*CONTRACT*

*relax*

*Contract*

*Relax*

Something is enveloping me. Something thick. Something warm and welcoming. Something alive. how long has this been going on? Too long. Each contraction is weaker. Each relaxation period is longer. Suddenly a pressure pushes down on me.

*Guiding pressure*

*Contract*

*Guiding shove*

*Relax..*

*Guiding Prod*

*Guiding Shove*

*Shuddering*

*Weak Squealing*

  Something is definitely wrong. I should be moving with the new pressure, but I'm stuck. Should I move? How do I move? Endless weakness is all I can feel, both from myself and the quivering life around me. Slowly the pressure increases in rhythm before stopping completely. Something is very wrong, but so very right. Am I in the wrong or is it the weakness around me? Is the pressure wrong or is it my own weakness? Time slowly passes and I suddenly feel less. The pressure around me is abating. Leaving. Liberating me. Just moments later, the warm enclosure is retched open and everything assaults me. How? I can't tell, just that something is hitting me. Is it pain? I can't tell. What I can tell is that the warmth is also leaving. Slowly something alien takes me from my enclosure. Feeling a slight pulling sensation, I empty myself before shortly filling myself. Repeating the cycle, I feel it around me, air.

<*_*_*>

  Staring at my corner resentfully, I watch as the others expose their weakness. Lying on the backs and stomachs, some on their sides or flopping ontop of others. Tens of tiny meat sacks, asking for something I want to give. Pity? Assistance? Power? No. Release. Fiddling with my makeshift spear, I smile. I help you soon. I'll help you all soon. waddling up to the youngest and therefore the easiest, I hold the crudely sharpened tip on his neck, I jump and land on two branch stubs I had shortened to accommodate my feet. With a juicy squeal, I watch as he squirms and wheezes for breath. Waiting for him to give in, I smile. I helped him and I feel good. Pulling my weapon out, I sigh as I inspect my blunted tip. I really couldn't do better than this weapon. The orphanage mothers kept anything metallic away from us saying its dangerous, but I wasn't discouraged! I slowly worked on a fallen branch with a sharp rock. Why not bring the rock in? Well, I tried. First I was caught trying to bring it directly and had to throw it away. My second attempt was to leave it close to the hut, but one of the mothers disposed of it due to it being a hazard for the incompetent. After several tries, I gave up on conventional and easier methods.

  So how did I get my prized spear in? I finished making it a week prior to tonight. Our little orphanage relies heavily on wood to fuel our dilapidated fireplace. Without fire, the cold wind comes down the chimney so it has to be blazing in order to keep the cold out. Without manpower, the mothers use ordinary branches and twigs gathered by the older orphans. I just slipped my lethal tool in with the pile and waited. Every morning a mother accompanied by an older orphan would bring in a pile and every morning I would happily run around them while checking the heap. Already over the next useless waste, I position my tool and jump. Not doing as much damage as the last time, I try to get off only to slip. Pawing at the makeshift handles, I lean closer and push down. Hearing the satisfying sounds of distress, I slap his hands away and push again only to slip on the weakness that fills them all. Feeling the struggle weaken below me, I clumsily claw around until I grip my handles once again. Lifting slightly, I plunge it back in, only deeper this time. Exhaling in satisfaction, I jerk my weapon out and wipe the weakness invading my eyes.

  Was it that easy to get a weapon inside? No. I can't control which piece of firewood is used in which order. If I was larger in size, I could have placed it near the bottom of the pile. Sadly, At only seven years old, my size seems to be average yet short. My strength, weak, but my intelligence is leaps and bounds superior when compared to my peers. All of my peers. I had two accomplices, both having gone through the same routine several times with ordinary pieces of firewood several times. We would take turns keeping it hidden from the mothers and away from other incompetents. Sometimes we would succeed and other times we would be caught and questioned. Fortunately, it was only a game for them. They couldn't even keep their name a secret, how could I trust them with anything else? To them, this was all a game, all for a favor in return. One that I just returned. What better can they hope for than being freed from their weak and worthless selves. Life is like rolling a dice. Some are lucky, some damned, others just mediocre and hidden within the masses of writhing disappointments.

