saints and soldiers » klance

3: Long Forgotten Sons

We are the long forgotten sons
And daughters that don't belong to anyone
We are alone under this sun

In the two hours he'd been sitting silently in a chair at Detective Green's desk, Keith had heard one name eighty-three times: Second Chance.

From what he could tell, it was a charity, a nonprofit, that dealt with people like him. People who were, as the officers had so efficiently been describing him, "traumatized and have nowhere to go."

It took them one hundred thirty-four minutes to settle everything amongst themselves before Detective Green sat back down in front of him. "So, um... kid, we're going to send you out with a rep from Second Chance tonight. They'll get you a bed to sleep in tonight, some food. Sound good?"

Keith stared back at him with the same set expression he'd been wearing since he was found. The officers had yet to get so much as a twitch in his expression out of him. They'd been trying with no luck- to get him to talk, get him to smile, nod, shrug, anything.

He knew better than to trust anything. Even a smile could be a lie. They wouldn't get anything from him.

Within the layers of conversations going on all around him, he could hear one that was ongoing in the corner. It was between a woman who looked like the police chief and a man who had the air and bearing of a therapist. He wasn't sure if they actually thought he couldn't hear them or if they simply thought that because he wasn't talking, he wasn't listening. Both ideas made him bristle.

Detective Green sighed. "Alright, kid," he told Keith. "I'm going to hand you off now. The director of our local branch is coming herself, so you'll be in good hands. It's gonna be alright now, I promise."

Stupid promise. A cop of all people should know better than to say something that idiotic.

Keith kept silent as he walked away, much more interested in the conversation taking place in the corner of the office.

"It fits with the case that he would be severely traumatized, but I don't think an institution or more intensive mental care is a route we need to take, at least not yet," the psychologist is saying. "It seems to me like silence is a choice he's making, not an effect of PTSD or other trauma. For now, I think it's a matter of wait-and-see. We need to give him some time to adjust, let him build some relationships in which he feels safe enough to open up."

One of Keith's hands spasmed slightly where it was lying on the armrest of his chair. They were talking about whether or not they should commit him. Just because he wouldn't fucking talk.

He wouldn't let them win. He wouldn't let them trick him into trusting them, just so they could let him down or he could let them down. If he didn't let them in, no one got hurt. It was easier that way. If he hadn't been so blindly willing to trust at the first sign of kindness six years ago, he wouldn't even be here.

Shows what trust gets.

He waited at Detective Green's desk for another six hundred seventy-two seconds before the groups of officers at the door parted to let a woman through. She was slim and petite, built small. Her face was pretty and delicate, chocolate-colored skin framed by snow-white waves. She must have dyed her hair.

Despite her size, she moved through the assembled people with such confidence and purpose that she had no trouble making her way through the crowd to Keith's side.

She comes to a stop next to his chair and ignores the stares focused on them from every angle. "Hello," she says, crouching down beside his chair. He watches her but offers her no expression. He doesn't respond, but she takes it in stride. "I'm Allura," she continues in a musical British accent. "I run the local division of Second Chance. It's a nonprofit that helps take care of young people who are victims of trafficking, like yourself, or who are homeless. When we heard what had happened, we managed to find a bed for you tonight. Are you ready to go?"