Goro: Like You're Not One of Mine

It didn't bleed that much at first, so he figured it couldn't be that bad.

Didn't even hurt, really, until he was a couple blocks away from the house, and he staggered into an alleyway to cough up blood. Well, that explained why much wasn't coming out of the wound, he guessed. The stuff that was seeping out was all foamy with air bubbles. Maybe the guy had hit a lung.

Finally started to hurt right around then, too. Excruciating, in fact. Every cough made his vision go white, and then it went black, and when it came back again he was staring at the sky, a broken cobblestone jutting into his back. More annoying than anything, compared to the pain of the stab wound.

So, he guessed this was how he was going to die.

Seventeen years old, woken from his sleep by the freak he'd agreed to share a bed with, who "wanted to see what would happen" if he stabbed a sleeping person.

It was fucking stupid. Goro always figured he'd die young, figured any day could be the day, but he at least thought he'd go down fighting.

He caught movement out the corner of his eye, someone walking down the street at the end of the alley. He twisted his head for a better look and reached an arm out without really thinking about it. Some kind of instinctive drive to reach for help, even if it was from a stranger.

He coughed again, and it hurt so bad, he kind of wished death would just fucking hurry up and take him already. Something inside him was fighting it, though.

He was lying out of the way, and it would take a while for anyone to notice his body. The rats and seagulls would pick at him till then, and when people started to complain about the smell, eventually the street sweepers would drag him away and toss him in a paupers' grave.

He threw an arm over his eyes. But he hadn't cried in years, and he couldn't muster up tears now, even though nobody else would cry for him. Nobody would miss him. Nobody would even notice he was gone. Every now and then someone might say, "Hey, I wonder whatever happened to Footprints," and that'd be it. That would be the mark he left in the world.

Was his own fault, probably, putting people off the way he did. He knew some gangs loved each other like family, but that had never been the case for him. He slipped in and out of them, barely noticed. He didn't try hard enough. He didn't give anyone a reason to care.

He got on his hands and knees and crawled toward the street, teeth gritted. It just kind of happened, even though he didn't know why he wanted to keep living. Didn't make him special, fighting for his life; even bugs squirmed more frantically when you trapped them. He was acting on the most basic instinct any living thing possessed, when he had the brainpower to know better.

No point in living if nobody loved you, was there?

And yet, there he was, crawling. Giving it another try.

People stared at him when he managed to get to his feet and hobble along a couple more blocks. His chin was sticky-wet with blood and his hands and shirt were soaked with it now, but nobody stopped to ask. Maybe they thought he'd yell for help if he needed it. Maybe they were a bunch of self-centered fucks who didn't give a shit. Maybe both.

Arm hugging his side, he stopped to blink at his surroundings. There was a haze at the edges of his vision, like the day was misty. He knew where he was, though. He knew a person who *might* help him, if he was real damn lucky, and she could usually be found near here.

So he kept dragging himself forward. It had been dawn when he first ran from the house, and it had to be midday by now, even though he could've sworn it hadn't been more than an hour. Must've passed out for longer than he realized. He didn't have a clue what fucking time it was when he reached his destination—didn't have the energy to even make a guess. He banged on the door of the old shuttered bakery and grabbed the wall to keep from falling over.

A voice he didn't recognize called through the door a moment later. "Shop's closed."

Ah, shit. He hoped Ella hadn't changed the password since the last time he talked to her. If this was some new kid, he wouldn't recognize the old password. Goro tried it anyway. "I'm looking to invest in—"

Couldn't even make it through. He coughed, and whimpered in pain, collapsing to his knees.

Amazingly, the door opened anyway. Goro fell the rest of the way through it, landing on his face. He didn't bother taking a look at the kid who'd let him in, but a few feet away stood Ella, arms crossed, looking down at him.

"Oh, brother," she said.

He passed out again.

#

He came to thanks to an insistent pricking in his new wound. He lifted his head, squinting, and saw he'd been moved to a counter across from the old bread ovens.

"Hold the fuck still," Ella said.

She was stitching him up. She'd always had an amazing knack for treating injuries. He'd figured he would have to cajole her into helping him, but here she was, sewing him up when he hadn't even been awake to ask for it.

It hurt, but was nothing compared to the pain of the wound already. This was a bad one. He'd had stitches before that made things feel worse, but this time they barely registered.

"Think it hit my lung," he said.

"Good thing you got two of 'em, huh?"

He rested his head and closed his eyes. "Don't you fucking need both?"

"Lungs heal," she said dismissively.

When she was done with the stitches, she wiped the remaining blood off with a damp rag, making him flinch. Then she tossed the rag on his face. "Take a fucking nap, and when you wake up, I'll have a job for you."

He pulled the rag off and rolled onto his good side, wincing. He tugged his shirt down in a hurry, covering himself as best he could even though it had a fucking hole in it now. "I ain't doing any fucking jobs."

"People only show up at my door for two reasons, Goro." Been a while since anyone called him that. "They wanna work with me, or they wanna kill me. If you were going for the second one you did a real shit job of it."

"Third reason," he said weakly. "Just needed help."

