Volume I: Forged

Chapter 25: From the Streets

Schlatt didn't like babysitting, especially with Wilbur. Especially T-Squared.

"Hey Soot?"

Wilbur looked up from the array of fancy cigarettes and smokes Kristin would kill him if he so much as even touched. "Yeah?"

Schlatt was staring at something off on the other side of the street, eyes fixed firmly on something Wilbur couldn't see. He had Tubbo pulled close to his side, stance rigidly defensive. "Only hybrids can see other hybrids, right?"

Wilbur immediately tensed, tightening his grip on Tommy's hand. "Yeah?"

Schlatt nodded his head to whatever he was looking at. "There's an avian over there—he's not hiding his wings."

Wilbur snapped his head over, eyes searching wildly till he saw it.

Him.

A little boy, about as old as Tommy and Tubbo, with bright blue wings and dusky red tips. He was filthy, wearing clothes that might have once been nice but were now covered in grime, and limping. He was obviously trying to steal from a vendor, with how he was lurking and eyeing the wares.

"He's gonna get himself caught," Tommy stated, letting Wilbur hold his hand.

"I know." Schlatt handed Tubbo off to Wilbur and made across the street, not even paused to watch for traffic.

...

Connor was hungry.

Connor was cold.

Connor was tired.

He was tired of being hungry all the time, feeling that gnawing ache in his gut that kept him up at night. He was tired of the chill that always followed him, clung to his skin, no matter how warm the day was.

He was tired of everything, really. He was always cold, always wet, always sick. Tired of being ignored, yelled at, cursed.

It made him reckless. Stupid.

It was crowded here—he should be able to grab the bread and run, dodging legs with relative ease. If he could just get some food, stave over the ache in his stomach—maybe he could scrap together some hope.

Just as he worked up the courage to reach his hand up, just as the vendor was looking the other way—

A massive hand closed on his wrist and yanked.

Connor yelped, but he was already halfway across the street. By the time his head stopped spinning with the momentum, he was swept up into someone's arms and held tightly to a warm chest.

"Go."

Connor blinked as a teen wearing a red beanie and long brown cloak appeared next to them, walking side-by-side with two boys that skipped along, chattering to each other.

"Um—" Connor got out, dimly wondering if he was being kidnapped. The hunger was making his head hurt—was he hallucinating?

"Shut up," the guy holding him said.

"Be nice," the other guy, the one in the beanie, said. "You'll scare him."

"Street kids are always scared," one of the boys said matter-of-factly, playing with the hem of his bee-cloak.

"Yeah, I'd prefer if he didn't start screaming and yelling before we explain ourselves," Connor's kidnapper said.

Connor whimpered. He was too tired, too hungry—he wanted to cry for some reason. He was so tired of fighting for another day—

Would it be okay if he gave up?

Just laid still and let the devil swallow him?

He let himself fall forward onto his captor's chest, let his head rest on his shoulder. He was warm, and the arm holding him was steady.