Have you ever hungered? Ever played with the food noise blurring up your brain? Bitten into the air to pretend it tastes like something fat and saucy?

  Have you felt the pain as the muscles in your stomach start contracting in uproar, in desperation? Gurgling on your own noxious fumes, feasting on your own poison until even that is chewed through? Devoured from within.

  That’s what hunger feels like. Loud, once, but slow in nature. A feast of you, for you, because there is nothing else.

  Rivin’s starting to notice it most in his hands, in the way that they tremor whenever they aren’t fisted. He has to focus on keeping them still. Focus on so much more these days.

  Roach doesn’t often eat with them and he thinks it’s because she knows that they’re starving— fading away like chalk on the pavement, but she’s gone a lot too, still searching for something beyond a dead cat.

  Sometimes, she brings satchels home of almost-food, often spoiled or stolen, fruits tainted by nail tracks or bruised in a rush. Once, several ratling’s still twitching in a sack, the bottom frayed and dense with blue blood. She’d been grinning wide when she handed it over, but there were tear marks down the apples of her cheeks, streaking through dust and grime. The rats were her pupils too.

  Were they desperate enough to eat such things as rats? You don’t dwell when you’re starving. Everything tastes the same when it’s charred. They let Chip cook on purpose, hope that he’ll ruin the taste into something familiar like ash or charcoal. He does.

  Roach has been barred from The Spine longer than all of them, a legacy nemesis of Lav, she’d say. Weeks ago, Rivin may have thought taking in the wild child would be better for her than it was for them, but she’s thinning now, even beneath the layers of her bomber jacket and shirts, she’d tightened her belts beyond their limits and stopped filling her pockets so full of trinkets lest they drag down her hips. She’s more hair than girl now, and yet she comes back, more often than not.

  Regret grips him hardest when she sleeps, all curled in a ball in the corner of his cot, often tangled in rainbow fabric once too small for her body. More skeleton than girl. Have I killed you too? He can’t help but wonder. Slowly? Before my eyes?

  Things are getting dire. Ricket sleeps most days, tucked into the throes of haphazard nightmares while Slink works ceaselessly in The Pit, bent over sparks and wires and other such things Rivin doesn’t understand. He does notice, however, things missing from Mouse’s rack, items taken and returned singed or lacking buttons. He doesn’t ask. Let’s them all mourn how they need to. He still has her blanket after all. Watches a stray tuck it in close every night.

  They’re desperate on this day. Weak. Chip is the first to break, the first to come pleading to Rivin for something else, some way else— the bags beneath his eyes are near purple now and filling, filling with all that’s left of his fire. He’s stopped growing but he’s still taller than them all and when Rivin calls them to the table, his arms are crossed tightly over his frame as if to hide the fact that he, too, is turning into nothing.

  The gather in the platform, surrounding the circular table, it’s the first time they’ve called a meeting since— Squeeeaakee. Squeeeeaakee.

  The atmosphere is dense with foreboding and yet a high-pitched and irritating sound grates through the tension unwelcome. It’s Roach of course, spinning round and round on a rickety swivel chair, Ricket giggling as he forces her faster and faster. Slink glares at them over his boots, which are propped up and crossed at the ankle atop the table.

  Rivin tries to speak, massaging one temple with the heel of his hand. “Lav has—”

  Squeeeaakee. Squeeeeaakee.

  “Can you both—”

  Their laughter is deafening as the chair rocks and rocks and nearly spills over.

  “SHUT UP!” Slink roars, suddenly upright and furious.

  Ricket and Roach pause mid-chortle, sweating with laughter. The girl pulls a face, imitating their scolding while Ricket reluctantly takes a seat, stifling whatever joy still teeters on his tongue.

  “Proceed, boss,” Slink sigh, returning to his seat.

  Rivin nods. Pleased. “Lav has blacklisted us, no other way to say it. Even the Gutter Saints won't hire us for scavenger runs.”

  Chip shakes his head, repulsed. “How does that bastard cross us and we get blacklisted?”

