Free-Range (Patreon)

Cleaned up one of my old snippets since the last one made me remember it, Sidestep trying to deal with life after the escape from the Farm.

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You can't be yourself. You can't.

You don't even know who yourself is. You know who you are supposed to be, the face to check for in the mirror, the right expression, the blank look, the faint smile only there because it makes you look non-threatening.

You can look threatening. You know that. You saw it on your handlers' faces as you escaped, as they...

No. Bad memory. That's beyond you now. You're out. You're free. You've got decisions to make.

Decisions. You didn't think it would be this hard. How do people do it? How do people just walk down the streets and pick a store and go inside? Make a choice? What to eat? What to wear?

You've stuck to copying people. For now. You know how to do that. Be safe. Be the same. Don't stand out. Just one in the crowd. Don't bother to choose what to eat; pick the daily special. It's there for a reason. Someone else made that choice. Easier for you to obey.

Everything is delicious out here anyway.

That first carton of fries you stuffed down your throat, salty and fried, carbs and oil and no vitamins but good enough to make you tear up. Crying into your hamburger. People stared. You took it and ran.

Ran and ate. Coughed. Had the taste in your mouth for hours afterward.

This city makes you cry as often as the Farm does. But for different reasons.

Everything is magic here. Too loud. Too brash. No dampeners. No Talodine. You can feel everything, brilliant, overpowering, so very... human.

Is it rubbing off on you? People look at you in the street and see a person. Some smile at you. Some... think about you. Bad thoughts. That's not new. They're predators, but you're not prey. Not anymore. Not to them.

There's only one person you're running from, and she has no idea you're in Los Diablos. Hiding in a sea of humanity that just doesn't care on a level so deep you're envious. You try to be like them.

You really do.

But then some are different, and you can't help smiling back at them, an echo becoming real. A diner that becomes a habit, even though habits are bad, but the fries are so good. 

Some people do care. Care enough to ask you if you have somewhere to sleep, and polite enough to pretend to believe you when you say yes. An alley does count, and a dumpster makes a decent shelter if you angle the lid just right.

You shouldn't care back. Not enough to risk yourself. Not enough to knock the robber out, with moves too smooth for the person they thought you were, and you turn and run because there would be questions.

And you are afraid of the answers.

Afraid of the feeling that came with saving them. You made a difference in their lives. You mattered. Just a little. They'll remember you, not the cuckoo, but the person, and that is dangerous but also...

Nice.

Are you getting greedy? You never needed nice before, but now you crave it. The next time you wear a scarf wrapped around your face and your hood up. You break the assailant's arm and takes his gun. Accepts the stuttered words of gratitude before disappearing back into the shadows.

A drug dealer gets you the money you need. It's a crime, but your existence is a bigger one, so you upgrade. Sports equipment. Microfiber. Some protection. Mostly mobility. The gun is a backup. The mask stays. Goggles too.

Are you selfish? Maybe. The little bursts of terrified gratitude when you save people are nice. Not a lie. They see you. A hero. Their hero. Someone. They make you want to be someone. Someone new. Someone good. Someone the Farm would never let exist.

Making your own decisions. Your own mistakes. Every single one leaves a scar. You sew them up, the pain a distant, numb thing—a lesson to remember. A mistake you won't make again.

Though you think you've already made the biggest one. Picking a name. Thinking you matter. 

Being someone.

Being someone new.

Oh well. It's better than being nothing. You'll never be nothing again.