Two of a Kind - Mama_Qwerty - Sonic the Hedgehog (2024)

The dread child slipped through the streets of Thunder Bay Harbor, the bustling port town of North Island. He didn’t bother to watch where he was going—people tended to get out of his way on their own. That was one of the few advantages of being an echidna, a dread child. No one wanted to interact with him, so they didn’t bother him as he went about his business.

His business today, as it was every day, was to not starve.

He rounded the corner to the market district, where shops posted stands outside their businesses to hawk their wares to the travelers who’d docked in port. New ships meant new customers—new chances for sales, for bartering, for deals to be made.

Tables and stalls lined either side of the cobblestone street, displaying everything from leather bags, to maps, to rolls of cloth in different colors and textures. Some of the fabric was shiny and smooth, imported from lands with names he’d never heard of. Those usually carried a high price tag, and only sold to people who looked like they didn’t actually need them. People who smelled of flowers and soap, their clothes clean and pristine. They also usually carried a heavy coinpurse, but nicking any from them would bring more trouble than it was worth. So he steered clear.

What did people need more sets of clothes for, anyway? Just more to haul around, honestly. He pushed the sleeves of his shirt up, freeing his hands from their excessive length. It was too big for him, he’d swiped it from a clothesline a few towns back to replace his last that had grown too small, but it served its purpose for the most part. Kept him warm on cool nights, and gave him something to wipe his nose with.

Besides, the longer the sleeve, the more easily he could hide anything he snatched from distracted vendors.

He slid close to the various food stands lined up and down the street, his large violet eyes alert and watching for the owners. They hated him. Well, everyone hated him, but the store owners would overcome their aversion to interacting with him in favor of giving him a swat when they saw him anywhere near their wares. Sometimes with a broom, but sometimes with something heavier, or sharper.

It was a hard, cruel world, especially for a dread child of ten. There was no sympathy for this child on his own. No pity for an empty belly. He’d learned that long ago.

There was no kindness in the world. He’d been on his own since he was a puggle, and any memories of life before that, of family, had long since faded. He didn’t remember where he’d come from, and ultimately, it didn’t matter. The past didn’t matter. Only now. Only survival.

A few ships had come to dock over the past few days, and the marketplace was busy and bustling with people. That was good. He could move about easier if there was a crowd keeping the stand owner’s attention.

That wasn’t to say he didn’t have to keep watch against any of the newcomers, too. When he was younger, five or so, he’d nearly been snatched up by a pirate captain with a very bad reputation. He’d heard rumors about that man. Harper. He was cruel, spiteful, and cared only for himself and his status. His treasure hoard. Young boys hauled aboard his ship either died, or turned into as equally horrible people as the captain himself was. Most of his crew had been gathered as teenagers, and their nasty tendencies encouraged to a deadly degree.

It was a hard, cruel world. The dread child knew that.

But that didn’t mean he wanted to endure worse.

He refocused his attention on the task at hand.

The first stand he came to was one with various cuts of meat on display, most of it cooked or dried. The smell hit his nose and his stomach gave a loud grumble. He hadn’t had meat in weeks. Unless you counted fish, which he didn’t. Saliva flooded his mouth and he swallowed hard.

Just one of those chunks of mutton would fill his belly for at least two days.

People surrounded him, and he lowered himself slightly, to make himself appear smaller and less detectable. Many of the people around the stand were humans, and they towered over him. There were a few non-human species—a few foxes, some sort of bird, and a turtle. None of them seemed to pay him any mind, so he slowly reached over the edge of the cart to snag a cut of leg.

Just as his fingers closed over it, a large fist grabbed his wrist.

“What d’ya think you’re doin’, rat?”

He snapped his head around, coming face to face with the large rhino behind the stand. Angry red eyes burned into his violet, and the boy shrank beneath the heavy gaze.

“I find your filthy fingers on my wares again, and I’ll chop ‘em off,” the rhino growled, and brought a large meat cleaver from beneath the counter as emphasis. The metal caught the sun, and it flashed a blinding reflection into the boy’s eyes. “Get it?”

The dread child nodded frantically. The rhino snarled at him a moment longer, before releasing his hold on the boy’s wrist.

Not wanting to overstay his welcome, the boy hurried off down one of the side streets.

His stomach growled, as if scolding him for his failure.

