A/N: IMPORTANT. Before you begin reading, I would like you to think of one of these 3 men: Yusei, Crow, or Jack. Choose your favorite. I want you to imagine your choice as a mere child, barely tall enough to reach a counter-top. Got it? Tell me which you chose in your review if you're kind enough to leave one. Your choice, our Satellite's Shooting Star, the Bullet, or the King, is now the character of POV. Therefore, everyone will see this a little differently.
Thanks for reading! I don't own 5D's.
~To Ruffle His Hair~
G.A. AnimeFan4
Because it's natural to embrace one's innocence.
.
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He refuses to cry.
Even if he has nothing, he will not cry. He has already cried so much, and he wonders if his tears are all but gone. This is his life now, and he has to learn to get used to it.
The child does not sleep often anymore. Over time, he's taught himself how to recover from the day within in a couple of hours. It's not healthy, and he knows it. But what other choice does he have? His home is a world of poverty, crime, and harsh treatment. Being homeless and alone is the worst situation to be in when you're only tall enough to reach a table-top. Not that he has one of those.
He doesn't have any friends. That is, unless you count the old woman who tells stories to the Satellite kids, and the cat who sometimes stops by to hiss at him when he rests in his shelter. Once, he'd offered the cat a piece of the bread he'd gotten his hands on, to which it had pawed around and left for the ants. How dejected he had felt...
It's always cold at night. The sky is never black, but a thick gray from the factories' smog. The atmosphere gets musky and heavy, causing the boy to cough and wheeze. He has such weak lungs. He doesn't talk, or scream, or laugh. And he never cries.
His daily life consists of waking up real early, in which the world is still shrouded in shadows. He puts on the faded, purple sweat-shirt he found at the junk piles and pulls a ripped sneaker unto his left foot, a crusty sandal on his right. Then he peers in the cracked glass window to check his reflection. A greasy-haired fledgling stares back emptily. The shock on his head dull and messy, bruises on his cheek, and shoulders slumped from weariness.
Doesn't every person look like this here?
Broken?
He thinks so. He hopes not.
.
.
The boy is frightened by other people, even that old woman.
When he stops by her rotting, wooden house to listen to her tales of a better time, he's sure to stay off of her porch and at a safe distance. The other children seem cautious, but not as scared. The gray-haired elder's favorite story is about that unfinished bridge he sees far, far away. His young mind cannot comprehend the fact that the skyline across the sea was once connected with this island. It has to be false.
The old woman is perhaps the only human who accepts him even a little. Other pedestrians her age scorn him as he trudges by, whispering and pointing accusing fingers at his ghastly being.
Why do they hate him?
He just doesn't understand.
For the rest of the day until late, he walks. Walks, walks, walks. He gathers up any slightly clean water into a used bottle and any decent food he can muster, and hurries back to his place. He, with stuffed pockets, scurries down the stairs of the warehouse and through the doorway with no door. The walls are gray and bland, the the floor is concrete and cracked. But it's home for now. Will it always be?
He thinks so. He hopes not.
The messy-haired minor sits in the corner of the room, where the milky moonlight filters in and dots his face, and he consumes whatever edible items he's grabbed. The scratchy blanket he owns gives him a tiny bit of comfort as he runs his fingers against it. He glares at the apple he stole from a man's sill, and regrets. But in a world of poverty, crime, and harsh treatment, he has to do what he can to survive. He was lucky he was able to reach up high enough to pluck the fruit.
Briefly, he thanks Kami above for the blessing, and eats slowly.
Is there a God? At times he doubts it. After all, why would Kami allow such a hell to exist, in which His creations starve, fight, and cry?
Then he pauses, thinking about that.
Because he doesn't cry.
.
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The child knows he has a name. He can remember it, too.
He recalls growing up in an orphanage for unfortunates like himself. The meals were bad, the sensei's and masters mean, and the other kids reclusive. He ran away a year or two ago. The memories of that time are hazy. Not that he minds.
But he doesn't talk.
Therefore, what is the point of knowing your name? He never tells anyone. Why should he? No one ever asks him. No one ever cares.
He hikes to the shoreline of the Satellite sector and searches for a good place to settle down a short moment. His chest hurts as he pants and gasps. The pollution here is so horrible, especially on his easily-upset lungs.
The kid discovers a slightly pleasant spot to sit. It's a large, metal desk that was long ago snapped in half. Using all of his strength, the young child turns the remains upward and steadies the legs with iron scraps and stones. He then climbs onto it and crisscrosses his legs, eyes wide as he stares out at the ocean. A seagull shrieks overhead, causing him to wince in surprise.
The wind is soft but present, buffeting his tangled hair. And although he doesn't smile, his spirits are lifted by the serenity of it all. Because it's natural to embrace one's innocence. Right now, there is none of that poverty, crime, or harsh treatment. If only it could stay this way.
