Status: first meeting

We Speak the Same Words in Different Languages

it's strange what desire will make foolish people do

Adrest didn't have a lot. He had 1. the clothes on his back, 2. a meager amount of money ($4.13, to be precise), 3. a change of clothes, 4. a pair of weighted knuckles, 5. a toothbrush, 6. several spray cans, and 7. a backpack, where the majority of the aforementioned items were kept.

The sixth of those items, Adrest used to make his art. Or graffiti, whatever you want to call it. Changing the name of something didn't change what it was.

Graffiti, art.

Capitalism, corruption.

Listen, he understood that the founders of this country started it would good intentions (that didn't necessarily mean they were good people, a lot of them considered an entire race of people as property, merely because of the amount of melanin in their skin), but somewhere, it got taken advantage of. Corrupted. Things had to change, and they would, sooner or later--preferably sooner. That was the history of the world, a government losing the interest of people, so the people striking back. It had happened before, it would happen again.

It probably would keep happen and never stop.

With that introspection, Adrest finished up his art, a simple phrase, repeated many times, if you're looking for it. He didn't come up with it.


He grinned, shaking his can and adding his tag with a flourish. He'd been doing this longer than he'd been homeless. He'd been doing this since he was fifteen, a sophomore in high school. He'd been caught a few times, but he'd always managed to talk himself out of it. Or, you know, outrun whoever was chasing him. Different courses of actions, same outcome.

He had no way of knowing that the police would be the least of his problems.


A few hours later, as the sun was setting, he was committing a larger-than-usually piece to graffiti. Wordless, but easy to decipher. It had a bunch of little dogs, forming a big dog, chasing a large, but smaller that then group of little dogs, dog with a crown on its head. Easy enough to decipher, he thought.

Then there was the knife. It was shocking how fast these things were.

"Let me guess. I'm being mugged."

"Yep." The voice was overconfident and smug, maybe masculine.

"I am literally homeless. I don't have much." He even looked the part. Unshowered, long hair, old clothes, always with pack.

"I'll take what I can get, thanks." Except he didn't get to finish 'thanks', because the knife had drifted away from his back, so Adrest did the natural thing. Actually, four things in rapid-fire succession. He whipped around, decked his assailer, grabbed his pack, and ran.

He didn't get far, because of the seemingly most insignificant thing in the universe. An old rotting shoebox in middle of the alley. He stumbled over it and the mugger caught up. They were face to face. He barely had time to register what happened, because there was blunt, blinding pain in his gut, and Adrest collapsed. The reason was obvious--a knife to the gut.
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sorry for the cliffhanger lmao