The manx girl picked through the burnt husk of what had been, up until a week ago, her home. The fire that had claimed it had done a thorough job of reducing everything inside to ash and cinder. Any coin her parents had saved was gone—stolen by the same men who’d taken their lives, before burning the house to the ground to cover their crime.

Seemed her father’s gambling addiction had caught up with him. And his luck had finally run out.

Swallowing back a sob, she carefully sorted through the remnants of her room. Her clothes gone, her few belongings burned and buried within the rubble. The dress she wore—snitched off a clothesline from the other side of town—was all that she owned at the moment. It hung loose, too big for her small frame, and she held a fistful of material with one hand as she sifted through the charred remains with the other.

It was strange, now. Everything around her went on as though nothing had happened. As if this was a dream.

A nightmare.

She found the remains of the bookshelf from the front room, along with the ashes of the books her mother had read to her, telling tales of children lost in the woods, or kidnapped from their homes, or sent away by evil queens. But they’d always had a hero to save the day. Someone who found the child, offering help, or protecting them from those who would do them harm. And all would be happily ever after in the end.

How she wished the real world worked like those stories.

The men who had come for her father, to collect the money owed from one too many bad hands of cards at the tavern, hadn’t cared that it was the dead of night. Hadn’t cared that the man’s daughter was asleep in the next room. Hadn’t cared when she awoke to arguing. To gunshots. To screams. More gunshots and then . . . silence.

She’d seen her parents’ bodies, lying still. So still. And she’d seen the men, two humans and a large boar, laughing. Laughing. They’d come toward her, and she’d had enough sense to run, to hurry back into her room and crawl out her window, her nightshirt catching on a jagged nail and tearing down the side as she did.

The fire had been bright enough to see from her hiding spot three streets over. It was still smoldering when she dared return the next morning.

Her parents’ bodies gone. Her home gone.

Her life.

Gone.

Her belly grumbled at her, pulling her from her thoughts.

Focus.

Life went on around her, the people who had been her neighbors carried on, sweeping their floors or baking bread. She could smell it through the open windows. Once upon a time, they had traded that bread to her family for the mending her mother had done for them. Pants, shirts, socks, anything that needed mended came to her mother. If they couldn’t pay with coin, they paid in food. It had helped keep her family fed when her father lost too much at the poker table.

But today they ignored her, as though she’d become invisible now that she was alone.

For the first few days after it happened, people around town had been sympathetic toward her, but that kindness had mostly run out. Her parents had been liked well enough, and most people wouldn’t turn away a hungry ten year old who’d just been orphaned, but ultimately, she wasn’t their problem. Charity had an expiration date, it seemed, and she’d reached hers.

She supposed she understood, even if it made her a little resentful. It was a hard world, after all. Some people had a hard enough time keeping their own bellies full, let alone giving hand outs to someone else’s kid.

A bitter smile curled her lips. She wasn’t anyone’s kid now.

A lump formed in her throat, and she swallowed hard to dislodge it. Crying about it wouldn’t change anything. This was her life now. She had to focus on surviving.

Which is what brought her back to her ruined home. She was looking for something specific, something that, with luck, had mostly survived so she could maybe sell it and get some money for food. She carefully picked through the ash and charred wood, until a flash of reflected light caught her eye. She smiled, going to her knees, hurrying to pull it free, and wiped the soot from the intricate design with the hem of her dress.

Tears brimmed, and she tried so hard to blink them away, but only succeeded in sending them racing down her cheeks, running tracks in the soft peach fur.

She was so hungry, but this was all she had left. Her mother’s hairbrush, passed down from her mother, made of silver and etched with delicate carvings on the back. The bristles had been singed, but by some miracle were still mostly intact.

The cat cradled it to her chest, her grief surging as more tears spilled over her muzzle.

The fire had claimed everything. Even the chance to properly mourn the loss of her parents.

A sound. Her ears flicked to catch it, and she turned, finding a red . . . something standing where her room used to be. She stood quickly, tucking the brush behind her back.

She’d seen this boy around town as she struggled to find a new normal. He didn’t exactly run with the other boys that tried to hassle her, but she couldn’t be too careful. She wasn’t as strong as them, but she was faster, and could likely outrun him if he made for her. Her ears stood tall, swiveled in his direction, ever alert for whatever he may do.

