Title: Singing of a Gold Raven

Author: Mr. Meenor (Editor(s): Mr. Ree)

Rating/Genre/Pairing: T / Historical Fiction / Lala & Kanda Yuu

Synopsis: Lala is an Italian immigrant who moved to America for work just before the Great Depression. Allen Walker, a close friend, offers her a possible life-changing opportunity: a ticket to Boston, Massachusetts, where she can start again as an aspiring musician. However, will her singing be enough to support her in an economy falling to shambles? Perhaps a Kanda Yuu might be part of her answer... (AU)

~O~

1. Crash

October 29th, 1929.

She woke without anyone waking her up, which surprised her. She sat up and stretched, her blonde locks tangled in a mess. Her fingers stretched them to untie the knots, though to no avail. She watched, unblinking, the wall shift from queasiness. She ate something raw accidentally, that was the only explanation she had for the symptom. Her eyes blinked away the morning fog, the sky raining with large pelts of water. They plastered against the window, rapping and tapping as she stepped onto the creaky, cool wooden floor.

Her voice hummed a tune a she stroked the strands of gold with a brush, getting the knots to obey her as she looked about the four corners for clothes. The search turned up a black, frilly dress, but nothing more than that. Everything else belonged in the wash from stains and dirt. The dress fit her as she put it on, looking in the aged mirror and tilting her head. She did not look American, but she believed the dress was as close as she could get.

No one walked outside, and if they did they held umbrellas of solemn colors. She saw once a pink umbrella, sticking out like a cat amongst a group of dogs, in the mesh of browns and blacks. She wanted it badly, though with the little amount of money she had, she could not afford to but anything. Hard times, yes, and she truly knew how hard the times were, considering she barely made enough to get any food or pay the rent.

Wind shuddered the windows.

"Lala," a voice from behind the door said, accompanied by knocking. "Lala, are you awake yet?"

"I am," she replied.

Her name is "Lala." She gave herself that name after her childhood friend, Guzol, called her the fond name. It matched her, or at least so she thought. She left Guzol behind in Italy, as his wish, when she longed to go to America.

The door opened. Her friend, a mister Walker, stood there and smiled at her. His eyes matched the gray sky as his hair matched only the snow that fell in the wintertime. Short for a lad, but representable, nonetheless. He tightened the red ribbon around his collar, making the bow larger and the dangling ends shorter. Dashing and handsome, just as always. "I brought you some breakfast," he offered, placing a tray onto the small nightstand. Coffee steamed out of a glass and toast, buttered, appealed to her senses.

"What about you?"

"Me?" He shook his head, another smile touching his features. "No, no, I'm fine—you eat. I noticed how little you had yesterday."

"You're starving yourself?"

He said nothing, motioning to the food for her to eat. She gave him a wary look, though the greedy (and unwanted) side of herself wanted that precious food more than anything. She took one bite, then another, then another, until she realized all she chewed on was air. The toast vanished within a minute, the coffee drank afterward, she felt grateful for mister Walker. Her stomach filled with appreciation as she glanced at him.

"What about you?" she asked again.

"I told you. I'm fine." He pulled out a deck of cards and shuffled them, a sad smile playing a tune on his face. "I got fired yesterday, however, so I do not know how long I am able to support you, Lala. I am truly sorry."

"You got—? Walker!" She felt herself tear up. "You shouldn't have done that, you shouldn't have! I can fend for myself!"

"I cannot," he said, interrupting her forming argument, "allow a pretty songstress such as yourself starve when I can help you. I cannot even fathom the idea." He walked across the room ans made a seat out of the floor, dealing out the cards. "Do you want to play cards? I'm in the mood for some good-ol' goldfish. Don't you agree?" He handed her a stack of seven cards, motioning her to sit. "My tile company ran out of money to pay people, so they laid off a lot of workers. It seems as if everything is going wrong these days in the stock market."

