Characters: Rica Brosca, OMC Twill, Beraht, F!Brosca (Katja), reference to OFC Rona "Flinteye," a few more nameless OMCs, reference to OMC Eglan Gand, Kalah Brosca

Pairings: Potential OMC Twill/Katja, decidedly one-sided

AU Elements: None

Author's PSA: This chapter features pressure on a disadvantaged minor to partake in what is clearly Thedan gang activity. It features extreme violence, both against and perpetrated by a thirteen-year-old girl. It also features a nonconsensual kiss between that thirteen-year-old girl and a much older teenager, the meaning of which has been left deliberately ambiguous, but which, in context, somewhat disturbs the girl. If at any point you are triggered or bothered by the content of this chapter, please skip.

9:26 Dragon

Dust Town and the Commons, Orzammar

i.

Rica's harp concert got interrupted when Twill and his crew came busting in, sweating and cussing and without a clue for the first six seconds that Beraht was listening to Rica play and wouldn't care for interruptions.

"Shit, that was close!"

"Blight and blast it, the whole op's bust now! Be a couple weeks now before we get another chance like this, and meanwhile the whole curst merchant caste'll be laughing up their sleeves! Not to mention the warriors!"

"Gentlemen," Beraht growled, causing a cold chill to go down everybody's back. Twill's crew went real quiet, realizing what they'd done. Rica was sitting still, like she been taught, like a lady, but she was a little pale under the paint. Scenes like this never ended well. "Is there a problem?"

"We ran into a warrior caste patrol off the Eglan recon job," one of Twill's boys reported. "They made us and caught Rona in the scramble. Rest of us got out, but Flinteye'll talk. Dumb bitch. Always was a bit slow."

"So," Beraht said. "You're interrupting our entertainment to tell us your mission is a failure, is that it? And Master Eglan Gand is just going to get away with telling our boys to scram last week, with failing to pay the tax for our protection? Is that what you're telling me?"

Lunk and Gray, two of Beraht's biggest bully boys, had that glint in their eye. Rica arched her eyebrows at Kat, warning her to disappear afore things got ugly. Katja started fading back into the shadows, moving toward the cavern exit that would take her to the kitchens, away from whatever nastiness was brewing.

Unfortunately, just then, Twill caught sight of her. "No! We en't saying that, Beraht! All we need is a new lockpick and lookout, see? Snap Brosca there can handle it. She's been waiting for her chance for ages. What do you say, Kitty? You want in on this action?"

Katja forgot to be scared then. She thrilled, stepping forward. Beraht frowned. "Snap Brosca?" he asked. "Rica's sister?"

"That's right," Twill said eagerly. "Been teaching her a bit of this and that, past few years. Figured she might be a help someday. She's a smart little bitch. Mean too."

"Snap Brosca," Beraht said again, turning and looking Katja over, head to toe. "Huh. She's got a smart enough mouth. Nothing like her sister. Would've killed her once or twice if Rica wasn't such a nice girl. What do you say, Snap? You think you can help us out?"

"Kat, no." Rica's voice was small. Kat looked over at her, suddenly nervous again, though not for herself. Ricci was breaking the rules, speaking out like that. It weren't polite. She was playing the concert. She was entertainment and decoration. She weren't supposed to speak out.

"You got a problem, Rica?" Beraht asked, raising his eyebrows and folding his arms.

Rica was red all over. She knew she'd stepped out of line. But she must've thought it was important to have her say, because she cleared her throat and took another step forward, even with Beraht staring her down. "Please. She's thirteen. She's just a kid. Just a stupid kid. She can't help you. Twill, you can get Lucky to do it. Or Nell. You don't need Kat for this."

Kat frowned. Rica was wonderful, worrying on her account, but now she was in the way. She shot Rica her own little glare—stay out of this—and spoke up. "I can do it," she told Beraht. She nodded at Twill. "Lockpick and lookout? Sure."

Beraht grunted and looked at Twill again. "You're sure she can handle it? If this goes bad, I won't blame an upstart kid for jumping on her chance and taking on more than she could do. I'll blame you for going out with a bad crew. Twice." His voice was soft, and his arms were still folded. Everyone in the carta knew that look.

Made Twill nervous too. He swallowed. He looked sidewise at Kat, but she was just annoyed, atop a growing excitement she was careful not to show, for fear of looking like the half-forged runt Beraht and Ricci seemed to think she was. Upstart kid? She'd been ready to take her first shots for upward a year.

But Rica wouldn't give in. She clasped her hands in front of her. "Twill," she begged. "Please."

Rica was getting embarrassing now, broody as an old mother bronto, and she weren't even Katja's mom. Kat twitched with impatience, half-anxious Twill would listen. He needed someone, and he needed someone quick, but Rica was a whole lot farther up the carta food chain than Kat was, and she knew it.

But maybe not today. Twill weren't paying any attention to Rica, just looking between Kat and Beraht, thinking. "Kat can do it," he said finally. "Don't always make an entry as smooth as Rona, but she's been a bit better in a scrap these days. Could be something we need now."

"If she's in any scrap, I en't never speaking to you again, Twill," Rica said, suddenly taking a different tack, and forgetting her noble's accent in her desperation. "And I'll remember it too, for someday."

"Rica!" Beraht said sharply. Now she was being more than impolite and improper. She was being crude, and abandoning her lessons in the bargain. Kat shot her a hard look, willing her sister to just stop, but she didn't. She shook her head and took another five steps forward, off the dais and toward Katja. "Katja, don't," she said, speaking quick and quiet, like there weren't near a dozen other people around, listening to her go against what the carta wanted, watching her defy just about every rule of etiquette Beraht had for his noble hunters in training. "You can say no." Katja squirmed.

"If we're going, we gotta go now," Twill warned. "If that patrol follows up on what Flinteye tells 'em, Gand's place could be swarming with guards in an hour. We gotta be in and out before then. Kat. You in, or you gonna let your whore sister tell you what to do? You let me down now, I won't give you the chance again."