He was barefoot, like her, with black pants that ended in ragged tatters at the cuffs. His used-to-be-white shirt was stained and looked a little big for him, billowing around his arms. His hands were bare, also like her, and she spied what looked like small spikes on their backs, right over his knuckles. He seemed to have quills, like a hedgehog or porcupine, but they were separated into thick wavy clumps. When he shifted his weight, she noticed a kinked tail.

His violet eyes locked with her ocean blue, and he gave her a little snarl as he held his hand out.

“I’ll be takin’ that,” he said, his voice gruff. “Hand it over.”

She blinked, sending the last few tears over her muzzle. Her brow furrowed, and a fire stirred in her belly, the stubborn streak her mother always heaved a sigh at.

“No.”

She didn’t care what or who this boy was, she was not going to lose her mother’s brush to him.

The dread child blinked, not quite sure he’d heard what he thought. He was used to bullying other orphan kids in the other towns he’d been to. His reputation as a dread child was usually well-known, that even the other children didn’t want to get involved with him. And it was easier to take from those weaker than him than to try and steal from shop owners.

This . . . this was new.

He thrust his hand forward in an angry jab.

“Maybe ye didn’t hear me,” he said, his teeth grit. “I be needin’ that shiny o’ yers.” He uttered a low growl. “Now.”

The girl pulled her own lip up in a snarl, showing a baby fang. “No.”

His growl turned into a grunt. Who did this puny runt of a cat think she was? From the looks of her, she wouldn’t last three minutes against a seagull, let alone him. Her dress was miles too big, her light orange fur brushed with dirt, and the messy mop of red hair made her look wild. Did she actually think she could stand up to him?

“Look, lass,” he said, taking a few steps forward. “I ain’t askin’. Ye’ll hand it over, all nice an’ friendly-like, else I’ll take it from ye.” He gave her a sneering smirk. “An’ ye wouldn’t want that, would ye?”

She stepped back for every one he took forward, ears and eyes trained entirely on him. She kept the shiny object behind her—he wasn’t entirely sure what it was, but it looked expensive and should fill his belly for a few days once he sold it. His stomach growled in anticipation.

Her face pinched in anger. “I’m not giving you anything. Get lost.”

Oh, she was getting on his nerves.

He opened his mouth to say something else, when her foot caught on a bit of rubble from the burnt house, sending her toppling backwards. Surprise took over the anger on her face, and she pinwheeled her arms as she went down.

Taking advantage of the opportunity, the dread child rushed forward, grabbing the shiny object and giving a yank to pull it free. When it did, the girl cried out, and brought her now empty fist forward to catch him in the nose. Twice.

“OW!”

His free hand went to cup his hurt nose, just as she shifted her weight to launch herself at him. She hit him in the chest, sending them both sprawling in a tangle of arms and legs. It took him a few seconds to realize what had happened, to work through the shock of it, but she has up first, trying to wrench his stolen prize from his fist.

“Give it back, give it back!”

His grip was tight, but she fought like a demon, scratching and yanking to make him let go. She had almost gotten it loose enough when he reached up with his free hand and yanked her by the hair, pulling her off him.

“Ye she-devil,” he muttered. “Ye’re lucky I don’t—”

That’s as far as he got before a foot shot out and made solid contact with his belly. He uttered a breathless “UGH”, rolling away before she could follow it with another blow.

This was certainly not what he was expecting.

They both regained their feet, leaving a fair distance between them as they faced off. The dread child rubbed his stomach, a snarl on his face and the fist on his prize going tighter.

“Ye’re crazy, ye f*ckin’ little string o’—”

“Give it back.”

He paused. Her voice was different now. Shaky. Broken. He glanced down at the object in his hands and discovered it a hairbrush. Looking back to her, he found the fur of her muzzle damp.

She was crying? Over a hairbrush??

“Give it back,” she said again, and the angry look on her face changed to one of pleading and sorrow. “Please.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What be so special ‘bout this brush?”

She pulled her lips tight, as though warring with herself on whether to reply.

“It was my mother’s. It’s the only thing I have to remember her.”

He rolled his eyes, no stranger to lies intended to pull heartstrings. She’d likely stolen it from someone, and now tried to appeal to his non-existent sense of decency to have it back. “Nice try. Ye’ll need t’ do better ‘n that if ye wanna pull one over on me.”

Her expression changed, and now it held more pain than sadness. “It’s the truth! It’s the only thing left of her!” She gestured to the ruins beneath them. “Of my home!”

Silence settled over them, and he glanced at the charred remnants of the house. “Yer home?”

