Street Rat
The smell of mildew, the feeling of thick, inescapable smog billowing from rooftops and bottoming out on the cavern ceiling above. Keep your gaze ahead, Winnigan reminded herself. Don’t lose sight of father. We’ll be done in no time.
It wasn’t Winnigan’s first time following her father down in the rotten underbelly of Paradis, but each visit was more disturbing than the last. Last time, two months prior, one of her father’s whores were found dead in the alley behind the family business, throat slit ear to ear. Twelve-year-old Winnigan shuddered at the memory. This time around, Lord Morgan had given her a small dagger in defense. It was dainty, with a pearlescent handle. Nothing more than a child’s toy, she had thought to herself, running her fingertip along the blade. Her skin remained intact.
Bounding up the steps of their last residence for the night, Winnigan tailed her father into his office. His associates were already waiting: greasy, greedy men that licked their lips and flicked their eyes in her direction every time she accompanied her father for work. Her stomach turned. Her father, Lord Morgan, held a stare with his main associate, reaching into his pocket and procuring a fat money purse. Their eyes moved from Winnigan to the money, and back to Winnigan once again.
“Winnie, dear,” Lord Morgan said calmly. “How about you stop by one of the shops outside and get these gentlemen a bottle of scotch?” He grabbed a handful of coins and pressed them into Winnigan’s palm, stare unbreaking. “Get yourself something to hold you over until we get home tonight. I need you at full attention for these business proceedings.”
Despite the smothering dampness of the air outside, Winnigan took the deepest breath of relief as soon as the front door clicked behind her. Outside, the leeries began their evening routine, lowering the flame of the street lamps to mimic some semblance of night time. It was always dark in the Underground. Time ran together indefinitely, and the dimming of the street lamps was the best way of differentiating, allowing those who work to rest. However, the overcast shadows throughout the city opened a breeding ground for thieves, criminals, killers. Eyes trained on the shop down the street, dagger in hand, Winnigan rushed down the sidewalk.
It was one of the nicer shops on this side of town, the smell of incense greeting Winnigan as she stepped through the threshold. She took her time, reading the labels of every bottle and running her fingertips along every ribbon and fabric on display. The shopkeeper, wary of a lone child possibly being a thief, exhaled a contented sigh upon seeing her spotless gown, ironed golden ringlets, and silk ribbons in her hair. She had the means to shop there.
“’s there anything I can help you with, kid?”
“I’m trying to buy some time, but you got scotch?”
The shopkeeper grunted in response and pulled a glass bottle from the wall. “Ready whenever you are.”
Settling on a small flask of cinnamon whiskey and a handful of caramels to mask the taste, Winnigan nodded in thanks as she pushed her money across the table. It was harder to buy alcohol as a kid above ground, but Winnigan had learned pretty quickly that no one down there gave a shit. She flicked the cap off as soon as she hit the street once again, downing the liquid fire in one gulp. Her throat burning, her head was fuzzy already as she popped the candy in her mouth. Gods bless, she mused. Good shit.
Winnigan was too preoccupied in giggling through her drunkenness to realize it was that same associate of her father’s— the one licking his lips— who had supposedly been sent to receive her outside the front steps.
“Hey, ‘Lovely, the evening employees are mingling with customers in the front lobby,” he explained, hands outstretched in apology. “Your daddy’s in some heated discussion, I’m out here to bring you through the back so you don’t have to see the happenings inside.” Hesitance sent to the wayside with her sobriety, little Winnigan nodded without a second thought, skipping back down the steps. She had seen the customers and workers before, not a favorable sight in the least.
“I misjudged you, bro,” Winnigan giggled, grabbing onto the steady arm of her father’s associate as they walked side-by-side into the alleyway flush to the building. “But father was right! You are a gentleman!”
The man smirked, raising a brow. “That so? Well, I think you’re pretty swell yourself, little lady.” He reached over, bouncing one of her ironed ringlets. Her smile faltered, but only for a moment. They were nearing the side door in the alley, and Winnigan eagerly pulled the brass rung screwed into the door. The door didn’t budge.
“Oh, well, we’ll just have to go in the front,” Winnigan sighed. “Unless you’ve got a key.” She turned to face her companion. To her horror and fuzzy confusion, he had just completed unbuckling his belt. Tossing it onto the ground haphazardly, the man gave her his signature lick of his lips.
“I’m glad you already broke into daddy’s booze,” he drawled, wrenching the bottle of scotch out of her trembling hands. “It’ll make things much easier for you.”
Lip quivering, Winnigan tucked her leftover money into her corset, for the first time very glad her mother had cinched it so tightly. It always took Lady Morgan at *least* five minutes to free her of the brasserie, something she had insisted she didn’t even need yet. “I… I have no qualms with you,” she slurred. “We can take father’s extra money and get you a lady inside…”
The man swiftly grabbed her waist, pulling her to his chest. “Oh shut up, kid,” he spat, pulling her face in and kissing her forcefully on the lips. “Those cunts don’t hold a candle to your topsider beauty.”
Winnigan gagged involuntarily as she wrestled to get free from his grasp. She scratched, kicked, even landing blows in places a man would typically fall to his knees. As the kick hit it’s desired target, he toppled over her onto the dirty ground beneath them. “You bitch,” he hissed, hiking her skirt up to her waist.
Suddenly, as she wrenched her eyes shut and scratched desperately at his face and eyes, the hearty thud of a blade meeting flesh graced her ears. The man sputtered, coughed, then gargled, before going limp over her prone body.
“You alive down there?” An unfamiliar male voice quipped, and Winnigan finally opened her eyes to greet her savior. Some undergrounder kid, not more than five years older than her towered overhead, black undercut swept behind his ears in an attempt of looking presentable. Either way, he was unkempt, pale, and now coated in blood. As he pushed the man off of her, Winnigan realized that she, too, was drenched in crimson. Her father’s associate now laid face-up, eyes open in a blank stare to the cavern roof. A dagger, her dagger was lodged in his throat, hilt deep. She hadn’t even realized she dropped it.
Sobered by the encounter, she took the stranger’s hand as he helped her onto her feet. Rotten bastard, he seethed, wiping his hands with a handkerchief from his pocket. “You’re clearly not from here. Go home.” He leaned down to the corpse beneath them, wrenching the bottle of scotch from his dead grasp. “Thanks for the booze,” he quipped.
Frozen in place, her eyes shifted between the corpse and the boy, watching as he took off into the evening lamplight. “Thank you,” she whispered into the air. That son of a bitch took my scotch!