SquidgeWorld Archive

Able-bodied, clean-minded women we want also--mothers and teachers. Nolackadaisical ladies--no blasted rolling eyes. We can't have any weak or silly. Life is real again, and the useless and cumbersome and mischievous have to die. They ought to die. They ought to be willing to die. It's a sort of disloyalty, after all, to live and taint the race. And they can't be happy. Moreover, dying's none so dreadful; it's the funking makes it bad. And in all those places we shall gather. Our district will be London. And we may even be able to keep a watch, and run about in the open when the Martians keep away. Play cricket, perhaps. That's how we shall save the race. Eh?
-The Man on Putney Hill, "The War of the Worlds" by HG Wells

It was sort of a miracle that Widget had been allowed to live at all. He was a small baby, sharing a womb with a brother who quickly died, growing into a small boy susceptible to illnesses and scabs and all sorts of allergies. He was often ignored by the other children, left out of their survival games, never invited to play scouts or sit-along on daytime look-outs. Widget was usually left in the care of the women, dreadful and lonely, spending all his time mending old clothes while his mother tended to the wretched little babies that were so carefully watched and separated and labelled.

The kinder thing would've been to smother him, like the other weak ones, as silently and painlessly as possible. But his mother had been trying for children for so long, and his father doted on her and allowed her to keep him. His father's perceived weakness was another strike against Widget, and he spent his childhood friendless and alone, sleeping in his family's home in Camden Town station during the day, wandering the streets at night alone.

The first and only friend Widget made was a boy called Thompson, one of the sons of a strong proud man who had come to live in the Northern Line from a surface settlement outside of the city. Their village, which had proudly and defiantly lived among the animals and trees in plain sight, had been inevitably devastated by Martians, who basketed all the children and sucked all the adults dry, except for the few who escaped into London. The cities were safer now, at first glance, since the Martians preferred the wet countryside where their weed had flourished, red and cozy and stinking in the sunlight. The obvious risk was from the insatiable demand of the landed Martians for human blood, or tamed groups of pretty boys and girls kept in cages until they grew too old and had to be put down.

Widget met Thompson one day when, feeling lonelier than usual, he had wandered down the tube for ages, and found the holes poked through the ground in between King's Cross and Tottenham. This place was forbidden during the day, and was where, years ago, the Martains had simply reached into the busy tube lines and pulled out trains, whipping them across the city. They lay there now, embedded in rotting buildings, even if Widget had only ever seen them at night.

Widget had never seen daylight, and sat a few yards down from the holes, staring at the bright beauty pouring in before him. He was filled with a kind of calm terror, knowing he was in such a dangerous place and half-expecting to see a Handling Machine arm reach down and pluck him up- although, truth be told, he wouldn't really mind having all the blood sucked out of his body at the moment.

Thompson came up behind him, calling out gently, startling him. But he didn't flinch away from Widget's obvious inferiority, didn't seem worried about catching whatever Widget might have at the moment. Thompson gave him water and cheerfully bundled him off home, glancing behind them down the tube for whatever might be reaching in.

And, well, how could Widget *not* fall in love with such kindness? Any other person would've let Widget be taken, left him out in the sun with a "free lunch" sign stuck on his forehead if given half the chance. Thompson was a few years older than Widget, with a wide grin and clean teeth and dark curls. He had kind brown eyes and always had a calm smile and soft chuckle. Growing up in that defiant village on the surface must've been very different from down in the tunnels, where all the men were gruff and angry and there was no time in the day for laughing.

When it became known that the area between King's Cross and Tottenham was later sacked, the Martians taking a little girl and killing the man with her (part of a group trekking up from further south, where the water had run out), Widget was overcome with gratitute and relief, and put it upon himself to see that Thompson never wanted for anything again. He never complained, he never left Thompson's side, and he tried his *damndest* to not get sick. He didn't have words to explain to Thompson the way he felt, he was so bad at words since no one ever talked to him and no books were allowed in Northern Line except cold, brutal science and history. So he spoke with his actions, always smiling and taking whatever Thompson would give him.

For the first time in his life, Widget was happy.

This lasted about three months.

There was always something niggling away at the back of Widget's mind that Thompson's mutual affection wasn't exactly the same. He knew all about the things other boys said to Thompson, and the first time he heard Thompson defending him he had a smile on his face that lasted for hours. That night was the first time Widget lay with anyone.

As time went on, however, the moments of defense came slower and fewer between, and Thompson didn't look at him with the same degree of kindness, the same softness in his nice brown eyes. He was still the kindest to Widget out of anyone, though, and people left him alone now he had Thompson to look after him, so Widget kept quiet and kept seeing to Thompson's every need. Thompson's body was still firm and smooth, his dark curls still framed his kind face and Widget still couldn't keep himself from touching. So he lay back and let himself fill up with love, even when it hurt, ignoring the doubts in the back of his head.

