Meet Michael
Michael’s stomach growled as he watched the girl pull out a calorie bar from her backpack. She was probably his brother’s age, definitely a teenager at least. He wondered if she had any weapons hidden in her tall combat boots or in her skirt pockets. His stomach growled again and he stopped worrying about it.
Michael moved up behind her, slashed the backpack’s straps with his pocketknife and took off running.
“Hey!” the girl shouted. He could hear her close behind him in pursuit, but he managed to keep a few steps ahead of her, using his smaller size to his advantage by ducking between people and under every obstacle he could find. The problem was that she wasn’t slowing down, and he was running out of energy fast. He stumbled - she caught him, shoving him against a wall and knocking his knife out of his hand. “Back off, kid,” she snarled.
“Just wanted something to eat,” he mumbled, then more defiantly, “You never would have caught me if I weren’t hungry.”
The girl frowned. Michael braced himself for the beating he expected. It didn’t happen. “That was my last bar,” she said, “but I know a guy that might help you out.” She repaired her straps, tying them back together for now, and straightened her black bandanna. “Follow me,” she commanded, and started walking.
Surprised, curious, and hungry, Michael hurried after her.
She led him toward the border, stopping in front of a house on Break Street. They went up the steps and knocked on the door. A tall man in a fancy black suit answered, sized them up in a wordless glance and gestured that they should come inside.
“Sit,” he said and gestured to the kitchen table. As they did so, Michael stared around him. There were so many books! One of them was open on the desk with pictures and bits of paper stuck on the pages. The kitchen looked normal, at least. “I apologize for the poor fare,” the man said, startling Michael a little, “but I do not often have social visitors.”
A plate of white squares and half circle slivers of something whitish with a red peel was set on the table. Then the man poured something out of a funny looking pot with a spout into a small cup sitting on a small dish. He set a cup and little dish in front of both Michael and the girl.
“It’s tea,” she said by way of an explanation, “it’s ridiculously hot, so be careful.”
Michael followed her example, cautiously sipping the scalding liquid and then helping himself to one of the white squares when he saw her eat one. It was cheese! Astounded, he tried one of the half-circles. “Tastes almost like apple,” he muttered to himself.
“You’ve never had real food before.”
Michael looked up. The tall man was almost grinning. Sort of. “What do you mean?”
“That doesn’t taste ‘almost like apple,’ it is an apple. A fresh one. You’ve only ever had prepackaged meals, and fairly poor quality ones at that.” Smirking for an instant at Michael’s amazed expression, he continued, “Now that immediate physical needs have been met, perhaps either of you could tell me why you are here?”
“You don’t know?” the girl joked.
The man’s brow rose slightly. “The boy is either a client or a recruit, the latter is more likely, though there is just enough chance of the other to warrant caution before making a conclusion.”
She shrugged, “He’s a recruit. Fast on his feet and good under pressure. Tried to swipe my pack, almost got away with it.”
Michael tried not to squirm under the man’s intense gaze. “I'm Sherlock. This is Miss Wendy.”
“I’m Mike.”
“Michael.”
“Well, yeah, but everyone calls me Mike.”
“As your employer, I would prefer something a little more formal.”
Michael blinked. “As my what?”
“You are nine years?”
“Eight.”
“Hmph. Children’s ages are always so difficult to determine with precision. Miss Wendy, stop smirking. Michael, the young lady sitting next to you works for me. I would like you to do the same. The work is simple, though occasionally dangerous -”
“My brother’s in a gang, I can deal with danger.”
“I see.” Michael had a weird feeling this Sherlock guy did see, and saw more than he was letting on. “You will be required to act as my spy and messenger around the City, along with any other duty I may think of for you to fulfill. I will pay you per assignment. You may refuse any assignment as you like, though repeated refusals will of course -”
“Get me fired or worse, yeah.”
Sherlock cocked his head, as if he were both puzzled and offended. “‘Worse’ will not happen.”
Michael blinked, uncomfortable. “Oh. I didn’t mean -”
“It was a perfectly understandable assumption on your part. Understandable, but wrong. I am not like anyone you have ever dealt with before.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Wendy muttered, then grinned at Michael. “Kid, you’re life just got a whole lot more interesting.”
