FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Chapter One:

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Ci’gazzia. To the eyes of man, such a city would be beautiful, especially when bathed in the light of the moons above. It’s wide cobbled streets and towering houses winded and wove together, separated only by the narrowest of alleys. In the day, it was bustling with finery and decadence, yet at night it was quiet, save for happy hour at the taverns. However, high upon one of the many tall, metal lamps that lined the widest streets, was sat a truly odd sight. A mouse, of all things, whose fur was red like autumn leaves and white like an unpainted canvas, just sat there, looking out over the sea of stone, with a tiny shard of lead in one paw and tiny squares of paper bundled together in the other, like a book of some sort. She came here often, against the law of her elders. The outside world just held her so captive. It was freedom to her, even though being spotted meant certain death, crushed underfoot or poisoned by the men with bird-like masks.

Lyra didn’t care, though. To her, the oppressive attitude of the city below was almost worse than death. Yet she knew she could not be gone long, these little visits to the world above were just glimpses, dreams, almost, short and fleeting. Lyra replaced her little homemade book and the precious shard of lead into her satchel with the greatest of care. Before standing nimbly and walking along the top of the towering street lamp. Mice are, by nature, good climbers, so scrambling down the man-made mountain was easy for her. But then, being down there, on the ground, just made everything seem all the more mountainous. She scurried along the ground, using the channels between the cobbled stone of the street. He little legs carried her swiftly to a drainpipe bolted to one of the many street corners. She slipped into it without hesitation, stepping to and fro around the stagnant water that dampened the cold metal, following along the endless tunnel to a spot where it’d rusted through. There, Lyra slipped down between the walls, where dozens of pipes crisscrossed between wood beams and the harsh rough stone.

Down and down she went, further and further until all of the various pipes amassed in a huge central pipeline that ran underground, though spots of it had fallen in due to rust. It was this pipe that drained into a central reservoir, only this one was dammed up, dry as a bone; the foundation for a secret city. The pipes leading into the city were all supposed to be sealed up, but a few were left open for evacuation routes. Law said no one was allowed to leave the city at all, so Lyra had to sneak her way in and out. Her ears stood alert and sharp as she slipped through the rusted openings, sneaking past the lone guard who stood sentry. His loud snores and the stench of alcohol however, did not lull Lyra into leniency. She snuck down from the pipe and disappeared into the city, through the narrow, winding paths between overcrowded buildings all bustling with other mice and even a few chipmunks and shrews.

This was home, Undertown, a tiny city full of tiny people built within the bowels of a city of giants. The city here, however, was vertical, claustrophobic, and tight, the streets in so many places were tunnels due to housing being stacked atop them so thickly. Though, there were places where the streets would suddenly just drop away, as well, the winding paths and streets abruptly veering hard left or right at the threshold of steep drops and ledges. Large portions of Undertown were only accessible via steep rickety ladders and rope winch lifts and the air itself held the staleness of underground.

Lyra wove her way through this maze of suffocating paths, streets, and tunnels, hoping to go unnoticed by those who roamed around. Down here, night and day were indistinguishable, one slept when one was tired and woke accordingly. That meant there were always folks that were bustling about and crowds that usually had to be pushed through. Thankfully, tonight the crowds were thinner and Lyra was able to make her way home with relatively little fuss. Home for her was a small shack shared with her father; there was barely enough room inside for two beds. Their shack shared a wall with several others, the only distinguishing factor being the door, painted with a red mark that was all too distinctive. Lyra paused, breathing out a sigh as she stood there before the door. She wished she could wipe that stupid mark of classism away, but again, that was against Undertown law. With a downtrodden look Lyra opened the door and stepped inside. The space was small, a ratty table, a small fireplace for cooking. A ladder lead up to a pair of hammocks that served as bunks and some netting that hung as space for storage. The place was lit by just a pair of candles, it was small, privacy was non-existent, it smelt musty and it was home.

Lyra had set but a paw within the threshold of home before a voice filled her ears and she seized up, like a child being caught sneaking out, or back in.

“Lyra!” the voice was her father’s, Barnaby. She slumped, paw still on the frame of the door. He always caught her in these situations. In his eyes, she was a rebellious spirit and it wore on him so. He just couldn’t seem to understand why she was the way she was.

