Eventually, after a few moments, Lincoln slinked back out of the crowd. Hector couldn’t see his face, but his body language spoke volumes—especially when compared to earlier. There was a soft swagger to his steps, and he wasn’t looking over his shoulder. He had done it.

Hector turned and began walking away, keeping an eye out for any guards or Phoenix Company initiates. To get caught this early would be bad. But they were fine; no one had noticed them. He did spot two guards, but they seemed to be dealing with something else that Hector couldn’t quite make out from where he was.

After a few steps, Lincoln pulled up alongside him. “Quite the good haul, if I do say so myself.” He let out a low chuckle, causing something to stir in Hector. They were robbing people; what was so funny about that?

He really does know how to say the stupidest things.

“That’s good,” Hector said, taking a right. “I guess I’m next.”

Hector weaved through the crowd, heading to another spot that he’d identified with his [Street Reader] Talent. The restaurant stalls on this—it was weird to call it a street, but it was like a micro-version of one—road were of the dessert kind, so naturally there were even more children than earlier. He wouldn’t take anything from them. Doing that went too far, even for him.

From the sense he got from his Talent, he knew the crowd would peak soon. “Alright, you got my back?” he asked, turning to Lincoln.

“Don’t worry, I have a couple ways to cause a distraction if things go wrong.” The boy scanned the area and nodded to him. “So, don’t you worry.”

Lincoln's nod didn't reassure Hector much, but he would have to trust his friend. It still bothered him that Lincoln was lying about something—they were like brothers, and if it was a problem, he should have come to him straight away—but whatever it was, now was not the time.

Hector walked forward, acting as normal as possible given he was trying to steal from someone. He adjusted his mask, stepping into the crowd, blending in as best he could. His heart hammered in his chest, his ears filling with the sound of blood. It was funny in a way; he had spent so much time worrying if his friends were ready. But was he?

He bumped into a man who seemed too drunk to notice. He’d be a suitable target, but he wasn’t the one. Hector continued to scan the crowd, his eyes going from waist to waist, searching for any loose pouches.

He was overthinking things; what would the perfect target even look like? Were they too young, were they too old? These things had to become irrelevant to him. In the end, he pushed down his concerns and picked a victim.

I’m sorry, whoever you are. If I ever run across you again in the future, I’ll make it up to you somehow.

Hector didn’t pay too much attention—at least he tried to make it look like he wasn’t—as he walked beside the man. He lifted an arm, carefully inching it towards him, and as the man went to take one more step, Hector bumped into him, stumbled back, and cursed. “Sorry, sir, it’s the mask—really makes things difficult to see,” he said.

“Damn street filth. Watch where you’re going,” the man huffed, dusting down his coat and walking away.

Well, that was easier than I thought. Now the next one.

After the first successful pickpocket, the ones after that were easier. It was like how starting a task was hard, but continuing was easy. Though it didn’t make the guilt feel any easier to bear. Over ten minutes, he’d taken at least four pouches. It was probably time to head somewhere else; staying here would bring too much attention once people started noticing the common theme.

Hector pushed his way through the crowd, passing by the concerned faces of those he’d taken from. Many looked furious, others in shock. It made sense—at least, if you had money growing up, it made sense. But if you were a slum dweller like him, most would be glad to still have their lives. It was probably shocking to these well-off folks.

They don’t deserve this, but I need this. My family needs this.

Hector didn’t spot Lincoln where he’d left him; instead, the boy stood a little way down by a dessert stall. Why had he moved? Hector looked around, seeing if he could spot any guards. There were none.

He must not have wanted to draw too much attention just standing there.

The coin pouches Hector had collected jingled at his waist. It satisfied part of him—he hated that—while the other was a little disgusted. But now it was done. As he moved from the crowd, he noticed an old woman shouting. The same as any other partially malnourished lady you’d find in the slum. The only noticeable thing about her was the long, striking scars dug deep into her exposed forearms, like gutters filled with the dirt of years of suffering. But scars were not uncommon in the slums.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

“Repent, you sinners, repent!” she yelled, shaking her fist at those who walked by and spitting at others. “You fools are all out here celebrating while those Great Houses look down on us. Was the Nightcroft’s sacrifice not enough? Did not enough people die for you to realize that you are all pigs ready for the slaughter when those noble Mana Cultivators come for your necks?”

Hector frowned as he made his way towards Lincoln. He’d heard of the Nightcroft incident; everyone in the slum had. It was the one time in recent history that they’d fought back. A waste many had called it. Even now—not that people could tell—the slums hadn’t fully recovered from its effects.

