maskormenacelogs | I don't want it

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I don't want it

WHO: Askeladd, Askeladd, and you!
WHERE: Porter cities
WHEN: while feywild magic is going nuts
WHAT: Askeladd gets stuck with an embarrassing voice, and then reverts to being ten.
WARNINGS: child Askeladd is likely to come with references to some heavy topics (i.e. slavery)

1. any Porter city

Askeladd is, clearly, settling in quite nicely. Today, he's taking advantage of the spring weather to sit at one of the outside tables set up by a local coffee shop, legs stretched out and feet resting on the opposite chair. He's leisurely reading through today's newspaper, taking an occasional sip from the cup on the table in front of him. And watching whoever else passes by.

That part is getting more interesting. A woman out walking her dog starts to hover, seeming to walk on air a food above the ground. Then two feet. She stops, dropping the leash in surprise, but all that means is that she stays in one place as she rises even more rapidly, leaving the now furiously barking dog on the ground.

Askeladd watches this with raised eyebrows. "Well, she'd better start walking towards a building."

Except his voice comes out octaves higher than it usually is.

That startles him. It's not funny.

2. Heropa, later any Porter city

He stands out.

He's tried to do his best not to. When he'd woken up in the strange set of rooms, he had taken his time. First to ensure no one else was there or apparently coming soon, then to observe out the windows, trying to figure out anything he could through looking at the place outside. It wasn't much, other than confirmation that he's somewhere completely strange. He has no idea where that is. And more importantly, he doesn't know where his mother is. He can't leave her. Unless this is an afterlife, and he already has...

Still, he could see what the other people here look like - dressed in strange, rich clothes. He'd have stolen something to wear from the rooms if anything would have fit him, but it's all made for an adult, not a ten-year-old. So he did what he could. Combed out his hair. Washed his face and hands, once he'd figured out the odd knobs next to the basin in what must be a bathing room (amazing, that). He doesn't look as ratty as he could when he steps out into the street. He's just still, unfortunately, dressed in a very worn tunic and trousers, stained with ash and dirt.

He hugs the sides of buildings, trying to make himself even smaller in an attempt not to be noticed, squinting at signs and wishing he could read. He lingers just within earshot of conversations, but the talk he hears of "bluetube" and "the Jeopardy elections" doesn't exactly help.

It's only a matter of time before he becomes an object of curiosity. One concerned woman asks him if he's a "new imPort," and it soon becomes a crowd of disconcertingly friendly faces, asking him what world he's from, whether he can do magic, and all sorts of outlandish questions. He's not used to this sort of attention (he's not used to being given much attention at all), and it makes it hard to come up with a lie to make them leave him alone. "I'm just on my way to work."

That leads to someone declaring that he's far too young to work, which is ridiculous.

In the coming days, he does manage to find some appropriate clothes, and blends in more as he wanders the cities. It's hard to believe that if he's been brought here, his mother hasn't been. He visits parks, repeatedly, reasoning that of all the places he's found they're the ones she would like best. Occasionally, if he finds someone who looks particularly friendly or notices that someone's watching him, he'll ask if they've met a woman named Lydia. She's ill. She'll need help.

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Ever since Bean woke up in his older, taller body, he's been spending most of his time in his office at H.O.P.E. His bed in Nonah is too small for him now, so he just curls up over his desk to sleep, and decides to get work done instead of think about how his body is a ticking time bomb.

But a growing boy still needs to eat, so he ventures out into the city from time to time. One of those times, he comes across a crowd of natives badgering a boy who looks about the age Bean is meant to be, dressed in anachronistic, dirty clothes. Bean figures he's either new, or an older imPort whose age has been messed with as well. Either way, he doesn't deserve to be bothered by 'fans.'

"Leave him alone." Bean's voice is now low and booming, as though being over seven feet tall wasn't enough to scare the locals away. They take one look at the giant teen and scatter, allowing Bean to get closer to the boy.

"They didn't hurt you, did they? Sometimes they can get... overzealous."