“It was,” she said, her voice soft and broken. “Now it’s gone. They’re gone. I’m all alone and starving and scared and I don’t know what to do.”

The tears returned, and she seemed to shrink before him.

It shouldn’t have made him feel bad. He’d shaken down countless other kids, all with equally sad little sob stories for how they ended up on the streets. “My mother died, my dad kicked me out, they had too many kids and not enough food. Poor me, pity me.” On and on they went, sniffling and boo-hooing over their lot in life.

In the end, it didn’t matter. He’d heard a hundred tales just like this one. It was all the same tune, just with different lyrics. And these other kids could sing this song until they were blue in the face, it didn’t make things better. It didn’t make anyone care about you.

Because that was the way things went. The strong survived, the weak died. If you didn’t want to die, you had to get strong. And that’s what he had done. It was no skin off his nose if any of these other brats toughened up or dropped dead. Less competition, as far as he was concerned.

He looked down at the brush in his hand. Ran his thumb over the lines etched in the handle.

“Ye live or ye die,” he said, not looking up at her. “That be the way o’ things. ‘Tis a cruel world, an’ ye gotta learn t’ beat it, b’fore it beats ye.”

She was quiet for a moment, and stood there staring at him, almost studying him. She wiped the tears from her muzzle with the heel of her hand, before speaking again, her voice soft.

“You can’t beat bad with more bad. That just makes things worse. My mother always said that a drop of kindness was more powerful than a whole ocean of cruelty.”

The boy’s brow furrowed. What a stupid expression. Kindness didn’t do anything but show weakness. Weakness made you a victim.

The strong lived, the weak died.

That was the way of this world. Fair or not.

“Aye?” he said, looking up at her. “An’ where did yer mum’s kindness get her?”

The girl flinched, casting her gaze to the ashes at her feet as her ears flicked back.

“Aye, that’s what I thought.”

Without another word, he turned and strode away, hairbrush still in his tight grip.

The boy watched as people moved in and out of the general store. He knew the owner bought things, anything the man could turn around and jack up the price to make a profit off. The hairbrush was nice, and he’d used his shirt to polish it up as well as he could. It may fetch him enough to eat for a week. Two, maybe!

His stomach growled in anticipation.

He stepped forward, standing in the middle of the street. People passed by, none giving him a second glance. He found it interesting how all these people could both see him and not see him at the same time. Because of what he was.

An echidna. A dread child.

He didn’t even know why he was considered a dread child. What did that mean? Where did that stupid name come from? He couldn’t even remember even seeing any other echidna, so it wasn’t like they were so many to have become a nuisance. And he’s sure he would have heard stories if they were evil conquerors who descended upon small villages to pillage and plunder.

Unfair. That’s what it was. To be so harshly judged based solely on what he looked like.

He gave himself a shake. No matter. He was going to march right through that door and sell the owner this brush. Then he was going to go and buy enough food to fill his belly so he could sleep well for a change.

Yessir, that was the plan.

Yep.

. . .

So why weren’t his feet moving?

His grip on the brush tightened. He was being stupid. It was just a stupid brush. The sob story that girl gave was just that—a lie meant to make him feel sorry for her, so he wouldn’t take this thing. He saw through her in an instant.

Besides, what good would it do her to keep it? Assuming it truly was her mother’s, what benefit did holding onto some hairbrush offer? Sentimentality was foolish, and made you weak. That stupid girl would hold onto this brush because of the memories of her mother, all the while her stomach grew emptier and emptier, until she died and some other pickpocket snatched it up to take and sell, just like he was doing now.

When he looked at it that way, he’d done her a favor by taking it from her. Now she could move on, and accept the world as it was. She could use that anger at him, that sorrow at losing something that mattered to her, to become stronger and push back against this world that was so cruel.

. . . a drop of kindness was more powerful than a whole ocean of cruelty.

He frowned. That was ridiculous. Kindness didn’t get you what you wanted. There was no room for kindness in this world. Everyone was only out for themselves.

He looked down at the brush.

His feet started moving.

Evening. The temperature was dropping, bringing a chill to the air as the sun set, painting the sky and ocean in shades of pinks and oranges and purples. Most of the town was heading to their homes, to share a supper with loved ones and settle in for the night.

The girl moved through the ever emptying streets, seeking shelter and safety for the night. Her belly still grumbled, annoyed to have nothing in it for the second day in a row. She tried to ignore it. Thinking about how hungry she was only made it worse.

