“Hear me out, Dash.”

The pair of us stood in the alley next to the Bushwhack, the trashy little eatery that was cutting into our restaurant’s sales. I had told Dash to meet me here last night, claiming I needed his help. My brother’s curiosity wasn’t his strongest trait at the best of times, but I made sure to phrase it as if the situation was life-or-death. It was, just not in the immediate sense. After all, if our regulars stopped coming to eat, then we wouldn’t be eating.

“Orv…”

Dash stood in front of me, his short, white hair and pale skin making him seem almost bald. Taking him with me on a night operation seemed foolish at first, given how he was probably more luminous than a bloodtech bulb, but this was a two-person operation, and the rest of the family wouldn’t join in on this kind of stuff. Dash would come, if I persuaded with the Dolphin’s tongue.

Though he had already turned to leave.

“No-no wait,” I pleaded, grabbing his shoulder. “How many customers have we lost in this month, hmm? We’re down to nearly half of what we had. The Bushwhack’s just too cheap; no working citizen can turn down those prices!”

Dash sighed and rubbed his shorn hair. “Orv, if Bar Eats shuts down we’ll be fine. Ma’s got the money from training Uncle Jackson. There’s nothing wrong with cheap food anyway, you'd be a hypocrite if you thought that.”

“Firstly,” I replied. “It’s not Bar Eats, it’s Hole in the Wall now. Secondly, Jackson’s training is going to be finished in two, maybe three years. After that he’s off to do whatever Blooded do. If we don’t have the Hole then, we’re not eating. Thirdly, it’s not the cheap food I’m worried about. It’s how cheap the food is.”

“Orv, we need to settle on a name-“

I interrupted. “Bar Eats is a garbage name. You know it-.”

“Right, but we do need-“

“We’d lose half the charm if we settled on a name-“

“You mean you’d be able to stop messing with customers-“

“They like it anyway, you know they-“

“I don’t like it-“

“Enough!” I yelled. “We’re getting side-tracked. The place is doing something dodgy, so-“

A woman slammed open her shutters above us, shouting “By the blood, shut your damn mouths!”, before cracking them closed again. Dash punched me in the arm, and I winced. He was strong, for a nine-year-old.

“Cheap food’s fine,” I whispered. “Good, even. But there’s a limit. No way they’re making a profit with those prices. Something’s going on. Don’t the customers have a right to know what it is?”

I could see Dash weighing my proposition. Although it took less than five seconds for him to weigh it, turn and try to leave.

“Hey-hey-hey.” I grabbed his shoulder, hoping he wasn’t annoyed enough to throw me onto the dirt. “If you don’t help me, I’m still going. Nothing’s changing. Help me out. Do your brother a favour. I carried you and Sash across a battlefield, you know.”

“Yes, Orv, I know,” he sighed. “You always say that when you’re losing an argument. This is a really bad idea. It’s against the law. Ma will hate it.”

“Ma doesn’t need to know. C’mon, you and me. The dynamic duo. The perilous pair. The sinister siblings.”

I could see him trying to supress a smile, and just like that, I knew I had him.

“Okay. But I’m only doing this to keep you out of trouble.”

“That’s the spirit.”

It would be a tragic day when I lost an argument with a kid five years my junior.

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

Dash’s willingness lasted up until I started shoving him down a chimney.

“I really don’t think we should be doing this,” he wheedled. “Ma’s going to be really angry.”

We were on the roof. It had taken so long to get up that I worried the neighbours would call the guard on us. Dash was athletic, but too cautious to have much practice climbing. I ended up having to pull him up from the roof. I could tell he was embarrassed, given that it was a one-storey building, but I assured him that it would be a difficult climb for anyone of his size. He still seemed sheepish.

Of course, it was only when he couldn’t run away that I regaled him with my full plan. He would go down the chimney, open the back door for me, and then I would take a dump in their stove. Dash argued against using a surface the food of dozens of people was made from as a toilet, and eventually, I acceded the point.

I didn’t lose the argument. I acceded it. It takes a wise man to know the difference.

The eatery was large, with tall ceilings and massive front-facing windows – now shuttered – that opened into the main street. Coupled with varnished chairs, sturdy tables, and smooth lacquered walls, some might even say it looked good. Far better than a place with their prices should look, anyway. However, the downside of all this expansive and free-flowing architecture was that the building was as chilly as the Dolphin’s balls. Hence the massive fireplace set between the dining area and the kitchen. The perfect entrance for any would-be investigators.

