BARTHOLOMEW ONO, DISTRICT ONE

"MEW YOU IGNORANT SLUT, GET DOWN FROM THERE."

His hands scrabble at the side of the building, and he uses his gangly elbows to forcibly pull himself over the lip of concrete keeping his feet from touching something solid. Despite his non-existent dedication to looking cool he flops onto the roof top with a thud, skinny chest pumping as he catches his breath. Weakly, he pumps one fist up into the air and lets out a soft, "wooooo..." before rolling up onto his feet once again.

He stumbled to the edge of the rooftop to look down over the district and had to take a step back because of his fear of heights, never mind the fact that he had just finished climbing the outside of a fifteen story building. Taking a mighty breath, he punched one hand into the air and yelled, "FUCK THE PEACEKEEPERS," as loudly as he could into the void.

"YOUR MOTHER IS A PEACEKEEPER!" came the exasperated yet helpful response of the friend he had brought along with him to this tiny, insignificant rebellion.

That may be true but hell if Mew gave a damn about that. His mother hadn't given two shits about him since she'd dinged and popped him out like a pizza pocket. (Mew assumed that was how babies worked but he could never be sure.) Peacekeepers weren't allowed families so by her rational, Mew didn't exist to her except for the occasional Christmas cards in July from her station in the Second District.

The amount that he said he didn't care about his mother measured to the amount of time he spent talking about his mother was rather extraordinary. There was no rhyme or reason to the amount of bouts of mother-related tantrums that he could get through in one day. he was either lamenting over the fact that his mother didn't love him or the fact that he didn't love her or the fact that she hadn't sent her regular late Christmas card yet and he was certain it wasn't coming this year or the fact that he couldn't decide if he should write 'sincerely Mew' or 'love Mew' on his letters to her that she never ever responded to.

He's eighteen years old now, you'd think he'd get over it a little bit but if there's one thing Mew has, it's his remarkable innocence. His father is a crime lord and blood on the carpet isn't anything new to him but he's so undeterred by the idea of growing up that he might have accidentally grown down recently. That isn't to say he isn't tall. He's tall as heck by his own words but that really depends on what your opinion on tall is. He is gangly, with spindly tree branch arms and legs that stick out at odd angles, specifically when he's jumping about in excitement.

He probably shouldn't be jumping about in excitement on such a tall, unsafe structure but the thing about Mew is he's not very smart. In terms less kind, he's your regular born and bred idiot.

Things that would scare most don't bother him a bit. Place a spider on his face and he'll pet it until it crawls away in embarrassment. Place the barrel of a gun against his kneecap and he'll brace himself for the pain. Kick him into the woods in the middle of the night and make creepy ghost sounds from behind a tree and he'll laugh. The kid is a dumbass, seemingly fearless.

However, that isn't true. He doesn't really like heights and the feeling of velvet against his skin makes him cringe. He's terrified of moths especially when they flap around his head because one time he accidentally swallowed one when it landed on his ice cream. He hates the sound of their tiny maniac wings planning their next move as they bash themselves repeatedly into light sources.

The thing about him is he's curious. He doesn't have a bad bone in his body, not really. He just likes to try thins out for the hell of it, whether it's enjoying a nice day in a field with a picnic or bashing the cartilage out of a kneecap. He just wants to see what happens, he has no other motives than science.

Well science doesn't actually interest him but it's a good enough excuse for his seemingly random actions. It's just to cover up his enormous lack of empathy most likely garnered from a lifetime of his parent's disregard and his total inability to make any meaningful connections.

His socks never match and he doesn't even make a point out of it. He just isn't fully aware of what he's doing when he selects his socks for the day. He'll pull one carefully folded tube apart and then ten minutes later remember that his left foot needs a sock as well. By that point he's misplaced the left sock that matched his right so he simply opens the drawer and pulls apart another tube. Eventually he'll find that first left sock and put it with the leftover right sock to keep his horridly unorganized drawers the tiniest bit tidier. It's a vicious sock cycle really.

Most of the things that Mew gets up to match his sock drawer in the only level of symmetry he's ever obtained. Everything is a random mish-mash of dirty and clean, coloured and blacks that are often so mixed up that it is questionable whether they can be identified as socks in the first place. Much like his socks, his sense of right and wrong is very much skewed.

You'd think he'd get it easy enough, on one end of the spectrum he's got his mother who is a pillar of justice in the community, on the other you have his father; the leader of a major crime syndicate. It seems simple enough but it really isn't, specifically if you're as much as an idiot as Mew is. His mother may stand for Peace and for the Law but when it comes to her personal life, her choices are cold and unfeeling, teaching her son that as long as it's for the community it is okay to treat your loved ones like they are invisible. As for his father, it should be obvious. He kills people and that's bad. However, the people he kills are bad people and so his father is doing the community a service so it's okay to kill people.

Mew barely knows which way is up let alone the difference between right and wrong.

As a result he spends a hell of a lot of time doing things that most people would deem a waste of time but excuse you, he doesn't see slowly gaining the trust of every duck in his neighborhood to form a duck army a waste of time, neither does he think that it's a bad idea to call out every career on the neighboring street to a fist fight. He enjoys stupid contests, like who can spit farther and when he wins the gummy smile that stretches across his face in pure joy is really only worth it the tiniest bit.

"You're such a child, Ono," his friend of the day says as he jumps the last couple of feet down off of the side of the building. He lands in a flailing movement so ungraceful that it's majestic, dusts himself off and gives a small child staring wide eyed with a half-melted icecream cone a jovial wink.

"Ayyyyyy," he says, forming his fingers into little guns and pointing them back at his friend Without another word, he sets off to go disorganize the chess set in the park so that all the pawns are all over the board and the queens are ruling a lesbian kingdom.

All his friend can do is sigh and follow the walking disaster known as Bartholomew Ono.