[right][h2][color=999999]Lost in Translation[/color][/h2][@silver21][/right]

[color=808080]Wesley doesn't resist as she leads him into the throng.

Bodies shift and press. Strobing lights cut through the dark. He stumbles and the tug on Sirpa's hand is immediate.

When she glances back at Wesley, guilt tightens his expression. But it's not from the stumble. Another word or two from her and the reason clicks. He doesn't understand a word she said.

Loneliness finds her standing in the crowd. It presses down on her chest and doesn't lift.

Then his hand tightens around hers. Gentle, meant as comfort. Even if he can't follow her words. He would never ignore her.[/color]

[center][color=808080]━━━━━━ ◈ ━━━━━━[/color][/center]
[right][h2][color=999999]Lost in Translation[/color][/h2][@Stanifly][@Auragreedia][/right]

[color=808080]With a destination in mind, it takes only a few steps westward. Teresa and Morgan move past a couple of dancers and the stage appears in front of them. Turntables and mixers and speakers clutter the platform. Two figures stand among the equipment: a woman and a child.

The woman crouches to the child's eye level. At first glance, they could be strangers. "Be a good boy while mama works, okay?" She kisses his forehead and leaves.

He stays with others. Caregivers, maybe. Other children.

Time moves strangely here. Days bleed together. The boy plays with the other kids. Words are misunderstood, gestures misread. The other children adapt without thinking about it, filling in gaps the way kids do.

Adults don't.

One caregiver watches him sit quietly in the corner, coloring. "Such a well-behaved boy," she tells someone else. That's the last time she looks his way. Other kids who cause problems get attention. But the child can't be trouble. Can't make a mistake. His mother works hard enough. He won't add to her burden.

Another day. Another adult. This one's voice rises, sharp with irritation. "Why don't you ever listen? I've told you three times already!" He stares, uncomprehending. The adult walks away muttering about rebellious kids.

The scene shifts—not abruptly, but like turning a page.

A man looms in the doorway. The belt slides free.

Leather cracks against skin. He flinches but his father keeps talking, frustrated the boy can't grasp something so simple. Never slows down to explain it differently, never asks what part isn't clear. Another strike lands.

From where the child stands, there's no logic to any of this. Just punishment for being who he is.[/color]