Moving Parts

Wake up.

There was no need to get dressed.

They led us to a shower room. Stripped us.

I could still feel the coldness of the water bucket they dumped on me.

There were just four towels to go around for forty children.

I saw the lash scars on their backs. The burns on their hands. The cuts on their knees.

But the kids had long since gone numb to pain.

I suffered all the same.

My work shift started with a rotten apple. They told me that'd be my sole meal today unless I impressed Warden—the operations manager in the sewers of Dos Noches. It was a complex system with tunnels stretching for kilometers. No one knew how many kids were forced to work in underground factories, but even one kid was too many.

I couldn't even hear myself think. The machine and its belts hissed with steam, gears clinking and linking. I'd only been working a few hours but already hated it.

"There's another snapped string. Go down there again," Wendy told me. She was wearing her same overalls from yesterday that'd gotten even dirtier.

There was no point responding. I just got on my back and shimmied down under the machine. Puddles of oil rubbed against me as I tied snapped threads together, being careful to not let moving machinery snap my fingers.

Work. Work.

The air in the sweatshop was purposely humid. It kept cotton mills running smooth and helped threads snap less often. I figured this was why early factories were often called "sweatshops".

Wendy was standing aside, watching my performance. She'd been assigned to teach me our work routine, though I'd learned beyond enough to spite things. And I knew she hated it as much as me.

H-How much longer until we rendezvous? I glanced towards a clock on the wall. It was past noon and approaching the promised time.

"Don't get distracted," Wendy said. "The overseers are close."

A cautious glance over my shoulder showed men patrolling the sweatshop with whips in their hands. I'd seen them strike at kids who were working slow or complaining about being hungry. Nothing except perfection was permitted in their sight.

I brushed lint off the machine as the men marched by. They're gonna be a problem if they keep eyes on me constantly.

Another hour passed. Wendy wiped sweat off her forehead as she tinkered with the machine. Meanwhile, it was time to act.

"Here, it's full." I ejected a bobbin spool wrapped in thread. "I'll take it this time to the weaving room."

"You won't get lost?" Wendy said.

"No, don't worry. I'll be back in a jiffy."

Her skeptical eyes reminded me of Tsukino's for a moment. But there was no time for nostalgia. I just paced through the shop floor, wandering past spinning wheels and loud machinery. The bustle stayed behind me when I exited out into the sewers.

Rotten smells didn't deter me. I peered around each corner to check for guards—none at all. They knew escape was impossible for children in this maze of tunnels.

But I was no kid.

The walkway let me peer down at murky waters full of shit and pollution. The canals worked double duty: it let underground factories dump their waste discreetly, while also serving as actual sewers for public relations.

Where was it? Took a wrong turn? I had the layout in my head memorized already thanks to Nuri. She'd infiltrated these tunnels ahead of time and left a mark for me to find; that'd be where our delivery would be.

After waiting for a roving guard to pass, I turned the corner towards another tunnel. Along the walls were air vents originally designed to help disperse machine smoke. But with the advent of alchemic magic, the vents and their chimneys up on the surface became obsolete.

Then somewhere, I heard a metallic bang. Like a rat playing inside air shafts.

There! I ran ahead, tracking where the noise came from. My eyes frantically scanned the sewer walls until spotting an "X" engraving above one of the air vents. This is it!

The metal grate was already loose, easily letting me pry it off. Resting just inside the vent was something small wrapped in a black cloth. And hiding behind it lurked a lavender-eyed mouse gazing straight at me.

"Aizawa!" Mouse Trixie leapt to my shoulder. "I'm so happy you're okay!"

"Shhh! Not so loud," I said. "But I'm glad to see you too."

"Mm! Your plan—I returned to that chimney from yesterday and smuggled what you asked for."

"Thanks. Let me see . . ."

I reached into the air vent and pulled out my Memory Stone. It'd reverted into a white rock, but could be activated again at any time with magic.

"Whaddya need it for?" Mouse Trixie said.

"It's obvious—I'm going to photograph everything down here. The machines, the sweatshops, the sewers, the guards . . . We're gonna expose all of Amila's operations so the world can see what she's been doing."

"Huh? But wouldn't the church block all that stuff from being published?"

"Nuri already planned how we'll get around that. For now, just focus on our plan for tomorrow."

Trixie poofed into a pixie just to show me her frown. "Okay . . . I'll be back then."

She buzzed back up the air vent towards the surface while I slotted in the grate again. All evidence of her arrival had been sealed.

