His flight was not a long one, only because it was cut short in its last legs, just before he escaped to free territory. One, simple mistake got him dragged back, quite quietly, to the plantation. One, single slip-up when gathering up food had gotten him spotted. The three others that he was with fled and he, very purposely, allowed himself to be seen so that they could escape. No, he never saw them again, alive or otherwise. His punishment was a severe beating upon return. He was to be an example to his fellow slaves, and what an example he was.1
The seventeen year old simply gritted his teeth and took it all in stride, even as the welts rose on his skin and his blood began to boil and flow freely through the lashes that began to open on his back. When at last he did cry out, it was from anger more so than pain, but they could all clearly hear it.2
“That should teach him not to run away again,” his master said, glaring at the boy, more than a little perturbed when the gesture was returned.3
The whip lashed out again because of it and he covered his head and neck with his arms as a precaution, but how he could have seen it coming beyond the movement of his master’s arm was beyond any of them.4
Here, he made only one of his biggest mistakes. He grabbed hold of the whip as it was still being pulled away and pulled it toward him, taking his master with it, before he ran again, ran as fast as he could in the direction of the front gates. The others parted to let him through but did not close the gap quick enough to block off their master. Many were too afraid to step into his way as it was, and the few that were ready to were not quick enough.5
All they saw next was a gun drawn and fired and a perfectly fit young man falling to the ground as the bullet tore through his back, en route to his heart, but it missed. Only by a few inches, however, and the bullet flew straight through him. Internally, his body immediately began to mend, but it was more painful than the initial impact had been and he almost immediately passed out from it…6
7
…but he awoke in a place he had never seen before after all too many falls into unconsciousness that left him with only flashes of a train carriage where he had been laid in a bed carefully, his lashes dressed with some amount of care, the gunshot wound covered.8
Up North, people were…indifferent, one could say. These were the Free states, where even the black man could work, however small the wages. These were the places that he had attempted to escape to in the first place, and he found himself to have been turned over (if not sold) into freedom instead of further slavery. He could make a living for himself now, and set to it when he was able, after only a few weeks of care, along the docks at Lake Superior.9
His job was heavy lifting, simple as that, and he could lift far more than the other employees. He was appreciated for it, if not feared. Over the years, and with no complaints, he continued to work there until the day the company shut down several years later and with very little aging for him—that was the part that he could never figure out. He simply stated that it had to be good health or…something. He denied any claims of many saying that there was something supernatural or something, that he was not human, but he was slowly beginning to believe this—all of this.10
The abuse that he had suffered in the past and never had more than scars from, slips at work that could leave most debilitated or dead only left more scars, and when the company closed, some blamed him. They claimed that he was bad luck and put them all out of the job. They were beginning to believe that all black men were scum, and that he was the worst type. Once again, he ran. He packed his things and he left on foot, heading west this time, as far west as he could.11
There were towns out there now that they had struck gold, quite literally, in California, and that meant a new home and a new job.12
After so much traveling, he eventually found himself short of money, and this was to be a nonstop trip, aside from food and rest. He began to make a living from stealing where he could, and was usually rather successful despite his large size. His Poker face was remarkable and he found that he could easily take all attention off of him in most cases, and instead of living the normal life, he began hiding. Thievery was beginning to have an impact on him. He was beginning to enjoy this, and soon it began to help more than just him along. What he did not use, he would simply give away to those that needed it, and where someone needed a thief, he was there.13
The injuries he suffered now were do to underestimation and fear, simply because he was different, and as many times as he had been shot or stabbed, he was never killed, just downed for a week or so. He went into hiding for quite some time, still stealing what he needed, but now without the challenge of someone to wake up and find him snooping around their house, stealing food and money. He began to wait until there was no one home, until there was some ‘big event’ at the pub, or when more gold had been said to be found. This gold insanity had been happening since he was seven years old, and he was now twenty nine. The random gold ‘scares’ had kept up for that long, it seemed, and he made good with it.14
15
Things went on like this for some time, and said times were changing rapidly now. The people he had once stolen from were dead and gone, and he still seemed perfectly healthy, aside from the many scars that he kept hidden with whatever he could, mostly the many gunshot and stab wounds and the lashes on his back. The ones on his hands and arms were not so easily hidden, so he never bothered. Not like anyone actually cared at that point.16
