"Mm, delicious!" Zosingh exclaimed quietly with a content smack of her lips. She finished off the last of her bread and licked the crumbs off her fingers. She finished her quick meal with a short prayer to Ozwiena while keeping her eyes out for trouble. Just because she was thankful to the goddess didn't mean she would stoop her head and close her eyes to offer gratitude. Piety on the move was essential in the Malorian streets.

Her mother would have offered thanks to Svarozhich for the bread. Since her mother worked with craftmen and forges, she obviously showed devotion to a god of fire. Zosingh, however, was partial to the goddess of voice. It was the power of words that got the discount on bread, after all. She liked to offer prayers and the occasional slice of meat to a certain seven-headed warrior god, just in case push ever came to shove. Because in the middle of a fight, who wouldn't want seven pairs of friendly eyes watching their back?

"Um, excuse me...do you have any bread left?" a timid voice called out to her. She turned in the direction of the voice and spotted a young woman, probably only a few years older than herself. Zosingh looked the scrawny girl up and down with a calculating gaze. The girl returned the look, her wide eyes pausing at the large bite marks and scars on Zosingh's legs before coming back to her eyes.

"Nope," Zosingh said dismissively, and began walking again.

"Please! I don't need much! Just a little."

"I don't have any," Zosingh said again, this time with firmness.

"I don't have money, I can't afford—"

"Not my problem," she said, stopping and pushing the girl back. Callousness, age nine. It only takes feeding one hungry alley dog to realize not every pet is like Karuth. Some don't want rice bake scraps, but flesh. "Go beg to a priest, or somebody who cares." The other girl recoiled in shock, tears springing to her eyes.

"Why are you so mean?" the older girl demanded.

"Because that's the way it is. We both know you don't survive here by being nice."

"My family...they lost everything," the older girl mumbled with a downcast gaze. Zosingh's rude veneer nearly cracked, but the small girl steeled herself. No, you can't back down, she thought. She remembered the sight of her mother's missing ear, and her sister's disfigured foot. I won't be another fool.

"Not. My. Problem," Zosingh said and punctuated each word with a shove. "Leave me alone." She turned her back on the other girl, and began to walk towards a side street. Which, it turned out, was a bad idea.

Something hard cracked against her head, and she stumbled to the ground. She instinctively felt the back of her head, and her hand came back covered in blood. Zosingh fought the urge to vomit at the sight, and swallowed hard. She wasn't going to waste fresh bread.

The older girl stood at the edge of the road, a jagged rock held in her hand. She was breathing heavy, with a wild look in her eyes.

"Hey, listen," Zosingh cautioned while making her unsteady way to her feet. Though she prayed to gods of war, that didn't mean she could fight. Her mother's pacifism was a difficult yoke to shake. "It's nothing personal, I promise."

"It's personal for me!" the other girl shouted and threw another rock at Zosingh. The smaller child narrowly avoided the sharp projectile. Her quick eyes hastily scanned her environment for an escape route. The only option seemed to be behind her. So, she kept backpedaling and dodging, unwilling to turn her back. The other girl had to run out of rocks eventually.

"Hey!" Zosingh shouted as one stone made contact with her exposed shins. She could practically feel her bones dent. "You could really hurt somebody."

"Oh I hadn't noticed," the older girl replied with a sick smile. "But..." she paused for a moment, though Zosingh continued backing away. "Then again, isn't that how it is? We don't survive by being nice, after all." And with that, the older girl started a full out sprint towards Zosingh down the street.

Okay, now I can run. The small girl raced down the cracked side road. She struggled to maintain her balance on the loose stones and skittered around the corner. Her shoulder smacked against a crumbling building wall, but that didn't stop her. Zosingh threw down a trash can and took out Jaerbuk's small knife. She cut a clothes line, and took a moment to look behind her.

Something crashed into her, sending her sprawling into an alley. The rough road scraped away at her skin, and she gingerly picked herself up. She winced as she dusted gravel off her wounds.

A young man was making his way to his feet, a large knife clutched in one of his hands. Zosingh felt tears stinging her eyes. This wasn't how it was supposed to be! A quick trip to the market, that was all. Why did things have to constantly be like this?

"Why does the world hate my family?" she hiccupped.

"You got her, Matsen!" the older girl exclaimed after rounding the corner.

"Obviously," the pale boy said with a snort. "Not everybody is as slow as you, Dahli."

"It's this damn dress," Dahli said indignantly and ripped parts of the cheap fabric away at her knees.

"Hold up, you didn't tell me our mark was a kitsune," Matsen said. Zosingh felt the top of her head. Her fingers brushed dried blood and dirt, and came into contact with her dark, fluffy ears. Her headband lay discarded down the alley, knocked off by Matsen's tackle. The older boy's eyes gleamed in the coming twilight.

"We hadn't picked out a mark, dimwit," Dahli snapped. She sighed and grabbed the dagger from her partner. "Let's just get this over with. If she's hiding it, that means she's somebody's."

"She's a dark kitsune," Matsen pointed out and took the knife back. "She's only good to a slaver. Maybe a gladiator pit if the owner has an eccentric taste."

"You mean like—"

Zosingh didn't give the two teens a chance to finish their statement; she had heard enough. Nothing good would come out staying here. She had quietly been pushing down her fear and tears over the past minute or so. She imagined her mother, crying at the loss of her daughter. Would the authorities even bring her mother her body? Would there be a body?

I'm not about to find out, the little girl decided. She grabbed a reeking canvas bag and tossed it with all her might. It hit Dahli in the chest and she collapsed back. Matsen turned his gaze to the little girl, who was charging at him. He swing the knife and cut her across one of her shoulders. She screamed and fell, plunging her small dagger into his thigh.

Sorry mom! she thought. She crawled between the legs of Matsen, trying to ignore his screams. She swiped her tears and kicked Dahli's nose as the older girl tried to stand. Sorry! she apologized again. Please forgive me for disappointing you, she silently prayed to her mother. Zosingh raced out of the alley and into the main street, snot running down her chin and mixing with the salt of her tears.

"Oh gods oh gods," she muttered as she ran. She weaved in and out of people. Somebody reached out to her and she practically dove in the opposite direction. Can't trust anybody. Who knows who else there is? She looked around, paranoia welling up within her. There were so many people, so many people. Somehow she had ended up in the financial district of the city, surrounded on all sides by busy people and tall buildings. A large clock was nearing 5:30.

Be back by six, her mother's voice warned inside her head.

"There she is!" Zosingh turned at the sharp edge of Matsen's voice cutting through the busy crowd. She started backing away and shook her head, dark ears wagging.

"Please, no. Please!" People were staring now, and whispering. The world was expanding and contracting at the same time, pulling her apart. Why did this have to happen? "Just leave me al—" BOOM!