain, the clattering of the can was drown out by the metallic
pounding of the water on its collapsed and smashed in surface as it
rolled to a final stop. His face was twisted up in a furious frown,
and
he gave one last spit of cynicism he had left in him.
"Or... a family."
He flinched suddenly, feeling a cold spray drench him as a car zoomed
by. It was an old model, one of the first hover cars to be fashioned,
and the shiny red hull only hid its imperfection. The engine fueling
it
was roaring uneasily from its years of service, and barely holding
itself together when it dipped suddenly, sliding into a puddle, and
projected a shield of water against him. He stood, in a frustrated
grumble of incoherent words, for a few seconds and tried to hold down
his temper before he erupted. The teen's lips slurred over angry cuss
words, and he ripped the rusted dog tags from his neck and tossed them
at the passing classic car. The car and its passengers apparently took
no heed of the deplorable kid, standing drenched, sickened, and starving
in the warm but relentless rain. And the dog tags, bearing the now
hollow name of Gene Adrianite Starwind, rolled into the storm gutter.
Casting stormy blue-gray eyes down at them, he just spat the dirty
water from his lips and mouth and snorted. "Figures. Everything else
has
to go down the gutter, so why not my only i.d.?"
He had had enough. He kept walking.
Meanwhile, a pair of hands pressed edgily against the glass of the
hover car as a pair of sympathetic marble blue eyes followed the man
standing in the rain, until the figure faded back into the mist. The
face of a curious six year old watched him hang his head, and the kid
felt a knot ball up in his stomach. He blinked, carefully taking his
hands from the glass, and turned toward his oblivious parents.
"Mommy, Dad?" he asked tentatively, genuinely concerned face framed
by
a tossed head of blonde hair. The kid strained against his seat belt
to
wrap his fingers around the headrest of the driver's seat.
"Yes, honey?" came the sweet and nightingale voice of the white blonde
woman. She turned her large green eyes toward her son and saw the
concern he held.
"I saw a guy in the streets back there," he cautiously said, glancing
back over his shoulder.
The man who was driving turned his head slightly to see his son, and
looking through the long locks of golden blonde hair, gave a smile.
"Yeah champ? What's the matter with that?"
The blonde kid flinched at this, struck with a strange blast of
coldness to others he'd never experienced with his parents. Even though
he was merely six, the bloodlines of a prodigy shone bright in him,
and
he understood the disregard-concealing tone to his father's voice.
They
didn't care. How couldn't they? "Well," he said, "he was wearing army
clothes, wasn't he?"
His mother lifted a finger to her lip, thinking. "Come to think of
it,
yeah. He did have dog tags around his neck. That's strange though.
The
nearest army camp must be at least twenty miles from here."
"Mommy, he doesn't look like he has a place to go," the child warned,
still giving the empty mist a concerned flurry of glances. "Shouldn't
we
go back and help him or something? I mean, we have an extra room and
he
could-"
"James! What are you thinking?" came the instant scold he was
expecting, but dreading. Her green eyes were filled with confusion
and
surprise. "I'm sorry, but we can't just go picking people off the
streets! You don't understand what kind of people there are out there!"
"Mom!"
"No! I will not tolerate anymore of this, Jim!"
He flashed sad blue eyes at her stony-hard face, but seeing no reaction
to show her softening, he turned them to the window. They sped on down
the street, as their son watched the silver-blue mist. He heard her
sigh
with exasperation, and his father give a secretive smile at his son's
compassion.
He could feel a pressure that was alien to him, as he scraped the
change from his pockets, with the pretty, blonde-haired bar girl
watching him. She watched him with warm blue eyes, and a smile came
to
her lips as she watched the handsome army recruit give a sheepish grin
as he pulled the bare change and pound notes from his pocket. She was
impressed by his brilliant red hair and the way his steel-blue eyes
seemed to be alive with a youth that would last forever.
The coins clattered noisily on the counter, and he dropped a pound
note
onto the pile to finish off the bill. Smiling, he brushed the spiky
locks of red hair away from his forehead, then took his bacon cheese
burger and wild cherry shake. The slim teen nodded to her, and turned
to
walk causally, with his jaunty stride, toward the door.
The girl smiled, leaning against the counter, and watched him leave.
Iris then turned to work again.
Gene tried his most to make the burger last, but the incessant burning
in his stomach was too much to resist, and he finished quickly before
he
made down the street. So, licking the grease off his lanky fingers,
he
lazily enjoyed his shake, as not to get a brain freeze. The night air
was crisp with the reminiscences of rain, lying thick along the winds
like a misty accent.