For some unexplainable reason, he had survived for far longer than he should have. The year was 1994; his age was one-hundred-fifty-three. One could do the math themselves. The fact that he had not aged a day since he was about twenty-two was reason for believing that he was, indeed, anything but human. Even clothing shopping was a task simply due to his height coupled with a largely muscular build from the lifting in his past. He caught a hand in his pocket while doing just that, in fact, getting new clothes. There were no cameras in this particular area, so the would-be thief never was caught by anyone aside from him. Connor was the younger thief’s name, and he intended on being caught.17
“If you would come with me, Malcolm, I have a favor to ask,” he said rather bluntly, “and several things to offer.”18
“Give up the wallet and I’ll think about it,” Malcolm, as the ex-slave had been called since day one, said as he took the wallet when it was offered to him.19
Connor simply shrugged before turning on his heel and starting out of the store silently and Malcolm was suddenly ‘stuck’ in the business—the thieving business, that is, alongside some that were both older and younger than he for various reasons. The youngest was Connor’s daughter, Maxine, known most commonly as simply Max. Twelve years old and training as vigorously as the rest.20
The two bonded into something like siblings, close friends, never to become more than that relationship-wise. Malcolm and Max’s mother, Maia also became instant friends, and Malcolm and Connor were steadfast friends. If anything happened to any of the others, it was this little circle that came to the rescue, Max doing what she could simply due to her age, but she was strong for one so young. She reminded Malcolm of himself once upon a time, when he was still beaten for ‘taking more than his share of the food’ or something.21
One such time was two years later. Max was only fourteen when she found her mother, bleeding quite freely from a hole in her chest, through her heart. She died in the teen’s arms, placing a suddenly deeply rooted fear of death in her heart and mind. The first person she could find, before she had even gotten herself cleaned up from the drying blood on her clothes and on her hands from trying to fight off her mother’s death for just a moment longer, trying to keep the blood in her body, was Malcolm.22
He remembered that night especially vividly, as Maia had been one of his first and only true friends. He easily gathered the girl up and went in search of her father, but news had quickly spread and he was already right where Malcolm expected him to be. They found him weeping over his wife’s body, stroking her silvery hair away from her face gently and tangling his hand in it as though his very life depended on it. The tears seemed nonstop for the rest of that night and part of the next day.23
Things changed, the California Guild, as it had become, adjusted to the death, and Max, Connor, and Malcolm’s ties grew ever stronger to the day that, eight years later, Connor himself was killed in the same way that Maia had been. They still had not tracked down the murderer, and there was a huge chance of it being the same man, but as to whom this person was, they would likely never find out. Their first priority was to keep the Guild as far from chaos as possible when it was suddenly shunted into Max’s control. Malcolm helped her to keep order, but how he knew how to was beyond him in many, many ways. He learned as he went, apparently, and sometimes it meant leaving the guild to help Max, who had also left. Their constant checks and visits were what kept the guild going whenever they were not there full time (which was rather often, as the place that they were going had a reputation: Once you arrive, you never truly leave).24
Max had found love in this new place, and Malcolm kept his promise to keep her safe, as they had both noticed a pattern in the deaths. It was only ever the Matriarch and Patriarch of the guild that found themselves in the grave. The Matriarch in this case was Max, and if they ever married, her boyfriend, Morgan, would find himself as Patriarch. Malcolm figured it best to keep them between their new home, their guild, and the New Orleans Guild for the sake of safety.25
He had taken to watching the two from afar as time went on, drifting physically but never mentally, away from the two. He stayed vigilant while training here and there, talking to this person or that (usually Max, if she could be bothered with tearing herself away from Morgan or to Eve here and there), but soon he was given a task. Get an entire two sentences out of a vampire, Selene, in conversation, by one by the name of Venat with only some help from Eve (as the entire thing had been her idea). To this, he agreed, using what he had seen and what he had been told to do so.26
Over a day or so, more than a few setbacks, his scars of all things, and a lemur-induced miracle or two, their relationship was taking root: A relationship that they would neither deny nor accept when it was brought to light. Not yet… 27
Author notes
Yes, I’m aware that this story is quite vague, done only as a reference to a role play and ‘trust,’ but you won’t understand that bit unless you were there, so sorry! Here ya go, Squirt. I want no random negative feedback on the vagueness of this story, simply because, well…I already told you that. It’s only a summary. It was only meant to go into /some/ detail. Keep that in mind.
Malcolm, Connor, Max, Maia, Eve, and the California Guild are mine.
All references to slavery and the Gold Rush have everything to do with being a black man in 1800’s America, go figure.
Selene is © her creator(s)/player.
Morgan is © his creator/player.
The New Orleans Guild and most within are © Marvel.
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...........................dude. What the fu- Eh. Whatever.
YAY!
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