You're somewhere dark. Dark, but not pitch-black. It takes a moment perhaps for you to realise you're in an apartment, the curtains left open to let it the few dots of light that come in from the street. There are some light sources inside the room you're in, too: two electric lamps, their spread not reaching farther than the counters they rest on.

As for anything else, you'll find a kid on the couch by those windows, laying there. Longer hair that he might be familiar by, but it's his memory--Robby's, that is. And at this point, he's thinking; he has nothing to do but think, with it being this late -- too late to skateboard, to read, to do anything that requires light and doesn't piss you off when you try and use the glow of the lamps and sting your eyes more than achieve anything helpful. He's not thinking out loud, but he doesn't need to be. This is his memory, and his thoughts and all are as open and in view as the clutter strewn around the room.

You know the electricity is off, that there's no hot water in the apartment, but Robby isn't thinking about that. He's thinking about that day's training, keeping on top of a wooden wheel in a pond that would tip him and Sam off if they didn't maintain equal balance between each other. Each movement he had to do, the thoughts of actually doing it, the pride; how sharp and cold the water was each time he fell, his feelings on karate in particular. The something he has in his life to look forward to--really, the only thing.

He thinks about the shape of Sam's smile, too, and the flutter in his stomach he gets when he thinks about her.

Except, it just reminds him of the hunger he's trying to desperately ignore. There's nothing in his fridge, even if it did work, and there's no using the oven or the microwave. There's cereal, he knows that, reminding him he'll have to get more tomorrow or whatever he can get his hands on. Snacks and coke cans are easier to steal than cornflakes, but what else is he to do?

(There's shame in those thoughts, too -- shame, and an anger. Remembering his mother who said she'd call tomorrow, a call that never came; a trip taken to Mexico that's 'only' a week and a half, and it's been a week, and you know it's going to be more, but you don't want it to be because where are you going to live--)

He gets up. It's been nothing but silence, his thoughts to occupy this empty space, a defeated sigh as he stands finally, walking in the dark over into the kitchen space to find a bowl. There's a box of off-brand rice snaps still there, and he fills it enough to leave himself something for breakfast tomorrow. There's no milk, so he turns to the tap and fills it with water from there.

--There's a knock at the door.

Robby looks over, and there's a dread, and that's now what fills anywhere, the room. Nothing good comes from visitors, but there's not avoiding it; he goes over to the front door, making sure the latch is on before he opens it up. Worry about if it's the landlord to talk about the rent he isn't going to get, but the face Robby sees--

'Hey, Robby'.

--is a different surprise, a man he knows. Sensei, you know too.

'Hey.' Robby's confused, but he's undoing the latch anyway, all earlier fears gone. He opens the door more to speak to the man properly, curious. 'Mister LaRusso, what are you doing here?'

'Well, I could lie and say I was in the neighbourhood...' You might catch the way the man looks into the apartment, maybe even at you (where you stand, anyway), but Robby doesn't. Nothing about him changes until Mister LaRusso asks: 'Is your...mom home?'

It's a question Robby doesn't know how to answer without the following question of why, and that isn't a road he wants to go down. He doesn't want to lie to Mister LaRusso.

So he doesn't say anything, lowering his gaze. Mister LaRusso takes a step closer with a 'Hey,' a hand coming to rest on Robby's shoulder.

'Listen, it's going to be alright. Okay?'

It doesn't feel like that, but that might be the shame talking in Robby's heart -- because you know he's quietly thankful, too. You know the lopsided smile he makes in place of any answer.

'You can come stay with me and Sam until we can reach your mom. Grab what you need for tonight, alright?' Mister LaRusso offers to help him grab some things, but Robby tells him no, thanks, it's alright, standing awkwardly with this feeling in his chest he doesn't know how to comprehend. But the man makes it easier, says alright, and that he'll wait in the car, not seeming to mind as all Robby does is nod.

Because Robby isn't used to this: to someone coming and helping him, and how exactly he should be, what he should do, in the face of it.



But he does the obvious, and goes into his room to grab his bag, the memory ending on that difficult sense of appreciation and relief in escaping.