“Hello Father…” she replied, voice low and drained as she turned away from the door to see him standing behind her. He held a half loaf of day old bread under one arm and a stern look on his face. She was supposed to be at school right now, learning the warped history and morals of Undertown. He said nothing, he just grabbed her by the scruff of her neck, forcefully ushering her inside the small abode. It was not harsh or painful, that area was more thickly coated for exactly that purpose. She stood in the corner, eyes on the floor, ears lowered as her father scowled over her.

“Please, for the Lord’s sake, tell me you weren’t out there again,” he said, tone all serious and low in a mix of disappointment and anger. He had all the right to. In the eyes of Undertown she was a criminal and she was his sole daughter. Naturally he was upset.

“I can’t stand it down here…” she said. Lyra could have lied easily, but she would not do that to her Father, she refused to. His paws balled into fists out of frustration and anger and his lips drew back, showing off the sharp incisors.

“You little brat, are you trying to get the both of us thrown in jail!” he spat, each word making Lyra flinch. If only she could see the pain in his eyes for just having to raise his voice at her. It broke his heart to treat her that way, but she was restless and didn’t listen or learn. He could see in her eyes how much this place sapped her, how depressed it made her feel, but here she was safe.

“Lyra…if you get caught up there…” Barnaby paused, throat closing up and his face twisting and falling; she reminded him so much of her mother.

“..Go to bed.” That was all he said, before sitting by the small round table in the corner, his head buried in his paws. Lyra didn’t say anything. She just slipped from the rags she wore as clothing, little more than a hooded shawl and a tattered cloth rag fashioned into a top. She then climbed silently up the ladder and slumped into the left hammock, it had no sheets or pillows.

Sleep didn’t come for the either of them. Lyra held back tears for most of the night; Barnaby, however, didn’t sleep at all. He left for work, one of two jobs he held down just to make enough for bread. So Lyra woke yet again to an empty house, with nothing but half stale bread for breakfast. It was clear to anyone that looked that she was malnourished. Her type was treated openly with inferiority. She was no civil mouse of law, no mouse of stark white or soft brown. The classism that was present in Undertown was borderline racism as well; just another reason why the city was so suffocating and oppressive. Those who ran it openly ignored the outside world as if it didn’t exist, turning away those from the woods and meadows.

Lyra bundled her clothing together, slipping them on and heading out for school. She never went up above two nights in a row. The only reason she was even allowed to attend school was because of her grandfather, Thomas. Lyra hated the other children there, they treated her like a slave. The insults she shrugged off, but the atmosphere was just wearing. She had no spring to her step as she trudged along toward the schoolhouse, pushing stiffly through the congested, winding streets. Of course, there were others like her, treated as lesser than those born to the city. Anyone born of the outside world was considered savage, uncivil, wild, so they were treated as such.

The young mouse began another long trek through the city from home to the school house. There were dozens of routes to get there and Lyra did not really want to be early. Christine was always there before class, so Lyra decided to take one of the longer routes that went along some of the less used lanes and paths. She headed in a generally eastern direction, slipping away into the quieter maze of shacks and small crooked homes. Sure, she could contend with the bustle of the crowds, but why bother? Why push against the other downtrodden folk, why make room and bow to the wealthy and snobbish upper class? Here, in the quiet fringes, it was much more pleasant. Lyra could hear herself think and wonder. So she wandered down the crawlspace-like back paths, turning left and right and winding about the wooden structures all painted different colours, most faded and in disrepair. Some homes she passed here did not even have doors, and those that did bore marks of their status as ‘lesser’. Lyra ducked under low hanging beams set up amidst houses to stop them from falling into one another, layered so much so that they were now foundations for cubby houses and pathways themselves.

She did her best not to seem intrusive to those that hung around this part of the city, as they were like her, dressed mostly in scant rags, forced to walk near to almost naked, fur all grimy and uncleaned. Yet still they played back lane games like bob stones or liar's dice, some read books, whether to learn to read or simply to occupy themselves, and others just lay there, having given up. Lyra had even come across dead mice on more than one occasion, just left there to rot to bones and nothing more. Soon, the slums opened up to a place called the Rafters, a network of low walkways and paths that snaked under the big bridge above. Far below lay the mess of inner workings that was the city, huge drops that disappeared into black holes and pipes, leading to places like the prison, the outflow and more. One wrong step up there and one would tumble down, getting all mangled and gored on the poles and struts and what not that stuck out. But Lyra was nimble, hopping across the precariously placed posts and wooden paths that hugged the bridges lower supports and snaked across from the Slums to the Market area.

