The First Penitatas
Chapter 33 – The Doctor of Iron Gaol

The hospital had been packed beyond capacity since the Terror. The overflow lined corridors, crammed into waiting rooms and spilled out into the streets outside. Militia field medics, ship's surgeons from orbiting craft, and even the private physicians of the Houses had all been sent to offer their services, but it wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.
Kyr staggered through C-Wing in a daze. The inside of his skull-like hood was stifling, and sweat ran down his neck to soak into his mane. Half the corridor was full of beds, their occupants scarred and blistered by a grim mix of thermal, chemical and electrical burns. Some wailed in pain, crying out for their ration of sedatives that were now half an hour overdue. He stopped at one silent occupant, checked his vitals, and hastily tapped his security code into the terminal clamped to the bed, marking the patient as critical and shunting him to the top of the queue.
He passed into an operating room with no regard for the sterilisation procedures, for such considerations had been long since abandoned. Four medical teams were crowded into the surgical space, each trying their best to treat their patients. He paused as a sharp stink of blood struck him, the scent dragging him back to full wakefulness. He hurried over to his allocated table and looked down in puzzlement at the Dawnsider female waiting there. “She's not a burn victim!” he spent half a second examining the bloody wound under her third breast. “This is a gunshot wound, recently inflicted! She should be in A-Wing!”
“A-Wing is full and she's critical!” Kyr's second snapped back.
The doctor glanced up towards the far wall, where a shimmering display gave a real-time tally of available resources. “Prep the surgical lathe, I'm going to authorise two doses of medical nanites. We need to get her out of this room as soon as possible, and a scrub team called in to cleanse.” One of the surgeons on the table opposite glanced Kyr's way, his expression unreadable beneath the leather hood he wore. The eyes were disapproving, but they were quickly cast back to his own patient.
The projectile was removed, the nanites given, and the female wheeled back to her proper ward. Kyr shambled, zombie like, to the nearest wash-room to clean up and recover. He ripped the hood free with a gasp and plunged his face into the sink to douse himself with cold water. It had been days since he'd slept. A young nurse tip-toed in behind him, dreaded datapad clutched in her paws. “What are we short on now?” he asked.
“We're down to one cannister of medical nanites, doctor.”
“For the wing?”
“The hospital, sir,” she replied. Kyr cursed at that. Had the resource terminal been out of date, or had he just not read it correctly? “The Chief of Staff has advised we are to reduce opioid usage by at least twenty percent to avoid exhausting our reserves, in case fresh supplies are delayed.”
“Again. Delayed again. Anything else?”
“No sir,” she said in a tone of voice that knew otherwise.
Kyr gave himself one last splash of water before returning to work. The orderly sprayed his hands and forearms with disinfecting gel to minimise infection risks as he tended to a Nightsider male. The chart described a variety of internal injuries, but the doctor's eye was drawn immediately to the amber runes in the top right corner that signified him as a Class Four – Low Priority. “Who the fuck did this?” Kyr snarled as he punched the nearest alarm. “Patient critical! I need- fuck! I need access to a rejuvenation system!”
The link clicked loudly and a female voice answered him, “Rejuvenation chamber won't be available for another three hours, doctor.”
“This man has minutes to live because someone fucked up! I can't save him otherwise!” A warning chime dragged his attention back to the patient. “I've lost vitals here! RRT to C-Wing, Ward Two, Overflow Blue, Cot Six!”
“Who needed a rejuvenation?” a middle-aged Dawnsider asked. He wore the colours of House Gronahl, one of the landed Houses out far beyond the City. The House Surgeon was accompanied by four other members of House Gronahl, two male and two female, all Dawnsiders. Subtle braiding on their sleeves indicated they were slaves.
