Three days of London street life had taught Aaric several valuable lessons. First, that knowing the Great Depression was coming in ten years meant absolutely nothing when you couldn't find a dry place to sleep tonight. Second, that thirteen-year-old bodies required significantly more food than he'd budgeted for. Third, that other street children viewed him with the suspicious wariness.
I have no bloody clue how to be homeless person. years of life experience and I'm getting outplayed by ten-year-olds. This is humbling in ways I didn't think were possible.
"You talk funny," announced a girl with matted hair and eyes like chips of flint. She was perhaps ten years old and carried herself with the casual menace of someone who'd learned that the world bit back. "Like you're putting on airs."
Putting on airs? I'm trying to remember how to talk like a child. Do kids say 'furthermore'? I feel like kids don't say 'furthermore.' What DO kids say?
Aaric paused in his examination of a promising doorway that might serve as shelter. "I have read few books," he said finally, which was true enough.
The girl snorted. "Books don't keep you warm, and they don't fill your belly. You'll learn."
She wandered off, leaving Aaric with the uncomfortable realization that his sixty years of experience meant precisely nothing in a world where life was about everyday survival.
I spent decades analyzing market trends and profit margins, but I can't figure out how to steal food without getting caught. That's... that's actually impressive incompetence.
The irony was almost poetic. He'd died a failure in a world of infinite possibility, only to be reborn with infinite knowledge in a world that might kill him before breakfast.
At least I'm consistent.
His stomach cramped again, a sharp reminder that philosophical musings didn't address immediate nutritional needs. The bread from three days ago was a distant memory, and his subsequent attempts at "procurement" had been educational disasters.
Aaric was contemplating the strategic merits of begging versus theft when he heard the voices.
"Come on, old man. Just hand over the money and we'll be on our way."
Oh, wonderful. Street violence. Just what this day needed.
The accent was rough East End, the tone that promised violence if cooperation wasn't forthcoming. Aaric peered around the corner and saw three men cornering a lone figure against the brick wall of what appeared to be a library.
The victim was perhaps sixty, gray-haired and lean, wearing the sort of practical clothes that suggested a working man rather than gentry. He stood straight despite the odds, one hand resting on a walking stick that looked like it had seen better days. There was something in his posture—not defiance exactly, but the quiet dignity of someone who'd faced worse things than street thugs and lived to tell about it.
Military bearing. Definitely ex-army. Probably saw some action in the war.
"I've got nothing worth taking," the old man said calmly. "Unless you've developed a sudden interest in books."
I like him already. Dry humor in the face of danger. That's my kind of person.
"Don't get clever with us, grandfather. Everyone's got something."
Aaric should have walked away. Three against one were bad odds, and getting involved in other people's problems was exactly the sort of noble stupidity that got idealistic fools killed. He had his own survival to worry about, his own problems to solve.
Walk away, Aaric. This isn't your fight. You're a young boy, homeless, and your total combat experience consists of running away from an angry baker. Let the professionals handle the professional violence.
But something about the old man's calm dignity reminded him of... what? His own father, perhaps, if his father had possessed an ounce of backbone. Or maybe it was simpler than that—maybe it was just the first decent human interaction he'd witnessed since waking up in this godforsaken century.
Wait, am I actually considering this? This is insane. I'm going to get myself killed trying to save someone I don't even know.
On the other hand, he's standing in front of a library. Libraries have books. Books have knowledge. Knowledge is power. And I really, really need some power right now.
Also, the man's about to get beaten to death, and that's just wrong.
Aaric climbed.
I can't believe I'm doing this. I can't believe I'm actually doing this. This is the stupidest thing I've ever done in either life, and that's saying something .
The building was old enough that the brickwork provided adequate handholds for someone light and desperate. He made it to the second floor landing just as the conversation below took a predictably violent turn. One of the thugs took out a knife, and the old man's dignity was looking significantly less effective against steel.
Knife. Shit. This just got significantly more serious. Should I still throw the brick? Can I throw the brick? Do I know how to throw bricks? I used to play baseball in school. This is basically baseball, right? Except if I miss, someone dies.
"Really should have just walked away," Aaric muttered, picking up a loose brick from the fire escape. "This is exactly the sort of heroic nonsense that gets people killed."
Aim for the head. No, wait, that might kill him. Aim for the shoulder? No, that won't stop him. Head it is. Please don't die, random thug. I'm not ready to be a murderer.
