The city. A glorious, wonderful place. A place for industry! And progress! Well- for most. Where those 'most' were- he didn't know. And it wasn't his place to know.
He was at the bottom of the food chain in this place, where the tall buildings pressed too tightly to one another. Just a minuscule speck between the old buildings that morphed into newer ones, because the owners wanted to make more money and added additions on top of additions. Some buildings were completely linked together in awkward places that created bridges over alleys, stretching upwards and towering above him, reminding him, like so many others, of how small he was.
But he didn't let it bother him. After all, it just meant more shade from the unrelenting sun.
He was traversing through one such alley, thin and mangled, tiptoeing past the broken bottles and trash that littered the path around him. By now, the stink of rotting or rusting waste had little affect on him. He'd become adept at training his sensitive nose to only pick up scents that were helpful.
One such scent was leading him now, as he peaked out of the dark alley to the busy street in front of him. Mobians big and small were rushing about, each individual ignoring the other as they went about their day, too busy to notice even their fellow peers, let alone a little boy hiding in the shadow of an alley.
He watched the flow of traffic for a while, wondering where each person was going and what they were supposed to do.
He shook his head, snapping himself out of his daydreaming. There was no time for that.
Tilting his head up he sniffed the air, filtering out the stench of the alley and focusing on the gentle, tantalizing smell of warm bread. He couldn't help salivating at just the thought of a fresh loaf of heavenly carbs. His stomach gurgled hungrily and he quickly pressed his hand against his gut, hoping to alleviate the dull ache that followed.
The scent was faint, but fresh. If he was careful, he might be able to do more than just pretend he was full that night.
Pulling the hood of his makeshift hoodie over his head he glanced both ways one more time before taking a breath and stepping out into the traffic. He turned right, keeping his head low as he weaved through the bustling strangers even though under the hood his eyes and ears were focused and alert. Most of the people here ignored him, the Working class too busy to bother with a scrappy boy, and the Undertow, the people like him who ambled about in rags and greasy fur, didn't see him as a potential profit.
Still, there were others he had to be watchful for.
He sniffed the air, pondering whether the scent was getting stronger or not. He walked a few more yards, and spun back around when the smell had dwindled to nonexistence. Wrong way.
He walked on, keeping his hands pressed close to his sides. The sun had begun to take its toll, the air under his hood becoming hot and stuffy. The yellow rays were beginning to seep through the old fabric, warming the quills on his back.
He nimbly side stepped, narrowly avoiding an oblivious wolf dressed in a light t-shirt and shorts. He'd learned early on that if you didn't want to become roadkill, you had to be light on your feet.
The sound of jangling metal made his ear twitch and he was instantly on high alert, lifting his head to better scan the crowd around him. The first red flag was the sudden lack of Undertow, and his head swiveled around, his gaze scouring the crowd.
A group of four Mobians, all dressed in sharp white and black uniforms, were heading towards him. Their tall, polished boots thumping against the pavement with each confident step.
Panic turned his blood to ice and he darted into a nearby alley, taking shelter in its protective darkness, only daring to peek out just enough to better watch as the group passed by. One of them, a ruddy orange fox, jeered at something they were talking about, and the others joined in.
His eyes scanned their outfits, a part of him admiring the contrasting blacks and whites that criss-crossed on the smooth jackets. Their boots were tall, nearly knee height, with their breathable black pants tucked in. Two of the Mobians had belts with multiple clasps for their gear, while the other two had their own versions of holsters, straps crossing over their backs and sheathing their personalized weapons.
They walked through the crowd with carefree strides, heads held high and hands swinging leisurely at their sides. Groomed fur, shining eyes, and bright futures ahead of them. To any normal citizen, they were the group to be admired. The ones you looked up to and told your parents that that's who you wanted to be when you grew up.
Even watching them pass by the alley now made his heart long to join them, his fantasies imagining himself being so finely dressed, walking through the streets with confidence.
But he knew better. The confidence with which they walked, was nothing more than arrogance and pride. And the shine in their eyes reflected nothing but cruelty, and pain. Pain for any of his rank unlucky enough to cross their path.