The Market was pretty much in the centre of the city, in the looming shadow of the council building and the clock that hung over it. The Markets themselves were nothing much more than a crowded and sunken plaza looked down upon by those above. There, people sold and bought wares, those with no coin to do so would beg or perform, belittling themselves just to survive. Lyra paid it no mind and hurried across to a wide set of stairs that led up to the nicer, cleaner part of Undertown. In that section, the buildings were imitations of the ones above, stacked tightly together along narrow streets. Folk of a “higher” class passed Lyra by, mice of white and grey all dressed up in only the absolute finest of rags and gaudry jewelry. Simon lived somewhere around here, which was odd cause he was usually late to school. Yet the schoolhouse was nestled away within the upper streets.

It was not much longer before said schoolhouse rose into view at the end of a long, curved street. It was built behind the shadow of the council building and it itself was grand, with a circular plaza out the front where multiple streets and narrow nooks converged. It was not as grand as the council building but it had its own flair. And there, out front, were dozens of school children all assembled and waiting. Christine was there with her sycophantic followers all sneering at Lyra’s arrival. Simon was absent from the crowd but that was normal. Lyra sighed; another day of torture was upon her.

Lyra was given no books or parchment on which to write the lessons, and she was only given a desk because they were like pews from a church. Yet no one ever sat near her and she was barely afforded enough cloth to cover herself fully let alone amnesty within the bathhouse to wash. The other students were all prim and proper, all sat straight as an arrow, polite and with clear voices exuding sophistication and manners. It was sickening to Lyra. It was like they were trying to copy man, as if it would somehow make them equal. Cruellest of all was the headmistress that taught the children, a wretched old shrew who seemed to delight in picking on Lyra.

“Sit up straight, curl your tail proper, speak clear when spoken to, manners, manners, manners!” she would drill over and over, yet no matter what Lyra did, Miss Sheford would find something else to nit-pick and degrade. The students were worse. One in particular, Christine. She was a mean one, holding herself so high that she thought herself queen and thus exempt from the rules or laws. Every day when school finished she just had to have one last word, often needlessly mean.

“They should throw her out already, this is a city for mice of a higher class, not rats like Lyra~” Christine’s voice was just another layer to be heaped onto the weight Lyra had to endure. It hadn’t been like this all the time though, years ago before the city had been built they had all lived in a place called The Nook. Lyra, her father and her mother, it’d been a young family but a loving one. But of course good things didn’t last in this world.

School dragged on for hours and, as always, Lyra lost focus on it. The only subject Lyra paid any attention to was Math. In which, surprisingly to all, she was best in the class. Which irked Miss Sheford to some considerable degree, as the old shrew constantly dismissed her intelligence for cheating, whipping her with the ruler accordingly. Though it also garnered the admiration of a classmate of hers, Simon Bow, the second highest in the class when it came to Math. In a way, he was the only friend she had. Unfortunately, he was far too timid to speak to her. Though his eyes gave away his intentions with every glance taken toward Lyra. Those looks were comforting, he was the only mouse in the city that saw her for what she was.

When finally they were released for the day, to run on home and play with their friends in the narrow streets, Lyra instead went to the outflow pipe. It was right at the very bottom of the city, where all the trade goods and food was brought into the city by boat. The water was black and smelled of rot and decay, but this was where Lyra spent most of her time outside of school. She would run packages up to the markets, so the market folk didn’t have to close and come down to retrieve their goods themselves. She was paid well for it too, not by the market folk, but by the suppliers who docked their boats there, though one in particular was most generous of all.

She made her way down, down deep into the bowels of the city, where its grimy crudeness showed fully. Down lift after lift, tunnel after tunnel, until the smell of that stagnant water stung her nose. Until the huge hall of boat filled water graced her sight with its roughness. This was the only place the outside world met the city, with suppliers coming far from their hovels and hidey holes amid the giants above. Lyra wasted no time slipping off, down the worn wooden planks that formed numerous walkways over the water, numerous docks where the vessels were moored. She made her way right to the biggest boat in sight and stood there by its side with eagerness and a growling stomach. Others who worked on the docks swiftly began to eye her as she stood in waiting. The boat had not unloaded yet, but she dared not set paw on its deck without say so from its owner. Though she did not have to wait long before trouble arose. A pair of stocky brown mice approached, their clothes were dishevelled and they looked as though they hadn’t bathed in a week.

