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@guttersniper
this may be unpleasant to consider, may even be a bad place to begin, but if there were a nicer way to tell this story it wouldn’t be this story.
an independent and selective original character, written by laney.
an exploration in: rage, grief, a heart too large for a small ribcage, a clever mind, fighting tooth and nail, staying alive and kicking despite despite despite, and the mouse catching the cat.
rules. stats. verses. memes. sideblog. playlist.
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With a silent Oohhh of comprehension and delight, she gently pockets the pouch on the house! and accepts his additional offering with both hands and more fingers than necessary, but these things can be a little slippery.
She pops this one into her mouth, too. For several seconds, her reaction remains the same, and then a lavender flush begins to creep onto her cheeks and she exclaims, "Oh! Oh, it's sour!" as if she's just remembered something important. "I love sour! Oh, it's very, very, very, very much like hasperat. Like -- rekja! Like lemon!" She winces and swallows and scrunches her face and although her eyes are watering from the heat, they reflect the shine of stars. She shakes herself out as though with a slight chill. "I like it very, very much. Thank you, Mutt."
She's looking forward to sneaking a little into her shared dinner with Zeveth, tonight.
sour? he chalks it up to a still-developing palate, or perhaps vorta experience the sensation differently. either way, mutt doesn't correct her. it would feel like dampening her spirits. he watches her for another half-minute, searching for any adverse reaction. when she thanks him, he feels reassured enough that she weathered the worst. with a brave face, too. some ferengi were very dramatic when they first tried it.
the chilly evening fog, mutt could see, began to creep in, unfurling along bridges and at the ground level of streets. one of the semi-domesticated fangcats—a juvenile, he could tell—mewled at his ankles. he nudges a particularly fat tubegrub—hidden from customers for this purpose—into its mouth and watches it scamper off.
"how is zeveth these days?" it's remarkably casual for a boy that is so often intense. "i haven't seen her since i left the station."
@curiosityshop as rico said: "kid, you stay put."
"kid."
it draws out a keen awareness of just how little rico knows about him if he imagines for even one moment that mutt'll stay put.
"don't be stupid."
mutt pushes back, and it is unclear for a moment whether he means ordering him to stay here, or going after the target, or both. most likely both. a breath of air huffs faintly out through his nose, slate eyes hard with a flinty sort of wariness that makes them seem somehow sharper and darker around his iris edges.
"i'm coming with you or neither of us go."
@curiosityshop as gina said: "relax, kid, it’s me."
"kid."
gina's presence startles him. he's restless, ears pricked to every tiny sound. his fingers feel oversensitive when they brush over the upholstery that bears his weight. someone's smoked in this room, but not recently, the scent's too stale for that.
"i was told to come here. i can meet with anybody."
@curiosityshop as sonny said: "get behind me, kid."
"kid."
the moon catches to mutt's lashes, the proud, harsh bite of his cheekbones, and might be it's so that the night's always been his time. when he turns his head, there's something sharp and solemn in the minute uptick at one corner of his mouth.
"i beat you here and you're telling me to get behind you?"
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school would not be a good fit for mutt. he's prone to aggression (and violence, at worst) when he's angry, upset, hurt, or frustrated. he doesn't want to go to school nor would it be good or healthy for him. the average school and the educational system has very little to offer mutt. he is an extremely bright, intelligent, curious, and creative boy. the things he's capable of are incredible, and the mundaneness of school life would inevitably frustrate and suffocate him.
he has spent his entire life seeking knowledge and trying to understand and learn about the world around him, whether that be through talking to people, first-hand experience, or hands on learning, and he doesn't need school in order to do that, nor would he have any interest in it. he's extremely independent, and that sentiment extends to every level of his character. he doesn't need a structure like school to learn and seek knowledge and be creative.
also, imagine, like, having what he does in his head and being expected to Act Normal. nuh-uh. he wouldn't fit in well with any of his peers, and the possibility of him being mercilessly bullied and starting countless fights for a multitude of reasons and being singled out unfairly by teachers is pretty likely. fuck them kids, and fuck them teachers too.
@curiosityshop as hawkeye said: "you don’t look too good, kid."
"kid."
though not immediately attentive, the collision of a voice upon his ears near-instantly tugs mutt out of momentary distraction. molars chew over the side of his tongue hard enough to itch before he finds his voice.
"my trouble is i never do."
@curiosityshop as sam said: "talk to me, kid." for the bar mascot 💕
"kid."
a silence stretched out, thereafter. not a softness, never quite that, but a stillness. thoughtful, more than shadowed or cold. considering, and nearly contemplative. mutt's steely eyes search sam's face for several seemingly too-long seconds, as though the meaning and value of a minute had become stretched out and distorted.
"gimme a beer an' i just might."
means: not happening.
there are no photos out there of mutt. it's intentional. he doesn't want to be photographed because it might get in the wrong hands. everything he does is to avoid notice, stay anonymous, and evade the potential for (re)capture. no candids, no posed portraits, no snapshots with somebody he cares about. he tries to not even be in the background. he will swiftly remove himself if he sees a camera or phone out and poised, even in harmless situations. no amount of cajoling will make him budge. after some time being with the same people, this starts to change and he loosens up a bit.
@curiosityshop as harry said: "kid, i’m worried about you." 🥺❤️
"kid."
his lower lip is taken by upper row of teeth, as it often is during moments of uncertainty or deep thought. here he leans more towards the former than the latter. nails—clean, he can't believe how clean they are, and cut so short the little red nailbeds are almost exposed—curl into the callous of his palm.
he almost misses the bite that came with ragged fingernails.
there's a surreptitious look given to harry. he looks softer in this light, while it only makes mutt appear sharper. highlighting the protrusion of bone, faded scar on cheek, narrow features.
