Time to sing, Mr. Canary

"They'd think I was an impostor." Vincent thought about the curiously distant image of his younger self, cleanly groomed and fit in a collared shirt, excess fat rounding out his pink-tinged face. "With this haircut-" he ran a hand through his damp, tousled hair which he'd cut with a rotten pair of dysfunctional scissors attached to his knife, scowling lightly. "-I doubt they'll recognize me at all." Not to mention his leg, he thought scornfully to himself. Who would believe that healthy boy, so filled with life and vigour, had grown into this battered teenager? He knew that his parents were nice people - they had to be, of course, but it was just much easier for them to deny his existence. It was the logical choice.
"So you haven't paid them a visit?" Vincent reached out to straighten the lid on his head, raising an eyebrow. "If so, then I doubt they'd move. That mean ol' dad of yours, he'd probably thought you wouldn't have the guts to go home, judging from how he's raised you."

"It's hard to believe," she said softly, "That once, we were all so..." she waved her hands to indicate what she meant, because the word wasn't coming to her. "More, I guess. So much more than this." Not battered, not beaten down, not beaten up. Not sad, not barely clinging to life, but full of it. Full of charm, and livelihood, and something else. Something cliche, like love, that's what it was. They were full of love, and happiness. Nash's mother loved her. Not her father. "You say I should go back? I don't even think I could. My mother might let me in the door."

"They're divorced, yeah?" Vincent asked, putting up an optimistic front as a hint of cheer mingled with his voice; all this conversation was depressing, and he couldn't help but picture the faces of his mom and dad, imagining what they'd look like now, as the little wrinkles framing their eyes stretched on to map out their faces, as their loving smiles faded to present resentful disappointment. They had to be disappointed with him; he'd be too were he in their position.
Finding himself lost in thought, he quickly searched his mind for what he'd meant to say in the first place. "They don't have much to do with each other now, do they? If your mom wanted to keep you now, I think she could." He smiled, hoping that his words would turn out to be true.

"They're divorced. I mean that if I knew where my mother was, she might let me in the door." She said bitterly. "No, it'd only be my dad's house now - she'd be gone. Kicked out, just like me. And I'm not brave enough to go march up and knock on the door and say hello to the new wife, and smile at the little toddler, because I'll always feel like he took my place, and then to just demand my mother's address from my father. He probably didn't even tell his new wife he had a child." A few blurry tears slid down her cheek and she swiped at them furiously. "Plus, my dad's such an ass that when they got divorced, he got custody of me. He didn't even want me!" Her voice dropped from it's shrill tone to a flat one. "I can't go back. Let's stop talking about this, it's depressing." SHe didn't want to be told that she could those things - because could she really? Could she really just go back, jump right back into such a normal life? Maybe her father'd be nice to her too, now that he had a pretty wife and a cherub of a son. Yeah, right.

"Right." Vincent said no more; no matter how many ideas he offered, they wouldn't be capable of weaving themselves into a solution to patch up the hole in Nash's unfortunate life; their lives had become broken a long time ago, and smiles and sunshine isn't going to fix that. It sickened him, the way her father discarded her without a second thought; parents were supposed to love their children, weren't they?
"It'd be best if we find our way someplace familiar, I think," he piped up again. "Maybe when it stops raining. Hopefully we won't have to resort to spending the night." He thought of his previous residence again; he'd stored up some mildly soggy newspapers and the sad remains of a holiday sweater, tucking them away under a garbage can. Hopefully, the rain won't have decimated them.

"I liked my last 'house'," Nash grumbled, trying hard not to cry by using annoyance. "It was warm. And dry. And biggish." It had actually been almost like this - with a warm brick wall, and when she set the trash cans up right, it was big and covered by cardboard. No one bothered her but the little lost one who lived the alley over.
Now, she hunched over, barely warm, but mainly dry. "I'm betting we stay the night." She eyeballed the rain, then him. This would mean no sleep. Because even if she liked this boy - enough to share her story, making him the only one who'd ever known - and they'd shared a similar experience, and he seemed decent, who's to say he wouldn't pick her pockets - not that there was much in them, but still - and run off?

