Made in his image- Cryptid (Ward)

[nmWarden]

Professor-Dad convinced me that I should be "offensive." Experimentation yielded promising returns. A consistent approach with moderate challenges for my range of abilities. Safety, restriction from paths toward improbable rewards, and friction to make targets more predictable.

I gingerly open the wallet. As Patient Greed, I carefully droop my shoulders. The tattered, empty container returns to my hoodie pouch while my eyes are directed away from the entrance's trash can.

This cafeteria for workers should have have the right balance of foot traffic. Crowded storefronts of the City reassured walkers that "someone else" would help me. They watched me long enough to confirm I was safe to ignore. Cap used a term for it, "tricking your conscience."

Clever in the short term, damaging in the long term.

The timer counts down to zero. My social stomach makes complaints known. Like a yowling beast the recording rings out from my center and from my throat.

I hold back a smile as it cuts off. No one benefits from hearing the looped version.

I hunch over and spin around. Taking after criminals from a dead era, I scoop through the bin in search of treasure.


Some days are blessed with precious moments. I get to feel an echo of Calm Warmth:
The world slows down in its artistic mania to test me.
My brain shows top form by confirming what information I see lines up with prior assumptions, clear the usual clutter of irrelevant comparisons.
I follow through. Flawless victory!

"Heh."

Papers, soggy straws, condom wrapper… A fruit fly gives my small fingers their path with its last moments. Tendons unpacking just a quarter of their length, my fingertips grasp something briny.

Ah, pickle slices and sauce.

With cupped hands to hide my recovering digits, the scavenged booty is deposited in one of the neighborhood's safest…

Safes.

~~—~~—~~—~~— —~~—~~—~~—~~

Two streets and three pillaged receptacles have learned the touch of Patient Greed before I catch a bite.

"Jeez, boy." My new acquaintance smacks his lips. "Am I supposed to pay tickets?"

Two stringy arms retreat from the garbage. Before I complete my turn towards the voice my heel catches the metal mounting with a clang!

"Hrrk!"

Thankfully my scrambling does not encourage the unamused to reach for a flailing arm. I rise from my uncoordinated squat and give him a guilty smile.

"Pay? Tickets," I say.

"I had a pithy line," the man, right arm in a grey sling, replies, "but a part of me reckons you'll land on your head if it hits you full-on."

It is too late to flinch after that stumble. This man isn't indicating for me to run off nor is he offering real food… Another talker, then.

"I wasn't trying to annoy you, Mister! This was just, uh," I trailed off, wiping my hands on a napkin. My eyes focused on his bare chin. He might be the sort to shave regularly. Or today he had a reason to shave. Or this guy can't grow-

"I am not annoyed," he said, the words ringing with certainty. "Instead of wrestling with rats, what 'ould you say to going inside with me?"

The grocery store? Hm. More words to pay for a chance at food and new information… I made a show of widening my eyes:
"You want my help?"

"Dig through a shelf for me, get that there door," he pointed with his neck, "you seemed as capable as anyone in these parts.

I nodded agreeably. "A job, you mean?"

I cleared the way for him with a smile. Soon enough he removed his boxy backpack for the store cart's undercarriage and we were off.

Ibrahim, he called himself, seemed to be far more wealthy in opinions and judgments than useful datapoints. That could be part of a larger trend, but this is not the mindset to analyze that behavior chain. For now there are plenty of skills to train in this environment.

This government-owned storehouse for perishables rubbed a raw nerve in my subconscious. The layout of this district would allow for peacekeeping officers to reach the store with little chance for delay. From the entrance- well, if I crawled to the roof above the entrance- I could see the neighborhood I started my scavenging route in.

I was one bin away from turning down a different street, away from the hassle of the badge-wearers, before bracing myself for this building of strangers. No one in this district is likely to have seen me as Patient Greed before today.

While we examined vegetables for infection I swallowed my tongue. My abdominals held firm as my social stomach suffered from the influx of air. Ibrahim made his choice with a gesture for me. The cabbage made its way to the cart while my salivating muscle held down my phone's power button. No need to make a signal for pity like that when the situation was proceeding within expected parameters. A sign of weakness could attract a thief. If my employer heard a gulp from my tongue returning, he didn't react to it.

If there is no better option, then I will be offensive. With this gaunt shape, the world worked with me to hint at an offensive story. Whatever Ibrahim's sensibilities, the sight of me bounced around his head and guts like a bullet. My hands are calloused enough to wield the reins, and he who steers will know control.

A head guides a body into practiced motions, not thoughtless flailing. My habits shall be trained, efficient, and worthy of sacrificed resources.

I could already see potential in investing in this man. The immediate expected return of food, of course; but his backpack was made to roll. Ibrahim would likely struggle with his purchases after leaving, why not continue to work on this foundation? Bypassing the imprecise barriers that follow first contact is a rarity.

Any knowledge of worth could be demanded from Professor-Dad. A failed test? I refuse to take the risk.

"You can call me Noah, Mister Ibrahim."