Her sensitive ears tuned to the world around her, she moved quickly and silently through the shadows between buildings. This town had no shortage of people who would take advantage of her if she were caught—other orphans, your garden variety perverts, or anyone who thought they could make a quick buck selling her to whatever ship could use a new whipping ‘boy’ on board. She never slept in the same spot twice, lest she catch the wrong attention.

Her thoughts went back to that boy from this afternoon. That stupid jerk who’d stolen her mother’s hairbrush, and just seemed to accept how horrible the world was to people like them. The vulnerable. The children left to fend for themselves. She supposed he was right in that you had to get strong to survive, but the way he said it just seemed . . . wrong.

Ducking between two homes, she moved further toward the outer parts of town. There was less foot traffic here, so she figured she could hunker down for the night without drawing too much attention.

There. A quiet house with a short stone fence surrounding it. She crept forward, ears sharp, her pupils dilating in the lower light to let her see better. A wagon was parked near the fence toward the back, leaving a small space between the wheels and stone.

Perfect.

She squeezed into that hollow, curling into as tight a ball as she could to help preserve her body heat. Her breath puffed out in little clouds as the sun dipped below the horizon.

Something would have to change tomorrow. She’d need to make some hard decisions on what she was willing to do to survive. There were things she was sure, one hundred percent positive that she would not do, but there may be some things she could. She wouldn’t like them, but it was coming down to do a little bad and live, or be good and die.

Maybe the boy was right. Maybe her mother was wrong. Maybe holding onto these ideals were childish, and had no place in the real world.

Letting out a little sigh, she closed her eyes and fell into a dreamless sleep.

The sound of songbirds drew her out of her sleep, and the girl awoke feeling dizzy, tired, and hungry. Her body ached from staying curled so tightly all night long.

Uttering a soft grunt, she uncurled, slowly, and pushed herself to sit up. She blinked against the rising sun, and lifted her arms above her head for a stretch. Turning her head, she cracked her neck, before freezing when her eyes fell upon something resting on the top of the stone fence.

Her mother’s hairbrush.

She stared at it for a moment, barely daring to think it was real. Reaching out a hand, she took hold of it, running a thumb through the bristles. They were slightly damp from the morning dew, but they were here, it was real.

What . . . ? Why . . . ?

Turning her head on a swivel, she looked around, trying to catch sight of the boy. He shouldn’t have been hard to miss, being bright red and all. But there was no sign of him.

She looked back down at the brush in her hands. A little smile curled her lips.

He hated fish.

He hated the taste. He hated their stupid little bones and their creepy eyes and how much work they were to catch and prepare and all for what? A few bites of bland, flavorless bits of nothing?

It was a waste of time, effort, and energy.

The dread child sat on a tall rock near the shallows, the cliffs that gave the town their name to his right. When the tide was high, the waves would crash against those rocks, creating a thunderous echo that could be heard across town. The water was calm now, the day bright and warm already. A stark contrast to the nip in the air at night.

A yawn escaped him, and he reached up to scratch at his muzzle. He hadn’t slept well. Again. Having a belly that threatened to consume itself made for difficult rest.

The fishing pole he’d snitched from the pier rested in his hands, and he stared at the line that disappeared into the water. He doubted anyone would really notice it missing—most of the men from the docked ships had been at the tavern, drinking and carousing until the early hours of the morning. Half of them had passed out on their stumble back to their ship. He supposed he probably could have picked their pockets as they lay unconscious, but didn’t want to press his luck.

An angry pirate was one thing. An angry drunk pirate was something different. So he settled for the fishing pole.

Nothing was biting. He’d been at this since sunup, and he hadn’t had a single nibble. The worms he’d dug up for bait wriggled in the little tin by his side, and he found himself eyeballing them more often than he liked.

Gods he was so hungry.

With a huff, he turned his gaze back to the line in the water.

He was an idiot.

He could have been enjoying a nice full belly right now. Could have had a decent night’s sleep last night, instead of trying to track that brat girl down to return the brush, and then listening to his stomach complain about its emptiness until he finally passed out from exhaustion.

Idiot.

He should have just sold the stupid thing. He wasn’t even completely sure why he didn’t. Was he going soft? He didn’t care about that girl. He didn’t even feel good about ‘doing the right thing’ by returning the brush. He felt like the biggest idiot on the planet. Anyone else would have sold the thing without a second thought. He would have sold the thing in a blink any other day. So what happened?

