Scabby didn't expect much from life. Never had. Never had any reason to, either, not since the accident. Couldn't work on the riverboats anymore, and the gangs weren't interested in a one-armed man. What use was he to them if he couldn't fight or steal?
So Scabby roamed the City's streets scavenging for food and hiding from the ghouls and the gangs. Life these days was just an endless cycle of hunger, fear, flashes of hope and hammer blows of disappointment.
Today's disappointment was the rain. Back when he worked the riverboats Scabby didn't mind the rain. He was young and full of life then, and he could laugh it all off before heading below deck to warm himself up with a cup of mulled wine.
But now he was hungry and his blood was thin. Even thinner than what was left of his coat. He had nowhere to go to stay dry, nothing to warm himself with. So he scuffled along, hugging his one arm to his body, clinging to the walls and overhangs where the rain and wind might miss him.
It was only afternoon, but he was already looking for somewhere for the night. He'd had a dry spot under Stone Bridge's arch for a while, before that new gang moved in. Now they called themselves the Archers, and they levied a toll on anyone crossing the Bridge, and nobody else came near the place anymore.
A few nights a week he could stay in the Temple's portico. If the ghouls found their way into Piety Square he and the other vagabonds would have to leg it. Still, it was better than nothing, and at least Scabby was too old and ugly to be a temptation to the priests.
So Scabby had nothing to look forward to in life, and nothing seemed to be what tonight had in store for him again. Walk the streets until he was too tired to care if the ghouls caught him, or the Watch, or some kids revelling in the protection of their gang and looking to have some fun with a helpless cripple.
His feet led him along Hangman's Square, skirting the edges, eyes moving this way and that. Looking for a dry spot, looking for a safe spot. Looking for a coin that someone might have dropped. Looking for danger.
Danger was what he spied, in the form of a hulking form a stone's throw away and heading in his direction.
Fuck.
It was Bargo. Bargo the Beast. A great brute, with a bald head and piggy eyes that made him look like a baby. Until his mouth spread into that leer he had, revealing broken teeth and his true nature.
Bargo the Beast. He was the Archers' main enforcer, and he'd taken a particular shine to tormenting Scabby. He delighted in hurting any beggars and cripples he encountered, but he went out of his way to chase Scabby. There were still bruises left from their last encounter.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck!
A one-armed beggar might not be pretty enough for the priests, but Bargo wasn't so picky.
Scabby's eyes darted around. Now he wasn't looking from a place to stay safe from the ghouls. He just needed somewhere out of Bargo's line of sight before the big man spotted him through the sparse crowd.
There! A narrow alley between two tenement buildings. Not the kind of place to be trapped after sunset, but smelly and shadowy enough that he might not be noticed.
He hurried into it, feet slipping in the mud, or something with the same texture as mud. It was almost too dark to see, with his eyes still adjusting, but he blundered on. His hand felt the stone wall on his left, rough and uneven under the slimy moss. Something hard and round squelched under his the thin sole of his boot -- something the size of a child's skull, perhaps, or maybe just a rock.
Beyond the alley he heard a roar of laughter. Bargo, and closer than he'd been a moment before.
Did he see me? Does he know I went this way?
The panic was a tangible monster inside Scabby now. It sucked the air from his lungs, clawed at his gut to get out. It whined inside his mind, urging him on.
Run, hide, run!
Suddenly his hand encountered something that wasn't stone or slime. Wood. Upright. A ladder.
It was as damp as the wall, almost as soft as the moss, but it was a ladder. If Scabby had weighed more than he did, if he'd been even the tiniest fraction less frightened, he wouldn't have even considered it.
But it was a ladder, and Bargo seemed to have paused a few paces from the alley's maw, guffawing and wheezing, and Scabby was clambering upwards. Awkwardly, with only one hand and peering over his shoulder at that rectangle of grey daylight, but upwards to safety.
He didn't even glance up until he was five rungs from the ground. Then he turned his face to where he was going, and the panic retreated to the pit of his stomach.
The top of the ladder was close to the overhang of a red-tiled roof. Close enough that even a one-armed man could reach out and pull himself onto it, gasping for air and calm. The tiles were damp, but the angle of the roof was shallow and he didn't have to worry about sliding off.
After a moment he glanced down. He could still hear Bargo, with some other voices as well. It didn't seem they intended to come into the alley after all. Slowly he drew his hand from the ladder. He'd thought of pulling it up after him, if his tormentors saw him, but now silence was probably the safer refuge.
Even so, he'd be a fool to stay here. At the very least he could find somewhere out of the constant drizzle. Maybe somewhere to stay the night. Other nights as well, perhaps.
The sloped roof levelled out and ended in a low wall, slashed with narrow openings and -- for a moment Scabby didn't believe his eyes -- a wide overhanging edge. Air vents, perhaps, and the overhang to keep the worst of the rain out.
Trying to be quiet, careful not to slip on the tiles, he made his way up. As he came closer, he noticed that the air was thicker around the openings. Smoke -- no, steam! That meant a bathhouse, and blessed warmth as well.
He could feel it as he approached. Tiny tendrils creeping towards him, teasing him, drawing him further until he was on a narrow ledge under the overhang, out of the rain and embraced by warm air from two of the vents.
He lay down, forcing his body to be still, forcing out the shiver that had become such a constant companion that he'd forgotten it was there. The steam soaked through his jacket and into his shirt, but he didn't care. The rain did that too, and at least the steam warmed him.
It was the sound of voices that roused him. Voices below, talking and laughing, but not in the alley. Voices coming through the slit in the wall, from inside the bathhouse. Women's voices.
Now Scabby's heart began to pound for another reason. It felt like a lifetime since he'd seen a naked woman, back when he still had two arms. Even then they'd mostly been two-copper whores from the docks, almost as thin and timid as he was now.
But anyone who could afford to be in a bathhouse would be worth seeing! He rolled onto his side, biting down a curse as he almost slipped from the ledge onto the tiles. For once his missing arm was a blessing as he wriggled until he was comfortable, with his face close to the opening.
It took a moment for the steam to clear, but then he saw it. Naked flesh, glorious flesh, pink and bronze flesh, clean and shiny with sweat and oils. Tits and cunt hair and arses and thighs, and more tits, and a crack as one of the women bent forward to show off a glimpse between her legs...
They were perhaps twenty feet below him, half a dozen of them, lying on wooden benches and standing around. Naked, all of them, and damp. The steam rose at regular intervals from slits in the floor, and one of the women was ladling water into a hole in the room's centre.
