Time to sing, Mr. Canary

A shitty machete of words with which I'm gonna kill time.
I doubt anyone will join this.

We all love a good news story in which a cherubic child is snatched from a wealthy home; sympathetic people of all sorts bite at their lips as they turn their eye towards the nearest milk carton, expecting the face of said child to turn up on it any minute.
But who would care for the alley-dwelling kids, those bony carriers of filth without parents to fuss over them and provoke panic once they're gone?

Boys and girls, no more than fifteen, have been disappearing from their cardboard sanctuaries; a few days after their kidnapping, they are dropped off, barely alive, back where they belonged before this all occurred.
There was something different about them, the other kids knew, but no one could pinpoint what exactly made it all so odd apart from the fresh scars crisscrossing their thighs; that is, until the changes made themselves obvious.

Schizophrenia, and bloodlust that can hardly be controlled.

A conspiracy is brewing, but these homeless kids can't just run off, grab the nearest police officer, and announce their findings; no one would believe them.
They'll just have to find this out for themselves, I suppose.
If they make it to such a point alive, I mean.

Role- Girl 1, cause I like being important
Name- Nash. Short for Natasha. Who knows what her last name is?
Age - 14ish. Doesn't exactly know.
Appearance- Short, frail, blond hair that's long and choppily with piercing green eyes. She's
Biography- Nash remembers. She had a pretty good life - not spoiled, but not poor. Happy mother, doting father, good food and a warm bed. ANy for some reason - she was abandoned on the streets when she was almost 12 - she doesn't really know why actually. She was left with the clothes on her back and the necklace she pulled off her mothers neck as she was left. Nash survived, but can't remember how, really, it was all a blur of cold, theft, lies, hiding and running. She can't remember why she was dropped, nor can she remember why she didn't try to go home. All she remembers was that it was bad. Horrible.
Prized possession - her mother's rather cheap necklace complete with angel charm.
Other- is always blunt, cynical. She's always been of the mind that nothing should be sugar-coated, everything should just be put out there, but finds herself lying and sugar-coating just to make other's feel better. Although she's an alley kid, she often finds herself not knowing something trite, and this reminds her that she is always an outsider. Even to alley kids.

Role- Boy 2
Name- Vincent Rosehill
Age- 14 going on 15
Appearance- He's very small and baby-faced for his age. One would think that he was twelve or something along that line.
Unhealthily pale skin, gray eyes, and asymmetrical black hair that he attempts to cut himself with very little success. He's also got a gimpy leg.
Biography- He'd had everything an eight-year-old kid could want. Ice cream day and night, shiny toy guns, and a model train that went on and on.
His parents were wealthy working people that were hardly ever around; to compensate for this, they spoilt him, and that had made him careless.
It was the first time he'd sneaked out at night; the sugar rush created by too much candy rendered him restless, and on the dark streets he twirled about, pleased with his success when a strong pair of hands suddenly grabbed him from behind.
He remembered taking punches to his ribs and face as he kicked helplessly at a man's meaty body in the cramped confines of a truck until police sirens rang out; panicking, his kidnapper shoved him from the car and onto unfamiliar streets miles away from his hometown. He's been stealing wallets from strangers ever since, and received a permanently damaged leg for the one time he'd been caught.
Prized possession- A crappy Swiss army knife he'd found in the trash. Most of the tools were missing, but a few blades were better than nothing.
Other- Taking advantage of his slight disability, he'd been trying to get somewhere close to home by riding the bus for free or at a reduced fare, but he's yet to meet a bus driver who believed he wasn't faking.

So since I'm busy not studying, we can begin.
Feel free to make more characters as we go along.

-

The pea-sized raindrops tore into the alleyway, and the first thing he felt as his eyelids unglued was the water prancing along his back, prodding at scars newly earned.
And goddamnit, it hurt.
A lot.
Vincent nearly hit the pavement again as he surged to his wobbling feet - well, foot - and winced when the rain traced along his back. These vile rainy days were always creeping up on him, usually managing to injure him in some way. It was on one moist, dreary day quite like this that he was reduced to a cripple.
"Fun times," he mumbled to himself as he finally took the time to access his surroundings, and nearly managed to trip again when he couldn't identify a single landmark unique to his territory, whether it be a billboard or a telephone booth or a piece of gum that refuses to part with the concrete.
He didn't remember when he'd got here. Memories of how or why he was actually here escaped him as well, and he could feel his knees shake with a strange breed of terror as he desperately searched his mind, grasping for the most subtle of clues.
Oh, god. Nothing.
"Hello?" he declared aloud, the syllables stretching into shrieks as they bounded from wall to wall, ebbing as the rain ingested his voice.

