Galley ran, traitorous thoughts streaming through his head. I left them, I left Marlo, I left, I left... and why does it seem so good, so right, to do that? He couldn't understand it; indeed, he knew all too well that what he'd done was abandon two of the closest friends he would ever have. The tears flowing freely down his face were a symbol of this recognition.

Yet, despite all that, he knew it had been the correct course of action: what good would it have been to get captured alongside the two of them? Mama, at least, would not want as much of him.

(And captured they were, by now: Tricks had wholly ignored the alarm, much to Marlo's protestation, and the surprisingly punctual commander had walked right in on them, flanked by his personal guards.)

The thought calmed him, somewhat, and he began to slow his pace. He tucked the bill of his cap down as he jogged, puffing with exertion. He'd never run this far before in his life. He didn't even know where he was at current. The alleyways were tall, repressive; he stood alone, a tiny sentinel amongst a jungle of unfamiliarity.

(They'd been cornered, beaten down, and dragged out; even two nimble thieves as these could do nothing when faced by a pair of grown soldiers.)

He slowed to a walk, pacing himself, beads of sweat running betwixt the unruly spikes of his hair. His breaths came in ragged, yet cooled, breaths. Even his lack of know-how as to where he was did nothing to frighten the boy. Nor did the fact that he would inevitably be forced to report to Mama that two of the Sewer Rats set his heart aflutter. He felt oddly displaced in this new, wholly different world that he'd suddenly been thrust into, bereft of friends (Squim was nothing more than an oddity, and Mama an ever lurking threat), and could not bring any volatile emotions to bear on the situation.

(They were being pulled out, bleeding slightly - Marlo was unconscious - and thrust into a long queue that was forming somewhere outside of the barracks. Tricks couldn't tell where, as her notion of time and space had been jarred by a violent smack to the head.)

He walked - lord knows for how long - amongst the trash ridden, dreary back alleys without purpose, contemplating the looks on his compatriot's faces as he imagined them in this time of abandonment. Tricks would be violent, no doubt; malicious and disturbing, contorted to match Mama's venomous sneer yet betraying a sense of heartbroken loss. And Marlo, well, his would be plain, for that was the only expression he could ever convey. Only a slight pleading would be in his eyes, wondering why Galley had done what he had done.

So wrapped up in these thoughts was the small boy that he didn't even notice a decidedly hostile group of beggars forming around him, blocking off his progress at the end of an alleyway. When finally he came to his senses, Galley realized that he was pressed into the musty jacket of a crusty old man, whose gap toothed smile left no doubt in Galley's mind as to who he was confronting. Deviant Pete was his name, or so it ran on the streets.

(A man was walking down the length of the queue: he was small, squat, and bald, wearing the most regal of outfits imaginable. A pair of blazing streamers flowed delicately from the back of his emerald armour. As he traversed the line of ragged malcontents and aged hobos, he pointed to some, clearly expressing interest in certain individuals while dismissing others. Those apparently considered useless were pushed off by the guards, and sent back to their daily, miserable existences, all rather perplexed as to why they were here in the first place.)

Mama had always warned them about Pete. A crook, thief, and generally disreputable character, The Deviant had a reputation for nabbing people off of the streets without so much as a word. The last lucid thought that most of his victims recalled - those who lived through the experience, that is - was his lacking, devious smile. Then, without delay, they would be severely clubbed, robbed of all their worth, and then dragged off into the depths of the city for Pete's own pleasure. Man or woman, young or old, it didn't matter to Pete and his little band of shady misfits: they would pass the spoils around the group before leaving the carcass behind in the streets to rot, or, in the case of the more fortunate, the broken individual.

Galley thought to scream, as he had no other recourse, but a brutish hand was already enveloping his throat.

(The man's drooping moustache, Tricks noted, was purple. She found the novelty of it rather lacking. Its sharpened tips swayed briskly as he tottered along.)

Galley felt a thousand probing fingers running over his body, seeking to penetrate his clothing, wishing to ruin the flesh within. He could do nothing: for all his speed, he was useless against brute strength. All he could do was wish, wish, wish that this was all over, wish that he was back with his friends, in the sewers, where everybody would be at least passing safe. But those days, apparently, were over.

As Pete rubbed salaciously against Galley, the boy felt a faint stirring in his heart. He'd never quite experienced something like this before. It wasn't sorrow; no, that didn't fit the bill. It was too fiery, too impatient; it was murderous. It sought revenge. Uncaring, too, of how that revenge was achieved. And Galley knew, in that instant, as Pete fell away from the youth in surprise, that his violent wish was about to become reality.

The entire area was bathed in light. Silver, malevolent light. It swam eerily around the assembled figures, slicing through their very beings with hard, icy caresses. One by one they fell, hearing only one final word pierce their eardrums: "Eternes". None connected it with the boy before they died: Galley himself was scarcely aware that he'd vocalized anything. Nevertheless, when the light had subsided, Galley found himself amidst a sea of corpses, Pete's own clutching in vain at Galley's shoes.