Living an illusion? (Luna)

After two of the same 'faulty' orders, average people would have thought the this man would have finally caught on to my machination. My little scheme was - in all truthfulness - child's play. Problems were not in any sort of expiration or broken pieces, but the 'mistake' lied in the quantity of the package. 12-year olds are not that stupid - at least, I wasn't and will never be. Customers with tiny brains were the perfect people to pawn off of; because, if the contract was worded just enough to throw them off, they would do just about anything anyone wanted them to do.

This was the reason why the ignorant amused me so. They were such docile creatures - a throwback to my name, some could have said.

September called for sweets; during the summer, such candies like chocolate bars were a nuisance, and rightfully so. With the cooling temperature in District 6, people began sinking teeth into the product of processed cocoa beans, not having to worry a single bit of their minds for the sun to melt dark sweetness. Autumn was the season starting; hot cocoa was preferred in winter; spring had nothing special to celebrate the delicacy, and the weather would be between winter coldness and approaching summer calidity. While there is nothing special about autumn that makes chocolate sales ideal - economically-thinking, with a tinge of implemented sociological studies - people (especially the rich) were more likely to consume bars in this three-month period. Science proved my theory correct.

Ignorant people were always bound to be in every District; the only thing I - unfortunately - confirmed was that denizens of District 6 would be less likely to have had ill-informed folk. Never have I said we didn't have our retards. We had prime examples of primitive cognition in this 36-year old man named Ethyl. For someone who was said to be of 'great purity', he was a total dunce. He was perfect for being the big pig he was, and he had none of that fat in his head. (What I meant was that he had no weight in the mind; it seemed to have all transferred to his gut).

By the second fooling (shame on me), he was concerned for his orders. Both contained a layer of rocks at the bottom, underneath all the candy bars, and he was committed to thinking I, of all people, purposefully put those there. Well, I would never! In actuality, he was a quarter right. There was also claiming that I had hidden the rest of his chocolate bars elsewhere; and, for someone who was wealthy and lacking much brain, he sure had some preposterous ideas. All I could say (in my head, of course) was was that it was not my fault one of the orphans got to the boxes and ate quite a handle (only about 10 percent), and it was not my fault that in nervous attempt to cover it up, I placed in a good amount of rocks in it - after I hid the other 65 percent.

Of course I said a simple, little white lie. I had further extended - implied - the blame onto my orphanage resident; and, when he was relieved that it had nothing to do with good ol' Shiep, I handed him a large package of chocolate. This one had the actual amount labeled right on the box. By the time one fools a man a couple times and gets away with the two crimes, someone like me had to hand over the goods. Jail was not big on my list of places to inhabit.

That was all today. Ethyl had taken his leave, and I stood there, waiting, being careful to still play by my persona. As he was quite heavy on the money, not a notion in my head contemplated murder. He was a good man; a simple man but a good man, for he owned two large businesses - inherited from a late father - that were prosperous. Why he came to a 12-year old for chocolates, however, had to do with simple economics: I had the really expensive stuff for a cheaper price than usual. Just for him, I had cut the price to 75 percent, and he was hooked like a District 4 fish. The great prospect of obtaining such rich delicacies was a steal; and, with a wife and mother too busy delved in keeping the businesses running under his name and him not being a complainer, this was an opportunity I could not have missed.

Smirking of my great success, I had stashed the coins in my pockets and was about to take my own leave. Regrettably, I was consumed in the calculations of my profits - 25 percent of expense were in each of the 'faulty' boxes, so I had gained a great chunk of income - to foretell that some person was going to collide into me. Why couldn't she had watched out for me?! While I could have forgiven her for the bumping, there was no way to forgive that I was forced on the ground - tugged to the ground, may that be noted. I had gotten a couple scratches here and there, and my salvageable clothes were further dirtied.

Little squirt! After laying on the ground for a while, trying to regain my senses, I sat up and rubbed my right temple. It stung for a bit. Definitely was not pleased with that.

"Watch where you're going! That really hurt. You okay, though?"

Sitting on the ground, I had to watch that none of the precious coins I had gotten from the man didn't drop out of my pockets. Constantly, my hands dug in them, feeling for the metallic surfaces. Seemly not one was missing. What a relief! Obsession, perhaps, but any money lost is unnecessary expense. I'm a penny-pincher, in that respect. Coins rolling out of sight is such a waste, and the very notion keeps me away from my goal of earning the most out of the poor.

So after making sure nothing was lost cause, the girl is next on the list of obligations. Playing a persona isn't so terrible if the personality was your former outside one. It's not fake in the same sense as making it up to obtain gain. It was something important, and now it is used for gain. There is a big difference. Simple business, really. Just need to insert the right words and tone. The flow has to consistent, of course; any changes to the 'fake' personality have to come out naturally. That's just the way it is for us who were a mask.