After dropping off the bobbin, it was another long trip for me back to the spinning room. But waiting for me at the door was—

"Oh. New kid," Warden said. Her flaming silver hair frenzied at the sight of me. "I heard you went to deliver something. But you were gone for a while."

"S-Sorry. I got kinda lost, haha."

"Hoh?" It happened in almost slow motion. Her hand reached down towards me, but I instinctively leapt back.

Panting. My face rattled with nervousness, fear. There's no way I can let her touch me! If she's anything like the priest that helped Trixie, these people can probably dissect memories and modify them. Our whole plan would be exposed if she peers into my mind.

Warden had a surprised expression. "You fear me? When I haven't even struck you before? That's quite odd indeed."

"P-P-Please don't hurt me . . ."

"Humph. You're not worth wasting my skills on anyway. Get back in the shop."

"Right away!" I ran past her into the machine room full of spinning wheels and moving parts. The clatter of steel was almost welcoming, as long as I could be anywhere far from Warden's hands.

Wendy was waiting for me. "Where were you? It shouldn't take long to reach the weaving room."

"I, um, slipped a few times heading there."

"Geez. Be careful. Falling in the water could get you really sick."

"S-Sorry . . ."

The day continued with me playing dumb. I'd conjure excuses to rove around the shop and discreetly snap photos of the machines, of the child laborers, of the overseers whipping us, then of blood on the floor. The Memory Stone recorded all vital evidence we'd need later.

Lunch break was pitiful—they handed us soup that smelled like it'd simmered in sewer water. But I wolfed it down anyway, too hungry to care.

Work. Work. In just a day they'd trained me enough to manage my own machine. I was sweating more than ever, pulling cranks and levers that were hot with steam. My hands endured blisters and burns covered in gunk. I was ready to collapse from exhaustion.

All the while, kids around me were getting whipped for just asking for water.

Thirty minutes passed. I spotted Wendy carrying over a crate. Ever since yesterday, she'd been limping as if injured. She was in no condition to carry anything heavy.

"Here, let me help," I said. The heavy crate—something I wouldn't struggle with as an adult—almost toppled me when I took on its full weight. How could they make a little girl carry this?

"Thank you," Wendy said. "I'll help you bring it through the tunnels to weaving."

"No! We can't both leave our stations. Let me handle this."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. No problem." I lugged the crate away before she could notice I was struggling. Guards were stationed outside this time, watching me while I departed out into the sewers again.

Just like earlier, I wanted an excuse to roam around. When no one was watching, I put the crate down to snap photos with my Memory Stone. The cubed rock was small enough to fit in my pocket and easy to conceal.

Nearby pipes were spewing sludge into the water. I took several photos while imagining the articles someone might write: 'In a rush to modernize and become more economically potent than the demon continent, the church turned a blind eye to pollution and slave labor.' I'd expose it all. Though that was just stage one of the plan.

Even when work ended and Wendy and I lumbered back to our dungeon, new children were awoken from their prisons. I watched the jail cell across from ours release dozens of kids, all with tired and despondent faces. They'd begin their own night-time shifts.

As lights dimmed, I climbed up on the bunk bed above Wendy. We hadn't had much time to talk all day, but hearing her voice call out to me in the dark surprised me.

"Aihara?" she said.

"Yeah?"

No response. I heard her shuffle blankets around before her broken voice spoke. "D-Do you think we'll ever be free?"

Free? I gazed up towards the dark ceiling, contemplating a reply. "Where would you go—if you were freed?"

"Anywhere. Seeing the world has always been my dream. But now I think I'd be happy just living in the mansion."

"Wait, mansion?"

"Mm. Warden says if we work hard enough, we can move into Amila's mansion above. That's why I try working hard, even if it's hard . . ."

"Sorry, but that's a lie," I sternly said. "Those kids up there are just spoiled rotten so they'd smile for the cameras. There's nothing special about them."

Wendy went silent. I could hear her trembling breaths as my words set in. Whimpers turned to quiet cries that stabbed at my soul. But maybe deep inside her heart, she knew Warden had been lying all along.

*

Day broke.

No one would know it though.

It'd been more than twenty-four hours since I'd seen the sun.

Maybe it'd been months—years—since kids here had seen sunlight.

Maybe some of them never had.

The hissing of machines stayed behind me as I carried another crate through the sewers. It was a lonely but welcome walk that let me gather my thoughts. Though more importantly, it was an opportunity to rendezvous with Trixie.