  Moving onto the next, I freeze. It shrieked. It was frightened. Not of me, but of all of the weakness coating me. Their weakness that is still draped all over me like a coat to be discarded. Like my mother. Smiling kindly, I approach the panicking thing. Stroking its cheek as it wailed in terror, I try to soothe it, "Shhh. Shhh. Shhh. Shhhhh. It will all go away soon. Just close your eyes and count to four." Pushing the blunted tip into its neck, push with one hand hold the top and one stabilizing the blunt and slippery tip near her neck. I guess I should acknowledge her gender now that she's about to move on. Pushing harder, my stringy arms quiver with strain and fatigue as I struggle to push against her resistance. Just when I could feel her hands start to slip, I fly backward into the air.

  Stagnating a meter above the worn wooden flooring, I glance up to find Mother Manilla holding me with a horrified expression. This is why I can't be here. All the mothers truly believe that they offset all the pollution and waste they themselves produce with their existence. Their paltry existence. Glancing down at the still living bundle of disappointment, I sigh. I guess it's time I left the orphanage for good. Using the mother's hand to my advantage, I swing to one side and she predictably tries to keep me under control by yanking me in the opposite direction. This is where I show these lowlifes the difference. I just as quickly swing with the mother's pull and bash her head with what force I could muster. With an awkward fall, I nudge the fallen mother before wrestling with her grip to getaway. Giving the whimpering thing one last look, I glance at my innovative piece of firewood and then to the mothers' quarters. Frowning, I decide to leave before the others decide to detain me. I can make another weapon. A better weapon. A real weapon.

  Opening the door leading outside, I glance one more time at the survivor. I will be back for her. Quietly closing the door as another mother groggily trudges out of their quarters, I start running past the courtyard and into the maze of alleyways and patchwork homes that make up the slums. I wonder if I can find my father somewhere. Right now, I need warmth. I suppose I could slip into a stable and huddle up with a horse, or steal the heavy coats off one of them and find my own corner. The only problem is that horses are for the rich and cannot be found in the slums. Glancing at the people passing me by, I inspect their belongings. I could just mug one of the children. but I suppose that any number of the other pedestrians could get in the way. Best to be safe first. I can figure out the rest later.

<*_*_*>

  "Boss! He's on his way," I shout from the bakery roof. As annoying as it is, joining this racketeering group is a great way to get out of the slums without going through the security inspections. What changed? For one, I'm wanted for three murders. Yes, the mother died by simply being clubbed. Why is this important? Well, orphans don't matter and I could've lied low until everyone stopped caring, but the mother. She has a husband, and that husband works for the local guard squad as a logistics coordinator. Why is this important? Well, the local guard squad is the local tyrant, and what they say goes. The benefit of working for them is stability for their families, something I violated.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  Watching one specific drunken guard sauntering down the alley, I hunch down closer to the roof ridge. Why did I join a racketeering group? Simple, I need a window to escape this area. Once I'm out, my identity shouldn't matter. I'm sure they would've done something eventually, but how am I supposed to know exactly when? That's why after two years I've finished all preparations. Today's the day, and now's the time. Glancing down at the foolishly smiling and equally wasted prostitution circuit owner, I shake my head. A few sentences, while he was drunk, is all it took to get him to attack. Waiting for the guard to round the corner, I slowly inch my way to the drain pipe. Roofs in the slums might not be structurally safe or aesthetic, but they get the job done. With half the year bringing rain, a drainpipe, no matter how cheap, is necessary.

  Climbing down the pipe as quietly as possible, I make sure my brave and drunk leader is focusing on the grinning guard before slinking into the alleyways. While I navigate through broken shacks and cluttered back alleys, I smirk. The guard is what we call a "John", Someone who trades for sexual favors. The only problem is he pushes for a kiddie stroll more than anything else, something the slum doesn't have. As easy as it is to kidnap a few kids and kill their families if needed, the other guards raided the racket when the first kiddie stroll was arranged years before I joined. It's either offend one or offend them all. This John in particular causes problems every week because the boss refuses to find him a prepubescent girl to diddle.