Memories of seeing and hearing such cruelty encouraged him to shrink farther back into the shadows, and he held his breath as they walked right past his hiding place. Their own shadows stretching out and mingling with the alley's. He saw the fox's ear twitch and felt his heart lurch with terror, praying that the tall mobian hadn't heard him. But the fox was too occupied by his friends, who pulled his attention back to another joke.
When they had passed, he slowly exhaled and leaned out to peek around the corner after them, ears twitching irritably under the pressure of the hood. When he had watched them for a while and was sure that the fox wasn't going to look behind again, he stepped back out into the walkway, once again merging with the pedestrian traffic.
A strange sense of loss settled in his chest, as if he'd lost something that he hadn't even known was there. He felt cold for it. And it unnerved him.
He shook himself, realizing how his quills had bristled, and forced them to relax so that they wouldn't poke through his hood. He tipped his nose up into the air, pushing the strange feeling away and once again focusing on the fresh scent of baked flour and yeast. It took a moment, but he caught it, and he used the scent to help calm himself.
He quickened his pace. The scent was growing old, beginning to fade to time and city stench, and he still had yet to find the scent's source.
Darting between the jungle of moving legs, he followed his nose to a thin street that branched off the already tightly packed road he had previously been on.
Booths lined the sidewalks, pressing in on each other and vying for the attention of passersby, each booth's products nearly spilling into their neighbor's. Rugs were laid out over the potholed road in an attempt to make the area more appealing for possible customers. Which must have worked, considering all the Mobians with bags and baskets of goods bustling about, buying this and that or simply browsing for their own amusement.
Careful to keep inconspicuous, he bobbed and weaved through the crowd. Occasionally ducking into an available pocket between booths. Eyes and nose scouring the street for his target.
Finally, he spotted it. A new shop had been set up at an awkward angle next to a larger, more well established, linen booth. A table had been set out, decorated with baskets and trays filled to the brim with warm cakes, biscuits and breads. A plump orange cat wearing a frilly apron greeted passersby and did her best to advertise her no doubt delicious baked goods.
He stared at the thick loaves of bread from his hiding spot across the street, unable to stop himself from drooling as his stomach gurgled. The low gurgle reminded him of his mission and he quickly wiped his mouth, hoping no one had noticed him.
Well, I found the food. Now let's hope I don't mess up the next part of the plan.
Nerves suddenly fluttered in his stomach, and he had to shake the worry from his mind. He knew it was risky, since the odds of succeeding had only a 50/50 chance certainty, but this plan was safer than straight-up stealing. And it helped him sleep better at night.
Sucking in a breath, he stepped out of his hiding place and merged back with the traffic, officially putting his plan to action.
Step one: get as close to the target as possible, preferably out of sight. Fortunately, the linens shop keeper was busy with a customer, and didn't notice the scrappy boy ducking into a small gap between her's and the baker's shops.
Step two: create an opportunity.
He peeked out at the baked goods shop, the golden loaves looking even more heavenly up close, as he quickly began to unwrap his right hand.
Once he'd untangled the ragged cloth from his hand he turned his attention away from the food and towards his hand. Nervousness sent butterflies up into his chest and throat, and he had to swallow to force them down.
Step three: hope he didn't mess up step two.
Exhaling he quickly shifted to look back out at the baked goods shop.
His eyes locked onto a round loaf that balanced precariously atop a pile of similarly shaped breads. His jaw worked as he held his bared hand out to his side, feeling stiff and awkward. His fingers flexed, spreading out in a posture that he knew wasn't natural, but by trial and error had proven to help.
Lines creased in his brow as he continued to stare at the loaf of bread, trying to focus on that one item as hard as he possibly could. Picturing in his mind what he wanted it to do and willing it to happen. He imagined that same loaf tipping over and falling off its precarious position on top of the food pile. He could see it in his mind's eye, bouncing off the table and landing on the dirty ground.
A barely perceptible light flickered around the loaf and he felt his hopes rise as it wiggled and scooted forward on its own, sending it tumbling off the table and onto the street.
He cheered internally, barely able to contain an excited grin from coming over his muzzle before reminding himself that he hadn't succeeded yet and scolding himself for celebrating prematurely. Not wanting to lose this golden opportunity, he hurried to wrap his hand back up in the long strip of cloth, his ears twitching, trying to listen for anyone who might snatch up the precious food for themselves.
