undergrounds | [open] From the Cripples to St. James'...

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[open] From the Cripples to St. James'...

There's a right nip in the air when the Dodger steps out in the early morning to begin his business for the day. Well, his business, Fagin's business, it's all the same when it comes down to brass coins dragged from the bottom of pockets. He rubs his hands together, making a note to lift himself some gloves at some point during the day - if he recollects correctly, the ones from last year weren't really as decent as he would have liked. Not terrible, but for a gent of taste like himself, they weren't up to scratch.

Scratch... scratchings... pork scratchings. Hm. His stomach grumbled a bit. Looks like the sausages at the den weren't enough. Right, well that decided the plan for the day then. Breakfast first, and then on with the work of the day. The markets would be the best places to check. Maybe the one down by St James, folks would be too distracted to pay attention to a kid nipping among them.

Seemed like a good plan, and the Dodger grinned, adjusting his hat to just the right angle.

Right. Time for work.

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Roddy had taken to busking as of late. He needed the money, he had the skill and a very nice violin, it was practically an inevitable conclusion. And so, as he finished up his show, letting the crowd toss a few pounds into his open violin case as they commented on his skill, Roddy grinned and thanked them, informing them that he'd be sure to come back here again soon. As he gathered up his tips and packed up his violin, he chatted and attempted to charm bystanders, when he spotted a young figure moving around the crowd. He continued chatting, but his eyes tracked the boy, as something about his movements struck Roddy as suspicious.

Suspicious? The Dodger? He never! He's just strollin' around the place, hands behind his back, looking at everything there is to look at. He likes bein' among crowds, that's true, but he's that unique Londoner who takes the hustle and bustle of the city in his stride. There ain't nothin' suspicious about him, that much is certain. Look, he even tips his hat in greetin' - see his good manners!

Roddy didn't know anyone who was that polite. Although...he certainly didn't see the kid doing anything wrong. It seemed really strange that he was just wandering around in the crowd, but then, Roddy thought, he could just be getting old. Eighteen seemed a bit young to start being suspicious of random teenagers, but hey, it hit everyone at a different age.

Violin case in hand, Roddy began making his way to the tube. It wasn't long before his path went near the way the kid was walking, and he couldn't help but watch the kid out of the corner of his eye, his keen hearing trained on the kid. Just in case.

The Dodger was polite. Yeah, it was partly to put people on edge when they started staring at him - a polite smile and tilt of the hat did a lot to throw people - but he did like just... bein' nice for the sake of it. He was an odd sort, for his line of work at least.

He could feel the eyes on him though, an' it wasn't half annoyin'.

"You know," Roddy said as he passed near him, "I've never seen someone so go around acting that polite unless they were getting something out of it."

Sure, Roddy was super polite when he performed, but that was because he was hoping for tips.

The Dodger turned, finding the source of the voice easily, and raising an eyebrow.

"Just so 'appens that I've been raised up to have right good manners." There was a sniff at the end. "Ain't costin' no one nuthin' to show 'em, is it?"

"Well...no." The kid had a point. "Guess I'm just not used to seeing that."

"See, that's a problem of yer modern society, not me," the Dodger flipped his hat in his hand, a conversational tone in his voice. "Ain't right no one's showin' manners."

Roddy shrugged. "Didn't say showing manners was a problem. Just that I don't see it much."

"Just makin'... what d'ya call it... social commentary, that's the one!"

"Yeah, that's it."

Okay, and part of him just found it suspicious, but he also saw no point in saying that, when really, there was no evidence of anything but the kid being overly polite.

"The old man saw to it I was dragged up with good manners," the Dodger adds.

It's certainly true, even if they're a bit older than is strictly necessary. Fagin, Dodger would openly admit, was a bit of an odd one. Scoundrel through and through but such a stickler for good manners in his kids.

"My dad was less concerned with good manners. More concerned with the idea that everything's going to eat me alive. Figuratively speaking."

No, not figuratively speaking, but without the person knowing he was a rat some of the time, Roddy figured it would make more sense if he assumed that was the case.

"Or literally, round here."

He says it so cheerfully, with such a bright smile on his face. Surely he's just joking. Surely.

Roddy shot the kid a surprise look, wanting, in that moment, to ask him how much he knew, but that wasn't something he could really ask. Not without already having the answer.

"Yeah. That. Especially that."

And oh, how many things would eat a rat shifter.

"Well, you ain't got to worry about that," the Dodger added, all cheerful and smiles.

"Oh, and why's that?" he asked, curious as to where he was going with this.

"You ain't small enough to eat," was the simple reply, followed by laughter.

"Yeah, well, sometimes particularly aggressive housecats think I am."

Because sometimes, he was small enough for a housecat to eat.

"Yeah, but cats are plottin' to kill us all."

Serious? Hard to tell from the expression on his face. He doesn't really get on with most cats, truth be told. He likes them well enough but sort of more at a distance type thing?

"Really?" Okay, he couldn't be serious. Even if he sounded like he might be, he couldn't be. "And here I thought the only actual plotting they did was against rodents."

"Oh yeah," he nodded. "Mate of mine reckons they ain't forgotten when the Egyptians used to worship 'em as gods, an' they ain't happy we don't do that now."

"Right. I'm sure they're bitter about that. Just as soon as they stop getting distracted by laser pointers to think back on it."

Sure, he'd heard that joke before, too. That didn't mean he couldn't make a jab at the attention span of an animal that he was used to thinking of as a big, scary predator.

"Not all cats get distracted by those."

Yeah. He knew from experience. Evil little bugger that one was.

"Good to know," he commented. "I'd hate to put all my hope in a laser pointer, just to get mauled anyway."

[open] From the Cripples to St. James'...

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