"Wake up, you little shit." Tabby opened her eyes. Blinked. A fist came out of nowhere. Pain split her skull wide open. Her head jerked to the left, stars dancing before her eyes. She remained firmly fixed in place, anchored to a chair. Her body hurt. Everything hurt. Like she'd been run over by carriage wheels.

Her surroundings swam in and out of focus as she tried to catalogue them. But the pain. She whimpered. The Spectrum. They knew she was compromised.

No...no! How could they? This was a dream. Just a dream. It had to be. She'd been here before, many years ago.

"About fucking time," the same voice muttered, setting the hairs of her arms on end. "I ent got all day."

Ice dropped into her belly. The realization of where she was sank in. She jerked against her bonds, frantic, crazed, trying to pull free. Trying to wake up. The chair was anchored to the floor. It wasn't going anywhere.

Fear replaced pain as her instincts kicked in. She'd never free herself—not in this way. She licked her lips, trying to calm her breathing. To think. To remember her training. "Where am I?"

She saw the movement this time. Sharp and quick. A fist straight into her stomach. The air whooshed out of her. She groaned, doubling over insomuch as her bonds allowed. Her body was smaller. Younger. But everything was disjointed.

"If I wanted to hear you yap, I'd've asked a question. Eh?"

She gasped for breath, taking deep drags, uprighting herself until her back was flush against the chair.

A test, then. Another test for loyalty. It had to be.

Dim torchlight created muted pools of yellow along the walls and floor, casting long shadows. A man in a uniform moved in and out of range. Her captor. His uniform painted him a constable. Which meant she was somewhere in the basement of Chroma's precinct building. Or...that's what she was meant to believe.

The clank of metal made her freeze. Her gaze remained fixed on the constable's back. He took a bundle and unrolled it across the table. Silver glinted. Tools. Torture.

"No..." The word was barely a whisper as the realization sank in further. Her breathing turned rapid. "No!"

The constable spun around. "You want to tell me what a rat like you was doin' poking around Entfield?"

Entfield?

Memories, a series of muddled thoughts, cascaded through her mind. She'd been tailing a business man through one of Entfield's markets. Gathering information on assignment. It should have been easy. So...why was she here?

She lifted her chin. "Last time I checked, begging weren't a crime to be locked up for." Everything about her clothes and dirty face pegged her for—

Smack! An object bounced off her chest and clattered to the ground. It rolled around on the stone and settled.

"Found that on your ankle. Recognize it?"

Her eyes widened a fraction before turning neutral. A thick copper cuff. A dream, then. She hadn't seen the cuff in ten years or more. But she'd recognize it anywhere. Didn't need to glance down to know it wasn't permanently fixed round her ankle. The pain from whatever tool had removed it was still there, though.

"Saw the mark embossed on the side there." He pointed with a scalpel. "Never seen a street rat wear somethin' like that. Which tells me you ent no beggar. Ent no beggar kids last past eight before getting snatched up by the workhouses. You're what? Ten? Eleven?"

"Twelve, you piece of shit."

"So I'll ask again. What you doin' poking around Entfield?"

"Keep asking," she hissed, spitting blood on the floor. "Answer's still the same."

"Thought so. But I recognize that symbol there." He pointed to the cuff again. "That prism mark. Ent many who would know what it really means, but I do."

Definitely a test. A dream of a test. There was only one type of person who knew what the mark meant. She glared at him, keeping her bare feet firmly planted on the ground. Keeping her number well hidden...just in case.

To her captor, she sneered and said, "I see you figured everything out, huh? Good for you. I'd pat you on the back if my hands weren't—"

He flung the scalpel faster than she could blink. It sank into her shoulder. She half screamed in pain, half growled in anger, as searing heat spread down her arm.

"Who are you working for, you little shit?" He stalked over and ripped the scalpel free.

"Fuck you." She used the curse to disguise her cry of pain as the little blade came free.

She was shirtless except for the wrapping that bound her budding breasts. All her belongings were gone, though her pants remained. But there was far too much skin exposed. Her captor seemed to realize this at the same instant she did. He dragged the scalpel's blade down her arm, bicep to elbow, slicing her open.