She seems confused at first, jumbling words to create an entirely new sentence out of two. I'm not the one needing to say sorry. Who dragged who down to the ground again? I can't blame her, though. We all have our moments where the sky is the ground and the earth is the air, to put it in more hilarious terms. In our collision and collapse, perhaps her brain is trying to reboot to reality, to make sense of the situation in front of us.

I reply, "I'm fine. Yeah, I'm fine. Sorry about shouting at you." As I'm getting up, my clothes are patted to rid dust and dirt. These stinky set of fabrics received from the orphanage don't need more grim; that would do badly for businesses and transactions. "I was surprised. Uh... you need help up?" My hand sticks out to her; and, it's here that notes on her frail stature are taken. She appears to even be weaker than myself, and I thought I was playing myself well. Perhaps I'm not trying hard enough. Maybe she could give some tips on being innocent.

Currently, while I'm just standing here like a fool, I am thinking about what to do next. This girl has no standing on my plans, and orders are to be filled in time; however, as to young minds, a feeling of desiring play comes on. Exercise is good for the body and relieves mental stress; so, even though I would rather stay in my room contemplate my next plans, I can't deny my natural wishes to just run around and kick things. By science, committing horseplay with others tripled - if not quadrupled - the rate of dissipation for casting energy. Question is: Should I use this girl to achieve that goal? Ugh. I can't decide.

Here goes the number test, then. Even is 'play with her'; odd is 'play by self'.

...67. Thinking about it, though, I'm willing to be lenient. If she wants to follow me or anything, I wouldn't mind. There's no risk of her tagging.

"I guess when you get up, I'm going to go play..." Threw in a shrug. "Hopefully you're not hurt much or anything." Wouldn't be surprised if there was a broken bone. If that comes, though, guess I have to drop my plans.

Standing there waiting like the gentleman, any passing people are watching the scene, like I was the villain here and pushed this girl down. To further shift imaginary guilt on me, her face is starting to streak of tears. I take glances around; they're all looking at me. She's ruining my reputation. Yes. She's stabbing years work of trust; but, perhaps the some that are gazing at the scene know that I am still just Shiep. Shiep is a good boy; he would not push a girl down. That's what I hope.

But if she were to be sabotaging, would it be fun to rebuild that familiarity? Maybe. My plans haven't been destroyed like this, and I do like new experiences.

So now what? I keep my outstretched hand out, expecting for the frail girl to finally take the offer and get up. A lot of females care about their clothes; but, of course, I have met women and ladies of opposite mentality about fashion. Notions are pondered during the wait, but they don't matter at all. It's just to pass the time. Simple as that. At this rate, I may as well whistle, for she's taking sweet time to go and play or con people.

Her eyes refocus back on me, and then she is frantically shuffling away. This word she mutters I catch; what she says is 'lion'. I blink, because she is staring at my hand while doing these ridiculous actions indicating true fear. As a caution, one glance is taken behind; there is nothing strange or resembling a giant cat with a mane in view. I turn back to the girl and tilt my head. So... it sounds she is severely confused of her surroundings. Wonder if she's suffering from a concussion.

I'm deemed correct by the fact she is now whispering a different word; though, because she is too quiet and out of hearing pitch, all I can catch is "Cell." Her lips moving before "Cell" suggest there is more than what my ears can pick up, but I mentally state that it is nothing of great significance. What's more important is that this girl doesn't turn anything I plan to do in the future into disaster. While it might be fun to fix things at times, I might not be ready to risk such yet.

Trying to smile in a welcoming fashion, I continue to persuade her to take the hand. "What's wrong? Come on. Just---"

One sight sends me to a frightened state, and I drop my hand as reaction. A dog. A dog! The creature might not even have a few inches above the middle of my calf, but I'm already shaking at just seeing the beast. Stay still... They like energy.

But of course, it's one of those friendly canines. While the master is window-shopping, her dog detects my presence and runs straight for me, barking, practically skipping. In sign of the rapidness of events, I fall to the dirty ground - not caring about dirtying the clothes at the moment - and attempt to crawl away, and that excites the monster more. Even inside, I'm just as afraid as I'm shouting out. "G-Go away! Scram! Don't get near me!" This is not my day, isn't it!

It's not a matter of preference for such filthy creatures; it's a matter of I'm scared of looking at those beasts. Can't really justify the reason for such irrational fear. (That's the purpose of an irrational fear). Totally having no rhyme or reason. Their legs, the various shapes and sizes of the body structure, the muzzle, different tails, dogs are no more distinct from cats, in that sense. I can stand cats; I can't stand dogs. Laugh as you will, but I treat them much like a stereotypical girl is horrified of spiders and insects.