He aimed for the knife-wielder's head and threw.
The brick connected with a wet thunk that suggested the thug's skull was softer than the masonry. The man dropped like a sack of potatoes, blood streaming from a spectacular gash.
Oh God, is he dead? Did I just commit murder? That's a lot of blood. That's definitely too much blood
His companions spun around, searching for the source of the projectile with the panicked urgency of men who'd suddenly realized they were no longer the hunters.
"Up there!" one of them shouted, pointing at the fire escape.
Aaric was already moving, scrambling higher with the desperate agility of someone who'd just committed assault and had no intention of facing the consequences. Behind him, he heard the old man's voice, steady and commanding despite the circumstances.
"I suggest you collect your friend and leave. The boy seems to have excellent aim."
Excellent aim? That was pure luck! I was aiming for somewhere in the general vicinity of his head and hoping for the best!
By the time Aaric reached the roof, the street below had cleared except for the old man, who stood examining the brick with what looked like professional interest. When he looked up and spotted Aaric's face peering over the roof edge, he smiled.
"Well," the old man called up. "That was either very brave or very stupid."
Definitely stupid. Absolutely, completely stupid. Though it worked, so maybe smart stupid?
"Probably stupid," Aaric admitted, beginning his careful descent. "But they were standing in exactly the wrong place."
Good answer. Makes it sound like I planned it instead of just noticing they were conveniently positioned for brick-related accidents.
"Thomas Morgan," the man said when Aaric reached street level, extending a hand with old-fashioned formality. "And I appear to be in your debt."
Debt. Interesting. People who acknowledge debts are people who pay them back. This could be useful. Also, his handshake is firm, callused. Definitely military background.
"Aaric," he replied, accepting the handshake. The old man's grip was firm, callused, with the steady strength of someone who'd worked with his hands. "No debt. Wrong place, wrong time for all of us."
Play it casual. Don't seem like you were calculating this. Just a kid who happened to be in the right place at the right time with excellent brick-throwing skills.
Thomas Morgan studied him with sharp gray eyes that missed nothing. "You're not from around here."
Shit. What gave it away? The accent? The vocabulary?
It wasn't a question, and Aaric felt a flutter of the paranoia that would become his constant companion. How much could people see? How obvious were the gaps in his knowledge, the strange way he spoke, the adult thoughts behind a child's face?
Come up with something. Something tragic but vague.
"Orphanage burned down," he said, which seemed like the sort of tragic backstory that would explain any oddities while discouraging further questions.
Perfect. Tragic, explains everything, and completely unprovable. I'm getting better at this lying thing.
"Ah." Thomas nodded, apparently satisfied. "Well, Aaric who throws excellent bricks, I believe the least I can do is offer you a meal. The library has a small kitchen, and I've got soup that's only slightly terrible."
Aaric stared at him. In his previous life, random acts of kindness had been so rare that he'd assumed they were extinct. Now this stranger was offering food and shelter to a boy who'd just committed assault on his behalf.
Why is he being nice to me? What's the catch? There's always a catch. People don't just... help. Do they?
"Why?" he asked before he could stop himself.
Thomas Morgan's smile was sad and knowing. "Because once upon a time, someone showed kindness to a young soldier who had nothing. And because you threw that brick with the precision of someone who's seen enough violence to know exactly where it would do the most good without doing permanent damage."
He noticed that. Shit. He noticed that I was trying not to kill the man. That's... observant. Inconveniently observant.
The observation was unsettlingly accurate. Aaric had aimed for a concussion, not a corpse. Even in desperation, he'd calculated the force needed to incapacitate without killing.
"Just lucky," he said.
"Perhaps." Thomas turned toward the library entrance. "But luck tends to favor the prepared mind. Come along—the soup really is terrible, but it's warm."
Prepared mind. That's... that's actually a compliment. He thinks I'm smart, not suspicious. I can work with smart.
As they walked toward the building, Aaric caught sight of his reflection in the library's windows. A teen , filthy, dressed in rags, following a stranger into an unknown building. Everything about the situation screamed danger, vulnerability, potential disaster.
This is either the beginning of a beautiful friendship or an elaborate setup to murder homeless children. Given my luck, probably fifty-fifty odds.
But for the first time since waking up in this nightmare, he wasn't alone.