"Gonna be a harsh night," Vincent stated, looking down at the awkward goosebumps that covered his thin arm. The lid that kept him from being completely wet jiggled frantically over his head; he hadn't realised that he was shivering again. It was a wonderful thing, then, that talking took some of the chill away.
"I had to share with a couple of rent boys so it was a bit crowded," he thought of his brief encounter with the older boys; would they have moved on by now? "They were nice enough and they said they liked me. I'd been staying with them for two or so days since they somehow managed to get me a bit of bread." He could very nearly feel his stomach churn helplessly at the mention of food, but he had no choice but to ignore its pleas. "And a strawberry," he went on, hoping to remember its taste on his tongue. "A fresh one. I'd almost forgotten what it tasted like."

"I've never had a strawberry" Nash said. "Do they taste good?" She puled her trash can hat off quickly, so they no water go on her or Vincent. They were under an awning, after all. She rubbed her hands together trying to warm up before placing them on the back of her neck, but that wasn't that warm either.
So she made an executive decision. She scooted close to Vincent and put her head on her shoulder. "I"m freezing, you're freezing" she said, instead of any explanation. It would probably seem that she was pulling the whole huddle-together-to-get-some-snuggle time, but no, seriously. She wasn't wet, but she was pretty effing cold. Her coat was gone, and her socks.

"It depends on your personal preferences but I've always liked them. The little seeds are nice and crunchy, but it sucks when you get 'em stuck in your teeth," Vincent shrugged lightly. "Still, it's nice to have something stuck between your teeth, especially when there's so little to eat. You could lick it every once in a while." Still, strawberry seeds weren't the most savoury snacks one could enjoy; he couldn't help but think about the myriad of delectable delights from back then - cake, meat, tropical fruits. Their appetizing appearance seemed so alien to him now, as though they ought to only belong on television or in paintings hung inside museums, but he knew that they tasted so good and there wasn't much he could do to stop the cold hunger stemming from the pit of his stomach.
Nash - the girl - seemed to come to his side suddenly; the rest of the world seemed to have overtaken Vincent in speed ever since the incident that incapacitated him. But he couldn't complain; the minor strand of warmth passing between their two bodies felt rather nice.
He shifted a bit, folding his bare legs together; it didn't help too much against the cold, but he'd like to think that it did.

"I'd like to have a strawberry one day." Nash said sleepily, stifling a yawn. Now that she was warmer -
No. She could not fall asleep. That was bad. That would not be good, because she didn't really trust this boy, even if she sort of did. It was only the logical part of her mind that kept her from sleeping, because she was sooooo very tired. She slapped her cheek to keep herself awake - she WAS NOT going to fall asleep! "Maybe I'll" - she yawned - "eat one some day. They look yummy. My dad ate them all the time, with ice cream. I just got carrots." She made a face. "I hate carrots." She'd come home from school, sneaking in a few cookies, or some juice then pour some milk and get out a carrot and pretend she'd been eating it.
"What do strawberries taste like?" Maybe, if she kept talking, she wouldn't fall asleep, because she was interested in what this kid had to say.

"Oh, but carrots are so very good for your development!" Vincent chuckled sarcastically, repeating one of his mother's favourite phrases. She made carrot juice weekly, filling the fridge with canisters full of the orangy liquid; it wasn't that bad, really, but he'd never admit it since he might luck out and get apple or orange juice instead if he complained enough. Is she still making carrot juice now? He remembered the family nights at the dinner table when his parents were actually home, off from hospital duties; he'd be nestled in a chair too big and creaky for him, a cup of juice, or cider, or even soda in front of him, while his parents popped open the wine with great joy and denied Vincent when he grabbed for it, curious at the substance that filled their faces with colour. He'd never have the chance to try it now, would he?
It had always stunned him to some degree, the tragedies of children dealt a dreary life from the very beginning. What parent would despise their child, their own flesh and blood? Or perhaps it was the norm - Vincent had generally been obedient, with the midnight escapade that started this all being a first in his life. They'd praised him for his sunny disposition and usual compliance constantly; would they hate him now, seeing what he did to them, to himself?
"My mom said that ice cream isn't that good for you and it came out of cows anyways," he muttered under his breath, hoping that would console her. She was yawning, and he was beginning to realise the dizzying desire to close his eyes himself; it wasn't one of those warm, sleepy feelings - he wants to close his eyes and sink into oblivion, running away from today's events. They scared him still, the wounds and the loss of memory.
"Mm, they're juicy," he tried to recall the strawberry; he'd nibbled on it for perhaps an hour, knowing that he may never eat another again. "either sweet or sour - you never know, really - a little tangy with a grainy texture on top. Maybe a little bitter if there's too many seeds, but it doesn't take away much from the flavour." He was used to falling asleep with an empty stomach, but all this talk of food wasn't very helpful. "They're good; you'll get the chance to try one, I'm sure."