She bit her tongue to keep from crying out. Unwilling to give him the satisfaction. What was a little more pain? A little more fear? She was no stranger to it.

"I'll ask again. Who are you working for? No sense in lying. I know what the symbol on that cuff is."

"Then why bother asking?" she spat.

"Because I want to hear you say it. 'The Spectrum.' Say it."

"Fuck. You." She spoke through clenched teeth.

He punched her in the gut, then again in the jaw. Returning his attention to the scalpel. He dug it down both arms and across her chest and shoulders, making deep, weeping cuts, leaving her skin sticky with blood. Her tears were silent at first. She tried to keep her mouth shut. But when he sank the scalpel into the back of her hand, clean through, she screamed outright. Spittle flew from her mouth. She poured everything into the clawing sound from her chest, willing herself to wake up. To open her eyes.

Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!

Her control was gone. Her body trembled. She was close, so close to letting go. But if she did, she would die. She couldn't allow herself to believe her captor was anything other than what she knew him to be, or her resolve would crumble.

"Alls you gotta do, is say it," he bated. "This can all stop. Just say it. Two words. Say it and I'll stop." Two words would never be enough to stop him. His eyes said as much. Sweat beaded across his forehead, capturing locks of shaggy brown hair. Dark stains spread beneath his armpits. Her lack of cooperation left him simultaneously pleased and frustrated with each passing minute.

She lost track of time. Her pain ran together as she burrowed down deep inside herself. One instance into the next. One agonizing scream into the another. Each ripping at her vocal cords. Each cry seconds from morphing into those two words he wanted to hear.

Only one thing kept her from breaking. One face. Frizzy blonde hair. Sparkling blue eyes. Pouty red lips. She couldn't give in. She couldn't.

Her captor slashed the scalpel across her cheek. "Come on, girl. I ent got all day. Say it! 'The Spectrum.' See? Ent hard."

A death sentence. That's what he wanted. She wouldn't give it to him. She wouldn't fail. Her defiance was her victory.

"No? All right." He walked over to the table and dropped the bloody scalpel, picking up a knife instead. "Last chance. Next I start taking fingers."

She glanced down at her hands. Her breathing hitched. She needed these hands for her work. Her precious work. The only thing that breathed life into her.

But no...that wasn't right. She was too young to be a machinist yet. To young to work with clockwork. That wouldn't come for another year or two.

Her torturer stalked over and flattened her uninjured hand against the armrest, angling the blade just below her pinky, poised to slice it clean off. Each beat of her heart came faster than the last. When she gazed into his face, she knew with certainty this was no bluff. He would take her whole fucking arm if she didn't say what he wanted to hear.

Her eyes were swollen. Her throat raw. But she managed to say with shocking steadiness, "Better my finger than my life."

"So be it." His arm twitched. "Say goodbye to your—"

"Enough, Screamer." The quiet command was was powerful and succinct. It sounded a lot like salvation. She sagged with relief. She knew his voice now almost better than her own. Years and years of hearing it.

Her captor froze in place, thwarted.

A fresh wave of silent tears muddled the sight of a masked man as he stepped into view. A three quarter mask of deep blue splattered with the stars of a night sky. He spoke again, "I'll not train an apprentice with a missing finger simply to satisfy your sadistic pleasures."

"I said you could stay, Midnight. Didn't say nothing about interfering. Ghost said I could take a finger or two for my efforts, and we're only getting started."

"You will not. She has lasted the mandatory hour. She did not fail. I shouldn't need to explain the rules."

She eyed the blade in Screamer's hand, eyes bouncing between it and the hulking forms before her. Screamer would do it if he could. The longing was written on his face. A series of expressions flashed across his features. He licked his lips.

A dagger flashed in Midnight's hands. It pressed against Screamer's throat. "Touch my apprentice and you die."

Screamer huffed. "Wouldn't even have one if it weren't for—"

"I said, stand down." Midnight pressed harder. A trickle of blood broke free of the blade.

