ER13-1 Godfather
>Damn it! Those bastards grabbed every scrap of food and trashed whatever they couldn't carry. What, are they trying to starve us?
Crumbs of compressed biscuits are pressed into the dirt, too small to pick up. Even the pigeons can't find anything to peck at.
The old scavenger keeps scraping at the ground with cracked hands, trying again and again to gather the crumbs, cursing under his breath.
Thank goodness these old legs can still walk... Just wait, all of you will be limping one day!
A torn sofa spills its rotting stuffing, with broken ceramic plates scattered beside it. The air stinks of fermenting fruit peels mixed with a sharp, burnt odor. A biting wind blows through, sweeping the stench away for a moment before it's gone.
Ugh, snow again.
He grips his aching leg and tilts his head back, gritting his teeth like he's forcing himself to stand through sheer will.
Hunger and the dizziness from standing after crouching so long leave him breathless and exhausted.
Hey, what about you, brat?
You stinking old man! I told you to stop calling me a brat!
A boy's voice comes from somewhere inside a heap of junk. Moments later, a dust-covered figure squeezes out from between two warped wooden boards.
Hey, I've asked you your name plenty of times, but you just keep it to yourself.
Hmph! Just don't call me that.
Pah! Dust in my mouth.
Rotten luck today. I walked all that way and only found a dented can someone had already picked over, under a collapsing building.
At least it's so empty it can't make us sick! We'll split it later.
That "building" used to be part of a lively little town. They've cleared it out too, huh?
No value, so they abandoned it without a thought. Hmph.
Probably Sinclair again. Hard not to know his face—it's plastered everywhere.
The benevolent tycoon who saved this tiny speck of a desert city. Even dogs are sick of hearing that story.
Fred Sinclair.
So what? Works out for us, doesn't it? As long as we stick near those glowing gates, there will always be food and clothes getting tossed out.
You fool... the more of those gates they build, the more people like us there will be!
Las Prados Entertainment Hall—never-ending party! Forget your troubles, step into paradise!
Sing, dance, you thieves and scoundrels! Dance yourselves to death in your gilded cage!
Urgh...! Cough—cough cough—!
Take it easy, old man.
If you'd swallowed your pride and applied for Las Prados aid sooner, you wouldn't still be dragging that bad leg around here.
What do you know about aid programs?!
All lies! They're nothing but filthy hyenas in fine clothes, feeding on corpses. And you, stop with the big talk, kid!
The words hit a raw nerve. His face twitches with rage, but when he opens his mouth to curse, nothing comes. His cheeks flush, and all he can manage are angry, incoherent mutters.
...Swallow my pride? Then why don't you beg your parents to take you back? You showed up here scavenging in a tie like some fancy gentleman, and look at you now—filthy every day. What a sorry sight!
Where's your pride? Did the dogs eat it?
The argument escalates. At first it's just shoving, but soon they're on the verge of a fight.
What's it to you?! You don't know anything about me!
Garbage like us... we're just waiting for the world to clear us out—
Who are you calling garbage?! Even my parents never said that to me!
With a loud thud, the boy charges like a bull, slamming the old man into a pile of old books and newspapers, sending pages flying.
You listen to me, kid!
Waaah—
A kitten?
They both freeze.
Still pressing his head into the old man's chest, the boy frees one arm and shoves aside the junk in front of him.
The kitten-like cries grow louder. They follow the sound source and exchange a bewildered look.
No. It's a baby.
A human infant wails at them from inside a swaddling cloth.
Damn it! Leaving a baby out here in this weather... were they trying to kill her?!
Waaaahhhh—
Their eyes return to the baby, still struggling to wave her tiny fists.
The cold has turned her skin a frostbitten red-purple, and even her whimpers are growing faint.
The old man wipes his hands over and over on his ragged coat, then hesitates, too afraid to take the swaddled baby.
Can you keep it down? Cry any more and you'll be out of strength!
The young scavenger shoves past the hesitant old vagrant, tucking his hands into sleeves far too long for him.
Move aside, Ping.
There, there. No more crying.