“Orv?” Dash interrupted my musings. “What if the fire’s still on?”

“It’s not, Dash. You would smell smoke.”

“But what if they’re burning something that doesn’t smell?”

“Like what?”

“Uh, special wood?”

“Then you would see the smoke.”

“But what if it the fire doesn’t have any smoke?”

“Then you would still feel the heat.”

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“But what if it’s a cold fire?”

What?

“What?”

Dash’s struggles stopped momentarily, which I should have taken as an opportunity to push him down. I was still too stunned.

“No but,” he said, brushing over my question, “A really low-heat one.”

“Dash?”

“Yeah?”

“You would still see the fire.”

“Oh. But what if-“

Having climbed onto the lip of the chimney, I used my feet to ram him down. There was a crash and a crack, and abruptly I was struck with the thought that I had killed my only brother, but soon enough he was swearing up at me.

“Orv! You ass!”

I was so proud.

I hopped down, landing next to the back door and rapped on it lightly, hoping that Dash wouldn’t have any trouble finding his way into the kitchen. I shouldn’t have worried, because almost at soon as my knuckles left the wood it was crashing into my nose, propelling me onto hard packed dirt. I blinked, and then a pale form was straddling me, slapping me open-palmed across the head. Blocking with my left arm left me exposed to a few ringing blows across the right side of my skull, but eventually I got enough of a grip on him to manoeuvre my legs under his chest and shove him off.

I was just glad it wasn’t Sash. She was much better at holds. Though, she didn’t get that angry in the first place.

“Sorry, sorry,” I said, shaking the stars out of my eyes. “My bad. Sorry. Thought you would be able to, I don’t know, slow your fall or something.” That was a bit of a white lie; in truth, I hadn’t thought at all.

He stood over me, seemingly mollified by my bruising face. It wasn’t the first time I regretted establishing myself as Dash and Sash’s sparring partner – though it was closer to a punching bag – but I was sturdy enough to take it. It made both of them a bit too comfortable with hitting me. But now I could see his eyes turning downwards, face tensing as he started to feel guilty, which was infinitely better than him sulking for the next day.

“Relax, brother,” I assured, rising to my feet. “I definitely deserved that.” I definitely did. “It just makes us even.” Hopefully. Hopefully he wouldn’t tell Ma.

He nodded, still staring at the ground. I slapped him on the shoulder and moved past him, into the Bushwhack’s kitchen. I was immediately jealous.

Stock pots, frying pans, saucepans, several grills, and even a few cooking implements I had never seen before. At least twenty different knives poked out of two separate chopping blocks. The true star of the show was the bench: a massive stone slab big enough to have four different chefs working on top of it at the same time.

“These bastards…” I murmured. The place was crowded with high-end equipment. However, it took only a few moments to notice that beneath the scent of greasy meats and fish, something stunk. None of the metal shone. The kitchen was filthy. The pots and pans were caked with the remnants of meat and vegetables, while a wooden tub on the floor contained dozens of dishes submerged in brown water.

I wasn’t sure whether they simply didn’t clean before the Bushwhack closed or if the employees had simply been lazy tonight. But either way, if a customer saw this place, they wouldn’t be coming back.

Dash shuffled past me, tentatively sniffing the air. “Smells good,” he murmured.

I scoffed. “Smells of poor hygiene standards. You’d think with those massive windows in the front would provide better ventilation.”

He nodded, and hesitantly began poking through the kitchen. The place was obviously the cause of many a painful bowel movement, yet there was still no explanation for its low prices. I refused to believe it was a matter of logistics; everyone in the Foot got their food from in and around the oasis at the centre of the city. There were no merchants bringing food across the Wastes; there was simply no point.

Whatever the Bushwhack’s secret was, we’d find it inside the building. Unless they didn’t keep their balance books in the building, in which case I would have to track down the owner and break into their house. Or, alternatively, they kept none at all, which would really put some snot in my noodles. Ideally, the Bushwhack’s owner would be stupid, but not that stupid.

While Dash snooped through the kitchen, I investigated the dining area. The place was similarly filthy – neither swept nor mopped, with dishes filled with half-eaten chicken, rice, and the occasional piece of bread splayed across every table – but besides that it looked mostly the same as it did in daylight. Beyond a few broken lumps of charcoal where Dash had fallen.