Screamer cursed under his breath. But he straightened and stepped back a single pace.

"There now. Wasn't so hard, was it?"

The masked man—Midnight—turned to look at her. His broad form was clothed like an assassin—a Spect. Black tunic and pants, with weapons stowed everywhere about his person, and a belt with flaps to hide things. Prisms, specifically. His three quarter mask covered most of his face except his strong jaw and lips, which were pressed into a thin line.

He stooped and picked up the ankle cuff, turning it over in his gloved hands before looking down at her. "You won't be needing this anymore. Well done. You've earned yourself a master. Life only gets harder from here." He tossed it away unceremoniously then turned to Screamer. "Remove her bonds. I've spent as much patience as I can muster."

Screamer paid him a dirty look but set about unfastening her ankle cuffs before turning to the ones about her wrists. She gazed at him with undisguised hatred. Her blood boiled. He saw what she felt, saw it it in her eyes, and laughed. It was a twisted sound. Like this was a fun game to him. Like her life meant nothing.

Maybe he should have removed her pinky, after all. She still had one good hand. Suddenly free, she lunged, throwing her body into the best punch of her life, the best punch her twelve-year-old-body could muster, hitting him in the jaw. She felt the jarring impact radiate through her fist and up her arm. But it was worth it to see his look of shock.

A flash of movement was her only warning before her arms were pulled tight behind her. An agonized screech broke free of her chest as pain ripped through her. Midnight's body, twice her size, towered behind her, holding her fixed.

Her attempt to pull free was pathetic. Each incremental movement sent a fresh wave of agony cascading through her joints and wounds. He twisted her arms just shy of popping her shoulders out of socket. She froze against him.

Screamer watched, rubbing the side of his jaw, eying her with hatred in return. "We done here, Midnight?"

"Yes. Leave. Now."

He nodded and paid them a final look before disappearing.

Midnight waited until they were alone before he spoke again, his voice close to the shell of her ear "That was very, very stupid, One-nine-eight-nine. I did not give you permission to punch him, did I?" She didn't answer so he wrenched her arms harder, bringing another cry of pain. "...Did I?

"No." The word came out a whimper.

"Didn't think so. You are my apprentice now. Know what that means? You answer to me. You follow my orders. I tell you to stab someone? You stab them. I tell you to cut off your finger? You cut off your fucking finger. Understand?" She gave a rough nod. "Good. Step out of line again and I'll cut your throat. I don't have time for failure." He released her with a forceful push, sending her stumbling. She caught herself and rounded on him, eyes defiant, chest heaving as she sized him up. All it took was a single look at him before the flame of defiance gutted. He towered over her. She couldn't have fought back even if she wanted to. Especially not in her injured state, hugging her stabbed hand to her chest.

He reached into a pocket and tossed something gauzy at her. Her reflexes acted before she could stop herself. She caught the handkerchief but only just.

"Clean yourself up. The healers will stitch you when you return to the Temple. We're leaving."

She glanced down at the handkerchief before holding it to her cheek, her chest, her arms, wiping away the blood that had dried against her skin. Then she wrapped the bloodied thing around her hand. Another light item hit her before she realized Midnight had tossed over a tunic. Then he stalked from the room, leaving her to follow after him.

***

She jolted awake caught in a tangle of blankets, blinking up at the wooden slats in the ceiling. Seeing but not quite seeing. Muted dawn streamed through her window. It was still early.

Her breaths came in heavy drags as the remnants of her nightmare turned over in her mind. She felt the echos of Screamer's scalpel against her skin. A wave of nausea struck. She threw herself over the bed, vomiting in a bucket. She kept it in the same spot each night for that reason.

Her chest heaved and heaved. Her eyes watered until tears leaked down her face—until there was nothing left.

"Hope you don't expect me to dump that." Insect wings fluttered near the window. Nit.

She sighed and slumped against her pillows. Nit learned long ago that she preferred tough love to pity.

"How long was I asleep?"

"Three hours, give or take?"