As one can imagine, here I am trying to suppress screams clawing out of my throat, crawling backwards and waving my hands at the approaching savage beast. Pathetic "shoo"es and "scram"s are parting from the lips. Upon closer inspection, fleas inhabit its fur. Doesn't the master wash their ugly monstrosity? I suppose not. No time for thinking that now. Have to resist the hell-hound abomination. The dog is circling around me, yipping and yapping, attempting to lick me with its tongue. How it's surrounding me, it's an eerie dance, full of frolic and play. This non-physical encasement is choking fear.

Surprisingly, the girl is a savior. My savior, at least. She says not to hurt the canine (Like I even wanted to touch the thing.

Don't quite understand this girl, to be truthful. Not that it completely matters; but, during this whole confrontation, she has sometimes slipped away into these states of inactivity or little energy expenditure. It's like she's a maid that has to wait for someone to give her a command before she can do anything. While this would seem very pleasurable to someone like me, in this kind of situation, no. Here, I am waiting for her to do some task that will detract the dog away from me; and, she is standing there, holding the thing by the collar, still as a tree. Wonder if she's contemplating what to do or whatnot.

I'm left here to stay on the ground, much like if I was in some bomb shelter. Never grasped the concept of fear or its essential purposes. There are no true reasons for irrational fears (no real reason to buckle the legs and cringe like a coward) for silly matters and beings. True, I'm afraid of dogs, and that in of itself is an irrational fear; but, what purpose is there for me to be afraid of canines? None. It's only for some bystander's giggles. A kid, like Shiep, scared of dogs and wolves? Oh! How funny! Oh, the irony! Used to get poked fun of at times from my class peers, but I wouldn't go so low to bring up their ridiculous frights, such as one kid's inability to cope in the presence of fish. Yes. Don't quite get that one. Fish are killer.

Going away from that tangent, after a few moments, the girl breaks out of her spell and begins stroking the (beast) dog gently. By the looks of it, it's a dirty, little thing, all scruffy and greased up like my hair. Following that is when the events start to get a bit more interesting. (For the most part.) A towering man comes out from a building - a shop, I suppose - and snatches the strange girl by the collar, lifting her off the ground. Much like the dog, he too is dirtied up and not the most pleasant sight to behold. And I mean these by the nicest way possible. Even an orphan such as me can afford better hygiene practices than him, so it seems.

He says something about stealing his dog. No wonder he's just about as filthy as the mutt. To man, to beast. Obviously, he's jumping to conclusions in a dangerous hasty manner; and, likewise, the man is blind because of the notion. Blinded by dirty practices, no? What bothers me is not so much his (most illogical and biased) judgment, but the savior girl's hesitance to debunk his assumption. She must have been taken by surprise (or fear); because, as the girl is hovering off the ground due to strength, a brief period of silence befell upon them, where nothing happened.

Then he punched her. Squarely across the face, which makes me twitch an eye. I have a conflict of personalities, at this moment. Outwardly is the type to flee at fights; inwardly is the type to defend in the interest of keeping a good reputation and, also, not get in trouble with beings like him. To be honest, I don't want to get in some quarrel (that might ruin my plans

For a while, it would seem the message was conveyed perfectly. Nothing happens between the surly man and the spacing-out girl; it's just an interval of time of inactivity. With the blow done, the air remains tight, especially as people are passing by us without giving much but a passing glance. Part of psychology states that the phenomena of humans not reporting crimes is because of the mentality that someone else will call the Peacekeepers; they need only to wait and watch. Events like this are fascinating, so why would they need to lift a finger? They don't do anything but provide background activity. Not even their animals bark or meow our way.

That's what I'm inspecting of the outside. Don't see that the adult figure is heading my way with a threatening face. Takes only a moment for me to realize, and it takes another for me to start crawling backwards like some crab. I present myself as though I have no spine, no spirit to oppose back against an authority figure. I mean, after all, he could be a valuable customer in the future. Any and all living beings are items and merchandise of my own hand. To be compliant and submissive, it's quintessential to be compliant and submissive by displaying oneself as a inferior being. Much like a dog, I am being.

I'm so much like those pesky creatures not a word comes out of the mouth. Nothing but the gasps of panic wheezing out of the pipes. [Fear itself is not in my heart. I'm as calm as can be; however, the key thing is here is old Shiep, the docile person. Lead me one way, I followed; I let anyone hit me. 'Course I might have cried or whimpered afterwords, but I would not tell anyone about it. That's the way it was. Thinking, I keep pondering my choices, what moves I could do or what words to say to, perhaps, calm the man in any manner passively. Would hate to establish bad connections with anyone in the District who are not dead.

