76th Yaris, 2719, around the 5th hour.
Nothing smelt quite like Vienda on a hazy Yaris night when the air collected into a suffocating fog and drifted down the streets. Oliver knew he should be huddled near the stove, chowing down on a gray mass of reheated beans and some hard tack to settle his stomach. Sensible children stayed inside, like where he should be, slumbering under a woolen blanket by a smouldering fire. Instead, he had snuck out in the dead of night, searching for an open window or unlocked door, or whatever crumbs destiny felt like throwing his way.
His solemn eyes drifted over to where he knew the smoke stacks to be. He’d put up his collar and pulled his scarf over his mouth, leaving only a slit of small, shivering eyes gazing listlessly into the world. If his current luck kept up, he'd be stuck in a factory job for the rest of his days, however many that might be. Still it was a better prospect than being snatched up by the Seventen and the constables wouldn't even have to invent a list of crimes to ship him off to Brunnhold. The choice between spending every waking hour around loud, dangerous machines, breathing toxic fumes and twisting his body into uncomfortable positions, or giving himself up after years on the down low was made quickly then. Brunnhold wasn't an option, he'd rather throw himself into the river than give up his freedom.
He had lost track of time when he arrived on a familiar street corner near the Theatre. When the weather and moods were lighter, he often set up there, making tallies out of toffins who wanted their footwear to shine on their special night out. The pay wasn’t great (all gollies were greedy asses), but it was considerably safer than swiping slum-bums who might swing at him if they caught his fingers in their pockets.
A rustle echoed across the barren square. He looked up. A pigeon fluttered its wings and sought refuge on the lavish bannisters that walled off the theatre from the square below it. He wondered if it was some kind of omen.
After he’d made sure no one was around, he crossed the square, clambered up the broad stairs, squeezed sideways through the wrought-iron gate and emerged breathlessly on the other side. He wasted no time marvelling at the architecture and set to inspecting each window, each side-entrance he could find. The Theatre’s janitor was an old, forgetful fellow who’d kept a large window open not two seasons ago, an opportunity whose fruits Oliver had eagerly plucked. Unfortunately it seemed the bureaucracy had learned from its mistakes, each entry was sealed shut. With a deflated sigh, Oliver forced his frame past the iron bars again, and not a moment too soon.
Bells tolled five counts somewhere in the distance and just as the last bell faded into the distance, a hurried, irregular clopping, emerged from the distance. Oliver had barely made it halfway down the broad, ivory stairs when a thundering column of Chroven cut through the fog. He froze, praying to whoever listened that the Seventen had failed to spot him. For a moment it seemed just so. The Chroven gathered around the center of the square and at least half of the squad dismounted carrying phosphor lanterns. They were looking for something, something near the water.
He lingered on the steps, a small figure clouded by smoke, either too frightened or too curious to take another step.
