As the sun dipped below the horizon, Baylon, Ijoma, and Adanmaz trudged past factories made of stone and old lijan, sculpted fungus long-solidified and turned a grey-green. Their limbs throbbed from hours at the loom. Adanmaz sent a stone skittering across the crystalized lijan roadway, its noise a stark contrast to the evening's stillness.

Then, the mundane transformed. Banners, a blaze in blue and gold, sliced through the dusk. They fluttered against the monochrome backdrop of the factory. A chorus of voices, synchronized and strong, overpowered the factory’s monotonous hum.

Baylon's pulse quickened, drawn to the unfolding rebellion. The banners were bold, their messages louder than their colors: "Fair Wages!", "Children Deserve Dreams!", "Break the Chains!". Words once hushed now thundered through the streets.

Ijoma's hand, rough from the loom, found Baylon’s. Her eyes, usually so reserved, flickered with a mix of wonder and apprehension. Adanmaz stood back.

Baylon hesitated, caught between his friends. The allure of the protest tugged at him, but tales of reprisal whispered in his mind. Beatings and worse.

He tightened his grip on Ijoma's hand and stepped forward. Baylon grabbed Adanmaz’s hand and pulled him along, and their voices melded with the multitude’s.

The crowd’s vitality banished Baylon's reservations. Ijoma, grinning, pulled him deeper. "Let's go, Baylon!" she urged.

His last shred of doubt shattered. Around him, faces beamed with resolve. More than workers, they were a united front. Baylon, buoyed by Ijoma’s push and the palpable hope around him, delved further into the throng. Adanmaz followed, but his head hung and shoulders slouched.

Chants of "Fair Pay!" and "Free Our Children!" swelled. The smoky scent of torches intermingled with the thick air of defiance. The crowd, a singular force, pulsated with vibrant resistance.

Baylon chanted, his voice once timid, now part of a powerful chorus. "Fair Pay! Free Our Children!" The unfamiliar words liberated him.

Ijoma, her features glowed in the torchlight, her smile a stark contrast to the grime on her face. The roar of the crowd resonated within Baylon. Passionate faces shouted, and fists clenched. Banners waved like battle flags in the night.

Stories of guard brutality and his family's suffering anchored him. He yearned to immerse himself in the protest, but at what cost?

Ijoma said, "We can't accept this life!"

Core City Guards holding projectile staves began to assemble at the crowd's edges, forming silent, threatening lines.

The protest's melody seemed to ebb away, leaving only the drumbeat of his heart.

A boy jumped atop the roof of a parked roadwheel. His eyes scanned the crowd. “I work in the factories,” he began, his voice small but gaining strength. “Every day, before the sun is even up, we’re there. Our hands moving faster than our thoughts, threading, weaving, cutting. Suweve fibers running through our fingers like rivers of gold, but we don’t get any of that gold!”

He paused, brushing a lock of hair from his eyes. “The machines... they don't stop! They don't care if your hand is tired or is in the way!” He held up his hand and showed two missing fingers. “The sound of them... it's in my ears. A never-ending clatter. Drowns out everything else!”

Baylon listened, his own struggles reflected in the words. The boy continued, “We were like the gocki in the fields, rolling into ourselves, trying to get by in the harshness. But there's no hiding from the long hours or the meager pay that barely feeds our families!”

A woman in the crowd wiped a tear, her eyes fixed on the young speaker. “And if you speak out,” the boy's voice cracked slightly, “if you dare to ask for more, for better... they look at you like you're a broken part of their machine. Something to be replaced, not repaired!”

He took a deep breath, the air heavy with the burden of his words. “But today, we are not silent! Today, we are the voice of every bleeding back! Every dream that's been crushed! We are the Broken Cogs!”

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The crowd erupted in cheers, their voices rising like a tide against the shore of injustice. The boy stood taller, his words not just his own, but an anthem for every factory worker, every tired hand, every hopeful heart in Core City.

The boy's plea for a better life echoed, amplified by the Guards' looming presence. Baylon saw shared pain and hope in the eyes around him, now shadowed by the fear of the Guards' potential action.

His heart pounded with indecision. The protest's echoes, the boy's words, and his family's silent plea clashed.

Ijoma stepped towards the heart of the protest, hand outstretched. Baylon hesitated, their shared yearning now overshadowed by the silent, intimidating presence of the Guards.

Baylon moved closer. Adanmaz clung to him and said, “Don’t. The guards.”

