Swab's tiny hoof scrubbed and scrubbed at a particulary grimy spot of the South Strut's inner deck. Hunched over on his knees, the little pony dipped his rag back into a bucket of water and resumed his soapy assault on the stubborn splotch of metallic red. He paused midway—however—yellow eyes blinking. After a moment of deep contemplation, he realized that the discoloration wasn't going away. The blood stain was simply far too old.
So, with a sigh, he picked up his bucket and carried it towards the next boat welded into the overall body of the Strut.
He was just again kneeling when his right ear twitched to the sound of hoofsteps. A group of stallions trotted by, carrying plumbing equipment and pipework.
“...have any idea when we're casting off again to another shelf?”
“That's up to Skagra and Skagra alone.”
“Well, it'd better happen soon. Digiff won't get off my back.”
“You ever think there's another reason for that besides stress?”
“Hahahaha...”
Just then, Swab's one ear heard the sound of a dull thump. He paused in scrubbing, turning to look. His jaw hung open.
A tiny burlap bag had fallen to the metal deck. A black ink pen was stuck through the top, used to fasten the thing shut.
The object had obviously fallen out of the rearmost stallion's saddlebag. The worker trotted off, unaware of the loss.
“Uhm... sir?” Swab crawled over. He cracled the object in his tiny hooves and held it up. “Sir? Mr. Pipeworker, sir? You dropped... you dropped you...” Against his better judgment, he gave the burlap bag a sniff. His pupils instantly enlarged. Nevertheless, he leaned forward, opening his muzzle to speak.
The stallions trotted off, grumbling and laughing over one thing or another.
Swab lingered in place. Slowly, his muzzle lowered... as did his grip of the bag. He sat there, shivering slightly as he hugged the burlap container tightly to his chest. Looking left... then right... ... ...he abandoned his cleaning materials entirely. On nimble hooves, the little colt bounced and slid his way to a tiny niche between various metal bulkheads. There—slightly sheltered from the baking sun—he squatted low, containing his breaths. He reached in, then pulled the ink pen loose. The rest of the bag unwraveled as if through magic, exposing a pile of brown and white rice.
Swab gulped, and his muzzle watered. His one ear folded back as he held the scrumptious discovery up to his muzzle and prepared to dig in—
“Whatcha hiding there, sea foam?”
With a tiny yelp, Swab fumbled. He twisted the bag shut as best as he could, spun around, and held both it and the pen behind his flank. He found himself immediately staring into the leering grins of two much-bigger colts who had climbed over a set of pipework to loom above him.
“Writing another stupid prayer scroll?” Whony rolled his green eyes. “You know Verlaxion's never going to bring your parents back from the dead, ya little shitball.”
Swab's nostrils flared. “They're not dead.”
“Oh yeah?” Quint strolled forward, his dull olive coat like a smog cloud billowing around him. “Then just where are they?”
“They're... out at sea...” Swab gulped. “Dredging.”
“Pffft... for two years? They're dead, Swab,” Quint belched. “Or else they won't be arsed to come back for a little muckstain like you.”
Swab clenched his jaw shut, glaring at the floor. “You don't know what you're talking about.”
“Oh, and you do?” Whony leaned in, almost shoving Swab over with his green-eyed gaze. “When did you get so smart, huh, Swab? All our parents are dead, sea foam. What makes you so special?”
“I... I... uhm...” Swab cleared his throat, avoiding their gazes. “I-I really need to work for my nibbles today.”
“Do ya?” Quint leaned in. “Why not answer the question, Swab?”
“Huh?”
Quint stopped circling to sneer in the smaller orphan's face. “I saw you, mucker! You're hiding something!”
“I... I-I'm not hiding anything!” Swab stammered, nevertheless sweating. “Honest!”
“Well, that's a shame!” Quint snorted. “Because you have the face of a pony who's hiding something!” He raised his hoof threateningly in the younger pony's muzzle. “Want I should hide your teeth in your stomach for you?”
Swab sighed. “So what?” He glared out two thin eyes. “You always hit me.”
“Hahah!” Whony laughed. “He's got a point there, Q!”
“Shuddup, muckplot, or I'll make ya bloat!” Quint spat aside at Whony, then turned to Swab again. “Guess you can't beat up something that's already less than garbage.” He hissed in Swab's face once more. “Besides, is there anything left in there that's left to cry?”
“Hey, come on...” Swab kicked at the floor.
“Night after night... weeping into your fleas...” Quint faux-whimpered while Whony laughed. “You know, maybe there's just nothing left to hurt.” He smirked. “So maybe I'll knock Croche's teeth in instead.”
Swab gasped. He looked up sharply, eyes darting.