He was still wet, but apparently, the wet clothes had made quite a
first impression on the people on the street, so he gave an amused
smile. The redhead had at least spread a reputation, and that was the
only upside to his current life. The outlawed, fifteen year old orphan
looked up suddenly as the drone of a radio on the street caught his
attention, in the open display of a t.v. shop, and Gene paused to
listen. It was an old radio, antique almost.
The redhead stopped to listen and shoved his hands into his pockets
after throwing away the shake. Overhead, the flinty gray skies were
darkening with nightfall, and the faint light of stars shone in the
gaps
of the clouds. There was a content grin on his face, and the frivolous
light of his childish spirit was undaunted in his blue eyes. For once,
all his cares faded away, listening to the unfamiliar song but still
feeling the carefree spark it had.
"We interrupt this radio station for a news flash..."
Gene groaned, rolling his eyes.
"There has been a massive, ten car crash on the corner of Blackberry
Avenue and West Afton Drive, in Locust. The crash occurred at 6:42,
just
fifteen minutes ago. By now, they have declared seven dead, and ten
more
severly injured. They are not expected to survive. The crash was
believed to be caused by a pirate bomb that set off and destoryed the
streetlights. There has even been a child reported missing by
authorities. That child has been confirmed as the son of the infamous
'Computer Wizard', and is currently being searched for by the police.
The search will be continued for three more days, then if the child
is
not found, it will be called off. In other news..."
Gene glanced down the streets of Locust, to see the crash himself.
In
the air, the smoke and exhaust cloud hanging heavily over where
Blackberry and West Afton meet carried a smell of burning steel, ashes,
and smoke. At the acid burning of his nose, the redhead snorted and
wrinkled his face in disgust. It was almost tragic, remembering the
kid.
Maybe his parents had been killed too... then at least he wouldn't
be
the only orphan in this city.
The lean teenager rubbed his chin with his fingers, then felt his rough
face growing back. Gene suddenly realized just how much he was
unplanned. He had no clothes, no home, no friends or allies in all
of
Sentinel, and was living on the expel money he got for working in the
army camp. After landing on Sentinel in an escape pod from his
murdered-father's ship three years ago, he had been adopted into the
recruits, and worked there as specialized soldier. But he'd never
enjoyed it much; he had too much free will.
Gene Starwind stuffed his hands into the depths of his pocket,
searching for the money stored there. Drawing a few bills out to see
them, the dimming light gleaming through the silver clouds showed they
were pound notes, not wong. He'd have to get it exchanged if he was
to
buy anything big, but feeling the familiar currency of his home made
him
forget he'd left a dying bloodline in Great Britain back on Earth,
and
remembered sitting the back country moors with his mom as a kid. He
had
no family here, and the Starwind family would die on Earth.
His dark eyes began to scan the slick streets, piercing into the haze
to see the signs. They flickered downward temporarily to count the
money
he had. Once counted, it added up to be two hundred and fifty-three
pounds. Gene ran it swiftly through his rust red hair, and he mumbled
to
himself, "So... I guess that's about... hmm, five hundred wong."
Satisfied, he rubbed the paper between his fingers, then placed it
safely in his cargoes. It was time he made himself at home.
Sleep that night was riddled with thick, hot humidity, in a small, dark
four roomed apartment on the slum like Montgomery Street. The the storm
clouds had drifted back together in a sticky air and thunder clashed
together, making the sky seem like gigantic stones cracking against
each
other. Lightning pierced darkness was flaring in the empty shell of
a
home, and the only couch that existed there was slumping with the weight
it had to hold. Lying in only jeans, the redhead outlaw shifted
restlessly on the sweaty, coarse material, kicking the thin blanket
off
to the floor.
Gene shifted until he lay on his back, folding his arms behind his
neck, knowing that sleep was impossible, and stared up at the cracked
ceiling with cold blue eyes. His tan face was slick and glistening
with
sweat, and it was futile to wipe it off, because it was too hot to
keep
comfortable. He had a bag of clothes and supplies at the foot of the
sagging couch.
He just looked around, at his ragged new beginning around him. Then,
tired and void of what to think, he settled down, and pulled a pillow
over his eyes.
It took more than an hour of hot tossing and turning, for sleep to
finally find him, with his feet dangling over the edge, and sprawled
limply out on his side. Youthful face twisted up in discomfort and
uncertain dreams, Gene accepted the nearly restless sleep that was
offered tonight, and tried to unwind as much as possible.
It couldn't have been harder if he had been resting on a bed of nails.
Dreaming that night, was like sleeping on a bed of nails, outside,
in
the thunderstorm. Again, he was at the moor, with his mother drawing
him
to her shoulder one afternoon, with a sleepy, dull gold sun gleaming.
He
smiled up at her, and she flickered her own gray eyes toward him, giving
a wide grin.
