indents

Cobblestone, for all intents and purposes, is a type of surface in which rounded stones are embedded into some kind of mortar. It was commonly used for roads throughout the world until the turning of the 20th Century, when asphalt replaced it for general use. Rory, with some basic multiplication, estimated that 800 stones comprised the flooring of his cell. Upon closer inspection, he counted 934 stones. Or maybe 938. Or maybe 930. He wasn't entirely sure. The source of his inaccuracy was the patch of stones nearly his legs. No matter how hard he tried, the blood, pitch black in the darkness, hid the exact details from his mind.

"An eye for an eye, boy"

And he was glad of it; glad to have something to do. The mystery preoccupied his mind, as he tried more and more convoluted ways to solve it. He estimated the size of each stone in the floor and averaged them, then used that to estimate the number of missing stones. But he noticed that stones tended to have similar properties to the ones next to it. So he averaged the stones local to the missing patch. A job well done.

"You don't want your little orphanage to be burnt, do you?"

Before the pain, the searing pain, the cruel deliberating pain, could find a place within his mind, he quickly crafted a new scheme. He could estimate the size of each s tone by running the reflection and refraction of light, the source of which was a small slit upon which soft torchlight spilled in whatever capacity it could into the room, through some calculations. Yes, yes.

"There's more to come, rat."

But just as he had estimated the area of the third stone, light suddenly spilled into the room, ruining his concentration. He lazily began to crane his head upwards, but gave up when the pain became too much.

"Get out," a low voice said, "someone paid your way out."

Rory didn't answer.

The guard sighed. "Really roughed you up, didn't they?" He walked towards Rory, grabbing him by his left arm, as it was relatively devoid of blood. "Come on, there you go. Can't stay here forever. Don't want to deal with your corpse."

"Killing is prohibited."

After much shuffling, the sharp rays of morning once again struck Rory's face. It hadn't been that long—only a day or two. Long days, those were; or were they? He couldn't really remember, to be honest. He was escorted to the nearest street corner, where the guard promptly left him. He immediately collapsed; he must have a few fractures in his left femur. Or maybe it was completely broken. He wasn't sure anymore. He wasn't sure of much right now.

"But that is all."

A few minutes of struggling earned him an upright position against the red brick he sat against. What do I do now? Hoping some good Samaritan rescues him, he supposes. Maybe Loria. Not even a dozen hours ago he would've vehemently refused help; this was his duty; his heroic sacrifice. Now, he didn't really care. He was supposed to save humanity? He can't even save himself.

"Keep his eye's safe; he needs to see. See himself."

He still had Chronos, connected solidly to his wrist. A lot of good that would do him; what, would he give himself more time to rot? Really, he had relied too much on Chronos. A magic button that saved all his problems; as if.

"Parole set at 600 gild."

No, no world saving now. No heroics. Just sit, and sit, and relish in the pain. And so, a day passed, the suns journey towards the west barely registering in his mind. On the second day, his mind was sharper, his wit clearer, but his heart still weak. Past medical training—a past life, really—came back to him.

"May as well be dead."

He no longer swatted the flies away. In fact, he corralled all the flying critters he could towards the multitude of swelling flesh that comprised his leg.

"A fast one, huh? You know what we do to fast ones, right?"

To his surprise, he awoke next to a small pile of silvers. They must think I'm a beggar. No, I am. He felt better now, for whatever that was worth. But he was parched, the last time he had drank anything being a few days ago. He needs water, and he needs water quickly. Slowly and painfully, he began to stand up, gently testing his left leg. No, he still couldn't put weight on it. This is a problem. He began to walk down the street, using the wall next to him as support. Water, water, where do I get water? There was no tap here. A well? Where could he find a public well? Loria use to handle all of that...

He turned towards a man walking in the opposite direction. "Sir, do you know where I may find water—"

The man ignored him; no, that wasn't true. He, in fact, purposefully knocked into the bloodied youth, as if punishing him for daring to ask, causing a few silver coins to fall out of his hands. Rory lazily looked down at them and sighed, then slowly began to bend over and pick them up, every movement causing his creaking joints to ache.

He continued to limp his way down the street, thirst driving him forwards. Finally, he reached a small food stall, its counter operated by a young girl and its kitchens manned by presumably her father.

"Water. A silver for water," he offered, holding up a silver coin for her to see.

