![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Dec. 16th, 2018 04:07 pmSunlight glinting through the lone window of her basement hideaway woke Fox from a dreamless sleep. Slowly stretching, then running her fingers through her clipped, auburn hair, her stomach growled, and she went searching for food. She was always hungry. Slapping together some cheese and dried meat from her meager stores, she busied herself brewing coffee while she absently chewed.
She could cadge a tastier breakfast at Sister Sarah's, but Fox didn't like to be seen there too often. High ballers wanted her head, and the children's mission could become a target to get her attention, though it was neutral territory. Someone, however, for enough coin and protection, might decide to take the risk.
Finishing with her simple meal she began dressing. She left her vest with its master thief's picks and other tools of her trade, hanging on its hook. She wasn't scouting a job, or rescuing anyone, planning only to spend the day gathering the latest information about the doings of Delphi settlement. Besides, her pantry desperately needed filling.
She'd visit the dump, trade, and fill her empty pockets, catching the local gossip while doing so. And, since the dump was one of the settlement's high points, she'd scope the city gates and streets from there.
It always paid off knowing what or who, the high ballers were bringing in. Which 'king' was beefing up security, or cheating another, and which slags had risen to enforcing for them.
Once her pockets were full, she'd replenish her supplies at the aptly named, Market Square. Always bustling and intriguing with goods coming from every community and city that had anything to trade after the wars, came through Delphi's gates and piers, making their way to the Square. You could purchase anything you fancied, if you were willing to pay its price.
Scooping up binoculars and her trusty MUT (Military Utility Tool), she grabbed her father's worn enforcer jacket and opened her door, automatically scanning for anything out of place.
Her street's buildings had been pulverized by the war's mortar and aerial assaults, but somehow half of her once four story apartment house had remained standing.
Fox, having claimed a sublevel set of rooms for herself, had a way of discouraging any other two legged residents from moving in. Still, she took precautions, and secured her home, climbing the broken steps to the street. Freeing her metal cart of its hiding place, she filled it with several cases of bottles cached for recycling, and proceeded on her journey.
Halfway there, the scents of nutmeg and cinnamon wafting from a hawker's wagon, brought memories from a day long ago. The day of bombs and fires. The beginning of destruction and death. The last day her family was all together.
She was in the kitchen and excited about Christmas. Her mother spent the day baking, and allowed seven year old Fox (Francine then, though her father called her Fox to her mother's dismay) to help and carefully stack cookies in tins to give as gifts for friends.
She remembered her mother's easy smile, and eyes the same green as hers, shining with laughter. How her hair, riotously framing her face wouldn't stay tamed, always managing to come free of it's bindings. Fox loved playing with her curls.
The kitchen's atmosphere abruptly changed with her father's return from work. Tension oozing through his voice while he whispered furiously with her mother; and her mother, quickly and methodically began filling their backpacks with changes of clothes, traveling food, and other necessities.
The weight of her backpack tugged at her shoulders, as her father carrying her, ran from the staccato of gunfire. Fires lit up the night, and then, the explosion that threw them all.
Her father shielded her with his body, as they went flying and then nothing. When she awoke, her mother was missing, lost somewhere in the smoke, and her father and she running without her when the soldiers came.
Fox, heart hurting from the painful memory, cleared her head, while quickening her pace to the dump, The closer she came to her destination, the thicker the foot traffic. Scroungers and the downtrodden mostly in this area. Hoping to cash in enough glass, metal, and other 'trinkets' for sufficient coin to survive another day or two.
Some were resourceful and independent, but be too resourceful and you'd catch a baller's attention. Attention meant finding yourself pressed into slagging, or worse. Fox made it a point to befriend the clever ones, and if possible teach them how to defend themselves. Grateful for the assist, they became loyal friends, and her eyes and ears.
She made her trades while listening to the loose talk around the dump. Apparently a new caravan was coming in from Rodrigo's interests outside of Delphi. He was bringing in 'entertainment' to replace the ones he lost in the destruction of his new club. Destruction caused by Fox, in avenging her father's death at Rodrigo's hands three years ago.
Wanting to observe the caravan as it was in line for entry, Fox made her way to the top of the dump's hill overlooking the city. She fished her binoculars out of her pocket, and squinting through lenses, brought the incoming wagons into focus.
A group of five wagons, clearly marked with Rodrigo's brand was wending its way to the gates. Provocatively dressed women, carrying a colorful array of parasols, were strolling along with the wagons. Two, more soberly dressed, older women were accompanying them, and working to keep their charges in order. One of the women, wearing a blue scarf to keep her curly hair at bay, turned, facing the dump,
Only instinct saved the binoculars from falling as Fox forgot to breathe. Heart hammering, not daring to believe, she looked again. There wasn't any mistaking those eyes, and the easy smile she dreamed of for ten years,
Fox was staring at her mother.
*All concrit suggestions are welcome.
