I woke, as was usual, with Sash driving her elbow into my gut.

Two or three years ago, in an effort to win an argument about who was the best sibling, I had claimed that ‘a good sister would wake her brother up on time’. That point was largely ineffective, but I eventually managed to silence all opposition with the ‘I saved both your lives’ card, a move effective in any given conversation, especially if it’s true.

Unfortunately for us boys, Sash had taken my words to heart and decided to wake both Dash and I every day. A few months into this, she had accidentally elbowed me, which Ma had nearly keeled over laughing at, and Sash, being Sash, had taken this as a sign that she should do so every day.

She seemed so pleased with herself every time she did it; I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was less funny on the receiving end. The others got a kick out of it anyway.

As I groaned and tussled Sash’s hair, Dash, probably still annoyed about yesterday, let loose a long and obviously fake laugh. The little rodent just wanted to piss me off, so instead of going over and wrestling him into submission, I turned to Sash, still waiting with a wide smile on her face.

“Good morning, Sash.”

She smiled, then turned expectantly to Dash. He repeated the phrase. Looking at them, it was obvious the pair were twins: they shared the exact same colouration, with blue eyes, pale skin and white hair, and were nearly of an equal height. Sash’s locks were long and tangled, pulled back in a ponytail, unlike Dash’s closely-cropped hair. Dash had also grown slightly taller than her, which I could tell he was inordinately pleased about.

I was almost the exact opposite with dark hair, browned skin, and black eyes. Pretty normal, all things considered. I’d probably end up taller than them though, so that was a plus. It would just feel too weird for them to be bigger than me.

Sash, satisfied that we were up and the ritual was completed, left to stretch in the courtyard. Most of the time I tried to avoid watching; the shapes her body contorted into were nauseating. Dash had already thrown his clothes on and strode out the door, ignoring me the entire time. He was just too serious sometimes. So what if he got a bit of dung in his hair? There was barely any on his head anyway.

Getting up, I avoided cracking my head on the ceiling – our room was a tiny attic, with a sloping ceiling that even Dash collided with at times. Ma and Sash’s bedroom was far bigger, but it was hard to complain when Ma was still over seven feet. I might be able to make a case if she shrunk to around six. Maybe.

I rooted around my footlocker and grabbed a clean-ish set of clothes, before moving in front of the beaten bit of metal I used as a mirror. The Butcher Boys and I had looted a derelict blacksmith in one of the dead areas of the city a few months back, and I had nabbed this as well as a few bits and bobs to sell. I checked my face for any new pimples and brushed my unruly hair before moving out, deftly scrambling down the trapdoor and into the house proper.

The living area wasn’t large, but since Ma had hit eight feet two years back we could all fit. I took a seat on one of the cushions near our table and began eating breakfast: leftovers from the end of last night’s shift. The fact that most customers cleaned their plates was a source of some pride for me, but inevitably there would be some left over. Ma hated waste, so she reheated them for us in the morning. A mish-mash of different types of noodles, some pickled vegetables, a few dumplings, some fried chicken too rich for someone’s stomach and a large bowl of soup was this morning’s selection.

We were probably some of the best fed people in the city, though soggy food left overnight tended not to be the most luxurious of meals. Dash, already eating, avoided my eyes by studying the tapestries around the room. I could hear our mother puttering around in the kitchen, getting ready to open.

“Oi. Dash.”

His silence was starting to get to me. I flicked a piece of cheese at him.

“What?” he snapped.

“Keep quiet about our extra-curricular activities last night.”

“You mean the-“

“Yes!” I interrupted him before he could blow it. “Yes I mean that.”

“I’m going to tell Ma you put poo in my hair.”

That little rat. “Don’t you dare.”

“I will.” He insisted.

“If you do I’ll push you in the toilet.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

Dash sniffled. “Why are you so mean to me?”

Oh, by the blood. He was probably faking – in fact, by the spiteful look in his eye he definitely was – but if he continued Ma would come and it would become a whole thing. “Look, I’m sorry. It was just a bit of poo anyway, I thought it’d be funny.”

He crossed his arms, poking at his bread. “Well, it wasn’t.”

