[The boy speaks, and from the stumbling in his voice and limbs, whatever frightened him is even worse than Diavolo anticipated. He looks terrified.
Of all the days... Always something happening. Why couldn't this have happened on a day he'd chosen to stay safe and curled up in the sanctity of his own apartment?]
Th-that isn't what I...
[What I asked, he wants to say, but the boy's anxiety is palpable and infectious in its severity. Diavolo takes another glance around, noting distantly that a few people in the crowd are watching as he towers over this small human, a strained grimace on his face.
The boy is ragged and dirty, breath coming in gasps. He must have been running for awhile, frantic and disheveled, and though Diavolo cannot hear the telltale sounds of anything chasing behind, he can only assume the boy is running with a desperation sparked by death on his heels.
His bag lies forgotten in the moment, shattered glass and fabric and the crinkling of plastic. Diavolo steps forward hesitantly, bowing his head for a better look, and - they're in the middle of the sidewalk, life and traffic bustling around them. And yet the boy is frozen in place, all the energy the panic brought him knocked out at the sight of another perceived threat.
Diavolo won't get clear answers here, not when the boy is too disoriented to even acknowledge his question. They need to to move, and now - somewhere out of sight, before either of them is caught unaware. He could flee alone, he muses, and at the first sight of danger, he will. But here when the street is still quiet, knowledge is beneficial. It's far better to have a solid escape plan than to scramble in confusion.
The boy doesn't move, and so Diavolo reaches out with an unsteady hand. And he pauses, afraid that if he touches the boy, he might draw the conclusion that such contact is acceptable. With a barely-there shudder, he adjusts his aim, and his fingers find loose purchase at the boy's hood. He tugs him, trembling but unyielding, away from the intersection, away from the looming crowd, to shady shelter beside a building.]
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Of all the days... Always something happening. Why couldn't this have happened on a day he'd chosen to stay safe and curled up in the sanctity of his own apartment?]
Th-that isn't what I...
[What I asked, he wants to say, but the boy's anxiety is palpable and infectious in its severity. Diavolo takes another glance around, noting distantly that a few people in the crowd are watching as he towers over this small human, a strained grimace on his face.
The boy is ragged and dirty, breath coming in gasps. He must have been running for awhile, frantic and disheveled, and though Diavolo cannot hear the telltale sounds of anything chasing behind, he can only assume the boy is running with a desperation sparked by death on his heels.
His bag lies forgotten in the moment, shattered glass and fabric and the crinkling of plastic. Diavolo steps forward hesitantly, bowing his head for a better look, and - they're in the middle of the sidewalk, life and traffic bustling around them. And yet the boy is frozen in place, all the energy the panic brought him knocked out at the sight of another perceived threat.
Diavolo won't get clear answers here, not when the boy is too disoriented to even acknowledge his question. They need to to move, and now - somewhere out of sight, before either of them is caught unaware. He could flee alone, he muses, and at the first sight of danger, he will. But here when the street is still quiet, knowledge is beneficial. It's far better to have a solid escape plan than to scramble in confusion.
The boy doesn't move, and so Diavolo reaches out with an unsteady hand. And he pauses, afraid that if he touches the boy, he might draw the conclusion that such contact is acceptable. With a barely-there shudder, he adjusts his aim, and his fingers find loose purchase at the boy's hood. He tugs him, trembling but unyielding, away from the intersection, away from the looming crowd, to shady shelter beside a building.]
Answer me. What's after you?