"Meaning, you want to work with me." She finished washing her hands in a basin of water, and walked back over to him, toweling them off. "Who the fuck do you think you are now, anyway? Running around like you're not one of mine." She jabbed a finger against the tattoo on his arm. "Calling yourself Footprints now, I hear. They say you killed the Big Baron."

Goro ignored that last bit. "'Not one of mine'? Who the hell do you think you are, the Basha? Skyport's next Helena? You're a fucking small fry, Ella. No one fucking belongs to you."

"Oh, right. I forgot. Fuckin' Goro, the lone wolf." She rolled her eyes. "Stuck with me for a couple years and then he's off on his own, like we didn't even matter to him."

"None of you assholes cared about me," he snapped. Or tried to, anyway. Didn't have the breath to do much more than whisper.

"Yeah. No one's ever gonna care about you, because you're a twat. At least when you're working for me, I make sure you eat good, right?"

"What, that fucking pot of water and lettuce you call soup? I'm out."

"Oh. How cute. You've gotten sassier since the last time I saw you. The little twat's growing up." She patted his cheek, and he wrenched away from the touch. "I'm your best fucking shot at a gang that can actually tolerate you, cutie pie. So give it some thought, alright? Sleep on it."

She left him alone on the counter, heading back out to the front room. Goro rested his eyes, but he wasn't actually going to sleep. Wasn't sure he ever wanted to sleep again, unless it was alone in a locked room. No knives around except for his own.

Without Ella there making noise, he could hear how wheezy his breathing was. Shaky, rough, labored. And painful. When he opened his eyes again, his vision was blurred. Reflexive tears from the sting of the wound. Right.

Why the hell had he crawled out of that alley?

Why had he even bothered?

###

Was a damn coincidence he ran into her at all, and he might not have looked twice if it weren't for something Morgan had told him a while back: she'd married some Helmite cleric.

Goro was skulking around in front of the abbey, hoping to run into a guy who owed him money. He'd about lost his fucking mind trying to find the right ring for Hansel, and finally decided he needed to get something custom—but that was gonna cost him a pretty penny. Had to replenish his savings now.

Instead of the guy who owed him, Goro spotted a cleric named Peter—or Greasy Pete, as Goro liked to call him—talking to a woman on the front steps. The woman was trying to wrangle a young child, four or five years old, maybe.

Goro squinted, not really believing his eyes for a second.

Her hair was different—not all short and choppy, but long and shiny, braided. She had a reasonably nice dress on, instead of rags. But that was Ella Fletcher, alright. That was her fucking face, with an extra fifteen years on it. She'd not aged well, not even for a human.

And she was married to *Greasy Pete*? Holy fuckin' hell. That was hilarious.

The child was shrieking like a little demon. Goro couldn't even say whether they were a boy or a girl, since they wouldn't hold still long enough for him to assess. Just a flailing ball of outrage. Piercing outrage. Goro stuck his fingers in his ears.

Greasy Pete tried giving Ella a kiss on the cheek, but she dodged it. Ouch.

This was fuckin' great. Goro would've been content to sit there all day watching the domestic drama that was Ella Fletcher's adult life unfolding, but it ended too soon. Pete went inside the abbey and Ella set to work dragging her little demon elsewhere.

Goro watched them slowly make their way to the end of the block. He had no desire to talk to her, and he was at the abbey for a *reason*, but… god. This was fuckin' wild. He had a funny feeling that if he watched her walk around that corner, he'd never see her again, and he'd always kinda wonder.

He slipped out of his semi-hiding spot behind an empty cart and started following.

They were easy as fuck to trail even from a large distance, because of the way the kid kept shrieking. Ella had always prided herself on being sneaky and untraceable. This kept getting funnier by the minute. After a few turns they were in the business district, and Goro had time to catch up and see which building they went into because Ella had to stop and futz with a set of keys.

She unlocked the door to a textiles shop and dragged the kid inside with her. The sign over the window read *BEECHER'S FINE FABRICS AND YARNS*, and being as Beecher was Pete's last name, Goro figured their family owned the shop.

Ella used to talk about opening a business one day. So, fuckin' good for her, he guessed.

He crossed the street and approached the shop. A sign on the door said they were closed, and would open in another hour. Goro pushed it open anyway. She hadn't locked it behind her.

"We're closed," she called from the counter, without looking up. She was counting money in a lock box. The child had stopped screeching, and was somewhat contentedly sucking a thumb and squeezing a stuffed orc doll.

"I'm looking to invest in old properties," Goro said.

Ella's hands stilled, and her head snapped up. She reached out to grab her kid and pull them behind her.

Goro snorted. "Aw, what's'a matter? Don't recognize me?"

"I recognize you," she snapped. "Get out of my store."

Rich of her to be playing the whole helpless shopkeeper card. Goro had watched this bitch carve people up with pieces of broken glass she picked off the ground. He clasped his hands behind his back and strolled through the place casually, eyeing her wares. "Looks like you're doing pretty well for yourself."

"The fuck do you want, Goro?"

He shrugged. "Just to say hello. See this shit with my own eyes. You know you're married to one of my old fellows? Motherfuckin' Greasy Pete."

