Never Without You │ BOTW modern AU fanfic

Yiga Clan

**TRIGGER WARNING** This chapter mentions violence, sexual abuse, and suicide thoughts. Reader discretion is advised!

Malice's POV

"There," Zelda says, sitting back on her heels. "Now it just needs time."

She brushes the dirt off her hands and rises to her feet. I remain sitting next to the planted acorn, my eyes trailing off into the mountain chains in the distance. Their peaks are dusted with snow despite the warmth of the season.

In the stillness of the moment, my thoughts begin to wander, and I start to reflect on how I got to this point.

I never even thought I'd make it to adulthood. Growing up, I moved from foster home to foster home. Nobody was willing to put up with me, until one foster family that wasn't bothered by my shitty attitude toward life, and didn't care that I had a history of shoplifting, or that I came from a family of junkies, drop outs, and prostitution.

They took me in when I was twelve years old. To this day, I don't understand why they'd offer me a home, because they already had their hands full with other foster kids. On top of that, they didn't have a shit ton of money, so they were gone day and night to make sure we would make ends meet. Both of the foster parents worked multiple jobs in the city, yet we still lived from paycheck to paycheck every month, and everyone had to help out with the bills.

We lived on Sixth Street, less than a mile from Skid Row. The streets stank of piss, and on hot summer days the house had a stench of dried sweat and mildew. It was a single story home with one bathroom, three bedrooms, and a shabby old kitchen from the 70s. The living space was scarce, the rooms crowded, yet somehow this dump could fit the foster parents along with all their foster kids. There were four of them when I arrived, one more would join later.

The oldest was 17 at the time. His dad had died in military service, and his mother—unable to cope with the loss—had become an alcoholic, frequently abusing her child. Teachers eventually called child protective services.

The second oldest, also 17, told me he had been found in a filthy, rat-infested apartment after his dad had gotten arrested for a gas station robbery.

The third foster kid was 14 years old, his parents had died in a murder-suicide after years of domestic violence. He was the one who called 911 that day. The officers found him hiding in a closet, severely traumatized after witnessing his mother shoot his dad in a fit of rage. Whenever we fought over who would get the bigger portion at dinner, he would tell me, "My mom was going to serve my dad for dinner. She had already dismembered his legs, but she shot herself when she heard the sirens." That story worked well on me; it almost always killed my appetite.

The fourth foster kid, roughly my age, had been rescued from a house where he and his little sister were forced into child pornography for profit on the dark web.

Took the cops almost a whole month to locate him, and when they finally did, everyone had long fled the scene. Everyone but him. He was in the attic, locked away in a dog cage along with his sister's starved corpse.

And then there was me who, up until that point, thought such evil only existed in scary stories.

Since I was the only girl, it was decided that I should have my own room. The other kids weren't too fond of that idea. Four boys squeezed into one small room just didn't seem fair to them. That's why, for the first few months, nobody wanted anything to do with me. My foster brothers would hide my shoes so I'd be late for school, and steal my lunch so I'd go hungry all day. My things would get "lost" or "borrowed" without ever being returned. My toothbrush was hardly ever where it was supposed to be, and I'd be the last to take showers, leaving me only cold water.