Thankfully, no one had noticed the inanimate object's sudden jump to life, not even the baker. The plan was going down beautifully.
Securing the wrap on his hand, so it wouldn't unravel and fall off on its own, he looked back up at his prize. His eyes darted between the dusty loaf and the baker, who was happily conversing with a Mobian couple showing interest in some of her sweeter options.
Ducking out of his hiding spot he tried to assume a natural pace as he nonchalantly walked up to the booth, pretending to be interested in the goods. Which wasn't entirely pretense. He just wanted one in particular.
No one batted an eye at him. Good, he was just another Mobian participating in the shopping.
Keeping up his little act, he pretended to be surprised upon seeing the round loaf on the ground, even kicking it with his foot as if he hadn't noticed it at all. Bending over, he gingerly picked up the loaf of precious bread.
His heart picked up a beat and he almost lost his composure at the feeling of its porous crust rubbing against his padded fingers. It was heavier than he'd expected, and yet so light that he probably could've carried it for a hundred blocks and still wouldn't find himself getting tired.
"Hey! What do you think you're doing?" The serious feminine voice shook him from his awed stupor and his gaze snapped up to meet the baker's angry face. But one quick glance over her eyes displayed her worry and uncertainty. She had a kind heart.
He could use that.
Step four, persuasion.
"I'm sorry ma'am," he apologized, using the manners he'd picked up from listening to hired help. He held up the loaf to her, displaying its dirty exterior. "But I think this fell on the ground, I was just picking it up."
The angry expression left with a wave of relief and she leaned back, only making her seem a tiny bit shorter in his eyes. His small stature already made him outmatched when it came to his fellow pups, but adults always towered above him and he had to train himself to not be unnecessarily intimidated.
"Oh," she breathed, a small smile coming over her muzzle, "Well, thank you for that." She held out her hand to receive the loaf from him.
He started to give it back, but visibly hesitated, for her benefit, turning his head so that she'd notice him looking around at the other potential customers.
She took the bait.
"What? What's wrong?" She asked, brow furrowing.
"I was just thinking- are you sure you want it back?" He whispered, forcing her to lean closer to hear him.
One brow lifted, and he could see her reluctance.
"After it's been on the ground- do you really want to try and sell it?" he continued, bobbing a head towards a dingo that had stopped to view a collection of longer loaves.
The cat glanced at the customer, then back at the boy, her eyes still betraying her inner conflict. After all, even a dirty loaf could be sold at a lesser price.
He shifted the load into one hand, using the other to pull off the hood that had obscured a majority of his face. He'd learned over time that people were more trusting to others whom they could look in the eye. He'd also found, through trial and error, that his appearance had adverse affects on older Mobians. Especially females. He didn't know why, or how, but something about his pale face and rebellious quills often softened their hardened expressions.
Maybe it was just because he was smaller for his age, and maternal instinct would naturally overlook the fact that he was considered Undertow class. Or perhaps it was the rare coloration of his fur and eyes that made them feel sentiment for his misfortune. But whether it was from pity or some other emotion, it didn't really matter. What mattered was the doubt and uncertainty abandoning the orange cat's softening eyes.
A small smile gently made its way across her muzzle and she leaned over the booth, nodding to the young hedgehog.
"You know what, you're right. Why don't you go ahead and take it home with you, consider it a thank you for being so honest and polite."
He quickly squashed the pang of guilt that thrummed in his chest at her words, masking it with a surprised expression.
"Are- are you sure?" he asked, his heart fluttering with excitement despite his guilt, even while his play-acting remained in character.
She nodded, straightening and taking a step towards where the dingo stood.
"I'm sure. I won't get full price from it anyway, so you might as well have it."
A broad, genuine smile lit up his face and he tucked the loaf under his arm, resisting the urge to wrap his arms around it and run away while he still could.
He took a step back, bowing his head respectfully, like he'd seen some Mobians do to those higher in class.
"Thank you ma'am! I really appreciate it!"
"You're welcome sweetheart, make sure to share with your family!" she teased waving a tiny goodbye before entering conversation with the dingo.
He winced as a painful string tugged at his heart, but he quickly covered it up, back-stepping one more time before again joining the throng of pedestrian traffic. His smile had disappeared, replaced by melancholy.
