Lars shuffled behind Noelle in short, quick steps. Despite being a more portly woman, Noelle strode through the dirt-beaten back alleys of the Slack like an avid powerwalker. She, unlike young Lars, was keenly aware of what severe consequences they might face should an Enforcer catch them. And more than that, she was determined to keep Lars oblivious.
Lars was by no means oblivious. He—at the humble age of six—had seen the darkness people had to offer, he simply didn't let it change him. He did, however, grow anxious. He'd never been this far from his dwelling, at least not since Noelle took him in.
Lars knew that Enforcers were in charge, and while he didn't know the exactities of how being out after curfew without a permit would surely have Noelle and him imprisoned in a labor camp, possibly forever—or at least until sold off—he knew they were not to be disobeyed. At least, not lightly.
Still, the pit in the youngling's gut was mostly filled with eager anticipation. Such a precarious journey must have quite the destination. And that alone was enough for Lars to quietly trot after Noelle, hand in hand, to Joraeh knows where, at 10:30 pm.
The two hooded figures ducked into a tight alley near two more high-end clothing stores. The path was so narrow that Lars had to walk behind Noelle, clinging to her hand for dear life.
"It's too cramped," the boy's tiny voice peeped. Noelle squeezed Lars' fluffy hand in response.
"Shh, Mijo," Noelle hushed, craning her neck to meet his uneased, little face. "We're close, okay? Can you be brave for me?" Lars let out the tiniest, strained huff but met his surrogate's eyes with a determined nod.
The pair pressed on, and sure to her words, Noelle shortly pulled Lars through a bend and into an alcove. Said alcove was scarcely wide enough to accommodate two people, but Lars was incredibly small for his age, allowing him to comfortably stand beside Noelle, despite her more curvaceous physique.
Noelle crouched down to Lars' level to assess him, lifting his hood to reveal his face. One of Noelle's caramel hands caressed the pale orange fur on Lars' cheek.
"You okay, mi amore?" she asked softly. Lars, though shaken up, didn't find it hard to smile and nod in reassurance under Noelle's touch.
"Yeah, I'm alright!" he replied, a satellite-esque ear twitching.
"You were very brave."
"I know," Lars agreed, his tail absent-mindedly swishing to and fro under his cloak. Noelle giggled melodically.
"Can you keep being brave for me?" she inquired. "At least for tonight."
Lars stopped his tail, considering. He didn't like to promise anything to anyone without fully considering, and subsequently understanding what he was agreeing to completely. It wasn't his nature, however, but rather something he'd been taught by Noelle. She knew her charge was often just slightly too ready to please, and took necessary precautions to avoid Lars being taken advantage of.
Lars didn't have to think very long in this instance. Actually, most of his consideration was put on to show Noelle he was able to uphold his promise to think over promises more carefully. Really, Lars found the whole thing a little more confusing than he figured he ought to, but he put in an effort to keep Noelle from worrying.
"Mhmm," he finally replied, trusting Noelle absolutely.
"Thank you," Noelle said, planting a soft kiss between Lars' brows. He thoughtless love left his tail wagging again, swishing the bottom of his cloak around slightly.
Noelle stood back up and faced the wall of the alcove. The dead end. It was dusty gray brick, just like everything in Slack was, darkened and faded with dirt, grime, and soot. Just like everything in Slack was.
Noelle took a breath and knocked on the brick, six times, at an offbeat rhythm. Lars observed intently, pulling his hood back up on instinct. It was second nature to cover up and hide for Lars. To him, it was just what you did when you looked different.
Suddenly, a lone brick shifted in the center of the wall, revealing a pair of eyes that made Lars gasp and grab Noelle's hand. It was enough for Noelle to reciprocate.
"Who y'all?" a voice came, eyes shifting from Noelle to Lars.
"We meeting your boss," Noelle replied with a sureness she was known to use in a pinch. The voice sounded closer to Lars' age than hers, so it came naturally.
"Oh yeah?"
"Mhmm."
