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Mag, it's worth noting, is not at all surprised at the feeling of a small hand sneaking its way into his pocket as he makes his way down the street - completely the opposite, in fact. It's all part of the plan: he'd left himself open for exactly this purpose, which means that when the kid in question springs his trap, he's in prime position to grab ahold of the boy's skinny wrist in one hand and tug him in close to cover his mouth with the other, holding him firmly in place, but not hard enough to hurt. He's not out for blood, here, after all.
"Don't struggle, stay quiet, or I'll rat you out to the angel," he hisses into the kid's ear before he ends up losing a finger to his teeth, and drags him swiftly into a back alley which he knows for a fact is a dead end, throwing the boy forwards and putting himself between him and the exit.
He's got a second or so to get a better look at the kid as he tries to whirl around and keep his footing at the same time - much younger than he'd first thought; closer to ten or eleven than the thirteen or fourteen he'd guessed by his height. A height he's clearly not used to, going by how long it takes him to regain his balance and the inches of wrist and ankle visible past the hems of his clothes. Unbelievably skinny, too, probably a result of his body trying to do all that growing on far too little food.
Hungry is good, though. Hungry means Mag's got a pocket full of bargaining chips to get this conversation started.
"Who are you?" the kid demands, though the tremble in his voice undercuts it. "What do you want?"
Mag barks a laugh, already assured that he has the upper hand now. "Really? First rule of thieving, kid - know who it is you're stealing from."
The kid takes a step back. His skinny chest is heaving, and a shiv has appeared in one shaky hand that looks like he might have made it himself.
Resourceful, then. Good.
"If you touch me again, I'll fight back," he warns. "And I'll start screaming. The angels are more likely to hit you than me."
So he's got some fight in him, and he knows how to press his advantages. Even better. Mag raises his hands palm-forward, and takes a half-step back as well, just for good measure.
"Relax, son. I'm not interested in hurting you. I just have some questions."
Behind the curtain of half-matted hair, Mag can just about see the kid's eyes narrow. "What kind of questions?"
"Easy ones, I promise. And I can pay you for them." He reaches, slowly, into his inside coat pocket, and pulls out a nutrient brick - the kind used for deep space journeys, no flavour but absolutely loaded with protein and valuable calories. The boy's eyes fix on it immediately, and the volume of his stomach's answering growl more than makes up for his lack of verbal response. Mag smiles, as affable as possible. "Does that sound fair?"
The kid hesitates, but another loud gurgle from his stomach pulls a wince to his face as his free hand twitches to muffle the noise. He bites his lip, and nods.
As a show of magnamity, Mag makes to throw the brick over before even asking his question, but the kid takes another step back, pointing at it with his knife and shaking his head.
"You first."
Mag lifts an eyebrow. Smart move. And one that must've taken a good chunk of self-control - that's a good sign. Happy to oblige, he opens the bar's wrapper and takes a bite out of the top, chewing slowly and carefully - partially for clarity, partially because these things are dense as all hell and he doesn't want to chip a tooth. Once he's swallowed it, and is demonstrably not dead or unconscious after doing so, he's permitted to toss the brick over for real, and this time the kid steps forward to snatch it out of the air and retreat back a few more steps, already starting to tear into it with his back teeth.
He has to push his hair out of his face to eat, the shiv having miraculously vanished back into whatever hidden pocket it had come from, and Mag finds himself pleasantly surprised to see that the bone structure that's so prominent under the kid's skin has a lot of potential. Give him half a dozen years or so, some shampoo, and a hell of a lot more food, and he could be strikingly handsome. That's a double-edged sword, though. Good looks will have a mark falling at your feet if you know how to use them, but being too notably attractive makes you memorable. Still, he supposes too good is better than not good at all.
From the way the kid is eating, on the other hand, it looks like his teeth might need some attention. At least one or two obvious potential issues - one gap where an upper canine should be, the other only half-erupted, likely because of how huge it looks. Sharp as a carnivore's, too. Fixing any problems there would be more of a sunk cost - it would mean that the kid definitely had to be worth the trouble. Which means he needs more information.
"First question," he says, "And there's more in it for you for the rest. What's your name?"
The boy gives him an odd look, frowning around the food in his mouth. "Peter."
