08

Heat radiates from the asphalt, courtesy of the afternoon sun. Don has managed to steal a jacket to cover his bright blue hair, but not much else. He thinks he’s escaped Icamen’s radar temporarily, but he can’t be too sure. His wounds have stopped bleeding, at least. But he knows it’s not long until he starts to smell.

It’s been two days since the Mutiny. He should’ve expected it. Should’ve thought it through.

Everything is a scathing reminder of what he’s lost. The narrow alley reminds him of his luxurious penthouse. The coarse, grainy ground, cold at nighttime, reminds him of his soft mattress and comforter. His own foul smell reminds him of his bloody shower. Even the alluring scent of fresh bread coming from the bakery beside him reminds him that he used to have so much more at his disposal.

When passers-by look at him, he flinches. His chest squeezes tight. There is a low chance of them recognizing him, without all his default accessories. But what if they do? He is vulnerable. Anyone could come over and take his… what? What has he left? There is nothing to take. Most people want nothing to do with homeless filth like him.

Somehow, this attempt at assurance feels like a lemon-soaked knife plunged into his sternum. He always knew he’d die young. This fate is so much worse.

His stomach grumbles, empty and acidic. Not for the first time in the day’s long hours, he slips into an uncomfortable sleep, shying away from the unforgiving sun.

*

He awakens to something small and soft being thrown at his head. His eyes blink into focus. He’s still on the same ground, in the same miserable state. Of course. He glares at the item lying before him. He blinks. He must be delusional. Minutes pass. It’s still there: a small, dusty bread roll. Normally, he’s above eating off the ground, but his stomach grips at the sight.

He bites into it; minimally. He imagines Icamen standing over him. Not too fast, Boss, she tells him. Her tone is smug. Tantalizing.

He takes a larger bite. His throat is dry, and he barely swallows. What he’d give for a glass of water. He glances furtively at the bakery. The face of the old lady at the counter betrays nothing. The bread might as well have fallen from the sky.

Manna from heaven, he muses. He’s finishes the bread, craving for more. And he’s thirsty. So thirsty. For the first time in days, he wills himself to stand. His legs wobble beneath him. He places a hand against the wall to keep steady.

There must be a faucet somewhere.

*

He drinks from the Market’s wash area. Not sanitary in the slightest, he knows, but it’s a relief to be able to wash the grime off his face.

Look at you, Icamen smirks in his mind. How the mighty have fallen.

Ice spikes through his chest. When he leaves, people are staring at him.

He settles down on the rim of a fountain, on the outskirts of the market. The fountain is old and unmaintained. Its waters have turned a murky green color. Don looks at the bustling market, people rushing past even as the stalls prepare to close for the evening. Only last month, this market had been in disarray. He had bombed it. And yet here it is, preparing to work another day. Don has to commend its resilience.

He wonders if he has any allies left. Any subordinates he’s gained from his position have steered away their loyalty towards Icamen. Gareth would likely never forgive him. He expects no less. He wistfully recalls the image of a ship ticket receipt, but it’s too late for that.

There is no one to help him but himself.

He’s been through poverty before, but his mother was there. Her diligence had paid for their clothes, their food, their little apartment. She worked endlessly to bring him to school, buy him books, and surprise him with a trip to the lake once in a while. He never wanted to disappoint her.

He remembers the rage he felt whenever people whispered about her. Scorned her for her ‘profession’. He used to detest her for it, but he was just a boy. It had never been her fault. The fault belonged to so many people, hiding behind titles and privilege, but never her. She was blameless.

A bicycle whizzes past Don, breaking him out of his reminiscence. He shakes his head, a scowl on his face. He wasn’t supposed to be thinking about that.

He supposes what he did to earn money before wouldn’t be an option now, as the only person he could assassinate for is Icamen, and she is the enemy in this situation. Giving out valuable information to the government is below him, and with Millian on top, he knows it would eventually lead to his demise. Of course, Don would rather die in squalor than beg for alms. That declaration is coming unsettlingly close to reality.

There is a lot of options left to choose from. Crime is a wide industry, after all. But he needs to be more careful this time. Or maybe he doesn’t. He can’t go any lower than he is now, can he? He hopes not to surprise himself. He has all the time in the world to plan it out.