“So I won’t do it again. Problem solved, right?”

“Mmm.” He hummed sceptically and squinted at me. “Okay. But if you do it again I’ll beat you up again.”

He probably would too. It seemed unfair to me, honestly – drawing my blood in exchange for a few flecks of dung. Still, at least the terms were laid out now. I knew what to expect if I dumped him in the toilet.

After a truce was finally established, we returned to eating. I traded away a dumpling for some beans as reparations, which finally seemed to return Dash to a less tetchy mood.

“Or-VI!” a great bellow resounded through the building. “You’re late!”

I hastily wrapped a dumpling in noodles and crammed it down my throat, then hurried into the kitchen. It had already had its morning sweep and mop, courtesy of Sash, however we still had to check all our implements were clean and that the pots left to simmer overnight weren’t spoiled. Ma’s eyes, though she refused to admit it, weren’t quite good enough to do all of that alone. Her hands being nearly as big as hocks of ham didn’t help.

As I scrubbed at a spot of scum on one of our pans, I eyed Ma. Though her body strained against the apron she wore, rolls of brown skin covering everywhere besides her head hinted at the size she used to hold. As the Oxblood left her veins, so too did much of her former strength. It was a very gradual thing, taking place over the eight years I’d lived with her, but I tried to spend a bit of time every morning trying to gauge what aspect of En had been chipped away from her. And how much of the human beneath had been revealed.

Her face was still uglier than a bowl of mashed potatos, though. At least her eyes weren’t black orbs anymore; it had made it impossible to tell where she was looking.

“Good morning, Orvi,” She gravelled abruptly. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah, it was alright. Had good dreams. I’m just glad I’m not milk.”

“And why,” she said expectantly, “is that?”

“Because your face would make me curdle.”

She whacked me across the back of my head, lightly by her standards. Diminished as she was, the blow would most likely have sent lesser men to their knees. I shook my head in an attempt to clear it and continued trying to make my pan shine.

“What would you rate that one?” I asked, grunting at my exertions.

“Hmmm,” Ma hummed. “Four out of ten. You lost points for the poor segue.”

“Damn.” I usually managed at least a six.

After cleaning our cookware, we wiped each surface with exceptional fastidiousness. The kitchen was barely big enough to fit the two of us, so what seemed like a lot of work finished in barely two minutes. After a second round with wet rags, Ma and I lugged in a few buckets of water from the well in the courtyard. Then we were done. My mother waved me off, ready to start cooking the more stubborn meals.

The dining area was rather small, arranged in an L less than ten strides from tip to tail. The rest of the building contained the kitchen and living area, with Ma and Sash’s room sticking like a tumour out the side. Inward facing shutters – rarely closed – opened into the courtyard where Sash was stretching. Dash was already cleaning the scratched tables and beaten chairs.

“Hey Orv,” he said, concentrating on a stubborn spot. “We’ve already got a customer waiting outside.”

I cocked an eyebrow and he shrugged, as lost as I was. The sun had only just peeked over the horizon; who in their right mind would willingly come this early? Though, I had a sneaking suspicion that it was someone who wasn’t in their right mind. I poked my head through one of the few outward facing windows – which had actual glass – saw who it was, and yanked myself back in.

“It’s the little voyeur again.” I clacked my teeth, hoping to convey my disapproval.

“Really? He’s back?”

“Like clockwork.”

I sighed and ushered the boy inside. He placed a few lidded bowls on a table – remnants of yesterday’s order – and stood occasionally throwing a not-so-sneaky glance into the courtyard. I closed the shutter he was peering out of.

“The same as yesterday?”

“Ye-yes,” he stuttered. “A bowl of rice noodles in the, uh, spicy broth, with the chicken, some string beans, and three pork buns,” he paused. “And also a, uh, sandwich. Whatever’s cheapest.”

“Alright, give us a few minutes and we’ll bring you your order.”

I left Dash to keep the kid company, and moved into the kitchen. The ‘spicy broth’ he ordered wasn’t actually that spicy – basically just boiled chicken with pepper and a few capsaicin – which was fortunate for him because the actually spicy food kept the longest, which meant by the time it got to a customer’s mouth it was the least fresh item on the menu. Not that it mattered, because it was usually too hot to taste its age.