"Pssst. Are you there?" I peered towards an air vent on the wall. With no response, I began pulling the metal grate away. Inside was a large item wrapped in black cloth with a pixie snoring nearby.

"Huh? Wha?," she said, still half-asleep. "Aizawa, yay. I'ms happy to see you . . ."

"How long have you been in there?"

"Since last night . . ."

"Hey, don't exhaust yourself like that. And you'll make Tsukino worry."

"It's fine . . . I still brought what you wanted."

Even from here I could feel the dark energy of Dauntless Effigy radiating towards me. The knife would be another crucial element of our plan. "Okay, great. Are you awake enough for your next role then, Trixie?"

The little fairy buzzed out from the air vent, yawning. "Mm. I'm gonna evolve from S:P to S:R—Stealth Rat."

"Good, yeah. Cat or rat, doesn't matter. I've been watching the guards. Most of them carry keys that unlock entire cell blocks. I'm gonna need you to steal as many cell block keys as possible."

"It's for the second part of Nuri's plan?"

I nodded. "Super important. And if everything goes right, all heck will break loose tomorrow."

"K'!" Trixie poofed into a black rat that scuttled around my feet, dashing away towards the tunnels. She knew what to do next from prior planning beforehand.

Alright . . . I sealed the air vent again, trapping Dauntless inside for later. Hopefully it won't try talking with anyone that walks by.

It was another long walk back to the sweatshop where Wendy was waiting for me with a panicked face.

"What's wrong?" I said.

"A-Amila!" she blurted. "Warden said Amila would be visiting us soon!"

Even I went white after hearing that name. "What should we do then?"

"Just keep working! Don't give them a reason to hit you! I'll be at my station!"

Instantly, I turned back to pull the levers of my machine. But I wasn't afraid of being whipped—no—I was afraid of being recognized. Amila the Hero was the one person who might see through my disguise since we'd met before in Oro Fantasma. Being discovered at this stage would now also put Trixie's life in jeopardy.

Shit! Threads on my cotton mill snapped. I'd need to get down on my back to fix them but—

A sudden surge of aura coursed through the shop floor. It froze kids in place and forced their eyes towards the factory entrance where three people were waiting.

Amila had arrived in a glimmering, brilliant-black dress. Purple glitter around her eyes made her gaze almost hypnotic, if it weren't so intimidating. And her neck—wrapped in a luxurious shawl of flamingo feathers—displayed arrays of sparkling necklaces.

Behind her marched in the muscular Warden and the young doctor that'd examined me. They were both the second and third in command of operations down here.

No kid wanted to meet those faces as the trio waltzed by. We all pretended to be busy with our machines, but for some reason, Amila and her posse seemed to be marching straight towards me.

Crap. I picked up a rag then started cleaning my machine—anything that would keep my face hidden from view.

"Oh?" a feminine voice behind me said. "Is this him?"

"Yes, Miss Amila," Warden's voice grunted. "This is the boy who arrived the other night."

Scrub! Scrub! Scrub! I scrubbed the machine even harder until it glistened. Scrub, scrub—

A woman's gentle finger grazed against my chin, caressing down my neck. Amila was gazing longingly at me with her playful, sapphire eyes.

"Huh. I can't help shake the feeling we've met before," she said. "What's your name?"

"A-Aihara!"

"Oh, that's a nice name. I hope you keep making me very proud, Aihara."

This bitch! She was close enough that I could smell the heavy scents of middle-age woman perfume even if she still looked thirty. Even her pink hair was styled like something a mom would wear.

It was another few seconds of staring into her eyes that she finally got bored and moved on. She and her posse all continued marching through the factory searching for troublemakers.

When our work shift ended, Amila's appearance was all we could talk about.

"She's really scary, but really pretty too," Wendy said as she fluffed her bed for sleep. "Amila is always dressed nicely even when she's visiting us down here in the sewers."

I climbed on the bunk bed above. "She's supposed to be poor. News all says she's going bankrupt opening orphanages, but those same orphanages are making her richer than ever. She used the media to push a fake narrative."

"Narra-what? What's narrative mean?"

Oh. I forgot I was talking with a little kid. "Never mind, let's just sleep. It's gonna be a big day tomorrow . . ."

But even when my eyes shut and I began counting down the hours, I couldn't help but worry about our roles.

If Trixie failed, the whole plan would fail.

If Nuri failed, the whole plan would fail.

If I failed, the whole plan would fail.

Failure tomorrow was not an option. The stakes couldn't be higher. This was the gamble we'd bet everything on.

Though no matter how it went, we would leave our mark on history.