Scanning from Dust to Dust
Read Time: 6 minutes
Farfik Hyde, once a promising, rising figure in the nobility -- the son of Demetrius Hyde, CEO of Hyde CORP -- found himself slumped in the wretched labyrinth of the East Side trenches. Alone. His fancy suit that he'd been holding onto for the past year and a half was ripped and battered. Farfik was no more than a street cat, grasping at straws for his sense of dignity and pride; refusing to eat 'lowly peasant food' as his father, er, boss, would call it.
The tabaxi mustered up the energy to get up from the ground, a clear print around the area he sat in from the collected dirt, mold, and what looks like bugbear shit on the side. 3 days of sitting for that. My best work, he thought.
Feeling adventurous, he stepped out from the alleyway, searching the streets for a super-not-suspicious-looking tiefling. His eyes narrowed as he spotted a small, plastic bag sticking out of one of his pockets, immediately picking up the pace in the tiefling's direction. He walked by him, making brief eye contact before heading into an alley for the dealer to follow. "Here's the 20," he muttered, his voice raspy; It was the first time he'd used his voice in days.
"We said 30," the tiefling grumbled, the baggie still in his pocket. Desperate, Farfik shoved his hands into his pockets to find any more coins and collectibles he could muster. He saved up this money for weeks just to buy a piece of bread and a coat -- but a coat couldn't silence his brain like that baggie could. "That's all I got," he sniffled. 27.5 GP.
The tiefling grinned, yet his eyes were unmoving.
The dealer eyed that little bracelet on the tabaxi's wrist, taking one of his nails to pull at it. "I'll take this, and you got the bag."
Farfik's eyes dilated, stepping a foot back. "That can't happen. It's personal." "Then we're through here," he scoffed, stuffing his pockets, pivoting to leave. The tiefling shivered, feeling the dirty, ungroomed paws of the tabaxi on his shoulder.
"Wait," he growled. He closed his eyes, running his paw through his gray hair -- either from aging or dust, it's hard to tell -- and sighed. "Just, just wait." He slowly pulled off the bracelet from his wrist, the area underneath the item clean and untouched, the fur bright yellow compared to the areas around it. He read the letters on the bracelet, spelling out his sister's name: Arya.
The tabaxi almost slapped it onto the dealer's hand, along with all his other savings. "I need this, Arya. I know you'd understand," He thought, holding his hand out for the baggie. It wasn't anything crazy -- a baggie about the size of his paw. He examined the contents inside it for a moment; he wouldn't be surprised if it were half glass and half crushed-up fentanyl, but he didn't care. If glass could take him out of this shit reality, then he'd take it. As Farfik looked up, the dealer was gone, not a trace.
He huffed, going back to his little spot in an alley within an alley within an alley, sitting back into that little imprint of his. His money, gone. His only item, his only evidence of his sister's existence, was gone. All for this shitty bag of crushed-up funky plants and glass. He knew just how disappointed his sister would be if she was standing here with him. Then again, if she were, the tabaxi wouldn't be doing this right now. She was the only reason why he was clean. She was the only reason why he wanted to find a better life, why they left that 'family', why he freed them from the shackles that are the Hyde last name. But look where that ended.
Arya, the little 17-year-old girl, has been missing for what's been 178 whole days and 43 minutes. 25.429 weeks. 5.852 months. Half a damn year she's been gone, without a trace. He didn't know if the life the two were living on the streets was better than wherever she was now. It certainly wasn't great -- relying on scraps and bits and pieces of clothes and leftovers, having Thanksgiving meals with rats and cockroaches. But at least then, they weren't getting berated by their parents to be noble, to act a certain way, or suffer the 'consequences of their disobedience,' as Sir Hyde would call it.
Farfik looked down at his baggie, the one that he traded in turn for his dignity and humanity. The baggie popped open, powder coming out of it. He didn't want to think -- not about Arya, not about the rats, not about his ragged, old suit that he can't seem to let go of. He just wanted quiet.
And quiet he got.