Katja looked from Twill to Rica, back to Beraht. He extended his hand in a Well? gesture. "Up to you, Snap," he said. "You can uphold the honor of the carta, or not. Twill here says you're a scrapper. Time to prove it."

"It's a bad job, Kat," Rica urged her. "You hear 'em. Guards all over in an hour. Anything could happen. You en't gonna make it. Just go home. I'm telling you: go home."

Twill was tapping his foot on the stone. Katja's stomach felt cold, twisted all up in knots. Honestly, Rica was probably right: whether she'd waited upward a year for it or not, this was a bad job. She'd hoped to start in on a nice, easy one, no pressure, no eyes. Everything about this was tits-up from the start, there was one girl—a friend—probably dead in it already, and more than a slight possibility of more. But what Rica didn't seem to get was that if Kat said no now, she'd look like a coward and a weakling, and Twill wouldn't be the only one who wouldn't invite her in on other jobs. She'd have her a reputation. And Beraht wouldn't go easy on Ricci today for breaking protocol, if Kat turned down this job on her sister's advice and ruined the whole operation.

Katja looked down, swallowed, drew her little knife, flipped it back and forth in her hand. "And what?" she said slowly. "I'm s'posed to let you tell me anything? 'Cause your judgment is so reliable?" She shook her head again. "No. Leave it to you, we'll be starving or worse in a few years, soon as you're too dried up or diseased for anyone to want anymore. It'll happen afore Beraht and his boys ever let you set one slippered toe in the Diamond Quarter, just you wait." It was dead quiet in the cavern. She felt near a dozen eyes on her and Ricci. Katja took a shivering breath, and then she dared to look up, just for a moment.

She'd had to say something to get Rica to let it lie, but she was sorry she done it right away. Rica had gone white and blotchy under her pretty paint. Her eyes were shining, close to crying. Her hands were balling and unballing, like she didn't know what to do with them, and Katja weren't sure if Ricci were about to fly out and hit her or run off. When she didn't do either one, just stood there, staring, lip and chin all wobbly, Katja started wishing Rica would hit her. She deserved it. But Rica just kept on saying nothing. It was getting awkward.

"I can help 'em today, Ricci," Katja said in a softer—a little softer—tone. "And I'm gonna. I'll bring home a share of the take for us." Which is more than you done for us this past five year. It hung in the air between them, but Katja didn't say it. She took two steps away from Rica, toward Twill. Rica didn't stop her. Kat had known she wouldn't, and she hated that. She had to be the worst, most ungrateful bitch underground. Worse than Mom. "C'mon, Twill," she said. "Think you said we have someplace to be 'bout now?"

"Yeah, we do," Twill said, recovering a bit. He started for the door, the rest of his crew in tow.

Beraht laughed, low and deep and sardonic. "Snap Brosca snaps at all and all alike, I guess. Get it done, Twill. Rica, we'll be having a chat about your liberal interpretation of noble protocol. Dry those eyes now, and don't you worry about your sister's lies, or how she'll do out there. She's mean enough to live through anything, and no noble likes a girl who cries. Or one with worry wrinkles."

They left the room, Twill and Kat and the three others, hard bastards and bully boys Kat knew by face but not by name. And behind her, Katja heard Rica start up sobbing.

"You were a bit hard on your sis there," Twill said to her, grimacing. "I know she's just a whore. Not even a noble hunter yet. Still. She was just trying to look out for you. Probably getting it from old Beraht for trying too."

"You'd rather I done what she wanted?" Katja demanded, grateful for the darkness of the tunnel. It hid her own too-shiny eyes.

Twill laughed a nervous laugh, and Katja's stomach dropped as she realized just how scared he was. And Twill was nineteen and had been doing jobs for the carta four or five year! "Not me. Rather Rica gets it from Beraht for speaking out than we get it for botching a job. She'd rather it too, believe me. You're saving our asses here. I'll remember this, even if Rica never does speak to me again. 'Bout time you left the tunnels anyhow. If we're quick, we should be able to hit Gand's shop before a guard gets there. Be your job to tell us when to clear out. With any luck, we'll make a tidy bit of profit and you'll learn something. Be home to your sister before next watch."

"I had to get her to let me go," Katja muttered, mostly to herself.

"I know," Twill said, gripping her shoulder in the darkness. "You did good, kid."

Katja shook him off. "Let's just do the job," she said.

ii.

It was a bad job, like Rica said. Kat weren't feeling no better about it when they came out of the carta tunnels into an alley in the Commons. She felt twitchier than ever. She kept flipping her little knife over and over in her hand, wishing she had something better.

Her knife was just a junk bit of iron, really, a toothpick for some kid, twelve centimeters long. It weren't balanced for throwing, and any half-decent steel would shear it in two in a second. She kept it sharp and well-oiled, so there weren't any rust on the blade, but that was the best that could be said for it. She wished she had a proper dagger, or a few of them. A hand axe. A crossbow. Anything. The guard were all warrior caste. They would have weapons forged by master smiths, out of veridium or red steel or even dragonbone. Greatswords and war axes and double-bladed war axes that could all split a girl's spine like warm butter.

One of Twill's bully boys was watching her. She must've looked a little green, 'cause he bared his teeth through his beard. One of them was made of silver. "Aren't wimping out on us, are you, Kitty?"

Kat bridled. "You want to come over here and see just how much of a wimp I'm not?" she dared him, brandishing her little knife.

The man chuckled soundlessly. "Keep your pants on, little Kitty," he mocked her. "Save that fire for the guardsmen, if they show."

"Fuck that," Twill contradicted him, eyes cutting to Katja. "You got two jobs if the guardsmen show, Kat." He was all business now, gripping a war hammer in both hands. "Give us a whistle, and scarper. Slow 'em down if you can, but don't get caught. We're none of us fighting warrior caste to rescue you if you get yourself in trouble, anymore than we did for Flinteye earlier. Understand? If things go bad, it's everyone for themselves. You can whistle, right?"