...You're pretty good at this.
I used to have a little brother. I'd take care of him when my parents were at work. Then one day he got sick and died.
After that...
The boy exhales a cloud of white vapor, gasping like the cold has stolen his breath, and falls silent.
That so.
Ping doesn't ask any more questions. Among scavengers, there's an unspoken rule—you don't dig into someone's past unless they bring it up themselves.
The baby finally stops crying, whether from exhaustion or the warmth in the boy's arms.
Ping can't do anything to help. He just paces in circles, but there's nothing around—no belongings, no clues, nothing that could prove the baby's identity.
No name tag, no forgotten trinket, not even the faintest trace of a mother's scent. The swaddling is thick with dust, as if it were hastily taken from some long-forgotten corner.
Hey, we can't raise a baby. You want it scavenging with us and sleeping under bridges?
And in this cold, where would we get milk?
The boy stays silent, jaw set, so Ping tries again.
Listen, brat. This isn't like picking up a stray cat or dog. The baby can't live on expired canned food like we do.
I know!
I know...
The baby's parents must be garbage!
Or maybe they were in trouble... maybe they had no choice.
No. They're just like my parents—dumped me with shameless relatives and never came back! I'll go to New Neilis myself and get the truth.
What? Your parents were from New Neilis Air Force Base?
That place closes all its checkpoints once winter sets in...
The boy rolls his sleeves up, turning them over until he finds a patch of clean inner fabric. He gently wipes the baby's face with it.
Ping quickly pours a little water from his flask to dampen the cloth and help.
Those relatives even drove my dog away. Beat it until it cried. Said it had no value, that they'd never take on another burden.
Value? So my only "value" to them was the foster money going into their account?
That dog was my last family. Before she left, my mother never let me name it. Said naming it would make me too attached, and saying goodbye would hurt more.
Did she already know? Had she already decided to get rid of me?
Then why name me Felix, and my little brother Lucius...
The boy pulls a dog tag from inside his coat, polished to a shine through his daily care.
Now Ping understands why the metal tag is blank.
I'd rather be out here on my own than ever forgive them!
Ping falls silent, meeting the boy's stubborn gaze before letting out a long sigh.
He used to think the boy was just wandering around looking for a lost pet dog, and that once he tasted real hardship he'd come crawling back home in tears.
The boy's voice is barely a whisper in the cold, soft enough to vanish into the wind—then it suddenly grows louder.
I'll go find it! Whatever we need—food, baby stuff, anything. I'm small, quick, I can squeeze through anywhere. There's no way this world can't make room for one baby to live!
Hey brat, you...
Poor baby, were you thrown away because they thought you had no value too?
But a newborn is innocent—the purest thing in the world.
Felix looks from the baby to the tag he clutches even while he sleeps.
Value... value...
Ping's eyes go distant, the words he's held back slipping free.
Why do you still carry that dog tag if it has no "value" anymore?
This is my treasure.
The boy says solemnly.
I always thought... even if I died, no matter where, as long as I had this, someone would know who I was. No matter what I become, this dog tag is the one thing that makes me different.
Old memories press heavier and heavier on Ping's chest until anger bursts out of nowhere.
That's what soldiers' dog tags do! You little brat, who do you think you are? Look around, this isn't a warzone, it's a stinking garbage heap!
Tomorrow we might not find food. The day after, a blizzard could hit, and we'd both be buried right here. Who in this world cares if you live or die?!
Ping's eyes brim with tears as he yells, but it sounds more like he's shouting at himself than at the boy.
No one cares whether we live or die.
I care! ...And we care about this baby, don't we?!
Felix's gaze jumps between Ping and the baby. He draws in a deep breath, his voice almost lost in the wind.
Ping... we can't just leave the baby here.
...I know. I know!
Ping's voice grows raw with old memories, the weight of despair and bitterness pushing him to shout.
When I was young, I had a family too. I had a kid!
Life at that desert outpost was too hard, too lonely. One day, I just sat there watching tumbleweeds roll past, over and over, and I couldn't take it anymore. I stopped caring about anything except going home to see my child's face.
