Homeless 1.2

I ask for change at the bar for one of the fifties, checking the menu for the price of both baskets of wings and two non-alcoholic drinks. Pamela is still waiting on people, so I go and slip eighteen bucks under the basket on the table along with a hastily scrawled 'thank you' on a napkin. If she paid for the first basket, then I just paid her back plus tip for the whole thing, and if not, then she got an even better tip. Either way, I don't begrudge her.

I walk out of the bar, scanning the street with nose, eyes, and ears. Despite the darkness I can see just fine. I'm not nearly as hot as I'd been inside, the cool air pleasantly bracing, despite the smell of damp asphalt and concrete- it must have rained briefly while I was in the bar. A man moves like a scurrying animal trying to hide, trying to not be seen by predators. This reminder that I'm in Brockton Bay accelerates my pulse and puts tension in my step. I'm feeling scared and I damn well should be, because regardless of whatever tricks I try to pull off with my power it's not a particularly strong one, but it IS a useful one. I don't know if merely being captured is enough to trigger the acquisition of another power, especially if they're not trying to seriously damage me.

I think I catch sight of something moving the darkness of a nearby alleyway but I can't be sure.

I half jog to the main street, where the occasional car still passes. Sherrel's memories tell me that I'm only a half mile from the Boardwalk, but I don't know that I want to be there any more than I want to be here. The Boardwalk should still have people wandering around- shopping, going to restaurants, and the like- this early in the evening, even if it is after dark.

If I can't even walk a block in this city without half dying of fright, how am I going to make my way past city limits in the dead of night?

The chill in the air is deepening, turning from something that feels slightly uncomfortable through my fur and purloined trench coat, into something that gives me legitimate concern. The damp from the rain earlier makes the cold bite deeper. I consider again trying for the outskirts of the city, but I'm not even a hundred percent certain which way is north. I wish I'd paid closer attention to where the sun was setting earlier. No, wait… The markets are… Northeast, the Boardwalk Southeast. Sherell's memories are hazy about some specifics, but she knows the Boat Graveyard, the Market, and the Docks well enough, and enough about the Boardwalk to avoid it. Okay, I'm oriented somewhat. I can work with this.

When I went into the bar, all I'd wanted was to be indoors someplace and have the time to think. Well, I got that time, and it didn't do me a whole lot of good. At least, not the thinking part, at any rate, although the food and a little money meant that the whole thing was far from wasted, even if entirely by luck. Still, I don't know where to go, what to do, or even what the date is. Sherell's memories are distinctly unhelpful in regards to the actual date- and she's not even certain what year it is, 2010 or 2011.

I feel like smacking myself. There HAVE to be newspaper vending machines around here somewhere. I even seem to remember seeing one earlier, I don't know why I didn't stop and look.

Oh. Right. Staying out of sight. Well, it's night time. Someone bundled up against the night air isn't going to look out of place.

I walk down the sidewalk, the decay of deep urban apartments of the Docks rapidly giving way to the Boardwalk over the course of about a half dozen blocks. There are newspaper machines anchored to the sidewalk, bus stops, and people wandering to and fro. Stylish people doing stylish things, the world of need, want, and uncertainty as alien to them as Bulawayo, Zimbabwe.

On this street, there's at least half a dozen guys in a casual but definite uniform, what appears to be a khaki colored polo shirt with a sturdy grey windbreaker, navy blue fitted cargo pants, and a belt of tools that wouldn't look too out of place on Batman. Barely visible even to me in the actinic blue of the street lights are earbuds with small stem mics, and khaki newsboy caps. My guess is that these guys are the oft mentioned but never seen Enforcers. At least, not in anything I've ever read. For some reason I'd thought the Enforcers were all parahumans, but in retrospect, especially with Sherell's memories, that's rather silly. The Boardwalk isn't all that small- four streets each spanning a length of a dozen blocks, it's an awful lot of square footage to watch for trouble for a handful of parahumans. Of course they'd have eyes on the ground to alert the paras as responders.

In front of an anchor department store with sushi, cell phones, shoes, and pizza serving as satellites, rests my sought out target. Between me and the newspapers, however, is one of the uniformed men. He spots me looking and walking in his direction, and his hand briefly twitches towards the nightstick on his belt, before his eyes widen slightly, and he steps aside, turning away and mumbling something with his hand up by the ear that's not facing me. Calling for back up? I hurry a little, not running, but a little more than a brisk walk, ignoring the sniffs of distaste and looks of reproach from the people going about their shopping.