Katja nodded. "Used to signal Rica that way all the time, when some bastard in the markets got too nosing."

Twill jerked his thumb at a corner opposite Master Gand's shop. "That'll be the best place to keep a lookout," he said. "Be able to see all of us and anyone coming either way."

Kat frowned at the spot he was pointing at. There were plenty of shadows, all right. One of the road lights was guttering alongside the corner. The problem was, the spot was exposed. She'd be able to see anyone coming up either street, but they could see a brand someplace she had no business being too, and if they got curious, she could give Twill and the others away her own self. "Probably try for the roof instead," she noted. "People don't often look up."

"Whatever," one of Twill's boys grunted. "Get us in. Let's get moving."

Katja held up both hands and fished her bit of wire out of her pockets to use with her little knife. This was the most dangerous part of the job for her. While the others skulked around the side of the shop, she would be right out in the open picking the lock on the door. Lucky for her, this time of night, this part of the Commons was deserted. It weren't residential, mostly, and the shops here were all shut down for the day. All the people were in the restaurants and pubs and houses up or down a tier. No telling if a guard might come around, on Flinteye's word or just on patrol.

Katja set to work. Her stomach was turning. She felt as green as she must've looked earlier. Her fingers felt big and slow and clumsy. She'd picked everything from rundown shed padlocks to smith-crafted safe boxes in the markets, but now she couldn't seem to feel the workings of Master Gand's store lock.

"What's the holdup, Kat?" Twill hissed from around the corner.

"No holdup," she grunted back. "I'm working on it."

"You get why this is important, don't you?" he said. "Eglan Gand blew off the carta. If shopowners start thinking they can dodge the protection tax, suddenly we got no authority. No income . . ."

"Shut it," Katja snarled. "I have to hear!" She felt the lock give under her hand, twisted her knife and wire one more time, and the door clicked open. "There. You're in."

She sprang away from the door and across the street and immediately cussed at herself for doing it. She should've moved casual-like, like she wasn't guilty of nothing and wasn't running away from anything. Instead, she'd bolted like a jumpy nug.

She was breathing too hard, sweating as she pulled herself up into a window, then, carefully leaning back over an alley, up onto the low-pitched roof of the apothecary opposite Eglan Gand's shop. She lay down flat on the rooftop, distributing her weight and making her shadow against the black outline of the building. She was grateful for the high cave ceilings of the Commons. Back in Dust Town and some parts of the Diamond Quarter, the buildings were carved out of the solid rock, no roofs. Buildings like that were either the worst of the worst or just host to the oldest noble houses, making use of traditional methods of construction. But here in the Commons, they tended to prefer what made for a prettier thaig overall, so there was room to hide and sneak around. Kat had done it before. But never when it was so important.

Across the street, she could see Twill and his bully boys getting to work. She could hear 'em. Her stomach clenched for different kinds of reasons than her being nervous. She winced. There went Eglan Gand's decorative front window, paned in with real glass, just for show, just 'cause it was pretty and attracted custom. She could see one of Twill's boys—a big man with a rusty beard and a spacer in one ear, shoving pretties into his coat pockets. Silver Tooth was chopping up the shelves. They were ruining Gand's shop, destroying displays, merchandise, and fittings alike. It was the punishment for failing to pay Beraht's protection tax: if you didn't do your bit to be considered a friend of the carta, well, you were saying you were alright being an enemy.

A fancy setup like Eglan Gand's wasn't like a kiosk in the market. Gand probably had insurance special in case of burglary or property damage. Still, as Kat watched Twill and the others work, she felt low and dirty. This weren't like nabbing things in the market neither. Kat's stealing normally didn't hurt no one. A pretty here, a trinket there, a couple of silvers every now and then. No one never missed the stuff she took. No one starved for it. But Twill and them down there—they were taking Eglan Gand and his family's whole livelihood. All the stuff that would've fed all of 'em a couple months at least, and maybe for more than a year. If they didn't have insurance, or the moneymen wouldn't pay for everything Twill and them were stealing and tearing up, Twill and them were killing Gand and his family down there, as sure as shooting 'em in the hearts, and a whole lot slower.

Kat got it. She understood. When the carta lost its authority, all the casteless went back to starving. No one was going to give them anything. They had to take it for themselves. Eglan Gand and his were merchants. They could start again, if they had the guts and the brains for it, and no one was going to stop 'em. No one with a brand ever got even half that chance, 'cept the noble hunters and surface-bound. But that didn't stop her feeling low and dirty, being a part of this, helping it happen. And it didn't shut up the part of her that said Eglan Gand paying the carta's protection tax was just the same as her and Rica paying tax on the stuff they scraped when they were little, that she'd hated so much, because Beraht weren't taking anything he'd got or earned or risked his ass for, but if they didn't pay, they still got their asses beat.

It's different, Kat told herself. Gand's a merchant. He's rich as all get-out, compared to us. So what if he and his family eat nugbone broth for a while? Let him see how he likes it. Anyway, if Ricci can do stuff she don't like to keep us safe and fed, so can I.

Then she saw a light flick on in a window a couple buildings down from the one she laid on. Some money-counter or clerk working late. An errand boy or proprietor stopping off at another store with an acquisition. Kat gave the whistle a split-second afore the cry went out, "Guard! Guard! Get the watch! Burglary in progress!"

There was a sound of swearing across the street, and Twill and his boys came charging out. Kat was already jumping off the roof, back into the window of the apothecary again, and down onto the street. She saw something glittering on the street outside of Gand's shop, and, on impulse, darted forward.

It was a necklace, a pretty gold chain with green stones set in it. It had probably flown out of the window while Twill and them were trashing the shop. Kat scooped it up and stuffed it down her shirt, cutting herself on a shard of Gand's broken glass window as she did. She cussed and tripped, bringing her bleeding finger to her mouth. But she weren't about to trust Twill and them to actually give her a fair cut, especially this first time out, and when she'd only raised the alarm right afore the neighbor had called out for the guard.

