Like a sudden crash of thunder, the baby’s cries split the otherwise still and silent air. A few of the people in the nearby buildings stuck their heads outside in annoyance, only to see a nondescript wooden box seemingly filled with cloth. It seemed to be the source of the noise.

    Many of the gazes now tempered by pity retreated back inside, closing their doors and shutters in an attempt to drown out the worst of the wailing. No one, not even the night shift of thieves who kept an eye out for inebriated targets had noticed when the box was placed there. But the area was certainly aware of its presence now.

    An abandoned child in the slums was nothing new. The people here barely managed to eke out a living for themselves, let alone a stable family. They pitied the child who had done nothing to deserve its cruel fate, but they would not go so far as to spend their own limited resources saving it.

    As the night wore on, the cries died down, though without checking, no one could be sure whether the infant was dead or sleeping. And no one cared enough to look.

    The question was answered as the sun broke the ridges of the buildings, bathing the box in its unforgiving heat and light. The baby awoke, letting out unhappy shrieks once more into the apathetic surroundings. With the day’s traffic, the passerby each glanced at the box before continuing on their way down the street between the shabbily built wooden housing. Once in a while, someone would break off from the flow to pause as if in contemplation, then shrug and return to the steam.

    Once again, the cries subsided, much to the relief of those surrounding the area. Night fell.

    Two pairs of boots paused beside the box.

    “Is it dead?” One man asked the other, staring skeptically at the bundle inside.

    “What’s it matter? Alive or dead, it don’t need th’ box. That’s quality wood, that is.”

    “I don’ like it. Takin’ from th’ dead’s bad luck, and takin’ from a child ain’t much better.”

    “Put yer superstitions aside, idiot. We’s already livin’ a cursed life.” He reached inside and gathered the cloth together with the infant and placed it unceremoniously on the ground next to the box. The movement immediately set the child off again. “Shuddup afore I skin ya!” he glared at the bundle threateningly.

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    “Come on, Jarl, let’s get outta here,” the other man said nervously.

    “Alrigh’, alrigh’. I take no pleasure in killin’ babes neither, an’ it’ll be dead on its own soon ‘nuff.” The man called Jarl picked up the box. Glancing inside, his eyes were caught by a small sheaf of paper. He pulled it out, stared at the writing, then tossed it aside. “Can’ read it. Le’ss go.”

    Hesitating for a moment, the other man picked up the fallen scrap and tucked it into the cloths surrounding the child. He put his hands together in prayer over the infant before scurrying off after Jarl.

    For the next two days, the child continue to cry out, its cries not seeming to weaken in the least. At one point, irritation with the child had hit a high point with several of the nearby residents contemplating spilling innocent blood to regain the peace, but the moment had passed. Now, they had come to accept the child’s noise as part of the background. None of them believed it could keep up this strength for too much longer.

    At night, two new pairs of boots paused in front of the child who was once again in a screaming pattern.

    “This’s the legendary caterwaulin’ creature, huh?” One of the men asked over the noise.

    “Yessir. Hasn’ died or weakened, far as anyone can tell.”

    “Hah. I like it. It wants ta fight tha world, let’s give it a fightin’ chance.”

    He bent down and gathered the noisy bundle, cradling it in one muscular arm against himself. His warm, brown eyes looked fondly upon the little fighter. The paper that the previous thief had tucked in slipped out with the movement, but the new man deftly caught it in his free hand. One look at it caused him to shake his head. He could make no more out of it than the previous man. Still, he figured it belonged to the babe, so he might as well bring them together.

    “Alrigh’, little one. Let’s get ya to yer new home.”

    As if sensing that it was now safe, the child ceased its cries momentarily and opened its eyes, startling the man. The eyes, one pale blue and the other silver, seemed to stare through him for a moment before they closed again, giving way to another streak of screams and tears.

    “Geez, I know I don’ have th’ nicest mug in th’ world, but I am savin’ ya an’ all. Ya could show a little gratitude. Who’m I kiddin’, yer a wee babe.”

    The other man stood by, watching his boss, the head of the crime base in this city, incredulously. If anyone could see him crooning to a newborn, they would never believe he had the strength to maintain his control here. Still, the man knew better than to question his boss on the advisability of picking up what would certainly become an uncontrollable weak point in the future. Questioning was a good way to end up dead.

    “Let’s go. Silver here’s gonna need some care.”

    “Yes, sir,” the other replied, falling into step behind his boss.