"You don't look like you know my boss, lady. What business you think you got?" the voice questioned, heavy with suspicion.
Noelle scoffed, cocking a hip out. "Does Slate know you ask so many questions?"
"I—" the voice came back, but got cut short by another.
"Nigga what are you doin'!" This new voice's words were punctuated by a distinct thwack. Very shortly after, the wall began to open up. Some bricks seemed to slide or fold into their neighbors; others disappeared into the floor or the top of the alcove. At the end, there was a straight opening, scarcely bigger than the path in the alley.
In the opening, stood the most well-dressed man Lars had ever seen. His long, lanky, jagged frame was adorned—not with rags—but actual clothes! More than that, nice clothes. The kind you'd really only read about or see in an old picture in the Slack.
The majority of what Lars could see was a straight, tan brown suit that popped against dark skin. Beneath was a shirt, darker than blood. His pants matched, but his shoes? The most yellow anything had ever been—and spotless.
The stranger turned to the pair with a sour expression from cussing out his subordinate. The expression was made all the more severe by dark lines and wither on the man's face. He was clearly far older than Noelle, and far older than most in the Slack could say they were. When he smiled, he revealed a set of solid gold teeth that caused Lars' eyes to widen.
"Noelle!" the man beamed, an arm opening. His other was preoccupied with an ivory cane, the handle as gold as his teeth, glinting between his dark and weathered fingers. "You been lookin' after you I see."
With a reciprocal smile—except more pale white than gold—and a hearty laugh, Noelle hugged the man for a moment that spoke volumes.
"Trying," she sighed into the man's shoulder. She pulled away and parted her lips to speak, but the man raised a hand to stop her.
"Inside," he said, shifting to give way. "It's safer."
Noelle nodded and reached behind Lars' head to have him go through first. With a gulp, the boy waddled through the narrow gap, his big, cone-like ears threatening to touch the brick more than his shoulders if not for his hood. Noelle followed close behind.
"Sorry for the young'ns," the man told Noelle. "More bravado than anything useful, but, hands is hands."
Noelle shot back something that made the man chuckle while Lars stepped into the center of the room.
It was a small, dark room that was completely red. The walls were a pale wine colored stone—not brick, something more like smoothed concrete. Lars eyed them in wonder, admiring the different shades under shaky lamp lights.
Electricity wasn't uncommon, even in the Slack, but Lars' expression fell into nothing short of utter awe as he followed the red walls to an arched ceiling with a solid gold chandelier hanging beneath it. Its eight evenly spaced bulbs—Lars counted—were shaped like stars, which made the flicker they held all the more magical.
"A fan of the decorum?" The man was crouched beside Lars and the boy hadn't even noticed, even with his keen senses.
Lars narrowed his brows at the pair of wine-red-tinted glasses that rested on the man's face. The small, round lenses met a thin gold frame, and completely hid the stranger's eyes.
Lars hadn't been able to see the top of the man's face initially, what with the stark height difference, but now the sunglasses were unavoidable, given how out of place they were. Nobody in the Slack wore sunglasses; the settlement was built into a mountain. On top of it being night, the street lamps dimmed for energy preservation, virtually no natural light existed in the Slack.
Lars simply nodded in response after a slight start. The man just hummed in agreement and followed Lars' eyes back up to the chandelier. "I suppose I've gotten used to it," the man thought aloud.
Lars spaced himself from the stranger with a little step. He felt bad after shying away. He knew how it felt, given his appearance, but new things made Lars feel nervous, unprepared. And this person beside him was nothing if not new.
Noelle shifted to Lars' other side, resting his head against a hip. "You don't have to be shy," she cooed, lowering his hood again."Golden Barry here's a friend."
Lars looked to Noelle with uncertainty in his big, almond-shaped eyes. When he turned his gaze to this "Golden Barry," he found him still admiring the lighting.
