Disclaimers and such at the bottom.
Remembrances
By Jewels
Sarah stumbled on in the cold, dark street and almost fell face-first into a pile of junk that someone had abandoned on the street. How had she gotten so lost? One minute she had been wandering in clear, brightly lit streets, then she had wound up here.
The fictive who had been written as a small child of eight, sat down on the curb of the pavement and hugged her knees to her chest. She almost didn't notice when someone approached her and stood over her for a moment before speaking.
"What are you doing here, child?"
A tear-stained face turned to look at the newcomer and Sarah sniffled pitifully. "I got lost." she told the other.
The older fictive frowned and then held her hand out to Sarah. "Come with me," she told Sarah, not-unkindly. "I'll keep you safe."
Sarah knew she should probably say no, but she had never been able to do that, so instead just took the proferred hand and walked alongside the older fictive as she led Sarah back to a rundown building.
"Who are you?" she asked.
"Milla." was the only response she got.
Milla pushed the door open, revealing what was basically an empty room, with a sort of pad for a bed and a few bits of paper and a couple of pencils lying around on the floor, and gently guided Sarah inside.
"You live here?"
Milla nodded.
"Why?"
Milla flinched. Sarah had no idea why, but was genuinely curious as to the answer. "Because I have no choice."
"Why?"
Milla narrowed her eyes. "You're an annoyingly inquisitive child." she informed Sarah.
"What's ink... inqu..."
"It means someone who asks a lot of questions." replied Milla sharply.
There was silence for a long moment, and after a few minutes of hearing nothing spoken, Sarah started to try and get her hair to resemble something other than a nest created by a crazed bird. It had actually looked respectable that morning, but somewhere along the line, it had gotten messed up.
Suddenly softening, Milla asked, "Do you want any help with that?"
Sarah nodded, wide-eyed, not willing to risk angering this fictive. She had a feeling she wouldn't like what would happen. Milla dropped to the floor and crossed her legs, patting the ground in front of her in an indication that Sarah should sit.
"So..." Sarah asked as Milla started rebraiding her hair with almost painful efficiency. "How did you end up here?"
Milla pursed her lips and retied Sarah's hair, smoothing down hair where it stuck out in an unwanted position. "Because my writer was killed. Some sort of accident in Reality. Stupid really. Just like the writer."
Sarah didn't quite know how to respond to that. "And you've been on your own all this time?"
Milla actually looked like she was going to start crying and Sarah instantly regretted asking the question. Before she could apologise for asking, Milla dove into her pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, parts of it so damaged they were almost disintegrating.
It was a picture of a fictive with long, dark hair. She was sitting on the floor, in the corner of a room, arms wrapped around her legs and knees pulled up to her chest. The face was filled with a sort of sorrowful expression, and Sarah could tell just by looking at it, that it was someone the artist had cared about very much. Who else would have put in that much detail?
"She was Kayla." Milla told her simply, and didn't seem to care to expand on that. She had moved so that she was sitting next to Sarah, rather than behind her.
Sarah made to hand it back, but after a long pause, Milla gently pushed the outstretched hand back. "Keep it." she told Sarah. "I do not think I will be around to enjoy it much longer."
Sarah frowned. "What? What do you mean?"
Before Milla could answer, the door suddenly slammed open and an extremely infuriated tall woman stood framed in the doorway. Dressed in black trousers and top, with a leather jacket thrown on, she looked nothing like her namesake.
Ma'at, named for an Eyptian goddess, was Sarah's writer's muse, and had more than a slightly motherly attitude towards the youngest of her writers fictives. Understandable, since she had never been written with parents.
"Sarah!" her voice was less than motherly at that moment. "What are you doing here?" Ma'at's eyes snapped to Milla, and within second, she had crossed the room and snatched Sarah away, holding the small child behind her back while she threw murderous glares towards Milla.
"And what have I told you about talking to strange fictives in Shantytown?" she snapped.
Sarah looked at her feet. "I'm sorry, Ma'at." she dutifully chorussed.
Ma'at didn't take her eyes off Milla for a second. "You do realise that Sana's been sick with worry, don't you."
"I'm sorry, Ma'at."
"Sorry is not good enough." Ma'at finally took her gaze away from Milla and started leading Sarah away from the other fictive, soft brown hair spilling over her shoulder as she shook her head.
"Goodbye, Sarah." called Milla. "Look after my picture."
Ma'at shot her a look that would have buried her six feet underground, and pulled the reluctant Sarah out of the building.
Milla sighed and sat down. Maybe now she could sleep...
**
Once outside the region of Shantytown and heading back in the vague direction of the Cafe, Ma'at stood abruptly and held out her hand patiently to Sarah.
Sarah pouted for a moment, then withdrew a dog-eared scrap of paper and handed it over to the muse. Ma'at nodded briskly then glanced at the paper, suddenly freezing and swallowing convulsively.
Trying not to drop the paper, she handed it back to Sarah with suddenly nerveless fingers. She said nothing further, just hauled the young fictive back to where she belongs, trying desperately not to think about how Sarah might have acquired the image of a fictive created by Ma'at's last writer.
-Fini