brown eyes
FRIDAY, JULY 6 — 8:39 AM
Pepper doesn’t sleep.
She spends the whole night trying to figure out where the hell Peter is. As soon as the morning hits, she calls place after place trying to contact someone who might know where Peter is. There’s one thing that Pepper doesn’t understand: Why didn’t anyone say anything?
She calls the Parkers’ landlady, pretending to be a prospective renter for their apartment building. “We do have a fourth floor apartment available,” says the woman—she’s older, maybe in her seventies. “Two bedroom, two bath, open living room/kitchen plan—really a nice place, and I’ve been trying to rent it out for a couple months now.”
“Why did the last renters leave?” she asks, trying to keep the worry out of her voice. “Sick of New York?”
The landlady laughs. “No—they were actually really happy with the place. They’d been there for years—twelve, fourteen years, something like that?” Her animosity is clear even over the phone. “I don’t know—one day they up and left—left all their stuff behind, too. Left me with the job of cleaning out all their belongings.” She scoffs. “Unbelievable.”
“And you didn’t call anyone?” asks Pepper.
“Like who?” And, when Pepper doesn’t say anything, she adds, “The police? Honey, this is New York. You know how many people just up and leave?”
She calls next to May’s old job; of course she knows where Peter’s aunt worked. She was a nurse at a hospital in Queens. She calls, and she’s on hold for a while before a nurse picks up. “May?” echoes the woman, as soon as Pepper asks. “May Parker? No, she quit ages ago—like, back in April.”
“She quit?”
“Well, not exactly. She just stopped showing up one day. Shame, too. She was one of the good ones.” The nurse sighs. “Probably got sick of the job—we’re pretty understaffed out here.”
Pepper even calls the principal of Peter’s school—Principal Morita. She says she’s calling about a prospective scholarship for Peter Parker, and Morita answers with: “Ma’am, it’s the summer. School’s out. So unless you have an urgent issue about one of our summer school students—”
“No,” she snaps. “I’m calling for Peter. Peter Parker.”
Exasperated, the man adds, “I know. But he’s not one of our summer school students—and besides, he’s been out of school since April. He may not be back in the fall.”
“Really?” asks Pepper. “Is he alright?”
“Alright?” A laugh from the principal. “It’s probably good for the kid.”
“Do you know why he left?”
“No offense, ma’am,” says Principal Morita, “but who cares? Kids leave all the time—for acting gigs, internships, divorces, whatever—and yes, even in the middle of the semester. I’m sure wherever Parker is, he’s fine. That kid could use a break—have you met him?”
Nothing. Nothing . All dead ends.
No one seems to know where Peter is, or care. He’s just another kid who’s dropped off the face of New York City. Every corner she turns, she finds someone else saying, “It’s none of my business,” or “Let the kid live.” Wasn’t she just saying these things a couple days ago? Get off his back, Happy, he’s just a kid. Let him take time off school. Why do you need to constantly know where he is? Who cares?
Happy’s still looking for the camera footage from that night, and they’ve rerouted the task of finding Tony’s old AIs to Rhodey.
She keeps thinking—is there a chance that Peter’s okay? That this is all just a big misunderstanding? That he’s at an internship? Or a summer camp? Or he and May moved away without telling anyone?
She clings onto this stupid thought: Peter’s okay. He’s fine. This is all just a joke. He’s studying biology in Alaska or building houses in Haiti or whatever else kids do with their summers or teaching kids how to code. He broke his phone. He moved away. He’s getting homeschooled. He’s at summer camp.
This thought—this lie—keeps her from falling apart completely.
Pepper knows how to disguise herself.
A well-styled wig, a sweatshirt, and a pair of sunglasses, and she’s invisible to the paparazzi. Once the day is over and the night is in full swing, Pepper drives out to the city, all the way to Park Slope in Brooklyn, and she rings Steve Rogers’ doorbell three separate times.
After a series of footsteps, there’s a commotion behind the door—a man and another man arguing—until after ten minutes, the sound of the door unlocking. When it opens, James Buchanan Barnes—Bucky, she remembers—is there, grasping a 9mm handgun with both hands.