The man is huge, taller even than any of the warriors he's ever seen, and for a moment the boy can only gape in surprise. Both at the stature, and the fact that someone intervened at all.

Man? No, he's not actually that old, judging by his face. Just tall.

The boy shakes his head. (It's better to avoid speaking until you have someone's measure, when you can.)

"Good."

Well, what now? The boy won't talk. Either he's too scared, or he's made a conscious decision not to. Bean would have done the same, if he found himself in that position at that age. Assess the scene, decide what to do. Know, think, choose, do. The mantra that got him through his youth, that kept him alive both on the streets of Rotterdam and then in Battle School.

Bean knows there's something affecting people's ages. He thinks this boy might be a victim. He's chosen to help him. So what does he do?

"Do you need anything? Food, clothes?"

He squints, looking for a sign that this is a joke. Intervening with the other strangers, well, sometimes there are people kind enough (or annoyed enough with the noise) to keep things from getting too bad. But offering, so easily, to give him something? No one he's encountered here may know exactly what he is, but it's perfectly clear he's not local and has no status. What would the older boy get out of helping?

Maybe the gesture comes from pity. He hates pity - it usually comes with condescension and the expectation that he act appropriately grateful for what's given, regardless of what it is. But he can still use pity. He can be grateful, if that's what's wanted.

"...Clothes." He's hungry, but he's usually hungry, and he can deal with that. Avoiding so much attention is more important. "I can work for it."

He doesn't want to be in someone's debt, if it can be avoided.

Bean understands the feeling of wanting to be on an even level with someone, not owing any debts. But he's also pretty sure whatever odd power is causing people's ages to be switched up won't last long enough for the boy to do any real work to clear his debt with Bean. Not that Bean particularly cares to hold him to it, anyway.

"Follow me."

They're in Heropa, not far from H.O.P.E., where Bean keeps an extra change of clothes in his office. If the boy will follow him to the school, then the clothes ought to fit him. It's not like they fit Bean when he's like this.

He hesitates, not certain if this is worth the risk. But anything he does is a risk right now. If the older boy is genuinely helping, it will put him in a much better position than he was just minutes ago. And if not, well, he can probably still get something out of it.

So he follows, picking up his pace to keep up with the other's (very) long legs. And looking around as they go. It really is everything that's completely strange. Why would anyone make buildings with flat roofs, and so many of them? All the metal...carriages, he guesses? They hover off the ground. Maybe the question he was asked about magic really did have reason behind it. Even the trees are odd. And how far south are they? He doesn't mind the heat (he's spent too much time crouched next to the forge for that), but it's not weather he's at all used to.

"You live close to here?" Not exactly admitting that he doesn't know where this is. But maybe opening up a way to finding that out.

"I work near here," Bean gently corrects. "At a school for people like us." The boy might think he's too young to be working at a school, for all Bean knows, but he'd be even more surprised to hear he's usually six years younger when he works there.

He spares a glance down at the boy, making sure not to walk so fast that he can't keep up. "You probably have a lot of questions. I could answer them for you, if you want."

A school? "You're a monk?" Not dressed at all like the only monk he's ever seen, but he probably shouldn't expect that, here. It could explain the apparent kindness. Christian monks are supposed to do all sorts of strange things, for 'charity' or 'penance.'

But that's not the thing that stands out most. "What do you mean, 'people like us'?"

...People who aren't from here?

"I'm a teacher," Bean corrects gently. But at least that gives him some sense of a timeline. There was a time in history when education was reserved for religion and that's it. Maybe it's Sister Carlotta's influence, his tendency towards charity. Maybe it's because he needed someone to be charitable to him when he was younger and nearly starving.

"People who are brought to this world from their homes. I'm guessing you have no idea why you're here, or how you got here." It's a safe assumption, anyway. These sort of memory-altering events tended to have that effect on people.

That's its own role? Well, it seems that it is here. What does he teach? Reading? Combat? Both, if teaching is your entire job?

