Chapter Text
Backlund.
The capital of Loen, a large Metropolis containing various industries and businesses.
A name known throughout the whole continents.
The city of cities, they chanted.
The land of hope, hence all gathered. People of varieties. From the land to the sea. Wishing to bask in the slightest of its nobility or the opportunity to chase for what one might call fame.
A place where mere ants gathered for treats.
And, like how the laws of nature are set– for every object shall exist with its exact opposite–
There stands the East Borough.
The most crowded area where the poor and the gangs gather. The most unsafe part of the city.
This ugly side of the bright city–with all kind of miseries lurking beneath the shadow of Backlund's glory, is not entirely hidden from the common, of all things. After all, only the gaze upon its faint surface was always being talked about.
It is so ludicrous as to be amusing.
As the bright morning greet its way to the world and dim sunlight casted behind the bundle of thick fog, the residents of East Borough started their daily matters as usual– finishing their breakfast at around seven before leaving to work, or look for work.
The East Balam Dock area is flocked with the people shouting their names for works early on, those who manage are appointed to do the labors of loading or unloading the goods, some monitoring and some organizing. There are also not quite few who helps in bringing the boats or ships to the shore, the place loud with shouts and orders.
Not so far from the hustling dockworkers, a boy– one among the nameless, stared at the scenery ahead with calculating silence, eyeing every detail his sight can stumbled upon with his short statue.
"G'Morning, lad." A man who happened to pass by pat his head once and did not bother to turn at him, "No errands today."
Try your luck this afternoon, went unsaid.
The thin boy didn't reply and remained unmoving; his gaze fixed to the front. His face is smudged with dirt and black coal, hair obscured with obvious spot of stains get the better of it– and seemingly dyed with grease.
After a long silence, he finally turned and walked back into the alley, his movements slow and steady– showing not even a slightest sign of despair from the news.
Along the way on reaching the promised place for the not so discreet gathering, his mind was still being preoccupied with the strangeness he has been feeling since the previous month.
The boy continues walking, occasionally turning around some corners and avoids stepping on those who are ‘sleeping’ at the side of the road. To others, he may appear to be walking in a circle, but only his purposeful walk showed he know exactly where he is going.
It’s one of the safeties measure the homeless, unsheltered children like him had set on.
The frequent meeting is nothing grand of sort, only consists of unfortunate children who possesses nothing to their name, with most being the results of prostitute acts or simply abandoned on streets. The place they would be meeting will be discussed and agreed on two days prior, with the time estimated to be about eight or nine in the morning.
There seems to be a number of unspoken rules they settled on. The obvious one is to never hold any empathy or whatsoever, as they have long known none were absolutely innocents- there are pick purses, money extorters, drug dealers- all driven by the need to make ends meet; clinging to the hope to see the light of tomorrow once more.
In the East Borough, though, hope was the most dangerous assurance of all.
Once he arrived nearby the promised place, he exchanged glances with the other boy who is guarding from afar. With familiar movements, he held out his non-dominant hand with the palm angled in toward his chest and a bit upward. He first starts near his body with his dominant hand, palm back, before moving forward until it slaps into the palm of the non-dominant one.
It represents the act of reaching the destination. (A secret sign created to identify those who truly want to live among them-)
(Living, not surviving like some animals in the wild who need to be constantly aware of their predators.)
The supposed guard who is sitting with his knees closed to his chest; a ridiculous attempt to lessen the feeling of hunger from creeping up- crouch his head to him, nodding slightly.
“Am I late?” he asked, his eyes secretly examined the face of attendees this time, which also confirms his speculation.
A boy who is the tallest among them but still shared the same state of malnourishment looks at him, “not quite.”
“I’m surprised to see you though.” He added, tilting his head with a weak smile of grimace, (a tiny bit pleased, maybe?) “Most of the frequent ones is nowhere to be found lately.”
His question is obvious.
And sure enough, the other children (with the number less than before) focused on him instantly.
Among them, the boy who just arrived is the one who is the most perceptive.
They all tacitly agreed that he is luckily observant however small he is, gifted with the ability to recall his previous memories with ridiculous details.
(To never forget.)
The boy narrows his eyes. (The numbers are disturbing his thoughts-) After taking a few calculating breathes, he began “I found something strange,”
“You guys must have noticed that the number of children- including those we know of have been decreasing lately.”
A nod, “And?”
“There are a few unfamiliar ships I saw this past month. I don’t know from where they come from, and their attire is strange too.”