Then everything went sour. A group of Martians were stomping across the city- not Martian army, but landed settlers, in fancier (but less lethal) tripods filled with families, baskets full of whatever belongings a Martian would need, and pets. Thompson and the other young men peeked out of their lookouts all around Camden Town, and Widget (at last!) was permitted to tag along, as long as he kept silent and did whatever Thompson said.

That's when they rescued the pet boy.

One of the tripods got a leg snagged and in the struggle to pull it free, shook some things out of one of its baskets. Either the Martians didn't notice or didn't think they'd lost anything important, as the tripod didn't turn to recover its belongings, and stomped off, creaking in the red dusk with that low, heart-stopping keen calling out to its fellows. The scouting team waited until the Martians were too far to turn back quickly, and quietly, with a pace that left Widget breathless and straggling, ran to recover what the Martians had left behind.

There they found the pet boy, thin and pale, lying with a broken leg amongst crates and bundles of food and water. The team split the load and hauled it back underground; Thompson carried the pet boy in his arms, smiling his kind smile, comforting the boy with the goodness in his soft brown eyes.

Widget was aghast. He followed behind, afraid to speak on the surface for any lurking Martians, afraid of what the other young men would say. Afraid, mostly, that Thompson would ignore him.

A few weeks past before Widget snapped. He still lay at night with Thompson in the Camden Town station, but the pet boy was there, not so far away, and Thompson had to see to him. He would stroke his healing leg, and coo at him, and smile kindly. Whereas Widget had no words to tell Thompson he loved him, the pet boy had no words *at all*. He twittered and purred, and spoke what could've been a language, maybe some kind of basket-talk, maybe even Martian. Efforts to get any Martian out of him were slow-going though, but since he was Thompson's find and since there was a chance Martian may have been learned, he was kept, and protected, and Thompson barely had any time for Widget at all.

It went back, the way it was in the bad old days, before Widget knew what a broken heart felt like. The final straw was when he spotted Thompson in the darkness of the tubes one night, his arms wrapped around the pet boy, who was gazing up at him with pretty blue eyes that needed no words.

The next day Widget dragged the pet boy down the tube with him, for what felt like ages, to the holes he found between King's Cross and Tottenham. The boy twittered and wrung his hands, and was obviously looking for Thompson. Widget didn't bother answering, as he climbed out of the hole and onto the surface, near were the wrecked train lay twisted among ruined buildings. The pet boy was nervous, obviously, but as permissive as Widget could hope. He didn't protest when Widget dropped down a rope, came back down and tied him up, and hoisted him onto the bright, red surface.

Widget was driven with an anger he had never felt before. As much as his childhood had tormented him, he had never before wished harm upon anyone, and was too blind with the redness of his broken heart to wonder at his desire to see Thompson hurt. He figured he would lead the pet boy somewhere lost on the surface and then quickly disappear back into the tubes, and the pet boy would either be reclaimed by Martians or simply die. He would play the innocent and welcome Thompson back to his arms, after *his* heart broke.

Possibly because of having been deprived training and experience as a child, he hadn't measured the wind right, the weather, and when he heard the familier stomping and groaning of Martian tripods it was too late, he couldn't get back to the holes in time. Then he was running, dodging Handling Machine feelers. He wondered if they would suck his blood if they caught him, if he was tall enough to pass as a grown man. Maybe, if he dodged them long enough, they would get sick of trying to catch him and simply torch him with the Heat Ray. But oh, to be torched, burned up and made into a pile of dust before he got back to Camden Town, before he could lay under Thompson one last time...

He ran into a familiar figure and Thompson caught him before he fell, angry and worried and where the hell is that pet boy?!

Widget grabbed at Thompson's arm, his inferior strength failing to drag the other boy back to the tube, and they found the pet boy huddled near a wrecked wall, crying his little heart out. Thompson grabbed him and they were running again.

It was a frantic scramble, with three or four tripods in the area now, scanning and feeling and occasionally blasting at wrecked buildings with their Heat Ray. Thompson stared furiously at Widget, who was heavier than the pet boy and just as bad at gauging where they were or where they should go. Heat rose off from the burning buildings, the air was thick with the low sound of the tripods.

/I'm sorry,/ Widget thought fiercely. /I just wanted you back; I love you!/ But all he could manage to say out loud was "He's dead weight, Thompson, just cut him loose!"

Thompson frowned even more, and in one heart-stopping moment he gripped the pet boy closer to him, and pushed hard against Widget's chest. His palm was flat and smooth but the touch was unlike anything Widget had ever felt. He fell backwards and by the time he recovered Thompson was already five feet away from the holes, the pet boy clutched fast to his side.

Before Widget could even call out again a long feeler wrapped around his waist, and he knew it was over.

He landed with a bruising thud in the basket, and grappled at the bars to keep steady. He wondered, as they stomped away from London into the red, red country, what it would be like to be a pet. If it felt anything the way it looked when Thompson held that pet boy, it wouldn't be so bad. But if he was too scrawny, too ugly, and too inferior- well, he wouldn't really mind having all the blood sucked from his body at the moment