"Peter what?"
The kid doesn't answer, only holds his free hand out. Mag mirrors his frown back to him.
"What's that for?"
"You asked another question."
Mag eyes him, trying to figure out whether he's being very clever or very stupid. "No, I didn't. You just didn't answer my first one properly."
"I answered," the boy named Peter says evenly. "You never said you wanted my full name."
Clever boy. Mag finds himself unable to help a small chuckle at being outplayed - his own fault for underestimating his opponent and breaking one of his own cardinal rules. "Alright. I suppose that's my mistake; I should have made my terms clearer."
He pulls out and tosses over another brick, and immediately jumps to the side as the kid catches it, and then winds back and launches it back down towards the mouth of the alley, where it's caught by another flash of bony limbs and ill-fitting clothing that vanishes an instant later. When he turns back to make sure the boy hasn't used the distraction to make a break for it, he's sitting cross-legged on the dirty alley floor, quietly working on his own meal.
"Who was that?"
"Laurel. They shared with me last week. That makes us even."
Hm. Well, that could be a good thing. It shows a sense of fairness, loyalty, but it also isn't practical. It would have been smarter to keep more for himself.
Well, no matter. Little things like that should be easily curbed with enough time, if need be. For now, he still needs more information.
"So, Peter. Your full name?"
"Tha'ss another question," the boy says around another mouthful of chalky, paste-grey crumbs. "You haven't paid me for the one you just asked yet."
Mag huffs a laugh, incredulous. He should be getting annoyed, but something about the kid is pulling fondness out of him rather than anger. "Don't you think you're pushing your luck?"
"You're not going to hurt me," Peter shrugs, before going straight back to gnawing off another piece of the bar with his back teeth. He swallows this one without even chewing. "'Fyou were a constable, you wouldn't've bothered giving me food. If you were going to sell me off you wouldn't care about my name. I don't have any parents to get a ransom from, and if you were planning on doing anything else to me you would have done it by now."
...Well, colour him impressed. This boy is sharp. Sharp, and already halfway to trusting him, apparently. That's a good combination.
It's decided, then. Time to push a little more.
"So what do you think I want, then?"
Peter shrugs again. "I don't know. That's three you owe me now, by the way."
Mag wrestles down a smile. Dangerous as it is, he likes this kid. "Two, actually. You still haven't told me your full name."
For the first time since he'd gotten his hands on the brick, Peter lets it drift away from his mouth. All that hair in the way makes his expressions a little harder to read, but Mag can at least tell he's lifted his eyes to look at him again, and is staring at him intently. "Why do you care?"
It's the first question of his own he's bothered to ask, and Mag pretends to deliberate on it for a moment. After what he deems long enough, he moves forward and crouches down a short distance away from Peter, pleased by the fact that he doesn't seem to feel the need to back off from him any more, only to watch carefully.
"Well, I'll be honest with you, Pete. I'm here because I'm looking for someone," he says. Peter makes no reply, but his cocked head as he continues to eat in silence invites an explanation, and so Mag provides one. "A very long time ago, a friend of mine was killed very suddenly. By those lasers up there. Right as we were about to do something very important." He pauses to let that sink in, and then goes carefully on, looking wistfully off into the distance over the boy's shoulder. "He left behind a son, would've been about your age. A boy who I haven't been able to find, despite searching for him ever since."
When he looks back over, the bar has vanished to wherever the shiv had gone before it, and the kid's eyes are shining bright and fixed on him like spotlights, though he's clearly trying not to look too eager. That's the thing about a good con - it doesn't matter how suspicious a person might be, if you offer them something they've always wanted... well, a light as bright as hope can be blinding to someone who's lived in the dark all their life, and dazzling even to those who haven't.
Of course any kid living on the street would jump at the chance to believe they've had a family all along, just waiting for them to find it. The trick, in Mag's case, is finding the right child to offer that kind of irresistible bait to - the street kids on Brahma are all survivors by definition, diamonds formed under the all-consuming pressure of New Kinshasa's laser-clad boot, but he doesn't need just any old chunk of raw rock. He needs one he can get the best possible cut out of.