Another impressive characteristic. Nit kept perfect time. Clockwork innards counted each second of life from the white prism powering them.

She sighed. Three hours wasn't enough. She'd hate herself if she didn't get more, but the air in her small loft bedroom was already turning putrid from the vomit. Perhaps a nap, but later.

Her muscles protested every movement as she rose and stretched, going through a number of positions to maintain flexibility and warm herself up for the day. Nit fluttered over to her dresser where she found a sparrow blinking back at her. "Elias is up."

"When is he not?"

She glanced about her room, locating her satchel, carelessly hanging over the chair at her small desk. That was unlike her. The events from Steiner's townhouse came back in a rush. Ignoring the bucket, she dug around in her pocket and extricated the lump of black prism.

She sank back down onto her bed. Real. It was all real. Steiner was still alive. The mythical black prism did exist.

"If you stare at it long enough, it might disappear."

She rolled her eyes and pocketed it. "Hungry?" she asked. The question was habit more than anything. Nit couldn't eat.

"Elias just started a fresh pot of coffee."

She cocked her head, listening. The faint sounds of his shuffling reached her beyond the door.

Even minutes after the nightmare, her heart still raced. She considered, then shook her head. Instead, she dropped the rope ladder from her window and descended, bucket in one arm, satchel thrown over her other shoulder. Despite the morning light, the alley was shadowed and would remain so for a few hours yet.

"Marley's?" Nit asked.

"Now you're thinking. That's exactly what I need."

Leaving the dumped bucket against the wall, she plunged out into the chaos of Crock's Row. It was aptly named—a crockpot of accumulation. Every poor refugee from Candela's neighboring countries found themselves here. And stayed too, unless they were lucky enough to move up the ladder. And even then, they only climbed one or two rungs higher.

The moment she was on the main drag, the city's volume increased ten-fold. The sounds of Chroma were engulfing, catching you in the drag of a current that didn't let go. Packed streets, full of humans in every shade of skin tone, hobgoblins, and mechanicals. Voices trying to be heard over the constant drone of industrialization. Manufactories clacking away—spewing steam high into the air across the horizon. Horses clopping. The occasional carriage if it could fit through the foot traffic. Not usually.

She positioned her satchel where she could keep track of it. None of the usual street urchins would bother her. But one never knew in these parts.

Marley's Meat Pies booth was one of many lining both sides of the street, and arguably the best. Like all booths, it jutted out past the foot paths, forcing traffic down to one lane. Not that it mattered, since few coaches daringly ventured this way. They went the long way round.

The food booth owners in Crock's Row took advantage of the large thoroughfare leading from the nicer districts to its piss-poor exterior. Low level manufactory workers who couldn't afford flat rent in mediocre districts like Luxton passed by on the way to work. Running water and the means to cook was a luxury afforded to the middle classes and higher. These poor souls relied heavily on the cheap food found here. Cheap, but delicious. Marley's booth was popular. She waited fifteen minutes in a line that stretched down the street.

"Mornin' Tabby!" Marley greeted her with a dimpled smile set deeply in chubby cheeks. Evidence of someone who spent a lifetime smiling. She was partial to Marley's bubbly personality, the heavy set of her curves, the warmth of her attitude. She was motherly, even though she couldn't have been more than seven or eight years older. "The usual, I presume?"

"Please, and some coffee. Black." Marley nodded and handed over a chipped, steaming mug, which she quickly downed while waiting. Marley slipped her meat pies into a paper sack. In the meantime, the warmth of the mug was welcome against her fingerless gloves.

"You heard about them riots up in Reddell?" Marley asked as she worked, making idle chat. Tabby eyed her filthy apron—it was frayed near the seams. She made a mental note to get Marley a new one from the market next time she was down that way. "Little Jamie Rhodes was one of 'em that got killed—my friend Eliza's nephew. Sad buisness. They ain't going to take the egg like that. Like me momma always say—no winnin' for the poor. Best to let it run its course."

