No'ah kept running. She was bewildered and tired. Her legs ached and there was a stitch in her side - but she could still hear them coming. She didn't understand what they wanted.
She hadn't been in the city long enough to understand people again. weeks she had hung on that cross. Weeks she had been blinded to everything but pain and torture. Her eyes darted this way and that, looking for a way out of the men's grasp. She leaped on a chain link fence, darting up it as quickly as her legs would take her, but she slipped - the weight of her braces was far too much.
THUD!
She landed on her back and looked up at the three men. One of them slipped his hands under her shoulder, noticing the scars that crisscrossed along her forehead. He sneered down at her, "Someone made you ugly, girl. Good thing we only want to rob you." He sat her on his feet, one of the others grabbing her thick bracelets.
She shreiked when that happened, trying to pull her wrists away.
No one can ever see those scars. No one can ever see those scars. No one can ever see those scars.
It didn't matter though - they weren't interested in her screams or yells. Only the things on her of value. Nice shoes, bracelets, her purse - hell, even her leg braces would fetch a pretty penny from a family who couldn't afford new ones. Surely this girl would be taken care of.
She hadn't been in the city long enough to understand people again. weeks she had hung on that cross. Weeks she had been blinded to everything but pain and torture. Her eyes darted this way and that, looking for a way out of the men's grasp. She leaped on a chain link fence, darting up it as quickly as her legs would take her, but she slipped - the weight of her braces was far too much.
THUD!
She landed on her back and looked up at the three men. One of them slipped his hands under her shoulder, noticing the scars that crisscrossed along her forehead. He sneered down at her, "Someone made you ugly, girl. Good thing we only want to rob you." He sat her on his feet, one of the others grabbing her thick bracelets.
She shreiked when that happened, trying to pull her wrists away.
No one can ever see those scars. No one can ever see those scars. No one can ever see those scars.
It didn't matter though - they weren't interested in her screams or yells. Only the things on her of value. Nice shoes, bracelets, her purse - hell, even her leg braces would fetch a pretty penny from a family who couldn't afford new ones. Surely this girl would be taken care of.
From the shadows, hidden in a large refrigerator box behind a dumpster, an unwanted element of the city sat like a crow would on a wire, he heard the screams, he watched as they assaulted her, he caught there words. And slowly he muttered, "What is wrong...with being...ugly." He rolled this statement off his tongue in a slow manner, long pauses between every few words. Slowly he rose, hugging one arm to his side. The man was skewed and deformed. His right arm was a whole six inches longer than his left, and the over-sized hand on it's wrist was missing a ring finger. He hobbled out like his left leg was missing a heel, forcing him to walk tip-toe on that foot. His face was riddled with pins and metal studs, tracing scars over his face. He moved towards them with startling speed for one so mutilated.
He balled a large deformed hand into a fist, and soundless, wordlessly, he struck out at her attackers with a closed fist. He made not so much as whisper of breath escaping as he sucker punched the one whose hands where on here. The deformed homeless man had twisted, scarred skin, but such heavy muscle on him, like an Olympian Athlete or a career soldier. he wore nothing more than a pair of sweat pants and an open zip-up hoodie. He took up a stance, looking down at the woman, eyes examining her and then glancing back behind him. He wanted her to run.
He balled a large deformed hand into a fist, and soundless, wordlessly, he struck out at her attackers with a closed fist. He made not so much as whisper of breath escaping as he sucker punched the one whose hands where on here. The deformed homeless man had twisted, scarred skin, but such heavy muscle on him, like an Olympian Athlete or a career soldier. he wore nothing more than a pair of sweat pants and an open zip-up hoodie. He took up a stance, looking down at the woman, eyes examining her and then glancing back behind him. He wanted her to run.
No'ah was frozen with fear, but scrambled up. She started off down the alley but - her bracelets. she was going nowhere without them. A rush of fear came over her as she came closer, the men having forgotten about her jewellery while intending to do... something with the strange man.
