Chapter Text
It was raining. Not that kind of rain that gently speaks to you as you walk, but the one that pelts you in the face, wind blowing and making your bones rattle like rocks in a bucket: unable to stop or help themselves. Somehow, the droplets were still utterly, unbearably fast and hard even as they had to weave through the tall, rugged buildings that were misplaced and connected like boxes haphazardly thrown in the back of a moving truck. It was the infrastructure of the Backstreets anywhere in The City, as you'd quickly learn just by visiting a couple of Districts.
At times like these, the streets are mostly empty. The harsh weather and rapid approach of the Night in the Backstreets, only those who had nowhere to go stayed outside. Heathcliff was included in that lot. His steps were quick and a little too loud for comfort. Hands in the pockets of a jacket that had been worn to hell already, his shoulders were broad but hunched inward, and his face stuck on something between a scowl and a pout. An uninviting stance that radiated the aura of a man that'd throw a punch at the first sign of trouble, even as the cold wetness of his hair sticking to his face and the involuntary tremble of his arms made him look more vulnerable.
His goal at the moment was simple: find shelter. He could feel a cold settling deep into his sinuses, and he didn't want to get caught in the waves later. He'd thought of every option at this point. The pubs were a fairly warm and decent place to hide in, but most didn't let costumers stay during the Night in the Backstreets, and the ones that did, charged exorbitant amounts. Amounts that Heathcliff didn't have. That was the issue with any establishment.
After leaving Wuthering Heights, he'd scouted for Associations, Offices, Syndicates, anything that would accept him, mostly to ensure he had a place for himself so he wouldn't have to look for somewhere to sleep like he was doing now. And just that morning he had found himself at the Dead Rabbits. He was fairly sure that they had been messing with him when they ripped a picture of a guy off the wall, threw him a bag and told him to fetch him dead or alive, but he'd been running out of options, so he ended up taking the challenge without question. The man thought that if he was lucky, he'd find the guy before dusk, but luck had never been on his side, so why even expect it in the first place? Look at where luck got him.
Now Heathcliff was practically stomping through the streets, lingering anger at the world powering his strides as his eyes flicked to each of his sides, trying to spot somewhere he could hide that wouldn't kick him out onto the waves. It wasn't that much of a challenge, actually. He'd been able to pick up on that skill as a child. It wasn't long until he spotted an alley between two pubs, both with color pallets full of dusty reds and golden tinted wood. The pipes on the sides of the buildings seemed to lead up onto a rooftop, and a place like that was perfect to sleep through the night. As for the rain, he'd figure that out later. He gave a slight shudder at the cold and moved forward, his calloused hands finally coming out of his pockets to wrap around a pipe leading up, tugging on it to test its durability. They were sturdy but slippery against his skin. He couldn't wrap his arms around it like he used to do. With a sigh, he slid the jacket off his shoulders and wrapped it around the pipe as a tool to help him climb. It was cold, but he preferred potentially dying of hypothermia than getting turned into a sludge by the Sweepers. He'd been just about to wedge one of his feet onto a ridge of the pipe and start his way up when heard steps.
Even from a distance he could recognize an audible wobble in the steps. It was clear that whoever was coming had had a bit too much to drink. His purple eyes flicked to the side to look at the person, narrowing uninvitingly, but the person, a nondescript man with his hands in his pockets, really was swaying a bit too much and pressed forward. Face flushed, cocky grin, seemingly a member of some kind of Syndicate, judging by the frayed but matching clothing, the man approached.
"Oi, lad. Ya look like ya've got some money ye can spare a bloke." The man tilted his head to the side, his expression somehow not wavering at the pelting rain. "Would'ja be so kind, mate?" He added, leaning in dangerously close and stumbling slightly before he caught himself.
