#theestheimboy

      "Yo', Prompt. Your kid's here."

      As soon as the blond walked through the door, these words were tossed to him. He grinned at the man they had come from, allowing the heavy wooden barrier behind him to fall shut on its own. "'S'bout fuckin' time! Was startin' t'think I was gunna be the only one carryin' your asses. Where's he at?"

      The truth was, there was a good chance he was going to be the only one carrying these guys’ asses. He was the best at his job and knew how to make the business thrive. It helped that he had a few tricks up his sleeve in comparison to the pitiful lot around him; it also helped that, unlike them, he didn't have the need to take more than his share. He had lost a lot of kids that way. They would bite off more than they were told to chew-- they were a lot less sneaky than they liked to believe --and Prompto would find himself in need of a new mule. You didn’t fuck with what wasn't yours. That was the first rule. If you did, you were handing in your life. It didn't matter how close you and your partner were. It didn't matter how long you two had been working together.

      Once the boss came after you, that was it.

      You were on your own.

      Wast it cold? It was cold, but that was life. At least, when you decided to join a band of thieves, that was life.

      Where Prompto had made his entrance was one of the many bases planted all over the country. It was a seemingly harmless pub filled with drunks of all sorts, the stench of fresh and stale alcohol, and the sound of hearty laughter that was too loud for any joke being told. The fact that a good handful of the drunks wore clothes more expensive than the building they sat in probably seemed suspicious, but that wasn’t a problem. It wasn’t as though the nation of Accordo was unaware of its situation. It wasn't as though its government could do much about it. It was a losing battle that had started way before Prompto had been born, a losing battle that had drawn clear borders over the years it grew. Losing one life didn't mean anything to the band. They killed off their own when they felt betrayed; what difference did it make to them? Losing a base, on the other hand, was a different story. That cost them money in more areas than one, as well people to get that money back. That was a problem. 

      So, there were safe spots. You crossed a certain borderline and the authorities quit chasing you. Until you hit that borderline, you were on your own. Unless you had a good partner, of course.

      Prompto's kids were lucky in that way. He wasn't one to leave a person behind and often found himself having to take down pigs to keep his partner alive. He had yet to lose one of his own on his watch; he planned on keeping it that way.

      The person he was to find after moving past the bar's counter, into an empty storage room, was a lucky person. Even under the hazy florescent light above, that so easily hardened a stranger's features, the kid managed to look soft. His skin was almost as pale as the hair on his head and looked like it hadn't been scratched throughout its entire existence. It wasn't an uncommon look-- the high middle class offered a lot of rebellious little fuckers. The ungrateful shits had no idea what they were stepping into. The ungrateful shit standing before Prompto just happened to pick the long end of the stick. He wouldn't have to worry about scratching his pretty little skin. Prompto took the brunt of situations. He grinned as he shut the room's door and leaned against it.

Beryl hues lit up as the rounder scanned over the crowd of new faces before him. Strangers seemed to be wandering in from all over the place but usually the flow was more scattered. Smiling his usual toothy grin, the blond curtly nodded while saluting with two slender fingers to the group before him.