Nash was using a trash can cover lid to keep herself from the tiny bullets of rain, and it was working surprisingly well, and she was congratulating herself on the small victory, because, let's face it - there as no one around to pride her on doing anything, there was no one too tell her that she was so smart. People tended to hat smart street rats.
Nash had gotten over the point of trying to remember anything - it had made her head hurt to try and figure out what the hell she was doing here. She's accepted it by now. But she still wanted those memories. Wouldn't they be helpful in, say, getting home?
She heard the voice ring out, bouncing around the alley back and forth. "Hello?" She called back, keeping her voice flat. Maybe this person on the other side of the trash can also didn't exactly know where he was. But what if he did?
Nash winced as she remember the last time she's ended up in someone else's alley. That had hurt, and she had the thin scar arching around her eye to remind her of it. People were less inclined to beat her up if they thought she knew where she was.
But she kinda was screwed, because she's only lived on the street for a while, and she always ended up doing something stupid. "Hello?" She called out once more, plucking nervously at her necklace and pushing it under the collar of her shirt.

The familiar sensation of the well-worn blade, hard against his thigh, at least succeeded in giving Vincent a bit of the ol' reassurance he needed; it was a strange feeling to enjoy, but his heart rate steadied at the knowledge of having it there in case the occasion demanded for its use.
If he didn't recognize this place, then he must have ventured into enemy territory. He remembered the fights, the wounds that wouldn't scab over until the pain had him bent over, teeth lacerating his own bottom lip.
"Hello - hello - hello?" And then there were those puzzling echoes again, twisted under the constant shuffling of raindrops as they raced from one side of the alley to another, muffled yet elevated by a tinny tone.
Hang on.
The voice had somewhat of a girlish quality to it; Vincent knew that he wasn't the manliest man around town, but the repeated greeting certainly didn't come out of his mouth.
He took in the sight of the alley again, finding himself being the sole occupant aside from a mangled corpse of a cat in the back corner and a pile of junk in the distance, from which the raindrops cascaded jubilantly.
It was a lot of crap, blocking at least half of the path's width; enough to conceal a person. Or two. Or a whole gang of them, one would think.
But he's got to try something.
"Are you there?" The voice was flat, hardly intimidating by the sounds of it; Vincent moved down a few paces, clutching the pockmarked wall for support. It was a girl, most likely; what harm can a girl do, really?

The voice sounded male. Not like dangerous male, the kind who would start beating her down the second she stood up because she was A) a girl, and B) in their territory. It sounded like a boy her age. A boy who wouldn't beat her up at first sight
So Nash stood up, popping up from behind the trashcans, and other various crappy items, but she kept the trashcan lid over her head - she was, after all, almost dry, and she'd like to keep it that way.
"Um," she said, her voice cutting through all the hellos ringing through her head. "Hi?"
He didn't look like the type to beat her up - he was just another painfully thing child, with the same dark eyes that every kid on the street had - eyes full of pain. He was leaning against the wall for support.
Maybe this would be all okay. But Nash tensed anyways. SHe was not going to be punched, kicked, and beat again. She was going to run right past this little kid if she needed too.

"Nice hat you've got there," trying to hold in his surprise. Vincent came up with an irrelevant remark; as far as he could remember, this was the first amiable encounter he'd had with a stranger in a long time - for now, at least - and as the oddness of his reply sank in, he swiftly muttered a civil "hello" while cocking his head, taking a good look at the scrawny girl across from him through befogged eyes, a faint shimmer on her neck catching his glance.
Her stance was tense; she was wary of him, of course, and he supposed that the rain had only served to paint him in an intimidating light. He looked down at his hands; they were pale, painfully so. He must have looked like a spectre in the distance; gaunt frame, hollow eyes, and all that.
"I'm not going to beat you up," he declared himself wearily. Certainly not; he was an useless little cripple.
"Would you mind telling me where the hell I am?" It took him a bit for Vincent to state his point; as he spoke he searched the taciturn buildings for signs or some sort, only to have his damp hair assault his face. Hats were truly a good idea in this sort of weather.