“Rack off, this is our spot,” one of them said, but Lyra didn’t listen, flicking her ears defiantly as they got closer. Lyra had to deal with this sort of stuff all the time down here, she wasn’t the only one treated like a savage and this was a good place to earn some decent coin, or at least some food. She wouldn’t give it up easy.

“You deaf or something? We said fuck off,” the same one said again. Lyra didn’t wait for them to shove her like usual, she instead balled up a fist and swung sharp. There was a crack as her fist hit one of the two mice square in the chin. She wasn’t very big, but she still hit respectfully hard. For her efforts, though, the other mouse backhanded her hard, sending her stumbling back, only to be hit again. She was beaten to the ground then kicked hard in the gut, a shrill squeak of pain was forced from her lips. It was common to see fights like this down here, it was do or die type attitude. Unfortunately, most of the time it ended in death.

Lyra curled up into a ball trying to shield herself as they kept kicking her, so she didn’t see the blackjack wallop one of them over the head. But she heard the sickening crack. He dropped into the water like a brick and the other attacker began to fish him out, panicked and frantic, but he himself was then kicked into the water as well. She had to listen as the mouse begged to be pulled back in because he couldn’t swim, but his cries turned to gurgles, and then silence. Lyra looked up to see the boat’s captain. A rat. Polis was his name and he was not to be taken lightly; he was smiling down at the water as he watched the mouse drown in that putrid, poisoned liquid. He then turned to Lyra and offered her a heavily scarred paw. She took it and, once on her feet, she winced. Her leg was sore and bruised but she could still walk on it.

Polis was nearly double her height, swarthy and cunning with a gross black coloured fur all over. His eyes were blood red with black dots for pupils and he always looked at Lyra with hunger in those eyes.

“Tsk, stupid mice, look at what they made me do,” he said, not breaking his gaze upon Lyra, seeming to relish calling them stupid. Lyra was, however, unafraid of Polis. He never hurt women; that was something everyone down here knew.

“Thank you. I could’ve handled it myself, but. ..Thank you,” Lyra said, fighting back another pained wince, trying to seem tough and unhurt. Polis wasn’t buying it though, his smile faded but the hungry look persisted.

“Still going to be able to unload my boat with that banged up leg?” he asked. Lyra, of course, nodded. She wasn’t going to let pain stop her, not when food was on the line. Polis simply jerked a thumb over his shoulder to his boat.

“Stop acting tough. You’re a mouse, you’re only good for so much.” Lyra ignored that statement and simply limped onto the boat and began unloading and ferrying the contents up to the market. This took her all day and each time she came back to the boat to unload another crate or barrel, Polis would watch her, his eyes drinking her in, tongue licking his lips hungrily. It was no secret that he was a sexual predator, there were whispers that he dealt in slaves, too. Yet he never made any move on Lyra and he was never cheap with her for her work, either. At the end of the day, when his deck was cleared of all its cargo, Polis bundled up a half loaf of fresh bread, some cheese and a slice of green apple, all in a small cloth. This was her payment. Sometimes it was coin, sometimes it was food, but it was always accompanied by… “Give us a little kiss perhaps?” the rat asked. She never did.

Lyra limped home with her payment clutched tightly to her chest, only letting it go once safely back inside. Once that door was shut, she collapsed, finally succumbing to pain. She sat there, her back to the door, crying as she often did at least once a week. This was her life, it had been for some years now and likely more to come. That thought alone nearly broke her, but the visits she took to the surface were the only thing besides her father that kept her going. And they were all too rare. Lyra was afraid that one day it would be all too much for her. It was not a matter of want, she needed the freedom the surface held.

Barnaby would find her late that day, curled up upon the floor just inside the door, beaten and bruised. He found her like this often, usually once a week, sometimes more, and she would always have morsels of coin with her. She would always wake the next day, bundled up in her father’s bunk, welcomed by a bowl of bread soup or some other basic meal. Sometimes, her father would be there, most of the time he was not. This was life down here for those not accepted by the ‘civil’ mice. They were a borderline majority, the numbers were close but no one would ever challenge them. Not with certain death looming so plentifully outside the walls and all the propaganda that was pushed onto the commonfolk.

