bxnesof92 - Tumblr blog

bxnesof92 · 4 years

Text

Don’t Look Over Your Shoulder (2/?)

A Ralbert mulitchapter

Chapter 2: Good Mythical Manhattan

Read on Ao3!

Chapter 1!

The red-haired boy stared into Race’s eyes for a second longer, flicked his gaze back to the sun dipping below the horizon, and looked back to the city once again. He tapped his fingers contemplatively and took a heavy breath. He turned back to Race and nodded once, quick and with finality. “Yea, I could use a little more than survival at this rate.”

Race, in a gesture of peace, outstretched his hand. His new partner warily accepted his help down and quickly gathered his possessions.

Race grabbed his hand once again when the boy seemed ready to leave and yanked him into a run, “It’s not too far from here, and I can’t tell you where we’re going out here, but we have to hurry before the bulls come out.”

“The… bulls?”

“Those mean fuckers with the scary masks and the bikes? Man, where did you come from?” Race was incredulous, and couldn’t discern a reasonable explanation as to how this kid looked and acted the way he did, and yet still hadn’t a clue as to who the bulls were. Meanwhile, this “kid” allowed himself to be pulled further into the desert in silence while he thought Oh… That’s what they call them…

– –

“Ah, shit. Hey Red, you got a light by chance?” Race called into the darkness. One of Manhattan’s entrances wasn’t far from where they stood, and yet, Race was clueless. This side of their base was rarely used for commute, and he doubted that the hatches were very well marked.

Red, he liked that name, shook his head, still unsure of what they were looking for. “What exactly are you bringing me to?”, he asked. He looked around himself before deciding that any plans to escape would be useless, Race knew the area too well.

“Why-” Race paused to turn his head as a handheld flare roared to life “Only Manhattan, the finest piece of rebellion on this side of the… Well, on this side of anywhere, really. It’s got lots going on down there, I think you’ll appreciate what we’re all about.” As he spoke, Red’s face lit up in childlike wonder,

“You guys are real? I thought Manhattan was just a myth!”

“Hold this, one sec.” Race passed off the sparking flare and bent down. He yanked at what Red had assumed scrap metal. Frustrated, Race yanked off multiple protective layers to get a more comfortable grip on the door in the ground. With a final pull, Race slammed open a hatch in the sand, subsequently inhaling it. He kneeled over to cough out, and then gestured Red down the revealed stairs. “Well, welcome to the myth.”

– –

Inside Manhattan was a flurry of activity. Everywhere Red looked there were scrappy boys as old as he moving and working seamlessly in what seemed to be a metal bunker. Race had taken the liberty of removing the rest of his gear as he descended the stairs, giving Red his first look at a complete person in months. Race was long and muscular, curly haired, bright eyed, and still somehow pale despite the desert’s rays. Race laughed loud and high, spreading his arms as if presenting the world’s happiest place on Earth: “Welcome to Manhattan!” With the joy in that single sentence, Red wondered if maybe this was Race’s happiest place on Earth.

Race walked in with a confident, yet courteous, air. He sidestepped around girls with boxes, smiled at boys behind control desks, and turned to nod at Red behind him, “You comin’? There’s someone I think you really need to meet.”

With that, Race had turned back and proceeded to a circular lower level in the room and left no choice but for Red to follow.

Race had headed straight toward the man in the center, who clearly held authority. The man looked busy and Red feared that his new friend would face consequences for interrupting him, but instead jumped on his back with a wide smile and shouted, “Jackie!”

“Jackie” spun around and threw him off, only to turn around and hug him with the same ferocity. Red stood a few paces away, fixed on his place a few stairs from the floor. Race and the older boy spoke in hushed voices, their faces betraying nothing of their conversation. Red watched on, and failed to notice another boy zipping down the stairs behind him. The newcomer had a youthful grin and a small package, and nudged shoulders with Red by accident. The boy let out a hearty laugh as he continued his way down the stairs,

“Hey! Sorry about that, wasn’t watching myself! Hey, we haven’t gotten a new kid our age in a while, I’m Finch, what do they call ya?” With that short greeting, Finch had inadvertently drawn the eyes of everyone in the room to the two of them. Race paused his conversation and raised an eyebrow at his new friend.

“Well,” he started, “Race has been callin’ me Red.” Finch spat in his free hand and held it out to Red with a smile as conversations resumed. As Red did the same he announced that he was

“Charmed to meet ya, Red!” and continued on his way.

Race and his friend walked up to where Red was watching Finch walk away, and he snapped his attention back to the matter at hand. Even though Red easily had six inches on the older boy, his intimidating presence made him want to shrink into himself. Despite that, he placed one hand on the blade he had previously threatened Race with and straightened his back, ready on the defense.

The leader looked him up and down, scrutinizing Racer’s find, before finally offering a hand, “Jack Kelly. Heard you needed somewhere to go,”

“It was die out there or die wherever Blondie was leading me, so I’d say need is a bit of a stretch.”

Jack turned, dropping his hand, “Racer, you always gotta be bringin’ home the feisty ones. Can’t you make a guy’s life a little easier every once in a while? Bring home some bright-eyed, bushy-tailed marksman who actually wants to be here?”

