Golden City Prequel: The Nest

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Pahn

monstrous
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  1. Adept
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  1. Male
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  3. Transgender
  4. Primarily Prefer Male
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Fantasy, romance, slice of life, anti-hero stories, "you're our only hope", fandom non-canons, soft scifi, transhumanism, magical girls, horror, suspense / mystery, detective noir, fractured fairytales
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Five years ago, before the Chattering Choughs were a fearless group of teens ruling parts of the Underground, they were but a nest. A nest made of dirt and grime filled with mismatched eggs, and it carried in their young hearts a hope to make it to the next day. Alive and kicking.


He always thought stories should start with a bang and end with a warm feeling in his heart. Storybooks were a rarity in the underbelly of Golden City, where the poorest and scummiest of lives had made a home for themselves. Rats, they were called. Mostly by the Floaters and those of the Land. He thought perhaps they thought less of those "rats" because they feared their living conditions; it was a very real picture of what would become of them should they fall from grace. Having known the comfort of clouds and oxygen-filled rooms, Brulow Charldin was very much aware that the Sewers were the nightmare of any man, woman, child, and automaton of Golden City.

He had been brought here by a couple of thugs, almost six years ago. His parents, wealthy Floaters deep in the oxygen tank trade, were murdered right in front of him in a heist gone wrong. His sharpest memory of the event wasn't even the realization of his parents lying in their own blood; no, it was the stench that emanated from the criminal. Soot and sulfur, and then blood. It left a sour taste on his tongue that he would never forget. Even if he did, the sewer rats made sure to remind him every day.

Brulow wasn't the same boy who had been brought here. He had become a true survivalist and managed to get by without sickness or worst. It was difficult for anyone living close to the Ovens to avoid that deep cough, but with time he's realized that wearing something over his mouth and nose when he was out and about helped a lot.

Earlier on this day, he saw a black market merchant cough himself to death; it took the old man almost an hour to die, and no one stopped by to help him. No one batted an eye, no one seemed to be affected by such a needless death. The boy wasn't coldhearted, but being down here did things to one's mind and all he could think of as he watched the dead man's purple face were the untouched oxygen tanks in his cart. They were covered with a filthy ragged blanket, but he'd caught a glimpse of the metallic cylinder. Suddenly, the boy was three oxygen tanks richer.

Such a wealthiness in the Underground, for a lad like him, was more dangerous than it was thrilling. Thankfully, he had a hideout that he shared with a few other kids. Little snotty brats, most of them, but they were his family, through blood and sweat. It'd taken him almost two hours to carry the cart to his hideout without being detected by any suspicious adult, as the fifteen year-old boy wasn't very big for his age. His knowledge of the backstreets and where the Skullman's goons patrolled were of great help. Having a dozen stealthy little eyes all over the place had more advantages than any of those adults could ever imagine.

"Psst, anyone in?" Brulow whispered through the scarf covering half his face. His hair was sticking to his forehead and his arms were trembling from the heavy load he'd been carrying. Wiping his brow, he pulled down the scarf to partially uncover his mouth, and whistled three clear notes. They had a handful of coded whistles, but that one was just to get their attention and let them know who was there. "I need help - I got us some oxygen tanks!"
 
It was five years ago in Golden City; before the Maggot Revolt, before the Sky caught fire, before Doctor Marvolio’s Magnificent Wondertorium and before the Great Reconciliation. Before the Chattering Choughs were more than a seed planted in poisoned ground, when more often than not a child’s life in the Sewers could be measured in weeks if not days. But here and there some souls – more fortunate than most – learned what they need to survive. Different lessons for different folk, whether to be harder and care less or trust in the dubious kindness of strangers.

Alex's lessons had been mixed at best; he stole what he needed to survive, he ran and hid when the Bodysnatchers were out on the streets, but he tried to share with those who had less when he could. Probably more than he should, given his half-starved appearance. Last week he had fallen into company with an older boy who said he knew a safe place to sleep, but he hadn't yet been able to bring himself to go there. It seemed too good to be true.

Today was a wet day in the Underground. The skies with their pure rainwater were a distant dream; in the Sewers they were a mixture of waste water and ordure, industrial runoff and raw sewage. At the end of the street the darkrain actually sizzled as it hit the ground, but Alex had learned a few safe spots in his years since escaping Below. Sometimes it was the only thing keeping him alive and free; wet days were safe days for an urchin with petty larceny in mind.

