***
Oscar has a slingshot. He's not bad with it, really. As we wind about the maze of streets in the Outpost, he targets birds, and chatters to me. I try to focus on what he's saying, but my thoughts slink away. I scan our surroundings for any hint of danger, attempting to stay vigilant and look intimidating. This is the job I've assigned myself, though I have no desire to do it right now. I want to walk and be alone. But Oscar wants to hunt birds. And since he actually killed one two days ago— pitiful little piece of feather and bone that it was— I can't really discourage him. As his latest target flutters away, I consider that it would be easier to hunt rats. We're not that bad off yet, though, and I'm unwilling to go there. I don't want to ever have to eat rat again.
We're coming to a cross street. He aims at a fat pigeon that’s clucking around a puddle. He pulls back his slingshot, closes one eye, and makes a face of intense concentration. Only, the way his mouth is screwed up sideways, the tip of his tongue sticking out— it's the funniest thing I've ever seen. I start laughing. He glances at me out of the corner of his eye, then back at the bird, but that's it. He's caught my giggles. I'm bending over with my hands on my knees, laughing, as he tries to be serious enough to make the shot, but his attempts at sobriety only make him look funnier. I laugh harder. His hand wavers as he aims.
"You look like a pirate," I manage between my giggles, and he starts really cracking up, just as he lets the shot fly.
The stone hurtles itself toward the street, way higher than intended. In the span of an instant, I see it, and hear the rumble. I puzzle over what the noise could possibly be and figure it out. The car bursts into the intersection. The stone goes through the driver's window. A spider web of cracks appear, springing outward from a hole. The vehicle screeches to a halt. I recognize the car— its solar panels, one missing.
Oscar and I stare. We're too startled, at first, to run. Then the doors of the car burst open. One of Matthew's men steps from the driver's side of the car, looking fiercely in our direction. From the opposite door emerges Matt. His gaze falls on us disapprovingly.
I grab Oscar's arm. "Run," I whisper, even though my own feet seem frozen to the spot.
Oscar gives the slightest shake of his head. "No one runs from Matt."
I'm about to say "Wanna bet?" when Matthew points at Oscar, turns his hand over, and hooks his index finger. Come. Oscar steps forward obediently. I'm at his side. But Matt shakes his head, and the driver moves toward me. As Oscar walks into the intersection, around the car, the driver and I do a little dance a few paces away from each other, him stepping to block my path each time I try to move forward, and me trying to find a way around him without actually making contact. I give up, at last, held behind this invisible fence, and look around him to Oscar and Matt. I'm tense, ready to run. I swear to god if Matt hurts a hair on Oscar’s head, I'll kill him. My knife hangs heavily in its belt sheath.
Matt sits on the high curb and places Oscar directly in front of him. He's at Oscar's eye level, leaning in, talking to him intently. But if he's angry, he's doing a good job at holding back. He places one hand on Oscar's shoulder, making me jump, but he's not hurting Oscar. He looks like a parent giving his child a good talking-to. Nothing more. Oscar nods soberly throughout the conversation. Only at the end do I hear his voice at all. I think he's said, "Yes, sir." Matt looks seriously into his eyes, then nods his head in a dismissive gesture. Oscar turns and walks back to me. Matt's not far behind him.
My eyes scan Oscar’s sober face. I look at Matt, walking toward us, and say, "Go home, Oscar." I hate that I sound like Jonas when he told me to wait across the street. Oscar gives me a single look of protest, then does as I've asked.
Matt saunters up with his hands in his pockets. "He's right, you know," he says, his eyes wandering over me.
I try to look unaffected. I managed to put myself on fairly even ground with him before. I'll be damned if I'm going to lose turf now. I raise one eyebrow at him rather than ask what he means.
"No one runs from me," he says.
The nexus of multiple meanings settles into my brain, making my blood run cold. So much for level ground. I try for comedy instead. "Well," I lull, grinning at him, sweeping one foot lazily at a bottle cap lying in the street, "what would you do if you accidentally put a hole in the all-powerful overlord's window?"
It works. He starts laughing.
I laugh with him, and it takes a moment for the humor to run down to a soft chuckle. I'm thinking I like this— a villain with a sense of humor. It's sure got to beat the alternative.
He looks suddenly thoughtful, then says, "I would woo him with my girlish charms. I'm betting that would be very effective."
My cheeks go suddenly hot. I'm smiling as I look away from him. I don't mean to, but he is... well, charming. I remind myself who, exactly, it is that I'm talking to. When I look back at him, I say dryly, "Your girlish charms, huh?"
He nods very seriously, crossing his arms. "My girlish charms."
Now it's my turn to look him up and down. I frown. "I don't really see it."
He's done joking. He reaches for my hand and traps it in his own. "There's not a lot of meat on pigeons, you know," he says. "Probably takes more effort to kill them than it's worth."
I shrug. "Oscar thinks it's fun."
"I could help you," he says, looking into my eyes. "If things are going that badly..."
I free my hand as delicately as I can, and wrap my arms around myself, like I'm cold. "Thanks," I say. "We're doing fine, though."
His eyebrows go up a touch in an expression of disbelief. He glances back at the car and his driver.
I look around at the people here and there on the street. We're not entirely alone, but the population seems to have drastically declined in the last few minutes. That doesn't make me feel the most comfortable.
He shrugs. "Well, if you change your mind...." He walks away from me.
I feel every muscle in my body go slack. I want to sit down. Instead, I manage to hold myself upright long enough to walk away. The car moves off behind me. I make it to a wall, and sink down against it.
A moment later, Oscar scares the hell out of me by popping up unexpectedly by my side. As I recover from the shock, he slides down next to me.
"It's so strange," he says. "You want to like him."
It takes me a minute to realize that he means 'you' in general, not me. "Yeah?" I mumble.
He nods. "He's like that," he says. "He doesn't seem like he's a bad person." He's quiet for a moment, his lips pursed. Then he adds, "Then you remember things, like how he let your family starve, because you weren't any use to him. Then you remember why you hate him."
I imagine my little Oscar, sick and starving on the streets. I imagine being able to help him, and choosing not to. My stomach turns and acid rises into my throat. There are things that set us apart. Things that are human. Decent. And humor, alone, is not a qualifying factor.