Wall Street, the infamous street where everything it touched had cash value. Since September, however, the value of everything—companies, precious metals, the works—decreased as unemployment increased. She herself came from South Mater, Italy, for work in America, but obviously she came at the wrong time. Mister Walker, though, supported her as much as he could, along with several others. Kind at heart, he never ceased to amaze her when he helped her. Even now, unemployed and facing chaos, he still managed to smile. "Got any aces?"

She handed him an ace. "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. Look around and see if there are any jobs that can hire a great sorter of tiles." He chuckled as he placed the pair onto the floor. "Either that or I can go back into carnival work, though it feels as if it's been awhile. Any two's?"

"No. Go fish. What about playing poker?"

He drew a card. "Well, I thought about that, too, but the people at this rate cannot afford to lose more money to a cheater." He shook his head, putting down a pair of two's onto the floor. "My poker days are over, Lala. What about you?"

"What about me? Any sixes?"

He shook his head. "No, go fish. I mean, I can't see you working at a car manufacturer forever, Lala. You deserve more than that. A whole lot more. You have a beautiful voice, and I believe you should use it. You have a gift no one else has. Any fives?"

"Are you cheating now?" She handed him a five as he grinned. "I suppose I have a gift, yes, but I can't use it. Not now. I sing for free as is. I never dreamed of getting a vinyl made for money."

"Hm. Jack's?"

She handed him a jack. "You think otherwise, don't you?"

"Yes, I do." He smiled reassuringly. "Lala, there's got to be a way to get your voice out there. You ought to be paid for having such talent. You know that."

"Yeah, but..."

"No buts. Ten's?"

"No, go fish."

"My point, Lala," he said as he drew another card, putting the pair of ten's down, "is that you cannot afford to stay here any longer, can you? So why not move elsewhere? Try out someplace new. If you do that, I'll try hard to make sure you have enough to get there, wherever you decide to go. Besides, you came to America for the sake of wanting a job. There are no jobs worth doing here anymore. So go somewhere new."

"I..." The cards slipped out of her hands. "But I don't want to leave you behind, mister Walker. What will happen to you if I leave?"

He rubbed the side of his head, laughing sheepishly. "I'll figure something out. Really, I will."

"I don't believe you."

He nodded. "I could tell. But you have to trust me this time around, Lala, because I already got you a train ticket out of here. Out of this old building, out of the dust, out of the shadows of a car manufacturing plant and into a new light. Please, take the ticket and use your gift." He looked at her pleadingly. "I want for you to live a life without regretting anything by taking every opportunity you get. So, are you going to take it?"

She stared at the cards, diamond-back pattern catching her attention. Mister Walker always had the best-looking cards. Scared, yes, she felt scared. If she left mister Walker behind for a selfish dream, she would know no one, she would know nothing, and she would be all alone. However, with the look of assurance on mister Walker's face, with the smile and the eyes sparkling hope for her while she couldn't muster the energy to even bare teeth or open her eyes wide, she couldn't just say no. She nodded after thinking for a while.

"Yes," she said. "Yes, I'll take it."

"Great." He picked up the cards, shuffling them again. "The train leaves this evening towards a place called 'Boston'. It's a large place, full of people, and the best way to get known. A lot of famous people come from there, or so it seems. It's a ways away, but you should be able to make it there by tomorrow." He stretched, cracking his knuckles and neck while doing so. "I have faith in you, you know, so don't give up now. Everything has just begun. Want me to help you pack?"

Her gaze shifted over to the old leather bag in the corner, empty with no purpose. She never used the thing because she could carry everything she needed by hand. This, however, called for more things to possess, so she picked it up and placed it on the spring-wire mattress. "Yes, thank you."

He stood up.

"Mister Walker..."

"Yes?"

"Uhm." She looked at the floor again before looking at him. "Thank you. Can I please pay you back in a song?"

He nodded. "Of course."