“Isn’t that obvious? They are foreigners.” A girl chimed in.
Another one nodded, “They must enter Backlund illegally, then.”
The tall one rises a brow and asked for confirmation, “Lock, you sure?”
The boy- Lock, nodded eagerly. “They ARE foreigners,” he continues, “But what kind of foreigners will be spending their holiday here, of all places?”
He gulped, his hand fumbling the edges of his ragged clothes softly (so it will stay wearable for years to come) to suppress his anxiety- of what? Even he is unsure- “and I always find them lingering at the same place…”
A boy with freckles adoring his face nodded, “… I don’t know, but everything about them sure is- like you said, weird”
A snort. “Gangs trait.”
“Human traffickers, maybe?” said the boy who is sitting next to him. He brings his knees closer to his chest, his stained finger mindlessly drawing a circle on the ground. He muttered weakly, a sign of long resignation surfacing in his tone. “Not surprising with the continuous decrease of number.”
“They might be drug dealers or are planning on crimes,” someone suggested, “Let’s just avoid them for now.”
The others shared the same sentiment.
However complicated the real situation may be, it was never wrong to be cautious.
(That’s the only way to survive the life in East Borough.)
(This place is closer to the jungle than to human society.)
However, Lock voiced out his disagreement.
“I think we need to tell the authority about this right away.”
An incredulous laugh rang out, “and what make you think they will believe the words of street children like us?”
“…of East Borough’s street, no less.”
Lock snaps, “The number of the missing person increased right after they show up- “
“Lock,” a hand above his head grounded him, “Death is common here.”
It’s a final.
We are nobodies. Don’t step out of the line.
“And…” knowing his stubbornness as he is in his rebellious prime, the tall boy added, “you have no proof.”
“Lock, you want to stay alive, don’t you?”
His breath hitched for a beat, but he eventually stays silent.
Ignoring his sudden outburst, the others continue the discussion like how it normally did, with them exchanging the news they got about recent events happening in their secluded place. Those who are braver enough to explore the outside world of East Borough and returning alive are rare; their number less than twenty.
None are completely unaware of their fate as of now, and they dare not take further risk.
After concluding their meeting as per usual, they take their leaves in turn and in their separate ways. Lock, being one of the lasts, habitually lingers a bit to process the information he had received prior their conversations.
“You sure look more mature than your age.” A voice interrupts his thoughts.
Lock glanced at him once, his face unimpressed. “What am I supposed to do about it?”
It's clear he is still unsatisfied to be interrupted while he is talking previously.
(He is clearly not sulking. Absolutely not!)
Grinning, the tall boy continues musing, “I mean for you to survive this long with no one looking over you.”
“Well, I guess you got cared for until you’re 5,” reaching a hand to his unkempt hair- the kind resembling of pristine bright clothes dirtied by mud- he continued, “Aren’t you sad?”
“Why should I be?” Lock shrugs, “The hair is useful though. I can trade them for two black breads once they grow longer.”
Sighing exasperatedly, Lock points at him. “You are always acting this suspicious. What do you want? I have nothing to give.”
The boy didn’t answer. He hands out half of the black bread instead.
“Here, your share.”
Lock pouts in annoyance, “Stingy.” Still, his hand reached out for the not so grand reward.
The tall boy tsked and flicked his forehead, “Be glad, brat.”
“Well, see you next time.” He then ruffled his head suddenly before turning for another way. The tall boy looks over his shoulder, waving once. “Stay alive by then.”
Lock’s eyes twitched. He wants to shout some words of provocation, but knowing the said boy’s status who is involved with some local gangs, the words unwillingly died at his throat.
Lock pursed his lips in disappointment.
He searched for a hidden corner to avoid being the center of attention and hunger by other street children, before sitting down to eat his portion while grumbling silently. He hunched over to make his figure smaller, his thin fingers splitting the bread to small parts.
“What’s his problem, seriously.” Lock muttered under his breath. He bites down on the hard bread bit by bit, occasionally pausing between the chews to soften the rough texture and savoring the bland taste.
As he eats his fill, his ears meet the sudden sound of echoing footsteps coming to his way. Not long after, a long shadow looms over his small frame.
Lock carefully looks up.
He didn’t manage to study the face of the person who blocks his view clearly as his vision blurred, his body crushing to the ground with a loud thump.
In a bewildered daze, the last thing Lock has in mind before his consciousness totally failed him is the remaining bread he didn’t get to finish.
‘…What a waste, damn it-’