"Hey. Hey, kid. You look cold."
"Don't bother, man. Ain't got shit, look at them."
Is the man talking to her? She considers the first statement, slow and measured.
January never has the most pleasant climate, but today has been particularly bad. Almost like nature itself is trying to torment her. Further, that is.
"It is cold."
Only after the one man turns to stare at her does she realize she's spoken. It's hardly a full thought, but there isn't much else she might have wanted to say.
"Hey, listen, kid. You got any money?" Smirk. "Some cash? Don't take credit, heh."
The other guy snorts. "You're not funny, moron." His lip curls up, just one corner, and it doesn't make for a pleasant appearance.
She feels around in her pocket. Yes, there's money in there. Not a lot. Just enough for a few bus passes, or a meal, depending on the denomination of the bill. Always keep enough money for a bus pass on you. You never know where you'll end up. Not spoken out loud, not her voice. A memory?
"Yes, I do." Something feels strange about her voice. Not scratchy or raw, but hollow. She tries to fix it by coughing. Ineffective, sounding like she's coughing into a wooden box.
One of them snorts.
"I got some of that good stuff, yeah?" The first man shows her a bag. There's some sort of weird powder inside, a light shake shifting it somewhat. She doesn't recognize it, but she can figure it out after a few seconds: drugs. For a moment, she feels a strange sense of pride. It's not the most difficult deduction ever, but anyone this exhausted would have a hard time figuring things out.
Or so she assumes. Hopes.
"Looks like she's a'ready on some shit, bro. And whatever it is, it can't be worse than any of Brock's weak-ass garbage."
She doesn't quite follow what he's saying. It's hard to pay attention while she's digging through her mind, attempting to dredge up a few more precious words.
She comes up with barely anything. No words, no distinct memories. But she does find a sensation, a thought. Drugs are bad. She takes a step back, away from the men.
A few memories fit together, after a fashion. The two men are wearing strange clothing and peddling drugs on the street: gang members, perhaps. Soliciting a teenager, well, that doesn't indicate the best position in society.
In a city as dark and depressing as this one seems to be, she feels like she should be more familiar with the resident gang population. Most had some form of parahuman backing, to drive recruitment and provide a means for fighting back against and taking territory from rival gangs. But someone with superpowers wouldn't have been selling drugs in the street - small comfort, that these men were far less concerning than their potential superiors.
What did that say about this city, anyways?
She shakes her head. "No, thank you." Habit.
The man offering her the baggy barks out a laugh. "Little shitter has manners, 'least. Should fuck off, though, y'know? Don't want to be in this part of town. Not doped up."
He's right, she doesn't. At this point, she doesn't want to be anywhere in this city.
"The fuck you giving her tips for?"
The other man groans. "The fuck you care, C?"
After listening to their discussion for a moment, she turns around and leaves. It was her wall, but apparently 'two twenty-something gang members' had more right to it than 'one sophomore teenage girl (who was definitely there first)'.
The library is warm, and it's open until eight o'clock on weekdays. She never really feels like reading, but the computers are useful, even if they take three minutes to log into.
By the time her session is up, she's sick of the news. It's just too depressing. There's so much in this city to worry about. Reading articles about gang wars or corruption in the recent election or drive-by shootings or deaths in high schools or a surge in local Nazi recruitment is... almost enough to make her sick.
Well, if she wasn't sick already, that is. She's had a worrying fever for what must have been a few days, and it isn't getting any better.
The librarians are giving her strange looks, so she retreats deeper into the library. There's a nice corner with a fresh newspaper, which is where she realizes her mistake: using the computer to read the news, leaving her with nothing to do when her hour was up.
Well, she could read a book, of course. But it's hard enough to focus on a brief article. She can't imagine anything much longer going well.
At least the tabloids are interesting.
Apparently there's a new, stylish gang in town. The Undersiders. Nothing in the news about them, but evidently Johnny Idgetown knows something that other journalists don't. They're actually employed by Parian ("the local fashion-slash-cape guru, with plenty of financial capital to back a covert advertisement"), and she custom-made their costumes. A subtle ploy to drive parahuman business: "It would be scandalous," Idgetown writes, "if it wasn't so genius!"
The piece is accompanied by a photograph of the group. Shot from a window or something along those lines, it shows them riding gigantic monsters and trailing black smoke. Like the four horsemen, perhaps, but teenaged gang members, and far less powerful.
Their costumes mostly come off more intimidating than they do compelling, but maybe that's what capes are looking for?
She wakes up to a light tap on the back.
"The library's closing."
The librarian meets her eyes as she straightens up. There's a bit of hesitation, there - she can't imagine what she looks like, right now - but the middle-aged lady doesn't say anything.
Probably for the better.
This night is colder than the one before, and she struggles to stay warm enough to fall asleep.
She hasn't slept much, recently. Spending nights wandering the city is nice, in a strange way. It's a fresh way of looking at the world, at her surroundings.
This night blends into day, sunlight illuminating the boardwalk.
It's nice to come here in the morning. Watching the sunrise is satisfying. It reminds her of better times, when things were good. When she had a family.
A family...
She finds an alleyway and lies down behind a dumpster. Her stomach feels like it's twisted into a knot, bruises and cuts forming a painful menagerie of background sensation. It's still scarily easy to fall asleep.
Her mind is dark. Images of a dark limbo, some place that shouldn't exist but somehow does. There's no light, save for a few stars, the rest blotted out by something. Massive beings writhe in the corner of her eyes, but every time she turns to look, there's nothing.
A long time passes, or a short time, not dreaming of anything, but still asleep.
She dreams of concepts, intangible things. Friendship, conveyed through whispered secrets and shared smiles; peace, from slow heartbeats and warm sunlight; home, an image of a regal woman with curled black hair.