The five of them needed no answer from Kyr. They began wheeling the bed down the corridor, with Kyr following close behind. They took the Nightsider into a nearby ward, where the slaves began preparing an unfamiliar machine they had attached to the multi-use mounting trolley. It looked almost like a weapon, with a long barrel containing multiple lenses and a rearward cylinder. The females loaded into that cylinder a class tube containing a pinkish crystal, and Kyr realised at once what it was – a rejuvenator, scaled down to be portable. The hospital's two rejuvenators were designed to use multiple crystals, typically eight or more to allow not only accurate control of target age, but also to provide additional medical treatments, such as screening of hereditary conditions. They could even rewrite chromosomes, turning males to females if it was desired. A single crystal still allowed the machine to function, but in a much cruder fashion. In effect, it would default to a preset output – how this was defined, Kyr still didn't really know, but he did know that for a Kyyreni this worked out as a male of approximately six years old. For other species, it differed somewhat; humans, from whom they got the technology, came out as females of seven, as did the feline Jalaxians.
The machine began to hum, a low sound that grew in volume and pitch as the device spooled up to full operational status. Monitors on the side of the rejuvenator showed its charge status, and as soon as the device reached full charge the House-Surgeon pressed the firing trigger. There was a mechanical clunk as some internal shield opened, followed by an electrical buzz quite like a printing unit, and the patient began to change. His flesh began to ripple and bulge, then flowed in unsettling waves as his body began to remake itself. Heat irradiated from the body as limbs shortened, the muzzle restructured itself, and the man's mane was absorbed back into his neck. When it was all over, a little ball of black fur lay sleeping on the bed, restored to both health and childhood.
“What's your name, doctor?” the House-Surgeon asked.
“Kyr,” Kyr answered.
“Ulfat. Any idea how this man was so badly misdiagnosed?”
Kyr shook his head. “Probably some trainee running triage, desperate to get everyone processed.”
“Lucky for him we arrived when we did. We've only just got here and were setting this thing up when your call came through. We're not even on the system yet.”
“Change that, please. Lives depend on it.”
Ulfat turned towards him, and Kyr realised he'd taken a far harsher tone than he'd intended. The nobleman took it in good stride. “We will, immediately.”
The doors to the ward opened, drawing Kyr's attention. Two Enforcers entered, grim-faced and staring directly at him. “Kyr, son of Ozra?” one of them asked. “We need you to come with us.”
“It will have to wait, I am far too busy to answer questions,” Kyr countered, causing the senior Enforcer to bare his teeth.
“This isn't a request, it's an order.”
Kyr felt a chill run down his spine. Ulfat stepped up to defend him, “Now listen here! We are up to our necks in sick and injured, and we cannot afford to send away a doctor for whatever errand you want running! Go away and file a formal request for assistance, and you'll be issued a doctor as soon as one is available!”
“With respect, sir, we are here under instruction from the Lord Governor's House. The man you are defending is accused of supporting a terrorist movement.”
“Preposterous!” Ulfat spat.
With a sigh, Kyr removed his mask once more and offered it, along with his pad, to Ulfat. “Please look after my patients. I fear I won't be returning.” The noble's jaw fell open as the doctor approached the Enforcers. “At least allow me to walk out of my own accord. If people saw you arresting me it might cause a great deal of distress.” They granted his request.

Despite the arrest, Kyr was oddly glad of the Enforcers' hospitality. He was allowed to shower and change into a paper gown, then sent down to the cells. The cot inside the cage was little more than a metal slab, but for a man on the brink of collapse it was pure heaven. He slept for twelve hours, waking only when one of the guards began prodding him with a truncheon to get him up for the interrogation. They took him to a grim room with a torturer's chair in the middle, and a drain in the floor for ease of cleaning. He was allowed to sit unrestrained. Soon after, two Enforcers entered, both Dawnsider males. The older man's body armour bore a subtle silver Guild crest on the right pectoral that was absent from his colleague's uniform, marking him as a captain.
“My name is Bast, and I have been made aware of your associations,” the Enforcer captain said upon arriving. He looked as if he were painfully jealous of the sleep Kyr had enjoyed. “Do you know what a 'Red Wall' is, doctor?”
The statement made his blood run cold. “I believe it describes a state of emergency, one where your Guild is given carte blanche to take any action you deem necessary to resolve the crisis, free of standard judicial process.”
“Good. In this case, the 'crisis' is the locating and eliminating of all enemies of our nation. How do you feel about the nation, Kyr?”
