•MPHFPC ONE SHOTS•

<=HELPING HAND=>

With his head raised and a merciful expression on his face, Myron walked down Dismal Street, past countless of ambrosia addicts, lingering at the sides of the street. From underneath those ruins of melted flesh, they stared back at him, hungrily. They wanted only one thing and it was not help.

But that's what Myron came here for—to help. He knew that each one of these people could be helped, but only if they complied. Which many wouldn't do. Instead they let themselves be fed with their own friends and families by his little brother. Caul turned most of Devil's Acre dependent on him and called it his little empire. It sickened Myron, but he also felt guilty. He brought the idea of ambrosia into the world after all and now he had to watch his little brother exploit what was once an attempt to make hollowgasts visible to all peculiars. Now, he felt like he needed to lift that guilt by helping others.

Myron felt a tug on his pants and looked down, behind himself. One of the addicts had crawled over to him, now begging him for ambrosia. "Please, dear sir, just this much!" the man pleaded, holding his hand up and keeping his thumb and forefinger a centimetre apart. Myron had to try hard to not back away in shock. The man's face was beyond saving—dead skin hung from it, an eye was either missing or covered by patches of skin, probably grown over it in an attempt to heal itself and the poor man could just barely move his mouth.
He bent down to loosen the man's grip on his pants. "I don't have any ambrosia." Myron said, calmly.

He walked on and people were now whispering to each other, still keeping their eyes on Myron. One of them wasn't looking though—he was cowering at the side of the street like all the others, leaning against the outside of a house, but his face was hidden inside a large hood, examining the dirty ground rather than paying attention to the man, who looked like he was out of this world among all these addicts.
Myron came closer to the man in the dark cloak, eventually stopping in front of him. The man very much noticed him, quickly and slightly glancing up at Myron in one moment, but lowering his head again in the next.

"Myron Bentham, at your service." Myron said, bending down a little and holding out his gloved hand. From underneath the man's hood two eyes flashed back at Myron.
"I don't need any service." he said. His voice was rough and deep, as if he hadn't spoken in a while. Myron moved his hand away again, when he realised it wasn't going to be shaken.
"Let me help you." Myron tried again.
"Sure. You got any more of that fine brew?" the man spat. He didn't actually seem to want ambrosia, in fact, he seemed disgusted by it.

Myron shook his head. "Quite the opposite. Not a cure, but a way for you to get away from it." The man's eyes moved up to Myron again and even though Myron could barely make anything out in the darkness that was cast over his face, he saw something in his expression loosen. Now that he had the man's interest, Myron continued talking. "It's a long and hard process, but it will be worth it, that I promise."

The man lowered his head again, this time to think, instead of ignoring Myron.
"You gave ambrosia a chance, so you might as well give me a chance, too. Could it get any worse?" Myron added.
They met eyes again, then the man stood up, towering over Myron by almost one foot. Now the man was holding out a hand to him, a rat peeking out from his sleeve. "Sharon." the man said. Myron nodded, smiled and shook Sharon's hand.
"Sleeven Street, number 24, whenever you're ready."

[—]

"Come in, come in! Make yourself at home." Myron said, as he was leading Sharon into his house. He stopped, his smile fading for a second and pointed down at Sharon's shoes. "Oh, but please wipe your feet."

Sharon had to duck his head through the few doorways they passed. Myron eagerly led him into a washroom, where he asked him to sit down on the chair that was placed right in front of the sink. Then he said "I'll be right back" and hurried off to get something, leaving Sharon alone for a moment.
Everything was so clean and welcoming, so out of place in dark and filthy Devil's Acre and Sharon wondered what kind of trickery he'd run into now. He cursed, quietly, looking around and thinking of the next possible way out of this. But then Myron came back in with a little metal box, a little cross engraved on top of it.

"Is everything alright?" Myron asked. He'd noticed Sharon's discomfort and the latter shifted nervously on his chair, but nodded at Myron's question.
Myron, then, shouted for someone. "Nim!"
A little voice answered from somewhere within the house.
"Could you make some camomile tea? And leave the teabag in, please!" Myron shouted again and the little voice said, "Of course, sir!"