The only thing he could think of was he was weak and delirious from hunger. That had to have been it. He’d been so hungry, he’d lost his ever-loving mind and did something completely out of character. That could happen, right?

More likely he was just an idiot who’d been scammed by a girl with pretty eyes.

He uttered another grunt, pulling the line back. Maybe he’d have better luck somewhere else.

“Hey!”

The call hit his ears, sharp and loud, but he ignored it as he wrapped the line around his hand. No one ever spoke to him, so he wasn’t going to waste time looking for who owned the voice.

“Hey! Hey, boy!”

Wait. That voice sounded familiar.

He turned, and found the cat girl from yesterday standing on the beach behind him. She held a bag in one hand, and waved to him with the other.

And she was . . . smiling?

His brow pinched in confusion. “Aye?”

She pulled the bag before her, and he saw a long loaf of bread poking out the top. “Hungry?”

His stomach answered her, loud and rude and decisive.

He should be more suspicious of her motivations. What was her angle? What did she want? No one offers food with no strings attached.

Another grumble from his stomach.

He gave a grunt, throwing her a nod. Right now, nothing mattered but quieting this beast in his belly.

They sat on the far side of the beach, in the shade offered by the cliffside to the east of town. The girl had brought bread and meat slices, with a small sweet roll for dessert. They had no knife, so they simply tore the bread into pieces and ate it with the meat wrapped around it.

The waves crashing along the shore were the only sounds as they ate. Neither said a word as they satiated their hunger, quieting their bellies with the first food either had had in days.

He kept expecting her to say something, to tell him the conditions of her offer, but she never did. So he focused on the food, licking his fingers once the main meal was done. The sweet roll remained, and they sat quietly. Awkwardly.

He sat with his arms extended behind him, leaning back as he watched the waves lap at the sand. She was to his right, knees drawn up and arms wrapped around her legs.

“Ye sold the brush.” It wasn’t a question.

She nodded, her eyes locked on the sand before her. “Why did you give it back?”

He shrugged. “Ain’t entirely sure, if I be honest.”

Silence again. The sounds of the ocean. Shouting further off, near the pier. Seagulls greedily watched their remaining food, inching their way closer, and he chucked a handful of sand in their direction to scare them off.

“What’s your name?”

He didn’t reply for a moment, partially out of confusion. Did she not know what he was? “Don’t have one.”

She co*cked an eyebrow. “How can you not have a name?”

He turned to her, suddenly irritated. “How can ye not know what I be? Seems everyone knows. No matter where I be, I hear it. It be the only thing people call me.”

Her ears flicked back for a second, a look of embarrassment flashing over her face. A second later her ears twisted forward again, her brow furrowing in confusion. “What do people call you?”

He paused, his own brow furrowing. How could she not know? “Dread child.”

It came out softer than he intended, as though he were ashamed of it. Which was odd, because it wasn’t like he named himself that. It’s just what he’d always been called, as far back as he could remember.

She looked at him for a long moment, before wrinkling her nose. “That’s not very nice.”

He didn’t respond.

“What do you call yourself? In your head?”

Another pause. What an odd question. “Nothin’.”

“You don’t even have a name you call yourself?”

“No, I don’t call meself anythin’ in me own head,” he snapped, done with this conversation. It was idiotic and shoving the fact that he didn’t have a name square in his face where he couldn’t ignore it. “Why would I do that? I ain’t exactly havin’ full conversations with meself up there. That be dumb.”

She flinched again, hunching her shoulders up, her ears flicking back. He quieted, turning away with a huff.

He should just leave. The food was mostly gone, his belly adequately full, and their conversation was making him feel . . . weird. Angry and confused and uncomfortable. What’s the big deal if he didn’t have a name? Names are only for people who are important. For the benefit of others, who care about you. No one cared to know anything about him, other than the fact that he was a dread child. That was all that mattered to anyone.

“Would be a cool pirate name.”

Her soft tone snapped him out of his thoughts, and he turned to her, brow furrowed. “What would?”

She gave a little shrug. Her ears had returned forward, but she kept her eyes cast down to the sand before her. She dug her toes in to bury them, wiggling to make the dry sand sift between.