The guards moved forward. “We have to go,” Baylon said. Ijoma hesitated, but Baylon grabbed her, and they withdrew from the protest.

Their steps echoed on the cobblestones as they walked away, each step a reminder of the protest they left behind. The banners and speeches faded into dusk.

Their walk home was a quiet journey, punctuated by the city's mocking lights, glass globes infused with kynik dust.

“We have to act!” Ijoma said.

Their footsteps blended with the city’s rhythm. The sounds of protest faded into the background.

“We have to live,” Adanmaz said.

Baylon's heart wove regret with burgeoning resolve.

“Maybe there’s another way?” Baylon said. The struggle didn’t have to manifest in shouts or banners. Maybe their rebellion could be in a quest for opportunities beyond the oppressive walls of the factory.

Ijoma said, “Maybe that won’t happen unless we do something.”

#

Under two moons' ethereal light, Baylon and Ijoma sat huddled, the faint light cast red and green shadows across Ijoma’s worried face.

Around them, the city's cacophony had faded, replaced by the rhythmic chirping of mirtis. The stillness pressed down on them

Ijoma, shivering slightly in the cool night air, pulled her thin shawl tighter. Baylon, feeling her tremble, leaned closer for warmth.

Baylon could sense Ijoma's unspoken questions from the day's events.

The factory's metallic stink hung in the air, a reminder of the life they yearned to leave behind. Their eyes met, and in that gaze, Baylon saw a reflection of their united resolve.

“We have to do something,” Ijoma said.

“What?”

“Protest. Fight. Make our lives better.”

Baylon didn’t answer. A roadwheel rattled past in the night.

“How?”

“Have you heard of Okamen?”

“Sure.” Everyone had heard of the union man.

“He can tell us how.”

“Isn’t he in jail?” The night air sent a chill down Baylon’s back. He shivered.

“He was. He got out, I heard.” Ijoma, said.

“Oh. I hadn’t heard.”

Their muted conversation continued, a gentle hymn of aspiration. The protest’s reverberations had subsided, yet the spark it had kindled within them remained.

Baylon said, “There were a lot of guards.”

“Too many blue uniforms.” Ijoma nodded.

“They could have gotten us. Come for our families.”

Ijoma stared at him, her jaw tense. “What else can we do?”

Spurred by Ijoma's unwavering gaze, something within Baylon stirred.

“We deserve better,” Ijoma said. “We deserve to control our fates.”

His heart fluttered with a mix of trepidation and longing. “I know.”

“Maybe we can do small things,” Ijoma said. “Share ideas, little acts of protest. A lot of small things add up.”

“Threads in a loom.”

“Exactly!”

Baylon's smile, tentative at first, brightened. They might not partake in the vociferous protests, but their silent, persistent rebellion could still forge a difference.

Ijoma's eyes sparkled with the reflection of their shared dream. "One day, things will get better," Ijoma said, her voice tinged with hope.

“They can’t get worse.”

“Sure they can,” Ijoma said.

Baylon pictured his family kicked out of their apartment, starving, jailed. “I guess that’s true.”

“But we can fight! We can teach and learn. Start a school or something.”

“That would be amazing!”

Ijoma spread her arms over the city. “Picture a schoolhouse, hidden, but with glowing windows that show the way to the things they don’t want us to know.”

“Wow.”

"Picture us learning beyond the loom's monotony, Baylon," she whispered. "We won't let them steal our dreams.”

Baylon felt a turmoil of emotions – weighed down by responsibility and fear, but uplifted by Ijoma's spirit. "They won't beat us," he vowed.

Their pact, forged under the watchful eyes of twin moons, brimmed with peril, but they were not alone.

"Can we make a difference?" he asked, the enormity of their endeavor looming before him.

"Let's share stories, share ideas. The more people who think like us, the better."

Their truths mattered.

This idea sparked clarity in Baylon's turmoil. Forbidden skills could form their silent rebellion, turning words into weapons for a better life.

“But I don’t know how to read,” Baylon said. The weight of the task pressed down in his chest.

“I do.”

“I know. But I don’t.”

“Then we start there,” Ijoma said.

"Teach me," Baylon said, his voice carrying a new purpose.

Ijoma smiled. "Together," she affirmed. "We'll light up the dark.”

They solidified their pact in the city's hush

"I'm with you," he declared. "We'll fight for more than a life in the factory."

Ijoma echoed his determination. "Together, all of us."

The city, a confining space, looked bigger in the moonlight, full of possibilities.