He doesn’t have allies. It has always been just him. And that’s all he needs.

*

Don does most of his observing during nighttime, where the cold makes sleep near-impossible. He covers most of his face with the shadow of his jacket, trying to hover close to crowds. Nothing untoward has happened so far. When the sun starts to rise, he navigates back to his usual spot beside the bakery to rest. Always, there is a roll of bread waiting for him upon awakening.

Walking around town routinely for a few days, one begins to notice people wanting things. Small things, like how that guitarist wants to impress that waitress, how that group of inebriated men want to catch a chap off-guard. But more pertinently, Don notices how a certain group of people really, really want to break into a house.

It’s not a certain house per se, but more like any house at all. They’ve been house-watching an entire neighborhood and, to be fair, the size of those estates are not to be brushed off.

“It’s a wonderful color, isn’t it?” Don says, walking up to one of them caught in the act of staring at a house longer than socially acceptable, and way too early. The woman starts. “I think grey complements the gentle pink of the sky at sunrise,” Don continues, trying to affect the disposition of an affable passerby instead of a scheming homeless person (which he actually is).

The woman eyes him suspiciously. “Yes…” is all she says before turning away. She wants to leave, but is trying not to make it so blatant. “It’s paradise compared to where I live in,” Don rambles. “What with all leaky pipes and peeling walls. Can’t get a decent night’s sleep there.”

The woman huffs derisively. “You actually live someplace?”

“You can’t stop me from dreaming.” Don looks at the sun-bathed house and smiles. “Do you think the owners would allow me inside? I want to know how it looks like.”

“Get your head off the clouds. No one would allow a creep like you in their house,” she says. Don is disappointed she doesn’t tell him what she knows. Another thing he’s noticed from his walks is that this house is uninhabited. The owners are obviously away. And yet she doesn’t break in.

“Fine,” he laughs. “I’ll climb over the wall then.” He steps forwards, to the edifice’s low walls. It seems like it was designed primarily to tempt robbers. He places his hands against the wall and looks mischievously behind him. “You coming?”

The woman’s eyes are wide, and she steps backwards. “You idiot!” she hisses, her eyes bouncing around the said house. “There are CCTV’s everywhere!”

“If it’s just CCTV’s, I can handle it!” he shouts before she can leave.

She looks enraged, as if she can’t believe the idiocy that has insulted her presence. “They have a security system! Five minutes in, and you’re dead. The Police will come for you!” she warns.

Don is surprised technology like that exists this far from the capital. To average citizens, anyway. Maybe the owners used to work for him. “You’re bluffing!”

“You—I’m not!” The woman looks around at the street. No one there. “Go find out then!” she dares.

Don decides that’s as far as their conversation goes. He steps away from the wall, seemingly abased. “Alright, alright. I was only joking,” he pouts. “I suppose dreams stay dreams.” He looks at his ragged shoes, rubbing his hands together. “So… What’s your name?”

When he next looks up, the woman is already storming away.

*

Point one: Homelessness puts life into perspective. Other than the insecurity and desperation, one also gains an edge of freedom. There’s something about being at the lowest one can possibly be that makes one feel boundless, or even daring. For example, if one were to, say, break into a house, the worst that could possibly happen is getting jailed. That means, justice ensured, three meals a day and a roof overhead. Though, to avoid the occasional prison riot and violations of human rights, it would be preferable not to get caught at all.

Point two: There are many ways to cheat a CCTV. One may throw a well-aimed rock at the camera, or simply move in its blindspots. Flashing a light on its lens makes a figure silhouetted, obscuring any distinguishing features. However, the abovementioned procedures only work if the cameras are not hidden, and these methods don’t conceal the evidence of a break-in. The best option is to delete incriminating footage and replace it with uneventful loops.

Point three: One doesn’t gain the title of crime boss from laying idly in lavishment. Maintaining a position that high, one needs to become indispensable; that is, one must be the smartest, most meticulous person with the highest contribution in the industry. Programming computers is one of many skills that contribute to that end.

Point four: Another misconception is that crime organizations engage in only illegal activities. That is inane. Manaul facilitated the production of many legal items as well, even if through dubious means. One alleged item that would be egregiously convenient for a secret crime organization to have monopoly over is security systems.