“Hey man, why did you move?” Hector asked, walking up to Lincoln. He frowned, crossing his arms, waiting for a reply.

Lincoln chuckled, scratching his head and pointing a few stalls down. There, three Phoenix company initiates stood. Dressed in dark red robes embroidered with gold filigree, they stood out. The edges of their robes were accented black, and on their fingers were gold rings with a sigil on them.

They seemed happy as they chatted to a few people and greeted a few others. They were practically celebrities. “I don’t want to get too caught up with them, you know, since I have a few more things than I should...”

Well, I feel like a bit of an idiot.

There was no guarantee, but Lincoln was right—an oddity in of itself. It was probably best that they avoided them. People would most likely start to report that their pouches had been stolen, and two scruffy-looking teenagers with masks on would probably stand out.

“So, where to next, wise leader?” Lincoln said with a chuckle.

----------------------------------------

Mirae looked around her, taking in the sights of the Hilda festival. But it was wrong. Everything was gray scaled; it was a dull color. No life, no joy. The people that walked by were nothing but outlines.

What is this? Is it another one?

She couldn’t control when visions came to her. They would strike unprompted, sending her into a world much like this. Colorless, lifeless, but not empty. If she paid attention, the world would show her things deemed important to her.

A feeling welled up inside her, something she couldn’t shake. She learned—rather regrettably—that when this feeling occurred; it was best to follow it. She turned, moving away from where she stood and heading deeper into the festival. The music was hollow, empty, and the confetti of yellow and red was a dull gray.

When she’d first got visions, it’d been uncomfortable. It felt like a dream, but she knew it wasn’t. Now she was much more accustomed to the sight, though it still left her feeling helpless. When a vision came, no matter how she felt, it reminded her that she had to follow, and there was nothing she could do to change what was coming.

But still, she believed there could be a change. After all, why show her these things if there was nothing she could do about them? What would be the purpose?

She continued to walk, moving past gray scaled festival-goers enjoying life to the fullest with their families and loved ones. She was envious. Happy for them, but envious. Her family had never been able to enjoy the Hilda festival. They’d been too poor. Even now, instead of enjoying it like she wanted, she worked. What she was doing—even though not directly involved—was a crime, but it could still be considered work.

Mirae noticed a light in the distance—often a sign of something she should pay attention to—frowning; she followed it. She walked through more gray scale people and paused. The light was a figure; they looked familiar, but she wasn’t sure. They were saying something to a guard. Whatever it was, the guard took it seriously.

What are they talking about? Maybe I should get closer?

Before she could take a step, the world rushed by in a haze of gray. People rushed all around, buzzing through her faster than she could track. When it stopped, the figure was gone, and a new one had replaced it. She moved towards it, not wanting them to get away this time.

She’d already reacted too slowly, and the vision had moved on. She needed to be fast this time. Finally, after a few moments, she made it. And this new figure turned out to be her brother. In front of him, a guard stood; it was not the same one she’d seen previously. But this one looked just as angry.

“Hector!” Mirae called out. He didn’t respond. He never did, but still, each time she saw him in trouble in one of these visions, she called to him. The guard reached forward and grabbed him, while Lincoln—from what she could make out in his gray scaled form—took off.

He raced by her, not stopping to look back. Coward. Mirae ran towards her brother, eager to get a look at the man who would capture him. But as she moved, the world shook, beginning to dim. The vision was ending.

No, no, no. Not yet. I need more time. Give me more time.

----------------------------------------

Mirae shot up, jumping from the chair she had fallen asleep in. Mr. Pennybrook, who stood on the other side of the room with a list in hand, jolted, dropping the notebook. “By the Great Lake, whatever is the problem? Were you having a nightmare or something?”

Mirae reached forward and steadied herself on the table, looking around the room in fright. She had to leave now. She had to find Hector. Turning, Mirae bolted up the steps and out into the stall, ignoring the calls of Mr. Pennybrook behind her. She didn’t have time to explain—even if she did, the man wouldn’t believe her; no one ever did.

In the stall, she passed by several browsing customers, bumping into some and narrowly avoiding others. But through all, she was careful not to knock over any talismans. The situation was bad, but it hadn’t become dire. She could still save her brother without causing any more problems—she hoped.

She passed through the stall’s doorframe, pausing in a slow crowd of people out front. People complained, some nudging her. But she paid them no mind. Instead, she focused, trying to remember the direction she’d taken in the vision.

Come on, come on. There!

Mirae darted forward, ducked under strangers, and sidestepped others. She’d be proud of herself if she wasn’t so worried. She had to change her vision. If Hector got caught—well, the guards weren’t known for their mercy.