Thus, the days wore on as usual; school was hell and the outflow was less so but still hell in its own way. Lyra counted the days using the town clock, waiting for just the right moment to sneak out, in desperate in need of the fresh air of freedom above. She waited until it was nightfall, counted the hours to the second to dusk, and only then did she slip away from home, weaving through the paths and lanes of Undertown, moving with the curve of the reservoir walls. The entrance she used most often was the one on the far side of town. It was a big inflow pipe that was all blocked up at the farthest end, accessible only by a series of ladders, which Lyra scurried up as swift as the wind itself. The pipe entrance had some build up within it, but there was a space she could squeeze through just under that and no one was ever the wiser. With that, Lyra was free, darting up the maze of pipes, through rusted holes and wall spaces. Up and up and up until the smell of fresh air brushed over her nose and stirred whiskers. Up until she stepped out under the darkening night sky. Her sight was dominated by the towering structures of man, they were like rows of teeth to her, all pointed sharp at the top. But the sight filled her with life, her eyes widened as they always did and a calm yet excited smile graced her grimy face.

She waited where she was for a moment, solidifying her bearings, before cautiously making her way out into the street. Lyra had been doing this for some time now, pretty much since her mother had died. She had perished up here, just disappeared, went up one day and never came back. Because of that Lyra, never strayed far from the entrances to Undertown or other safe hidey holes. She did, on occasion, wander a little further than normal, but not often. She also only ever came up at night, she had made the mistake of coming up during the day before. Even then, she still sometimes saw the giants, the men. They were always dressed so needlessly in extravagant clothing, so much so that it looked uncomfortable.

Lyra had often times seen things that she was sure no mouse had ever seen during her trips up to the surface. Sights both puzzling, amusing, and horrifying. One time, she had seen a huge box on bit wheels being pulled by two huge beasts. She had done her best to draw the strange sight and it was one of her favorite drawings to date. Sadly, sights like that were rare compared to more common and gut wrenching sights. Such as the big glass storefront windows where hung dead creatures Lyra often times had never seen before. Sometimes they were skinned, other times headless, but she knew they were like her, their bodies gave it away without a doubt. Every now and then Lyra would see one of these storefronts and recognize one of those hanging corpses; it was morbid and disgusting. Just another reason why she did not stray far from sanctuary.

Tonight, though, the streets looked empty and sounded quiet. Lyra knew she could easily get up high on the many buildings where she would be safe from all the threats of the city. Especially the bird-faced men that roamed the streets at night time. They never looked up and could not climb, or at least Lyra thought so. She had never seen them do it, at least. Sure, there was still the odd owl or airborne predator that hung about. But other than that, night time was fairly safe. So Lyra sat there in the shelter of the pipe, watching as the giants stomped about and the streets grew quiet and empty. Waiting until dusk passed and night fell.

Dusk was the best time to come up because the bird-faced men were never about that early in the night. Only when it had grown dark and she was sure it was safe did Lyra confidently slip out from the pipe, her paws silent across the cold stone. The hoot of an owl swiftly drove her to dart to the other side where she hid in the crevice behind a huge wooden box. One of those shop front stands that man advertised their goods upon during the day. The space was tight but safe, though not safe enough, the ground was a death sentence in waiting. Lyra put her back to the box, pushing firm and used her legs to walk her way up the wall, pushing herself up to the top of the box stand. Here she climbed up the small struts of wood that framed huge glass windows and from there she crept atop the soft fabric overhang designed to keep rain out.

Once above the street, Lyra sat and smiled up at the moons and the stars. Everything that weighed on her just disappeared, only the pain of hunger persisted. Everything else, though, was no more. She was free. Lyra dug into her satchel and pulled out her precious homemade book and the small shard of lead she had found weeks ago. She began to draw the street before her in all the detail she could. Hours passed and Lyra’s smile didn’t fade; she loved it up here, it was where she belonged. But, at the stroke of midnight, along with the sound of chiming bells, the sound of footsteps rang out clear down the street.

The bird-faced men were coming. Lyra pressed close to the fabric she sat on, barely peeking over its edge to watch them. They were tall, towering giants dressed in huge black coats. The garments below were a blood red and were accompanied by the shine of steel. Their huge boots echoed loudly along the stone, falling in complete synchrony with one another. But it was their faces that were truly horrible. They were like the beaks of the tall water birds, long and curved down with huge, flat, glassy eyes. Dead eyes, with no light or life within them. Those men also brought traps and horrible poison. It rolled out from some tool they held like a noxious fog that hung heavy to the ground. Even from here, Lyra could smell the sharp, sickly cinnamon smell the poison emitted. It was unbearably overwhelming, but to be caught in it was truly horrifying, there was no doubt about that. The cruellest thing man had made thus far.