One of them looked at him, "What the hell are you?" He pulled a switch out of his pocket, eyes narrowing.
One of them looked at him, "What the hell are you?" He pulled a switch out of his pocket, eyes narrowing.
Micco didn't say anything, he just took his stance, as his eyes flicked to the object in the man's hand. He tilted his head like he was curious, but then...he just kept tilting it till it let out a violent pop, then he righted his head. And fixed the man with a stare...
Then he spoke in a soft whispering voice, "Come...at me...bro."
He taunted the man with a wave of a hand and an extending of a middle finger that looked a little too large for his hand.
Then he spoke in a soft whispering voice, "Come...at me...bro."
He taunted the man with a wave of a hand and an extending of a middle finger that looked a little too large for his hand.
The man did indeed come at him. He showed no fear as he lunged forward. The other two seemed to be growing more and more antsy as time went on. No'ah could feel something itching at her to get away too, but now she had to watch.
She had to see how this went down.
One of the men took off, though, right past her, knocking her down again. She groaned softly, still watching, her eyes as wide as saucers.
The man aimed the knife for the ribs, intending to leave him bleeding and broken.
She had to see how this went down.
One of the men took off, though, right past her, knocking her down again. She groaned softly, still watching, her eyes as wide as saucers.
The man aimed the knife for the ribs, intending to leave him bleeding and broken.
Micco let the man come, he watched the knife point, and opened up his guard to allow it to slip between his arms without any trouble. The blade pierced him, and he pushed against it, thrusting the blade as deep into his body as it would flow. Then, he felt his fiery humours rise, the taste of chlorine on the back of his tongue as they did, like bile after vomiting. He felt strength flood his body as he welcomed the coming power. He raised his hands above his head, clasping his mismatched hands together, and then he brought both fists down on the man's neck in a brutal, bone-shattering haymaker. "Not a'nuff."
The man fell, and the other man bolted. That only left No'ah. She didn't run away, and for some reason stepped forward, looking at the knife, standing over her attacker, "Doesn't that hurt?" She lightly touches the knife, "Do you want me to take it out, or take you to the hospital?" He could see the scars from where the crown of thorns had settled on her forehead, and on her wrist where she had been pinned by thick iron nails. The clank of her braces gave wind of yet another problem, caused by the same accident.
Micco looked down at the knife, considering it. Then the hilt in the palm of his hand, and gritted his teeth as he began to twist it in the wound. He considered the feeling as the blade severed more bits of meat. Then he slowly slid it free of the hole he'd made in his chest, and considered the bloody knife. And then the bleeding hole by his heart. then he looked at her, and half his mouth...the unscarred half...twisted up into a lopsided grin. "No...No hos..pital. No...need." He whispered softly, tilting his head as he considered her. "Okay?" He asked in a curious tone, inquiring if she was alright?
No'ah nodded and took his hand. She felt something roil in her stomach, but she tugged him forward, "Come on." She reached down, grabbing her bracelets, putting them on, blood staining one. Blood didn't both her. Only the white raised scars did.
She kept tugging, even if he resisted.
She kept tugging, even if he resisted.
Micco let her tug, let her jerk on his arm, letting her move him only far enough to gather her things. Then he just planted his legs and hardened his stance. Unless he wanted to move, he would not be. And for the moment, he didn't want to be. So he let her tug.
In the meantime, he had returned to his vapid consideration of the knife and his blood that lingered on the blade. He raised it to his mouth, extending his tongue...there where six stud piercings running up the center line of that tongue. He let the blood drip from the tip of the knife and onto his tongue.
Clearly, this homeless man was crazy.
In the meantime, he had returned to his vapid consideration of the knife and his blood that lingered on the blade. He raised it to his mouth, extending his tongue...there where six stud piercings running up the center line of that tongue. He let the blood drip from the tip of the knife and onto his tongue.
Clearly, this homeless man was crazy.
No'ah felt faint, "Who did this to you?" She averted her eyes for now, keeping them away from that horrific tongue. She kept her hand on his though, not letting go.