He tossed his head, shaking off the dreary feeling and forcing himself to look at the positive. The large loaf of bread tucked securely under his arm. Weaving his way through the crowd he made his way to a place off to the side where the traffic lulled.
Pulling the bread from under his arm he surveyed it with pride and excitement. It's brown exterior hinted gold in the sunlight, food fit for the angels. Some dust and sand had lodged itself in the porous crust, and he brushed the worst off, admiring its flawlessness despite the dirt.
Bringing the loaf up to his face he pressed it to his muzzle and inhaled its scent deeply, his eyes closing as he took in the wonderful smell. He pulled it away from his face with a blissful sigh, a smile once again on his muzzle.
His eyes scanned his surroundings, making sure that no one had seen him and was happy to not have seen any other Undertow in the crowd. He pulled his hood back over his head, once again obscuring his face from the world. With quick movements he tucked the loaf of bread under his makeshift hoodie, grateful for its practicality as he pressed the bread close to his chest, his arms wrapping protectively around it. If he hunched over a little, no one would ever have been able to guess that he was hiding precious cargo underneath the worn fabric.
Satisfied that his prize was well hidden, he once again stepped into the traffic, retracing his steps to the alley. Ducking into the familiar shadows he could take a moment's rest.
He had the bread. And he hadn't been stopped or caught. So that was over, but the next part was possibly more dangerous than before.
He had to get home.
Checking one more time to make sure that his prize remained concealed from any potential prying eyes he gathered his courage, and plodded onwards.
The backstreets were where the No-goods went. A mess of dirty, twisting alleys and side streets that eventually became the main walkways to traverse the dangerous terrain. The wealthy dared not enter, and for good reason. Hungry, jealous, greedy eyes were always watching. And you'd just as soon lose your wallet as your life if you weren't careful.
He kept his head lowered as the alleys became more connected and populous, quickening his pace in hopes of avoiding any possible resistance. No adult Mobian in their right mind would go out of their way to bother a child who was obviously no better off than themselves. But males coming from a stillery were of a different disposition, and it was hard, even for him, to tell whether they wanted to give a hug or give a beating when they were in that state. And then there was the other children...
He shuddered, hunching farther over his cargo, all while his ears twitching under the confining hood on high alert for signs of other kids like him. All of which were bigger than him and were bent on doing nothing good.
A woman, draped in several layers of newspapers for comfort, called out to him in a dull, husky voice. Begging for food or coin.
He held tighter to his bread, biting his lip as pinpricks touched the corners of his eyes. He walked past her, ignoring her pleas and the ache in his heart.
If he gave her a piece of his bread, he might as well fulfill his own death sentence.
It was a matter of survival.
That's what he told himself as he passed her withered body, one wrapped hand shaking out from under his cloak to pull the hood farther over his face.
More and more homeless, belligerent Mobians began to scatter through the tight alleys that made up the inner workings of their sad community. As predicted, the adults gave him no attention. To them, he was just another disappointing product of the same system that had put them there. But really, only disappointing because he had no pockets to pick.
His posture snapped straight, his steps halting in a terrified jolt as his ears swiveled and jerked under the hood to the sound of children's laughter. Not happy, carefree laughter that he'd often hear from the offspring of the wealthy, but cruel, haughty laughter. And it was getting closer.
Desperate to avoid the cruel children, he quickly took a detour, scrambling into an even tighter alley that had accumulated so much waste that it piled up two feet high. He ran down the alley as best he could, ears twisted back to listen for the sound of small feet giving chase. There was nothing but the laughter, slowly fading.
Still, just to be safe he decided to take the long route back home, not wanting his hideout to be found out. Not again.
Many minutes passed traversing the maze of alleys, connecting streets and side paths, going deep into the heart of the Mire, before he reached his destination. He ducked into a narrow gap between two painfully aged buildings, his small body finding no problem walking between the bent over structures.
He counted his steps from a bent screw poking out of the wall by habit, magic number 12, and bent down close to the ground, facing the wall to his right. The brick had been worn away by years of rain and misuse, no one willing to put the time and work into an ancient piece of architecture. A torn tarp hung over part of the wall, tucked into cracks in the wall and the abandoned debris lining the sides of the pathway.
Paranoia fed his wariness and he glanced back and forth at the only two entrances to his position.
