InsaneJournal

Section 4 (instalment 1)
Word count: 1 686



Max had started to believe he'd gotten the hang of it. Staying away from the 'gangs', staying away from almost anybody else who lived on the streets or thought they controlled them in any way. Of course, he'd had a few scrambles, that was unavoidable for a new face, but he was still a kid, and he banked on that fact as much as he could; and he did run fast. And didn't press where he didn't need to, and generally tried to keep his nose clean.

And for months and months, a few scruffles like the first one had been the extent of it. But winter was in full swing, late January. The holidays were over, the muck and slime reigned, and somebody seemed to have decided that one more homeless mouth was too much in the city. They didn't send kids to do it either.

He'd been running from the one guy with the knife when the other man grabbed him. It wasn't even that dark a street, just quiet. (It wasn't even during the night, but the gray sky made it gloomy enough, Max recalled later.) All of sudden, there were two large hands grabbing him and picking him up and he was kicking and shouting now, but it was too quiet a street. Working hours. If there was anybody home, it was probably a housewife or two, too cowed to come out and help, and calling the police would make things too late. All he could see, held as he was, was the first man closing in, knife held low and now he wasn't running anymore, wasn't in a hurry. And he could smell the other man's stench, that's what Max did, always, try to make sure he had all the senses covered, but he'd been out of breath and this one had come from behind trash cans which smelled anyway and now it was all around him and he was gripping too tight, not caring, the kid was a goner anyway, so what did it matter?

Max struggled, and struggled more, to get away, to run more, but his hands were still too small, still not strong enough to break the grip, his muck-covered shoes (still too thin and already too worn to keep his feet from freezing, but it'd been the best he had had the money to buy, by that point) just slid over the man's legs, no matter how much he tried to kick him (worse than when his father picked him up and threw him off...) and the man with the knife was close now, so close that Max could see the color of his eyes, and he shouted more, and he was angry and afraid and nononono it can't end like that, I don't want it to end, no "NOOOOO"...

It felt like something left him in a rush, somehow, and he was out of breath all of a sudden, fighting off the need to sag in the arms that held him from running away. (Not that he could have run anywhere right now, and that scared him more, and he tried to get himself together and--)

The other man was no longer approaching. It looked like he'd run into a wall that nobody could see, unexpectedly. Max blinked, and then the man was advancing again, and somehow for some mad reason he thought it was HIM that had kept him away and his fear and anger surged again and he tried to do it once more and it worked somehow, though he was even more exhausted and he didn't understand at all. How. Or what. Was going on.

But the knife was away from him for the moment.

Then there was the sound of another set of steps, running from the direction that they'd come from, and Max actually whimpered. Another one? Honestly, who'd be sending three adults to take down a single kid? He'd not all that much, to deserve such VIP treatment.

He didn't want such VIP treatment. He didn't want to die, at all. And whatever he was doing to hold off the other grown-up, it wavered again, and the knife-holding hand came half a step closer, even though now he was looking around to see who those steps belonged to too, and that gave a flicker of hope to the boy. Maybe, maybe if somebody showed up there'd be help enough to slip out?

A man showed up. He was wearing a cloak that seemed a gray similar to that of the clouds; and he was short and of Asian origin and old, older than the two there, and seemed like he was of a different world. He barged in around the corner, waving a sword (what? Max blinked eyes growing ever more tired, but it seemed to still be there, and he looked like he knew what he was doing with it), then suddenly stopped and stared at the boy for a long, long moment, then the man with the knife was coming at him and then he was without the knife and on the ground, but the sword hadn't hit him and he wasn't bleeding. And the arms around Max let him go and he slid to the ground, knees bucking under him and he felt into the mud. The other man, the one who had grabbed him and smelled so foul, was running away. And that was fine by him.

Everything was fine by him, for a little bit. Then he doubled over and retched. Threw up the little bits of food he'd managed, then kept on dry heaving for a while. He was still at it when the polished boots (muck-stained. They were both polished and muck-stained, and it was all that Max could see right then, trying to fight for breath, trying to fight for consciousness. It seemed important to keep that. He didn't remember why, exactly.)

Then the man squatted beside him, one hand on his shoulder. Surprisingly, not to push him or pull him - but to support him a little.

"What's your name, boy?" The sentence was simple and precise and accented and for a little while made the boy blink in incomprehension.

"M-Max." He swallowed, then dry-heaved again, then tried to breathe again. "Max Parker."

"That was really good thing you did back there, it was. You were keeping him away but weren't harming him. That is... rare."

"I did that? I didn't know..." His teeth were chattering. He wasn't sure his words were understood, so he tried them again. "I don't know what I did."

"You didn't, hmm? Very rare indeed. Where do you live, Parker Max?"

"I... Max, just Max." The question made him focus a little. "Nowhere."

"How do you live nowhere? You're alive somewhere, no?" There was something about the voice, the words, the clipped, odd cadences that made his fear fade a tiny little bit. Not the cold, just the fear.

"Nowhere. No address."

"Ah. I see then. Well, my name is, I am Katashi Kubo. And I'll ask you to come with me now. I won't do anything to you, but we need to talk, and it needs to be now but you can't. So we'll get you warmed up and rested, and then we'll talk. All right?"

"You say that like I can do anything about it!" Max thought he was lying. Was certain he was lying, right then. Talk was way too sweet with a street kid that could be dead tomorrow anyway.

"You do. You can tell me to leave you alone now, and I will. But you could get into trouble, and what I can tell you may help. And if you don't like what I tell you, you just go out and leave. But isn't a choice more important when you know what you're choosing between?" That got Max to look up and try to look him in the eye. "No, no, now don't do that, please? I mean no harm, but this, this won't be good for you right now."

He couldn't make sense of it any more. But he knew what the man had said was true. Better know what to choose between, always better. I'm alive. I got out of that. He blinked a bit at that, and it helped chase a bit more of the fear away.

"I... thanks. For showing up." Shakily, Max tried to rise up. He was very light-headed, but he didn't just topple over. "I'll... come. I think. No harm hearing, I guess." Or getting warm. Or sleeping, maybe, just now. "I... don't know the name kind. What do I call you?"

"That would be really depending on what you choose, ... Max. Down one path, you call me 'that crazy old man who told me those strange things and had a sword'."

"Ah... okay. And... otherwise?"

"Down the other path, you call me Sensei."

Max frowned, confused. "What's that mean?"

"Means 'teacher'."

"You like that word."

"I do. I don't get to be that very often." There seemed to be more to that, but Max wasn't aware enough to try and find it. He just nodded, and when the man started walking, he followed. Didn't ask for help. "How old are you, Parker... Max?"

"I'll be eleven in March."

"Aah about good age. You seem older."

"I'm bigger than most kids my age." He would usually say that with pride. Or he would have, a year ago. Now it was merely a statement of face.

And so they went on, questions and answers, for the blocks until they reached a small house that the man opened the door to. "Here you go, now, Max. Welcome you to my home."

Max nodded faint thanks, making his head spin again, and walked in.

It would be a lot later that he recalled that once he'd refused to answer a question, Katashi Sensei didn't ask it again right then.

But the house was quickly warmed by a fireplace, and he was fast asleep in an armchair before he'd been five minutes in the house.

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