Then, my view is obstructed by a large man in a slightly fancier version of the uniform worn by the normals of the Enforcers, his polo shirt's seams for the pockets and button front in white, wearing a helmet that wouldn't look out of place on Judge Dredd. "Area's off limits to vagrants," he says gruffly, and the smell of mint attempting to cover garlic and onion faintly wafts through the chilly air. "Turn around now, or you will be… escorted off the Boardwalk."

"I just want a-"

"No hand-outs, no loitering!" He barks out, and I instinctively bare my teeth even though they can't be seen past the medical mask. My claws flex briefly as he clamps a powerful hand onto my right shoulder, and I feel a piercing pain in the joint that hints at an imminent dislocation. "You are NOT welcome here, now turn around or I WILL turn you around!"

"A fucking newspaper, you ASSHOLE!" I burst out.

In retrospect, swearing at an already belligerent cape was probably not the best idea. The grip somehow tightens, and the threat of a dislocated shoulder is carried out. The dislocated arm is wrenched up behind my back in a hammerlock, his other hand coming around the side of my neck, across my face, and setting fingers gripping the right side of my jaw. Twisting even slightly in either direction- or attempting to talk, for that matter- will result in further injury. I'm frogmarched off the Boardwalk none-too-gently.

A nearby alley is our apparent destination, one well out of sight of the pedestrian traffic. Behind us, I can hear at least two of the regulars following.

Then, while I'm still held in the same position by the cape, the regulars ziptie my ankles to a chain link fence.

"Heath, we got an I.D. on her?" the cape asks.

"Nope, no description on her. Looks like a first offender."

"Good. Give her a standard warning."

A standard warning apparently consists of three shots from each normal, to my shins, my feet, and the front of my thighs with a nightstick. As they hit me with them, the cape speaks in low tones. "This is how it's gonna be. Homeless aren't welcome on the Boardwalk. No vagrants, no vandals, no begging. And no you. You're being logged right now. We see you on the Boardwalk again, we'll break your hand. We see you after that, it'll be your knees. We WILL keep escalating the severity of your punishments until you figure it out. Do NOT come back."

I don't have the time to say anything before a cloth that stinks horribly comes over my face, and the alleyway starts spinning.

By the time I wake up, I'm pressed into the ground by light, foul smell weights- garbage bags. My face is pressed into a neatly folded newspaper serving as a pillow. Wednesday April 13, 2011. I can only assume this was today's paper.

I don't know whether to be pissed at the humiliation or grateful I wasn't left unconscious in plain sight for any back alley refuse to find. Maybe it's a courtesy they only extend to women.

My legs ache a lot, at least until I hide behind a dumpster to slip out of my pants and heal my bruises. Thankfully, though, no bones were broken, and I'm pretty sure that was intentional. It was a "warning," after all.

Several minutes later, healing finished, I put the pants back on. Checking my pockets shows that I have eighty one dollars. Well, of course they took a dollar for the newspaper.

I sit down, in the shelter of a cold, stinking trashcan, barely able to read the newspaper by the ambient, reflected light from the street. The chill has deepened, and I find myself considering surrounding myself in the trash bags again. It was warmer than this, at least.

I'm tired. I'm miserable. I'm cold. And I'm eighty one dollars from being penniless. I could try to hunt down a motel but that would probably cost me at least half of that cash, and I have no idea how long I'm going to have to stretch it. I don't dare put myself in anybody's sights before I have some means to defend myself or a team to defend me, and if I'm going to stay off the radar if—when—I join a team, I have to pick my targets. Pragmatism wars with shame only briefly, before I gather up the driest of the trash bags nearby, gather them around me, and fall into an uncomfortable sleep.

CYOA​

I wake up with a crick in my neck, needing a bathroom, empty stomach, and a mood that reflects all of it. I was homeless once many years ago, and apparently some experiences are universal no matter what world you're from. I briefly entertain the notion of chalking the Enforcers up on my "asses that need kicking" list, when I get a notebook to write it in, but decide against it. In the grand scheme of things, that will only draw attention to me, attention I'm trying very hard to avoid before I can get the resources to protect myself from the REAL dangers that this city and world have to offer. The sky is a threatening, dark overcast, with enough clear on the horizon to make the rising sun feel like the flashlight of God. I'd be well served to find some shelter, before the rain hits.