She sat on the spring-wire mattress and clasped her hands together, eyes closing and mouth slowly splitting open, the cracks of her dry lips breaking and bleeding, though she paid no attention to that. Mister Walker sat down beside her, closing his eyes and resting his head on her shoulder, listening to her painfully beautiful melody:

"Every time there's a goodbye,

There's always a new hello,

So walk carefully, carefully, through that door,

And let no one harm your reborn soul..."

~O~

The hours ticked by shortly after they finished packing.

The quiet atmosphere, despite the rain, took hold as they enjoyed a cup of tea together in the cramped kitchen. Mister Walker did not say much as he sipped away at the liquid, casually glancing at the clock once or twice. He looked worried, but Lala didn't say anything of it. He would only deny any claims she said, anyways. He did that to not worry her, but he didn't know it worried her more when he said nothing was wrong.

Knocking caught both of their attention. Lala started to get up, but mister Walker motioned for her to stay. The urgency in the knocking made him curious as he opened the door, letting the landlord—an old man by the age of sixty—into the room. He seemed out of breath and impatient to spill out the news, his eyes looking from Lala to mister Walker and back again. "Ye're not gonna believe this," he said, the tension and excitement in his voice. "Ye're not, I tell ye."

Mister Walker helped the landlord sit down at the table before taking a seat himself. "Before that, would you like to have some tea? We have green and black."

"Sure, sure, I'll take black," he said, watching the steaming liquid fill his glass. "So, onto my news. Wall Street crashed today, I tell ye! Crashed like a bird after gettin' hit by a stone. They's a-dubbin' it 'Black Tuesday' it's so bad! Ye shoulda seen the crowd, ye shoulda. Lotsa people gatherin' outside the buildin'."

"You're kidding," Mister Walker said.

"No, no, I tell nothin' but the truth, ye hear?"

"If the market crashed," Lala said, "what does that mean for people like us?"

"Bless yer heart, girl," he said, patting her on the head. "I'm sure ye be fine. If yer not unemployed, yer all set. Otherwise, count yer blessings and pray to God, because I thinks it'll only get worse from here."

She glanced at mister Walker, who said nothing and just stared at his tea. His worried expression wrenched her heart, his downcast eyes making her want to hug the poor boy. At age fifteen, mister Walker had no family, little friends, and now no job. Compared to him, Lala had it easy. The landlord finished his tea and thanked them before going on his way.

Silence engulfed the room.

"Mister—"

"It's alright," he interrupted.

"You're lying. You heard what he said! The stock market crashed, and you have no job! What if this depression lasts for years? You can't possibly survive on your own. I can't leave you behind," she concluded. "I left Guzol behind once, and I feel horrible for doing so, even though he was the one who told me to leave. But I have a chance to help you. So, come with me. Come with me to Boston."

He didn't reply. He finished his tea and made circles around the brim with his pinky, avoiding eye-contact with her. She knew that behavior. It was the "I-need-to-be-here-for-others-who-need-my-help" type of emotion. "I have to stay here," he said. "Unlike you, I have no gift. All I can do is 'be kind.' I have others who need me right now."

"Being kind is a gift, mister Walker."

Mister Walker said nothing as his finger stopped making a ring around the brim of the cup. He relaxed into his chair, resting his hands on his lap, before smiling. "I have a philosophy," he said. "I believe that the more I give, the more I get. However, what I get isn't money. What I crave more than anything is someone's gratitude. I may be unemployed," his smile widened, "but I feel like the richest person in the world. So, please, do not fret about me. I will be fine."

"Mister Walker..."

He looked at his watch, one of the final gifts from his foster father before he died, and looked back to Lala. "It's almost time. I'll walk you to the train station, if you would like."

She nodded, hefting the leather bag and slinging over her shoulder. Mister Walker held the door open for her, locking it behind him, as the two descended the stairs. The landlord, sitting behind a counter and enjoying a book, looked up as she placed her keys onto the table. "I would like to give up my room. I've paid for my rent, and anything left behind you can sell or trash. I'm not coming back for anything. But I would like to thank you for your kind heart in allowing me, with little money, to live here."