Heathcliff sneered with irritation, leaning back and away from the man as he glared down at him, appraising and analysing. No bruises, no scars, definitely just looked like some poor sap that decided to let go for once and ended up spending what little he'd saved up on alcohol, being left with a need to drink more and a squashed sense of self-control. A part of him wondered whether the man had approached unprompted, or if Heathcliff's physical appearance had attracted him. He knew he looked wet and miserable, probably shaking like a leaf in a thunderstorm, with a hollow look on his face that screamed "I'm sad, hungry and weak". For a moment he regretted taking his jacket off for this, believing that the fabric that been the one thing hiding his slightly too lean body thanks to the way it simply hung off his broad shoulders. His hands clenched.
"I've got nothin' fer ya, mate. Terribly sorry." Heathcliff growled, putting extra venom in the last two words for the interruption. He'd wanted to lash out and kick this nobody away, but part of him hoped the man would just go away on his own. That he wouldn't have to show himself as the brute he was any further.
But much to Heathcliff's discontent, that only seemed to make the stranger bolder. "C'mon, ya must have somethin'. No man's pockets are completely empty." He rasped, his own hands tightening into fists as his hollow smile suddenly dropped and he firmly set his hand on the wall purple-eyed man's head, hitting it with a wet slap. "Just hand it over, lad. Help a man out, it ain't that hard." The stranger continued through gritted teeth.
At this point, Heathcliff looked like a dog ready to bite. His eyes had widened and scrunched with the angry furrow of his brows and the toothy snarl curling his lips. Could he have pushed the man once and he would have fallen over? Yeah, sure. But that's not what he'd wanted to do. The white-hot anger behind his eyelids mixed with the cold in his muscles, the hard droplets shooting down on his face, even the slight, whispering hunger, they all shut down his sense of reason. He had a goal, and this prick was not only interrupting it, but trying to play him for a fool too. Looking down on him.
With a furious, animalistic hiss, he simply shifted his hands' focus from the pipes to the man in front of him, and he went for a firm punch, square in the jaw. It was enough to get the man down and dazed, but Heathcliff didn't leave it at that. He practically threw himself onto the man, taking the duffle bag he'd been provided with for his assignment out of his pocket and he shoved it over the stranger's head. Closing it firmly around the man's neck with his hands, he squeezed. His chest heaved with the energy released by his anger as he watched the drunken man slowly go from a frantic fish out of water trying to throw Heathcliff off of him, to a limp, motionless body, and his rage slowly fizzled away.
Heathcliff was left sitting over the still body with his legs on either side, quiet. His anger was beginning to morph into regret and an intense urge to throw up. He quickly took his hands off the man's neck and put the bag back in his pocket, throwing himself off the body and standing up like it burned. He didn't check if the man was alive or not. He didn't want to touch the fading human warmth and start missing it, so he simply assumed he wasn't. After all, it's not that he regretted taking that life. He regretted the lapse in his judgement. Was he no better than a beast, controlled be his impluses? He knew he wasn't, but he tried damn hard not to be like that. He couldn't prove that they were right. That he rightfully deserved to be in the dirt, eating from the floor and sleeping outside. That he should have died all that time ago, alone, in the Backstreets, in the waves. Rightfully alone-
"You..."
Heathcliff hadn't realised that he'd been standing there like an idiot, looking down at his handiwork, until he heard a voice. One that sounded smooth, tired and mature, and utterly directed at him. He blinked up from his thought-induced haze, looking flustered for a second before he glared in the direct of the mouth of the alley, his hands tightening into fists again.
The woman standing there nearly made his knees buckle in fear, not because she was scary, but because she looked powerful, and just like someone he'd known. She was taller than him by maybe five centimeters, but that small height difference with her single piercing eye peeking from under her dusty red fedora was made to feel monumental, like he was standing under a giant.