Wandering away from the Boardwalk, my fur beginning to get matted and my own scent getting to be stronger than tolerable, I begin searching for a YWCA.

Several blocks later, I decide to heed the progressively more insistent call of nature, detouring from the sidewalk to a McDonald's.

The place seems a lot more run down than any McDonald's I've ever seen back home; the play area is coned off, the tables worn, plastic formed booth seats faded and stressed. The floor hasn't been swept today, and a slightly oily sheen shines from the floor tile grout. Beneath the odor of hot fatty meat and deep fried potatoes, there's a faint smell of old lettuce, rancid grease, and despair. The people working the counter and the grill are in their thirties, and they move with the certainty of long practice and a need to keep their minimum wage jobs. None of them are particularly heavy; I can only assume that here, unlike a McDonald's back where I came from, they don't get a meal for free during their work shift.

It's only seven thirtyish but the breakfast crowd is already thinning out. More people are leaving than entering, now, and I make my way to the restroom, only to find it locked, with a prominent "Customers Only" sign in corporate paper and sharpie.

Everything about this place screams class. I wait a minute or two until a customer comes by with one of the workers, who unlocks the door for her, then goes back to the grill. The door closes almost all the way before the hydraulic hinge slows it- as the grill worker rounds the corner I move quickly, two rapid strides getting me in reach to jam my claws in between the door jam and the door itself, before pushing it open and walking into the women's room.

The women's room is reasonably clean, even if run down much the same way as the rest of the place. The trashcan is overflowing, the powdered soap dispenser is almost empty, and a poorly loaded stack of paper towels hangs halfway out of the paper towel holder but the place itself is at least mopped. I hear the faint sounds of the customer pulling toilet paper; I walk into the far corner stall and shut the latch.

By the time I leave the stall, the other woman has gone. The bathroom is empty. I can faintly hear the beeping and bustle of the McDonald's but for the most part it's quieter here than the alleyway was. I've got my trench coat off to the side, and I'm wiping a damp paper towel across my fur in an effort to clean up at least a little. My tail is flicking side to side, a barometer for my combination of disgust and worry that someone is going to come in at any moment and find me topless save for the badly abused remnants of what Squealer affectionately dubbed housewear. I'm REALLY regretting not looking for that motel room after all.

I haven't even been here twenty four hours and I already hate this place far worse than I ever did the character Sophia Hess. Hearing about the dying city, reading about it, is nothing compared to walking through the cracked and poorly paved streets, seeing middle aged fry cooks desperate to keep their jobs, experiencing first-hand the violence so casually meted out simply because someone doesn't have money.

Also, the powdered soap they use at this McDonald's is crap, and I think I'd kill for a brush. And a toothbrush. It's not much, but I can at least ensure I don't have to worry about tooth decay, as I spend ten seconds apiece of making whole each of my… forty? – teeth. Weird.

Not that it's difficult to do, or no more so than anything else, but I just want to make sure.

At least a little refreshed, I exit the bathroom, and go stand behind the only other person in line. Since I'm planning on eating something, it's not like I didn't have the right to use their bathroom. Or am I justifying?

As the guy in front of me takes his receipt and walks off to the side, I pull out a bill at more or less random. The twenty. Looks like fate has decided; I get three of the Big Breakfast platters and a milk. The change is carefully tucked into the inside pocket of my coat and I leave with the bag. The rain is already spitting down scattered drops. I sigh, really not wanting to eat here but wanting to get rained on even less. I settle for a corner table where I can keep an eye on the rest of the room and not be too obvious about it.

I try the hash browns; they taste like sticky sawdust. The biscuits taste like dry sawdust. The sausage patties are tolerable, and the eggs edible. The milk washes them down. It's not substantial, but it's something. I try the hash browns again- nope. Still terrible.

I tuck them into the bag in one of the styrofoam covered trays anyways. I will probably need the calories bad enough later today that I won't much care WHAT they taste like.

Maybe I should call Tattletale? I reject the motion almost immediately. Absolutely not. I could only trust her and the Undersiders as far as it took for the next 'interrogate Tattletale' session Coil enacted against Lisa, and everything she could deduce about me would be at his fingertips. Let's just save that for some time when I've got no other options.

I look out the window at the rain, still pattering down in drips, the isolated spots of more or less dry concrete becoming scarcer. The traffic is getting slow, and the sporadic sound of horns leaks through the streaked and spotted windows.

End 1.2