But across the moor, it came again. The moan. The eerie echo of the
howl. There hadn't been wolves in the United Kingdom for fifty years,
and this wasn't right. Tossing in a thick sweat, he began to moan
incoherently, and he saw it again. The rabid beast that haunted him
for
years and years, and now it was coming again; the mangy, gray thing
that
came slowly at first, stiff-legged and snarling insanely, then a
whirlwind of speed that descended like a demon.
Not at him. Always not at him. The foam-mouthed wolf always skidded
to
a halt just a few inches away from his face, but it lunged away, at
his
mother. It never paused to look at him. And if it had, she might have
lived.
And he cried.
He could hear the crying.
Gene bolted up, in a drenched bed of sweat. His eyes darted wildly
in
unbridled fear, and the maniacal ice blue eyes of his mother's killer
seemed to jump out at him. There was a gleam of blue eyes in the
darkness, and the outlaw gave a scream, unsure of just what was staring
at him. The pair of eyes narrowed, bright and eerie, and there was
a
rustling of a body at the side of the couch.
"Aaaahhhh!" he shrieked, leaping up onto the top of the couch, and
clawing to get away in terror.
There was a returning scream of surprise, shrill and childish, from
the
short figure beside the make-shift bed which sprung backward in the
night. They both paused, realizing they were both afraid of a monster
they thought was each other. Two pairs of blue eyes blinked in unison,
and locked gazes tentatively. Tense silence ensued, and Gene was panting
heavily, as he gulped his hard breath down, and slid back onto the
couch. In the darkness, he leaned over, and was met with red-ringed
eyes.
It was... a kid?!
In the black, he could make out the face of a kid barely six or seven.
The face itself was pale, weak, and horribly cut. Lines of bloody cuts
were a bright crimson all along his face, and as Gene reached out to
the
kid, he cringed and withdrew deeply from him. Yet those haunting blue
eyes never wavered from him, like marbles held up to a candle, and
he
lipped something deliriously. It sounded something like, "Hairy bear
on
sandy shore..." But that couldn't be right.
"What?" he asked, sitting up on the couch. "You okay, kid?"
The fragile thing shuddered in the heat, and the strained nod he gave
was barely noticeable in his dizzy swooning. He closed his eyes, and
soon bundled up in a vulnerable position, murmuring in an obsessive
sobbing frenzy. The kid clutched at his temples through his disheveled
hair, salty tears stinging bitterly on his wounds.
Gene instantly felt a throb of heartbreak coming on, seeing such a
pitiful display of disrupted life in those fearful blue eyes. The
redhead shifted his eyes around the lifeless black apartment, with
a
vice of pressure slowly squeezing him. He wanted so much to help this
disturbed bundle of skin, bones, and hair, but there wasn't a single
drop of parental comfort he could find in himself. Biting his lip,
he
looked back down, unsure.
"Hey, hey, calm down!" he whispered, as the sobbing evolved into
dejected shrieking, and Gene put a hand on the shivering head. The
kid
continued to wail slurred words over and over again, slowly becoming
clearer. Steel-blue eyes concerned, the outlaw rubbed his hand against
his head, and suddenly felt a throbbing concussion beneath the golden
blonde hair. Gene kneeled down beside the kid, and he parted the hair
to
see as best he could just how severe this kid had been jolted.
As he leaned over, the shuddering, thin body flung himself around the
redhead's waist and tightly hugged his now tensing chest. Now, murmuring
loudly, it was becoming clear just what the garbled wails meant. "They
ain't there anymore.... they're gone, Mommy and Daddy are gone!"
It was like punching him in the face with a ton of bricks. The slurred
words were a harsh blow to his guts, and Gene went stiff with surprise.
His blue eyes swirled with a whirlwind of lukewarm emotions that rode
on
the fine edge of bewilderment. This kid.... must be the one from the
crash! Yet the blue eyes crying for a lost family were disturbing
familiar - a mirror image almost. The concussion would probably make
him
forget everything that had happened. This proved useful, though. That
way he could.... well, lie to make the kid feel better about losing
parents. Yeah, that would do fine.
Gene sighed, because the small body was clearly not going to let go
anytime soon, and lifted the kid up to his shoulder as he stood up.
The
kid rested his head on the outlaw's shoulder, and was instantly asleep.
The redhead was overwhelmed by a heartfelt smile, tinted with a jagged
sadness, and decisided to go back to sleep.
He could settle it in the morning. Right now, though, he had an orphan
to take care of.
End
************
Author's Notes:
Okay, I know I'm going to get hammered for doing this instead of
working on my other stories, but I wrote this at my grandma's and
couldn't work on my computer. Anyway, I had to write my version of
how
Gene and Jim met sometime. This is for my best best best best friend
times a million, Cherie. We both luv Jimmy!
Chustang