The little door within a door was shut.

The body of the youngest lay on the pews, nestled amid the plushest of their rags. One of the boys had put his ear against the child's chest. The others sat on the pews and on the floor, staring in silence at the corpse of their coworker.

They were quite used to seeing death on a daily basis. It had become simply another thing to deal with. And the smallest was not particularly well-liked or well-known. Smallness to them only meant another mouth to feed, a runt who could not contribute to the group. The tears that fell now from their chins did not fall because of his death itself, but because, in their minds, the little corpse had assumed the shape of a symbol:

Hours and precious energy points, that could have been better employed foraging the dustbins and taking on jobs from shopkeeps, had been spent instead hunting and preparing the "hogs" -- monsters resembling giant pink-grey hamsters, eking out voluptuous existences on the refuse of the slums, surfacing even now and then on the paved streets of the central district. It was one of the ironies of this City that, plump as these hogs became, their poisoned flesh could not be eaten without proper (and costly) preparation. Because of this, and because these hogs would feed on the smaller creatures of the City who could be eaten, there had been steadily rising food shortages among the poor of the country, with whom the hogs (and other vermin of their ilk) competed. -- The quest would have given the children food and money. Sleepless nights had been, to the drip of dawn, expended, creating traps and practicing attack plans. Arduously, with only a dull knife, they had carved the hogs they managed to subjugate, removing the hide and organs and separating the limbs, hoping to impress the officers of the Association with their initiative and self-motivation.

They had discarded the tails -- though their leader had taken the blame -- all of them had discarded the tails simply because that was the customary practice, and nobody said not to.

Here and there a sigh would arise. Whenever eyes met, they would soon lower dispiritedly or turn away from the contact in shame...

Now, from the very beginning, the children had accepted their coworker might die. They were always prepared for the sight of death. But none of them had in the least expected that they would get nothing at all of their deserved reward... And because of this, when they looked upon the corpse of their coworker, they felt all of their loss and uncertainty about the future well up...

As they looked at the little body, they felt pity for themselves for not getting what they should have. The little body on the pew became their own, the droopy corpse of their hopes. And, as such, to anyone looking in, the scene approximated a scene -- quite common in the slums -- of children weeping over the loss of a companion.

"Why you let them take your stuff?"

Mope, the leader of the little company, whose eyes among all were dry, turned toward the source of the voice and found a bundle of rags propped against a nearby column. When she looked closer she saw a child in the bundle, so emaciated that she looked she could hardly walk. -- "She's probably trying to get in" (thought Mope). Though they held it their duty to take care of their members when they became sick and useless, they had no reason or desire to take on children who would just drain their resources and not contribute.

Normally, she would just ignore them. She was used to that. But blaming herself for what happened, and sensing the attention of her followers, she became annoyed by the tiny stranger.

"Shut your mouth thou impediment of perambulation, thou soon-to-be scythe-notch, thou." (Mope)

"You let them steal. You think they stop? They take your stuff in quest. They take on street."

"'Tis the justice. They bigger than us. We bigger than you." (Mope)

"Why you don't start your own?"

"My own?" (Mope)

"You get connection to Guild... You take Guild quest... Distribute...like them..."

Mope laughed at the idiocy of the idea.

"How old are you? 8? 7?" (Mope)

"Old enough to not be stupid."

"You think you're not stupid? You think we haven't thought of that already?"

"Stupid is beg, beg to work. Why not be like them if you can be like them? You be like them. You give work. Not beg."

This was the main source of stable income for the Association of the Church courtyard, a group that called themselves "Modal". Consisting of children between the ages of 12 - 17, they were too young and inexperienced to be full-time thieves, pimps, or hired hands. But they were old enough to wield authority over Startups like Mope's own.

The main business of Modal came from serving as a proxy between the Adventurer Guilds and the children. Most Guilds would not allow children to register directly, and the law prohibited them from assigning quests/tasks to an employee unless there existed good reason to believe the employee capable of achieving it safely. This was where such intermediaries as Modal came into play.

For a long time, Adventurer Guilds (there are many) had avoided the slums, simply because it would be not only troublesome, but unprofitable to set up a branch there. The Guild that opened a district office in the slums was the most disreputable of the Adventurer Guilds that operated in the country. But it was owing to their questionable practices that the branch was able, not only to succeed, but to outperform even their Flagship.

Disregarding all decency and safe practices, and often misrepresenting the quests at hand, or neglecting to specify important details, this single district office alone was responsible for innumerable deaths among the Lost Children.