“Ahhh, Jackie, send me out on shitty job, reap the consequences,” Race replied, playfully elbowing Jack in the ribs before throwing an arm around his shoulder, “Red, meet Jack, big brother extraordinaire and leader of this scrappy little rebellion we’ve got going on. Jack, meet Red. Don’t know shit about him ‘cept he hates the city and knows his way around a knife.”

Jack held silent for a moment. “Is Red your real name?”

“Is Jack yours?”

Jack pulled his shoulders back and tilted his head, not enthused by the newcomers’ lack of cooperation.

“Okay! I‌ think we’re done here!” Race interjected, sensing obvious tension between the two. He turned Jack around by his shoulders and pushed him back towards the direction he came. “C’mon, you,” he said back to Red, “I think I’m gonna give you the run down, let you get cleaned up, and we’ll getcha registered in the system. Sound good?” Red let his shoulders drop a fraction, eyes conflicted. Getting cleaned up sounded really nice, and Manhattan in the stories he grew up hearing sounded perfect right now. Race must’ve sensed his hesitation. He let his voice get softer and moved to put a hand on Red’s shoulder, but thought better of it. “You don’t have to decide now, it’s okay if you don’t want to stay here but believe me when I say that we’re the safest and strongest section. We’re gonna do big things, but we can keep you safe and alive in the meantime.”

“… Alright. Show me around.”

#dloys ralbert #racetrack higgins #ralbert #albert dasilva #racetrack newsies #albert newsies #newsies fic #newsies #newsies live #Jack Kelly

2 notes · View notes

bxnesof92 · 4 years

Text

Don’t Look Over Your Shoulder

A Ralbert multichapter fic

"A three-hundred thousand degree baptism by nuclear fire I'm not sorry, we had it coming A surge of white-hot atonement will be our wake-up call Hope for our future is now a stillborn dream"

Except, its not. The days keep passing, the wind rolls through the desert. Nuclear oblivion ravaged the landscape and broke everything that the world held dear, and yet, people kept going. The city rose up by means of the wealthy, and they created insurance policies to make sure that it wouldn't happen again.

Carthage. Much like ancient Rome: a celebration of opulence and bloodlust-treating the poor like a disease and hunting them for sport.

Underground lies a different city, a rebellion known to few dedicated to bringing down those in power.

A new boy, new promises, restrictions, loves and tribulations leave the Rebellion of Manhattan keeping eyes on their resident lingust Racetrack, and his cagey recruit.

Chapter 1: There’s a New World for the Winning

Read on Ao3!

“God. Shit. Fuck.” The boy sprinted, stumbling every few paces when he dared a look behind him. One risked glance sent him sprawling into the hot sand, coughing and praying that the wind would blow away his footsteps. He pulled down the fabric covering his mouth and nose and coughed violently, body lurching forward with each unconscious exhalation. His imminent sense of danger had lessened with each footstep, as had his sense of direction. The only comfort that came from this was the hope that his assailants had lost their way as well. When the dust had finally cleared from his lungs, the boy chose instead to cover the top of his head, his red hair a beacon in the otherwise desolate landscape.

Nuclear annihilation in an era much before his time had left his surroundings a wasteland, and yet, he was surrounded on all sides. Far in front of him sat Carthage, a gleaming city where he knew he would be shunned and discarded, and far behind him was whoever he had just had the misfortune of interacting with. He checked his bag: Water bottle? Nearly empty. Rations? Completely gone. A coherent plan? Not a chance in hell that that was still around. Finally rising to his feet, the redhead was faced with a decision, get killed one way or die another.

As he lost sight of those who were following him before, he began to walk in an unknown direction, desperate to find shelter or supplies before night fell.

Discarded cans here, corroded batteries there, and so forth, until the sun began to set and he was sure he had found the Holy Grail:

A shitty, beat-up Trans Am half buried in sand and with a radiation content higher than was healthy.

But hey, it’s shelter, he thought. The door was easy enough to get into, a few good slams with his hip and it gave easily. Inside was hot, hotter than the usual desert temperature, but the glove box alone was worth the sweat. Bandages, a few coins of an obsolete currency, a handful of hard candies, and goggles. Escaping with his prizes, the boy climbed on top of the car, discarding some of his many layers to ward off the burn of the metal. He popped a candy into his mouth and looked off, ready to await the night.

– –

Race hadn’t seen a day so hot in years, given, his home underground allowed him to skip out on most of the heat. He readjusted his goggles and fished his gloves out of his pockets before leaving the Woodside sector. Inter-rebellion relations were not his favorite duty, but as a favor to Jack –and Katherine and Davey who fixed what Jack’s bullheadedness sometimes caused– he had ventured to his least favorite side of their alliance. Woodside had it’s name for a reason, their operations and quarters coming solely from a shack built half-above ground, and completely wooden. Race was responsible for a lot of dumb ideas, but never one as stupid as a wooden shack -God only knows where they got the wood- in the middle of a dangerous wasteland, much less one without any underground connections to other sectors.