  “You made him look stupid. No one wants to look stupid.”

  They all glance at Roach — she's cleaning the dirt from beneath her fingernails with a flathead screwdriver that’s seems to have apparated into existence, shielding her eyes beneath loose and wild hair.

  “What do you know?” Rivin raises a brow and the girl smirks slowly, like a constrictor before it crushes.

  “Bold question. How much time you have?”

  “Give that back!” Slink stands suddenly once more and Roach tosses the tool with a swift flick. He catches it clumsily against his stomach, glaring daggers. “I was looking for this…” The boy grumbles, clearly irate. Hungry. Starving.

  “Lav’s a waste of your time,” she continues, crossing one leg over the other. “And the Gutter Saints are easy enough to convince if you quote that stupid book.”

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Rivin’s still watching her closely — her fingers drift over the bone braided into her hair before she snatches them away too quickly. “What are you suggesting?”

  “Expansion! New horizons — political bar runners,” she shoots a finger gun, blows out the smoke.

  “The Swill? We’ve tried.” Chip moans.

  “They never give us the time of day,” Ricket laments.

  “When you live in the Lowrealm, you make the time of day.”

  “Matteo seems to think you're a regular?” Rivin’s eyes are narrowed now, studying the peasant queen before him. She shifts, perhaps in discomfort beneath his scrutiny, before rapidly bringing her right arm before her and turning her wrist to face them — without so much as another word, she tugs down her sleeve.

  Ricket gasps and covers his mouth at the ghoulish sight while Slink and Chip visible recoil. Roach, however, has eyes bright with pride as she brandishes the notorious Drip admission stamp burned into her flesh.

  The skin is warped and ugly — rough and intricately scared with the etching of a roaring bear haloed by three six pointed stars. Rivin recognizes it as one of The Old State symbols — the sigils of men still caught up in a system long since deserted by the oppressive state overhead.

  More importantly, it acts as an eternal welcome to the Swill’s prestigious bar hideout and its many state rooms. The Drip.

  Rivin had heard the rumors, but seeing the sigil melted into her flesh makes his stomach twist. It’s not the pain he imagines—it’s that she’s proud of it. Like it meant something more than simple disfigurement. She pulls the sleeve down further, with dramatic intent, seemingly reveling in their perturbed reactions— a wolf twisted in flame, and a vulture ascending.

  “Roach.. how many—?”

  “I'm still collecting,” she let's her sleeve drop.

  “You're full of.. ugly surprises.” Slink mutters.

  Roach waves away their disgust with a flourish and a smirk, “you know what these are, right?”

  Rivin is still staring at her sleeved arm. Something twists deep in his stomach, like the cold press of steel digging deep between sinew. “State admission.”

  “Ding. Ding.”

  A pause settles before Slink asks, “and how does this help us?”

  Roach sinks back into the swivel chair. “Must I solve everything?” Her eyes are sharp and everlasting in the lowlight, a copper black hole.

  “You can get us in?” Rivin queries.

  “Better.” The room is quiet now. Silence blooms. She spins once more, slower this time. Squeeeaakkee. When she stops, her cheeks are dimpled and her hands are joined upon her lap. “I can get you to the General.”

  Disorder ensues. They argue for far too long, although neither Roach nor Rivin speak during. She watches the mayhem bloom, grinning, and he watches her, silent. She’d been gone more and more often lately, different to her searches for the feline, but not entirely. She’d been searching, searching, searching for something that she hadn’t found in a trap — what was she looking for? What was she planning? Where was she going?

  “It's too soon. Way too soon after Mo—”

  “You guys are always talking about getting out of the little leagues so here's our chance—”

  “She probably burned those in herself!”

  “It's just a conversation!”

  “With the fucking Swill!”

  “Yes— the biggest arms dealer in the undercity!” Ricket rallies for Roach loyally, and the pay-off is the aching quiet as they let the words sit between them, thick in the air.

