How far would you go to get the things you want? And how much further could you go when the essentials for life are stripped from the realm of commonality and elevated to the status of luxury?
For those dwelling in The Pit, Calis believed one might be willing to claw through a mountain of bodies for a chance at a better life. Even if only for a minute, to stand above that heap of corpses and stretch out one's hand enough to brush against heaven — a single person granted the sight only gods amongst flesh could see. If one possessed the ambition or perhaps the audacity to become a Weaver, then maybe freedom from this cursed dome was possible. Weavers, a group enlisted by the council of ancients, were tasked to delve deep into hidden pockets of the world, find artifacts, and solve problems. The country of Derasil, which "governed" The Pit, would often send down a few members to scout for hidden talent among the dredges of society. Perhaps, one day in the future, Calis could be lucky enough to leave this place.
The grumbling of his stomach pulled him from his contemplative mood. He dug out a pouch of Chilns, always carried on him, and counted — one red, two silvers — just enough for a meal at the Wailing. He rubbed at his dirty red hair, weighing the options. Another night with an empty stomach and saving Chilns to rent a room at the Wailing? Or spend it on food and endure another night sleeping in the cold? His stomach growled again, hijacking the decision. The crowded, cramped streets oozed with life, dirty and frail. Gaunt, hollow-eyed souls stared back at him, resembling animals more than humans, a fate that might befall him if he got too careless.
He turned the corner, and with the Wailing Siren now in sight, proceeded forward. A crowd gathered outside, huddled together, whispering, and stinking. All heads turned upwards to the second-floor balcony of the Wailing Siren. A man stood on the guardrails, some 40 feet high. "Is he going to jump?" a woman said. "Think so. Can somebody get that damn fool down before he hurts himself?" yelled the man closest to her. A few others in the crowd looked on with little amusement, the most jaded among them not even stopping to watch this scene unfold.
"I can't do it anymore!" babbled the man, his legs trembling on the railing. "We all live and suffer in this damned place, but for what? The chance to finally make enough money and buy ourselves freedom out of The Pit? For crimes committed by those born before us?" The man's eyes grew wild as he raised an accusing finger at the smothering black dome encasing The Pit.
Two police officers arrived, clad in dark blue flak armor that glowed with power. "Sir, get down from there and come with us!" The taller officer signaled for the other to head inside and get him down safely, but it was too late. The man leaped from the railing and crashed down, his body meeting the hard floor with a squish! Some in the crowd screamed, a few cried, the others shook their heads and went back to what they were doing.
Could that man be me one day? A person can only take so much before they break, and the human mind is much weaker than one might credit it for. How many more nights of barely having enough money to scrape by can I endure?
The clientele of the eatery consisted of many others like myself, others living on money earned from cheap odd jobs from shady and dubious characters. The thief in me began eyeing a few unaware folks, judging who here likely had the most money and would also have the least amount of fight in them — an old habit from my younger days, grabbing whatever I could get and, more importantly, getting away with it. The adults who caught me would let me off easy because I was a kid. Bet they'd be a lot less friendly if a seventeen-year-old brat tried to snatch something of theirs, though.
Most of them talked about the business that happened outside, their frantic expressions and stiff postures giving away signs of someone who just saw something horrifying. There was one person who stood out the most to me — a man, seated alone in the back corner of the place near the stairs leading up to the rental rooms. He was well-dressed, tall, with long flowing black hair, so clean it seemed as if he stopped every twelve seconds to wash it. The most eye-catching thing was a silver necklace fashioned with strange symbols. The man turned his head and stared back at Calis, dead in the eye. There was no doubt about it; he was a Weaver. As long as he stuck close to that man, there was a chance for freedom, a chance to become something great.
Calis ordered a simple bowl of stew and took a seat at the opposite end. Lesson one from his older brother: a good thief keeps their eyes always on their target, and they do so discreetly. Lesson two: a good thief must know their target better than anyone, even themselves. Calis noted the refined and practiced manner in which the Weaver picked at his meal with his fork — swiftly yet accurately raising the food to his mouth before chewing it slowly, savoring each bite. This man was patient. His posture was straight and proper.
This man was confident, and likely—no, certainly strong. After a while, the man got up and left his table, heading outside into the cold bitter air. Calis followed, his footsteps quiet and paced; he made sure to stay at least two bodies behind the man. They walked through alleys and crowded streets, past buildings and tents, old stores and abandoned homes. "Where the hell is this guy even going?" Calis asked himself. He surveyed his surroundings further, taking note of the almost lack of people in the area. This would be a great place to take care of some impoverished red-headed stalker. Oh. Calis blinked, and the man disappeared and reappeared behind him.
"Are you looking to get yourself hurt today, kid?" the man asked, his voice firm and smooth. Calis could do nothing else but tremble as he felt the presence of death breathe down his neck. "You think I became a Weaver by being stupid enough to let myself be trailed by some fire-headed kid in rags?"
"Wait, I—" It was as if Calis had been hit in the gut by a bull running at full speed. He couldn't even sense the blow coming. Calis flew through the air, his back meeting a solid wall. He struggled to breathe; his heart pounded in his chest. The Weaver again flashed in front of him, looking down at Calis with marked disdain. Calis gave a shaky grin. "You hit a lot harder than I thought."
The Weaver was not amused.
"What do you want, brat?" he ordered. Calis fought back the urge to retort but decided the death of his ego was better than actually dying. "I want to be a Weaver."