That same gull lands beside him on a jutting bronze rod, beady eyes sparkling against the gale. It gives a sharp squawk, and the boy almost giggles. But he doesn't.
Since he doesn't talk, nor cry, nor laugh.
.
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He collects rogue Duel Monsters cards. Much like every other person his age and older does in the Satellite. It gives him a sense of security, and to him, symbolizes a future.
He wants to become great at the game. Why? He does not really know for sure. But for some reason, his heart tells him that he needs to be strong. Duel Disks are like weapons in this world. They may not kill like the guns and knives he sees oh so very often, but they depict the outcome of a dispute. And since he hates watching civilians wounded and killed, he figures this this is the perfect solution of survival.
Yesterday he had eleven cards.
Today he has twelve.
He will continue to collect them, one by one, until he has an unbeatable deck. Even if it isn't as hardcore and perfected as the pros out there, he believes that he will win no matter what.
Although...he has nothing to protect...
What is the point of becoming strong if he has nothing to be strong for?
.
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He just doesn't understand.
Why is this woman so kind? To him? No one has ever cared before. So why does she?
She discovered him on the streets while buying necessities in the nicer area of Satellite. The only reason he was in such a place was in hopes to get a morsel of food. His usual territory was growing accustomed to his stealing, and was shooing him off more and more often. Expanding his hikes was the only option left.
She kneels on her right knee and smiles at him. He crosses his arms over his chest, gripping his shoulders defensively, avoiding her gaze. Her black, braided hair seems strange to him, as is her darker skin. She's wearing clothes that are not ripped and stained, which puzzles him even more. Her bright, warm eyes narrow along with her grin as she holds out a welcoming hand.
"Do you have a home, child?" she asks softly.
He stares back, unsure how to answer. She patiently waits, and after some hesitation, he shakes his head.
"My name's Martha," the lady beams. "Do you have a name?"
The kid doesn't answer. He doesn't talk.
But it also leaves this Martha unfazed. She beckons with two fingers. "Why don't you come home with me? The boys will be so excited to have a new brother. I can give you clean clothes," she states, frowning disapprovingly at his sneaker and sandal, "a yummy meal, and a cozy bed. I promise to take good care of you."
He is at a complete loss. At first he's angry. Why should he go with some random stranger?! She'd probably just kick him out a week later. Or hit him daily. Then he is terrified. Which soon turns into distrust. He shakes his head again, quickly and insisting.
Martha smiles for the third time that meeting, appearing gentle yet firm. "Honey, I can't allow you go off on your own. You could get hurt out there. The Satellite is a dangerous place for children your age." She reaches out and lightly touches his arm, rubbing against the faded, purple fabric. "Besides, you are just too adorable to let go!"
He's confused and a bit anxious when she embraces him and places those two beckoning fingers against the bruises on his cheek.
.
.
He's lived there for a week now.
For some reason, Martha hasn't kicked him out yet.
And she definitely hasn't hit him.
He's still confused.
There are two other boys in this household, just like she'd told him. One seems a little more annoying than the other, but both are nice. Hyper and kinda loud, but nice. He feels so different in their presence. With his silent actions and standing off to the side. He still keeps his arms folded, holding his shoulders. It makes him feel safer, even if only a shred.
But ever so slowly, he begins to wonder if he is indeed safe. Everyone treats him so friendly, with joyous expressions and sometimes ruffling his hair affectionately. When they do so, he scowls, but takes it.
Martha asks him what his name is every morning and every evening. His reply is always to hide his face sheepishly.
But on his eighth day, after his new brothers pat his head and rush outside to great the first snow of the year, and Martha zips up his new jacket, she says, "Are you ready...?"
He can't help it. He's been mute far too long.
For the first time in years, he cries.
And for the very first time in his entire life, they're tears of happiness.
Martha gasps, pulling him close and asking what's wrong, stroking his hair. Everyone seems to be obsessed with it for some reason. He hides his face in her shoulder instead of his arms like he always has, and mumbles something.
"What?" she whispers, listening closer.
He repeats it, voice barely audible. He has just told his recent caretaker his name. Why? Maybe he really does trust her. He dries his cheeks on her coat and sits back, showing her a tiny smile. Martha gradually begins to understand, and for the thousandth time that week and a day, ruffles his hair. "That's a very nice name."
He wants to get strong. He wants to protect this new family he has acquired. He realizes that as his new brothers toss small handfuls of wet snow around the yard, one landing against his un-hidden face.
The boy wonders if his life will ever return to the old way, when he was lonely and desperate.
He thinks so. He hopes not.
But time is something that will surely change his mind. And Martha knows that as she lays her motherly hand atop her adopted son's head. He smiles up at her.
.
.
He has fourteen cards today.
His new brothers are rather generous.
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~Finish~
A/N: So? Who did you imagine? Please review to let me know!:D
-G-A;)