She stared at him nervously; he must've been in a fight. She was tempted to call her father and kick him out, but he had a soft glint in his eyes, a resignation, a gentleness. She would try to scare him off peacefully. "Two silvers."

"Two silvers, then," he said, holding another coin up.

"Three."

"Three," he echoed.

An entire three silvers for water? Was he an idiot? Money was money, though.

"Father! A pitcher of water!" she yelled, and a dimmed, "Comin' right up" responded to her call. Soon, Rory received his water. He drank ravenously, water running down his chin. When he noticed, however, he frowned, and reverted the pitcher. He then proceeded to drink slowly, methodically, making sure no drop fell to the ground.

Afterwards, he handed the now empty pitcher back to the girl and wandered on. Thirst having now been dealt with, he constructed a list of to-do's: Obtain support, obtain medical treatment, obtain food. He completed the first relatively easily, buying an old broom handle from a sweeper with the rest of his silvers. As for medical treatment, that was simply impossible. Looking at his maggot-infested leg, however, he couldn't help but feel that his time was ticking. As for food, he could use Chronos to steal some--he didn't like doing that, however. Not because his morals suddenly rejected the idea, but because he didn't want to use Chronos anymore. Overconfidence was what got him into this mess in the first place; no, he would only use Chronos is he must.

Traveling back to the orphanage would solve most of those, but... No, if he must, he will come crawling back. But, the more he thought about it, the more his heart constricted in pain. He wasn't sure if he could make it, anyways. His leg was urgently wounded, and at the pace he was going it would take a few days to get to that part of the city. What, then? He didn't know.

He continued to wander aimlessly, taking short breaks every few meters. His clothes, which were torn and bloodstained to begin with, gradually grew dirtier and dirtier. To the other pedestrians, he was an odd sight: a young man, hobbling on a staff like an old man. But, he wasn't their problem. Just let the invalid wander.

Fortune had not completely abandoned him, however. From a curt, orderly building made of fine wood, a long line at least a hundred meters stretched, filled with children of all ages, of all levels of wealth, some guarded by their parents and some not. It was a bizarre scene, one that reminded him of the other world, the world of peace, the world of electricity, the world of institution. But the itching on his leg, on his arms, on his torso, the pain on his left leg, they soon reminded him that he was currently in the world of anarchy. A world where the strong prevail, and the strong fail, the weak are suppressed, and the weak rule. And yet, no matter how many times Rory blinked, the children were still lined up, like he and his schoolmates were when they went to lunch, or had their medical examination.

Looking behind him, he found the cause. 40th Bi-Annual Abex Test. He remembered Loria telling him about that; she always did nag him about math. Suddenly, he had an idea--one that would solve his problems. All he had to do was take the test, do well, and then have the resources of a noble family at his disposal. It wouldn't be hard, after all. But one element made him recoil--if he was to be a noble, then no doubt he meet those brutes again. They would kick him, punch him, grab their hammers and...

He looked down at his leg again. Is he so ashamed and broken that he would rather die than face them? Yes, he thought. But then he thought about humanity, about Loria, about Gilas and Sarra. What would they think of him, dying like a wretch? The gears in his mind began to grind, and he slowly turned back. He'll give it a shot.

A few hours later, he was admitted into the building. The test was open to all children of all economic classes, and so the proctors were not unused to seeing dirty, broken street children walk into their building. Indeed, Rory was not the only one covered with dirt and wounds.

The building itself was clean, with a stone floor and whitewashed wooden walls. Each child was given a unique identifier, which they would turn in later to check if they were accepted. Soon, they were corralled into the test halls, where each child was given a pen, parchment, and a set of questions inscribed on the wall. They were all mathematical in nature; the basics. Rory had no trouble adding 2 to 3, or multiplying 7 by 5, or diving 60 by 3, or even dividing 9 by 8. He could tell you how many apples the merchant was selling, how much fencing the farmer needed. The last question, the real stumper, the one that weeded out the geniuses from the merely bright, was an application of Pythagorean Theorem. Rory finished with ease, hobbled his way to the proctor, gave the paper in, and left, the first one out.

The results would be in tomorrow for his batch of test-takers. He needed somewhere to stay for the night. After a bit of searching, he found a nice crevice located within the wall of a decrepit building a few meters off from the testing grounds. Massaging his empty stomach and ignoring his festering leg, he drifted off to sleep at once, still deathly tired from his injuries.