Glancing towards the air-booth, I can’t help but wonder what was in the air or how it tasted, but if spending half of my gear-coin net worth was the cost, it was not worth it. I still approach the air-booth out of a morbid curiosity, the familiar yet foreign concept, a vending machine for air, demanding closer inspection. Instinct tugs my vision downwards, towards the cracks and crevices along the ground near the machines. I am quickly rewarded by a singular copper coin and a practiced movement almost has it tucked away near its two compatriots if not for a moment of hesitation. My current beliefs are a little out of sorts, but I've always been somewhat superstitious and I have another moment of hesitation as fate and coincidences are not to be ignored. My better judgement prevails however, as a third of my newfound net worth is still not worth sating my curiosity when I was currently breathing well enough. The coin disappears in a flash into one of the concealed pockets that I mapped out previously, and I snoop through the cracks further to see if my good luck would continue. From my crouched position, I'm able to catch a diminutive shadow out of the corner of my eye that detaches from a wall across the street from me. A sixth sense tingling, I stand up and slowly shuffle by the booths and small lines that have formed in front of them. I weave through the crowd of adults, some easily twice my size, and get wary glances but nothing more as it feels like no one wants to break the peace, or lose their spot in line, around the booths.

  Safely past the first obstacle of the booths, the shadow (one that I am now certain is heading straight for me) reveals itself to be a fellow “sumpsnipe” around seven to eight years old. Having enough common sense to know that nothing good can be coming from the upcoming confrontation if I continue on my current course, I dart into an alley in an attempt to deny an interaction. The alley is not as desolate as my previous experience would dictate, with something almost resembling a dumpster, brimming with trash, and a rickety door on actual hinges next to it being present. There is also a rough looking, middle aged man leaning up against the side of the sole door taking a long draw from a pipe. Their demeanor shifts as I pause upon entering the alley; their eyes rapidly take me in as their hand drifts to their waist.

  “Scampa‘long kid” they lazily drawl out, hand still on their waist even as they seem to take more interest in their other holding the pipe. I take the command for what it is and rush past while still keeping the man in view. Their wariness rapidly dissipates as they evaluate me and find nothing of worth, or of threat to them. While they don’t shift I see that their eyes continue to track me just as I return the gesture. My view is broken once I pass perpendicular to them, and I dont turn my head to maintain eye contact in fear of provoking them. I still feel the gaze on the back of my head as I move further past, but just before I turn the corner I hear the same lazy voice command, “Keep movin,” which causes small footsteps to pick up the pace behind me.

  I increase the tempo by breaking out into an awkward jog once fully around the corner. I'm unable to fully sprint as, instincts or no, I'm not fully used to this small body. As obnoxious as the unfamiliarity is, a larger hindrance is the lack of shoes. As unlike the 'main' street with its misshapen cobbles, worn smooth by high traffic, these back alleys are a labyrinth coated with slick grime, sharp protrusions, and miscellaneous piles of potentially occupied debris that dig into my feet. Padded footsteps match the pace that I have set, and no matter how many alleys or small pathways I dart down the footfalls continue to nip at my heels. The pattering of feet play a desperate tune, my frantic staccato interspaced with a slightly slower, albeit rising crescendo. I desperately glance around looking for any solution to my current, and increasingly more urgent, problem. I come to an intersection but before I am able to move down the pathway on the right, something whistles through the air and my instincts pull me out of the way. Like the clash of cymbals, something careens into the rightward alley as I narrowly dodge the surprisingly large lump of metal that would have hit me in the ribs and most likely done considerable damage had I continued along that chosen path. My new momentum set, I can only dash down the leftmost alley and hope for a chance to lose my pursuer.

  Damn these tiny legs, damn these filthy streets.

  My heartbeat rises in my ears, another instrument in the backdrop of my predicament. Sharp inhales of polluted oxygen flood energy into my steps, each one more sure of itself than the last as I become more versed with the action. One final sharp turn-

  A dead fucking end.

  -and my melody ceases. The accompaniment, measured and almost leisurely sounding footfalls, arrive and block my exit to the alley, finishing the tune. It makes sense that my luck would run out. Honestly I am surprised I got as far as I did before it caught up to me. The same young kid that I briefly caught a glimpse of, with a smug smile on his face, looms at the entrance with one hand pulling out a shiv from within his garments. I step back and raise my hands in a placating gesture. He had to have around six inches on me in height, not to even talk about weight. While willow thin he would doubtless win a contest of strength as his ‘stick’ arms still outclass my ‘twigs.’ His garments are of similar quality to my own, a patchwork of stitches and dissimilar materials but one glaring difference in apparel meets my eye and I can’t stop the mutter that escapes my mouth,

  “Fucking shoes”

  I glare at the offending footwear, while nothing compared to modern sneakers or even slip ons, they still provide a world more of protection compared to my own ‘natural’ brand. Almost impossibly, his shit eating grin widens as I realize I wasn't as quiet with my remark as intended, or the distant hum of machinery did not mask my mutter in the quiet alley.

  “So sumpsnipe,” the kid says the word in an almost singsong tone, likely enjoying being on the wielding end of the insult that I am gaining confidence in as being quite derogatory.

  “You got something that's mine.”