"you worry about everyone."
pot, kettle.
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@curiosityshop as andy said: "you could’ve hurt yourself there, son." (something something ‘call me son one more time’ something something)
"kid."
a depression where a wedding band once rested, white and smooth against the tanned, weathered surface of a country boy's hands. mutt estimates that his wife died several years ago now, but he has only recently reached the stage of grief that has permitted him to remove the band. still, he is not looking for a new partner, though he has at least one child. likely he will attempt to tutor him into being on the straight and narrow. it's a prospect that doesn't hold his interest.
when the man talks to him with neither hesitance nor hostility, it earns a flat stare.
"didn't."
@curiosityshop as trapper said: "kid, you need rest."
"kid."
mutt presses a finger into a bruise on his forearm he doesn't remember getting. he shifts, more restless than uneasy, in the plastic chair he's sat himself down in. some stubbornness lingers in the set of his jaw. his eyes flick up, settling onto trapper's with all the toothiness that kicked dogs and hit children alike have in their gaze.
he isn't unkind when he speaks, not even confrontational. "maybe in a little while."
which is to say he couldn't sleep. not here. he doesn't want to be here, when he could be not sleeping on some fire escape instead. he knows it's strange, feeling more comfortable sleeping out there than on any empty bed they could offer him, so he doesn't mention it.
Blue Velvet (1986)
mutt can't go to school cuz some middle schooler would think its okay to throw slurs around and be a bully and he'd go all h.arriet the spy on them with "all those stories you tell us about your dad are shit. you made them all up. your father lives across the world. he hasn’t seen you in three years. you wanna know why? 'cause he doesn’t love you. now, i know you're upset your parents divorced and neither wanted custody, and you have to live with your estranged grandparents, but don’t take it out on your classmates, okay?"
Taking his meaning, Dolores nods just the once and slips her ill gotten gains into her nondescript bag. The fewer questions asked, the better. She leans back in her seat and props an elbow up on the table. It's unusual to see a kid Mutt's age working a job on a Federation run station, but then again this isn't exactly the most regulated starbase in this corner of space. "Quark still holding up his end of the deal? Y'all getting breaks and the like?" She asks, flipping the lens of her visor back to get a better look at him.
his compulsion to work is an unintended consequence from growing up where he did. (or perhaps it was intentional, only kept hale enough then to stay alive.) it worked out well enough: when nog left for the academy, he took his place. easy enough to clean tables and occasionally perform simple maintenance on the holosuites, and the only species that looked at him sideways when he poured their alcoholic beverages were humans.
even if someone brought the arrangement up for its unusualness, they wouldn't get very far. forbid mutt anything and it became his heart's desire.
hearing a vulcan—even if only half—say y'all sparks a skitter of amusement in his dark eyes, there and then gone, easily mistaken for a reflective glimmer. "i'd say he's doing alright. he's made it three years without much damage."
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‘kid’ nickname starters send a sentence, get a drabble.
“ you had a nightmare, kid, remember? ”
“ lean on me, kid. ”
“ kid, i’m worried about you. ”
“ shh, shh. i’ve got you, kid. ”
“ get some rest, kid. ”
“ you okay, kid? ”
“ don’t be rude, kid. ”
“ run, kid! ”
“ you were sick, kid. ”
“ it’s good to see you, kid. ”
“ easy, kid, easy. ”
“ kid? can you hear me? ”
“ everyone gets scared, kid. ”
“ watch your mouth, kid. ”
“ you could’ve hurt yourself, kid. ”
“ you don’t look too good, kid. ”
“ i’m here, kid, shh. ”
“ stay with me, kid. ”
“ how do you feel, kid? ”
“ kid, you need rest. ”
“ i’m sorry, kid. ”
“ get behind me, kid. ”
“ kid, you had me worried sick. ”
“ relax, kid, it’s me. ”
“ open your eyes, kid. ”
“ talk to me, kid. ”
“ i’ll handle this, kid. ”
“ oh, no you don’t, kid. ”
“ it’s okay, kid, it’s okay. ”
“ kid, you stay put. ”
“ you can trust me, kid. ”
“ help’s on the way, kid. ”
“ take my hand, kid. ”
“ do you want a hug, kid? ”
“ don’t you worry, kid. ”
Whether or not the joke is funny or not is beside the point. Dolores shakes her head and rolls her eyes because she knows deflection when she hears it. "Yeah, yeah," she dismisses with a wave, "I think everyone around here knows I'm way out of your league, shortstop." The engine idles into the din of distant traffic and street life. Orange streetlamps flicker and hum, glass breaks, and someone laughs.'The city that never sleeps' is such a corny title made to convince tourists to come over and give businesses their money, but at this time of night, it's hard to deny it. Dolores puts her attention back on Mutt. "What are you doing out on the piers?" She asks, propping her elbow up on the open window.
mutt stares at her in a manner that must feel like being on the wrong end of a gun. "you don't know what the everyone around here can be like," he eventually tells her, quick like it hurts, then drowns and scorches his unsteady too-fast thoughts in a cloud of smoke that clings familiar—indulgence more than vice—at the back of his mouth, top of his throat.
(easier if he doesn't talk about it. better if he doesn't talk about it. just makes him feel more like he's been scraped off the asphalt and pushed into a sort of person shape.)
"got bored at home."
