Caged Bird | Chapter One

At 2:00 AM, Cassius Fulton watches a poker game in one of the private rooms of his casino. He watches each of the rich old men put money in the pot, and ten minutes into the game, two have become intimidated and folded.

The last two stare each other down.

Even from the window 30 feet above, Cass can tell that one was bluffing his ass off.

He can't help a smirk as the bluffer wins, and the other man pulls his hair in frustration, realizing that if he hadn't folded, he would've won.

By 2:30 AM, Cass becomes bored of watching games from above and hurries downstairs, asking one of the dealers to switch with him.

He deals 15 games and guesses the winners, the bluffers, and the cheaters correctly 15 times. As a policy, he lets what he deems to be clever cheating go and screws over the stupider cheaters, dealing them unlucky cards.

Who was to get angry at him?

It was his casino, after all.

At 5:00 AM, he leaves the casino and heads to the parking lot.

At 5:05 AM, he drops his keys on the ground next to his car. When he goes to pick them up, he sees an unconscious little boy, pale and damply dirty, laying on his side under his car.

At 5:06 AM, he decides that it is way too early for this shit.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

For a second, Cass thinks he's had a drink too many or stayed up an hour too long. A deep breath and a long blink tell him otherwise; the thin, pale little boy is as real as ever. 

"Hey, kid." He pauses, raising his voice a bit higher. "Kid, you're under my car."

"Here, lemme just--" He reaches under the car, and grabs his arm. His hand meets with possibly the slimmest arm that he could imagine, and the frailty of it makes him drop it like a hot coal. A shiver of uneasiness travels down his spine.

"Kid?"

The boy remains as responsive as a dead fish. A moment of silence passes, and Cass' uneasiness fades. Cass knows, in the back of his mind, that he should probably be worried, but frankly, he was a bit too tired to dwell on it much. It was 5 in the morning, he had worked all night, and the only thing he was really thinking about was his bed.

He stands and dials the police. Rubbing his eyes, he leans against the car, feeling very much like the next blink he took would just meld his eyes shut. 

Through the rings of the phone, he cloudily wonders how the boy got there, trying to remember whether any of his regular casino-goers had children. He remembers seeing expensive looking clothes on the boy, although they were old and muddy.

So, he thinks. A thin, malnourished little boy in expensive-looking clothing runs so quickly he skids on the sidewalk and rolls under his car, hitting his head with a rock on the way and getting knocked unconscious. Hm. 

Even in his sleep-deprived state, Cass can tell something's off with this story. For one, where were his parents? If his clothes were damp, that means he was running in the rain, during the rainstorm the city had at around 6 last night. Simple math means he's been missing for at least half a day. What kind of parent doesn't notice that? Not to mention the fact that the expensive clothing is ill-suited to his delicate frame. God, was he starved? Or maybe, would someone really be messed up enough to use a child as collateral?

"Hello, this is the police department, how can I help you?" A bored looking voice rings out from the other end, startling Cass, who nearly forgot he was on the phone. He flinches and accidentally hangs up.

"Well, shit."

At this point, Cass' tiredness outweighs his logic, and in a daze, he decides to just move the boy on his own and squats down to reach under his car again. There was a restaurant nearby he could drag the boy to, and they could take it from there. 

He drags the boy out by his arms.

His tiredness vanishes.

Cass feels his breath catch in his throat. Immediately, he feels a shocking chill run down his spine (he swears it was just his imagination), and when it dissipates, only an overwhelming feeling of fearful dread remains. For a second, he freezes. And for the next couple seconds, Cassius Fulton, cool-headed poker-face extraordinaire, forgets how to breathe.

The gears in his head stop turning.

Suddenly, he isn't just a little boy who has nothing to do with him anymore. The bruises that riddled every inch of the boy's pale skin somehow sunk deep inside Cass, and he felt like his heart, too, was bruised. Instead of a stranger's face, he sees his little sister and brother's, and the instinctive panic rises up inside him.

 He scoops the boy up in his arms and wraps his coat around him. Hurriedly, he lays him down on the back seats and promptly climbs into the driver's seat. He finally becomes aware of his lack of breathing and soon wishes he didn't, desperately trying to suck air into his body.

His thoughts come out in spots between bouts of disgusted fear that coil around his lungs.

Hurt. Bruises. Help. Hospital?

The steering wheel he grips with white knuckles reassures him.

Yes. A hospital.

He starts driving.

Cass isn't stupid.

He knows what pinch marks and cigarette burns look like. He knows what a bruise from an accidental fall looks like, and how a bruise from a punch or a hard slap looks different.

He knows, although he wishes he doesn't, that there are people in this world who could hit a child without an ounce of guilt.

He isn't stupid.

A red light shines in his eyes, and briefly, he leans his forehead against the steering wheel. His eyes flick towards the rear view mirror.

He can't tell if the boy is breathing.

Before Cass' heart can go off again, he stops staring. He can tell his hands are visibly shaking, and he can feel his lungs burning against his ribs. Just as he takes a sharp breath, he manages to get out a shaky mutter.

"God, I really hope he doesn't die." 

The light turns green.

... 

"You did what." The staticky flat voice echoes out in the hospital waiting room. The response causes Cass to take a deep breath, putting his head in his hands.

"Listen, he was under my car, and he wasn't moving, and, and he had these... these bruises. I thought he was dead for a second--- God, I don't know, Viv." 

When he's met with silence, he continues. 

"I panicked. Stopped thinking. I just took him to the hospital."

Viv still stays silent on the end of the line. After a while, he speaks up.

"...what do you plan to do with him after?" His voice is calm, but Cass detects a hint of worry underneath it. "Right now's not the problem. Don't panic on me right now. You did the right thing, taking him to a hospital quickly. I'm not worried about that."

Viv swallows. 

"I'm worried about after. The kid's parents---"

"I'm not taking him back to his parents."

"Cass--"

"Viv, I can't. I know I should leave him with whoever the hell's taking care of him and turn the other way. I mean, I don't know this kid; he doesn't know me. At most, I'd call the cops after I leave, and then that would be it. I know what I should do, and I'm telling you, I can't." Cass stands up and begins anxiously pacing around the room. "I'm not bringing him back to some twisted fucker that would do that to a kid." 

"What do you plan to do then? Foster care? You know he'll just get the same treatment there." Cass hears Viv take a deep breath on the other end of the line. "And, also, you and I both know that you're not fit to take care of a kid."

"...yeah, I know." 

In the background, a faint "Vivian, your damn break's long over! Get your ass to the bar!" is heard.

"Cass, I-" 

"It's fine, I'll figure something out." 

"Cass, don't you dare hang-"

The phone is put down.