The man below her groaned and made his presence known, "The police will find him, and you'll get in trouble."
The man below her groaned and made his presence known, "The police will find him, and you'll get in trouble."
Micco turned his eyes back to her, as he whispered a short response. "Mother." That was all he said. He had drank the drops from the knife, and then licked what remained away, before tossing the knife behind him. it landed clattering next to it's owner. Micco looked at her, confused now and his face relaying that. He blinked at her several times. "Go to...where? No home...Doesn't matter. I...Don't matter. Go, your...safe." He used his free hand to make a shooing motion at her.
No'ah shook her head, "Come!" She was growing more insistant, more impatient. She slammed one of her feet down, her hair bouncing from it's natural state to show, once more, the scars on her forehead, "Come with me!" She kept tugging, though she knew it was futile.
Micco was still curious, his glazed eyes alight with a flicked of inquisitive thought. He stood a moment longer, and then reached up, he's misshapen fingers cradled her brow, thumb tracing the smoothness of her scarred forehead. Then...he let himself be moved, replying softly. "...Fine..." He wrapped his hand around hers, like they were holding hands, and allowed her to lead him by tugging him along. His curious tone reached his hesitant, whispered voice, he was mumbling too now. "..Where...going?"
No'ah flinched at his touch, her eyes going wide when he touched her forehead. She tensed, but relaxed when he agreed to follow her.
She kept them going along side roads and unused street, bringing him to an old apartment building that had seen better days, "Home." She took him into the little doorway in the back, to the landlord suite. It was no longer for the landlord, himself having taken a better flat upstairs. When she lead him in, he could see that there were mirrors, but they were smashed to pieces, the shards left in their frames. Dozens of them were on the walls through out her home. He could see, in a closet there were more, unbroken ones, about a dozen, a sheet thrown over, tugged off by it's own weight.
A series of pillows of all sizes lined one half of the main bedroom, blankets draped around them. It looked like, from the indent in the middle, a bed, if made up of a dozens of pieces. There were clothes, carefully pressed and formed in the closet. Blouses, blazers, pants, skrits, dresses, nylons, socks, leggings, underpants, bras.
The livingroom had a thread-bare couch, a large TV placed on the floor with game systems lined up beside it. X-Box, X-Box 360, PSOne, PS2, PS3, Wii, GameCube, Sega Genesis, Atari, NES, SNES, N64, Dreamcast, Intellivision. Dozens of books with a code system written on the side sat beside them, with shelves and shelves of games, notations written on each shelf to indicate which games went where.
The kitchen, though, was a mess. Dirty plates lined all of the counters, each shelf open and empty. The fridge wasn't plugged in, instead it was half pulled from the wall, the outlet behind it visible.
The second bedroom was filled with more pillows fashioned into a bed, boxes of cereal lining the free wall, as well as cans, hundreds of them, all containing vegetables or soup.
Each wall looked like it was made of brick, until he came closer. Each was painted. Each brick was painted on by hand, meant to look different from the last, with cracks, pops, uneven line up. Even the mortar was painted by hand - it looked like it took years to pain, maybe decades, but the paint smelled fresh. New. Still wet.
"Home..."
She kept them going along side roads and unused street, bringing him to an old apartment building that had seen better days, "Home." She took him into the little doorway in the back, to the landlord suite. It was no longer for the landlord, himself having taken a better flat upstairs. When she lead him in, he could see that there were mirrors, but they were smashed to pieces, the shards left in their frames. Dozens of them were on the walls through out her home. He could see, in a closet there were more, unbroken ones, about a dozen, a sheet thrown over, tugged off by it's own weight.
A series of pillows of all sizes lined one half of the main bedroom, blankets draped around them. It looked like, from the indent in the middle, a bed, if made up of a dozens of pieces. There were clothes, carefully pressed and formed in the closet. Blouses, blazers, pants, skrits, dresses, nylons, socks, leggings, underpants, bras.
