Rain clattered on the roofs of Emerald street, engulfed in the blackness of the night. It was autumn and lately the wind had turned cold and vicious. Winter would soon be on the doorstep of Westbridge. On Penny Lane a young boy, dressed in rags, was scavenging coins from the large white marble fountain that gushed forth. Further up, on Emerald street, a dog barked. The sound of gnarl-like chattering of the Vectorian speech became audible and the boy raised in alarm. But alas, Penny Lane was a dead end, and the light of the Enforcers had caught him in the act.
From the shadows, another ragged beggar watched as the Vectorian Enforcers had their fun with the boy and beat him up until his skull collided with the marble of the fountain's edge. Before the Enforcers left, the boy was kicked in the gut twice and then left to rot as the garbage they thought he was. The puddles around the boy were tainted red, as were the coins in his clutched fist. It was a Westbridge mentality these days. What I find is mine, and I keep what I find. For under Vectorian rule, life was harsh. Death for coins, coins for food.
After the Enforcers left, the other beggar rose up from the shadows and walked over to the boy. He evaded the puddles as he went, and kneeled next to the boy. The lad was still alive, but barely. With ease, he pried the fist open and took the coins from him. And then, surprisingly lifted the boy up in his arms, and retreated into the shadows with him as the rain washed away the blood.