The guards were coming. She could hear their feet pounding down the street. "Stop right there!" someone hollered. Someone looking at her. Kat's eyes just about bugged out of her head like some deepstalker's. The others were half down the street already.

Shouldn't have got greedy! she cursed herself. Or you should of hid on the roof till they were gone instead of bolting. You idiot! You could have been safe!

Instead, the guards were chasing after her. A shout of "Look out! More up ahead! Run down the fucking rats!" reassured her; they'd seen the others. Behind them, she could hear the guards splitting up, moving to catch more of the crew.

Kat saw an ally and cut a hard left into it, running like her life depended on it. Well, it did. She could feel her heart throbbing in her chest. She was developing a stitch in her side. And she didn't know this part of town, neither. She scrabbled for her little knife, and one of the guards was still after her.

The ally broke into another street. Kat saw Twill off to her right, no one after him, so she went left. There was a locked-up mushroom kiosk up ahead, and a stack of supply barrels beside it. On any ordinary day, Katja would of never tried to budge 'em. She weren't big enough, and it was a whole lot of trouble besides.

But today weren't an ordinary day.

Katja braked for the barrels. Throwing her whole weight behind the stack, she heaved, and they budged. The barrels toppled over, out into the empty street with a whole succession of bangs and booms. Lights in other windows went on, and Katja heard some folk start calling out. Bad move. Some folk did live above their shops on this street, and she'd disturbed 'em during dinner or the evening with their families.

The guard was right on top of her, running full pelt toward her with an axe in hand. Katja looked back to see him, just for a second, and nearly wet herself. She started back toward the mushroom kiosk, hoping she could vault it and shove it, and leave the whole mess in the street to slow him down some.

Only she missed the vault.

Her right leg caught on the back edge of the kiosk's cold and empty grill, and she fell, sprawling on her stomach, to the pavement. Pure terror overwhelmed her, and she rolled over, bringing up her little knife, trying to scrabble to her feet again.

Too late. The guard was on her, all big, black beard and fire in his eyes, red and puffing from the chase she'd led him. Thirty at least, twice her size, in armor, and mad as all get-out. He was warrior caste, born to kill, and trained for it since birth.

"You little rat!" he gasped, holding his axe a couple hand spans from Katja's cheekbones, brandishing it, threatening her, fumbling for a bit of rope or something with his other hand behind his back

"It's a child!" someone yelled from the windows over the street.

Katja could feel the guardsman's hot breath on her face. He was heavy, so heavy on top of her. "Twill!" she choked out. "Help!"

But he was long gone, probably. Said he wouldn't save her, and he wasn't gonna. He'd let her die in the streets or go off to some noble's dungeons, to the Deep Roads and the darkspawn and the Blight.

Kat stabbed up.

In the streetlamp's light, she saw the guardsman's eyes go wide, saw the little "o" he made with his mouth inside his beard. The hand with the axe trembled, loosened, tightened, tensed. He was going to chop down.

Katja stabbed again.

She didn't have to stab hard. He was on top of her, all his body weight bearing down. He was doing most of the work. Just two little stabs, up under his armpit, up into his throat, under the beard.

"What—"

Katja stabbed again, behind his ear. Reached up her hand to knock the axe away as it fell.

Then he was bleeding all over her, hot and wet and sticky. His blood was spurting over her face, into her hair and mouth from the neck, bleeding down through his armor onto her dress. And his wide, wide eyes were going glassy, empty, like Mom's on the drink but even worse, acos there was no one in his mind anymore, not even someone drunk and sick and stupid.

He kept trying to breathe, 'cept the breathing wasn't doing him no good. Instead, he gurgled, gasped, and sputtered, like a candle when you flicked water on it, not quite hard enough to drown the flame.

Katja was gurgling too, choking on that guardsman's blood. She couldn't get him off her. She spat and fought and stabbed him three or four more times, more to shift him than to kill him dead. She'd already done that. She could feel it.

"Oh, Ancestors, help me!" 'Cept the Ancestors never once listened to no casteless.

She felt it when the guardsman died. Everything about his weight changed, went heavy and useless and limp. She kicked and shoved and scrunched and rolled, and finally, finally got out from under him. She climbed to her feet, gasping and crying. Her knees were weak.

There were lights on in at least four buildings around her. Kat could see shapes in the windows. But no one was coming out. No one was saying a blessed word. Katja dragged her sleeve across her face and spat again, trying to get a man's lifeblood out of her mouth. She wasn't sure it helped. Her dress was soaked and warm all over. She wanted to tear it off.

Instead, she stumbled off into the dark.

She didn't remember how she got back to the carta hideout, but afore she knew it, she was there, tripping into the main room where folk ate and talked and sang, the very same cave where Rica had been giving her concert earlier. Like not even two hours ago, but it felt like a lifetime.

Rica was there, not on the dais anymore but near it, and Katja's eyes went right to her sister. She wanted to fall on Rica and just bawl, but then three or four men were on her, pounding her back, congratulating her.

"Stalker spit, look who made it!"

"Looks like baby Brosca's got a sting as well as a snap!"

"Damn it, we thought you were done for!"

Twill was exulting. "Damn it, I said she was a scrapper! I said it! Warrior guardsman on her, four times her size, and what does she do?!"

"Did everyone get out?" Katja managed.

"Everyone!" Twill confirmed, beaming. He had a tankard of ale in one hand and was already half gone, by the look of it. "Everyone but Rona earlier! Kitty, you were magnificent!" He swooped down on her, seizing her chin in his free hand, and crushed her lips with his. Katja's eyes went wide, and she gasped into his mouth with surprise. She could smell the ale on his breath.

With a loud smack and a scrape of scraggly blond whiskers, it was over with, and he was back about a meter, guffawing at her and turning to his buddies to brag some more about how well everything had gone. Katja wiped her mouth, staggering back, and saw Rica, stalking out of the cavern.

iii.