Point five: Don broke into the house.

*

Don paces around town one afternoon, wearing down his soles. They’re the same dirty nurse shoes, but this time, with comfy socks. He’s wearing a plaid, button-up shirt and black jeans, and his hair is dyed brown. He can’t think of what to do with five-thousand bloody mahars, other than hide them ’til he has a clue. He has, once more, come to a brick wall in his plans.

Icamen would be keeping an eye on his accounts for activity. Her goons should be patrolling the city, but he hasn’t seen them. It appears they have more important things on their hands.

Don browses through a low-priced miscellany store for ideas, but his mind has quit plotting. His eyes catch a glimpse of something glinting at the bottom of a box. He fishes them out to find that it is a pair of green-framed glasses. It matches my shirt, he thinks, gruntled, as he puts it on. The glass did not magnify. They were fake.

He looks into a mirror and smiles. He looks good. Ordinary.

His stomach grumbles, and the image of hot spaghetti surfaces in his mind. He hasn’t had anything other than bread and faucet water for days. I suppose a bit of indulgence could govern my expenses. He thinks this as he hands a thousand-mahar bill to the cashier for his glasses. The cashier looks mortified. Don raises an eyebrow, trying not to look sheepish.

*

“Hey, pretty boy. You’re looking fresh.”

He walks past the rugged man, but finds his path blocked by several others. It’s been a few days since the break-in.

“I don’t have any money, if that’s what you want.”

“Posh guy like you? Why is that hard to believe?”

They surround him now, hungry looks on their faces. There’s only three, and they’re in such tattered clothes that it’s hard to think much of them. Don is still recovering from the shock of them knowing what ‘posh’ means. Perhaps number is how they compensate for the overall pathetic impression.

Don grins brightly at the one before him. Then he throws a solid punch to his eye. Someone grabs him from behind, and he kicks and thrashes. He dodges a punch aimed for his face. Hands shove him to the floor, the impact sending a shock through his spine.

He gets a blow to the stomach, sending sparks to his sight. All at once, the heathens are kicking him. Pain explodes on all sides. The breath escapes from his lungs. Don curls in on himself as the world goes black.

*

The scent of bread is fresh in his dreams, and it is still fresh when he comes to. The sun is too bright and the place is unfamiliar, but he recognizes the street out the window, in front of him. He finds himself on the floor, a pillow supporting his head. His clothes are not his.

He tries to stand up, but anything that isn’t numb aches in protest. The memory of the previous night resurfaces, eliciting a groan. He hears a clink and a plate and glass appears beside him. He looks up at the one who places it there: an old woman, greying hairs and stout arms. Her face is impassive, but not cold.

Don squints until he remembers where he saw her. “You!” he tries to say. She props him up against the wall with surprising ease. “Eat,” is all she replies.

Don takes the plate in his lap but doesn’t obey. “Did you carry me all the way here?”

“It wasn’t that hard,” she says, returning to her oven. He watches her work for a moment before deciding to entertain his meal. He struggles not to gobble it up all at once.

“You should know better than going off alone at night, dressed like that. Only four days ago, you were in rags.”

Don freezes, caught red-handed. There’s no way he could legally earn money in such a short amount of time. He sips his drink—hot milk—slowly. “Why did you help me then?”

She glances over at him, ever unreadable. “You needed help.”

“But you knew. You knew I didn’t deserve it.”

The woman laughs, a harsh sound, as she takes a tray of bread rolls out of the oven. “How can we say who deserves what? I helped you because I would have wanted help in your position.”

Don considers this. Considers his bread. The silence that falls between them is peaceful. “Thank you,” he says at last. She stops to look up at him and smiles, the wrinkles in her face defining gently.

“There are better ways to make money. I know some who might hire hobos like you.”

“I prefer the term ‘derelict’.”

She huffs. “Maybe you would prefer a more intellectual employment.”

Don thinks about this. It’s a more reliable approach, and more discreet. Easier to blend in. He’ll need a newspaper and a printer. Don is searching his memories for a place he could steal one from when he realizes he may be making things needlessly difficult for himself. He turns to the old woman. “Could I ask a favor?”