“Lotta pirates have those kinda names. It’s always ‘The Terrible’ this, or ‘The Bloody’ that.” She shrugged again. “You could be ‘The Dread’. Like, even the sound of your name makes people feel this weight in their belly, you don’t even have to do anything, really.” A little smile curled her lips. “Captain Dread, whose name inspires fear and respect across the seas.”

He looked at her. Stared at her, really. That was . . . well, that kinda made sense. He’d never considered that this name that followed him wherever he went could be used to his advantage. That he could actually own it, make it his, and make it work for him. If everyone knew what he was . . . who he was, that could go a long way in asserting himself as a force to be reckoned with.

And that is very much what he wanted to be. If people were going to hate him anyway, the least he could do was give them a reason to do so. One that didn’t simply come down to his species.

His eyes narrowed at the girl next to him. She sat, watching her toes burrow into the sand. She didn’t look at him, but her ears were turned just slightly in his direction.

This cat was strange. She didn’t seem to know who or what he was. She’d fought him without a second thought yesterday, in defense of her mother’s hairbrush. And then she’d sold said brush, sharing the food she’d bought with him anyway.

And she spoke to him. Like he was a real person. Like he mattered. Like she didn’t care at all that he was an outcast, ignored and shoved aside for his entire life. Looked upon with disdain and fear or hatred.

She didn’t seem to see him like that.

And that . . . that made him happy.

Of course, he’d be an idiot if he didn’t at least entertain the idea that this may all be a trick. Some act to make him want to help her, take care of her. She wasn’t a fighter, that much was obvious, despite their little scuffle yesterday. And there were many on this planet, in this very town, who would have no qualms with hurting a little girl on her own. He wasn’t the best fighter, sure. But he could stand his ground better than she could.

So maybe this was all because he could be useful to her.

But maybe . . . maybe she could be useful to him, too.

“What be yer name, lass?”

She flicked her eyes over to him. “Scarlett.”

A smirk pulled one corner of his mouth up, and he nodded to her. “Aye, pleased t’ make yer acquaintance, Scarlett. I be Dread.” He held his hand out. “It be nice t’ meet ye.”

Her eyes flicked from his hand to his smirk, and her own lip curled similarly.

“A pleasure,” she said, reaching out to take his hand and give it a few quick pumps.

A little chuckle rumbled in his chest, and he flashed her a sly smile as he pulled his hand back. “S’pose I should ask why ye shared yer food with me. We ain’t exactly on the best of terms, after yesterday.”

She gave a little wave. “Yesterday’s history. Today’s all that matters. You gave me back the brush, and you didn’t have to.”

He shook his head. “Still don’t know what came over me for that.”

“You saw a poor, defenseless little girl who was all alone in the world and realized you couldn’t steal from her,” she said, batting her eyelashes at him.

He barked out a laugh. “That ‘poor, defenseless little girl’ got two good hits on my nose an’ fought like a she-demon. So, I’m thinkin’ that weren’t it.”

She snickered with him, before quieting and gave a little shrug. “Maybe it was just a moment of weakness.”

He quieted, watching her toes continue to dig into the sand. “Or maybe it be a drop o’ kindness.”

Her toes paused, and she looked over at him. A little smile curled her lips. “Maybe.”

They shared a smile for a moment, before he snickered again. “Nah. Moment o’ weakness.”

She nodded. “Most definitely.”

“Don’t expect it again. It be everyone for themselves in this world.”

Another nod. “Obviously.”

“Ain’t got time for charity cases.”

“Gods, no. Any cooperation between us would be strictly a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

He nodded. “Aye, that it be. An’ the minute it ain’t ye’re gone.”

“Oh, absolutely,” she agreed, nodding. “Likewise, if you double cross me, I’m leaving you in the dust.”

“Aye, fair.”

Silence settled over them for a moment. Something seemed to have changed in the air between them, and he couldn’t figure out what. But it felt . . . comfortable. Warm. Like he wasn’t all alone anymore.

Finally, he broke the silence, keeping his gaze anywhere but on her.

“So . . .” he said, gesturing toward the sweet roll. “Ye gonna eat that, ‘r what?”

She watched him for a moment, before smiling. Without a word, she picked up the roll, and tore it in half to offer him one side.

He took it, casting her a quick glance, a little smile on his lips.

They ate in silence, watching the waves crash on the shore as seagulls called overhead.