He's reluctant to admit the scope of his ignorance. Too much a sign of weakness, far greater than admitting you don't have normal clothes. If you admit you have no direction, someone will make it for you. You can't trust a stranger to do that. You can't trust almost anyone with something like that.

Brought to this world, the older boy said. Not land.

Like slipping into the realm of the fairies, but...going even further? If that's true (he's not sold on it, though he can't figure out what the motive for lying would be yet, and with the strange things here it seems...possible), then he really doesn't know shit about what's going on.

He shakes his head.

The boy doesn't need to speak. Bean knows he wouldn't, if he had found himself in a strange city back when he had been living on the streets. Not that he knows that this boy is in that sort of situation. But being from an ancient time is a lot like being homeless. You're deprived of a lot of modern basic necessities.

So that's fine. Bean can speak enough for the both of them.

"This planet is Earth, in case that's something new to you. The country is called The United States of America. The year is 2020, in Spring." All said simply, with no judgement behind recognizing the names or not.

He takes it in, solemnly but as if it's any other news. As if he can follow what any part of that means except spring. Get the information now. Tease out what it means later.

"This city?" That won't help either, not yet, but the more specifics he has the better.

"It's called Heropa," he answers simply, ever patient. "It's in the southern part of the country, which is why it's so warm."

It's not the same kind of heat that you get out in Jeopardy, and as much as Bean hates the Nevada city he was originally assigned to, he prefers that kind of dry heat to the humid swamp weather of Florida.

The longer he’s out in it, the more uncomfortable the heat is becoming. It’s not the temperature, in and of itself, it’s the…stickiness. There’s some kind of dampness in the air that makes the heat feel heavier. It seems like an unpleasant place to live.

“Does everyone who’s…like us live here?”

It makes sense to him that, if what he’s been told so far is true, the strange foreigners would be kept in an unpleasant city. Though from the crowd earlier, it’s clear there are plenty of people native to the country here as well.

"Not just here. There are five different cities where people like us live." Technically, imPorts can move outside the Porter cities if they want to, Bean's pretty sure, but most stay close to the Porters if they can help it.

He glances down at the boy, thinking about the Florida heat and how he's clearly not dressed or prepared for it.

"If you want, I can buy you something cold to drink."

Five? There are that many of them? Or do the people in charge want them spread out, unable to contact each other?

He squints up at the other boy again at the offer. As ragged as his clothes are, they're meant for a colder climate just as he is. But he's already accepted the offer of new clothes, does he want to add to that?

He swallows past the dryness spreading in the front of his throat. Then again, if he's already accepted the offer for clothes, a drink isn't much more on top of that, is it?

He nods.

Bean nods back, then silently changes course to lead them into a nearby convenience store. It's thankfully air conditioned, and lit with a bright fluorescent light. There are rows and rows of snacks and other dry goods, but Bean heads past them to the coolers in the back. After looking over what is on offer for a moment or two, he opens a cooler door and pulls out two bottles of pink lemonade. Seems like a simple enough drink.

After heading to the counter to pay, he hands the boy one of the bottles, taking the other one for himself and unscrewing the cap for a long sip.

"It's a little sour, but sweet also."

The cool, dry air is a relief - it makes him realize he hadn't been getting a full breath outside. But the inside of this shop is as strange as anything outside. Stranger, in fact. He follows the older boy slowly, down the aisles lit by unforgiving white lights. What is in all these brightly colored bags lining the shelves? At least some of it must be food, judging by the pictures of berries or cows stamped on them, but can all of them be?

Maybe they can, he realizes, as he sees all the different kinds of drinks behind the glass doors in the wall. He wonders what the difference between some of them even is. Everything behind two of the doors looks like water, but the bottles come in different shapes with differently colored labels. Everything here would likely make so much more sense if he could read. It's good, he supposes, that he ran into someone who clearly can.

He watches how the other boy opens the bottle, unscrewing his own cap carefully and taking a small sip. He's never seen a pink drink before. His eyes open wide at the taste.