Myron turned his attention back on Sharon. "May I ask how long you've been taking ambrosia?"
"Around a year." Sharon mumbled. "Tried to stop many times. Never worked." He seemed embarrassed, but Myron just hummed in reply.
He was still arranging some things, opening the box and taking out various things, placing them on the sink in front of them. Cotton pads, a bottle of sanitiser, some sort of ointment.
"Now I need you to take off your hood." Myron said.
Sharon lowered his head in shame. "Do I have to?"
"Well, otherwise I won't see what I'm doing nor how bad your scars are."
Sharon hesitated for a moment, he doesn't like people seeing him like this, after all, but then he did it.

Red tear-formed scars could be seen underneath his eyes and going down his cheeks, like he'd cried acid. Other, tinier, red spots were scattered around his eyes and on the ridge of his nose, probably from the reaction the substance creates when it reaches your eyes and then splatters everywhere.
"I know I look awful." Sharon said, still holding his head low.
"Don't say that." Myron said, frowning. "This is nothing to be embarrassed about. I've seen far worse than that. You're lucky that you even still have a face. Some people completely melt theirs away."
"How do they live with that?" Sharon said, looking up now.
Myron pressed a cotton pad on top of the bottle of sanitiser and turned the bottle upside down, before bringing it back down again. "They don't."
Sharon gulped. That was all he needed to know.

With a certain gesture of his hand, Myron told Sharon to tilt his head back a little. As Myron was applying the sanitiser onto his scars with a cotton pad, Sharon's face contorted in pain—the scars weren't healed yet and the sanitiser stung on his skin. When Myron was done, he put the used cotton pad aside. "The worst part is over." he said and smiled a little. "Yes, this is always unpleasant."
Myron's smile was contagious, because now Sharon's lips curled up a little, too.
"This part will be much nicer." Myron said and took the little tube filled with some ointment from the sink.

He squeezed some of it onto Sharon's cheeks, tossed the tube back into the little box and started spreading the ointment on Sharon's face. In the meantime, Nim came into the washroom, bringing a cup of tea with him. "Here's the camomile tea, sir, with the teabag still in it, just like you asked." Nim said and put it down on a counter behind them.
"Thank you very much, Nim." Myron said, giving him a smile. Nim's cheeks turned a little red and he hurried out before they would turn into tomatoes.

"Where did you buy him?" Sharon asked, watching Nim go and Myron's smile immediately vanished.
"I didn't buy him." Myron said, a little offended. "I do not agree with Devil's Acre's human trafficking in any way. Now, keep questions like that to yourself next time. But more to my answer—Nim sought shelter here in my house one day when he was in need of one. He wasn't treated very well by the people he lived with before, so I decided to help him. Just like I am helping you now."
Sharon only nodded. He had gotten a bit more comfortable with the situation, or at least he wasn't looking for the next possible way out of this man's house anymore. He wanted to badly trust someone again after being used and deceived by so many people, who would also get used and deceived by others. And so on. There was no giving in Devil's Acre, only taking.

Myron was squeezing most of the water out of the teabag, then gave it to Sharon. "Careful, it might still be hot." he said. Then he pointed at his own eyes and cheeks. "Here, put it on your scars for a bit. It will help your skin heal."
"Will my scars ever go away?" Sharon asked, partly knowing the answer, but not wanting it to be true.
"I'm afraid they won't," Myron replied. "But as I said, your face is nothing to be embarrassed about. You're free to cover it up, but know that here, in this house, no one will be bothered by it."
Sharon nodded again and mumbled a quiet, little "Thank you." Sharon was still not sure wether this was a trap and not too soon he'll be offered ambrosia again or if this was, finally, really a way out of this nightmare, but he was grateful. And he was inside a warm and safe place. Too good to be true? For now, he didn't care.

"I'll be back. Just keep the teabag on your face for a bit longer. And again, make yourself at home." Myron said, smiled and then vanished into the hallway.
Sharon turned his head to face himself in the mirror over the sink. He still thought he looked terrible, but someone seemed to be finally helping him and he had a place to stay. Maybe this won't be so bad.