With a gloved hand, she reached up slowly, taking the cigar from between her teeth and puffing out a cloud of smoke as she grinned, the expression not quite reaching her eye. Although her other hand was firmly in the pocket of her red slacks, to Heathcliff, it was still threatening. He could recognize the haze of alcohol in her single eye and the colors of her clothes as signatures of the Thumb. But it was the light brown, almost dirty blonde of her long hair and the way she grinned that made the defiant words stick in his throat with an instinctive, learned fear that locked his muscles in place.
"Haah... interestin' display." She made a sound between a dry laugh and a harsh sigh, her pinning smirk not faltering as her one eye analysed him like he was a prime specimen. She approached, her steps slow and confident. "Ya can tell what you're messing with just by lookin' at me, huh?" She commented, noting how he changed his stance with a cold gaze. "That's a rare trait... shame it's bein' wasted in a dump like this." She took another puff of her cigar slowly.
Heathcliff didn't move from his defensive position, nor did he say anything. He could feel his skin tightening around his scars from the cold and tension, like they'd rip open at the slightest movement, but he was more worried about the fact that he was cornered. He felt like an animal caught in a bear trap, watching a predator deciding whether to keep him as a prize or eat him alive, but... she was.. praising him? No.. that couldn't...
The woman paused, observing for a second before she grinned again. "And ya even know when to keep quiet, how precious." She cooed, her tone almost condescending, but somehow genuinely interested. She stepped forward until he was up against the back wall of the alley, and then she pinned him there with her gaze. "You don't look totally useless." She said simply, almost affectionately as she pulled out a card, her Thumb ID, and showed it to him.
Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov Bognatelli. Sottocapo of the Thumb. Smoke War veteran. Thumb Nursefather...?
Heathcliff knew this woman would have been way out of his league, but holy shit... what could a woman of this calibre want with him? A dirty street mutt that bites the hands that feed him, slaps at the faces that eat him, and runs from those who helped him.
"You look sturdy... like you'd learn well and listen." She paused for a second, her eye flicked to the various details of his form, then suddenly glowed a barely noticeable light. She smiled, like she'd come to a certain conclusion, and finally placed the cigar back between her teeth, not bothering to tap out the ashes just yet. "It's too cold and dirty out 'ere for someone like you. It'd be a waste of potential if ya went and died to the sweepers like a retard." She put her ID back in the inside pocket of her coat haphazardly, turning around with the confidence of a woman who already knew what the outcome of this interaction would be. "Come, boy. I'll get ya a place in the Thumb and somewhere you can sleep."
Heathcliff blinked and faltered, his brows furrowed like he hadn't expected this. It didn't make him question her motives, more just made him question his own worth. He opened his mouth and closed it again, looking down at his dark, scarred hands almost frantically. He could join the Thumb? Did he deserve a position like that? The burlap sack the Dead Rabbits had given him was still clutched in his hands, its texture harsh and grating, getting caught on the callouses of his fingers. What about the Dead Rabbits? Of course they had kind of laughed him off, but was he good enough for anything other than a simple Syndicate?
In truth, he didn't know anything about the Thumb. He knew they were a Finger, place full of big shots, but other than that... still, he felt a rush of excitement deep in his chest. Was this the opportunity he'd been secretly hoping for? The opportunity for a better life? It was still hard work, but working for a Finger was like.. belonging somewhere, even if this woman felt off, like someone he'd known and feared.
Heathcliff blinked rapidly, his head snapping up to see the woman walking out of the alley slowly, just disappearing around the corner. Ignoring his initial instinct to fear this 'Rodion', he hissed a small "Bloody hell" and stumbled over the motionless body at his feet to catch up to her.
Only when he was walking beside her (or well, a little behind her like a dog being tugged along on a leash) did he slow down, his breathing more ragged than it should have been thanks to the cold rain. He glanced her way, noting how she seemed to already be ignoring his existance, and for a moment he doubted himself. Maybe his instincts earlier had been right. Maybe he was right to be afraid of her. But well, who knows? At least tonight he wouldn't die of hypothermia or get taken by the waves of sweepers.
It was more than he thought he could ask for.