**Links to other tales of Fox and her world.
http://dmousey.livejournal.com/26517.html
http://dmousey.livejournal.com/29682.html
http://dmousey.livejournal.com/35870.html
She could cadge a tastier breakfast at Sister Sarah's, but Fox didn't like to be seen there too often. High ballers wanted her head, and the children's mission could become a target to get her attention, though it was neutral territory. Someone, however, for enough coin and protection, might decide to take the risk.
Finishing with her simple meal she began dressing. She left her vest with its master thief's picks and other tools of her trade, hanging on its hook. She wasn't scouting a job, or rescuing anyone, planning only to spend the day gathering the latest information about the doings of Delphi settlement. Besides, her pantry desperately needed filling.
She'd visit the dump, trade, and fill her empty pockets, catching the local gossip while doing so. And, since the dump was one of the settlement's high points, she'd scope the city gates and streets from there.
It always paid off knowing what or who, the high ballers were bringing in. Which 'king' was beefing up security, or cheating another, and which slags had risen to enforcing for them.
Once her pockets were full, she'd replenish her supplies at the aptly named, Market Square. Always bustling and intriguing with goods coming from every community and city that had anything to trade after the wars, came through Delphi's gates and piers, making their way to the Square. You could purchase anything you fancied, if you were willing to pay its price.
Scooping up binoculars and her trusty MUT (Military Utility Tool), she grabbed her father's worn enforcer jacket and opened her door, automatically scanning for anything out of place.
Her street's buildings had been pulverized by the war's mortar and aerial assaults, but somehow half of her once four story apartment house had remained standing.
Fox, having claimed a sublevel set of rooms for herself, had a way of discouraging any other two legged residents from moving in. Still, she took precautions, and secured her home, climbing the broken steps to the street. Freeing her metal cart of its hiding place, she filled it with several cases of bottles cached for recycling, and proceeded on her journey.
Halfway there, the scents of nutmeg and cinnamon wafting from a hawker's wagon, brought memories from a day long ago. The day of bombs and fires. The beginning of destruction and death. The last day her family was all together.
She was in the kitchen and excited about Christmas. Her mother spent the day baking, and allowed seven year old Fox (Francine then, though her father called her Fox to her mother's dismay) to help and carefully stack cookies in tins to give as gifts for friends.
She remembered her mother's easy smile, and eyes the same green as hers, shining with laughter. How her hair, riotously framing her face wouldn't stay tamed, always managing to come free of it's bindings. Fox loved playing with her curls.
The kitchen's atmosphere abruptly changed with her father's return from work. Tension oozing through his voice while he whispered furiously with her mother; and her mother, quickly and methodically began filling their backpacks with changes of clothes, traveling food, and other necessities.
The weight of her backpack tugged at her shoulders, as her father carrying her, ran from the staccato of gunfire. Fires lit up the night, and then, the explosion that threw them all.
Her father shielded her with his body, as they went flying and then nothing. When she awoke, her mother was missing, lost somewhere in the smoke, and her father and she running without her when the soldiers came.
Fox, heart hurting from the painful memory, cleared her head, while quickening her pace to the dump, The closer she came to her destination, the thicker the foot traffic. Scroungers and the downtrodden mostly in this area. Hoping to cash in enough glass, metal, and other 'trinkets' for sufficient coin to survive another day or two.
Some were resourceful and independent, but be too resourceful and you'd catch a baller's attention. Attention meant finding yourself pressed into slagging, or worse. Fox made it a point to befriend the clever ones, and if possible teach them how to defend themselves. Grateful for the assist, they became loyal friends, and her eyes and ears.
She made her trades while listening to the loose talk around the dump. Apparently a new caravan was coming in from Rodrigo's interests outside of Delphi. He was bringing in 'entertainment' to replace the ones he lost in the destruction of his new club. Destruction caused by Fox, in avenging her father's death at Rodrigo's hands three years ago.
Wanting to observe the caravan as it was in line for entry, Fox made her way to the top of the dump's hill overlooking the city. She fished her binoculars out of her pocket, and squinting through lenses, brought the incoming wagons into focus.
A group of five wagons, clearly marked with Rodrigo's brand was wending its way to the gates. Provocatively dressed women, carrying a colorful array of parasols, were strolling along with the wagons. Two, more soberly dressed, older women were accompanying them, and working to keep their charges in order. One of the women, wearing a blue scarf to keep her curly hair at bay, turned, facing the dump,
Only instinct saved the binoculars from falling as Fox forgot to breathe. Heart hammering, not daring to believe, she looked again. There wasn't any mistaking those eyes, and the easy smile she dreamed of for ten years,
Fox was staring at her mother.
*All concrit suggestions are welcome.
**Links to other tales of Fox and her world.
http://dmousey.livejournal.com/26517.html
http://dmousey.livejournal.com/29682.html
http://dmousey.livejournal.com/35870.html