He thinks he's got a good chance with this one. By his estimates, the boy is smart as a whip, almost as quick, and just idealistic enough to be led around by a noble goal while not being afraid to get his hands dirty. Hopefully he's correct in those conclusions - if not, he'll have to find some unobtrusive way to get rid of the kid and try again, either with another kid or another plan. He hopes it won't have to come to that, but plans go awry sometimes. He's never been afraid to get his hands dirty, either.
"I just need to be sure the boy I find is the one I've been looking for, and not just someone telling me what I want to hear," he explains - quiet, like he's imparting secret knowledge. "So - will you tell me your name?"
The kid looks down at his hands. He looks at Mag's shoes. He looks at an overturned cardboard box that's slowly melting into a puddle on one side of the alley, and the shards of a broken bottle glinting like lost teeth on the other. Then he looks back up.
"Nureyev," he says quietly. "Peter Nureyev."
Mag's face breaks out into a practised smile - familial warmth, excitement at finding something once lost, with just a touch of sadness to really sell the story. "I thought it might be you. You're the spitting image of your father, Pete."
The boy looks in shock at the hand Mag has placed on his shoulder, and back at him again, as if he can't quite believe that he'd actually given the correct answer. Of course, the fact of the matter is that whatever answer he had given would have been the correct one, but he'll never have to know the real truth of that.
"Come on, my boy," Mag says, patting his back and helping him up to his feet. "Let's get you some real food."
There's a stall nearby that sells enormous, hearty burritos for about a fraction of any price you could find on New Kinshasa, though it's still more than a good deal of Brahmese citizens can afford. Peter wolfs half of his in what must be about ten seconds flat, and the other half disappears somewhere into the folds of his clothes faster than even Mag can follow. Like a squirrel, this kid. Hopefully not half as venomous, though, or else the two of them would be sat far too close on the abandoned park bench they'd found for comfort.
Outdoor dining isn't a common trend on Brahma, needless to say. Most people prefer to stay out of sight of the system for as much of their lives as humanly possible, but Mag happens to know that the camera over this spot is faulty, and likely won't be fixed for at least a few more days. More than long enough for the kid to eventually tire himself out of asking so many rapid-fire questions about his imaginary father that Mag's starting to get a headache.
"How long did you know him for? What was he like? How did he-- What happened to him? I always thought--"
Peter finally stops and looks down at where his muddy hands are wringing themselves in his lap, chewing his lip. "I don't really remember much of what happened. I always thought he just..."
He trails off. Poor little bastard. The man he's talking about may well have just walked out, but who's to know? Who's to say that Mag's proposed version of events isn't completely, conveniently correct? Not him, that's for sure.
"He loved you, my boy," he assures, setting a hand on his shoulder. "More than anything. I'm sorry that it's taken this long for me to pass that on."
Peter nods, a small sniffle the only thing to clue Mag into what's happening on his face as he hides behind his hair again, until after a minute he scrubs his face on his sleeve and looks up to ask, "What happened to him, really?"
"The angels got him," Mag explains solemnly, half under his breath just in case there are actually any cameras around to hear, and to fully sell the idea to the boy that there still are. "They knew we were planning to take them down, and so they killed him - shot him right in the back - before he could come back to the safe spot he'd left you in. He wouldn't even tell me where that was, or else I'd have found you so much sooner."
The boy quickly shoves his hair back out of the way again as he speaks, eyes sparkling in awe. Perfect. "You were fighting the angels?"
"The two of us, yes. But, that was a long time ago - I'm afraid there's not much an old man like me can do without a partner."
"So you just need a partner?" Peter prompts eagerly - quick to catch on, this kid; that was barely even a nudge. "To help you fight the angels again?"
"Let's not say that so loud, Pete," Mag tells him - not unkindly, though the kid ducks his head nonetheless. "But... in theory. A good partner is hard to find, though. There's not many people out there like your father."
"But - I could be like him, right?" Peter presses, bright eyes burning. "I could help, I - I'm fast, and I can handle myself, and - and..." He seems to shrink as he trails off, his shoulders hunching in shame, though it doesn't last for long. "That's... mostly it. But I can learn - anything you need me to, I - I want to help. The an-- They, they hurt so many people."
"...That they do."