"Sad business indeed," Tabby agreed, downing the remainder of her coffee. A little scorched, but she didn't care. Marley charged a fairer price than the rest, and the people here were lucky for it.

Marley took the emptied mug and set it in a pile of dirty dishes before handing over the food and patting her hand. "You be takin' care, girl. And tell that old fool Elias to keep his head down." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Too many rumors. Them damn mutton shunters. They're lookin' for any excuse to lock up underground prism dealers, 'specially lately."

Unease twitched in her gut at the reminder. She had heard much the same. "I'll tell him," she said, paying Marley well above what she charged.

She made her way further down Crock's Row and took a side street, a shortcut, where most of the begging children were already set up for the day—some human and others hobgoblin. Children didn't much care for the difference—not like adults. "Tabby!" They squealed when they saw her, abandoning their positions. She had fifteen meat pies in her brown bag, and her little army of urchins was ready for them. Hands clutched at her the moment the bag opened. She began distributing, saving the last for herself, which she quickly scarfed down. In exchange, they fed her all the news they'd heard until their mouths were too full to speak.

"Got ne coppers fur us today, eh, Tab?" One of the younger children, a hob named Morrey, squeezed through the pack and gazed up at her with large, hopeful eyes. He nibbled his pie reverently, afraid to eat it too quickly.

"Oh, yes!" they chorused. "Have you?! Have you?"

"Coppers, you ask?" Her tone crept up to a near mock-scold but the corners of her mouth twitched. "Wha'da I look like ta you? Eh? Uh bank?" She often adopted their manner of street speech in these parts.

Nit fluttered on the rooftop above. "Don't you dare deny those cute little faces their due."

"Please, Tabby! Please! Me mam wants some bread on me way home!"

"Yes! Please! Please!" the other children echoed, hands extended, fighting to get the closest.

"Hmm..." She made a point of eyeing them. "Well, if that's the case, better check." She patted her pockets and rustled around in her coin pouch before removing a handful of farthings. They screeched and jumped and squealed and began grasping at her as she divvied them up, making sure each got a fair share. She was certain it was her frequent visits that kept their begging in buisness. They were still too young to be scooped up by the work houses, but some of them were already tattooed. Already claimed by Chroma's gangs. The Forsaken, specifically.

The only child who didn't come was Maggy. A nine-year-old lucky to have avoided the work house and the gangs. That wouldn't last forever. Until then, she begged. Her family needed the money.

She sat against the street's wall with her head down. Tabby went and crouched before her. The children were too busy squabbling over the remainder of the pies and coins, and arguing over what they were going to buy. "How's yur momma, Maggie?"

"Me mam's...me mam's..." Maggy wiped her runny nose on the back of her hand. She'd been crying and her eyes showed it.

"Oh, Maggie. You poor thing. She still sick with the cough?"

"Yes." A wail split her lips. "And I cana help her."

"There now—don't cry. Here. Got you this." She reached into her satchel and removed a vial of Belladonna, prepared two days ago. "This is magic medicine for yur mam. But shhh. You can't tell no one you got it from me."

"Will...will it fix 'er?

"It'll help 'er get better." A bottle like this cost a pretty pence. Maggie's mother could never dream to afford it. "You're goin' ta run along home now and give it to 'er. She'll know what ta do with it."

Only a tincture was needed, dissolved in a cup of tea, to help alleviate some of Mrs. Wilmose's symptoms. She couldn't cure the poor woman, but at least she could take away a measure of pain.

Maggie eyed the vial with wide eyes, turning it over in her hands like it was pure gold. "Oh, thank you, Miss Tab. Thank you. I knew you was goin' ta save her." Tabby offered her a sad smile, wishing she could. "Me mam says you're an angel, treating all us street rats with kindness. Hobs and humans alike. No one else does."

An angel? She almost snorted. A night angel, perhaps. A dark angel made of shadow and death. Certainly not the kind Maggy was thinking of. Maggy stood and threw her arms around Tabby's neck before running off.

Tabby gave the children a final glance before taking her leave. Their shouts of thanks followed her long after she departed. The smile stayed on her face well beyond.