The child, Dread, slipped through the streets of Thunder Bay Harbor on North Island. He moved with purpose, weaving his way through the crowd, heading toward the stand offering various cuts of meat for sale. The large rhino behind the bin turned and pegged him with a narrowed gaze as he neared, eyes flicking over him quickly.

“You bring it?” he asked, his voice gruff.

Dread nodded, pulling a mended shirt from the bag slung across him. The boy held it out to the man, who took it and spent an unnecessary amount of time examining the repair. Finally, he turned to Dread, giving him a little nod.

“Girl does a good job,” he said, tossing the shirt behind the stall, and gathering a few bits of meat to wrap with paper. “Check with Williams down the way. May have some chores to be done.”

The rhino handed the meat over, and Dread gave him another nod as he took it and hurried off.

“Williams,” Dread muttered to himself, trying to keep the name in his memory. He had no intention of speaking with this shop owner himself—he wasn’t exactly a diplomat, and besides, people around town were only just slightly starting to interact with him. He’d tell Scarlett, and she would talk with Williams to arrange any work to be done, as well as payment.

The girl may have been rubbish at fighting, but she knew how to string words together. She could finesse a deal, diffuse a fight, or cut down anyone who stirred her ire. (Including him.) She wielded words like a master swordsman did a blade. It was truly fascinating to watch.

Not that he’d ever tell her that to her face, obviously. But she was clever. And he admired that.

He skirted a few humans who blocked the street, tucking the paper-wrapped meat into his bag. He and Scarlett hadn’t eaten for nearly a day, and he meant to get it back to the abandoned house where they had camped for the night—and where she sat working on the rest of the mending—as soon as possible. His stomach growled, eager to tear into the food immediately, but he ignored it.

For once, he wasn’t thinking only of himself.

He rested his hand on the bag as he delivered another shirt (earning two sweet rolls) and a hemmed pair of pants (for two coin). Some locals even made eye contact and gave him a little nod as he finished his deliveries. He had to remind himself to nod back, like Scarlett had taught him. It wasn’t automatic for him, yet. Too many years of being the object of revulsion.

It struck him just how different things were these days. If he’d been asked a month ago how he’d picture his life now, he would have said not much different than any other day. Struggling. Surviving. Trusting no one but himself.

But what a difference a month makes.

Dread moved quickly through the streets, snitching a few coin here and there from unaware sailors. Scarlett wasn’t overly approving of the pick-pocketing, but Dread was more pragmatic. They’d never get anywhere if all they were doing were chores and small jobs for locals. Sure it kept their bellies full, mostly, but that was about it. They were primarily paid in food, and it took coin to go anywhere in this world. A lot of coin.

Dread was not planning on spending his entire life in this port town.

And he’d make sure Scarlett didn’t, either.

After pocketing another few coin from a distracted woman examining the expensive, smooth cloth at the tailor’s stand, Dread picked up the pace and headed toward their current home. He kept a hand on the bag slung across him, his fingers running over the hard lines of the object at the bottom. It was something he’d managed to negotiate himself, with the owner of the general store. He wasn’t as good at arranging deals as Scarlett, but after running deliveries for the owner for a few weeks, sweeping the floor, and preventing some of the other kids from stealing, he’d earned one item from the man’s shop.

The silver hairbrush that had belonged to Scarlett’s mother.

It had been hard earned. Granted, stealing it would have been quicker, (and more fun), but Scarlett wouldn’t have accepted it if she’d known. And she would have. Dread couldn’t lie to her, even if he tried. Somehow she always knew.

A smirk curled his lips. Of course, she couldn’t lie to him, either. He always knew, too.

By all accounts, this little arrangement of theirs shouldn’t have worked. They were very different—he’d mostly raised himself on the streets, while she’d led a fairly sheltered life with her parents. He trusted no one, and she trusted just about everyone. He was fully prepared to do anything necessary to survive, but she insisted on holding onto a moral code.

It shouldn’t have worked. They shouldn’t have worked.

But they did.

He was strong and resilient, able to think quickly on his feet, and she was clever and a capable diplomat. He saw the bigger picture, she noticed the details. He usually jumped into things relying on instinct, while she was more cautious, thinking things through.

They compensated for the other’s weaknesses, and complimented their strengths. He was her protector, and she was his conscience.

It worked. And he liked that it worked.

He liked having someone he could trust.

He liked having a friend.

But right now, he would really like a full belly, so he hurried along, eager to share the food he’d brought with Scarlett.

Eager to feel safe with his friend.