The Portside

The Captains and the Craters

"Fucking Revolutionists."

"Peter!"

Peter Rybakov had been reading the weekly scroll which Anya had brought to him.

He sat hunched, studying the paper through dirty glasses.
He held his forehead tentatively with a stained hand.

"Ah. Sorry Children."

Viktor changed his focus from the meagre breakfast , and gazed at his father with concern.
"What is it?"

The Miner did not meet his gaze.
"People who want to change the world, my boy. But all they are truly changing, is the architecture."

The scientist looked down. "Belief can change the world, papa."

Peter took off his glasses in a swift motion as he turned to face the two children.

He had been careful to his his black eye at any chance. Now, he wore it as an emblem.

"Yes, Viktor. But at what cost? Who are we to choose beliefs over the well-being of the many?"

Anya stepped down from her position at the doorframe. She thought about what Vander had said to her.

"It'll be worth it, I suppose. When we get the Nation of Zaun."

Peter looked at Anya in a strange way. A way that she had neither seen nor notice him view her before.

He then turned to looked at his wife, she looked at him.

The silence was short, but Anya knew something had changed. Peter returned to his study of the scroll.

"Perhaps."

He said it softly. It was then she knew the conversation was over.

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By noon the two children had charted and observed the cleanup of each explosion. Viktor had wanted to stay near the craters and collect 'samples' and the girl had left him to it.

Anya spent the rest of the afternoon selling soap, near the border, until she gathered enough courage to enter the Upperside.

She had heeded the Enforcers advice, and had used some chemicals from the lab to make little purple decals for each bar.

Even she had to admit that she was impressed with her own ingenuity.

Viktor hadn't even had to help her.

She wore her cleanest and neatest clothes, and had made her father plait her now tortoise coloured hair in intricate patterns.

By the time Grayson spotted the girl on the Main Street, the girl had already sold three bars, and was practicing her ballet.

"Pretty nice, what dance is it called?"

Anya recognised the enforcer and smiled. "I'm calling it 'The bloom'"

Grayson raised her eyebrows. "Very creative.
I'm impressed."

The girl beamed.

"But I'm sorry, kid. Southsiders can't sell on the main street.

Her grin turned to a scowl. Anya angrily picked up her things and began to march away, but Grayson grabbed her shoulder.

"Slow down, I'll take you down a shorter way."

Anya wondered whether that was Pilti slang for taking her to prison.

As they walked through a smaller street towards the border, the enforcer stopped at a large, heavily decorated building.