church - d12 {fin}

Who's that boy there, wandering the town with a cloud above his head. What's he got to be so down about, when he wears a leather jacket and military boots? He isn't poor, he isn't working. He slips a spliff between his lips, sparking it ablaze in a half-second movement of his arm and a flash of light. He taps his foot, pivoting and craning his head backwards, eyes scanning the rooftops.

His mother wonders where he is, and as much as he doesn't want her to worry, he'd much rather she didn't know the sort of people he was hanging out with. She wouldn't approve. She'd say that he was becoming just like his father. He would argue that he doesn't even know who his father is, but he has no desire to find out about a man who left him and his mother all alone for sixteen years. He's heard nothing but bad things about him anyway. Any mention of his father is followed by uncharacteristic swearing from his mother.

Who cares? There's bigger things to be focusing on. He knows life on the streets of Twelve can be rough, and he takes advantage of those without homes, trading information for food or cigarettes. There's a shadow moving in the rain. Everything around him is blue and grey, except for the faint red glow of his joint that flashes across his thick features. He's a stocky boy, well-fed my a hardworking mother, well-toned by a disciplined upbringing.

"Church..." A deep voice comes from his left, thick like liquorice with a tone that lacks any range. He knows the guy, he goes by the name of Chez, but apparently his real name is Charlie. Church doesn't care what the guy's name is, he's just a dealer. In fact, he'd barely even considers Chez a dealer. The guy's more of a middleman between him and the big-guns. Outsiders think the Capitol run this town, but they don't. The Capitol tends to leave Twelve alone, as a District it doesn't offer much. Where leadership is lacking, leeches are drawn to it, like a void sucking in anything that it can.

So at the top of Twelve are the men with the drugs, the men with the food, the men with the real power. Church doesn't care for power, or fame, or fortune. His mother didn't raise him to be a hellraiser. If anything, he wants to avoid them. All Church wants is drugs for him and his friends, and they've got influence on him like he's scared to admit. He hasn't got any other friends, and they rope him into the dangerous stuff. The in-the-open dealings and the backstreet collections. He supposes it's better than being alone, but he's conflicted. He wasn't brought up to be sucked into this crowd, his mother made sure of that - But then, where was his father?

If what he's heard is right, his father was no better at his age.

"I'm in no mood for conversation, just hand it over so I can go." Church breathes heavily. The mist seeps in from the mountains, and he's cold beneath the thick leather.
"Boy, you've got some lip on you. What the fuck do you think this is?" Chez gets hostile, and Church's gaze turns away, down the street.
"I'm fucking talking to you here!" He puts his hands on Church, but he doesn't react to it, he just stares at him. Chez flinches, taking his hands off of the boy's collar almost as quickly as he grabbed it. He brushes himself down, trying to be professional in this extremely unprofessional trade.

"You're lucky the boss likes you, Church. Says you could do a few jobs for him." He says with a spiny finger pointing at the boy. Church shifts against the wall, raising the joint to his mouth again and avoiding Chez's offer.
"Think about it kid. Cost-per-gram goes up next month, so you're gonna need to think of other ways to pay us."

He leaves Church with a small package, wrapped in silver polystyrene. The boy drops the joint and stamps it into the mud, walking off into the rain.