At the same time, it could not be denied that they gave back to the community, that the children did not see them as doing harm to them, but in doing good. They fed the children and gave them not only money, but documentation in society -- official records in the papers of the Guild -- which would be important for ever getting out of the slums. In return, they were able to impose whatever limits they chose, set rewards many times lower than the standard rates observed in every other part of the City, and still see their postings fly off of the boards almost as soon as they're posted.

Though the Guild knew the older children were pretending to do the quests, in fact distributing the hazardous work to the younger ones, they turned a blind eye. In turn, the older children would rise through the rankings, completing quests rapidly and growing more and more lower-middle-class from the rewards. Never having to recover from injury or take any downtime to rest, they progressed faster than a normal Adventurer. They achieved promotion to F and E rank. In turn, the Guild would have a pretext in the eyes of the law: they were giving their quests to people who had proved themselves by prior success; they had "no idea" who was actually doing the quests. And lastly, in turn, the younger children would receive money and food from the older ones, the "Production Companies".

The idea of being a quest distributor themselves had never occurred to Mope -- and for good reason. Firstly, the Adventurer Guild that had opened shop in the slums, seedy as it was, still would not register someone who looked too weak, as doing so would set them up for legal attacks from their competitors. And no member of Mope's malnourished Guild could pass so much as a teenager, much less a strong one. As such, they lacked even a suitable representative to register with. Secondly, the Guild only had so many quests to give at once. Because of this, there was a pecking order between "Production Companies" like Modal, and between "freelancers" (kids who operated on their own) for who got the quests first. Sometimes, small wars would break out for best pickings of quests. But usually, it was simply the kids that were better fed that won. In this way, the Production Companies who were already having success would maintain their success by eating better.

Even if they did have someone who looked old enough to register, that was only the start of the battle -- in fact, that was not even part of the battle itself, but simply the requirement to enter. The danger and hardship lay in winning a little "market-segment" amid all the other, older, and more experienced Companies, and holding it securely.

Mope could have dismissed the girl as simply ignorant of the forces that hold in place things of this world. But when Mope looked into her eyes, which, despite her proximity to death, were strangely calm, bright, and eager, she saw the traces of understanding.

"How would we even register? Do you even know? Have you ever even stepped foot on the hallowed floorboards of an Adventurer Guild? Huh? Huh?" (Mope)

"Easy."

"How?" (Mope)

"You find a big one. You more than them. You call them over. They feel safe. Little. Sneak behind...make them fall... You say, be Producer for me."

"And what if they say no?" (Mope, slowly)

"They say no, you kill them. Rock. Knife. Big or small, it kills the same."

The idea was outrageous in the eyes of the 13 year old Mope, who was simply used to the world as it was, to the justice that governed it. In the eyes of her and her young employees, the older kids -- and the greater world beyond -- were shrouded in an aura of mystery and unknown Order...an aura that the skinny child seemed wholly blind to... Mope laughed. Her followers laughed uncertainly behind her, echoing their big sister.

"You kill them... Then you find next big... Make them be Producer..."

The way the weak-looking girl -- too emaciated even to stand -- said those words annoyed Mope. But, at the same time, it chilled her with its matter-of-factness. She could not describe it, but the idea gave her a sense of shock. It felt as though even thinking it were trespassing something, destroying something that was supposed to exist...

"Big or small, die the same."

"...bigger, harder to kill." (Mope)

"Sneak up...make them fall... On the ground, same size..."

"...And what of the other bigs? They'll fight for the spot." (Mope)

"You little. You sneak up, kill them too. They only expect big to fight. You get big who is alone or untitle. They join you, now they CEO of company."

"I'm CEO." (Mope)

"Then they Vice. But you have to prove, prove to him. Make him fear. If he don't fear, he don't trust."

Mope looked at her followers, who, with childish forgetfulness, had left attending to their late coworker. Some were staring wide-eyed, some wore knowledgeable smirks, and others lolled their heads to the side, entranced by the conversation of their leader... Then she turned back around and took a long look at the little bundle of rags on the floor. Around the dirty bundle tiles of colored marble, covered in dust and grime, inlaid so deep they could not even be looted, hinted dully at days it had once formed a part of, mysterious and irretrievable.

If it were not for the rejection that had just taken place, if she were not now wracked by failure and disappointment, she wouldn't have paid the girl a second glance. They would have gotten their just desert and saved the life of their youngest intern at the last second. They would have been long gone from here, celebrating their payday back at the little home they'd made for themselves in the culverts...

"How do we make him fall?" (Mope)