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"Who are you, anyway" I prompt, twirling the dagger around in my hand, "kid?"

He puffs out his chest boastfully, a frantic gleam taking hold of his eyes as he replies, "I'm Peter, and I'm going to be a Runaway!" Just like that, my jaw drops, my eyes widen, and I look at him closer, as my mind replays a scene almost a hundred percent similar to this one.

"Who ah yuh?" I'd mumbled, my three-year-old mouth not able to properly form the words. He'd looked so old then, so grown up, at only five years old. I guess it's all a matter of perception.

His odd eyes brightened, and he raised his hands high above his head, as if in victory. "I'm James," he said loudly, "and I'm going to join the Runaways!"

"The Runaways? Aren't you a little young for-"

"Shut up! You can join the Runaways no matter how old you are, just so long as you don't belong here. Like me." The last part is admitted softly, almost shamefully, and my heart goes out then and there to the little boy. I pocket the dagger (there's no way I'm giving it up or throwing it away) and step forward to ruffle his hair affectionately.

"Yeah," I say softly, "that's me as well. You're a misfit, huh?" He looks at me strangely, before slapping away my hand.

"You do to fit in! You have Mr. Hector, don't you?" I roll my eyes at him and his misunderstanding; it's as if he thinks the man is my father.

"Mr. Hector is just a good acquaintance of mine. He looks out for me when I have to make trips to Market for my Aunt."

"But he looks after you." Peter states plainly.

"He's looking after you too, now." I remind him, and he seems stumped, before he rallies yet again—he's impossible to beat down.

"Doesn't matter..."

Description
"Who are you, anyway" I prompt, twirling the dagger around in my hand, "kid?"

He puffs out his chest boastfully, a frantic gleam taking hold of his eyes as he replies, "I'm Peter, and I'm going to be a Runaway!" Just like that, my jaw drops, my eyes widen, and I look at him closer, as my mind replays a scene almost a hundred percent similar to this one.

"Who ah yuh?" I'd mumbled, my three-year-old mouth not able to properly form the words. He'd looked so old then, so grown up, at only five years old. I guess it's all a matter of perception.

His odd eyes brightened, and he raised his hands high above his head, as if in victory. "I'm James," he said loudly, "and I'm going to join the Runaways!"

"The Runaways? Aren't you a little young for-"

"Shut up! You can join the Runaways no matter how old you are, just so long as you don't belong here. Like me." The last part is admitted softly, almost shamefully, and my heart goes out then and there to the little boy. I pocket the dagger (there's no way I'm giving it up or throwing it away) and step forward to ruffle his hair affectionately.

"Yeah," I say softly, "that's me as well. You're a misfit, huh?" He looks at me strangely, before slapping away my hand.

"You do to fit in! You have Mr. Hector, don't you?" I roll my eyes at him and his misunderstanding; it's as if he thinks the man is my father.

"Mr. Hector is just a good acquaintance of mine. He looks out for me when I have to make trips to Market for my Aunt."

"But he looks after you." Peter states plainly.

"He's looking after you too, now." I remind him, and he seems stumped, before he rallies yet again—he's impossible to beat down.

"Doesn't matter..."