Lyra watched as the two towering monsters strode by without so much as turning their heads, thankfully leaving her unnoticed. Though it did meant the ground would not be safe for some hours to pass. This, of course, didn’t bother Lyra at all, she merely climbed higher, using the small gaps between the stacked orange stones as hand holds until she sat upon the pointed roofs above, feet hung over the gutters lips, smiling cheerfully. Here she sat until the moons fell and the sun began to peek over the horizon. Only then did she begrudgingly stand. By now the poison below had dispersed but Lyra was still cautious. There were ropes and thick strands of twine strung from roof to roof over the streets. She used one of these to cross safely, before disappearing down one of the gutter drainage pipes to the ground below. Just a quick dash away from sanctuary. But that sanctuary held a grizzly sight today, one who had not been quick enough to escape from the poison. A black mouse lay there just inside the pipe, mouth agape in a rigid pose of agony. Her eyes full of burst blood vessels with pools of the red liquid poured from her eyes, ears, nose and mouth. A grim reminder of what man could do. Lyra stepped over the corpse gingerly, pausing for a moment and looking down into those ruined eyes.

“I’m sorry…” she said in a soft voice before turning and beginning her decent down to the hidden city below.

Lyra went straight to school after sneaking back in, the lack of sleep showing in her eyes as she pushed through the crowded lanes and streets to get to the schoolhouse. All the other children were all lined up out front and waiting when Lyra arrived. She caught a timid wave from Simon and a disgusted glare from mostly everyone else. Christine, however, looked as if someone had taken away her prettiest dress or something, she looked distraught. That only made Lyra smile. To make things stranger, Miss Sheford did not appear until an hour after class was due to start, and she, too, looked off. The old shrew wobbled back and forth, leaning heavily on a cane as she hobbled forward to open the schoolhouse.

As usual, no one sat near Lyra and, as usual, the haggard shrew was quick to start nit picking over her. Today’s lessons were reading and writing, a subject that would be interesting if they were perhaps learning how to read and write the words of man, Grout they called the language. Lyra paid some attention as they had to recite the alphabet of their native tongue, but she mostly sat there and admired the drawings she’d made. A risky move, as they proved she regularly broke the law of Undertown, but she couldn’t help it. Before class ended that day, Miss Sheford called for the attention of all the students, clearing her throat with a wheezy cough before adjusting her glasses.

“Ahem. Class pay attention. For those of you whom haven’t heard thus far, Mister Foster passed away earlier today. As some of you know, he was a generous supporter of our school and his passing will be sorely missed,” the old shrew said. Lyra’s smile only widened, so that’s why Christine looked so down, her poor pampering father had died. Though Lyra’s grin didn’t go unnoticed, unfortunately.

“Miss Velitee! Wipe that grin off your face immediately. Have you no heart, you wretched little girl,” Miss Sheford’s shrill voice rung out. Lyra’s ears folded back, and from the corner of her eye she could see Christine glaring hatefully at her. It was guaranteed she’d have something mean to say once they were released from class. And sure enough she did. The pretty, pristine, white mouse stormed after Lyra as she sought to slink off home. Of course, Lyra didn’t stop or turn to face Christine, she just waited for the harsh insult like usual.

“How dare you smile at my father’s death you filthy rat! I hope you and you filthy father both starve to death!” she cried. It was a hollow statement, empty and fuelled by brattish tantrum. But she didn’t stop there, no she kept going, marching on behind Lyra and mouthing off continuously.

“People like you shouldn’t even be allowed in here. Stupid, filthy little peasants. I hope the giants above exterminate you all.” More hollow insults. Christine still kept going, digging until she hit a nerve. And it didn’t take long before she said something truly nasty.

“Scurry back to your hole already, you filthy product of Incest. I’m sure you’re fathers in need of you since his plaything is dead.” Christine snarled.

Lyra froze on the spot. If it were not for the noise of the crowded streets, one may have been able to hear the loud, mental snapping noise. Christine had gone beyond too far with that last remark. Lyra spun around to face the sneering white mouse and, without hesitation, pounced on her with a scream. She toppled Christine to the grimy ground and began to beat her mercilessly. There was no clawing or biting, no Lyra beat her properly, fists and all. Christine squealed and squeaked sharply under Lyra, begging her to stop and crying out for help. The crowd was either too busy to care or too stuck up to risk dirtying themselves with stopping the vicious beating.