Nash was utterly, completely surprised that he made a remark about her trash can lid hat, of all things. But it certainly made her feel a lot better. Anyone who could joke about something like that couldn't be that bad, were they? Come on, at least he had a since of humor. And the joke was kinda funnyish.
She felt slightly better when he announced that he wouldn't beat her up - she worried about these kinds of things, after all.
He was slightly creepy looking, pale, and underworld, a ghost of a human. But he was leaning on the building, and his leg was somewhat thin and twisted looking, like someone had taken the time to break it or something.
Nash also felt a lot worse when he asked her where he was. Because she didn't know - she'd been hoping that he had. "I wouldn't mind telling," she muttered quietly,"But, um, I actually don't know where we are. I, er, got lost."
She climbed over the pile of trash and assorted crap to walk closer to him - just in case she needed to run, she wouldn't have to walk around it. SHe also did not want to get any closer to the dead cat in the corner. Nash liked cats. She picked up a trash can lid on the ground and offered it to this poor wet boy. Up close, he looked about 12.

"How generous," he offered a pallid flicker of a smile, taking the lid into his hand. Not bothering to dust it off, he set it atop his unkempt hair, finding himself set at ease by the rhythmic clanging of the water on the metal. It was distracting, but much more pleasant than having the frigid rain soak into his scalp. "Thank you. We can be hat buddies," he added pathetically, hoping to establish some form of an alliance.
Vincent took in her quiet words and let them settle in his mind; the situation that he'd landed himself in was a miserable one, no doubt, but this put them both in the same position if he could trust her words; he'd have a valid reason to drag this stranger around, which ought to be beneficial since he was useless when it came to navigating the streets in this weather.
"Do you remember-" his stomach lurched at the words out of fear and self-pity, "-do you remember how you ended up here?"
Perhaps she'd remember the way back. Unlikely, but it was worth a try.

He looked silly with the hat on his head, but it made him looker nicer - like if this kid could walk around with a trash can on his head, then he probably didn't care what people thought of him. But that also meant that he probably would try anything to stay alive.
But he couldn't do anything to her if she ran, right? Unless he was pretending to be a gimp. But his leg looked very solidly realistically wrong.
But it was rude to stare, so she didn't.
"No." Nash said flatly, "There's nothing there. I don't have any memories of how I got here." Somehow, saying these words made them real, and Nash suddenly felt quite nauseous. "I can't remember anything," she said hopelessly.

"Wha-" he was left speechless; Vincent nearly slid from his position against the brickwork, struggling to retain his vertical stance at the cost of scraping the side of his hand. He could comprehend, at least, why he'd have no recollection of arriving here; he'd always been callous in handling himself, and this certainly wasn't the first time he'd woken up with the concrete as a mattress.
But for another person to be afflicted with his particular type of amnesia disturbed him to no end. Someone has to remember; someone has to take him back. He needed to go back. He just had to.
"That can't be," he breathed. The pressing anxiety was sending throbs of pain down his damaged leg, and he allowed himself to release a muted groan. "We've been..we've..we must've done something," he sent an uneasy glance at the stiff cat in the corner; the remains of its eye poked out under matted fur, and he looked on, transfixed by the ugly sight. "There's a logical explanation for this, yeah?" There has to be. It has to work out.
His face scrunched up in pain as he pressed a hand against his thigh, fingering the raw flesh below. The pain was definitely new.
"Does it hurt?" Vincent asked the girl, his voice shaking as he pulled up one of the legs of his tattered shorts, viewing the injuries with a morbid fascination. "Have you got any new ones?" He looked up at the girl, gesturing towards the wounds lining his skin.

Nash saw the boy slip, and walked over to him, slipping an arm under his, and helping him keep upright. She prayed he wouldn't lash out at her - she wasn't trying to be condescending, but if he fell, he'd be miserable in the rather nasty, and kind of oily looking water under them. But maybe he didn't like help. Maybe he'd yell at her to get away.
Nash wasn't as freaked out as this boy. She could have been, perhaps even more so, seeing as she was extremely careful with taking care of herself, and waking up with no familiar surroundings and no memories - that had never happened to her. But she'd had time to adjust, and as she always did, she'd figure it out - she was good at thinking on her feet.
"I don't know what I've done," Nash said flatly, "Well," she amended, "I haven't done anything that anyone else on the street wouldn't have." A bit of stealing, a bit of running, and lot of hiding from authority. "But I can't think of any logical reason why this would happen."
"And yes. I've got some brand new scars too." She looked at the boy, who despite probably being a few years younger than her, was taller by quite a few inches - even if he still wasn't that tall to anyone but her.
There was no way to show him her scars, like he had done - she had on a pair of jeans, which weren't warm in any way, but was better than nothing. But there were a few thin blood spots, creating a liner pattern across the blue denim. "And it really hurts," she whispered, dropping her monotone voice and finally letting some emotion in.