The livingroom had a thread-bare couch, a large TV placed on the floor with game systems lined up beside it. X-Box, X-Box 360, PSOne, PS2, PS3, Wii, GameCube, Sega Genesis, Atari, NES, SNES, N64, Dreamcast, Intellivision. Dozens of books with a code system written on the side sat beside them, with shelves and shelves of games, notations written on each shelf to indicate which games went where.
The kitchen, though, was a mess. Dirty plates lined all of the counters, each shelf open and empty. The fridge wasn't plugged in, instead it was half pulled from the wall, the outlet behind it visible.
The second bedroom was filled with more pillows fashioned into a bed, boxes of cereal lining the free wall, as well as cans, hundreds of them, all containing vegetables or soup.
Each wall looked like it was made of brick, until he came closer. Each was painted. Each brick was painted on by hand, meant to look different from the last, with cracks, pops, uneven line up. Even the mortar was painted by hand - it looked like it took years to pain, maybe decades, but the paint smelled fresh. New. Still wet.
"Home..."
"Home?"
The word was foreign to Micco. There was no home for him. Never would there be while be. Staying still was too risky.
The moment he entered, curiosity filled him. As he began to wander, very little could keep him from prying. He examined everything. What made this place "home", and why was it special? He moved about deliberately, though with very little regard to her privacy unless she stopped him. He wordlessly shuffled through the game consoles, before stuffing his over-sized hand into his pocket and pulling out a old Gameboy Advance to compare to them. But quickly lost interest in those. He even left his own gameboy there.
He moved through the house to her room next. And then the scattered clothes, her underthings where of particular interest to him.
The word was foreign to Micco. There was no home for him. Never would there be while be. Staying still was too risky.
The moment he entered, curiosity filled him. As he began to wander, very little could keep him from prying. He examined everything. What made this place "home", and why was it special? He moved about deliberately, though with very little regard to her privacy unless she stopped him. He wordlessly shuffled through the game consoles, before stuffing his over-sized hand into his pocket and pulling out a old Gameboy Advance to compare to them. But quickly lost interest in those. He even left his own gameboy there.
He moved through the house to her room next. And then the scattered clothes, her underthings where of particular interest to him.
No'ah screamed, picking up all the clothes, grabbing her ironing board. She didn't care what he looked at, but now she began to iron them all, shaking while she did so. She didn't stop him, honestly, only picked up each article and began to iron.
Her hands moved surprisingly quickly and she ignored her fingers when they were touched by thehot metal surface in favour of pressing the clothing correctly.
Her hands moved surprisingly quickly and she ignored her fingers when they were touched by thehot metal surface in favour of pressing the clothing correctly.
Micco was not very familiar with the mentality of humans. But this activity seemed odd to him. She seemed to be rather fanatical about her actions, and this gained his attention far more readily than just female undergarments. He walked behind her watching, watching her burn her fingers on the hot metal. Then he stepped behind her, and placed both hands on her shoulders, speaking simply a somber, "Why?"
No'ah kept working, even with his big hand on her shoulder, "Clothes have to be pressed and ready. Things have to look nice for the morning. Clothes make or break a person. Have to look pretty or they'll do it again. Have to look like everyone else. Never show my scars. Never let them see." She kept working, her eyes as wide as saucers, still ignoring her fingers until everything was pressed, "Have to look pretty. Have to look pretty."
Micco listened to her, and then he moved. His motions might've been even too strong, as he reached down and grabbed her hand to tear it away from the iron. His deformed hand was so heavily scarred, and yet so much larger than hers as he laid it over hers, gripping, and then pulling it away from the Iron. He took it from her, holding the hot appliance in his hand. It burned him, he ignored it. Pain was just the body seeking perfection, every wound was just another step in purging the imperfection of his form. But he wasn't even thinking of that now, he grabbed her shoulder and turned her forcefully to face him. "Are pretty." His hand leeched the heat from the iron, leaving a faint smell of cooked flesh in the air, he dropped the thing to the floor. "Pretty 'nuff...already." His gaze was long and steady on her eyes.
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