The ladder rungs scraped against my palms as I hauled myself up from the sewers. My lungs burned from inhaling the Fog. I burst through the maintenance hatch like something crawling out of its coffin.
The first breath slipped in like salvation. Clean air—or what passed for clean in this pit of human ambition. I feasted on it.
But the relief lasted all of thirty seconds before I looked up.
The sky pressed down like a tomb lid. Gray. Always gray since that night. Not the clean gray of storm clouds or winter mornings, but that of ashes left from burning wood.
But it wasn't empty. Oh no, Dekaros had made sure of that.
Black lines crisscrossed the skies. Some nights, if you stared long enough, you could swear you saw them shift.
I spat a glob of sewer slime from my mouth and wiped more from my chin. The taste lingered anyway. The stench never washes off. Even the whores smell it and steer clear. My work clothes reeked of stench and worse things, but they were all I had.
The slums sprawled before me. Crooked shacks leaned against each other like drunks sharing spitting out bullshit. Their walls were patched with whatever their owners could scavenge. Usually they were rusted metal and rotted wood. Smoke drifted from chimneys, carrying the stench of burning trash. Families burnt dilapidated furniture to stay warm. Burning books to cook rats was quite common. Sometimes they were burning bodies when a plague swept through.
You couldn't call these narrow alleys between hovels freaking streets. They crawled with the usual suspects. Rag-wrapped children who'd learned to steal before they could walk properly. Crippled soldiers who returned mutilated from hunting the Damned. Whores had given up on makeup they couldn't afford.
Nobody looked at me as I picked my way through the maze. Down here, everyone minded their own business. Or else, sticking your nose in was a good way to end up face-down in an alley with your organs on the black market. Besides, I was nobody special. Just another debt-slave grinding himself to powder in the Fortress's guts.
***
I'd made it maybe three blocks in when they found me.
"Well, well." The voice cut through the ambient misery like a blade through silk. "Look what crawled out of the shit."
I didn't have to turn around to know that voice. There's a particular tone men use when they're about to kill you. My stomach shrivelled like a week-old rat.
But I turned around anyway. They would hunt me down if escaped.
The tall one stepped out from behind a collapsed wall. Lean as a fasting monk, with eyes like chips of flint. His smile belonged on a corpse. His clothes marked him as someone who worked for people with money.
The short one followed, and short was a relative term. He was built like a brick house. His arms were thick as my neck. He had the face of a bulldog, or at least that's what it looked like. Where his partner was a scalpel, this one was a sledgehammer. They flanked me neat as you please, boxing me in against the alley wall.
"Oh… Cory… I-" I kept walking, or tried to. The big one shifted, blocking my path without seeming to move at all.
Cory matched my stillness, his pointy nose a few inches from my face. He was close enough that I could smell the mint leaves he chewed. Missing teeth and gold replacements created a checkerboard pattern.
"It's been weeks, Sirius, three long weeks."
Three weeks since the last payment. Three weeks since I'd managed to scrape together enough coins and a stash of cash to keep Cyrus's creditors at bay. Time had a habit of slithering away when you were drowning in debt.
"I know, but I can't rack up cash that quickly."
"Boss wants his money.", Cory said.
They were talking about Gareth of course. Some called him the 'Grinder'. That's primarily on the account of what happened to people who defaulted on their loans. Pay up or get your skull crushed by his hammer.
"Don't act like you forgot." Jason boomed.
Silence welled between us. The men stared at my face, as sweat beaded on my forehead.
A laugh from both of them cracked the awkwardness.
Cory produced a leather-bound ledger from his coat. He flipped through pages covered in neat handwriting—names, amounts, dates. A catalog of human suffering. He shoved the book into my hands.
"Three thousand? How the freaking hell am I supposed to collect so much?"
"Listen rat! I'd rather chop my fingers off than have a damn conversation with you. With interest, three grand. You hear me?"
Two hundred a month, if I sold my spine and stopped eating. A death sentence written slowly.
Even if I spent nothing on food, nothing on rent, nothing on the bribes to the police, it would take me months to earn that much.
I didn't have months. Hell, looking at these two, I wasn't sure I had five minutes to my funeral.
"I need more time."
"I guess we should have some fun." Jason said. He followed his words by a swift kick to my crotch.
Cory jabbed his brass knuckles at a soft spot just below my ribcage. In a blink, my back was hammered to the ground. Jason's boot followed, cracking my jaw.
I howled, curling in on myself as my guts threatened to crawl out of my mouth.
"Please… stop! Alright! Alright! I'll hand over the secret stash in my shack! Just stop already!"
"You better, rat." Cory said, " Cyrus was the one who said we'd get what we want from you. That asshole left us hanging long enough."
Cyrus! I regret calling that bastard my father!
"You've got until tomorrow night." Jason consulted a pocket watch—real silver, the kind that cost more than I'd see in a year.
"Well would you look at the time, Cory." Jason said, "We better head to the boss. Don't forget about the 'special arrangements' the boss made."
"Yeah, you're right." Cory responded in a calmer tone. He spat on my face, and left with Jason.
Dekaros, you watching this? Even if you did, I'm sure you're laughing.
The rotting titan's the reason why I am here, down in a cesspit. If it weren't for him, I'd still be with my family. Still in school, learning stuff. I hated waking up every morning, but it was much better than rushing off to clean the mess of the Fortress. Although, if it weren't for him, I'd never learn about the coward under Cyrus' skin.
I stayed down until the pain faded to a faint throb. I dragged myself upright using the wall for support. That had to count for something.
Limping my way home, I spat blood here and there. The slums were full of predators, and wounded prey attracted attention.
I found myself approaching my shelter, more like my tomb. It squatted between the other huts in the slum held together by rusty nails and stubborn refusal to collapse. Dogs were wrestling over an unknown portion of flesh. Huh, even the sons of bitches can afford meat. I wished I could join them off and take it for myself.
I picked and threw a rock at them, and they fled, leaving the meat behind. I grabbed it and approached the wooden door secured with a small, round lock. It made an annoying click as I twisted the key.
I hurled the piece of meat on a table made from an old door balanced on cinder blocks. Beside it, a torn mattress from which springs jutted out awaited me. The ceiling must've leaked again when it rained earlier in the morning, and the floor was sagged. A single wobbling chair completed the furniture. A hotplate was connected to the building's electrical system through tangled wires.
Another bleak sigh. Just one more day, and this crap will be all over, I thought.
I turned to the mirror hung on the far wall, salvaged from someone's trash and cracked down one side. I'd kept meaning to replace it, but mirrors cost money and money was everything. Food. Rent. Bribes to keep the police off my tail.
I stood before my wiry reflection. I looked like I belonged six feet under in a graveyard.
Brown eyes, though calling them brown was generous. More like mud mixed with exhaustion, surrounded by dark circles. Skin pale as old parchment, stretched tight over my bones. My cheekbones sharp enough to cut clothes, not from selective breeding but from too many meals missed.
My teeth were as yellow as old ivory. A few were cracked. They were souvenirs from previous encounters with Gareth's collectors. Some of the random violence seasoned life in the slums. My hair hadn't seen attention in years—black, unruly, sticking up in directions.
Why am I so worthless?
I raised my fist and punched the mirror.
Glass showered across the floor. Each shard caught light filtered through my single grimy window. My knuckles kissed broken glass as they opened fresh wounds. Blood welled up and dripped between my fingers.
Then, out of the blue, more like the grey—
Knock. Knock.
Not in my head. Not this time.