"Hello," Lars peeped to Barry, a tiny hand outstretched. "I'm Laws." Lars was shy by nature, but he didn't have very many he'd call friends, especially in the way of people. Barry was…uncanny, but Lars didn't immediately dislike the man—as with several other adults—so friends was good. Exciting, even.
Barry met Lars' hand with a smile and his. His long fingers were hard like wood against Lars' fur, and nearly reached Lars' forearm. "Well met, Laws," Barry chimed, gold teeth nigh on blinding. "I," Barry said, putting a hand to his breast, "am Golden Barry, but Barry's jus' fine."
"Why's your name Golden—" Lars began, but he stopped, feeling a pat on his shoulder.
"Later, Mijo," Noelle cooed. "There's sumbudy we want'chu to meet."
"Who?" Lars asked, his head tilted up to Noelle, not that he could make out much below her eyes with her chest in the way.
"Oh, an ol' friend'a mine," Barry interjected with what appeared to be genuine excitement. "But, don't go'a wirryin' now, I think ya'll'll get along jus' right!" Barry spoke like he was dancing, with an emphasis on rhythm and tempo, and with lots of quick and jazzy hand gestures.
"Weally?" Lars questioned.
"Weally," Barry assured with a whippy nod. Again he'd mimicked Lars' mispronounced word, and again Lars only felt amused as opposed to mocked. Lars smiled. "For one, he's just like you."
The walk through these tunnels quickly shifted from exciting to eerie for Lars. All the passageways were as well-lit as the room he'd entered, and many bothered his sensitive nose. The color kept him oddly soothed, more so when he began running a hand along the walls as he trailed behind Barry but ahead of Noelle.
The winding corridors and staircases leading both up and down exhausted his little legs, and joint pain was surely approaching. A dead end was very welcome when it appeared.
Barry strutted to the wall ahead and tapped it with his cane. As before, the arched alcove began folding and sliding away. What was behind this one was unheard of, like a straight-up fairytale to Lars. Noelle cradled him against her as the room ahead slid open.
The room was a courtyard. Bigger than the domicile Noelle and Lars called home, white marble laid as the ground, with big-bricked walls of it surrounding. It was what was at the center that drew a tear to Noelle's eye.
A tree. A huge, bowing thing Noelle knew as a willow. The Slack didn't just lack organic matter like foliage; it actively consumed it. Sapped it til what once lived withered over and curddled. Any naturally occurring instance of the color green was more likely to be blood or irradiated skin rather than a plant.
Lars stepped out of the passageway first. The marble was harder than he expected, no dusting of ash or soot as a buffer between his padded soles and the stone. It sent shivers up Lars' little frame with each step, but that didn't stop him.
He whipped his little head around in an effort to take in every most minute detail of the environment. Noelle and Barry followed close behind Lars after the passageway started closing up, only the soft sliding of marble giving it closing away.
The floor grew dirty with tiny footprints—remnants from padding around the Slack—as Lars drew closer to the magnificent centerpiece. A faint crunch tickled Lars' ears as he met grass, for the first time. He had to hold back on jumping with joy, but he did hop and skip around, giggling.
After only a few seconds, Lars peered straight down, wiggling his toes. The grass was pricklier than he'd figured from books and paintings, but it tickled. Yet, if he pressed into it, it gave way to a softness. It also lit up Lars' nose with its scent. Almost like apples—Lars only had one apple, but he loved it—only sweeter, with something Lars' young nose hadn't encountered yet.
Freshness.
As if possessed by dots half-connected, Lars bent at the knees, his face drifting closer to the grass. It was when his sharp little teeth were a hair from a blade of grass that a voice came in a low growl.
"I know you ain' 'bout to eat my grass, boy." It wasn't Barry
Lars stood straight before he could even register where the voice had come from. My head? He thought before it came again.
"Behind the tree, kid."
Lars glanced back to Noelle and Barry, who were talking it up with familiarity, approaching slower than snails.
"I ain't gon' eat'cha," the voice huffed. "We s'posed ta meet in any case."
"Oh," Lars uttered.
