"Ahh, young flesh. You two will do nicely. Perhaps not initially, but, you'll grow into your roles." DeLoco smacked Tricks across the face playfully, sending her sprawling. She sneered but made no effort to retaliate, all energy drained. Marlo, still passed out, did not respond.

DeLoco continued down the line, ignoring the children in favour of a few older men. Tricks picked herself up slowly, wincing at the pain in her side. A few of her ribs had been broken in the exchange back at the office. Even Mama's occasional temper tantrums were never so brutal as the treatment Tricks and Marlo had received. The soliders, recognizing a pair of thieves, showed no mercy.

But where had everybody else in this extremely long lineup come from? Surely they hadn't all been stealing from the barracks. Could they be criminals? Social washouts? Tricks couldn't tell. It was too much for her dazed brain. So she simply stood, and watched a while, taking in as much as she could under the careful scrutiny of the guards that surrounded the queue.

Eventually, she curled up beside Marlo and went to sleep.

--

Galley wasn't sure how long he'd been walking for. His already muddled perception of time had been exacerbated by the sea of bodies he'd been forced to wade through. Prying Pete's dead, cold fingers off of his legs had been particularly jarring to his senses. Now, however, he found himself in the sewer: it was as though his body had gone on autopilot for a while, and led him instinctively back to friendly territory.

He couldn't remember traversing the alleys. He couldn't remember stumbling across the manhole. Couldn't remember descending the ladder. Indeed, couldn't quite remember when, somewhere along the way, he'd started crying again. The tears had seemed to have run out a while ago, yet here they came afresh, and in ever increasing gales.

He wasn't crying for his friends. Nor was did he lament his nearly lost innocence. Or was it still retained? For what he did know was that he, and he alone, had been responsible for the deaths of several men, however disgusting they may have been. No, what Galley mourned was this world that he lived in. It suddenly repulsed him. A single day was all it took for everything to flip-flop. He was a boy suddenly tossed into a maelstrom of decay and corruption that he'd seemingly never noticed before; indeed, it was starting to corrode his own soul. All of his dreams, lofty ambitions, and visions of grandeur were dissolving into a mire. He was going to be like this forever, wasn't he? Constantly on the edge, waiting for death to come for him.

His legs gave out at the thought. He collapsed onto his knees, crying into the sewage, pounding his fists futilely against the warped stone. Nothing was straight-edged here, it seemed. All was uneven. Could he find nothing solid to cling to? Would his essence be, forever, maligned like this slimy rock?

"Forever is a long time," he whispered to himself, raging in despair. Such a small boy with such large thoughts and concerns. Indeed, he was nothing like his fellow Sewer Rats, nor any other child of his age: he had come to recognize, very early on, that this was a world in which dreams like his were routinely dashed to pieces. He doubted that many were capable of preserving their dreams.

And then he paused. Preserving his dream. Could he do that? Was it possible?

It didn't seem likely: after all, the entire world was constantly pushing down on a person. What he needed was control, the ever-elusive element that any person in the gutter desired. Seldom was it granted to a person of his stature.

Control. Control would help him preserve his vision. Indeed, it could even make that vision come to life. His previous musings on becoming an admiral were, if lofty, still a dream of young boys: but now it seemed a necessity, a means to an end. It would have to be a step in his life if he wanted to achieve his ambitions.

What were those ambitions? He hadn't known, previously, but now he did: Galley wished to save his people. He wanted to reverse the seeds of corruption that had long since been planted in Valua. Nobody should be forced to feed off of refuse. Nobody should be trodden upon based on the quality of their blood. Intellect should, by all rights, be the cornerstone of success.

He had intellect. Moreover, he had strength, and could always gain more. His body was an unlimited reservoir of potential. He could learn: Mama had already been teaching him a few basic snippets of reading, and Galley often took it upon himself to sneak peeks at Mama's books when she was away. They'd fascinated him.

Galley could do it all, and he knew it. His dream, thought now ashen in quality, still gleamed brightly. Galley now knew, too, that he was able to kill for his dream, if needs be. The first few bodies suddenly seemed less reprehensible. They were, perhaps, better off dead.

It took a few moments for Galley to realize that he was no longer crying. Instead, he was biting his lip fiercely, and a thin bead of blood rolled lazily down his chin.