“Oh!” she says suddenly, because she wasn’t expecting to see a gun at eleven o’clock at night.
Bucky Barnes is unrecognizable as the man who supposedly killed King T’Chaka at the United Nations conference in 2016; instead of a dark-haired assassin, she finds a well-built man with light eyes, barefoot and dressed in a long-sleeve tee and boxers. His hair’s been lightened a bit—so the espresso brown of his hair is only visible at the roots, and each strand gets progressively lighter, nearly a platinum blonde at the tips.
The former assassin isn’t pointing the gun at her, but behind her—his legs are slightly bent, like he’s ready to run, and he aims the gun at several points behind her, fully scanning the area on the sidewalk, street, and nearby buildings before ushering her inside. Inside, there’s a well-decorated foyer to greet her—heavy drapes over the windows and a stuffed coat rack beside her. Before her is Steve Rogers, who’s shirtless with just a pair of flannel pants.
Bucky’s still clutching the gun so hard that Steve has to rush to him and push it away from Pepper, saying under his breath, “Bucky—Buck, we’re good. We’re okay, we’re good.”
Still keyed up, Barnes makes a huff of annoyance and jerks away from Steve, clicking the safety off of his handgun before rushing to the door and locks it. There are so many locks on their door that it seems almost obscene: a lock chain at the top that he slides into place, a deadbolt below it, a keyed padlock, and another deadbolt below the doorknob. When Bucky’s done, he vanishes into the other room.
“What’s he doing?” asks Pepper, whose mind is still settled on the handgun she saw. She takes off her sunglasses.
Steve shakes his head. “He’s just—don’t worry about it—are you okay?” He’s giving her that up-and-down look—a quick scan of her body for any sign of injury. Tony gives Peter that scan every time he sees the kid. “Did something happen?”
“What?” Oh. “No, no—nothing’s happened. I’m fine. I just needed… There’s something I wanted to ask you. For…your help.”
The man swallows. He looks strange—like he’s just woken up—and his hair is a complete mess. “You wanna sit down?”
Steve Rogers leads her into their dining area, where there’s a small wooden table with four mismatched chairs; a bottle of cabernet sits between two glasses of wine, one mostly empty and the other half-gone. He clears away the glasses with one hand and grabs the bottle with his other one. “There. You want something to drink? Coffee? Tea?”
She shakes her head. “Really, I don’t want to bother you for long—I wasn’t trying to impose—“
Steve gives a hand wave that must mean don’t-worry-about-it and leaves the room to go rustle in what she assumes is their kitchen. She hears glasses clinking and a faucet running—and then, a hushed pair of voices.
“…doing here? Steve… can’t be telling everyone where we… I don’t…”
“…don’t know, Buck. She’s just…tough time… a friend, I promise… sure it’s...”
“…people after her? Why didn’t you tell me?”
A shushing sound. “Buck…told you everything…”
“…wrong, something’s…”
“Bucky. Hey . Nothing…and even if…”
“…don’t like…just showing up…”
“…be okay, I…”
Their voices get lower and lower, dipping into insistent whispering, until finally she hears some shuffling and fabric rustling.
Through the door, both men come through, and they sit at the table with her. They’ve thrown clothes on now, Bucky having gained a cable-knit sweater and black sweatpants, Steve having gained a yellow sweatshirt. Steve sits across from her and pushes a mug to her. Coffee—even though she hadn’t asked for any. “Decaf,” he says. Bucky sits with his chair a couple feet from the table, and his arms are folded. He’s still got the gun gripped in one hand.
“I’m sorry,” says Pepper, although she doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s because Bucky Barnes is glaring at her like she just spit in his coffee. “I really didn’t mean to cause such a—such a problem for you guys, I just…just couldn’t do this over the phone. Don’t know who’s listening.”
Steve smiles and pats his own mug lightly with his fingers. “It’s okay.” His cup smells like coffee, too.
She looks down at the cup. ““Do you remember—the airport fight, in Germany?”
He laughs lightly. “Kinda hard to forget, Pepper.”
“Do you remember there was a kid there—red and blue suit? Shot spiderwebs from his wrists?”