Finding himself, Lars gingerly stepped around the mighty tree, fidgeting with his cloak. On the other side of the tree, he found a figure, seated on a bench made of bronze planks.
He froze as he understood Barry's words from earlier, for one, he's just like you. He was! Well, not exactly, but he was a Mutation, like Lars.
The figure was coated in dark fur, and resembled Lars, but he definitely wasn't exactly the same Mutation. His maw was shorter and wider, with eyes a similar woody brown to the tree. He was something people called a wolf. Noelle told Lars he was something people called a fox.
The Mutation wore a white cotton shirt, the sleeves rolled up to show thick, furry arms. Over the shirt was a waistcoat that was jade green with darker colored patterns that made Lars' eyes cross.
As Lars trotted closer, he noted a book in the Mutation's hand, a familiar pearl white cover, emblazoned with "SANCTITY, THE DIVINE" in bold red.
"You talk?" the Mutation muttered, shooting Lars a passive look from the corner of his eyes. Lars nodded quickly, but the Mutation only furrowed his brow.
"Y-yes," Lars finally said, more nervous than scared.
It was late, and the night had been overwhelming, filled with many firsts. In quick succession, no less. His first time seeing a man in a suit; Barry, his first time meeting someone who didn't show any fear or disgust toward him; Barry again, his first time seeing a living tree; the willow, and now his first time meeting another Mutation; the stranger before him.
"I'm Slate," the Mutation said, letting his book rest on his lap to outstretch a big, dark hand. It was so dark, in fact, that Lars couldn't make out where his palm began and his fingers ended. Lars swallowed a lump in his throat and stepped closer to meet the friendly gesture.
"Now you tell me your name," Slate said, encasing Lars' hand in a grip firm enough to make him flinch.
"Laws."
"What's that?" Slate questioned, hearing properly, simply refusing the answer. Lars pulled back, but Slate refused to let go of Lars' hand so easily.
"Laws."
"I don't think so," Slate shot back, his face amused but his eyes steeled.
"What do you mean?" Lars replied in a huff.
"My young Mutation," Slate began softly, leaning in. "Do you know what respect is?" Lars nodded unsuredly, gazing at Slate through his eyelashes. "Do you have respect for anyone?" Again, Lars nodded; his pout grew. "Do you have respect for yourself?"
The question threw Lars. For the most part, he could only think of two people he knew who he respected. One was Noelle, of course, and the other was Dr. Leao Markovik, a general practitioner and physician. The young Mutation didn't even comprehend the notion that you could respect yourself.
Lars thought about whether he actually did respect himself, but an unease spread through him as he thought and thought. He couldn't find anything worthy of respect in himself or his accomplishments—he knew accomplishments were a surefire way to earn respect. But did accomplished people respect themselves?
Lars' search for an answer quickly devolved into a quest to identify what he respected in Noelle and Dr. Markovik, and whether he thought they respected themselves. Until Slate's voice pulled Lars from his overly expansive young mind.
"If you don't respect yourself, how do you expect to earn it from others?" For a second time in a very short conversation, Slate remapped Lars' entire thought process. "It starts in here, son," Slate added, poking Lars' chest lightly.
"I don't think I respect myself…I wanna try," Lars said, determined. He put a smile on Slate's face.
"Good. Then go on."
Lars' face twisted in frustration. "How…?"
"Well, to start, you can tell me your name, properly. 'Cause I know ain't no Mutt called 'Laws,'" Slate chuckled.
Lars cringed at Slate's use of "Mutt." Memories of the word being hissed at him bubbled up, but he pressed them away as he'd learned to do.
With a breath, Lars responded. "La-ars. Lars. My name's Lars." The corners of Slate's maw curled up in a pleased smile. Lars smiled back, noting glimpses of gold in Slate's mouth.
"Now ain't that a respectable young Mutt." Slate put his hand out again. "Good to meet you, Lars. I'm Slate." With a newfound confidence, Lars grabbed Slate's hand and gave his best, firm shake.