The baby in the boy's arms lies with eyes half-closed, her tiny face calm and peaceful. Ping keeps wiping at his eyes with the tips of his fingers.
I hurt my leg on purpose. Threw away my worth. Deserted my post and went home, hoping for a hot meal and familiar faces.
But when I got there... it was all gone.
The houses were flattened, the streets nothing but rubble. The people—gone. Maybe they'd all gone to that glittering palace in the distance.
You work your whole life thinking it'll buy you a happy family, a stable retirement... or is it just so someone else can add another mansion to their collection and a sports car to their garage?
That's how it is. The poor get driven out, and the rich just get richer.
Even so... even so, the baby's still worse off than me. Born with nothing. Homeless from the start.
Homeless people? There are two of us right here. We're all in this together.
A defiant smile tugs at the boy's lips as he straightens his thin chest. With that one sentence, he seems to stitch an invisible thread tying the three of them together among the trash.
Poor little one... thank you for coming into this world, for coming to us.
That's right. We all start the same—born naked, with nothing at all.
Before we were beggars or emperors, we were all just helpless, clueless babies.
Ping stretches his bad leg without thinking, eyes fixed on a patch of light breaking through the clouds.
The gray layers of clouds above start to shift, splitting into tiny cracks. Gentle rays of sun filter through like threads, spilling across the distant mountains in a warm golden glow.
Felix, we should give the baby up.
The boy blinks back tears, his eyes pleading silently, waiting for Ping to change his mind.
Send her to Las Prados? Maybe there are places there that can raise a baby, but... but...
People like us—"discarded"—can't get into Las Prados right now. The city childcare center's too far, but I know somewhere better.
Further south there's a workshop where some tailors live. The head tailor often gives to the church. I heard he lost his wife and never had children.
...
Think about what's really best for the baby.
Think about your brother... If the baby gets sick, we'll be just as helpless.
Felix staggers as the baby reaches up and grabs a fistful of his hair.
Ow! Hey, you little rascal!
Alright, enough of that hangdog look.
Ping pats Felix on the back. The boy straightens, like he's finally decided on something, a flicker of relief in his eyes.
This... give this to her.
Isn't this what you treasure the most...?
At least let her take this.
He tucks the dog tag gently into the swaddling, placing it on the baby's chest.
There. Now she won't have nothing. I hope... even in times like this, she can grow up safe.
You... Sigh...
Ping takes the baby, tucking the swaddle's corners snug and patting her in place of goodbye. As if sensing something, she starts to cry again.
Be good. Live on.
Don't end up like us—homeless.
Ping, you talk too much!
Come on, let's go! People are coming out!
Farewell, purest child in the world.
The boy gives the baby one last look, then disappears into the snow with Ping.
Fresh snow dusts the weathered oak walls. Beyond the leaded windows, the world outside has turned into a silent white tapestry.
The old tailor paces back and forth, stacking the finished fabrics into neat piles. The young apprentices chatter loudly as they head out through the main door for a break, leaving the workshop quiet.
These stitches are wide and crooked. Sloppy work. Redo it.
Now this one's decent. Was it the new girl? What was her name again...
Once his work is done, he cracks the window for fresh air.
Out in the white expanse, a faint glint from a small piece of metal bounces into the old tailor's thick glasses.
What's that?
The old man runs for the door, fumbling to untie his debris-filled apron and toss it onto the melting snow. He drops to his knees.
The swaddling is covered in snow, with more packed inside, but the baby still clutches a small metal tag and breathes faintly.
...This really is a blessing from above.
In the snow lies a soaked scrap of paper, its writing blurred—only the words "take care" can still be made out.
His eyes settle on the apron he just tossed aside. A small handkerchief his late wife made peeks out from the pocket, the corners embroidered with a tiny blue flower. His breathing quickens.
Was she sent by the Holy Mother? Thank you, Holy Mother... in this cold...
He pulls the baby close, his glasses sitting crooked on his nose, tears running down the deep lines of his face.
...She'll be my treasure.
