If anybody referred to them as a “regular amateur hijackers,” Norman would be very pissed. For fucking sake, he had gotten the stinking Franklyn’s child, it was obvious that he and his group weren’t a plain “regular amateur hijackers”. They were, though . Or perhaps, had been until this very moment, but he would never admit the incredible luck factor that had come in to play in this specific case. To be fair, their abilities usually made it easy to not have to try that hard, Norman being able to instantly chose the untraceable way out of any situation, Bruce being able to open any lock and Lenise being… well, Lenise.
“Fuck Bruce!,” the blond middle-aged woman, the one who wasn’t contacted until they’ve already done the deal, wasn’t finding funny the idea of messing up with the Franklyn, “They’re going to skin us alive when they find us! And don’t doubt they will find us, those motherfuckers are almost gods in this forsaken city! Just give the boy away! We have to disappear as soon as we can!”
“Lenise, just shut your mouth, for god sake,” Bruce was calm, he was always calm, but irritation could already be seen in his scarred face, “We got his, ok? We got this. And even if we didn’t, it’s too late to back up. If the Fraklyns were to find us, they will with or without the boy.”
His wife instantly got red, ready to explode in another wave of anger.
“So, you’re not going to check out the boy? It’s been a while,” they both ignored Norman, starting to fight once again.
He cursed them, going to do the job by his own. Lenise usually was the one who interacted with the lodger, as he called them, because she hadn't any powers and that made people relax around her. They certainly didn’t imagine that the scars in Bruce’s face were her doing, and for sure never fathom the idea that because she didn’t have powers she had to get really creative with her weapons, but that was beside the point.
Well, the very short man with long silky hair thought, it wasn’t as if the boy never interacted with people with powers, pretty much the opposite, so he guessed it wouldn’t really be of any harm to give him a sandwich or something. The poor kid did ask for food after all, repeatedly, even after the harsh treatment they gave him.
He entered the blue container, placed in the middle of the big storage room they were in. The couple trailed back in the corner, close to the table with the computers, far enough so the screams of Lenise weren’t as understandable. The door of steel, who locked itself automatically after each closing, made a solid sound that prompted the boy’s eyes to shot upward in his direction.
He wasn’t little, really, but something about him made his figure look harmless in a way. Small. Maybe it was the fact that he was in a corner, seated with his bloody arms, (from the tracker that was removed) around his legs. Or was his incredible black messy hair for the run he made with them, or the red mark on his cheek from where they hit on him. Maybe, even, was none of that. Maybe was his pale brown skin, or his curved back, or his expressionless face. His very still, motionless, as dark as his hair, eyes.
“Hey there, big guy,” Norman stumbled in what to say, “Brought a snack for you.”
He put the plate with the sandwich close to him, backing up after he saw the boy flinching. Norman could have left, but quite frankly, he was in the mood of putting up with what was happening outside even less than his unwillingness of staying in the same room (container in his case, haha) as this dead-eye type of kid. God, what the hell have the Franklyn done to the poor boy? One would imagine that those well-know “heroes” would have more care for their children. Well, perhaps it was because the boy was just some common joe. Or because he was overall weird. In that exact moment, for example, the kid was still staring at him, not indicating he would do anything any time soon.
“Is not... poisoning or anything,” he explained, more out of discomfort than any other thing, “Just a regular sandwich.”
The kid hesitated, taking a deep breath, and started getting up to pick the food. The boy moved very, very slowly. It was just after a long moment that Norman understood why he wasn’t moving before. The kid was ashamed because he had pissed himself.
The little Franklyn went back to his corner, without looking at his direction, and Norman gave a big sigh. Even if that was the first time they were handling a child, he still had no idea how Lenise, that fucking psycho, could do that talking thing and still be willing to torture the lodgers afterward if needed.
He brought new pants for the boy, it was the only thing he could do, and gave another sigh when he poor child whispered a very muffled “sorry.”
He refused to let go of his old pants, holding them tightly, but Norman could imagine that that was one of the traumatic bullshit that the lodgers usually went trough, so he just gave up on taking them away.
Norman seated on the ground as well, quite far from him, and waited for him to finish the sandwich. The whole process was done in silence, but it was a much heavier one. For the hundredth time, he wondered what was done to that boy, but it wasn’t as if he could do anything about that, so he pushed the question to the back of his mind. Whatever happened to him after they got the money of his family wasn't up to him.
When he left with the empty plate, the small one stopped him before the door, pulling his shirt, and, with his head so low his chin was touching his chest, said, “thank you.”
He gave him a little smile, touching his head lightly, but the screams continued outside and he couldn't hold the sympathetic mood for long, getting annoyed soon after the door started to close behind him. There was so much noise he didn’t even hear the sound of the lock.