“Maybe I'll make a necklace out of her chompers!”
“Yeah!” Whony added, chuckling. “One for each time this little sea foam has tried being a smug bastard to us!”
“H-hey!” Swab's voice cracked. “You leave Croche out of this! She's got nothing to do with—”
“What?!” Quint shoved Swab onto the deck and stood directly above him, glaring. “She's got nothing to do with what?” He held a hoof out. “Whatever you've got, mucker, hoof it over or I'll make her sleep on a bed of her own broken bones!” He spat. “And I'll tell you you were the reason for it too!”
“... ... ...” Swab gulped. He squirmed, feeling the weight of both the pen and the rice in his hooves. Eventually, with a heavy sigh, he stretched his forelimb... and held out the rice.
Quint yanked it out of his hoof in an instant. Whony bounced up and down, muzzle dribbling. “Knew it. Sniveling little cheapskate. Bet you didn't earn this, either. I wonder what Digiff would think of that! I wonder what Skagra would think!”
“Please...” Swab gulped hard, shivering. “Don't...”
“Hmmmf... you're hardly worth it.” Quint glare down at the small colt. “Still, that's the third time this month that you owe me. By the time we hit another shelf, you'd better be ready to jump through burning pipes, ya shiteater.”
“Hah! By tonight, he's gonna have to be!” Whony said. “Come on! Come on! Share some nibbles, Quint—”
“Rggh!” Quint shoved Whony a few steps aside. “You get only what you deserve, chump.” He took a few liberal munches of the rice and trotted off, spitting up a few loose kernels that fell to the floor. “Good luck sleeping tonight, Swab. You'd better not let me catch you stealing again. I can't protect you every time!”
“Heheheh...”
Swab didn't even look at them. After the two orphans had trotted away, he crawled over to the patch of metal behind their hoofsteps. He poked at the tiny kernels of rice—still slick and slimy from Quint's saliva. With careful brushes of his fetlock, Swab wiped them dry. He then lifted the microscopic morsels to his lips, devouring all he could within the space of a blink. Sighing, he tucked the pen away behind his one good ear and shuffled back to work.
“Mrmmmff...” Digiff sat on a pile of metal crates, scribbling frantically on a clipboard. “Grnnngh... no... no no no! We've been over that part of the shelf!” Snarling, he hashed out a length of pre-written notes and slumped there, seething. A dull crimson sunset bathed in smog and steam over the lengths of Red Barge behind him. “What more does he want me to harvest? What are you holding out for, Skagra, ya half-headed bastard?”
Sweating, covered in filth and stains, Swab shuffled up to where Digiff sat. The colt placed aside his bucket and rags. He took a few pensive steps closer, staring. After several seconds passed, he cleared his throat.
Digiff simply grumbled, continuing to wrestle with his numbers.
Nervously, Swab cleared his throat again.
Digiff glanced down at the pony. “Mrrmmff... and what do you, want?”
“I... uh... I-I scrubbed the southern central Strut, Digiff.”
“Yeah, so?”
Swab blinked. Hard. “I... I-I was wondering if... if I earned my—”
“Dammit!” Digiff cursed through his teeth. “What are they working with down there?! Salad tongs?! I simply cannot afford to replace the digging apparatus again!”
“Uhm... uhm...” Swab bit his lip. “Digiff? Aren't you going to—”
“What do I look like?!” Digiff barked at the kid. “The Barge slop bucketer?! I'm up to my pissholes in backlog, and Nixkit is threatening to wring me by my neck!”
“I... I'm sorry—”
“Are you?!” Digiff frowned. “I walked by the central strut three times this afternoon, sea foam. I thought I told you to get the red out along the lateral deckway!”
“But... b-but...” Swab's eyes twitched. “It's... it's...” He gulped. “The blood's so old, Digiff... and I've only g-got—”
Sneering, Digiff suddenly lunged forth, yanked Swab up by his neck, and slammed him back up against a metal hull. Clanggg!
Swab winced, dangling in the stallion's grip.
“Do not tell me about blood,” Digiff growled. “You do what I tell you and you don't talk back. Do you understand me? There are worse things in the seven seas that could be feasting on you right now, you little shit. And don't you forget it.”
Swab merely sputtered for breath.
Digiff's nostrils flared. Grunting, he released the colt.
Swab fell to his knees, wheezing for breath. The pen slipped out from behind his ear and rattled to the deck below.
Digiff stomped back to his sitting space and continued pouring over his numbers. “Go back to the underbasin, kid.”
Swab shuddered, fought sniffles, and got up on wobbly hooves. “But... but I didn't—”
“You get what you earn,” Digiff grumbled without looking. “We all do. Now scram.”