Michael’s stomach growled as he watched the girl pull out a calorie bar from her backpack. She was probably his brother’s age, definitely a teenager at least. He wondered if she had any weapons hidden in her tall combat boots or in her skirt pockets. His stomach growled again and he stopped worrying about it.
Michael moved up behind her, slashed the backpack’s straps with his pocketknife and took off running.
“Hey!” the girl shouted. He could hear her close behind him in pursuit, but he managed to keep a few steps ahead of her, using his smaller size to his advantage by ducking between people and under every obstacle he could find. The problem was that she wasn’t slowing down, and he was running out of energy fast. He stumbled - she caught him, shoving him against a wall and knocking his knife out of his hand. “Back off, kid,” she snarled.
“Just wanted something to eat,” he mumbled, then more defiantly, “You never would have caught me if I weren’t hungry.”
The girl frowned. Michael braced himself for the beating he expected. It didn’t happen. “That was my last bar,” she said, “but I know a guy that might help you out.” She repaired her straps, tying them back together for now, and straightened her black bandanna. “Follow me,” she commanded, and started walking.
Surprised, curious, and hungry, Michael hurried after her.
She led him toward the border, stopping in front of a house on Break Street. They went up the steps and knocked on the door. A tall man in a fancy black suit answered, sized them up in a wordless glance and gestured that they should come inside.
“Sit,” he said and gestured to the kitchen table. As they did so, Michael stared around him. There were so many books! One of them was open on the desk with pictures and bits of paper stuck on the pages. The kitchen looked normal, at least. “I apologize for the poor fare,” the man said, startling Michael a little, “but I do not often have social visitors.”
A plate of white squares and half circle slivers of something whitish with a red peel was set on the table. Then the man poured something out of a funny looking pot with a spout into a small cup sitting on a small dish. He set a cup and little dish in front of both Michael and the girl.
“It’s tea,” she said by way of an explanation, “it’s ridiculously hot, so be careful.”
Michael followed her example, cautiously sipping the scalding liquid and then helping himself to one of the white squares when he saw her eat one. It was cheese! Astounded, he tried one of the half-circles. “Tastes almost like apple,” he muttered to himself.
“You’ve never had real food before.”
Michael looked up. The tall man was almost grinning. Sort of. “What do you mean?”
“That doesn’t taste ‘almost like apple,’ it is an apple. A fresh one. You’ve only ever had prepackaged meals, and fairly poor quality ones at that.” Smirking for an instant at Michael’s amazed expression, he continued, “Now that immediate physical needs have been met, perhaps either of you could tell me why you are here?”
“You don’t know?” the girl joked.
The man’s brow rose slightly. “The boy is either a client or a recruit, the latter is more likely, though there is just enough chance of the other to warrant caution before making a conclusion.”
She shrugged, “He’s a recruit. Fast on his feet and good under pressure. Tried to swipe my pack, almost got away with it.”
Michael tried not to squirm under the man’s intense gaze. “I'm Sherlock. This is Miss Wendy.”
“I’m Mike.”
“Michael.”
“Well, yeah, but everyone calls me Mike.”
“As your employer, I would prefer something a little more formal.”
Michael blinked. “As my what?”
“You are nine years?”
“Eight.”
“Hmph. Children’s ages are always so difficult to determine with precision. Miss Wendy, stop smirking. Michael, the young lady sitting next to you works for me. I would like you to do the same. The work is simple, though occasionally dangerous -”
“My brother’s in a gang, I can deal with danger.”
“I see.” Michael had a weird feeling this Sherlock guy did see, and saw more than he was letting on. “You will be required to act as my spy and messenger around the City, along with any other duty I may think of for you to fulfill. I will pay you per assignment. You may refuse any assignment as you like, though repeated refusals will of course -”
“Get me fired or worse, yeah.”
Sherlock cocked his head, as if he were both puzzled and offended. “‘Worse’ will not happen.”
Michael blinked, uncomfortable. “Oh. I didn’t mean -”
“It was a perfectly understandable assumption on your part. Understandable, but wrong. I am not like anyone you have ever dealt with before.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Wendy muttered, then grinned at Michael. “Kid, you’re life just got a whole lot more interesting.”