“Oh, yeah. Queens, right? ‘Course I remember him.”
Pepper grimaces. “He… He’s one of Tony’s interns. We spend a lot of time with him—”
“He did seem a little young,” grumbles Bucky.
“—and Tony sees him kind of like a son, I guess.” She fiddles with the mug. “And, he’s missing.”
“Missing?” echoes Steve, as Pepper takes a sip of her coffee. “Like kidnapped?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know. We thought he was at an internship, but apparently he’s been missing for a couple months now.” She explains the rest, as much as she can without tearing up—the car crash, May’s hospital stay, Tony’s lockdown, Ned’s phone call. “I spent all day trying to find this kid,” Pepper continues, “and I couldn’t even find a clue.” She sighs. “I need your help to find him. I know you’re retired and everything, but I really do. Something’s… Something’s really wrong here.”
“Have you reported him missing?” asks Steve.
She shakes her head. “We can’t! It’s all connected, you see? Tony—Peter—FRIDAY—so if we can find Peter, then Tony will be free, too. I just need your help. Please .”
Bucky and Steve are exchanging looks.
“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. This kid… He’s not the kind to just disappear, and no one seems to know where he is.”
“What do you mean,” starts Steve, with his blond brows downturned into a concerned frown, “when you say Tony will be free?”
“He’s trapped,” she says, with a wave of her hand so robust that she almost knocks over her coffee cup. “Because of Peter. He… Peter went missing around the same time, so it all makes sense now. Tony didn’t do any of it on purpose. He did it for Peter.” What is so hard to understand about this?
Another look between the two supersoldiers; Bucky’s still got a firm handle on his handgun.
“Pepper,” says the blonde slowly, “of course we’ll help. But whether or not Tony had a reason for hitting you doesn’t change the fact that he did hit you . It doesn’t make it right.”
Pepper can suddenly taste the bitterness of the coffee on her tongue, and she swallows, but her mouth still tastes the same. “Can I have some sugar?” she asks, ignoring his comment.
Bucky gives her a hard look; his metal arm, of which she can only see his hand, clenches around nothing. “Sure,” says Steve, and he stands to get it.
SUNDAY, JULY 8 - 11:16 PM
Riri is not a fan of the new guy.
He’s apparently some engineering expert who used to work for Tony Stark and has some weird vendetta against the guy, but besides that Quentin Beck acts like he runs the place. He and his five soldiers—granted courtesy of that Ross guy—eat all their food, drink all their liquor, and even snorted up enough of Charlie’s stash that he had to call Ross for more.
And besides that, Beck is always lingering by Parker’s cell: in the middle of the day before he goes in the Chair, in the evening as they’re eating, and even in the middle of the night when they’re all asleep. Tonight, as Charlie and the rest of the crew—including the five new soldiers—are getting high in the barracks, Beck sneaks off into the hallway; Riri follows him.
He’s a little drunk. They were doing shots all evening, and he stinks of cheap beer. He unlocks Parker’s door—there’s a choir of hissed words from Parker and the Lang girl inside—and he slips inside. How the hell did he get the keys?
She inches forth against the wall, listening carefully. Inside the kids’ cell, Quentin Beck is speaking in a low, sultry whisper, but Riri can’t make out any of the words. When she gets to the door, it’s still hanging open, and she can see inside—the Lang girl under the bed, Parker sitting against the wall, Beck looming over him with his mouth by the boy’s ear. Parker’s squirming like a fish out of water, head twisting away from the man’s scruffy chin, and Beck pushes a hand against the kid’s throat to still him.
Loudly, Riri clears her throat and announces, “We’re not supposed to leave their door open.”
Beck gets up from his spot with Parker and smiles, all teeth. “Of course,” he says. “I was just checking on our boy here.”
As soon as Beck’s hand is off his throat, a trembling Parker ducks and glances toward Riri—for a brief moment, his eyes meet hers, and then he hastily dives under the bed.
Beck doesn’t help Charlie with Parker’s live sessions in the Chair—he says he doesn’t like to be on camera—but he does watch from the doorway.