Katja slipped in the door, clutching the bucket she'd drawn from the well to her chest. Not that it did any good. By the light of the guttering candles on the table in front of Mom and on the shelf set in the wall, she guessed she probably looked just as rough as she had back at carta headquarters, and even Mom could see it. She could probably smell it, even through the rotgut fumes.

Her heavy red eyebrows, always unkempt these days, rose over her glassy, bloodshot eyes, and she wheezed out a laugh. "Got your in then, did you, girl? You been waiting for it long enough, I guess."

Rica was sitting on their bed, absolutely silent, staring at the floor. She didn't move to make room for Kat. Didn't offer to get her a rag or lend her a dress or get the brush to help clean her up. She didn't even look over as Kat stripped off her bloody, stinking dress, grabbed a rag herself, plunged it into the bucket herself and scrubbed all over, trying to get clean. She had to get clean.

She had never killed no one before. Hadn't wanted to this time.

How many folk would she end up killing afore one of them got lucky and got her instead? She didn't know. Didn't know whether it would be her guts or her strength that gave out first, and she didn't want to know.

Mom was old, for a casteless. Most brands didn't live past thirty, less they headed for the surface.

Maybe she should head for the surface. Just up and run like her dad, whoever he'd been. Some miner, Rica had told her. She'd been too little herself then to really remember. Mom hadn't been pretty or good enough by then to catch another noble, like with Rica's dad, afore it all went wrong. Not already started on the drink and with a kid in the house. But it had all been crap anyway, because Katja's dad had been mining caste, but he'd been as much a criminal and a cheat as any poor bastard in Dust Town. Scarpered for the surface when some idjit he cheated found out, leaving Mom flat. She'd hoped to go to his relations if Kat had been a boy, but Katja had been a girl and ruined everything again. Mom never talked about Katja's dad, but she talked about that often enough.

Kat might go find her dad. Track him down above ground, just to spit in his eye and call him worthless scum, lower than the awful duster woman he'd tumbled, 'cause he hadn't had to be a crook and a cheat but had anyway, then left on his own instead of taking them with him. Not that she really blamed him for leaving Mom; she weren't sure he'd even known he'd got Mom with child, come to think of it. But Rica—well. Rica hadn't been his kid. He might not even have known her.

But she could find him, tell him all about it, just to see his face. And if she went for the surface, maybe she'd never have to do another thing for the carta, never have to kill another living soul.

Kat threw the rag back in the bucket. The water was an awful rust brown now, as foul-smelling as she was. Had been. She didn't know. All the smells were all tangled up together, and the light wasn't good enough to really see how she looked. Her skin was raw. She could see the scratches up and down her arms, her shoulders, her belly, where she'd torn trying to get off that guardsman's blood. She weren't sure if it had been that hard to wipe off or not. She couldn't remember.

She was kneeling on the floor, gasping. There was water on her face and in her hair, but it weren't from the bucket. It was all a mix of sweat and tears. She was crying. Whimpering like a nug-licking baby!

"Shit. Shit. Damn it!" She hardly recognized her own voice. Katja shoved her hair back from her face. Her hand came back slick.

Then Rica was there. Kat hadn't heard her leave her place on the bed. A blanket fell around her shoulders, and a mug of water was pressed into her hand. Katja downed it.

"Well, shit," Mom was saying, a laugh under her slurred, cracked voice. "Never thought I raised a sniveling baby. Not two, anyway. Can't handle a little blood? Typical."

"Shut it, Mom!" Rica snapped. "She was lucky it weren't her blood! Katja could of never come home! Can you understand that, or are you too drunk to realize that Katja's precious 'in' could've meant she got her throat slit in an alley tonight?"

There was fire and steel in Rica tonight. She was angrier than Kat had ever seen her. Mom listened. Kat saw her shadow shrug in the dark. "Sure. Yell at me," Mom said, staggering to her feet. "I'm not the one who up and almost got herself killed, am I?" She stumbled over to her bed, collapsed down onto it, threw her blanket over her head, and went silent. In a sulk. Katja actually liked Mom best in her sulks. She was less trouble.

Rica thrust Katja's nightdress into her hands. They'd never used to bother with them, sleeping in their underthings, but ever since Rica had joined the carta, she'd insisted on it, and Kat, who had a pretty good idea why Rica didn't want anyone seeing her bare for too long, had never argued. She pulled the shift dress over her head, and Rica did up the buttons in the back for her, wrapping the blanket around her again when she was done and handing her the hairbrush.

"I got—I'll get the bucket," she said, pulling herself together finally and picking up the bucket, full of the filthy blood and dirt and water Kat had scrubbed off herself. "Brush and braid up your hair. There's bread and some cheese in the larder. Eat some supper. Then we'll talk."

Kat followed Rica's instructions. She ate her supper while Rica swept the floor out. She'd slopped some water out of the wash bucket, leaving a mess of mud and other stuff on their floor. Still, Rica was done before she was. She came to sit across from Kat at their little table with her own mug of water. She'd moved the shelf candle to sit between them with the other candle, making a little circle of light in the middle of the house and casting shadows all over her pinched and worried face. Rica was barely twenty. Tonight, though, she looked almost as old as Mom.

"Do you know how worried I was, Katja?" she asked quietly, after a long moment had passed.

"Yeah." Kat could only manage the single syllable.

"Ancestors. I knew you wanted in with the carta. I was hoping I might have been one of the noble hunters and had a patron before they started looking at you as hard as you've been looking at them. I don't want this for you, Kat. The stealing and the killing. I want us to be better than that. More than that, I want us to be safe. You aren't being safe."

Rica reached for her hand, but Katja moved it back. She stared at Ricci. "I was out of line before," she said carefully.

"No—" Rica started.

"No. I was," Katja told her. "I didn't tell any lies, like Beraht was trying to tell you as we were leaving. I didn't do that. But I shouldn't of said any of it. I know how much you done for us. We aren't starving now on account of you. We got a lot of friends on account of you. You keep Beraht and the carta happy at least. For now. But don't try and tell me you're being safe while you do it."

