Kid

'He don't need no name' as the colloquialism would have it. Names are only good for showing ownership; the fastest way to becoming a slave is to share your name. Or to have one in the first place.1

He's not a particularly hygienic individual all-around, but his feet are possibly the most vile human appendages I've ever laid eyes on: and I hunt down orphans like this for a living...I've seen a lot of awful things. 2

His eyes are a pale yellow and they're framed with dark hair that if wrung out would fill a gallon jar with its grease and accumulated grit. He crouches, nimbly perched at the top of a narrow brick wall and surveys his little kingdom ponderously. This dusty little town is his domain and he spends most of his days lounging on the terra cotta roofs of apartment buildings and picking through leftovers behind various restaurants.3

I've been tracking the kid for weeks...Sister Mathilda thinks he'd be perfect candidate for the experiment. We try to keep a tag on all of the D-Class kids and certain members of their group stand out; this kid is notable for his luck in evading authorities...good thing I'm better equipped than those schlubs will ever be.4

He scans the sandy street and finally sees me lounging on the patio of the cafe. His little amber eyes narrow as he notes my position, but I don't think he sees me as a threat; he's curious. I half expect him to lope over, like the street monkeys in my hometown, to sniff out the intruder in his territory. But he's not a monkey. He's a human. And he just stares me down, cooly, his gaze denoting a little sliver of self-assured-ness. I was wrong about him at first--he knows I'm here to bring him in, and he knows he won't be caught. 5

He vaults backwards off of the wall, his tattered clothing extending behind him in a majestic tail, caught in the strong dry wind that this town loves to play host to. He's gone and out of sight...for now.