"It's really sweet." But tart, too, like the tall boy said. He squints at it, not sure what to think. Whatever else, it's wonderfully cold. He takes another sip.

Bean sips his own lemonade, making no move to head back out into the heat. Probably better to let the boy recover in the air conditioning for a bit before they continue on their way to H.O.P.E.

"Don't drink too fast." If his stomach isn't used to so much processed sugar, Bean doesn't want him to make himself sick. He remembers when he had first come off the streets and had access to real food. His body couldn't handle it at first. He quickly learned what his own limits were.

It's been a few days of getting semi-accustomed to this as the apparent new normal, and despite the disorienting changes, it doesn't actually feel like a crisis: the world keeps turning. Paychecks still need earning and rent will need paying, particularly since Allison isn't her usual model self, and can't exactly show up for the same jobs she'd booked before this happened.

So on this spring day, the natives of Heropa are treated to the jarring sight of a thirteen-year-old boy (in new clothes which fit him, thankfully) strolling down the street, with an entire two-seated sofa balanced comfortably on his shoulder despite it being twice his size, as easily if he's just carrying a briefcase. He can still do his job for Joe's Movers, despite being so much smaller than he used to be.

Luther does almost trip, though, as he recognises a blond boy wandering in the opposite direction, crossing his path. He wouldn't have, if he hadn't seen those memories just a month ago.

"Askeladd?" he asks, goggling at him.

He's been watching the older boy while trying to make sure he's not staring. It's one thing to have been told people have strange powers here beyond anything normal - it's another to see someone casually carrying something that large. Still, it's no business of his. Or wouldn't have been.

He knows it's a mistake as soon as he turns in response, but by then it's too late. He can lie, he can mask his emotions or put the expected expression on his face. But he can't do it with the alacrity and ease that he'll have in just a few years. So there's no hiding the first flash of fear, or the anger it morphs into before he's able to settle on a liar's blankness.

"That's not my name." It isn't. He'd thought there was no one here who would know that nickname, that he could shake it off like, well, ash. It doesn't make sense that this boy knows it. He's not from the village. So how?

It's a ripple of expressions across the other boy's face that, of all things, suddenly reminds him of Diego. That lightning-quick, whiplash anger revealing itself before it's smothered. Luther's response is carefully bland, still standing there on the pavement carefully balancing that sofa on a shoulder: "Isn't it? Sorry, it's what I know you as. Or knew you. You don't recognise me?"

Some people might have doubted their own recollection, maybe figured they'd misremembered that fleeting memory, mixed up this blond boy with another. But Luther's memory is an iron trap where it comes to faces. They're a piece of data, a collection of potential allies or villains. He'd been drilled on the rogues' gallery as a kid himself: learning all the VIPs and people-to-know in their city, and Guess Who and memory exercises, but done with all of his father's enemies printed on heavy cardstock. Whatever worked.

Of course he’s known by it. It’s what everyone where he’s from calls him, with one exception. But he would recognize anyone from the village. The other boy could be someone who came through the smithy while traveling, but…he would remember anyone who bothered enough with the slave boy in the back to claim he knows him. He’s always been good with faces, good at identifying and keep track of people. Who’s hostile, who’s tolerant.

“I don’t know you.” He says it firmly, in spite of the uncertainty and sinking suspicion the use of that nickname brings, trying to imply and you don’t know me through simple determination. “My name is Lucius Artorius Castus.” The classical Latin pronunciation, carefully articulated. Maybe there’s a chance the insistence will convince the other boy that he’s mistaken.

And it’s the best thing about ending up here, away from his mother, away from anything he knows how to deal with. He doesn’t have to fit himself into what the Danes expect of him, what he’s used for. He doesn’t have to be Askeladd. He can take the name that only his mother has ever used. He’s not giving that up now.

