Enough is not Enough

Iron Age Media, August 9 Prompt

There is always work, even for the little ones. The fallen and discarded bits of the city need recovering and cleaning and tiny hands make effective if not short work of the myriad tasks that are always available.

Life is simple, life is humble. In that way, Conach is happy. He is tired, but he is happy. The little one has spent years of his life in the gutters and the alleys, peeking around the unseen so that he might find what the big ones drop and what they absentmindedly lose. He spends the mornings searching and he spends the evenings cleaning, mending and polishing what he finds.

The big ones are happy to trade for what is found. Morsels of food are plentiful and little tools for little hands are of good quality and commonly rewarded. But as of late, there are some rumblings in the low places. Conach is content, but his friends are not. More and more, the little fellow finds himself hearing unpleasant exchanges between those like him.

"Damned cretins, shorting me what I am owed! Why should I work so hard for a pittance!" Henri cried in the littlest pub.

"Yes," Madanach enjoined. "I spent days fixing one of their click-click trinkets and what am I rewarded for hauling it back to Morgenau's shop? Six handfuls of cheese and a sausage slice. For all that work and all that struggle and all that effort, I get their scraps."

Madanach spits. The other little ones concur, nodding and slamming their tiny fist on the table. Conach sits silently, hands held tight on his little mug. The others are too busy commiserating to notice his silence, that is, until Tibor asks the meekest of seekers.

"Me?" Conach says loudly, nearly spilling his cup through surprise. He didn't have much time to think about what he said and the longer he was quiet, the more he felt their eyes piercing into him. "Um, I..."

Now, the pale furred little one was not a liar. He had always lived honestly and playing dumb did not sit right with him. The poor fellow gathered his courage, gulped deep and spoke the truth.
"I don't like all this talk. The big ones always treated me fair, always gave me what I was owed. And if you all don't remember, they removed all of the cats from the city! We don't have to be afraid anymore!"

There were a number of grumbles in the tavern, but Conach's passionate plea fell on attentive ears. At his word, the patrons of the pub at most, grumbled incoherently and returned to their drinks and meals, but the mood had noticeably soured. Conach was perturbed by the quietness he had created. Quick as he may, the white furred fellow downed his drink and made to leave.

He was being followed. He knew that he was, but he could not tell how many and he dared not look behind. Conach took the side streets, away from his home and towards the eastern part of town. He had never been there and he knew most of the others had not gone that way either. The big ones had fought there a while ago, before Conach had been born. He was told it was once a splendid place but now, it had fallen into disarray and unsavory fellows now roamed its shadowed walkways.

When he heard the footsteps behind him hasten, Conach broke into a sprint. He gulped down deep breaths as he ran forward, his little lungs forcing squeaks from his throat as he bolts down the twilight darkened cobblestone. His pursuers were no longer audible behind him, but Conach didn't know that. He was too afraid for his safety to notice and it was only when he was totally out of breath and exhausted that he noticed just how far from home he was.

They were deadly serious about the east quarter of the city. The last rays of daylight receded like a blanket being gently sneaked off a sleeper, but what Conach saw squared him. There were eyes in the darkness, glimmering and fierce, aimed at him and worst of all.

Feline.