ArchivedLogs:Vignette - Stand Up

Vignette - Stand Up
Dramatis Personae Steve	1931-12-07 "And I told you to stay. /Down./"
Location <NYC> Brooklyn
The streets are dingy with an early snowfall beneath a leaden sky. It is already melting, which only makes the evening more miserable and cold, especially for the boy whose face is being smooshed into a bank of blackened slush by another, much larger child in an alley between a flagging greengrocer and a boarded-up barber shop. The smaller boy is skinny as though malnourished, and dressed in an ill-fitting brown coat much mended and patched. Though he flails at his tormenter's legs with bony fists, his blows have little effect and only earn him a sharp kick in the side. "Dirty mick," says the kicker. "Lazy no-good slobs like you are why we're all broke!" He lets go, finally, stepping back and wiping some slush from his boot off on the prostrate boy. "You better stay down, Mick." He spits on his opponent once, just for good measure, and starts strutting away. Behind him, the smaller boy struggles to his knees, breathing noisily. Blood oozes from his nose to mingle with the filthy slush clinging to his face. "It's...greedy plutes...they're why...we..." he gasps as he stands at last, swaying and shaking. The bully whirls back to face him. "Shut /up/! And I told you to stay. /Down./" He punctuates the last word by punching the other boy in the gut and shoving him back. "Hey!" A third boy calls from the mouth of the alley, and is moving into it soon after. "Leave him alone." "Maybe you should mind your own business," says the bully as he kicks the smaller boy again. "Maybe /you/ should pick on someone your own size." The newcomer rushes the bully and shoves him hard. The bully staggers back and, recovering his balance, throws a punch that is immediatley answered. This exchange tells who is the stronger fighter, however. The newcomer's blow sends his opponent reeling. Then fleeing. In the meantime, the small boy has started to pick himself up again--more slowly than before. He has not stopped wheezing. "That sounds awful." The newcomer offers a hand and pulls him to his feet, wincing when he sees the blood and bruises. "You live far?" The small boy shakes his head, then cringes, regretting the movement. "No...three blocks south...near the Lebanese quarter." "C'mon. I'll walk you home." The newcomer pats the smaller boy on the shoulder--gently. "I'm James Buchanan Barnes," he's rolling his eyes even while he says this, offering a hand, "call me Bucky." "Thank you." The other boy nods. Looks down at the proffered hand, clasps in his own, tiny and filthy and cold. "Steve Rogers."