The best remedy to battle the humid, sticky heat of the city in midsummer was a fresh deluge of heavy rain, and Khazmine cringed at the sight of it. Secluded in the lonely apartment, the Augment surveyed her surroundings to distract herself from memories and uneasiness but found herself thumbing over belongings from her absent roommates.
Byxx and Curtis were off on adventures to some sort of sporting venue called a “bowling alley,” which Khazmine was only vaguely familiar with. Her preferred games involved wagers and tables, so the idea of rolling a heavy ball down a long passage to knock over targets garnered a frown from the Augment.
The old fisher, Gerry, had picked up Zayne to go fishing out on the river, which was likely spoiled by the heavy rains. A quick glance at the clock informed Khazmine that Iris should be off work soon and was likely to arrive shortly. It was a funny thing, not having roommates in the apartment, as Khazmine had grown accustomed to their chatter and activities.
Heavy droplets splattered on the living room windows, giving Khazmine some measure of company to break the silence on an otherwise empty space. The laptop and television held little appeal today, so Khazmine puttered around the apartment, alone with her thoughts.
The rain itself could do no damage to the Augment, as she was incapable of rusting. The Progenitors crafted fine machinery, so Khazmine had little worries of flaws in her mechanical components. Instead, it was the memory of being a poverty-stricken organic in the rain that soured her mood.
Her favorite stool was dragged to the window so that Khazmine could perch and stare outside at the rain while she charged. If nothing else, it was a welcome distraction from tedious solitude. A long, silver cable snaked from its chamber in her forearm to attach itself to the nearby wall socket, allowing the Augment to let her mind wander as she ran routine diagnostics in the background.
It was many years ago, long before her Conversion, that the ragged Khazmine wandered the streets of Old Sarzonn alone. She was either sixteen or seventeen at the time, and hardly had any use for birthdays or counting them when survival was top-of-mind. The dingy cobblestones of the disused back alleys sent shocks of discomfort through her threadbare slip-on shoes as she skulked towards Merchant’s Quarter. It was the peak hour for seeking out food, as her stomach growled mightily once again.
She stopped at the end of an alley that overlooked the bustling southern market shops and counted the contents of a small pouch of coins in one hand. Nestled in her palm were seven copper fawns and three silver does, which was a tidy sum for a beggar or pickpocket. When she could ignore her hunger no longer, Khazmine entered the bread peddler’s bakery and was met with the aromatic scent of freshly baked wheat and rye breads.
“Oy, runt! What are you doing in my shop again?” The bread peddler hollered from behind her streaky glass counter with a crackly, strained voice. She was a crotchety old witch, lamed and hobbling from years in her trade, with dried hands and a shriveled heart. “If you’re lookin’ to steal anything, I’ll have the city guards set on you!”
Khazmine sneered at the hideous old bag, not for her cruel words but for her assumptions about the skin-and-bones half-breed. If she could pass for “normal” then Khazmine could at least buy a proper meal without being cast as a criminal or degenerate. She had no say in her parentage and constantly had to dodge unannounced volleys of thrown objects and spit from anyone she so much as looked at funny.
“I have money, mistress.” Khazmine greeted through clenched teeth. Ruby had insisted that they both address elders and those who deserved respect appropriately, and the habit stuck long after her sister had died. “Have you any loaves or buns?”
“I’ve got a few crusts an’ heels for the likes of you, if you have coins enough.” The bitter, spindly old beast shuffled around the counter and dug ferociously at the back of her display. She pawed at handfuls of bread crusts cut from the uglier loaves and shoved them carelessly into a holey, half-rotted burlap sack. “That’ll be two silver does, runt.”
“Highway robbery, mistress.” Khazmine sneered as she retracted her hands from the waiting sack of garbage. Anything higher than a few copper fawns was outright price-gouging and the old woman smirked knowingly as she extended an outstretched palm for payment. “I’ve only three fawns to spare. Please have mercy, fair maiden, for I am but a poor girl with little to her name.”
“Fair maiden, eh? Too bad your tongue’s the only silver you have, creature.” The bread peddler clicked her tongue and thrust the lumpy sack of crusts at Khazmine. “Go on an’ take it. They’re no good to me now they’ve had the same air as you.”
“Blessings and virtues to you.” Khazmine bowed her head sarcastically and made for the exit after leaving three fawns on the counter that disrupted the flour dust on top of it.
“Say, runt! Why don’t you get yourself a real job, eh?” The bread peddler teased. It was a miserable thing to say to one of the Shunned, and Khazmine gripped her prize all the harder so as not to react unkindly. “I hear the Guild’s looking for whelps like you for target practice. You should apply there!”
The cackling from the bread peddler followed Khazmine out to the street as she left, haunting her steps as she meandered back to the alley. For a brief instant, Khazmine’s eyes glazed from accumulated tears, and she permitted herself a moment to wallow in her misfortunes. An unexpected tug on her precious burlap sack snapped her to attention.
“What? Hey! Get back here!” Khazmine spotted a small, pale boy with long ears and white hair scurry off barefooted with her sack. He scrambled as fast as his tiny legs would carry him through the narrow twists and turns of decrepit Old Sarzonn. “When I get my hands on you, I’ll—”
The pale boy was much nimbler than Khazmine, having darted through the hollows and backways that only a seasoned veteran of the backstreets would know about. He covered a vast distance between Merchant’s Quarter and the cemetery before ducking into a narrow hovel near the ruins of the Fallen Wall. Assured of his escape from the half-breed, the skinny child approached a shabby lean-to that rested against a bone-stone pillar.