Certain that there weren't any spies waiting for him to reveal his hiding place, he reached forward and pulled the bottom edge of the tarp showing a hole in the wall leading into the building.
Crawling through the lopsided opening he turned back around and tugged the tarp back into place. The shelter was a pocket in the building, which had begun to collapse on the inside before he'd even found it, and the rubble had coincidentally created a safe space large enough to safely house a young Mobian. He'd come across it accidentally, when trying to escape torment from his peers.
It wasn't the most ideal fortress, and some mothers would probably have been horrified if they found their own children taking refuge in such places. Wire and thin metal bars stuck out from the ceiling, rusting and bent in all different directions, some he had purposely bent back up towards the ceiling to protect himself from potential scratches. The walls were basically compressed dust and broken brick, creating a concave roof above his head and giving a cavelike atmosphere.
A pile of newspapers, scraps of cloth and a blanket with holes as big as his hand was collected to his left. A bed he'd made for himself over months of scavenging. To his right, safely kept away from his bed, was a dented metal pot. Rust had eaten holes into the sides, leaking warm golden light that illuminated the dark space in yellow pinpricks. A pile of old paper, scrapped wood, and a box of matches as well as other flammable items was stacked to the right of the pot. Ready to be used should the tiny flame he tenderly kept charge over went out.
Random objects were scattered around the small space, some hanging from the wires on the ceiling, others wedged into crevices in the walls. A collection of things that he'd come across accidentally and that had fascinated his young brain. He didn't know what any of them were, but their differences in size, shape and form intrigued him. It also made his burrow feel more homey. There was also a piece of mirror, which he'd leaned up against one wall. It had once been part of a larger mirror that he'd found smashed in an alley somewhere, and though this piece was smaller than its parent, it was just big enough that he could see himself with little to no difficulty.
Another hole, similar to the entrance, led to a short tunnel that opened up into the rest of the building. It was more spacious there, and there were some helpful resources like bits of wood he could use for his makeshift lanterns. But it was rare that he traversed that area, since other Mobians could be found there on occasion, and he really preferred to remain undiscovered.
Besides, space wasn't a problem for him. He was small enough to fit comfortably in his hidey hole, and even though most other Mobians would probably find it claustrophobic, he found comfort in its tightness. The walls pressing in and the organized mess of souvenirs and interesting knick knacks he'd collected and arranged around the space made him feel secure. Like protective arms shielding him from the outside world and creating a bubble of safety.
Satisfied that he was indeed safe, and gently dropping a couple shards of wood into the pot to keep the tiny flame going, he finally pulled the loaf of bread out from under his cloak, admiring its delicate beauty. He could feel himself relaxing already, his curiosity and excitement finally able to break free without hindrance.
Bread. Fresh bread! Food was such a rarity anyway, and sure, bread was the majority of most scraps thrown to him by strangers, but a full fresh loaf?
This would last him days!
Sitting himself down next to the fire pot he set the bread down on the ground so he could pull his hood off his head, freeing his messy quills. He shook his head, relieved to be free of the hood and grateful to reveal his face without twisted intent. It was just him. In his burrow. Safe.
He tore a size-able chunk of bread from the loaf, his ears drinking in the muted sound of it tearing in his hands. Bringing the generous helping of bread up to his muzzle he finally took a bite.
His sharp teeth cut into the soft bread, tearing easily through the firm crust and then the soft white inside. He moaned with pleasure, hints of something bitter playing across his tongue and perfectly accenting the slightly earthy undertone of the bread. It was so soft, and retained some warmth from being cradled so close to his body, so it wasn't hard for him to imagine it being freshly pulled from a roaring oven.
His stomach growled, protesting his tongue's bliss and demanding that it too be given sustenance.
He swallowed obligingly, taking the next bites a bit more hurriedly as the full extent of his hunger began to hit his stomach.
When he'd finished what had been in his hands, he leaned against the wall with a content sigh. The dull hunger that had been gnawing his stomach the last few days was finally satisfied, leaving him feeling tired and lethargic even though it was only late afternoon. A long yawn escaped him, and he blearily rubbed his eyes.
His eyes landed on the rest of the loaf of bread then on an old piece of newspaper near the pot. Grabbing the newspaper he wrapped the loaf of bread and tenderly tucked it into an empty gap in the wall behind him.
