Chapter Text
The children crowded around the debris. No one dared to speak. The guards pulled the children away from the scene, sending them back to work.
Strongmen ran over, digging through the rubble. They found an arm and pulled it out.
Mr. Kicker coughed, standing up. “Find that child and kill her!” He growled and looked at the children that had stayed. “Get back to work!”
They ran back, afraid to do anything else.
Mr. Kicker straightened his coat and walked off, gritting his teeth.
The strongmen continued looking through the remains of the office for Hetjan.
They found the child and picked them up.
Hetjan’s eyes were closed and they were covered in bruises and blood.
“Hetjan!” Grænna yelled, seeing the guards carrying their body.
The men looked between each other and nodded, carrying the body away.
Imelda sat in her cell and looked at Mr. Kicker walking in. She stood up. “Where’s Hetjan!? What did you do!?”
“She’s dead. My men just informed me.”
“No…”
“A little body like that can’t handle the sheer weight of an entire room falling on top of it. I almost died, too. But now I should thank her. She’s dead and I’m alive. Now any hopes of a rebellion are squashed.”
Imelda scowled. “You’re afraid. I can smell your fear.”
“Afraid? What do I have to be afraid of?”
“Me.”
He laughed. “You think I should be afraid of you?”
“I know you are. Because if you weren’t afraid of me, I wouldn’t be locked up. You’re a coward. And you know that if I could, I would not hesitate to kill you.”
Mr. Kicker slammed his fist against the cell bars. “Enough! My men will be back later to deal with you.”
Imelda scowled and watched him leave. Once she was sure he was gone, she pulled her knees close to her chest and started crying.
He had to be lying.
There wasn’t any way her friend could be dead.
This is all my fault . She thought.
If it weren’t for me, they’d still be alive. I should have let them run away.
She wiped her eyes and took a breath. There had to be a way out. She looked at the cuffs around her hands and gritted her teeth, thinking.
Two men walked in, wielding cattle prods. “Come with us.”
Imelda said nothing and did nothing.
She was dragged away, putting up no fight.
Hetjan sat up, looking around.
Their stomach turned, looking at the rotten bodies of children lying all around. The smell of their rotting corpses made them keel over, vomiting.
Tears welled in their eyes and they choked on their sobs.
Hetjan fell, curling up and hiding behind their knees. I’m such a screw-up. Why couldn’t I just listen!?
They took a breath and stood up, wiping their eyes.
They looked around, checking for anyone who might be watching and ran off, tripping over their feet.
A familiar sight came into view and Hetjan sighed a breath of relief.
The ship. It hadn’t been totaled!
Hetjan ran up to it and yelled. “Ship!”
The ship didn’t respond. Hetjan pulled the door open and crawled in. The inside of the ship was intact save for some shattered glass on the floor. They ran over to the closets and opened. A wave of relief washed over them again when the crystals were still there. Hetjan grabbed a bag and put the crystals in it.
“I need to get help.”
They ran to the communicator, trying to turn it on, but got no results. They smacked it a few times, but nothing happened.
“Ship? Are you alive? Please! I need help!”
Hetjan fell to the ground an curled up, sobbing. Everything was getting dark. In both senses of the term. Outside the window, the sun was starting to set. How long had they been there? Was anyone looking for them?
Someone had to know how to find them, right?
The Council would find them and Hetjan would face the same punishment as their father. They knew it. Grænna was right. Everyone was.
No.
They were wrong.
They took children from their families and expected them to spend their lives serving the people who took them away.
The only difference between the Council and Mr. Kicker was that he was honest about his cruelty.
Hetjan opened the bag, looking at the crystals. They were blinking rapidly.
“They’re in trouble. I need to save them.” Hetjan stood, tying the bag to their belt. “I need to get back in there.” They walked outside back into the dump, taking a breath. That probably wasn’t the best idea. The smell of rancid bodies decaying was overwhelming. Hetjan coughed and closed their eyes, trying to think.
Maybe there’s something out here that can help me. They looked around.
Along with an endless supply of dead children, Hetjan noticed tools that had been discarded. Supply bags, mining equipment, sleeping bags.
After looking around to make sure they weren’t being watched, Hetjan wandered around, gathering materials. They tried thinking of a plan but only one thing was on their mind. Killing Mr. Kicker.
How they were planning on achieving this goal was still a mystery.
Kicker’s men would recognize Hetjan in an instant if they found them.
Hetjan sat down, picking up a diamond. They looked it over. It was unshaped. A bad idea formed in Hetjan’s head.
They stood up and dug through the supplies already gathered. They picked up a tool with a flat head and a long handle. Carefully holding the diamond against the ground, Hetjan started chipping at it with the tool. Tears were forming when no progress was being made.
Come on...I need this to work.
Hetjan yelled, slamming the tool into the diamond. The diamond split into two uneven pieces. Hetjan picked up the bigger piece and touched the edge gently. They let out a quiet yelp and saw some blood trickle down the fingertip.
Perfect.
Hetjan tied their hair up with a piece of string and gripped the diamond shard.
Their hair fell to their feet and they ran a hand through it, feeling the new, uneven and short length. They smiled a little bit. It felt...good.
Hetjan looked at their reflection in the metal of a tool.
They were pale.
They were bruised.
They were covered in dirt.
Their eyes were red and puffy from crying.
They were miserable.
Hetjan rested their hands on their face, feeling it. Maybe testing if it was all just a bad dream.
Of course, they knew it wasn’t.
It was all real.
Hetjan shook their head, focusing on the mission at hand.
Find a disguise.
They looked at their clothes.
Bright blue and muddy.
Ugh. I hate blue…
Hetjan looked around. Maybe a tarp or a large coat?
“The clothes on the children…”
They took a big breath and searched for in-tact clothes. Most of the clothes were tattered from years of exposure to the weather. Stepping over the bodies carefully, Hetjan moved across the dump.
Deciding on a muddy tunic and a pair of slippers that didn’t completely smell like death, Hetjan pulled the clothes off of a corpse and changed. They dropped a cloth over the corpse as to retain the child’s dignity.
Hetjan took another look at themself.
I look like a boy.
They found themself grinning after that thought. For some reason it made them happy. They rubbed their finger across their ears.
They had always been a little bit large.
Would Hetjan be recognized?
They had to hide them.
Hetjan grabbed a piece of cloth and tried to tie it around their head to cover the ears. Their ears stuck out the top.
They pulled the cloth up.
It was painfully obvious that elf ears were hiding underneath.
Hetjan took the cloth off and sighed. They grabbed the diamond shard.
I’m going to regret this.
They put the cloth in their mouth and bit down on it, cutting through the ears with the shard. Hetjan gave muffled whimpers. Blood poured down the side of their face, dripping down their neck.
Hetjan dropped the shard and held their ears, sobbing. They looked at their hands covered in blood and fainted.
Mr. Kicker’s men paced the grounds, watching the children. They cracked whips and pushed children around.
A man stopped by a hole, listening. It sounded as if someone was inside the small tunnel. He jumped back when the head of a child poked out covered in coal and blood. “Hello!” The child said cheerfully. “I was checking the tunnel for any loose coal and children stuck in here.”
The child climbed out, dusting themself off and adjusting their hat, pulling it down over his head.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you before...what’s your name, child?”
“My name?”
“Yes. Your name. The thing people call you?”
He cleared his throat, looking up at the man. “Yes. My name is...Spar...Sportacus. I’m Sportacus.”