Today, they’ve got Parker locked in the Chair—but they’ve flattened it out into some kind of table-like piece, and Parker’s face-down on his stomach, strapped to it with his arms above his head, ankles and hips and shoulders tied down, his head the only thing free. It’s clearly difficult for the kid to see what’s going on with the way he’s positioned: if he faces front, he gets a faceful of vibranium table; if he turns to either side, his bound arms block his vision; and he’s much too tired to lift his head for more than a few seconds.
His black-chambray jumpsuit has been yanked down to his waist; the empty sleeves dangle from either side of the table. His naked back is a pale sheet of mutilated skin—scars upon scars upon scars. Short, skinny lines from a knife. Pairs of dark spots from a cattle prod. Raw, mottled splotches from a blowtorch.
Like a thing possessed, Parker’s already whimpering— no ’s and please ’s and oh, god ’s—all swamped by this high, croaky whine that comes deep from the kid’s gut. It’s a sound that she’s never heard before Charlie brought them all into the bunker—the whine of a starving foal or a dying pup or a stray cat with its face clawed off.
This place brings out something animal in Parker.
He jerks against the table every time someone even shifts in his direction; his wrists are already bleeding from chafing against his cuffs, and Charlie hasn’t even started yet. If Riri thinks about it, she hasn’t seen Parker without bleeding wrists the entire time she’s known him. He reeks of sweat and blood and grime and a little piss. His hair’s still patchy on one side from the surgery.
Riri tunes out as soon as Charlie puts Stark on speaker. She doesn’t usually come to Parker’s daily sessions, but they have so few people now that Charlie demanded they all come to “make a show of force.” On any average day, Charlie would just knock Parker around a bit, knife him a little, or maybe bring out the sledgehammer if he was feeling particularly violent. But oddly, ever since Quentin Beck showed up, Charlie hasn’t been beating him like usual. He brings out the fancier tools—the electroconvulsive headgear that hangs above the chair, the cattleprod, the blowtorch, and even waterboarding. He says it “makes for a better show.”
Beck’s here, watching with her in the doorway, edged out of the frame of the video. “How old is he?” he asks, not taking his eyes off Parker.
Why the hell does he care? Riri folds her arms. “Like, sixteen?” The man’s gotta be thirty-five, maybe forty. An attractive forty—attractive in a Velvet Buzzsaw, Nocturnal Animals sort of way, but forty nonetheless. So why is he asking about teenagers?
Beck hums, low in his throat. “Think he’s cute?”
Riri feels a twist in her gut. “I guess I've never really thought about it,” she answers carefully.
“I mean you’ve seen him, right?” He tilts his head, and a bit of his brown hair shifts on his forehead. His brown eyes are darker than usual. “You’re about his age…”
“I guess,” she says. To her, Parker’s never been much more than a thing , a tool that they’re using to complete Charlie’s plan. She’s not here to think about him in any way other than that.
He’s got a joint in one hand, probably one of Charlie’s: bit of weed, bit of something else… “He sure is something. It’s something in those teary fucking eyes— god . What I wouldn’t do for a little piece of him… ”
“We only keep him to keep Tony in line,” snaps Riri. “We’re not here to—to—to—”
“—to what?” finishes Beck, and with another puff of his joint, he grins.
By this point, Mason’s started on Parker with a blowtorch, burning neat lines into his back like he’s cooking fucking pork tenderloin instead of a sixteen-year-old’s skin, and the kid’s screaming so loud that Charlie gets fed up with the noise and stuffs a sock in his mouth for the rest of the session.
They watch the whole thing together. She hates this part—when something in Parker breaks and he devolves into hitched sobs and unintelligible, delirious begging. Usually, Riri’ll hide in the back with Zhiyuan, letting him practice different tattoo designs on her until they finish with the kid, but today—today she’s stuck. She keeps turning and closing her eyes and trying not to listen to his muffled screams. But Beck—Beck keeps his eyes on Peter.