The girl, while about his age, was quite a bit shorter than Vincent; he felt rather vulnerable at the thought of using the smaller girl as a crutch, but he was truly grateful for the support. The muddy water beneath his feet was twisting his reflection into something extraordinarily ominous; biting back a sigh, he tightened his grip on the wall.
The heat of her arm seeped to his ribcage and it soothed the pain somewhat. A strange thing, seeing as the damage had been done elsewhere, but the aching had a way of infiltrating his entire body.
"Thanks," he whispered as he steadied his footing, taking back his arm to roll the fabric back down. His shorts were already spotty, but Vincent supposed that having more coverage would make him less susceptible to infection.
"Well, now," he filed through his mind again, hoping to stick to reliable memories this time. "The last time I woke up on the ground with half a mind was a few months ago, the time I got hit by a cart," he stretched his arm for about as long as it would go, "about this big. Huge bruise, no scars."
Vincent measured the girl with his eyes; she looked to be in about average shape for an alleydwelling child who held a much more stable stance than he did, the lid over her blonde hair was perfectly balanced. The traffic accident had left him quite shaky and numb for a period of time; he remembers being spread across the pavement, twitching for a good few hours before pain and any other sensations would set in.
"That ain't likely to happen again," he quickly added, "it was an one-time thing, I'm guessing."
Ruling out an explanation that had a chance of being somewhat logical, he looked down at the girl again. "I'm out of ideas. Have you got any?"

She was really happy that he'd only gave her a quiet thank you and not given her a violet push towards the ground - she'd probably have landed in some form of nauseating water, and she didn't need any more filth added to her clothing. She was disgusting enough as is. This boy was pretty damp, she could feel his wet shirt sticking to her arms, making her shiver a bit.
"There's a awning type thing over where I was earlier," she told him, "Kept me dry. Do you want to go over there?" It didn't matter if she asked, she was going to go back over there anyways, and she was taking him with her, before he froze. "I think there's a furnace on the other side of the wall, it's kinda warm."
After pulling him with her gently, starting around the huge pile of various crap and pointedly not looking at the cat's twisted shape in the corner, she realized that she never answered his second question.
"I have no idea what happen. I take a lot of care to make sure I always wake up where I choose to go to sleep. This kind of thing - it doesn't happen to me." It was true. "I never get hit by carts, I never shoot off my mouth to gangs, I -" She swallowed, "I never lose my mind. But here I am. My mind's not safe anymore."
Nash almost wanted him to have never appeared - it made her stomach turn to say these things out loud, saying these things made them true, saying these things made them real. They should be looked up inside her head, where she's probably have worried about losing them again, because now, not ever her mind was a safe haven anymore.
"How old are you?" She asked him, wanting to know.

"Sure, why not. I'm glad to be in the same situation with a sane person, at least." Vincent chuckled flatly, allowing himself to be pulled along, his wrecked leg dangling uselessly into the murky puddles of water.
"If only I had your luck," he gazed with resignation at the appendage and managed to move it out of the water; he could feel mud and silt settle on his toes, intruding from the multiple holes in his lame excuse for footwear. "Or logic. I've had more experience in the mayhem department, I suppose," he paused, frustrated with himself; he's been there before - something along that line, at least - and he should know what to do, but the solution always escaped him.
He turned his head at his fellow victim of this strange situation; she seemed quite queasy as she described her experiences, and that was then he realised that he was too. He was never in control, and it hurt to know that he couldn't do much about it except for getting into yet more trouble.
"Fourteen," he mumbled in response, knowing that she'd probably think he was delusional; the girl, despite her size, looked like an actual teenager, while his height and lack of baby fat seemed to be the sole reason for people to believe that he wasn't a total child. "Fifteen in April," he quickly declared, hoping to make himself seem a tad older, and thus more credible.
"By the way, I didn't catch your name," after sharing a conversation more pleasant than the ones in which he usually participated, Vincent felt like he ought to know the girl's name.