Inside the raggedy dwelling laid a small, sickly caramel-skinned lad with black hair and bright red eyes which sputtered to life as the pale boy entered. “Oy, Pavo. I’ve bread for you. Come on.”
“e Pavo?” The young southerner sat up and greedily chewed on a heel of rye bread from Khazmine’s sack.
“That’s right. All for you.” The elder boy replied. “Pinched it from one of the—”
“Ahh!” Pavo cried out with a mouthful of bread that threatened to choke him. A fearsome creature descended on the hovel and startled poor Pavo with her aggressive stance. “Ari!”
Khazmine positioned herself between the bone-stone pillar and a chunk of fallen wall, which closed off their escape route. Not having any alternatives, the pale child lunged at Khazmine while brandishing a small, rusty knife with a chipped blade. The boy’s agility could not outmatch Khazmine’s age, experience, or strength, and he was easily overpowered.
“Foolhardy, little one.” Khazmine scowled at the pale child she detained with a single clenched hand. “Although you’re probably too young to know not to steal from a fellow thief.”
“Lemme go!” The pale child barked and snapped with all the viciousness of a baby marsh hound. “Run away, Pavo! Run!”
The terrified whimpers of the tiny boy drew Khazmine’s interest. She thought she’d heard a different cry when she approached and confirmed that the frightened voice belonged to a tiny, sickly boy of no more than seven years. With the older boy safely managed and the younger one too scared to move, Khazmine could survey her assailant’s home clearly. As bad as she had it, these two boys were far worse off than Khazmine had been.
Their shaky lean-to was little more than the barest cover from Old Sarzonn’s brutal rains, as evidenced by the many holes in their repurposed sailcloth roof. A small stack of old rags was all they shared for a bed, and there were few possessions inside to speak of. The tiny boy cowered in the middle of this filthy shelter, crying wretchedly for her to spare the elder boy from harm.
“Please, lady! No hurt Ari!” Pavo sobbed as he worked up the courage to meet Khazmine’s gaze. “We’re sorry! Please take!”
His tiny hands trembled pitifully as he offered the burlap sack back to Khazmine. He’s brave, I’ll give him that. Khazmine noted as she continued to tower over the tiny boy. As soon as it was in her hand, Khazmine released the elder child, who stumbled over to his companion with haste.
“You’re okay, Pavo. It’s okay.” The pale eleven-year-old child comforted his shaking friend with gentle strokes of his pitch-black hair. “You got your bag back, lady. So please don’t hurt us.”
“I've no intention of harming children.” Khazmine raised a brow at the defensive child. The smell of filth was overwhelming and forced Khazmine to ask aloud. “What are you two doing out here in the ruins? Where are your parents?”
“Mine are dead, and Pavo’s are gone.” The boy replied.
A pinprick in Khazmine’s conscience started expanding outwardly. Orphans were common in the city, as Khazmine was one, herself. She narrowed her eyes at the similarity between herself and the two boys and asked about their wellbeing. “And you have no one to take care of you?”
“I take care of Pavo.”
“And you are?” Khazmine tilted her head and slackened her stance to indicate her lack of hostility.
“I’m Aranthus. And this little guy is Pavocinis, or Pavo for short.” Aranthus cautiously introduced the pair.
“My name is Khazmine.” She extended a hand to Aranthus, who saw that there was no weapon in it. “That’s it. I’m from the Asteras family. What’s left of it, anyway.”
Pavocinis coughed painfully into his arm before looking up at Khazmine. “Please, Kiss-me. Can we have some bread?”
Khazmine stifled a chortle at Pavo’s attempt to pronounce her name. He was only seven, and a southerner to boot, so her name was likely too hard for him to say properly. Khazmine dredged up a fine raisin loaf heel for the boy and crouched low to hand it to him. “Here, Pavo. We can share.”
“And me, too?” Aranthus’s stomach burbled loudly enough for Khazmine to hear it. She failed to stop a smile from setting in on her face as she handed Aranthus the opposite heel from the same raisin loaf. “Thank you.”
“There you go. Now don’t go stealing from other thieves now, you hear?” Khazmine fished out a handful of wheat and rye heels for the pair and placed them gingerly in front of Pavo on his fabric pile. “They won’t be as nice as me, understand?”
Khazmine rose from the filthy ground and brushed off the dirt from her ragged attire. It was widespread practice not to affiliate with other outsiders, so she didn’t give much thought to any other action on their behalf. A quick glance back was all she could spare for the little boys in their dank, dirty shelter. “Good luck to you boys.”
And that was the end of their brief encounter. Khazmine went on with her dreary life, begging and stealing to earn her bread, until she finally caved a week later to join the mercenary guild the bread peddler had mentioned. They didn’t care if she was a half-breed, so long as she was handy with a weapon and a broom. Khazmine spent the better part of three days trying not to get crushed underfoot by the curt, aggressive mercenaries who treated her as less than a servant.
Occasionally, Khazmine could have sworn she spotted the pale Aranthus lingering on the outskirts of her vision. He seldom got close enough for her to call out to him, but the pattern repeated more frequently as time went on. After a month of working as a fetch-and-carry for the mercenaries, Khazmine finally met Aranthus face-to-face by the old, burned-out tavern on the poorer side of Old Sarzonn.
“Oy, Aranthus.” Khazmine bent down and greeted the tiny boy with a friendly grin. “How are you and wee Pavo?”
“Lady Kiss-me.” Aranthus fumbled for her name and tried to contain tears that could be held no longer.
“What’s wrong, lad?” Khazmine eyed him with growing concern.
“Please, you have to come, quickly.” Aranthus begged. “It’s Pavo. He’s not moving.”
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