Riri used to read a lot as a kid. Harry Potter, sure, like all the other kids, but honestly any book she could get her hands on. She bounced around so much in foster care that she picked up anything she could find. She remembers the way they used to describe screams in them: bloodcurdling . She never really understood that, not really, until she heard Parker scream like this. It makes her blood curdle into something unrecognizable, congeal into a paste so thick that she can’t move and she can feel every hot, soured pulse in her face and in her neck and in her chest. It’s horrible . Hearing him scream makes everything in her body shrivel a little bit, makes her arms and legs and chest ache with some kind of phantom pain—like she’s under the heat of that blowtorch instead of Peter.
She blinks. There’s that twist in her stomach again, like her intestines have contorted into a snarled knot. Parker , she corrects herself. Not Peter. Parker.
Beside her, Quentin Beck’s face is shining; the overhead fluorescents light up every bead of sweat on his forehead. At first, she thinks it’s from the heat of the blowtorch, but then she sees in her peripheral vision—he’s shifting and shifting and shifting in the doorway.
She moves to say something—maybe, I know this is hard to watch or it won’t go on much longer —but when she turns to look at Beck, his low-lidded eyes are trained on Peter, his mouth is half-open, his tongue is resting on his bottom lip, and his hand is deep in his pants.
Riri’s heart drops into her stomach, and she quickly looks away.
TUESDAY, JULY 10 — 4:04 AM
Tony’s taken apart sixteen different prototypes in the last hour, and honestly—unless something in modern science changes, he can’t make the weapon that Charlie craves so badly.
He keeps going back to the original plans drawn up by HYDRA for this breed of weapon. The first was inspired by a Luger P08 pistol that Schmidt once used in the second World War. According to Cap, he’d narrowly avoided getting vaporized himself by the thing. But the weapon used the power of the Tesseract stored in a unique battery to gather that kind of energy.
Can he even get that kind of power on his own? Is it humanly possible? It’s magic, you ignorant fuckheads! he wants to scream. I can’t make magic! He’s not Thor, he’s not Loki, he’s not Dr. Steven Strange or any of those magical beings. He’s just…Tony. He’s just Tony Stark. Human being. Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist—he used to say. Whatever that means. All of that’s useless now because even with all of the money, resources, and genius he has, he still can’t save his kid.
Taking sleep supplement pills every hour is keeping him awake, but it’s taking its toll on his body. He can feel himself deteriorating; it feels like his mind’s turning to sand one cell at a time. After hours and hours of work, he’ll find himself on the floor or on the lab table because he’s collapsed. He barely recognizes himself in the mirror anymore—he’s a bearded lunatic—with his graying hair threading through his shaggy, unbrushed hair and his clothes so unwashed that even that Riri girl wrinkles her nose when she opens the door.
He doesn’t even bother checking the doors anymore, doesn’t bother to turn on the PA system outside or check for visitors unless it’s Riri with his supplies. What does it matter if board members come knocking at his door? What does it matter if Rhodey begs him to come outside, if Pepper throws coffee at the front doors, if Happy asks him to come back to work? It won’t change anything—it won’t change the fact that Peter is dying every day that he doesn’t figure out how to create this bullshit weapon.
He has to do this. He has to. He doesn’t have the option to throw his hands in the air and give up. If he doesn’t figure this out, Peter will—Peter will—
He’s slapping his forehead so hard it hurts to get rid of the thought. No. Nothing’s going to happen to Peter. He’ll figure this out. He will .
THURSDAY, JULY 12 — 12:24 PM
Just after lunch, Officer Julia Paz and Agent Jimmy Woo head to a morgue just outside the Bronx.
They’ve got a meeting set up with Ross. It’s extremely difficult to get ahold of the man, which is no surprise considering he’s one of the highest-ranking members of the American government. However, Director Coulson gave their case a political boost and helped them get a meeting as soon as possible—set for July 18th, a Wednesday. Until then, however, they’re attempting to gather more evidence—more PCP overdoses, more tattooed corpses… Anything that could help their case.