A few minutes of steaming and buttering later, I had given him the food in lidded bowls and was eager to shoo him off. He made a show of looking for money in his pockets, transparently angling for more time, when Sash walked in to sweep and mop. Loverboy’s eyes alighted on her, and Dash and I silently agreed to let the cards fall where they may.

“Excuse me?” he quavered, looking everywhere but her eyes. “Uh, I was wondering if you had any, uh, recommendations for, uh, food.”

Sash swept the floor without looking up. “I believe the other employees would have lovely recommendations for you, sir,” she intoned blandly, in classic Sash fashion. Cooking, ironically, was something she absolutely hated; even just watching the process of making food was enough to set her into an anxious spiral.

The poor kid soldiered on. “Yes, well, the, I, uh,” he eloquently continued. “Was wondering what you were doing out there? Just then?”

She perked up, looking at him for the first time. I picked up one of Dash’s spare rags and began helping him wipe the table, hoping to get both of us out quickly. We braced ourselves as Sash opened her mouth.

“That was a series of stretches modified from Foxblood acclimatisation techniques for use in training the unblooded. It is actually an entirely unique variant that my mother made designed to help gain the flexibility and strength needed for grappling, which is easily the most sophisticated part of any martial art. There’s no display of skill and power better than completely dominating an opponent’s body, wouldn’t you agree?” The boy hesitated, then opened his mouth. Sash obliterated any possible reply.

“Of course, gaining mastery requires decades of dedication and training – that’s what my mother says – but unlike many other crafts results are immediately obvious, to the dedicated. It’s all very rewarding. The stretches are only a minor part of the routine, yet even a small amount can help you do things like this,“ – she raised her leg and hooked it around her neck – “which is clear evidence that it is an excellent method of cultivating a healthy physique. More evidence can be found in that a small girl can consistently beat opponents outside her weight class” – consistently? That’s a slight exaggeration. – “and often control strikers around her height.” Dash seemed mildly offended. Mostly for the implication they were similar heights, I thought.

Dash and I beat a hasty retreat back into the kitchen, leaving the boy alone to weather her monologue. We would save him before the food got cold – provided he didn’t stumble across another of Sash’s obsessions. She enjoyed lecturing new people far too much to take him away from her.

Dash and I sparred briefly before the morning rush hit. No actual blood was drawn – instead points were gained by tapping vulnerable parts of the other’s body. I ended up beating him by a slim margin, a feat I found impressive given how much smaller he was than me. By the time we slunk back in, the earlier regulars, watching from inside, were already jeering at me for not going easy on him.

“Oi Orvi!” Dirk yelled from his seat. Pat, his hound, sat on the floor beside him, eating a bowl of fried rice. “Not very manly of you smack Dash ‘round like that!”

“Manly?” I snorted. “Manly doesn’t get my brother cleaning my share of dishes. Winning does. Speaking of,” I turned to Dash. “Get off with you and get cleaning.”

Dash scowled and reluctantly slunk into the kitchen. I headed over to Dirk’s little table and plopped myself down on the seat opposite him. “You going out today?” I asked, giving Pat a scratch behind his ear.

“Nah,” he sneered, showing a mouth full of broken teeth. “The Houses’ve been sending the Old Guard out most days.” The name was intended to remind us Footers that the Houses had been around at the beginning, although it seemed more ironic than anything. “Us squaddies can’t keep up. We’re run ragged just tryin’ to bag a few heads. Can barely afford me mornin’ quaff.” He gestured to the cup of thick black liquid in front of him, the recipe of which Ma kept a closely guarded secret. I looked pointedly at his dog, munching on his food.

The broken-faced man noticed my stare. “Pat’s me pal. Probably brings in more chits than I do anyhow; nothin’s got a nose like him.”

I nodded vaguely. Dirk was a good hunter for many reasons. No one had killed as many monsters as him. I always found it strange he was so humble. His stories were always so impressive, too. Though, one of my earliest memories of the man was of Ma knocking him on his ass, so maybe eating here just took that attitude out of him.