"Ha!" She said said with a sharp outtake of air. This was, to her, hysterical. "If I ever have a job, I'm gonna buy cheap-ass things to eat so then maybe I'll be in a better place then I am now. Maybe GiGi would let me rent half her apartment." She named another girl who had been homeless untill recently - she was 18 now, and wasn't that old enough to buy an apartment? Unless GiGi had conned her way in. "One day," she said, speaking a tiny bit louder into his ear so he wouldn't fall asleep either - she couldn't trust herself not to pick his pockets - "Maybe one day, I'll have a life. With a steady job, and a living residence, and friends that I can actually call friends, because I don't have to worry that they'll pick my pockets. And my friends'll be happy people with steady jobs, and a home too."

His eyelids fluttered frequently, sending rapid flashes of black to grey down his optic nerves. It was hard to connect to the world in this state; even his voice sounds distant to him now, as though it was being projected from a radio in some shop like a dull talk show.
"Sounds like a good plan," he laughed quietly, pulling and rubbing at the edges of his darkened eyes, hoping to stay awake. He wasn't wary of Nash, no - she wasn't disabled, but she was just as frail and hey, she was a girl, shorter than him, even, but it was hard to predict what sort of things wandered the back streets at night. He'd heard about men who stole unsuspecting children away in the dead of night, eager to turn them into child labourers, and the simple threat of this possible situation set an air of unease upon him. Maybe they wouldn't take him because of his leg - but what about her?
"Maybe we should take turns staying awake, yeah?" He gazed at Nash, who looked quite reluctant to fall asleep despite their mutual fatigue. "This is unfamiliar territory, after all, and we might as well both get some shut-eye," he supposed that he trusted her to some degree. There was no value in taking his life or his scant amount of possessions; the best thing he owned was that crappy knife, and even that had came out of the trash.
"My parents wanted me to be a doctor too," he whispered into the distance, unsure if he was directing the conversation at Nash or himself. "Or a lawyer. They had high hopes."

Nash was giving up. She shouldn't but she was, because there was absolutely no way she was gonna be able to stay up, and Vincent looked like he was falling asleep as well.
So she gave up. The chances that he could pick her pockets and leave before she woke up were slim, plus she only had a few dollars in her pockets anyways, and then a card with GiGi's address on it, but she'd committed that to memory just in case. "You'd have been a fine doctor," she told him, "With a better hair cut."
Because right now, he sort-off, kinda cared for her. There could only one, maybe two reasons to take turns staying awake, and that was to keep watch. And honestly, he had to be worried about her, because...well, it was horrible to think, but no one in their right mind would want a kid with such a twisted leg.
"I'll stay awake first." She told him, definitely against her will. She thought about pulling away, because the warmth was clearly making her sleepier, but as she tried to pull away, she found it impossible. She'd just keep slapping herself to stay awake.

"And I could drive a shiny car and play golf," Vincent murmured in his soporific daze, the dark alley slowly fading away from his half-open eyes as he thought of his parents' favourite past times. It was almost therapeutic, thinking of the good life he used to lead, and possibly a brighter future that probably wasn't within reach, but he couldn't care less.
They were cocooned within each other's body heat, Nash and he, and whatever was outside of the circle of warmth had gone numb. He tried to push a few strands of hair away from his face, but found that he was too drained to even move his hand.
"Thanks," Vincent mumbled, finally getting the chance to ease shut his eyes. "Wake me up when you're ready to sleep, then."