Ella's mouth worked a bit, like she wanted to object, but he could see her thinking it over. Peter Beecher was *really* fuckin' greasy, after all.

"According to what *I* heard," she said, "you were branded a heretic."

"'Branded' is an awfully strong word. I ain't got any marks on me. Not from that, at least."

Her eyes narrowed. "You're not a real Helmite."

He thought about mocking her for making that leap about six months behind the rest of the fucking Church, but instead he just pulled his pack off one shoulder so he could show her the emblem painted on his shield, eyes wide and innocent.

"I *know* you," she said. "You're a Maskarran."

The way she put it made him think she'd just made the assumption herself, and not heard it as a rumor from the clergy. And that was good. His secret was more or less out, he figured, but he didn't need all those Church fucks knowing every detail.

"Oh, and I don't suppose you've got any experience in that arena," he said, stepping up to the counter and tapping hard on the top of her lock box. There was a crude black rose carved there, meant to be a ward against other thieves. "Does your darling husband know about that?"

He watched her calculating. Ella had never been the most clever, or the best at talking to people. She always got what she wanted through theft or brute force. So she grabbed the wrist Goro was using to tap on her box—still quick and strong as she used to be.

"Are you threatening me?" she asked quietly. Not as vicious as he'd have expected. Probably didn't want to scare the kid.

"Nah. Just implying we might have a mutual understanding, if you catch my meaning."

She looked into his eyes for a beat, then down at the wrist she'd seized. She dragged his sleeve up to reveal his forearm, turning it up so his tattoo was visible. She dug her thumbnail into the edge of it. It hurt—a ghost of the pain he'd felt when she inked it into his arm twenty years ago.

He got the intended message. *You belong to me.* He didn't try to fight her off. Just let her keep playing with him. She was washed up, a sellout. She needed her comforts.

She slid her hand back down his arm and tugged at the braided leather wristband from Raef. The prayer encoded on it would certainly have given him away as a Maskarran, but he doubted she could read it. She grabbed the tips of his fingers, and went still for a moment. Looking at the ring Hansel had given him.

Goro straightened up a little, almost unconsciously. He felt weightless and proud, like a bird unfurling its wings. A feeling almost entirely alien to him, one that said, *Look at me.*

*Look.*

*Someone loves me.*

He could tell she hadn't expected to see it, but that was all. She didn't say anything, or ask if it was for real. He wished she would. He wanted to gloat. He wanted to tell her exactly how wrong she'd been.

But it was fine. Was just as true, whether they left it unspoken or not. He pulled his hand free of hers and stepped back, rolling his sleeve down.

"Well, best wishes on your fuckin' life, whatever it is you're doing with it," he said. "Hope I don't see you again."

"Stay the fuck away from my store." Like that was even remotely necessary for her to say.

He waved as he backed toward the door. "Hey. Dunno if I ever properly thanked you for saving my life that one time."

She scoffed. "You're not welcome. I regret it."

He grinned at her crookedly and turned around to see himself out. "I sure don't."

#

A few hours later, he'd successfully shaken his money out of the guy who owed him, and was treating himself to the cheapest possible lunch at the Crooked Coin.

He had his sleeve rolled up again, and he kept looking over the tattoo.

He'd thought about getting rid of the thing for years. Somehow, that little interaction this morning felt like the confirmation he'd always needed. It was time.

He'd wait until he got home that night. Tie a tourniquet above his elbow, stick something in his mouth to bite down on, and use his sharpest knife to just slice it right off. It would leave a scar, for sure. No matter how carefully he healed it, removing a patch of skin that size, to that depth, was not something that could be erased.

But tattoos were scars in their own right. He'd just be replacing it with a different type, and he was fine with that.

That thought put another idea in his mind, though.

He finished his lunch, pondering. And when he went to pay, he asked Tazu for a recommendation.

#

He had to wait around for a couple hours outside the tattoo place before the guy could see him. And that was fine. Gave him lots of time to think.

Once the answer came to him, though, there really wasn't any doubt in his mind. It felt real fucking right. It felt perfect.

Goro had never gotten anything tattooed on him professionally before, so stepping into the parlor was a new experience. It was small, and brightly lit from a light stone in the ceiling. The floor was sparkling clean despite the place being located in the port district. Sketches big and small adorned the walls.

The artist was a burly half orc, with tusks so big Goro wasn't sure how he even managed to close his mouth. He looked Goro up and down, but made no apparent judgment.

Goro showed him the symbol on his arm. "Was wondering if you could cover this up with something else."

The artist examined it and grunted. "What'd you have in mind?"

"A crow."

The man grunted again. He took Goro's arm in his hand for a closer look, turning it this way and that, tracing something invisible with his finger. "It'll be big."

"That's fine." Goro's heart beat a little faster with excitement. That was a *yes*.

"Take me a few hours."

"I got time."

"Might wanna split it up into a few sessions. We'll see how you do with the pain."

"Oh. Psh." Goro snorted, and it turned into a real laugh, hard enough that the guy probably thought he was nuts. Which, to be fair. "Don't even worry about it, pal. Gimme your fucking worst."