Chapter Text
Nothing had ever been easy in Ruggie’s life, and the discovery that he had magic hadn’t made anything any easier.
“It’s a blessing,” Grammy had insisted, and Ruggie had wanted to believe her, but it’d taken a total of five hours for that optimism to come crashing down.
His younger sister had pursed her lips when he’d told her, looking far older than her twelve years. “You know what’ll happen if you get caught as a magician, right?”
“I… yeah.” Ruggie scratched behind one of his ears, trying to avoid the whisper of anxiety in his mind. They’d all heard the stories of the Great Seven, of what had happened to anyone who’d tried to follow in their footsteps. “I’ll be careful.”
Now, though, as he crouches on the dirty pavement and pulls his hoodie further over his head to hide his ears, he laughs privately at the idea that being able to use magic could ever have been a good thing. Not enough to be scorned as a petty thief, was it? No, he had to go and attract attention with his fucking magical powers. It’s like something out of a legend, ‘cept it’s screwed up everything he had before. He can’t even lift a few groceries any more without getting caught on camera and identified in a flash ‘cause he’s a special interest now.
After the first time, he hasn’t used magic— was too freaked out to even consider it at first, then realised that was the smart thing to do anyways— so even though he’s gotten hauled in the few times he got careless, he hasn’t been locked up or anything. The fines they gave him were something else, but he survived, didn't he? Did all the community service they asked him to, found the money from somewhere (tourists’ pockets are always prime for picking). Was a setback every time, of course, but he's,
still freer than most magicians.
It's probably ‘cause he's young too, isn't it? Would look bad if they gave a teenager a life sentence on the kinda jumped-up charges they can get away with when it comes to adult mages. That gives him what, another year or two?
For fuck’s sake. He doesn't even use magic, most of the time.
He cracks out a pack of (stolen) cigarettes and his mom’s old lighter, takes one, lights it. Someone passes him, eyes deliberately averted ‘cause he looks like some homeless mongrel down here in the dirt. He’s wearing a grubby grey hoodie, sleeves too short but baggy enough that it looks like a statement– or would do, if it weren’t for the way the cuffs have frayed almost to threads. His old school tracksuits are just as worn; the school insignia’s been reduced to a few ratty pieces of colour on the area where the patch had been, and the less said of how scuffed and grimy his sneakers are, the better.
He’d been so excited, the day the school uniforms and everything had arrived. Clothes, new clothes, all of his own; not second-hand, not the wrong size, not scavenged or stolen (not bought either, but getting stuff from the school bursary was more respectable than any other way he’d gotten stuff before). So excited about a fresh start on the nice side of town and about his fully-funded bus commute. Grammy and his little sisters had shared his excitement— first time any of them had gone to a fancy school like that one— and he’d counted down the days until term started.
Like the borrowed clothes would somehow fix everything so that he’d what, fit in with the normal kids?
As if.
He takes a drag, breathes it out slowly, soothingly. Too young to be smoking, but who gives a fuck about that kinda thing anyway. It’s one of the ways he prepares himself for a long day like this one.
Fucking magic. He watches the smoke drift away, wonders idly if an actual magician would be able to warp it into something prettier, like a flower or something. It’d make his little sister so happy if he could do that.
But no, his own magic is unschooled and uncontrolled, and he avoids using it like the plague. Like it’s the disease the media makes out like it is, like, like his own abilities are some kinda weird mutation. And while he himself doesn’t think it’s a mutation, doesn’t think it’s wrong— it’s a part of him whether he likes it or not, after all— it’s caused him nothing but trouble.
The day he first found out he had it…
“Hey, dog,” the leader of the group says. “Bark for us, why don’t you?”
“I’m not a dog,” Ruggie protests, cringing away and into the corner.
“Oh, right.” He’s tall, way taller than Ruggie, and more solidly built. Everything in Ruggie screams to run away, but there’s no back-up here, no way out. He cringes into his jacket as they crowd closer. “You’re a dirty hyena from the slums, aren’t you?”
Ruggie swallows. They’re not slums, he wants to say, but for one thing, that’s not exactly true, and for another, he’s learnt enough over the years to know when and how to keep his trap shut. Instead, he glances back and forth, looking for an escape, futile as he knows it is. There are no windows, no doors; no gaps between the gang’s shoulders, no chance of ducking and weaving and running. They’re going to— he’s gonna—
“Filthy dog,” one of the jerks says, and the others all laugh, like he’s cracked a joke or something. They’re close now, too close, Ruggie has to get out, has to escape and run away but they’re all laughing and raising their fists and he ducks his head to avoid the blows but it’s,
no good.
Panic overtakes him and he surrenders to instinct, cowering closer to the ground, arms held protectively above him (as if that’ll do anything against this many people). All he can see are their feet as he ducks his head and stares at the floor.
The first blows start to fall, knocking him from his crouch to an awkward seated position on the ground; the smell of vicious eagerness to attack is an acrid scent in his nose, their laughter surrounds him on all sides, and he’s,
a different instinct suddenly swells inside him.