  I meet the drivel with my best glare, which I was told is quite unsettling. If anything it just further amuses him and prompts more words,

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  “You can’t go grabbing cogs from my breathers.” Two unfamiliar terms quickly slot themselves into my mind. Cogs being the coins with a gear, no, a cog, on them, and breather being the machine that sells commoditized air. My contempt taints my response as it leaves my lips with none of my usual measured patience, even with me needing as much time as possible to find a way out of this situation.

  “I didn’t see your name on it.”

  I already knew the quip wasn't going to do me any favors. I start to lower my hand to grasp my shiv from within its hidden pocket but I hesitate as the ease in which I can hold the shiv does not bestow me with confidence in winning a fight; the worst type of which I ever got into before was just general roughhousing with my brot-

  *Distant scre-*

  I stomp down on the thought before it even fully forms. My heartbeat slowly gains in volume, as if starting the melody anew. I focus on it pounding in my ears as a subtle flow of adrenaline graces my veins. It helps center me, and catch the discrepancy as soon as my opponent opens his mouth,

  “Don't matter, gonna learn you lesson for grubbing in our turf sump rat.”

  The smog rushes about and whistles as I catch movement from the corner of my eye. Both my arms snap upwards and my head tucks behind them as they take an impact from a metal pipe that was headed for my skull. A dull “thuum” rings out like a dull mockery of a cymbal. The hollow weapon strikes my arms, primarily my right, causing me to gasp in pain as the impact causes a flash of heat to radiate throughout the scar tissue. Out of the swirling smog and inky shadows steps another individual. They were hidden behind a broken down crate that escaped my notice initially as it was not large enough to conceal a fully grown adult. I have to do a double take as the newcomer is, while not a carbon copy of the original chaser, definitely related, and If I was to guess they were some form of twins. That peculiarity aside, the force of the blow makes me stumble towards one side of the alley, lest I lose my footing and tumble into the muck.

  I brace for a follow up blow that doesn’t come, instead the twins are content to box me in against the wall and a smug grin on the pipe wielders face completes their identical look. I keep my aching right arm raised up, as the pipe wielding shit was on that side, and reach with the only slightly aching arm to retrieve the unlucky cog that led to this mess.

  “Here, I didn't know they were your breathers.” I toss the cog towards them yet they make no move to grab it as it clangs and clatters against the ground, only to stop its noise in front of the initial chaser as it rolls into a wet pile of sludge.

  “Didn’t you hear what bro said? Don’t matter, you gonna pay with a lesson.” Pipey pipes up.

  They both step forward towards me in odd, slightly intimidating to be honest, sync. I consider if offering my other two cogs would prevent further violence but seeing the look in their eyes dissuades me of that notion. Unrestrained malicious glee shines through, both twins sporting the manic look. It's funny how much you can see in people's eyes, I never really noticed it befo- I pay for the stray thought as Pipey takes another swing, my inattention preventing me from bringing my arms down in time before it collides with my gut. I crumple over, dry heaving as bile rises up my throat. The wind is also knocked out of me, but it's a lesser concern as a shoe clad foot collides into my side, tipping me over from my kneeling position. These kids could not be hitting with any real measure of force, but to my prepubescent body every impact felt like a sledgehammer blow wielded by one of those rugged miner types I saw earlier.

  Twin one pulls me to my feet by grabbing the collar of my shirt. After shoving me into the wall they lay one forearm across my throat and press down as their other arm waves their shiv about. My hands claw and pull ineffectively against the stronger force, less and less polluted air making it to my lungs.

  “What do you think Jorri, should we take an eye?” The shiv comes to a stop in front of my left eye as its wielder ruminates, and my eyes widen as I try to gasp out something, anything to prevent this nightmare from continuing. Black spots - no black smoke - starts to blot out my vision.

  *I couldn't breathe*

  My heartbeat pounds like a war drum in my ears, drowning out everything and sharpening my vision to intense pinpricks of focus.

  “Ask the sumpsnipe what we should take for stealing what's ours” Pipey quips back, further completing their ‘twinning’ with his enjoyment of the insult. The sound of my heartbeat starts to get softer with each beat further apart, only leaving a low ringing to usurp its place.

  Twin one’s smug grin turns decidedly malicious and his eyes light up with glee. He releases some of the pressure from my neck and allows me to take in a strangled breath. Everything is quiet now outside of the piercing ringing, even the drumming beat waiting in silence.

  “You heard ‘em” The smug rat says, his voice cutting through the ringing.

  I actually couldn't hear shit the thought flits to the front of my mind, but with that breath comes life, adrenaline spiking and war drums beating with new fervor. Before my thoughts can catch up, my shiv blurs into hand and arcs towards his skull. Pipey’s eyes widen a fraction and through sheer luck he hits my elbow mid flight altering the trajectory of the spike. Instead of giving a quick death piercing his brother’s skull, the shiv pierces through one cheek and then out through the other with a wet squelch, only slight resistance from his teeth scraping along the length of the rebar. I push off the wall with a second wind of strength and tear the shiv from its current sheath, a spurt of saliva and blood trailing from the tip. He recoils backwards, his shiv dropping to the ground as his hands come up and a wet scream splatters flem and gore through his mouth and the two new orifices. I plow into Pipey like a miniature rocket, and he stumbles, slipping on a cog-containing pile of grime causing him to tumble groundward. An exit now clear, my fight instinct makes way for flight, and I sprint out of the alley leaving behind a haunting melody of choking gurgles, one cog poorer and one lesson richer.