- Posting Speed
- 1-3 posts per week
- One post per week
- Slow As Molasses
- Online Availability
- Anytime, I have no life.
- Writing Levels
- Adept
- Advanced
- Douche
- Adaptable
- Preferred Character Gender
- Male
- Nonbinary
- Transgender
- Primarily Prefer Male
- Genres
- Fantasy, romance, slice of life, anti-hero stories, "you're our only hope", fandom non-canons, soft scifi, transhumanism, magical girls, horror, suspense / mystery, detective noir, fractured fairytales
Five years ago, before the Chattering Choughs were a fearless group of teens ruling parts of the Underground, they were but a nest. A nest made of dirt and grime filled with mismatched eggs, and it carried in their young hearts a hope to make it to the next day. Alive and kicking.
He always thought stories should start with a bang and end with a warm feeling in his heart. Storybooks were a rarity in the underbelly of Golden City, where the poorest and scummiest of lives had made a home for themselves. Rats, they were called. Mostly by the Floaters and those of the Land. He thought perhaps they thought less of those "rats" because they feared their living conditions; it was a very real picture of what would become of them should they fall from grace. Having known the comfort of clouds and oxygen-filled rooms, Brulow Charldin was very much aware that the Sewers were the nightmare of any man, woman, child, and automaton of Golden City.
He had been brought here by a couple of thugs, almost six years ago. His parents, wealthy Floaters deep in the oxygen tank trade, were murdered right in front of him in a heist gone wrong. His sharpest memory of the event wasn't even the realization of his parents lying in their own blood; no, it was the stench that emanated from the criminal. Soot and sulfur, and then blood. It left a sour taste on his tongue that he would never forget. Even if he did, the sewer rats made sure to remind him every day.
Brulow wasn't the same boy who had been brought here. He had become a true survivalist and managed to get by without sickness or worst. It was difficult for anyone living close to the Ovens to avoid that deep cough, but with time he's realized that wearing something over his mouth and nose when he was out and about helped a lot.
Earlier on this day, he saw a black market merchant cough himself to death; it took the old man almost an hour to die, and no one stopped by to help him. No one batted an eye, no one seemed to be affected by such a needless death. The boy wasn't coldhearted, but being down here did things to one's mind and all he could think of as he watched the dead man's purple face were the untouched oxygen tanks in his cart. They were covered with a filthy ragged blanket, but he'd caught a glimpse of the metallic cylinder. Suddenly, the boy was three oxygen tanks richer.
Such a wealthiness in the Underground, for a lad like him, was more dangerous than it was thrilling. Thankfully, he had a hideout that he shared with a few other kids. Little snotty brats, most of them, but they were his family, through blood and sweat. It'd taken him almost two hours to carry the cart to his hideout without being detected by any suspicious adult, as the fifteen year-old boy wasn't very big for his age. His knowledge of the backstreets and where the Skullman's goons patrolled were of great help. Having a dozen stealthy little eyes all over the place had more advantages than any of those adults could ever imagine.
"Psst, anyone in?" Brulow whispered through the scarf covering half his face. His hair was sticking to his forehead and his arms were trembling from the heavy load he'd been carrying. Wiping his brow, he pulled down the scarf to partially uncover his mouth, and whistled three clear notes. They had a handful of coded whistles, but that one was just to get their attention and let them know who was there. "I need help - I got us some oxygen tanks!"