Rica blushed in the candlelight. She sat back in her chair and hugged her arms around herself. "I take my witherstalk potion every week."

Katja shook her head. "I'm not talking about the witherstalk potion," she said. There was a whole well of anger deep down inside her, over what had happened tonight, what she had seen, what she had done, and about everything else. All Rica had gone through for them, Mom lying on the bed there, never doing anything, and Rica, who never let her do anything anymore either. The unfairness in her acting like she was the only one what could take risks for them. But even if Rica wasn't being fair, Kat was going to be. She weren't going to yell at Rica again.

She swallowed and spoke again. "You're telling me Beraht and the others never slap you around a little when they've had too much to drink? Or if they don't like your looks sometimes? You're telling me you're never worried about where they been, or what'll happen if they go too far one day, you end up with a burn or a scar or some disease the herbalists can't physic away? We don't have any of them fancy mages and spirit healing down in Orzammar. You're telling me you never worry what happens if those greedy bastards never do let you into the Diamond Quarter?"

She weren't telling any lies, any more than she had done earlier, but even though she was trying to be a littler nicer about it now, she was saying things Ricci didn't want to hear. The things they never talked about. Rica pushed herself away from the table a little, back into the darkness. "Katja," she protested, quietly. "They'll let me be a noble hunter," she said after a moment. Her face twisted. "Training's one thing. The best way for the carta to get a return on everything they invest in us girls is for them to take a cut if one of the noble hunters does bear a son and get elevated to the Noble caste. Keeping any of us down here forever is . . . it's a waste. And Beraht's . . . he's a lot of things, but he's merchant caste. Good business runs in his blood. He says I'm promising. But casteless gutter rats like us don't become noble concubines overnight."

Katja let the argument breathe a little afore she spoke again. "It en't been overnight," she pointed out then. "You been in training for five years, Rica. Letting Beraht and every carta lecher with enough pull paw all over you—"

Rica rose up from her chair, pacing away. "Listening to historians recite Shaper records until I felt my ears would fall off," she interrupted, her voice rising. "Learning them by heart, and practicing saying them over and over for hours in a perfect noble's accent until Player was satisfied. Shorted dinners whenever I get it wrong. Do you know how hard it is to unlearn a vocabulary you've used your entire life, learn to say everything differently?"

She paced back and forth across the floor, waving her hands as she went. "Practicing the harp, the flute until my fingers are bruised and bleeding. Smacked with a baton every time I played a wrong note. Painting screens and painting faces until all the colors blurred together, learning how to sew on silk, satin, brocade, and velvet—not just darning or dressmaking, but delicate embroidery. Katja, I've spent weeks of my life learning how to sit and walk and gesture when I speak. And yes, being pawed over by more boorish oafs than I care to recall, many of whom had no idea of personal hygiene and some of whom were not always kind or gentle, and all of whom I had to smile at afterward, because the noble who fathers my future child may not be any better, and I have to be prepared for that."

Her eyes flashed, and she stopped and faced Kat square on. "But Kat, that's only a fraction of it. And no, not all of it is safe, but it's much safer than running looting and bashing and bullying job in the crews. And it's honest. Everything I work with is mine: my brain and my body."

Katja stood too, stung, forgetting all her pretty resolutions not to yell at Rica again, forgetting all about being fair. She was about to start bawling again, so she lashed out instead. "Yours and whoever's bought it for the night!" she snapped. "Or the morning or afternoon or whatever. Your brain and body don't belong to you, Ricci. You're renting 'em out, and whoever pays can do whatever they want with 'em. Fine. We need the money. But you don't get to stop me from doing the same damn thing as you, in my way—renting my brain and body and skill out to folk what want to pay for it, and accepting whatever risk might come along."

"Skill!" Rica laughed. "You're thirteen years old! You're a child!"

It's a child! The cry rang out in her head again, and she felt the guardsman's hot blood gushing out all over her again, felt his breath in her face and the way his weight changed on her body as he stopped breathing. Kat raised her hands to cover her ears, shaking all over again, then refused, bringing her hands down again, clenching 'em into fists.

I am not a nug-licking child!

"En't no children in Dust Town!" she spat at Rica. "Not after two years old!" She pointed at the brand on her face. "I en't never been no child, and neither have you, Rica! And I got skills. I been developing them, same as you. You got bruised knuckles and callouses from the harp master's batons, boo hoo. I got knife scars and broken ribs from brass knuckles. I paid my dues, and now I'm doing what I can for us, just like you are! You were only two years older than I am now when you joined the carta!"

She stopped, breathing heavily. Rica was white and blotchy again. Mom spoke up unexpectedly. "Lay off her, Rica," she said. "She's right. If she wants to be a fool with those knives of hers when she's got a perfectly good living atween her legs, that's her business, but she's been a damn good thief since she was a baby. Afore you did join the carta, that girl was the reason we made it, for about a year. I forget. And I guess if she weren't the one stabbed this time, she probably won't be next time. They say the first time's the hardest. Or something like that."

She grunted, rearranged her blanket, and drew her legs up underneath it on the bed.

Rica paused. "Did you really kill them?" she asked, in a much quieter voice.

Katja swallowed, swiped an arm over her eyes. Turned away. "Yeah."

"Oh, Kat." Rica came to her and wrapped her arms around her. She was soft and smelled as nice as she always did. Katja clung to her big sister, burying her face in Ricci's shoulder.

"It was horrible," she said to Ricci's shoulder. "He was on top of me with an axe. I could smell his breath. I thought I was gonna die. Then I—I—" she swallowed once. Twice. She couldn't stop the second round of tears no more. She shuddered and shook in Rica's arms, remembering how Twill had left her to die in the street then pounded her back once she was back at the carta hideout, like the whole thing had been some kind of awesome adventure. She remembered his breath on her face, his lips pressing onto hers. She remembered how Rona hadn't got away from something similar, just today, that that was the whole reason she had been there in the first place.