"That sort of thing has been... happening lately." There's a thoughtful slowness to the boy's voice that doesn't fully fit his thirteen-year-old looks; it's more ponderous, calculating. Luther finally sets the sofa down on its side, hands propped against its edges as he looks over this new version of Askeladd. It's a longer, more thorough view than that short glimpse he got from a memory.

"You've probably learned that this world is pretty weird and not anything like what you're used to from home, right?" (Not that Luther knew much about his origins; Askeladd was so tight-lipped about everything.)

"Some kind of magic has been making people older, younger, and messing with their memories. You've been in this world before as an older man — both of us have. We knew each other, before."

It's a weird thing to try to convince someone of, and hard to do when he isn't even armed with enough personal details to convince the other kid. But he's trying. And he finally touches on the only raw nerve he knows of, the piece of information Luther wasn't even supposed to receive:

"Your, uh. Your mother is blonde like you and has blue eyes. You worked in a smithy."

It’s…a lot, to try to understand. Everything here is, but this somehow manages to be even more outlandish. But should it be? If they can gain odd powers, if they’re in a different world, couldn’t it mess with time too? But it’s still not an explanation. No one would recognize someone they met as an adult turned into a child at only a glance. So how does he know?

It’s also quite possibly a lie, of course. It’s outlandish enough that someone might be inclined to credit it simply due to not being able to believe someone could come up with it. And perhaps, the older boy is someone from the village, but at an age where Lucius can’t recognize him. Why lie, though? He doesn’t actually seem hostile. More like he’s also trying to work things out.

And then he mentions Lucius’s mother and what he does back where he comes from, and everything shifts.

How does he know?

He eyes the teen warily, cornered but, perhaps, a little hopeful that there’s something better to come. His voice, though, is carefully neutral. “Is she here?”

And just like that, Luther's heart splinters a little at having to break this news. Because as much as he's secretly a grumpy thirty-year-old stuck in his teenaged body again (or is Luther more like forty now, with his memories of the City shoved in atop everything else?), this version of Askeladd... isn't. He seems like an actual, genuine child again, and so Luther imagines this will hurt to hear:

"No, she isn't. Not that I know of, at least. You can, uh." He fishes around in his pocket, pulls out a communicator; it looks less comically small in his hands these days. "Do you still have one of these? If you look up her name in the directory, you can see if she's arrived here."

It's...a disappointment. Which is stupid. He knows nothing is easy, can already recognize how little here seems to make sense. But there's still a twist that drags his heart downwards, even as he keeps any reaction from showing, keeps his face, hands, and shoulders still.

It means, too, that a possible explanation is gone. Just how was he recognized, and how could this other boy possibly know about his mother?

But he pauses in trying to puzzle out that to consider the machine the older boy produces. There had been something like that on a table in the rooms he first woke up in, but Lucius hadn't bothered with it. Pointless to steal something you can't use. He shakes his head.

What is a 'directory,' anyway? A written list, maybe? People seem to read things on devices like that, and you wouldn't look up something by talking to it. If that's the case, he couldn't use it anyway.

"...Lydia."

It's giving even more information away. But with all that this boy knows already, at least Lucius can give up something potentially useful. In case there still is a chance, for someone who can read to find.

Luther had half-expected Askeladd to look it up himself (say this for the man he'd known: he was extremely independent), and doesn't even realise why he hasn't — but when handed that name, he treats it as delicately as he can. Scrolls through the communicator carefully, searching the list of all the imPorts this world has ever fielded. His mouth twists thoughtfully.

"Not Lydia Martin, right? That's the only one I see here, and her account's been deactivated for five years." He shows the screen to Askeladd, incorrectly assuming the boy can read.

And it's not even the news he'd have wanted to hear, anyway. He tries to put himself in those shoes; tries to imagine feeling the brief glimmer of hope that Grace was alive again, and that she was here. There are other robots here, after all: Cayde. Danger. Knock Out. The Porter dragging in their mother isn't unheard-of.

"I'm sorry."