The medical examiner meets them there with multiple potential victims and a smile. “We’ve had a couple unclaimeds sticking around this place,” says the examiner, as she pulls out a couple corpses from the wall in cold drawers. “Saw the APB you put it out, so I figured I had some bodies that might be useful. Bodies that are unclaimed remain here for six weeks before being buried in unmarked graves. We do still keep track of all their records, though.” She fishes through some papers that are set on top of a long metal table and hands them over. “You know, it’s pretty strange to put one out for this kind of thing—PCP overdose victims? What do we got, some kind of serial killer aiming for addicts?”
“Could be,” says Julia, just as Woo responds, “Unlikely.” She shoots a glare in his direction, but he doesn’t seem to catch it.
The medical examiner continues, “Here we’ve got a Jane Doe—female, probably between the ages of sixteen and twenty, been here about four weeks, died of a PCP overdose. She was found in a dumpster after a few days, so the body had deteriorated quite a bit by the time law enforcement got ahold of it.” She taps the dead girl’s wrist. “Track marks, loads of other drugs in her system when she died… Seemed like a pretty consistent abuser of intravenous drugs, and forensic analysis of her hair shows she was definitely addicted to PCP—for a year at least.”
There’s a few girls on the list that Ty gave her, so this could be one of the female addicts. “Any tattoos?” prompts Julia, taking out her tablet to take notes. “Unusual marks?”
The woman shrugs. “A few half-finished tattoos on her back, but other than that…” The girl’s already face-down on the table, so the examiner simply moves the drapes covering her to expose her back. There, on her dilapidated skin are dark tattoos—a few large floral ones, a couple unfinished faces, and some kind of snakelike tattoo centered at the base of her spine.
No, not snakes. A hydra . It’s missing the skull and the suckers on its tentacles, but it’s definitely the basics of a HYDRA symbol. “See that, Woo?” she says distinctly. “Another HYDRA.”
The medical examiner walks over to another locker in the corner and, after checking the label on the front, yanks open another cold drawer containing a corpse. “This one’s a little stranger. Another Jane Doe—female, between the ages of twenty-five and thirty, found three weeks ago with her head bashed in. She died of the blunt force trauma, but she had so much PCP in her system that without the trauma, she may have died of the overdose otherwise. Want to take a look?”
They undrape the corpse—she’s been clearly embalmed, the body well-preserved, but her bruising and other wounds have been frozen in time by the chemicals. She’s covered in bruises like the ones they saw on Ava Starr’s corpse.
Beside her, Agent Woo snaps photos of the body. This could be another lead. “Any tattoos?” asks Julia Paz again.
The medical examiner nods and turns the girl’s leg a bit so that the officer can see. “There’s one on her thigh here, one behind the ear, and another on the upper shoulder.”
There it is again—a HYDRA symbol on the shoulder. This one’s a little more haphazard, but it’s still clearly a hydra . “Thank you,” says Woo. “We’ll be in touch. If you find any other addicts” —he scrawls the police station number on a card and hands it to her— “or anyone else with tattoos like these, please let us know.”
The woman in the lab coat adds, “There don’t tend to be many PCP overdoses these days. People tend to stay away from that stuff if they can help it—too many horror stories.”
As they head back to the car, Woo starts, “You know, it’s been a couple months. If we find your brother and he’s—
“Don’t say it,” snaps Julia, throwing the passenger’s door open, but she’s already imagining the end of his sentence: ended up like Lyle. Ended up like the two Jane Does at the morgue. Dead. Overdosed. Beaten. Her little brother’s body tossed in a lake or abandoned under an overpass or left in a repossessed house. Abandoned to decompose slowly, like a, never to be found.
Not Charlie. Never Charlie. Not if she can help it. She’s not giving up on him.
FRIDAY, JULY 13 — 10:19 AM
Charlie Keene doesn’t remember exactly what he’s on, but he feels good . First thing in the morning, he shoots up in the barracks and it takes away every ache and pain he’s ever had. He feels so fucking good that the sweat comes out of him in sweet runnels own his skin. He finds himself humming songs he doesn’t know and walking around the bunker—each floor is like a secret tunnel, each room a hidden treasure.
He’s made for this: action, adventure, intrigue! He feels like James Bond or Jason Bourne or John Wick— no one can stop him. In one room he finds cryogenic chambers; in another he finds a rack of torture equipment—drills, needles, blades, hatchets, and pliers.