Nearly fifteen? She turned and looked at him suddenly, scrutinizing him and nearly toppling him over in the process. "Sorry," she muttered. Her eyebrow was raised, trying to tell if he was lying, but then decided he wasn't. Wasn't his fault he was skinny, he was a kid living on the streets, after all. Plus, he was tall. Tall was good. Tall was telling the truth, usually. She ignored all his comments on her being lucky and logical - she was logical, but as far as luck went, she only had enough to outshine this boy.
"Nash." She said to his question about his name. "I swear, that's my real name, I didn't make it up. It's short for Natasha." It was surprising how many people either thought she'd made it up, or thought she'd said Gash with a G, not Nash with a N.
She let go off the boy so her could lower himself to the dry, warmish stoop and sat down herself.
"What's your name?" If she was telling her name, then he was telling his. She wanted to know because right now, she felt at a slight disadvantage. It was the survivor in her. The logical reason was that they were brothers-in-arms, in a way. They'd both been dumped in an unfamiliar place with a blanked memory. They could be comrades. They could be a team, as unlikely as that sounded. Maybe she just wanted to know his name to to feel less alone. Maybe a name would be less lonely then remembering the fact that no one had wanted them.

He wobbled due to the girl's surprise, although Vincent had braced himself for any reaction that would come out of his announcement. He'd been ridiculed for this genetic mismatching of his appearance and age time and time again, and it seemed to evolve into a simple fact of life, now.
"'S alright," he shrugged, making sure to plant his feet more firmly this time.
"Good name. Nothing wrong with it," he assured. "I've been trying to come up with a shortened name too, but nothing bearing resemblance to my name sounds right."
He settled into the warmth and shook his head, fending off the ripe odours emanating from the medley of trash.
"Well, since you brought it up, name's Vincent," he admitted. "Vincent Rosehill. Or was it Rowlshill? My parents had an interesting way of pronouncing things." He reminisced for a short few seconds, finding a small pleasure in the fact that he could still remember the faces of his parents, albeit in a blurry and outdated fashion. He wondered if he'd be forgotten when - if - he ever came home to them; perhaps they'd already ordered another child from the stork, eager to move on with their lives.

"Vincent," she said, "I had a friend named Vincent once. He played the saxophone in the school band. We couldn't ever think of a nickname for him either. Because VInnie just - weird. Stale. Reminds me of Minnie Mouse too much."
Nash drew in a deep breath. "I don't even remember my last name," she admitted, "I'm jealous that you can." She longed to have a last name. "Even if I remembered it, I doubt it was real. I swear, the second I was born, my father wanted to leave me. I just didn't realize that." And perhaps this was true - he'd given her necessities, like food and shelter, and a bed. But not real love. She's never had anything but the basics, and her father referred to her as "it". "I think it's because I wasn't a boy that my father didn't like me." she said confidently, "He wanted a boy. All the things in my room were fit for a little boy. How stereotypical. Like a girl can't be boyish?" Her father had never once called her 'baby' or 'honey' or 'daddy's little girl' or any cutsie nickname that father's usually gave their daughters.

"I'm named after my uncle Vince," Vincent followed on, hoping to paint brighter memories through his mind. "I was never that fond of him though. He always tried to lift me up and swing me about like an airplane, making the weird engine noises, but I thought he was a mad scientist trying to rearrange my insides." It was the truth, although he should know better; he was pushing fifteen, after all, and his immaturity didn't help in establishing a image more suitable for his age; but maybe, just maybe, they'd know - they'd hear Vincent talking about them and somehow take him back.
"No last name? That's not a problem," a part of his stomach sank at Nash's apparent disconnection to her family, but he put up a smile because that was just what he'd always done. "Plenty of kids - kids like us, I mean - make up their own names when they haven't got none. You can adopt a new one if you'd like," he offered.
Vincent felt sick for a certain moment; they'd wanted to leave her, but he was the one who'd left them. Not permanently, of course - he was too scared, too young to leave the only home he knew - but he stills feels as though he'd taken his family for granted, when here Nash was, calmly presenting a tale of her family's resentment towards her.
"He's an idiot, then," he whispered, his words trembling on his lips. "Girls aren't as stupid as boys."