He shakes his head, staring at the glowing surface as if anything splashed across it has some meaning. It doesn't. Not Lydia Martin, just Lydia. Not five years ago, now.

The sorry makes him blink up at the other boy, surprised not just by the words but the sympathetic tone. People are oddly sympathetic here, but he doesn't expect it. Would never expect it from someone who somehow recognizes him.

He shrugs, turns his attention to the side. "Thanks for checking."

"I know it's not great news," Luther admits, still sounding apologetic even though this isn't at all his fault. And then he stands there, almost squirming in the awkward silence that springs up between them, sinking its way in the cracks in this conversation — because how do you follow that up? how do you talk to a younger version of someone you know but who doesn't even remember you?

Which is about the point he realises too-late that he hasn't actually introduced himself (to... Lucius? Lucius Artorius Castus? is that his real name, then?), because he'd still, instinctively, felt like the other blond already knew. Must have already known.

So he adds, "My name's Luther Hargreeves. If you... need anything, or wind up with any questions, or... or something. You can tell your version of this thing," he taps the communicator, "to call me."

If this strange effect lasts much longer.
But god knows how long these things last, these days. He'd hoped for a one-day turnaround, but it's already lasted longer than he'd like, trapped back in this body and stuck wrangling a Number Three who also doesn't remember the twenty-odd years between then and now.

Luther Hargreeves. It's not a name like any he knows, or at least any he knew before waking up here.

He does still have a question. It would be better if he could figure out a way to be subtle about it, could maybe use one of those machines to help him approach it sideways. But there's no helping it. He has to ask while Luther is here, or he might not get any chance at all.

"You said you met me as a man. So how did you recognize me?"

The corner of Luther's mouth twitches, a self-conscious almost-smile. Even this bit is... strange to explain.

"Weird things happen here. You might've noticed that, people having unexpected abilities and stuff? Maybe even magic? Well, a while back, some kind of magic led to people seeing each others' memories. I saw you as a kid, and you saw my childhood. So I knew what you looked like."

The whole expo disaster was more tech-based, really, but having seen Askeladd's muddy origins in the forge, this feels like the safer way to explain it. Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.

That...

Is the stupidest explanation for something he's ever heard. Other times and even other worlds, well, it's not entirely impossible, with magic involved. But just being able to see into someone else's memory...it manages to be even more outrageous. He's heard plenty of stories of other worlds and lands that are only connected to earth by a thread, but he's never heard any stories of that.

It's the self-consciousness that makes it convincing. Luther clearly knows how ridiculous it sounds.

"But you're the only one who remembers."

It being convincing doesn't mean he's completely convinced.

"I guess," Luther says, with a vague flap of his hand that somehow manages to convey 'baffled and frustrated in equal measure'. (He's more expressive in this body, all his movements more quick and lithe, not burdened with all that weight.)

"Look, the girl I grew up with, she woke up looking a lot younger and she's lost all memory of the last seventeen years, too. So you're not the only one out there. Believe me: this whole thing is a huge, huge pain."

Askeladd's repose in the park is momentary, as it is disturbed not by any strange person, but by some of the creatures that reside there.

More specifically, a wild rabbit, which has sprung from the bushes, hopped on the boy in his way, and sprung along just as quickly off...to another boy. A boy who is already drowning at the ankles in rabbits, wobbling and trying to find a place to put his foot down that won't result in an unpleasant squish.

"Uh--o-okay, um. Please? Move? Hello? Stop? I--"

He jumps back at first, not realizing that the intruding animal is, well, just a rabbit. It's a surprise to see one so apparently unconcerned by human presence.

It's even more of a surprise to see it join so many more rabbits clustering around another boy. How does that happen?

"...Are they yours?"

Is the boy some sort of rabbit farmer? But then again, he seems baffled by this as well.

"No!"

Easiest answer of his life, honestly. Easiest and quickest, as he finds trying to take a step over some of the creatures was a mistake: Three more just came up to take the spot he meant to put his foot down, and, after some windmilling off-balance, Martin falls forward, catching himself with his hands, stuck in some kind of awkward yoga position as some rabbits sniff at his hands and face.