  Reaching into my makeshift pouch, I pull out a rotting scrap of meat. Stopping at a well-made fence, I pull one of the planks out and swing it out of the way. Immediately, I spot the steaming breath of the apothecary's hound. Dangling it around the opening, I wait for it to get close. While fighting a guard might cause a commotion, killing one will cause a manhunt. As I mentioned before, I joined a racketeering group. The pimp I just set up is only a lower-tier member, someone recognizable, but not high enough to move the group. The caveat is that his sister runs the group. hunting down a pimp? Easy. Hunting down someone belonging to one of the three biggest crime gangs in the slum? Much harder. So how does the guard die? The good apothecary set me up with a crude toxic paste. Easily treatable, but fast-acting. Do I really care what it's made of? No. The only problem is that I picked the paste just this morning. If said apothecary decides to talk, escaping the slums won't do me much good.

  As the hound's snout poked through the gap, I feed the scrap to it. Crawling into the gap as the snout retreated, I empty the rest of my pouch's contents on the ground. A few more scraps of meat, two dead rats, a cat, and a healthy dose of Lucy. Scrambling past the beast of a hound, I fumble with its chains. In just a few hours, the hound should turn feral. Why? Lucy is a drug used in the slum for dogfighting. Since building-sized dogs with sharp claws and teeth aren't exciting, they drug the dogs so that they feel no pain and attack anything around them. Finally hearing a satisfying click, I wrench the padlock apart. Untangling the chains, I make sure they can't be caught on anything. Sighing, I look backward to see the hound watching me. No food left on the ground, no food left in its mouth. Swallowing, I slowly take off my own food sack. Something I prepared for myself after getting out of the slums. A few choice picks of dread meat and rations. Emptying it on the ground, I back away with the empty sack.

  Cursing, I leave through another loose board on the other side of the yard. Food can be found later, what matters is the next step, breaking out. The guard should have been solved by now. If the pimp didn't end him, his freshly maintained dagger should have done the job for him. At least another twenty minutes before the manhunt begins. Running past various beggers and nasty little wastes of space, I dash into a familiar house. Small, dilapidated, but adequate. The owner is called Maggie, an old witch with no friends or family. "Hey, Maggie! It's time for me to leave, do you want me to get anything for you? A gift or souvenir perhaps?" Wrapping my fist in ratty rags, I break a rotten floorboard and scoop my belongings out. A few knives, all rusted and hand sharpened myself. A dirty coil of rope, able to hold my weight and just a bit more. A worn piece of flint, and a rat skin container for water. Glancing up, I find Maggie watching me. Always watching, never blinking.

  Lifting the worn cot, I grab my walking stick. Sturdy, dark, and easy to lift or swing. The only defect is the slightly disjointed bottom portion, all part of the design. Leaving the sacks that smell like food, more specifically meat, I load my effects into a burlap bag modified to be a backpack. Looking around the room I sigh, "I really will miss you, Maggie. You taught me how to hide and erase all signs of murder over these short years. I guess I deserved it since I helped you, but I truly won't forget." Walking over to Maggie, I give her rocking chair a gentle push. Turning to the entrance, I grimace as something thuds behind me. Glancing backward, I find Maggie's skull rolling on the ground. I really took care of her, boiling the flesh off of her bones, pulling what little scraps off by hand, clearing the sinews and bone marrow, and whitening thanks to the local apothecary. May he be released soon. Thinking of putting her head back in place, I snort. It's time I sent a few more to accompany them.