I found the motherlode in what looked like a storage closet from the outside. It partially functioned as one, containing a mop, bucket, and broom, yet there was an unusual addition to it. A toilet. One that apparently hadn’t been emptied in quite a while, judging by the smell that climbed up my nose and clung to my throat. My entry disturbed a colony of flies, which buzzed angrily, and I hastily made my escape.

I strode back into the kitchen to find Dash poking at the room’s sole oven. He kept opening and closing its door with a perturbed look on his face. “What’s the problem?” I asked, and the pale boy shut the door, and then rapidly opened it again, as if expecting a monster to be hiding inside it.

“Where’s the fire go?”

Immediately, I realised the problem. The Bushwhack had only one chimney, yet given its oven and many stoves, it should have three or four. I squatted next to my brother and rapped on the object a few times, a few dull thuds emanating from it. I smacked the side of it a few times and entirely intentionally, managed to depress something on the outside.

The inside of the oven lit with a dull, red glow. Dash scrambled back as I frantically slapped the side, managing to shut the light off. I sniffed, and turned backwards. “That’s bloodtech, right there.”

Divine technology was recent, and had only arrived in the Foot last year, when some of the old Houses began poking their nose back in our homes. They’d ditched the city for most of a decade, leaving it cut off from the outside world, but they still technically ruled it. They’d brought bloodtech, new inventions manufacture with the Owl’s divinity, back with them.

It was all clear. The Bushwhack didn’t need to buy normal fuel to cook with. I'd heard Godsblood was needed to fuel the contraptions, but given the divinity would return to their Blooded after use it wasn't completely unheard of for people to pay one of the Foot's few Blooded for an open vein. Only a drop was needed. It must've been been massively cheaper. They probably cut corners on cleaning too, but they didn’t need to fork over any money for wood or use dung like most people did. What absolute traitors.

I was annoyed, and reluctantly jealous. We spend mounds of chits on fuel, and hours ferrying it to the restaurant. Scowling, I turned to Dash. “Clear some floor-space in the dining area for me.”

He turned away from the oven and looked at me. “What for?”

“Just do it.”

He sniffed. “What’s the magic word?”

“Please,” I spat.

Reluctantly, he got to work dragging chairs and tables around as I tried to figure out how to pick dung up without getting it all over me. By the time Dash finished, I found no method of egress, so instead I spent the time dragging the oven into the cleared space. I decided to strip my tunic and throw it at Dash, who bemusedly held it as I filled the closet's bucket with poop and began painting the floor.

I slopped most of ‘BOOTLICKER’ onto the ground, though the end was a bit squished where I ran of room. For the those who couldn’t read, I drew a massive circle around the oven ringed with several arrows. By the end I was covered in flies and my feet and hands were an unmentionable colour. The stench was truly indescribable, but the sick glee I felt welling up in me at the vandalism made it almost worth it.

Dash looked at me, clad only in my underwear, silently judging.

“What?”

“This is really messed up, Orv.”

I tutted. “No, come on. Everyone coming to this place would’ve caught food poisoning anyway. Now they’ll avoid it.”

“They probably won’t even open in the morning.”

“Someone will see.”

Dash rubbed his short head. Blue eyes squinted at me. “You’ve been hanging out with the Butcher Street Boys, haven’t you?”

I snorted. “No, absolutely not. You see the shiner they gave me last week?”

“They give you bruises every other week.”

“Well, y’know… Blake’s an ass, but even an ass spews something that doesn’t stink sometimes.”

“Orv…”

“Come on, Dash. The Houses ditched everyone, and now they’re back, suddenly that’s okay? You know how much we needed help eight years ago? The whole city was an inch away from starving. Then everyone got sick. You don’t remember, but people died, Dash, and they just left us to rot.”

“Bushwhack isn’t part of a House though.”

“But they’re letting them take over.”

Dash paused, thinking. “It’s still not right,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s not okay.”

I sighed. “Look, let’s just leave it. What’s done is done. Let’s head to the Hole.”

He looked at me, as if to say ‘What is the Hole?’ only to realise what I was talking about. “Bar Eats, you mean.”

“Bar Eats is awful. Sash always picks the worst names. Let’s just go home, get some sleep.”

He sniffed, then recoiled. “You’re going a different way. And getting a wash.”

I nodded sagely, then wiped my hands in his hair.