As my mind is racing for any rational plan, the small girl goes to my defense and wraps around the man's ankle. He trips, of course; and, his canine is sniffing her hair as he's struggling between us children, probably looking to see who to whup who's butt considering the facial expression. Where I'm crawling, my nose can catch the distinct smell of alcohol, particularly a mixture of excessive wine and beer. His rage suggests he could possibly get up any moment and proceed to kick us around, despite not receiving permission from our caretakers. I just keep thinking, frantically, meshing surprise and doubt.

Someone like me, they have to deal with customers that don't pay or refuse to trade data; and, well, I just don't have time to kill everyone willy-nilly, or have the patience. There are a few methods up my sleeves, many - if not all - have to do with chemicals or drugs. Would have been cool to learn some pressure points, but such a way takes months upon months of learning and mastering. Besides, using drugs was my preferred way to go.

I've got no other choice, considering she saved me twice. Sigh. Resorting to chloroform, jeez. Sleeping syrup would only take too long anyways.

Withdrawing a small bottle and quickly splashing some on a cotton rag from the other pocket, I jump to my feet and rush at the downed guy, covering the nose passageways and mouth, hoping no one can see the act from the outside. If they do or that the guy manages to swat it out of my hand, we're getting out of there in a flash.

How fragile the human body is. It's absolutely fascinating. To see how one can become so weak to drugs or to the blade, I wonder sometimes how humans can consider themselves to be the greatest creatures on the face of this world, yet be so susceptible to small things - by far comparison. Come on now. One shot of a drug, each being falls prey to them; doesn't matter if they are synthetic or natural. How wonderful. How absolutely precious. And it's because humans are so weak to these inanimate things that I survive. Scary. Beautiful.

I shove the fabric to the man's face, and he struggles. Despite my weakness due to being just a boy, he's not able to get out from the force. Sure, he swats around, tries to push away my hands, but I can tell the chloroform is taking effect pretty quickly. His breathing is starting to slow, the body less fidgety, and his eyes are drooping. No matter what he can do, he is weak to the powerful drug. I love how it works. There's nothing more beautiful than this, though I don't exactly like to resort to these types of things to get what I want. Not exactly. Thick arms fall to the ground, less energy is coming off of him. He thought he could fight this off? I know much better.

After the smelly man goes down, I turn to the girl, blinking. She had to watch my work on hand, but she wouldn't tell anyone, would she? No way would she. After all, I did save her now; and, as a form of respect, she shouldn't possibly run off to tell to an adult. I drop the fabric and turn my face away, frowning. "I... That... I had to do that, okay? Well... Uh..." If one looks at humans, they only have tendencies in personality. They cater to their traits most times, but they, too, can be subjected to the opposite. So, by playing this, I can't say the Shiep on the outside is always weak. Nothing can justify my action, but that's how life works at times. I keep playing along with the side that is supposed to be more innocent on the outside. "He'll be fine. Just knocked out for now. We're safe." I shoot a smile to her, though tired-looking and undoubtedly guilty.

After scratching the side of my chin, looking onto the man, I say, "Let's get going, okay? Before we get in trouble--- Well, not like I want to leave him there, but he hurt you, so it's fair, right? Um, uh, yeah, let's just go quickly." Throw in some insecurity for the girl. She might get the clue. Hopefully she'll get the clue to just haul on out of here. I turn away from the hulk of a human and start walking down the road, now not caring if she follows or not. She still has that beast on her. Wish she would just drop the thing; but, she is holding it for me, I think. Works both ways. As I take a look at the dog, I feel nervous energy rising out. Don't like it. Can't stand either the anxiety or the creature.

I steal glances of my surroundings, and I see people whispering to each other, probably from my display of knocking him out. In their murmurs, there is mention of my name, and I can't tell if their opinion of me has changed. My reputation has changed slightly, but hopefully to the side that is for the better. Being too extreme in one trait can garner some bad reputation; so, a little variation won't hurt them. Hurt me, anyways. Sometimes it's nice to 'break out of character'. Some are smiling, some are not. They see that I'm willing to be less pacifist in the sense that I return favors; but, on most occasions, I'll flee. Well, maybe not all of them see that, but hopefully so. I don't exactly like to fight. And that's the truth.

By now, I want to make it to a location so I can relieve myself of this stress - in play. Playing is good. It may be juvenile, but it's good to keep the body in shape. That is a fact. Never underestimate it.