(Doesn’t want to be the cowardly little runt who’s always a prime target for anything any more.)
He lowers his arms and inhales. Smells something more than sweat and danger; the scent of power and hope, rich and fresh, and he’s,
laughing himself now.
They’re frozen, literally frozen in place, above him. He scrambles back into space a bit, stands up. (Isn’t really sure how he knows what’s going on, what to do, but he does.) “Let’s just back off now, shall we?” The voice coming out of his own throat is his, but it’s got a confidence that he’s never been able to fake before. It sounds less like the voice of a street rat and more like the one of a king.
And just like if he was a king, the others back off. Literally back off. Scramble back in exactly the same way he just did, ‘cept it looks pretty weird when four of them are all doing it in sync.
His mind catches up to his body, or to whatever it is that’s causing this. They’re doing what he’s doing, actually, aren’t they? He tests it. Warily raises his right hand.
They copy, raising their right hands too.
For a moment, a brief moment, this is funny. Hilarious, even. Ruggie pats himself on the head, and they all do the same. Claps his hands, and it’s followed by the louder clap of four pairs of hands in unison. Spins around, and it’s like he’s got his own personal chorus line, like in a musical.
Then reality hits.
This, this is magic. Undeniably so. Ruggie shivers as he looks at his four– bullies? victims?— and takes in the utter terror in their eyes. They’ve completely lost control of their own bodies, that’s gotta be scary as hell.
And it’s his fault. He’s heard what people say about magic, that it’s nothing but bad news. This is nothing but evil, ain’t it?
He shakes his hands away from him, trying to stop it. As if that’s actually gonna work. The others all shake their hands too; he gulps, and they gulp too, all together.
“Stop it,” he says, getting worked up now, and
“Stop it,” the others all repeat, just as upset, and
he’s panicking now, not sure how to end this, desperate for it to just stop but it doesn’t, and,
and,
it’s only a good five minutes later, five minutes of having four people trapped in mimicking whatever he does, that it goes away on its own and his knees buckle with a sudden exhaustion.
The four others look at each other like they’re coming out of a trance; look at him, and at each other again, and then as one they turn tail and run.
He hasn't touched magic since that day; leastways, nothing on that scale. He wouldn't know how, for a start. Wouldn’t know how to set it off deliberately, and wouldn’t want to. They say that people who can use magic get addicted to it real quick, but he’s never felt any kind of desire to cast a spell again.
Not that he would’ve been allowed to. The guys he’d accidentally took control of ratted on him, though to be fair he hadn’t expected anything different. It’d meant a lot of questions from government officials who’d come round his grandma’s bungalow smelling of suspicion. Ruggie still remembers how wide his sisters’ eyes went when they’d pounded on the door like he was some kinda criminal or something. He’d been lucky to get off with a warning and being entered into the government database. Any more magic, they’d said categorically as they were about to leave, and the law will be neither willing nor able to protect you.
So yeah, it’s a good thing he’s never felt any craving to summon his power again. Wouldn’t be worth it.
Ruggie ditches the finished cigarette butt and stands up. He’s got a few hours before his shift at the Reef, can probably make a little money. Any extra would be good; Seven know it's been tight at home since he got fired from Fiki’s Convenience. (There'd been a customer complaint and, given his status, there'd been no legal possibility for him to get the benefit of the doubt. Same old, same old. No matter how hard he works, he's only ever a couple missteps away from total unemployment.) Grammy’s too old to work, and his sister’s too young, so the responsibility for their household falls on him. Which is fine.
Well, not fine, but he’s used to it.
Anyways. Money.
It’s worse than usual at home because Grammy’s got sick again, and they don’t have the money to pay for both the medication and food. No amount of odd jobs would be able to cover their expenses, although the point is moot since he barely gets hired for anything anyway.
Ruggie’s not proud though, or a ‘good person’, so there are… other ways to get money.
He runs his hands through his hair, rolls up the sleeves of his hoodie so he looks a little less scruffy. He’s going for inconspicuous here: a layer of ordinariness that settles over him like dust and makes him that much less obvious and note-worthy. Just a regular kid, that’s him. No need to raise your guard or worry about that fat wadge of notes in your wallet, so carelessly stuffed in the back pocket of your jeans; he’s not going to do anything, of course not.
It’s easy enough to pick someone’s pocket, if you know how. Just sidle up to them, merging into the rest of the crowds, bump into them, and slip away with whatever it was that they had of value in your hand. The important things are to choose the right targets and keep your hands steady, but Ruggie’s had plenty of practice at both. The city centre’s the best place for anything like this, after all: he’s never gotten caught, easily able to shrink down and hide among the rest of the public.
There’s a likely target now. He tracks them, sidling casually down the street, follows them into the marketplace. Almost… almost…
Now.
He reaches out and fluidly, elegantly, the wallet is his. The feel of it in his hand: overfull; the slight stickiness of leather: a real catch. Time to make a getaway.
Except he doesn’t.