The car was the best place to sleep in the whole station.

It didn't have any engine or radio or wheels – anything saleable or salvageable had long ago been torn out and sold or traded for things the group actually needed. Their patch wasn't so great, otherwise, but the car was top-notch. It was right under the tracks or something- you could hear the trains thundering louder than usual – but it was warm. Under a cooling vent, hot air blasted outwards, cocooning the car in beautiful warmth, and trickling down to the layers below. The higher-up your level the better you were. The leaders had the sleeping holes just below the car. No leader ever tried to claim the car though. It was…special. Nobody slept in the car unless they'd earned it. Tonight you'd earned it.

You had your own name, your secret name, the name that tied you to a past that you didn't want and yet craved for, but the group called you Tricks, because you were loud and boisterous and with your sunshine hair you caught every eye going – but that was the point, wasn't it. You were the diversion and the prankster, the boy who was kept clean and shiny, and knew how to attract attention because that was the point.

Today you had pulled off a big trick, distracting a rich man. You'd been subtly doing it for weeks, but today had been a triumph- the crew had got what they needed, and you'd 'escaped' without causing a scene, pretending your mother would be worried, especially since you injured yourself, then rubbing a little dirt from your face. The man had ruffled your hair and pressed a silver coin into your hand and you'd made your eyes go circular in the way that all small children could do, even though you weren't small, at least not in your head – but malnourishment meant that you never really grew – and babbled some bull about buying sweeties. Sweeties. You snort lightly, and you might have rolled over, only every kid in this patch has it drilled into them never to roll over when in a sleeping hollow. The newbies were at the bottom 'cause it was the worst and cold, but also because it was only a few feet fall to the floor, bruises and bumps sure but they wouldn't break things. Sweets...hah. The money would go on blankets, most likely. Rice maybe, though the food heater needed a new fuel cell, so it might be put towards that.

Normally during the day you don't have time to think about things. You're busy scavenging or patching people up, or fighting or stealing or distracting. Busy surviving. That's why everybody is tired at night, why nobody has nightmares – because every second of the day they push themselves.

But you're different.

You've always been different, so it's no real surprise.

You run a hand over your T-shirt, shuddering fingers pausing just above your stomach. You know it's there. It will always be there. You just don't think about it because it makes you think about things. You should stop thinking. You need to stop thinking.

But you can't.

Faces flash through your head. The only one your age, your cellmate. A boy, red hair with green eyes. He was almost like you because you both snapped and snarled like animals. The two next door, a burly boy, dark skinned and a girl with sharp features and blonde hair. They snuck you food, once and you had blinked at them and nipped their fingers thankfully and the girl had clenched her fist and said something and you hadn't understood because at that time you couldn't understand speech, but she'd put her hand on your head and inside your head you called her mother and looked out for her every time and when nobody was looking you might nuzzle into her just a little.

You had to stop thinking.

You had to stop thinking about it.

The older ones, the ones you didn't see because they were either mad or broken. The one who smelled like flowers more than anything else and you didn't know the gender and he-she was almost stable until you took him away from the gardens. The man who sat on the earth and felt like fire and who's eyes followed you even after you left. The one you couldn't see because he was covered in a strange, strange thing but whenever you were near him you were so afraid. The one who sang and blew bubbles who was safe because he didn't notice anybody and the singing was terrifying and beautiful. And the girl who sounded fine, who looked fine, who played with the young ones and threw scraps of meat for you and red-head, but when she saw anything white she screamed and screamed and screamed.

You had to stop thinking about it because he was gone and he wouldn't come back.

So you clench your fingers tight in your shirt and slam your eyes close and don't allow any thoughts at all.

And as sleep takes you in her dark-feathered arms, the last think you remember is an orange-tinted smile.