Nash swiped her hand across her eyes, trying not to cry. This is the nicest anyone's been to her since she was dropped. "Thanks for that," she told Vincent. "But he wanted a boy so bad. Then he divorced my mom because he'd had an affair, and the kid from that situation was boy. He wanted someone to be the heir to his company." Strange how she'd never even known the companies name - not it's name, not what it did, nothing. She'd never known. "His little boy's an 'angel' to that man. But he certainly didn't seem that smart to me the only time I'd ever meet him."
This was making her slightly uncomfortable, and she asked Vincent something else. "What about you? What's your back story?" Remembering how uncomfortable she'd felt herself, she added, "You don't have to tell me if it makes you uncomfortable."

"Spoiled kids are bad apples, generally speaking," Vincent chortled under his breath; it felt nice, having someone to comfort. His attempt to direct his attention elsewhere was, for once, actually working, and he could barely feel the pain navigating down his nerves now. "Well, I ought to know."
"Me? Oh, you know, I used to be just one of those kids." He thought about the cheery, healthy teenager that he could have grown into and felt a pang of resentment towards himself; the path that his parents had mapped out for him was good enough, but no, he just had to lead himself astray.
"Never went hungry. My parents were good at what they did; doctors, I think they were." It disturbed him, how little he knew of his parents; he remembered when he would long to sit at the adults' table, but now, he'd never get the chance.
"I was bored out of my mind though. They bought me toys, but they were no good, really; they were cruisin' around hospitals and such, and it's not that fun playing by yourself. I'd invited a few kids from school to play with me, but my mom got rid of them after the fat boy ate all the potato salad on the counter. So I tried to have fun," he recounted, almost choking on his words; it was a miracle that he was able to push them out of his tightening throat. "That-that night I stayed up till they were snorin' and came out the bathroom window. They hardly ever took me out or anything, and there was a circus in town," Vincent felt his vision blur with a mist of tears, but there was something exhilarating about finally letting this out. "They were all talking about it at school. I just wanted to get one look at it," he sighed; how ironic it was for something filled with such joy to be the catalyst to the demise of his own happiness, although he supposed he shouldn't put the blame upon it. He'd caused it single-handedly; it was his fault alone.
"Then there was this man with beer on his breath and this dirt-covered truck, and well, you know how it is," he laughed nervously, failing to elaborate further.

"That's horrible." Nash said firmly. She considered that much worse then her own story. At least she'd known where she stood with her parents. Her mother was weak, too weak to do anything but cower, her father both selfish and hating her with such passion, she often found herself leaving the house as he stepped in so she wouldn't have to deal with it, fearing even the moment that she stepped through doorway at the same time as him. She was scared of every time he called her 'girl' and she was even more terrified when her called her by name. Because he'd chosen that name for her, the whole thing, even though he'd hated her, and if he was using it, something was completely utterly wrong. Nash had hated coming home from school, to see her mother smiling painfully.
But Vincent - it had all been an accident. Nash had been expecting it for years. Vincent had wanted to see a circus, and it had gone downhill. It was only bad luck. Plenty of children snuck out for any variety of reasons, and they were returned safe and sound. And Vincents perfect live had been torn apart.
"That's horrible," she repeated, "All this for a mistake! Did you ever try to find them? Your parents? You must have?" Or did they not want you back now that you weren't the pristine child they'd lost? SHe tacked on silently.

"One time I got a bag of stale breadsticks and I walked until I was on the edge of this town - back when I still could, that is," Vincent recounted, a sad smile stretched across his childlike face, "but my shoes had all these holes in them, the soles flipping about and whatnot, and I didn't think I'd be able to make it with 'em like that. It was all highways and soggy marshes from that point on, and I got scared so I walked back." He was angry at himself for his naive cowardice now. At least he had a chance of walking long distances at that time; maybe he could have hitched a ride, or found a shortcut along the way. But it was pointless now. The opportunity slipped from between his careless fingers.
"And afterwards I tried to board some buses going outta town, but they all thought I was fakin' it," Vincent waved his hand at his damaged leg. "I told them my story, though doing that made me even less credible in their eyes. Wouldn't blame them though; there's been plenty of people trying to get out with no ticket, although not for the same reasons as mine, I don't think," he speculated.

"I wish I could help you find your family," Nash said, "But you probably don't want to see them." That would be her sentiment - she'd lived so long on the streets, there was probably no possible way for her to go live with someone normal. "And I don't think I could help whatsoever. After all, I am a alley kid. Though I still remember where my parents live. Er, lived. They probably moved just because I'd remember where they lived." She'd been careful to avoid that side of the town, anywhere within a few blocks was off-limits to her. She didn't want to see her family, even at a glance.