“Does it bother you? The Old Guard taking your kills, I mean.”

He shrugged. “’Course I like food on my plate. Still, point o’ killin’ them monsters is for them to die, yeah?” he took a long sip from his cup, wincing at the flavour. “Anyways, eventually them critters would run out of Raven to eat and poof!” he made an expansive motion with his hands. “All gone. Huntin’ them means running out, one day.”

I clicked my tongue. “Still, they just came in halfway and took your job! Aren’t you angry?”

“More disappointed, really.” He sighed. “I like what I do. Still, we owe them. Raven and its crazies would still be flapping around if they hadn’t made that army.”

“The Foot made that army.”

“And the Houses made the Foot. That was their soldiers sent out.”

“None of them died.”

He snorted. “Nah, I knew a few officers who did. Fourth or fifth children, mostly. But they owned the godsblood, lost a lot by sending all of them Blooded out.”

“Yeah. Right.” More subdued than when we started, I got up and headed into the kitchen.

“Hey Orvi? Don’t let it get to you.”

I nodded.

Kicking Dash out of the kitchen, Ma and I spent the morning rush on autopilot, cooking, slicing and dicing as the customers demanded. I only stepped out once, when Sash managed to annoy someone by giving them an ‘evil-eye’. I spun some excuse about her face being stuck that way – Dash shushing Sash when she tried to rebut my claim – which mollified the angry lady, slightly. She suddenly realised the rest of the restaurant was actually giving her the evil-eye, some for yelling at a nine-year-old child, most for holding up the line, and beat a hasty retreat.

Ma seemed pleased at the resurgence of our customer-base and sent me out when she only needed two hands, rather than four. I didn’t mind staying longer, but Dash and Sash had just finished their lessons with Aunt Stitch, so she shooed me away. Sometimes, I thought Ma must have a bit of the Lizard in her; she seemed tireless, indefatigably plucking away at whatever chore she had inflicted on herself.

Stitch was a thin-faced lady Ma knew from the army. Most of the time she was a doctor, but for half an hour thrice a week she was my teacher, shoving more letters and numbers than my brain could hold. My mind was a mostly-full cup at the best of times, so I could admit teaching might have been easier with my more empty-headed siblings.

“This is stupid. How can a negative times a negative make a positive?”

I could tell she was trying to supress a scowl. “Let’s try this again. The additive inverse of minus a is-“

“It doesn’t make any sense.” I stated.

“Listen, there’s a-“

“No. Sense. No sense.”

Her façade finally cracked and she smacked my head. “I don’t care whether you think a negative times a negative is negative, what you’ll do is multiply them together and make. A. Positive.”

“I’m not doing something I don’t believe in.” I insisted.

Stitch gave me a patronizing stare. “That’s life.”

“Life’s awful.”

“Shut up. Your homework is to do this math.”

“Life would be less awful without homework.”

“You would be more awful without it.”

I paused, internally conceding the point. Aunt Stitch knew how to get someone to do what she wanted. I couldn’t let her know that, though.

“Still…”

She groaned a plea to the blood. There was a sneaking suspicion wiggling through my head that she didn’t like teaching me. But I was determined to share my misery. Luckily for her, Jackson chose that moment to walk in, nearly breaking his skull as he pulled his massive frame through the entrance.

General Maja’s successor was nearly ten feet tall, so big that the courtyard was the only place he could sit without his head brushing our ceiling. His musculature was uncanny, partially due to the sheer size. Yet beneath the stretch marks there was something inhuman about it all; they were too many muscles, all in the wrong place. Like he was some beast wriggling through his skin.

If not for his paler skin, he could have been a brother to the monstrous general I had met eight years ago. Right down to his empty black eyes. It made sense. They shared blood, after all.

His hand still had a scar where I had stabbed through it. It struck me that I had never apologised.

I rose to get Ma, ready to watch their training. Gently, he used a meaty hand to push me back in my chair and shook his head. It was almost comical watching the giant dip his way through the various tables and chairs without touching anything. He poked his head into the kitchen entrance and gravelled something, then disappeared into the room.

Aunt Stitch glared at me.

“What did you do this time?”