Rica squeezed her, rubbed her arms up and down. "You shouldn't of gone," she murmured, dropping her noble accent again. She had to keep in practice, but she knew Kat didn't like it. "Not today. Not when it was already a bad job."

"If I didn't go today, I never would of got another chance. You know that."

Rica hugged her tighter.

"You girls done with the whining?" Mom asked from her bed. "Only I'd like to get some sleep, if it isn't too much trouble for you."

Rica sighed, and Katja made a face at Mom's back. But when Mom had moved from sulking to whining herself, then it were only a matter of time afore she got mad or weepy, and Rica knew that as well as she did. Rica blew out the candles and led her out of the house to the doorstep. She leaned up against the wall of the house, and Katja leaned against her. She fished in her pocket and closed her fingers around the pretty she'd taken from Master Gand's shop. She looked around in both directions, making sure no one was watching them. Then she handed the necklace to Rica.

"What's this?" Rica asked. She held it up to a lantern. "Katja," she breathed then, seeing the sparkles, the way the chain was worked.

"You probably shouldn't wear it anywhere but the carta," Katja admitted. "Don't want Master Gand or none of his friends filing a claim. Probably the best thing to do is to pass it to one of the surface runners to fence. But I saw it and thought of you. I'm sorry. For earlier."

Rica's face was a study. She hated how Kat had got the necklace; Katja could see that much. But she loved the necklace itself and loved more that Kat had thought of her getting it. Her fingers curled around it then, and she stuffed it in her blouse and wrapped Kat up in a hug once again. "We will fence it," she said. "We might be able to get a couple gold for it. If we do, I'll buy something pretty honest. But we'll also get you a better knife. A good one. Veridium, or red steel."

Katja snorted. "We en't getting no red steel, not if we use the whole two gold," she said. But Rica had caught her interest. "But if we could get a pair of good steel daggers . . ." she trailed off, thoughtful. "You really wouldn't mind?" she asked.

She felt Rica shake her head. "I want you to be safe," she said again. "I wish you'd stay out of trouble altogether, but you aren't going to do that." She sighed. "And it's not fair for me to ask you. Just—no more like today. You proved yourself today. You'll have a choice from here on out. Take the smart jobs. Please."

Katja nodded. "I will," she promised. "I en't out to get killed, Rica," she added. "I want to help us. To protect you, if I can. Like I used to, afore you joined the carta."

Rica leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. "Oh, Kat," she sighed again. "That en't your job, brave heart. You're the little sister. I don't know how you got all the strength and speed and nerve you did. You're ten times stronger than I'll ever be. But it's my job to protect you. Always has been. Everything I done has been for you. You know that."

"And Mom," Katja pointed out. "And you. Don't pretend like you won't like being some noble lady."

She felt Rica laugh behind her. "Fine. I won't. And I'll start working on Beraht. You're right. I may not be ready for the Diamond Quarter yet, but I could be bringing in some coin in outside the carta too. Practicing with miners and merchants. Carta thugs are easy. Nothing like the nobles I'm eventually supposed to hunt."

"Good," Katja said. She and Rica lapsed into silence, but it was a comfortable silence that told her the two of them were all right again.

"It's mostly for you, the things I do," Rica said after a moment. "And it wouldn't be worth it if it weren't for you. You know that."

"Joining the crews, neither," Katja answered. "You're right. I been looking hard at 'em for a while. Probably a lot longer than you think. Years afore you ever joined the carta. But it en't because it's fun and games, nor any big adventure neither. I know it en't. More than ever, now. I just . . . I'd rather hold the knife, you know? I'd rather be one of them bully boys than see 'em beat you up—or me. If that makes me bad, then I guess I'm bad. But I'm a duster. I weren't never meant to be good like you."

"Oh, Kat, you are good," Rica insisted, pushing her out and turning her around to look her in the face. She smoothed Kat's braid with her hand. "You're still a good person. This—" She ran her thumb over the brand on Katja's face, touched her own. "It's nothing. Just chance. Just a mistake. And one day you'll be noble with me, and you'll deserve it more than Beraht or Mother ever could. You do what you have to, what you can do. That's all. That doesn't make you bad."

Kat shook her head. "You weren't there tonight," she said. "And I'm glad of it. Weren't nothing good about what we did tonight, afore I ever cut anybody. And I could of decided not to go. I could of done that. I'd still rather stab and steal than do what you do. So maybe that does make me bad. But it's all right. I can be a thief and a bully. I can be a . . ." she swallowed. "I can be a killer. 'Cause you're good enough for both of us, and you're worth it."

Rica just hugged her again. "You en't bad," she murmured again. "Maybe I don't know what good and bad is, but if you're bad, everything I know in all this stinking world is wrong. You hear me?"

She pushed Kat out to arms' length again and looked at her. "Twill kissed you tonight," she said, in a different voice. "I saw before I left. Are you and he . . ."

Katja shook her head. "No. He was just excited. Worked up over pulling off the job, me making it after losing Flinteye today, after it looked like I wouldn't." At least, she hoped that was it. Twill was a lot older than she was. Not as old as Rica, but he'd been a man as long as she'd known him, and she was still next door to a kid. Not that that mattered to some of those carta perverts. "It's not like that, me 'n' him." she went on, mostly to herself. It wasn't. Twill was just like that. She'd once seen him kiss a sixty-some-odd-year-old barmaid when he was in high spirits. She never believed he was about to jump into bed with her. "He's never come onto me or nothing," she muttered. She was sure it wasn't like that. Almost sure.

Rica's face was serious. "Some of them don't, even if they do want a girl," she said. "Katja, do you like Twill like that?"