His eyelids felt heavy as he stood up and untied the strings keeping his cloak-like apparel on his shoulders. Once untied, the cloth dropped off his shoulders exposing the silky white fur on his chest and the rest of his silver-toned body. He stretched his arms over his head touching his wrapped palms to the prickly ceiling, enjoying the free feeling of having nothing covering him or hindering his movements.
Letting out another yawn he trudged to his bed, pausing when he passed the shard of mirror. Turning his head he felt his senses rouse a little as he looked over his appearance.
His quills, which had already managed to collect smears of dirt, were splayed out rebelliously from his head. His grey fur matched his quills, the dirt dulling the normal coloration, which some would almost mistake for white if not for the truly white fur on his chest.
His striking golden eyes stared back at him from the mirror, analyzing himself with a growing frown.
No. He wasn't white. His fur took a more silvery tone than the purity of snow. But the unnaturally light coloration of both his fur and startling eyes was still enough to mark him in society. He'd overheard some adults talking about rarities such as himself. Weak genetics, they would say. At first he didn't know what that meant, and the words confused him. But by eavesdropping on more conversations, he began to get an idea by what they meant.
Something in his parents made him this way.
He stared hard into the mirror, studying the golden eyes peering back at him.
Could they have been mom's, or dad's?
His head tilted down to look at his hands, still wrapped in long strips of cloth.
Could these have been...
He shook his head, shaking the thought from his mind and smacking one palm to his forehead with a groan. He was too tired for this.
Abandoning the mirror, he shuffled the rest of the way to his pile of comfort and flopped down on top of it. A small smile made its way to his muzzle as its comforting scent flooded over him and he couldn't help a happy grunt squeezing his chest.
Pushing and wiggling himself further into the pile of comfort, he did his best to bury himself in the many layers of cloth and newspapers. Burrowing himself as deep into his nest as he could, he poked his head back out, so that just his nose and part of his face was exposed.
The weight of the many layers pressed down on his small body, making him relax at the physical presence. Feeling comforted, well fed, and safe, the young hedgehog slowly drifted into blissful sleep.
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{ Story Facts! : Societal Classes
In society, you're labeled by whichever category, or class, you fall into. These labels aren't official, but are usually stereotyped by those of different classes and used to refer to the different roles played in society.
Superiors - This is a very rare label given only to those who hold extensive power over all the classes in general, or a large part of the community. Examples of this would be the mayor, chief of police, a judge, or military commanders.
Uppers - Humans and Mobians considered to be at the top of societal hierarchy. Tend to involve politicians, company owners, and the richest of the rich who have some influence over the community.
Working - Humans and Mobians who range between the Uppers and Undertow. This is a broad stereotype that generally includes anyone who works for pay and is living in some level of comfort. The reason this class varies so drastically is because one from a Working class could be a manager of a company, a maid scrubbing floors, or a pizza delivery boy. Because of this, there are sometimes smaller divisions within this class that can differentiate between levels of wealth and authority. But these divisions have no consistent names and can vary depending on the individual labeling them.
Undertow - Humans and Mobians at the bottom of the societal hierarchy. This is the label given to the homeless, squatters, drunkards, and anyone else who lives in the backwaters of the city. The name was derived from a city named "Underground", where eventually it turned into a crumbling city of nothing but thieves, lowlifes, and smugglers. It was believed that the sickness of Underground eventually spread to other cities, sprouting similar communities in tightly packed parts of the city. The stereotype was also derived as a warning to any classes above it that those in the Undertow would not hesitate to steal your life from you and drag you down to the grimy streets with them.
They are often recognized by their dirty appearance and ragged clothing. Mobians make up the most of this class, and although there are some humans in the Undertow, it is a rare occurrence to come across one.
Guardians - This is a more official label given explicitly to only the people who are part of G.U.P (Guardian Units of the People). This class outranks all other classes, except for Superiors, and have extensive authority over them. Even outranking local police forces. Guardians are sworn to protect and serve the people of the city, and, if given the authority, will exercise their power to do so as frequently as possible for the good of the city. They are often looked to for justice and discipline, and are hailed by the higher classes for being the only ones able to free the city from the filth of the Undertow. }