The trek was long and brutal. Distance, heat, and a ruined environment required Race to dress like the scrappy rebel he truly was, in layers of tattered clothes and fingerless gloves, not to mention the tinted goggles and mouth coverings. He gave off a presence that anyone would be wise to stay away from.

He whistled a tune with a name long forgotten, and tried to gauge the fall of the sun. He had no way to contact his sector and no way to predict how much time he had left, so Race began a race against the clock. The Woodside conflict he was sent to resolve was urgent and left little time for preparation, sending him into the desert ill-equipped to handle the dangers that came with nightfall. The pack at his side held only water enough to last a single person, and an archaic wayfinder that would help him find his way back home.

Though the signal kept cutting out, Race was assured that he was heading in the right direction. “… Get Smalls to fix… get But-, no, I’ll have to get… patch up,” he disjointedly muttered, staring down at the screen. He whacked the side repeatedly in an attempt to get a clearer path marked out and veered slightly out of his way.

Admitting defeat to himself at the fruitless attempts at fixing his aged technology, Race finally realized his deviance and stopped, looking up to see the sun begin to fall in the sky. Race immediately knew that his return to Manhattan was going to be rough. The overall lack of poor planning in this venture had already been driving their leader crazy, and the thought of Race being defenseless in the night was a risk that he was surprised they allowed themselves to take.

Race surveyed his surroundings, only to find them familiar, he couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes from his destination, yet something felt oddly new– strange, even.

In the dimming light Race saw nothing but the usual discarded cans, scraps of metal, and sand. Broken pieces and junk were commonplace in their corner of the desert. At times like this, he really wished that his near-empty pack carried at least a flashlight, scanning over the small dune to the east, scraps right across, and the car that’d been stripped for parts, yet had something new up top.

New wasn’t welcome, new in the wastelands was dangerous and concerning, as New could blow their entire operation to bits in a matter of hours. New was exactly the thing Race loved to face.

Unclipping a knife from his belt, Race inched forward, the New nothing but unintelligible shapes in the growing dusk. This had to have been the worst time to face New, and yet the adrenaline rushed through his veins as lumps took the shape of a body, a body wrapped in scraps worse than his and unmoving as Race approached.

Now identified, Race formulated the best plan he could at the moment: Check the pulse, and then check the pockets.

He doubted the value in anything that a person this worn-down could carry, but quite honestly, his group could use whatever it could get. He stepped forward as silently as the sand would allow, and hovered near the mid of the body when he found himself severely misguided.

Whatever experiences or backgrounds that allowed the person to look so ragged had honed reflexes that Race envied, as within seconds he found himself nose-to-blade with an even more impressive weapon.

Reverting back to everything he was taught in youth, Race raised his arms, dropped and kicked away his weapon, and stepped back a pace or two. He analyzed. His assailant bore a striking resemblance in demeanor to his boys back home. Just a scared, defensive kid. He couldn’t have been much older than Race was now, seventeen. Threat level: medium, Race guessed. He was unknown and brandishing a weapon that he obviously knew how to use. With the sudden movement, the other boy’s tatters had fallen off of his head to reveal the most striking mop of red hair that Race had ever seen.

Their stare down lasted a minute at best, Race noting how the other boy’s breathing was labored and ragged in comparison to his collected breaths. Against, yet perfectly in tune with his natural instinct, Race lead.

“Ok, I’ll fold. Not too big a fan of falling first, but I‌’m also working on keeping myself out of trouble. Name’s Racetrack.”

The redhead slowly lowered his weapon, but the tension remained rigid in his shoulders. Race continued,

“Ok then… Tu parli Italiano? Русский может быть? Throw a language at me and I’ll speak it, I just want to talk.”

“Nobody speaks Russian anymore, dipshit.” The boy replied

“Well I’ve counted at least one who does, and I never miscalculate. We’ve moved past the language barrier pretty quickly then, I’d suggest you start talking. You could start with a name, you could start with an affiliation, you could start with anything really, I’m not picky.”

The boy considered Race’s words for a second before pocketing his blade and admitting, “I’m just looking for somewhere to stay alive.” Race’s eyes narrowed.

“Well there’s plenty of those. Why aren’t you taking shelter in that shiny-ass city ‘cross th’ way?” The sudden shift from curious to interrogative brought what little tension had left his shoulders back into them.

“Yea, not really lookin’ to get killed,” he replied, “A fella like me wants nothing to do with anywhere that treats the poor like street rats and fightin’ dogs. So really, if you’re gonna send me into the dog ring I can’t assume that there’s anything safe about you.”

The knives were drawn again.

Race, once again, was calculated. He knew what answers he wanted out of this bout of New lurking so close to his home, and he was bound to get them. His opponent on the other hand, was wild, angry. With every breath he had taken in the last few minutes he had shown Race exactly what he needed to see, revolutionary fervor, and a hatred for the shining city sitting in the desert.

He smirked, making a point to put his knife in his bag where it would be harder to reach. “Finding somewhere to stay alive, yeah? I’ve got somewhere that might do a little more than that.”

#ralbert #racetrack higgins #albert dasilva #Jack Kelly #newsies fic #Newsies #racetrack newsies #albert newsies #syd tries writing #dloys ralbert

2 notes · View notes