The water streamed off his skinny frame as he crept along the overhead pipe, the smell of soap in his nostrils. This was one of the outskirts of the Black Market, where a clutch of stalls sold food rather than more exotic fare. Less valuable, but food was what he wanted right now. He lowered himself and clung to the warm pipe before peering over the edge at the mottled awning that hid his prey and began to plan his descent – and if needs be, his escape.

Whatever they sold there, it smelt delicious; his stomach grumbled against the pipe, the noise lost in the deluge. Descending hand over hand down the bend in the metal, he swung by one hand to grab the side of the building that backed the bazaar then dropped down to the ground and flattened himself to the ground. A few seconds passed without any sounds of distress, only the high tenor of the man through the canvas. Alex pried up the edge of the canvas and rolled in, stopping himself before he ran into the back of the vendor's heels. The cooked meals were hot, and directly under his gaze. The unfinished food though, that was behind the counter and when Alex rolled back out he had an entire sack of half-baked spicebread wrapped in his skinny arms.

Climbing with the sack would be an extended adventure in plain view of anyone who thought to look up, so he slipped away into the crowd. This much food could make a perfect guestgift for the older boy's group, and he didn't really fancy spending the night out if the darkrain didn't finish soon. Besides, maybe they had somewhere to finish baking the bread and that would be golden.

He remembered the route he'd been told through Skullman's patrols, darting from a ruined wall to a pile of rotten crates when one man's back was turned then jogging through a ground floor corridor that connected one alley to a crawlway narrow enough that he had to tow his bag behind him. The shaft was warm, but not hot enough that the boilerbeast was active right now and he hurried through before it changed its mind. Down on the streets again, he slowed as he approached the inconspicuous door and the scarf-wrapped figure with the heavy load that stood before it. He nearly fled, but something looked familiar about that shape...

On the point of scarpering, the nine-year old put his courage to the sticking place and called out, "Brulow? Izzat you? What've you got there?" Maybe they already had loads of food.

Making friends was so hard sometimes.
 
The day was like any other day for Phineas Abbess. Son of a whore too dumb to understand the harsh realities and empty words of men. Manservant to the ‘sisters’ in the 'Rouge Nights'. Sisters, because the women were too afraid to admit their own expiration date. Rat of the sewers, born and raised beneath Golden City a boy without any chances.

After gathering breakfast and collecting ‘clean’ soap water the boy was sent out on his way again, told to amuse himself in the smoldering toxic fumes of the Underground. Which he did, playing his usual pranks and watching from afar.

Today’s target? The Black Market.

First, Phineas went down to the mines. Trying to fetch a few pieces of coal that he was sure they wouldn’t miss. Small pieces and dust he gathered in a tin before going back to the leaking sewers where he filled the tin with drinkable water (read: drinkable for The Underground). After that he gave the tin a good stir and then went around the market stalls, hand outstretched.

“Carbon water for a trade?” the seven years old kept his face straight as he played his little game. Black muddy coal water, looking just like the concoctions the charlatans sold to the population. “Cleans the lungs!” he continued with his pitch, hoping to convince the salesman.

"Helps with thirst as well," he continued to try. The man eyed him warily from the many layers of fabrics covering him. Phineas wondered if the man wasn’t hot, or suffocating. He knew that many of the stands here hated to be questioned. Anything was too much, too personal, even at seven the boy understood that questions were bad down in the Underground.

In the end the merchant didn’t buy it from him, but that didn’t matter as Phineas had his luck at another stand. A man who was wholly unprepared for the conditions of the Underground was desperate enough to buy the murky water that Phineas held out, exchanging it with some bread with which Phineas quickly ran off before the man realised the scam. It was from there that the boy hid himself underneath a table to enjoy his food and watched an interesting string of events unfold.

A lad, younger than most in the crowd, but older than him, appeared and loaded something out of a cart not his. Phineas knew because the cart had belonged to the man he sold the water to earlier. What had become of the merchant the child didn’t know, but he was soon forgotten again. Phineas saw a flash of metallic and a long cylinder form taken by the stranger, heavy and precious they seemed as the lad covered and hid them, skittishly looking around to make sure no one noticed. It was from there that the boy decided to track the lad, in the hopes of finding something new.

Taking the time to grab some more food from the gone man Phineas quickly fell into step, shadowing the stranger. Down and around the patrols set up by the gangs, sneaking in alleys. The seven years old was about to give up on the long and boring journey until the lad finally reached a shack and entered through its curtain door. He caught a glimpse of more people inside of the shack and curiously he crawled over, avoiding to stand in sight from the door. Shuffling along the walls, as he bend down, Phineas peeked through the tattered fabrics that made the entrance, trying to catch what was going on inside.
 
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