Living Shadows

A New Day

Well before the sun begins to rise over the city, life stirs amongst its shadows. The working class of the city begins the day before the sun crests the walls. These are the people that are neccesary to the way of life the elite has grown accustomed to.

Butchers, farmers, tailors, carpenters. Strong backs, gnarled fingers, and well worn shoes. A cold breakfast, eaten quickly, as the front door slams shut on the night that has yet to be broken by the light.

The smell of baking bread and freshly cut sawdust layers itself over the industrial section of the city. The street lights still burned, the candles inside having been lit hours ago.

The sun would struggle hard to break through the smog today. The grizzled workers of the city just grit their teeth and bare it. They knew that it was the only way to give their children a chance. Those who didn't work became servants of the city, and those who did shivered at the tales spoken of those unfortunate souls.

Life was tough, but bearable. At least they didn't live outside the walls. Here, they had relative safety. A late night mugging didn't seem so bad compared to a vicious, mauling death from whatever terrifying creatures lay beyond the wall.

Yes, life was better within the walls. The whispers in the taverns said as much. Spoken after dark, after a hard day's work; where men and women gathered alike to shake off the stress of the day.

It's within these walls that a child strolls, hands in the pockets of his jacket, eyes on every corner, every shadow.

He couldn't remember the date of his birth. But he does know that he has witnessed thirteen New Cycle festivals, and those happened once a year.

He was always awake before the rest of the people here. It was how he survived. The shadows of night were more comfortable to him than the multiple Elite-run orphanages he had escaped from.

It really wasn't that hard, looking back on it. In fact, he had begun to doubt that his escapes had ever been reported. The authorities in the home, whether man or woman, received a monthly stipend from the Elite that paid out per child in the home.

But the inspections to insure an absence of fraud and abuse were never in depth. A quick head count, performed by an impeccably well dressed and well groomed Representative of the Elite who owned the orphanage.

These representatives never lingered longer than it took to stick their head through a door and count the different heads. They considered the industrial area a slum, and refused to stay any longer than neccesary. It was all corrupt, and he was, quite frankly, tired of it.

Rounding a corner, he comes upon a fruit stand. The wizened old man who owned it stood in in front of it, lovingly and carefully presenting his stock. If all went well, he would travel home with an empty cart.

The child stops, considering the fruits in front of him. He spots a particularly tempting looking mango, and reaches for it. The thought crosses his mind, as it always does. He knows there is no way the man could catch him. It would be a joke to just run off with the food.

He fishes in his pocket for a coin. He pulls one out, the bronze catching the light from a nearby lantern. He puts it back, and grasps another. The silver coin shines slightly, in spite of the dark. The kid grins, then taps the man on the shoulder.

"Grandfather. Here, payment for the fruit."

He smiles at the man, and presses the coin into his hand. He knew it was ten times the cost of the fruit. But last night has been quite lucrative for him. And he always made sure to spread the wealth amongst the city and people that shared a similar life to him.

The man smiles, then glances down at his hand. He looks up to protest, unwilling to take that much from a child. But the kid was gone. The man shakes his head, and pockets the coin. He could only hope for a busy day. He now had a new story to tell his grandchildren.