Mag leans away to look the boy up and down appraisingly, as if this wasn't exactly the situation he's been trying to work his way to for weeks now. As if he hadn't already found out everything he needed to know about the kid already. "Hm... well, I'd have to teach you a lot of things first. You'd have to work hard, and do everything I tell you, otherwise we'd get caught within the week."
The boy nods his agreement with all the fervour of the recently converted. "I can do that. I'll do anything we have to."
Mag raises an eyebrow. "Anything? That's a big word, kid."
"They're evil," Peter insists, fingers clenching in his lap. "Someone has to stop them killing whoever they want."
Well, that flame didn't take much stoking at all. All he'd had to do was give this likely pile of wood a spark, some shelter - and most importantly of all, a target - and off it had roared. Now all that's left is to keep it going.
"Wouldn't you know, Pete," he smiles, with just a touch of manufactured sadness as he wraps an arm around the kid's bony shoulders and squeezes. "That's exactly what your dad said to me all those years ago."
The kid is a lot of work, and a lot of money. He eats like a horse and grows almost as fast, which makes him clumsy for long periods of time where he doesn't seem to realise how long his legs or arms are. He barely knows how to read Brahman, let alone Solar, and it's not long into the endeavour of teaching him both that they figure out he's about ten years overdue for an eye test and accompanying pair of glasses. He learns fast, though, and the teeth, at least, manage to sort themselves out after some cleaning and a few fillings. The overlarge canines settle neatly into a sharp, bright grin that starts to turn more and more heads as the years go by - which is an issue in and of itself. Christ, teenagers and their goddamn hormones. Somehow in all his planning he'd forgotten about that part of things; having to drag his protégé away from mooning over every pretty boy they passed in the street was not a part of the original blueprint.
Still, every day spent putting the work in is another swipe across the whetstone, every year a finer grain as the boy gets sharper and keener. He's almost perfect by the time the day comes - perhaps a little too idealistic, still, but when all's said and done that's only a small bump in the grand scheme of things. The important thing is that he understands that sacrifices need to be made for the sake of a better world - a few eggs cracked for their golden, clear-skied future.
He's... a good kid. A really good kid. The swell of pride Mag had felt when he first sent him out on his own to have him return laden with his own weight in valuables and grinning brighter than every jewel in his pockets combined hadn't been planned, but - he just can't shake it, no matter how hard he tries. The boy has wormed his way into somewhere important - somewhere dangerous, and his roots are spreading there like a weed, and yet Mag can't bring himself to rip them out.
Heaven help him, but if it really came down to it, he doesn't know if he has the nerve to get rid of the kid any more. Even if it was between him, and...
Well, it doesn't matter anyway. Peter is as loyal as a knight to their monarch; he'd never go against a direct order, even if he never has been able to kick the habit of questioning every single one he's given. So, the theoretical is pointless.
Or... so Mag thinks, right up until he feels the striking burn of the kid's plasma knife puncturing his lung.
His legs don't last long, after that. Knees were getting bad anyway, and - suddenly he's on the floor, Peter's hands fumbling at his wound. He's crying. Too soft-hearted, even now. Always a problem. Sharp, but brittle. Couldn't handle the truth of what had to be done. Precision instruments are... fussy things.
Ironically, he'd still done exactly as he was trained, in the end. Mag can hear his own words through the void of years. "If someone gets in your way, find a way to remove them. By any means necessary. Our mission is the most important thing."
He supposes that lesson backfired. A lot of them seem to have. He's not sure if he's done his job too well, or not well enough, if he'd meant to create the perfect thief and instead ended up with a good person.
That's the problem. Should've pressed that idealistic streak out harder. Not practical.
A sacrifice for the greater good. This... hadn't been what he expected.
Full of surprises, that boy. His boy.
...When did he get so big? He shouldn't be looking up at him just yet.
Hair's in his face. Thought they'd gotten past that years ago.
He's... missing something.
Something's wrong, but...
Peter will... Peter will fix it.
He's a... smart boy.
He's...
...a good...
...Peter will...
He's...
First
rule of
thieving
is...
"First rule of thieving," a nameless man whispers into a dark room twenty years later, into a warm patch of air that mere minutes ago contained a person he'd thought could never hurt him. He closes his eyes, and the room shifts in his vision from deep black to bright, blood crimson.
"Don't fall for your own con."