"I, I don't know what's going on! Animals are ssss...supposed to hate me!"

It's quite a sight - the older boy precariously balanced, held in place entirely by overly-affectionate rabbits.

He snickers.

"Doesn't look like these ones know that."

Somehow, Martin has enough energy to feel offended at being laughed at...for all the good it does him! Which is next to nothing, because it doesn't really change matters, like the fuzzy little critters nuzzling his hands and sitting up to try and sniff his face.

"W-well, I...I don't know what to do? I can't even, even walk around like this!"

The indignation just makes the situation funnier, really. He grins. "I guess you can't just pick them up right now."

Could you sell the rabbits, if you catch them, though? Could be useful. He takes a few careful steps forward, testing whether the rabbits will be startled enough by his presence to leave the other boy alone, or if they're happy to stay where they are.

The rabbits, strangely or not-so-strangely enough, are quite docile upon approach; rather than bolt away at the sign of a stranger, they merely huddle closer toward the source they are enamored with.

Martin peers past his shoulder, face red from the blood rush of holding this pose for so long.

"Sorry, uh. Can you, um...move? Some of them? Please? So I can stand up..."

"Well..." He crosses his arms, drawing out the moment as he continues to grin. "I guess I can try."

He crouches down, slowly reaching for the rabbit nearest the teen's dangling foot. And then, quickly pulling the creature up into his arms.

Which several of the rabbits apparently take as an invitation to start swarming him. "Hey!"

Sweet freedom!

Askeladd clears enough space for Martin to feel safe to change his footing and straighten back up, hopping over the confused bunny-pile to clearer ground. He looks over with a thank-you on his tongue...that morphs into a baffled sound as he sees the tides turn.

"Whoa--wha? Now they like you?"

It'd be wrong for him to say he's relieved...even if he kind of is.

He's fallen back from his crouch to sit on the ground, still holding the rabbit he'd picked up (which seems to be perfectly content where it is). Some of the rabbits, hearing the other boy, start hopping back to Martin. But some of them are too busy trying to hop up onto Lucius's legs to bother with that.

"Is this...a curse?" Something that happens to anyone who comes to this spot? Maybe they entered a fairy ring? He glances around, sharply.

"I don't know, but if you stay still, they'll do what they just did!"

Gather in a neverending, fuzzy pile, that is. So based on Martin's limited experience with this phenomenon, he can only offer a single bit of advice:

"Run!"

He's already starting to follow it himself...as many of the rabbits are still keen on giving chase.

Well, he can't sell a rabbit if he can't get anywhere because of the rabbits. Still holding the first one in his arms, he stands up as quickly as possible and jumps over the surrounding creatures. If it is a curse on the place, the other boy's right to get out of here as quickly as possible.

If only the rabbits weren't doing the same.

One of them darts out in front of his feet at exactly the right time to send Lucius tumbling forward, the rabbit in his arms hopping free. He doesn't cry out as he hits the ground (you don't let people know you're in pain, he's learned that), but falling flat on his face makes a notable thud nonetheless.

Were he to just keep running, perhaps Martin would have a fair shot of making a proper escape of sorts, get back home and slam the door before any of the furry fanatics could reach him. But that'd mean leaving the other kid to his fate, and after hearing him drop like that? Martin skids to a stop, turning on his heel.

More often than not, his thoughts can't keep up with a moment, and sometimes those moments require movement. Such is the case as he watches himself double back, reaching down to grab the kid by his wrist to yank him up to his feet. He's deceptively strong despite his lankiness -- made hardy from his lifetime of conditioning. And while he excels at very little, he is at least hardy enough for this: For pulling Askeladd to his feet and tugging him along to a running pace after stumbling over the incoming stream of rabbits trying to cut them off for cuddling.

"Run!"

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I don't want it

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2. Heropa streets

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2. maurtia falls tho

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