"Bless yer heart, girl." He took the keys and hung them up on a rack. "Yer singin' at night made everythin' worth it. I shoulda let ye live here fer free."

She laughed quietly. "Thank you for everything."

The pair left the building, mister Walker opening an umbrella and letting Lala underneath it. The rain drops splattered onto the black canvas, rolling down the wires and dripping onto the ground. Stores began to close, the shopkeepers flipping the signs from "open" to "closed." Few people wandered the streets, most of which had solemn expressions. A homeless man roused from his sleep as the two walked by, glancing at the couple with a hopeful expression on his devilish eyes.

"Keep walking," mister Walker said. "We're being followed."

His grip around her waist tightened as she felt their pace increasing, practically running when they rounded the corner. In a quick motion, he handed her the umbrella, a pair of tickets, and his watch. "Keep it," he said when she started to protest. "I wish you luck on your journey, and I'm sorry I couldn't be there to see you off." His grip lessened as he said lastly, "Remember—everything is going to be all right, no matter where you end up. Send me a letter when you get settled. Now, run!"

He shoved her down the sidewalk as he turned, facing his enemy, who held a pocket knife in his hand. Lala began shouting, but mister Walker yelled, "I said run! I'll fend him off! The train leaves in fifteen minutes! You're almost there! Go, damn it, go!"

Mister Walker never swore unless in dire situations. She turned her back to him, hearing a scuffle behind her as she made a mad dash for the train station with the umbrella in her hand, ticket in the other, and mister Walker's watch clasped around her wrist. The station was within sight, but worry seized her as she turned to see what happened to her friend.

She screamed.

Mister Walker laid face-first on the sidewalk, blood dripping down the homeless man's knife. The white-haired boy rose to his knees, coughing, and looked at Lala, who looked back. His mouth sputtered, "Go."

She turned and ran, hearing bits and pieces of her friend's struggle until she made it past the doors of the station. Tears welled in her eyes as she pushed past people in her way, hurrying to the boarding area. A conductor, with the door opened wide, shouted, "Route 36D, straight to Boston! Last call!"

Lala approached the conductor, trying to keep her emotions under control. She showed the ticket with a trembling lower lip, the conductor looking from her to the ticket, and back to her. "Get on in," he said. "It's cold in here. We're serving complimentary hot chocolate, if you would like."

"Thanks," she replied, closing her umbrella and stepping onto the train. Passengers, young and old, sat next to each other as she made her way to—what was this? First class? What was mister Walker thinking? She wished she didn't leave him behind as she found her seat, empty of any other people. She sat down, ignoring the glances of the other passengers, as she curled up in a ball. Another man, with a frown on his face, sat down beside her unwillingly. She only caught a glimpse of his suit—

A finely pressed, black suit with a black tie, accompanied with black trousers and black shoes. If she did not know any better, she assumed he was going to a funeral of sorts, or perhaps he was an important businessman. Either way, she didn't care. Her worry for mister Walker dominated all other thoughts until she realized, crumpled in her hand with the second ticket, was something green.

She stopped squeezing so tightly to see a one hundred dollar bill in her hand.

"Walker..." she breathed, putting the money in her dress pocket with her ticket.

The train began to move, cluttering over the wooden railways sealed with iron bolts.

Lala, unable to bear so much generosity at once, and knowing she left someone that nice behind, began to cry. The man beside her pretended to not notice, only focusing on his priorities.

The rain, like her tears, didn't stop until one minute of midnight.

~O~

This story is based off a history project I did back in eighth grade. I am fond of history, and Lala is such a character that needs more attention, so I decided to fill the gap. Leave a review, an alert or anything if you believe it is worth it. Thank you for reading, and until chapter two, sayanora. —Mr. Meenor