  Rivin leans back, grey eyes flitting over each crestfallen face before landing on the girl in her rickety throne once more. She’s already looking at him expectantly. Waiting. She knows everything. “You're offering a conversation with the General of the Swills?” What are you planning, Queen of Nothing?

  “Just a little chat.”

  “Why?”

  Her eyes flash. She looks like she did weeks ago, when she’d careened off the side of the No Option Drop. Smug. Bold. Scheming.

  “Why not?”

  Somehow her question hangs heavier.

  Once all is decided, it's Rivin that chooses to go alone. He would never admit that he's nervous — that his crew, as much as he loves them, might just make this harder. Roach joins, naturally.

  “You can't go alone— it's too dangerous,” Chip pleads.

  “C'mon man. It could be a trap. You really trust that thing?” Slink gestures to Roach and Rivin looks down at her beaming face, her relaxed smile and taunting eyes. She brandishes her arm again, and as though it’s sickly and radiated, the crew jump back in revulsion.

  “You can come, but you're gonna have to get one of these!” She cackles, rotating her limb and shoving it towards their distressed faces.

  Everyone is leant away and quiet. “Well, if it's just a conversation..” Slink grumbles, staring hard at the wall.

  As Rivin trails behind her later, the crew gradually blurring into the darkness, he asks Roach hesitantly, “do I really have to get one of those..?”

  “Pfft. No. These are earned!” She runs ahead like she's clearing the way; each step both chaos and purpose. He chuckles despite himself and picks up his pace so that they're dashing side by side. The Spine's familiar terrain and vendors give way to slickening steel and metal infrastructure soldered into stone.

  The first checkpoint is guarded by two Veterans three bottles deep but still stiff, still poised to take aim. One is missing an eye, and the other looks away as Roach passes him something shiny in the shadows.

  The deeper they go, the more the lighting changes. Neon gives way to a warm glow, sleepy and orange. Lanterns hang low on old wire strung between support beams. Shanty buildings reinforced with titanium but glowing with light stand sutured into stone, lining a vast and thriving clearing bustling with trade and people.

  In the distance, several men fight bare-fisted between a ring of people, further still are spires reclaimed by cavern, arching up the enormous ceiling and glistening with veins of white and pulsing ore, from them, stalactites merged of rock and marble, human design melted into nature. He's never been this far into Swill Territory before. Not without a good reason to get out of there.

  Rats scamper between shadows, some are bold enough to step into the light; Roach tosses crumbs into their path, pats one's head as she passes. Rivin shivers — thankfully, all he can recall is the ash in his mouth. He thanks Chip for that. Despite the disgust, he can't look away, not as she skips into the trenches of a place he had only ever been warned about like it’s spring in the garden.

  “How often do you come here?”

  “Often enough. They're real sore losers.”

  “You gamble?”

  She looks over her shoulder to shoot him a devilish grin. “I win.”

  By the time they reach The Drip, more and more Swill begin to appear. Mostly hulking men and women with chunky, devastating weapons and bomber jackets tagged with makeshift medallions. All bare several burn scars on their arms. Roach greets even the ones that scowl at them. Tipping an invisible hat. Rivin doesn't want to admit that he can't feel his legs. His heart is throbbing in his ears. He feels small, even when he stands up straighter, even when he hardens his eyes.

  The come to a stop before an indiscriminate doorway, tucked demurely between two shopfronts. The door itself is heavy-gauge steel with several huge locking points, all of which steadfast and bolted closed, complete with a rectangular latch in the middle, too high for children such as them. Above it, not a sign, but instead a broad and mossy rock and a tilted brass bucket.

  Roach sucks in a sharp breath as if to prepare for some necessary ritual, puffing out her chest and raising both hands — Rivin wonders if she might sing or provide a password, some silly little Swill riddle prepared at the door. Instead, she merely turns and begins to hammer her fists incessantly against the metal.

  Bangbangbangbangbang!

  “HEY! I’M BAAACK!”

  From behind, something grates…