She murmured that she would, hoping that she'd be lucid enough to wake him up before she actually fell asleep. They were both plenty warm now, and Vincent was dry too, and so was she, and sitting here with this boy who'd been a complete stranger only a few hours ago, sharing stories and trying to help - it was strangely comforting. Because how long had it been since Nash had been this close to another human being, one who trusted her to some degree and on that she trusted back? Since before she'd been abandoned. She'd never known how much she missed it.

I'll be bringing another character into being now, since Vincent's not much fun when he's asleep.

Role- Girl 2
Name- Christine (?) "Coaster" Gibbons
Age- 13, although it's hard to be sure when you don't have a calendar on hand.
Appearance- Long, coppery red hair that frequently looks brown because of the muck stuck in it, dark blue eyes, slightly muscular. Refuses to wear anything that's not a dress.
Biography- She'd never had a perfect life; her mother, once the daughter of a semi-affluent business owner, was disowned and kicked out onto the streets for her early pregnancy at the age of seventeen. After giving birth to her child, she was banned from the hospital for her inability to pay the fees.
"Christine" and her mother drifted from one place to the next, then, sometimes resolving to sleeping on the street before her mother secured a job at a chain of nightclubs as a lowly entertainer, landing the two of them a sad little place in the slums. Coaster witnessed her mother's death at age seven due to a throat infection that wasn't able to be treated; a neighbour who worked as an undertaker offered to cremate the body, although no one could've assisted her in paying the rent. Gathering whatever she could, she made her way onto the streets, earning a small quantity of money, both legally and illegally.
Prized possession- Her mother's ashes, which she wears around her neck in a little medicine bottle, as well as the photo of a man that was supposed to be her father.
Other- She's not sure if her name really is Christine; her mother rarely called her that, choosing instead to call her pet names like "honey pie". She did, once, teach her to write her name when Coaster was about three; she wasn't sure of the exact spelling, although it seemed like it was spelled like Christine. She was unable to pronounce it, however, screwing it up and pronouncing it Coaster, which stuck to this day.

She'd woken up, and they'd disappeared.
The rain was nothing more than a whisper now, extending its wet tendrils down into the sewers. She'd travelled all day, keeping to the trash-sprinkled back streets, letting the raindrops snip at Coaster's hair as to return it to its natural hue. There's never an umbrella when you need one, she summarized, searching the scattered alleyways for any sign of movement. A strange thing, seeing as though this town was always bustling with movement, either from steely cars or stony-faced pedestrians. Something was off about today.
Unlike them, she was a drifter. It would never work if her face was recognized; it was too dangerous, doing all the dirty work in one place. She wandered the streets, picking at opportunities too sordid for some of the more innocent young alley-dwellers to fully comprehend; but they weren't supposed to go - they were supposed to stay.
She met the kids just two days ago and they'd shared semi-clean water and semi-rotten apples together in an inconspicuous alley, obviously tidier than the norm; they'd lived here for months, they said, and they declared the half-empty alley their home. Was it no longer their preferred residence? Did she fail to receive some sort of secret memo?
It mattered not, now. This shady part of town was under a collective silent spell, it seemed; she'd peered into every grisly alley, hoping to see at least a kid or two squished within their cardboard tent, bickering over food portions and lucky pennies, but no, there was nothing to be heard.
"Someone say something, damnit!" she cursed at open air, shaking the beads of unrelenting rain from her head. "Where is everyone?" The frustration being alone was too much; she remembered being alone again, several years before, staring at her mother's carcass across the room. What seemed to be an artificial silence was simply too overpowering.
She stood still then, hoping to hear at least an echo, but it never came.

Nash heard the echo, a shriek of pent up frustration and anger, and even a hint of fear, and realized that Vincent had sounded just like that when he first called out that hello, throwing it down the alley to reach her.
So Nash called back. "We're here." She was careful not to say it right in Vincents ear, but he didn't wake up. What else could she say. Not 'I'm here', because there were two of them. Not 'something' because they was something she'd have said to another alley kid that she knew if she was being annoying. "Us two." Because who'd come if they heard 'we'? Nash knew that she'd think of a gang. With lots of people.