((Tristaan needed more threads, so he asked for a few more background lits. There's at least one more coming. Maybe two. Stay tuned.))

The new boy was holding up the line again. He'd been moved up a week ago from sweeping the floor between machines and crawling underneath them to collect refuse after a fresh wave of street urchins had been carted in. He'd watched us all work long enough, even managed to keep all his limbs and most of his hide; and so the floor warden had decided he was ready to give one of the textiles a go himself.

He was not.

I was on the next machine over, shuttle and pedals humming. The rainy season had faded into a dismally hot summer; the sun beating down on the brick walls of the textile mill made the cavernous insides an oven with the machines steaming and whirring and the bodies packed in like so much meat. All of us had left what clothes we could do without in piles, half naked and pale skin slick with our own grime and sweat.

"Hey." I grunted, glaring at the younger human. The new boy must've been almost a head taller than me already, scrawny son of a galdor that I was, "Watch me for a minute—you're going too slow."

"He's gonna get a good beatin's what he's gettin'." Came a voice from further down the line. Kennith was the line leader for our section of machines. Older and bulkier, the young man would've made a good warden with the way he enjoyed dolling out beatings to those who shared his section and his dorm off shift.

"I'm sorry."

"You should be. If the floor warden sees—"

"Lay off. You were slow once." Erich mumbled under his breath from behind me, the only other passive in our section. Where I'd grown up wrestling with my sister and tracking in dirt through our cushy house, the red-head had been playing piano and learning the violin as an only child. If he'd grown in anything over our handful of years here, it'd been grace, not muscle. Freckled, fair and dainty, he looked more a galdor than the rest of us and it got some unfortunate notice most of the time. My narrow frame may have given me away along with my tattoo, but at least I had enough fight-earned bulk to stand up for myself when I had to. What we had in common was deeper than the human orphans and wick bastard children could really understand, at least.

"Still is."

"That's enough."

"Let's hear ya say tha' t'is face later."

"I'm watching." The boy all-but whispered underneath the chorus of voices arguing with each other.

Thank gods, I thought, slowing my pace further to show him my own method of running the machine. He caught on quick enough, beaming at me with an expression of grateful innocence that was best kept hidden in a place like the mill.

Unfortunately, while I'd managed to solve one problem, I'd apparently attracted another. There was a gasp from over my shoulder, then another, and then a growl from behind me before calloused hands grabbed my aching, sweating shoulders,

"Whatchu lollygaggin' for, gollyscum?" Jared's breath at my ear was like an old, forgotten tavern. It was disgusting. His broken nails dug into my skin and he was tugging, pulling me away from my machine as I dragged my heels.

"I wasn't—" I'm not— It never made a difference to argue with the floor warden. They never listened.

The room spun as the gnarled older man turned me into one of his labor-hardened fists. He'd worked the line once, but over the years had paid his debt and earned his freedom only to stay on as a warden for a few more coins and what limited prestige he could claim as a glorified bully. Supposedly, he lived nearby and had actually managed to get married. I could only imagine that his wife was just as mean and ugly as himself. Otherwise, surely Alioe had no sense of justice for men as calculating and cruel as Jared.

Air escaped my lungs with a grunt through my teeth and he swung again, unwilling to consider any protest I could muster. Before the next blow knocked me to the ground, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that the boy I'd just helped wasn't even looking. A few others were, one or two with a hint of satisfaction.

"Get up off that floor and back to yer line, scrap." Jared cackled, not hesitating to kick me while I was down.

At least I was used to his style of punishment, bruises and scars a testimony to my lapses in judgment and timeliness. The floor warden was cracking his knuckles and I was spitting blood, sprawled across the warm concrete. While he was hardly as big or powerful as the Ox, Jared prescribed to all the same methods of keeping us efficient. I'd been moving too slow for his liking today and his way of reminding me might have included another broken rib, regardless of whose fault the problem really was. I was back to taking someone else's beating again.

Someone snickered from over my shoulder. Probably one of the older boys.

I groaned and struggled to my knees, chest on fire from where a meaty fist had once been. He was far from done, but, really, neither was I. Thirteen and awkward, my scrawny, magic-less frame was budding with a bitter anger I was far from capable of dealing with on a few hours of sleep and even fewer meals. It was as if I'd swallowed burning coals one morning, and no matter how hard any of our wardens tried to get me to bleed and sweat it out, the heat remained and consumed me,

"Don't call me scrap, you ugly, sorry excuse for a plowfoot." I was wiping my mouth on the back of my hand, standing with the kind of defiance that would win me nothing but blood and blackness, "I was doing my clocking job, teach—"

I should have expected the backhand; it was the sudden scream that surprised us all. The new boy had let himself get distracted by my disciplining, turning to look over his shoulder and lose his handle on the shuttle and his rhythm at the pedal. Losing control of his hand motions, the younger human found himself at the mercy of the machine's motion, hand rushing under needles with a crunch and a squeal of protest from the machine.

Jared howled a heavy, harsh string of expletives, shoving me back to the ground as he turned on the groaning, whining boy and the hissing, steaming textile. Everyone slowed and stopped their motions until the whole line came to a halt, expectant.

Erich snickered and risked offering me his hand, whispering hoarsely, "You're really trying to get yourself killed, Tristaan."

"Nah ..."

We both looked away as the floor warden wrestled the new boy from his machine with crunches and groans. He was far from gentle, cursing the youth as he continued to mangle the bloody limb without any regard for the pain he could be causing in the process. Kennith was chuckling, as were a few of the older boys, one or two of them missing a few fingers of their own from their mistakes.

I wavered on my feet and risked a hand to the bruises forming on my chest and sides, wheezing. If this didn't stop the lines for the day, I'd probably get the rest of my beating and be expected back for more tomorrow. It wouldn't be a real break, but the afternoon off sure would be nice, broken ribs or not. My red-headed friend stuck out an arm to catch my shoulder, scowling though he understood I was already tired of being told I was broken. We both were. I fought back because I could, because someone needed to know we weren't all a bunch of cursed doormats. Somewhere inside, we were still galdori. At least, I still believed that was true; I clung to it like a light in the darkness that was the Soot District.

The floor warden turned, limp and bleeding young human thrown over one shoulder. He'd probably passed out from the shock. Narrowing his eyes, Jared snarled at me, "I'm not done wit' you yet, boy."

Waving his free hand, he sneered to the rest of my section, "Get outta my clockin' sight, all of yous. Back to your dorms an' don't let anyone see your dirty, poxy faces 'til slop time."

Everyone was getting a holiday, but judging from the look in the gnarled man's eyes, it would be everyone but me.

I'd still get my unconsciousness handed to me after all, one blow at a time.