"Hey, Sejira. Do you know why we're called Blackbirds?"

Sejira looked over at her partner, barely able to make out even his profile in the darkness of the shed- their current "safe house." But, as always, a red smudge of light burned away like a single demonic eye, sometimes veiled by the occasional puff of smoke that sprouted from Andrik's lips. Sejira looked away, unrolling her sleeping bag. She didn't want to think about red eyes.

"No, Andrik."

"Well, when you look at crows or grackles or whatever, they're pretty weak, right? Bad-omened as well, not to mention pretty damn annoying. You think, what can they do, up against big bad eagles? But then you get a whole murder of them. Working together, blackbirds can chase away and even hurt those big bad raptors." There was a shuffling sound behind her as Andrik presumably went through the same motions. Then suddenly a soft thunk and muffled curses as he stubbed his toe in the dark.

Already done with her bag, Sejira turned around and watched as the red smudge fell from the deeper darkness of his profile and dropped to the ground. She put her foot forward and crushed the cigarette under her heel. The last thing they needed was for this whole damn place to go up in flames.

"So that's us," she stated, staring down at the spot she had rubbed out as if addressing it and not her partner. "A murder of annoying black birds mobbing together to stop the predators."

"Yep. Goody for us."



The beer that the Government In All Its Generosity provided for its soldiers was crap, Lieutenant Jake Temmon decided, tilting the bottle that was in his hand. But crappy beer was better than no beer at all, that was his philosophy, and he wasn't about to get his hobby-horse reversed now.

Temmon looked across the dimly-lit table at the other lieutenant, Allan "Specs" DeRay, named so because of the thick glasses he wore, broken enough times to lie crookedly on his nose. Specs, more picky than Temmon by far, hadn't even bothered with his beer, leaving it unopened as he worked on the tough ration of meat.

Temmon eyed it carefully, sipping his own drink. In the army, it was quantity, not quality, that mattered. The taste wouldn't bother him if he got drunk enough. And getting drunk would definitely make his job easier.

Temmon leaned back on his rickety chair, one hand rubbing at his temples and he looked back at the cage occupied by about two dozen Mullanero kids. Thin, ragged, sniveling and noisy, they were by far the worst transport assignment he'd ever been given. It was enough to make him wonder if the Higher Ups planned on demoting him or something.

"Quit your whining, or I'll come over there and shut you all the hell up," he snapped, turning back around as their high-pitched cries subsided into a fearful, restless silence.

Temmon looked down at his sad plate of crappy rations, poking at the crappy mashed potatoes with a crappy tin fork paired up with a slightly-less crappy tin knife. Yes, this whole deal was crap, and as soon as the damn kiddy Mulls were behind bars in 27V, he was getting the hell out of the Verdenshae proper.

"So much for the 'Glory and Honor of Service to The Benign Government,'" he muttered, pushing away his plate and taking a swig of the rotten beer.

Specs gave up trying to saw at his now-mutilated piece of meat. "More like leather than anything else," he grumbled, spearing it with his fork. He smirked. "Hey, Tem, watch this."

DeRay leaned back and lobbed the piece of meat over Temmon's head, into the recesses of the cell behind them. Temmon turned around to watch as the whole mob of kids suddenly swarmed, scrabbling for the food. The oldest ones there were around twelve, so Temmon bet it was one of them who would end up with it. Then again, some of the little seven year-olds were small, more agile. He also wondered if they'd have to drag away any bodies afterward. More corpses had come out of a squabble for a spare piece of food than you'd expect. The Mulls hadn't seen much more than watery soup for a while.

"I want my mama," came one plaintive cry, rising above the other voices. Temmon rolled his eyes as a small girl, her white-blonde hair in dirty grey tangles, gripped the bars of the cage with grimy hands. She shook them, oblivious to the scuffle behind her, sobbing. "Please, where's my mama? I want to see her!"

"What'd I say?" he growled. "I don't wanna hear any more more of your whining, you got me?" Temmon grabbed hold of his beer and took another gulp, swishing the liquid inside the bottle around to judge how much longer this supply would last him.

Behind him, the girl's sobs increased in pitch and volume, becoming wordless banshee-like shrieks.

Apparently not long enough.

Temmon banged his bottle back on the table, jaw set, abruptly snatching up tin knife and stalking over to the cell where the girl clung to the bars, oblivious.

"Please ... mama!" she screamed, her face a white oval offset by the iron bars of the cell.

Temmon grabbed hold of the girl by the collar and stabbed the knife into the her apple-red eye.

It burst like overripe fruit, blood viscous liquid streaking down her cheek to mix with her tears. Her whole body shuddered with one final cry, the left eyelid trembling over an empty socket.

Temmon thoroughly enjoyed the sudden sweet, sweet silence that swept over the cell.

He released his grip on the girl and let her slip jerkily to the floor, her face a gory painting of blood and pus. A drawn-out whimper sounded from her lips. Around her, the other Mulls had backed as far away from the bars as they could.

With a satisfied sigh, Temmon fell back into his chair, tossing the dripping knife onto his plate with distaste.

"Oh, that was smart," Specs grumbled, straightening his glasses and eyeing the knife with a grimace. Always a nancy-boy, that guy, Temmon thought to himself.

"What? The barracks aren't gonna care about blinding a Mullie."

"No, but now she's just going to be more annoying," Specs groaned, shooting Temmon a irritated glare as the girl moaned loudly behind them, as if in agreement.

"Told you."

Temmon gritted his teeth and slumped over the table, toying with his nearly-empty bottle.

"If it bothers you so much, then take care of it yourself," he shot back, raising his voice to be heard over the girl's agonized wail. So maybe jabbing out her eye wasn't the most effective road to peace and quiet.

"Fine," DeRay replied calmly, reaching over to pick up the sullied knife and pushing back his chair. Temmon didn't look up as he heard the jangle of keys, the rusty creak of the cell door, or the startled whispers of the frightened children. He swallowed the last of his beer as the girl's cries were abruptly cut off.

He turned back around one last time as Specs ducked under the archway of the cell and dropped the now doubly-stained knife atop Temmon's abandoned dinner. Surrounded by a circle of shocked Mulls, the girl's body lay spread-eagle out on the cold floor, the gash that opened her throat a bloody grin under her blank white face, her single eye staring out at them in death. The jagged knife had cut to the bone, leaving a mess of torn muscle and flesh behind.

"See? Now she's quiet," Specs said smugly.

"I'll get the Government to give you a medal," Temmon answered dryly, reaching out to open DeRay's untouched bottle. Waste was a terrible thing.