The city guard quickly ended it though, two big, stocky mice pulled Lyra from Christine and held her harshly against the nearby wall. Christine was left bloodied and shaking in a tight ball, her perfect white fur now smeared red and brown.

“What’s going on here?” one of the two city guards asked.

Christine was quick to answer, her voice raised to hysteria as she shook and trembled, sniffling and sobbing in pain as she was helped up. “She attacked me! She’s gone savage!” she cried, pointing at Lyra as she hid behind the other guard. That was all they needed to hear. Lyra’s wrists were swiftly bound behind her in crude, heavy shackles, though she pushed and fought against them the whole time.

“She’s a bitch! A bitch with a foul mouth! She deserved it!” Lyra cried and squealed, but for her protests one of the guards simply struck her hard in the gut, winding her, forcing a pained gasp from her lips before they hauled her away. She squirmed and fought against them as they dragged her through narrow lanes and down tight crowded streets. Shoving past anyone in their way and whenever Lyra opened her mouth to protest, they beat her. The guards had never been kind, at least not to those like Lyra. Those of higher status, however, the guards treated like royalty. Of course, those were the folks who paid their wages. To the rest, however, they were blunt, acting only on what they thought was right, no trial or discussion. They marched Lyra through the city, down into its bowels, down to the dark hole they used as the dungeons. Here they forcefully stripped Lyra naked, her tattered clothes tossed into a heap with the garbage, her satchel and the evidence within, confiscated. She tried to protest once again, but they shoved her into a dirty cell with one final sharp strike across her face.

There, Lyra curled up on the floor, bawling her eyes into the grimy, straw strewn floor until they went red and raw. After that, she just lay in silence. Days passed. She was fed once a day, nothing more than bread and cheese, but it was still more than she usually ate. She wasn’t alone either. While her own cell was solitary, the ones beside and opposite her held other occupants, shrews, chipmunks, squirrels, and other folk. But she ignored them all, huddling in the corner, thinking desperately of her father and worrying for him. She did not bother crying out through the bars or begging, either, she just sat in the corner, counting the minutes as they went by, day after day, until a week had passed. Only then did someone come for her. An older mouse with grey fur and long robes of the palest blues, marked with the symbol of Undertown and its ruling council. Lyra swallowed hard as this mouse stopped before her cell.

“Your father sent me. More so, I’m here because he’s been putting on a dreadful racket over you. You’re quite a serious criminal unfortunately,” he said. His voice was the embodiment of condemnation. Lyra was already broken, however, her ears hung folded back and had been for days now and her eyes were raw around the edges. She was filthy, cold and naked, save the shackles that wore harshly against her skin and fur. She said nothing.

“Were it not for your Grandfather being who he was, you’d be heading for the chopping block. But instead, since the council is merciful, you shall spend the rest of your pathetic life here in the dungeons.” Lyra’s heart could almost be heard breaking into pieces at those words. She threw herself against the bars with a look of desperation on her face.

“No! Please. I’ll do anything,” she begged. The council mouse stepped back, recoiling in disgust. His face twisting into a cruel scowl, his eyes showing true disgust, though seeming to sparkle as well. As if relishing the fact that she would slowly rot in prison.

“Stupid vermin, you should have thought of that before you attacked a figure of wealth. And did you really think we’d not find out that you’ve been going to the surface?! You’re going to rot down here until your bones turn to powder,” he spat. Pulling his robes firm around himself, he sneered and walked off, muttering insults and other profanities. Lyra, however, just collapsed there at the bars, sobbing.

Time lost meaning after that. Lyra stopped counting the hours and the days, she stopped talking all together. She’d stopped hoping. As time went by, she steadily grew more and more dishevelled, her fur grew to look like that of a rat with mange. The crude cuffs upon her wrists and ankles had torn her skin to shreds and it was almost too painful to move or walk because of it. Her life had been thrown away because she just wanted to be free and happy. That is what Undertown did; it was a well, inescapable and draining. The solitude was also maddening with nothing to do but sit and think. Sometimes other prisoners would try and talk to her, but to Lyra they did not exist. Scores passed by, weeks upon weeks crept by without being marked.

As time slowly crawled by Lyra slowly grew more and more haggard and dishevelled. Until she was unrecognisable.