Swab clenched his eyes shut. He took several deep breaths, reached out, scooped up his pen, then hobbled his way across the struts of Red Barge.
As night fell like a smog-stained curtain, Swab took his sweet time crossing the bridges and ramps to the centeral platform. There—a rusted set of metal stairs led to a lower cabin level. Past streams of cargo nettings, a candle-lit hovel loomed, echoing with dozens upon dozens of little foals' voices.
Swab shuffled along, glancing lethargically at the various crowds of youngsters.
Some of the smaller foals found reasons to laugh and giggle. They chased each other in circles around hollow oil drums and crates full of metal scrap.
In the far corner, Quint, Whony, and a few other older colts sat in a circle, playing cards. A half-eaten bag of rice loomed a few inches away from the oldest pony in question.
Swab's gaze wandered to the right.
Fillies and colts sat in dangling hammocks, having muffled conversations. The stain of sweat, soot, and chemicals hung off their raggedy coats, and each of them had noticeable scars blemishing the flesh where a cutie mark once was... or could have been. Several orphans shivered, squatting tightly around a beat-up sink that had been converted into a crucible for burning scraps of paper. They leaned against one another while a few held their hooves out before the blissfully warming flame.
Swab trotted across the entire interior, heading towards a dimmer side of the cabin, furthest from the door. Here, the air reeked with a pungent odor, and flies gathered close to the rusted ceiling. The foals who sat on the mattresses and hammocks here did so motionlessly, their cheekbones pronounced and their eyes vacant. They stood for minutes... hours at a time, staring at the flickering flame as if it was four hundred leagues away.
The dullness in their eyes floated before Swab like a cloud. Overcome with a tiny wave of dizziness, the one-eared pony easily lost his balance. He stumbled to the side, brushing past a body or two.
“What...?” An older filly spun about, scowling. “Excuse you!” She shoved him with a grunt.
Swab winced, falling completely on his side. Several more fillies laughed.
“Hahaha... one ear and half a brain!”
“Lemme guess, no nibbles again, Swab?”
“Just give it up and bloat already. You're making us all look bad. Isn't that right, Croche?”
Swab shook, struggled, and finally pushed himself back up to his hooves. Squinting painfully, he glanced at the fillies and their bunkbeds.
All of them were giggling—all but one. A pony with a light pink coat and sunken eyes of teal. She blinked dully from where she sat on the top of a dilapidated mattress.
Swab looked back. Then, shuddering, he turned around and hobbled towards the very corner.
In the distance, a brash colt—trembling from hunger—tried sneaking up behind Quint. He reached for the bag of rice, starting to pull it away. Whony glanced over, smirked, and pointed.
Quint spun around—and in a flash he leapt upon the colt, shoving him over. The smaller pony yelped as Quint rushed in, kicking and kicking and kicking him hard in the belly. At last, the colt crawled off, sputtering and whimpering in wheezy breaths. Quint snorted, picked up the spilled rice, and munched on a few of them as he trotted back towards the cardgame and his chuckling comrades.
About this time, Swab had reached a mattress that was raised up on slabs of metal. He crawled onto it, plucked the pen from his ear, then looked the instrument over. Carefully, he eyed the rest of the room, then turned around towards the metal wall behind him. With tiny, prying hooves, he was able to pull one of the outer panels loose. Reaching in, he fumbled around, then eventually produced a scroll of parchment.
Huddling over, he shook the pen, then tested it for ink. A mark blemished the paper where Swab commanded it, and that summoned the first smile in several hours. It was a terribly brief thing. Taking a deep breath, the little colt proceeded to write in slow... deliberate strokes:
Dear Goddess Verlaxion,
My name is Swab. And I am a sinner.
I stole today. A worker—one of Digiff's stallions—was walking across the Barge. He dropped some rice and a pen. I could have given it back to him, but when he walked away, I didn't try hard enough. My mother always taught me that a truth not spoken is just as bad as a lie. Could a gift not given be just as bad as stealing?
Well, it doesn't matter. Quint and Whony took the rice. Because of me, they share the sin now. It has already hurt somepony. I know it because I saw.
I kept the pen too. I know that this is also sinful of me, but at least it allows me to write to you for the first time in weeks. Nixkit is always telling me and the other orphans that Verlaxion hears our prayers, even if we put them down on paper. I don't expect you to forgive me, Goddess. But maybe if I confess my sins and pray hard enough, you will at least forgive my parents... and you will bring them back here... so that they can be safe. That's all I really want. It doesn't matter what you do to me, as long as my parents get to find their way back.
So, here they are. Here are my sins this week. I pray, Verlaxion, that you are merciful after reading about them. I know that nopony else would be...