I don't own the Secret Saturdays. I don't own Doyle.
I do own...um, I think everyone else that shows up this chapter.

Did I mention some of my "bad guys" (or at least not nice "extras") discriminate against Gypsies? And that the discrimination sometimes includes derogatory terms?
Yeah, I think I mentioned that a couple of chapters ago.
Please keep that in mind.

Remember that thing I alluded to in the previous arc, about how "animals behave strangely" around Doyle and Drew?
Well, unless JS starts in with that, I'll assume that that thing more-or-less atrophied due to lack of use (and more importantly, lack of need) on Drew's part.
But as for Doyle, this chapter takes "behave strangely" to the next step.
And that's not even the final step.

Timing (another major change): Technically within a few days after the previous chapter, though that timeframe really only shows up in sort-of flashbacks in this chapter, as I attempt to allude to his remarks in "And Your Enemies Closer" without a total rewrite.
A chunk of this arc (the non flash-back scenes) starts during Van Rook's search in Chapter 4...say maybe spring-ish the year after Doyle's parents were killed, and the rest of the arc plays out until almost winter time of the same year.
It'd probably be more realistic to call it winter of the next year, but I have my reasons for this. Mostly because I want the winter in question (which takes place between this arc and the next) to be the first one he spends without any human contact, but more on that later.
Long story short, the calendar year following the Avalanche arc.

Anywho, finally, here's the next chapter.

Child's Plight

Doyle was hungry. That was no longer unusual.

The 'pard couldn't help him.

That monster that had attacked before the bad hunters came had chased down the 'pard. Doyle tried to fight it—the monster had hurt the 'pard for protecting him like it had tried to hurt Momma and Daddy, then the bad woman had hurt the 'pard the way she'd hurt Momma and Daddy—but the 'pard had told him to find his daddy's people, then had hit him and sent him tumbling down the mountain.

He'd slammed into some boxes, some chickens starting flying around, and a man had come out and yelled at him. Doyle had only understood a few words, but the man was yelling about the trouble "his kind" made, and the man said something about his parents, and Doyle had started crying. The man stopped yelling, and made Doyle catch the chickens that had gotten out while the man fixed the boxes. After the chickens were back in the boxes, the man gave Doyle something to eat and shoved him away.

That day was the last Doyle could remember that he was not hungry, but he could no longer remember that feeling.

He was hungry, and he was desperate.

He couldn't buy food, either. His second day in one of these villages, three kids, all bigger than Drew, had attacked him. They'd hit him and pushed him around and shoved him in the dirt. He'd taken some coins from his pocket and thrown them, like Daddy had taught to escape from thieves, and ran in the other direction.

They'd taken the money and run after him, called him a thief and took everything he had, covered his face in mud and worse, and left him with a cracked jaw.

The chicken man had found him a few hours later and took him to a house with other children. The woman taking care of them told him these were all children without families or homes.

Doyle had stayed a while, but he saw that all of them were hungry. He decided to leave, to try to get his own food.

He'd tried catching his own meals, like the animals did, but he didn't have their strength or speed. He could usually only catch snakes, and he didn't know which ones were dangerous, so he didn't like catching them.

He'd tried begging for food, like he'd seen other people doing. If he was in a group, sometimes a stranger took pity on them all, and dropped stuff without caring who they gave it to. If they dropped food, sometimes he could eat it quick before anyone else took it. If they dropped money, he could never keep it long enough to use it.

And it wasn't even other beggars taking it; they stole from him sometimes, and didn't share what they had, but it was usually people like those three kids, people who didn't need what he had or even want it, but took it just so nobody else could have it.

If he was alone....

If he was alone, they might ignore him completely. Or they'd attack him like those three bigger kids, whether they could steal from him or not.

Sometimes people would come and see him, and other children, trying to beg, and would take them all to other places like that first. But those places still didn't have enough to eat, and some of the people were mean to him, like those three bigger kids. Some of them said stuff about "his kind" and made him leave. Sometimes he chose to leave before they could make him, and he saw other beggars doing the same.

He'd decided very quickly that he'd rather go hungry, if it meant nobody noticed him.

But he still needed to eat.

Sometimes he'd wake up and find a fresh-killed rat in front of him, or a few scraps that some stray animal stole from one of the stores. But most of the animals that brought him this food needed it as bad as he did. He never took much—maybe a mouthful to them, but barely more than a few crumbs to him—and even that only to be polite.

Five days after he'd stopped begging, he learned something very useful. Lots of people threw away stuff they didn't want. Some of it was still useful; the people who threw it out just didn't want it anymore.

And sometimes they threw away food. He knew Momma and Daddy sometimes threw away food when it went bad, but they tried to eat it before they had to get rid of it; they said it was bad to waste. But they'd also told him and Drew that some people would throw out food before it got bad.

Thus it was that, more than a year and a hundred miles from where the 'pard had left him, he was digging through someone's garbage.

But even this source of food carried a source of danger. For one thing, he was not the only person interested in the garbage. There were adults who came by regularly, and collected the garbage in bins. What they did with it, he didn't know; they looked like they ate well, better than him, anyway. But most of them beat him or other kids like him if they caught him around their 'territory.'

The other problem was the amount. He'd gotten a little better at catching meals, and managed to add the occasional fish or squirrel to his snakes, but it wasn't much. And what he found in the garbage was hardly a supplement to his meager catch. These people simply couldn't afford to waste good food.

He'd learned that lesson the hard way, over a week ago when he'd eaten a piece of bread covered in some green stuff. He hadn't been able to keep anything down for two days after, and could barely manage a few swallows of water for three days following.

There were some people, he knew, who had plenty of good food. He'd heard from their dogs about all the fresh table scraps they got. The animals were fed well, even without the scraps, and had offered to share with him.

The dogs didn't understand why their masters, good people they'd said, hit Doyle with sticks and made him run away.

Today, he discovered he could keep down a little bit of solid food. But he was still sick and weak, too weak to try to catch his food this time. If he didn't get some food soon, he'd only get weaker.

He was hungry, and he was desperate.

Please, please, please review! I mentioned in my profile that I tend to use fanfiction to develop ideas for my original fiction. Well, though certain things will be changed (some of necessity, some of choice), I am definitely interested in porting Doyle's childhood, to nearly the exact circumstances, over to some of my original work.
I even know who the victim...er, which character will have a similar childhood.

I need reviews, so I know what needs work. Certainly regarding my ability (or lack thereof) to describe the scenes, but especially regarding the scenes themselves.
Please!!!! (Don't make me beg. Seriously.)