He’s practicing with them, swinging the hatchets and brandishing the drills, when that little girl Riri comes in. “Charlie?“ she says, knocking lightly on the door-jamb. “I think we need to get the kids some different food. The McDonald’s are swarming with police now, anyways—all looking for Cassie, so we should probably try something new.” She’s coming closer— don’t come any closer! “And they found McDonald’s wrappers in the car after that crash at the campground, so…”
Charlie picks up some pliers and chuckles. “You need… You need to stop worrying about those kids. They’ll live.”
Riri inches into the doorway, still half a room away from him. “No,” she says, and her tone pisses him off. “No, they won’t. They can’t just eat Happy Meals all day every day. It’s not enough calories for either of them—and the little girl—have you seen her hair?”
“What do you care about the Lang girl’s hair? You don’t see me picking on Lang for his dreads, do you?” He’s referring to Scott Lang’s ratty, unbrushed hair; if they gave him the opportunity to brush his hair, he would, but Lang spends most of his time in that wheelchair by the computer or getting dragged to the toilet by one of the stronger guys. He’s worryingly odd now, like something out of Cuckoo’s Nest , mostly talking to himself or shouting about his daughter—she supposes that’s what happens when you leave someone in the same room every day by themselves except for when you’re torturing a teenager in front of him.
“It’s falling out, Charlie. Her hair is falling out . That's what happens to kids who aren’t getting enough, like, nutrients. They need other foods. Have you heard her sleep at night?”
He scoffs. “I don’t listen to kids sleep—I’m not a fucking perv.”
Riri looks mad. “No, no, that’s not what I mean. She’s got a rattle in her chest when she breathes—like a—like she’s sick. She’s sick .”
“Well, we’ve got a doctor now,” snaps Charlie. “You made sure of that—so what’s the issue? Send her to him!”
“He can’t fix the nutrients in her fucking food !” the girl shouts.
Charlie can’t stand another word to come from this stupid girl’s mouth; he stands up tall, taking a step toward her, and she flinches back. Good. She should be afraid. He’s the one in charge, not her.
He comes at her slowly. Her mouth is open as she quite literally backtracks, stumbling backwards into the wall. “I'm sorry,” she says, breathy and quick. “I’m sorry, Charlie, I didn't mean to yell. I—I’m sorry.”
He can smell the fear wafting off the girl like steam out of a boiling pot—and he laughs. He laughs so hard that he brings the hatchet to his chest; when did he pick it up? The hatchet is light as a feather and rusty as a sewage pipe and the girl in front of him looks bewildered as he keeps laughing. “You know,” he says, returning to the rack of metal instruments and placing the hatchet with the rest, “my sister’s like you. Always worrying, always… caring.”
The girl nods; she looks strange—big-eyed and wobble-kneed. “Thanks,” she says quietly. Riri. Riri. Didn’t this girl have a brother once? Yeah, she did—just like Charlie had a sister once.
He still has a sister; right?
“Gonna get you killed if you’re not careful,” he adds, because he knows it’s true.
They’re quiet for a little while. She stands against the wall, unmoving; he stares at her. She looks so much like his sister—not in the way she appears, but in the squint in her eyes and the worry in her fisted hands. “You’re.. You’re a good kid, Riri. A good kid. You’re gonna do great…things.” He looks at her again, staring so deeply that she glances away. She’s got box braids now—when’d she get those?
“Charlie,” she says, with her back still up against the wall, “even if you don’t, like, care about the kids—we still can’t go back to those McDonald’s. Police went through Mateo’s car—there were wrappers in there. They’ve been searching those places like crazy. If we keep going back, we’re gonna get caught.”
Charlie starts laughing again—isn’t this hilarious? She’s so funny, this kid—always makes him laugh. What a good kid. “Fine, fine, whatever, give ‘em some of Stark’s stash. We’ll make another trip to the food pantry when we can.”
Still lingering by the door, Riri adds, “It could be good for us, you know? Having a little more variety in our diet, too. Could be healthy.”
Charlie chuckles.“Riri,” he says, “We’re not gonna live long enough for any diet to save us.”