Katja shook her head. "I don't want no one like that," she said. "It's too much . . ." she broke off, turned away, and hit the side of the house with her shoulder, not caring about the dirt on her nightgown. Shame pulsed through her, hot and horrible, but she couldn't say it, couldn't tell Rica after all she done that what she done, and what Mom had done before her, still made her sick and queasy, that when Kat thought of all them girl babies left in the Deep Roads, or smothered with a pillow like Mom would of done to her if Rica hadn't stopped her, sometimes she couldn't sleep at night. Sometimes she couldn't eat back at carta headquarters, thinking of how those creepy bastards watched Rica, thinking how Rica let them touch her, just for the chance at something better someday. And when she thought of letting someone touch her like that someday, sometimes she almost puked. She'd already told Rica she'd rather stab and steal than be a noble hunter. She hadn't said why. But now Rica knew, even though she hadn't said.

"I'm a whore," Rica said quietly, reaching out in the darkness to smooth Kat's braid again. "I'm a whore," she repeated, "so you never have to be. You understand that, Katja? You never have to be. You're stronger and faster and so much braver than me, but that's how I can protect you. I know you get a lot of crap for being my sister. I know some of the other girls have said you could be a noble hunter too, give us two shots at being nobles—to get in our good books, or otherwise. I know the crap Mom says. But you don't have to touch anyone you don't want to, or let them touch you neither. I don't care who they are. I don't care what they done for you. If you like someone, if you want to have sex, fine. Good. Sex can be a lot of fun, Kat, if the man is kind and clean and more or less sober. Even if he en't very good at it. You don't believe me. But it can. But if you don't want someone, and if you en't looking to get paid or influence from it, and he touches you like that? Kisses you, and you don't want him to? That's the man you cut, understand? You cut his nug bits off. I know you can."

Katja breathed in and nodded several times. "Thanks," she whispered. She weren't sure she wanted to cut Twill's nug bits off. She was pretty sure he hadn't meant that kiss like that. But if he had, they'd have them a little talk. "I think I can sleep now," she told Rica.

"I'm not sure I can," Rica admitted. "But we'll go inside, if you want. I love you, little sister."

"I love you," Katja told her quietly. "More than anyone."

A/N: Did I name a one-off character in a previous chapter "Rona" just so I could make a bad pun in the middle of this otherwise very serious chapter? Maybe . . .

Starting off pretty hard-core here. I feel entering the carta so young and a life of violence and troubled morality is realistic to the experience of the Dwarf Commoner. I was less sure about Twill, but even though as the author, I feel like Katja is right and the kiss he gave her wasn't at all sexual to him or indicative that he's been harboring creepy fantasies about the girl he's been training for the past four years (who, while she WAS never innocent, only very recently graduated from what I would call a kid into a very young teenage girl), I wanted to speak to the fact that it doesn't matter. Twill doesn't have to be a creep or a predator, and if the sixty-odd-year-old barmaid was flattered when he kissed her in another fit of exuberance after a night out, it was fine. But he transgressed Katja's boundaries here and made her feel uncomfortable, even though he didn't mean anything by it. And this happens all the time. There are Danariuses out there. There are a whole lot more Twills, especially in cultures that are a bit more affectionate and physical than mine (as I believe Orzammar's is). And I guess I felt like I wanted to write one into the experience of one of my teenagers. Katja was the one that it came most natural to, and I also really liked my DA version of the Sexual Agency Talk coming from Rica Brosca.

Anyway, welcome to Shifting Paradigm: 9:26–9:28 Dragon, and the fifth volume in my Subjects and Singers of the Song series, collections of ficlets about ten characters in the Dragon Age series so far, written in several different styles and resembling a symphony with many different instruments or an art gallery with many different masters more than they resemble anything else. There are parallels between characters, comparisons and contrasts, and there are beginning to be miniature story arcs. Each collection has an amorphous focus on a few particular characters or a few particular themes. But this is not the place to go for plot.

If, however, you enjoy reading about different characters and reading fic written in different voices, if you want to imagine more about Alistair or Cassandra or Hawke or Brosca or Fenris before and during and after the games in which they take part, stick around. If you've been reading the other fics in this series, welcome back! I'm delighted to have you!

This particular volume has a rough focus on its characters finding themselves and redefining their values as their responsibilities change and grow. All ten characters do have a say in this volume. This is not the case for every volume in the series.

A word to those unfamiliar with my adherence to canon (or lack thereof): I follow canon fairly closely for the most part. I occasionally borrow from expanded universe material like The Dawn of the Seeker or The Calling, but when canon interferes with the story I want to tell or what makes sense to me—or occasionally contradicts itself—I go with what feels right or what is necessary to my narrative. I list any AU elements that are applicable at the beginning of every chapter along with character tags and pairings, so if you want to skip a chapter about a certain character or feel like something is going to bother you, go right ahead. I also preface chapters with potentially sensitive material with a warning.

For this part of the series, these are the AU elements that may crop up:

Cullen Rutherford has been time-shifted. With the way he is animated in DA2 and DAI and his rank in the Templars in DA2, I found his supposed birth date on the wiki about six years past believable. Therefore, he was born in 9:05 Dragon. He also joined the Templars at age seventeen as opposed to age thirteen, and took his vows at age twenty-one instead of age eighteen. He is reassigned to the Kinloch Hold Circle when he is twenty-two, which in this story occurs in 9:27 Dragon.

Ilsa Tethras, Varric's mother, is not an alcoholic.

Ilsa Tethras does not die in 9:26 Dragon. Instead, she is a victim of a botched assassination attempt in 9:28 Dragon that leaves her permanently disabled and declining.

There are other AU elements that appear in earlier parts of the series, and there will be more in later parts, but this is what you're looking at here.

Finally, a word on reviews—if you have nothing to say or just no time, you never have to review my work. Never feel obligated. But be aware that a line or two to let me know you're here and enjoying the story is always a huge encouragement, and can sometimes affect what happens in future chapters of the series. I love hearing from you. Love that little shot of validation and endorphins as much as anyone, as enlightened as I try to be. You don't have to cater to my primitive insecurity . . . but I appreciate it more than I can say when you do, and I reply every time. To those of you who are consistent reviewers, even if you don't review every chapter, a hundred thank-yous would not be sufficient.

Best Always,

LMSharp