  Leaving through the front, I trace my way around the little hovel and start jogging through the dirty gullies. Only one thing left to do, clean up the loose ends. Back to the beginning. Back to my past. Back to the victim awaiting liberation. Seeing the familiar mothers busily milling around and the equally busy children running in circles, I smile. Reaching into my backpack, I pull out one of the smaller knives. It's sharp but fragile. Worst case scenario, I leave it in her. Taking the scarf off my face, I grin. Angling my face downward, I walk straight into the familiar courtyard. Straight into the little orphanage. Sticking to the walls, I bumble my way around until I find her talking to one of the mothers. "Gwen, you knew that you'll end up in the circuits. If you just accepted one of the better off suitors, you would have lived comfortably for a couple of years," the mother whispered. Scrutinizing my target, I frown at the distinct lack of distress. No fear. No anxiety. No juicy desires. Nothing.

  For the first time, I didn't feel like killing her. I didn't feel like it was worth it. She has already given up. She isn't worth being released. Turning around, I leave the orphanage. Covering my face with my torn scarf, I make my way to the guard station. She isn't worth killing right now, but I'll be back. If not once then twice. If not twice then thrice. As long as she becomes worth killing, I'll find her. As long as she becomes worth killing, I'll gladly release her from her disappointing life so that she can move onto the next. I'll wait. Gently putting the knife back into the backpack, I stop just out of sight from the guard station. We'll both wait for you to become worthy.

  Glancing around the corner, I watch four guards casually chatting. I'm early. Either the guard hasn't died yet or he has and they don't know yet. Another four minutes pass by and I finally see someone run into the station. That's my queue. I slowly start ambling towards the station. No clear destination, no clear intention. Just like most people in the slums, there shouldn't be any resolve or purpose behind my movements. Calm. The messenger runs out towards the guard's quarters. Normally only a squad of six are on duty at any point in time. Calm as the dead. Two guards dash out of the station with their swords holstered to their hips. Just a few more seconds to the station, but there are still two guards inside. I need one more to leave. Tranquil as a graveyard. Hearing my heart beating faster, I suppress my grin. I need to be calm. Nothing can give me away. About thirteen steps away, still no movement. Do I turn back? The evidence is gone, but my disappearance from the fight is suspicious. It's best if I go forward. Unmoving like Maggie.

  The guard station is a short knee height gated fence with a small hut on the side. Just a few buildings away is the guard's quarters. Chances are that someone will run this way. I need to be dead inside like Gwen. Relaxing my shoulders, I slouch slightly. Reaching out to the bell, I tap it. With a shuffle of footsteps, both of the remaining guards come out. Two is one too many. Sighing, I opt to gamble. Positioning my walking stick between my feet, I lean on it while slouching, "Sir, I was told to retrieve a silver and green brooch. Could you please check if you've found it?" Whistling, one of the guards smirk, "A brooch huh? You mean like the ones your mother probably wore when we made you?" Cackling, the other guard says while cocking his eyebrow, "If it's not your mother's then is it possible that it's from when we've patronized your sister?" Clearing my throat, I say, "I'm an orphan, one of the mothers sent me." Frowning, one of them stalks back inside while the other one stays idly inspecting me.

  Twisting my walking stick gently, I ask, "Sir, what does that medal mean?" Pointing to one of the shiny, but cheap-looking decorations on his uniform, he looks to find me stabbing at him. The bottom portion of my walking stick gone and a long, thin, rusty nail in its place. Piercing his neck, I let the walking stick go and pull out one of my better knives. No witnesses can be left behind. Not now. Not ever. Grabbing at the guard's uniform, I slowly lower him to the ground as I cross the short fence. Slowly creeping up to the hut entrance, I wait. I can't predict where the other guard is in the hut. Best, not test my luck. Hearing the muffled fall of footsteps getting closer, I hunch down closer to the hut wall and wait. The first thing I see is a glimmering brooch floating in the air. Next comes the hand to catch it. Judging from the hand height, I adjust my aim. Seeing his chin appear, I walk forward and thrust upward. Lodging the knife next to his Adam's apple, I pull it out and stab again. Ignoring his idiotic look I push him down and stab him twice more for finality. Stepping into the hut I glance at the interior. Finding a dagger, I grab some foodstuff and the dagger before running past the gate separating the slums from the rest of the city.

I'm ready for the world. Is it ready for me?