Chapter Text
Another late night convenience store run.
Plumeria was busy, so Guzma volunteered to run out for supplies. It was mostly just some small necessities; ibuprofen and bandaids, shampoo, a few sanitary products, a couple cans of chicken soup for the sick grunt...and of course a family sized bag of Cheetos. For himself.
He’s in he middle of texting Plumeria that he has everything when someone rushes past him, grips the handle of his grocery bag, and tries to pull it from him.
Of the two, Guzma seems to be stronger. So of course it goes as expected. Guzma yanks back on the bag, drops it, and grabs a hold of them, lifting them up off of the ground. The groceries topple to the ground, the cans rolling off as the bag tips to its side.
“Ooohoho buddy,” he sneers. “Ya picked the wrong f*cker t’mess with.”
The person yelps in a higher-pitched voice than expected as Guzma puts them in a headlock.
He pauses. In the light of the convenience store sign, he can get a better look at the thief.
It’s a kid.
Hard to tell how old he is from a glance, but he’d guess at under fifteen given by how scrawny he is.
He’s dirty and looks like someone attacked him with a lawnmower; there are scratches on his face, his blonde hair is patchy and uneven like he cut it without a clue of how to do so properly, and his clothes have been torn by something with sharp claws. Looks like he tried to fix that himself, too, if the haphazard sewing job was anything to go on.
“...Heh.” He releases the kid from his grasp. “First rule of stealin’, don’t go after someone who can crush ya an’ then some.”
The kid glares him down, thin arms and puny fists out at the ready. It’s a little hard to see in the dark, but Guzma would swear they were shaking. Guzma reaches down to pick up his bags and shuffles through the contents before eyeing the kid again.
“So.” He picks up the cans of chicken soup and puts them back into his bag. “Ain’t never met a kid who went ‘round pickin’ fights with guys twice his size without good reason. What’s yours then, huh?”
The kid takes a step back, still heavily on guard. Guzma merely eyes him with a small frown. He’s too dirty to have a decent place to sleep, too scrawny to be eating properly. He’s not sure what to make of the scratches, but they seem to be from a Pokemon. Hard to say exactly what the kid’s been through, but there’s a definite fire in his eyes.
After a good, long moment of silence, the kid lowers his shaking arms and instead hugs them close to himself, gaze down and to the side. Guzma snorts. He knows that look. Too proud to admit desperation.
Guzma pulls out one of the cans of soup from the bag.
“Heads up.”
The boy looks up to see the can flying toward him in an arch. He reaches out to catch it. The bag of Cheetos comes next. He looks at them, then at Guzma.
“That’s whatcha wanted, yeah?”
No response. The kid scrutinizes the packages like he had been handed something completely alien.
Whatever. Guzma rolls his eyes, hangs the plastic bag on the crook of his arm, and shuffles off through the empty parking lot. But before he can get too far, the kid mumbles something he just barely catches. Guzma halts and glances back at him.
“Whazzat?”
“...I just tried to steal from you,” the kid finally says, voice a bit hoarse. “So, why...?”
“What, ya think you’re the only kid who lived offa what he could swipe?”
Guzma snickers and shakes his head.
“Just an FYI: it’s a whole lot easier stealin’ in the store than it is robbin’ people,” he continues. “Wear somethin’ loose y’can hide stuff in. Take sh*t people ain’t gonna miss right away.”
He turns back around, quickly finishing and sending that text to Plumeria that he’s on his way back before jamming the device back into his pocket. He pauses. There’s no response from the kid. Yet he doesn’t hear any footsteps, so he assumes he hasn’t left.
Then Guzma hears feet shuffle and he glances back. The kid’s eyeing him curiously.
“Who are you, anyway?” the kid asks.
Guzma flashes him a grin.
“Just a guy who knows a thing or two.” He turns for the final time, giving a half wave to the kid as he disappears into the darkness. “Anyway. Got places t’be, people t’see. Sick guy at home needs the other can of soup. See ya ‘round, Cheeto swiper.”