“If you think I in any way support the people destroying our City, you are quite mistaken!”
“Tell me about The Populous, doctor,” Bast growled as he circled around behind his suspect. “Is it true you meet to discuss overthrowing the Lord Governor's House?”
Kyr couldn't help but shiver with fear. It was easy to be brave when you were at home, or in the company of like-minded friends, but he was in a cell with a man empowered to kill in the name of the Lord Vaskal. Any sane man would be fearful in such a place. “It's a forum for political discussion, not calls to violence. We simply believe that Taviksaad could be ruled differently.”
Bast kicked the chair, making Kyr jump in fright. “A lot of my friends are dead because those bastard Blighted thought the same!”
“We're not involved with them I swear! We don't want to destroy Taviksaad or the City, we simply wish for the implementation of a people's senate, modelled on the Tzajiian governmental system! We're Republicans, not terrorists!”
“I don't see a difference!” Bast snarled back.
Now it was the younger male's turn to speak. He was much calmer than his commanding officer, but Kyr retained enough self-awareness not to trust his soft tones. “Forgive the captain, it's been a very difficult few days for us all. Maybe we can straighten this all out if you just confirm a few details for me... such as your place of birth?”
The doctor met the smiling Enforcer's gaze and said firmly, “I was three years old when I became a citizen of Taviksaad. I don't even remember what my previous home looked like.”
“But where was that, exactly?” the young man pressed.
“You already know, I'm sure.”
Bast punched him in the side of the head. The blow caused a white flash across Kyr's vision and left him dazed. “Answer the question!”
“T-Tzajii!” he gasped. “I was born outside the old city wall! My father was a ship's surgeon and my mother was a clerk for the Royal Slaver Company.”
“Family business then?” the young Enforcer continued. “Funny you mention the Slavers, given how the previous Lord Governor drove them off the planet. That must have rankled you.”
“Not at all. I never approved of her involvement in that business.”
“But you do approve of toppling the House of Vaskal,” Bast hissed into his ringing ear. “Three years ago you were arrested at an illegal demonstration in the Palace Common! Got away with a fine according to our records. Do you remember the name of the man who organised that?”
A fresh shudder ran down Kyr's spine. “Jas, son of Krottr. We barred him from our organisation almost two years ago!”
“Because you knew he was dangerous? Why not report him to us?”
Kyr found the courage to bare his teeth at the captain. “Because we all knew you'd drag us into a cell like this! Guilt by association! Besides, to our knowledge he's never done anything!”
Bast's expression was gut-wrenching. “He's a member of the Blighted Cult. The Lord Governor's Men put a bullet through his heart during the siege of the broadcast building. He helped spread Blighted propaganda, and he opened fire upon the Lord Governor and our Guildmaster!”
The 'good cop' tapped his boot against Kyr's shin to get his attention. “You have to admit, this all looks bad for you, doctor. A Tzajii-born 'Republican', associating with a mortal enemy of the state. We were settled by colonists from Oraahnaj, and the rivalry between Oraahnaj and Tzajii is legendary. Your Republic wanted to control us through the Slaver Company, and when that backfired they must have been smarting. That's when you come in, right? Give a little support to a coup and then try again with a new regime?”
The poisonous words were almost enough to bring Kyr to tears. “I am an innocent man! I have done nothing wrong!”
Now any semblance of pleasantry had gone. The young Enforcer's expression was cold as iron. “You are, by your own admission, a member of the Republican movement. Do you deny this?”
“No, I am a part of the movement, but-” Bast punched him into silence.
“The Republican movement has been declared seditious for its calls to abolish House rule. In light of recent events, we are no-longer willing to leave you be to stew in your conspiracies. You have supported this movement, attended their rallies, funded their propaganda. This is irrefutable.”
“I request arbitration,” Kyr said softly.
The captain sneered at the request. “What part of 'Red Wall' didn't you understand? You are not entitled to legal representation. You are not entitled to a hearing. You were brought here as a courtesy to others. Here, I have something for you to sign.”
It was a datapad, and its contents sickened Kyr to such an extent bile rose in his throat. “This... you want me to say I falsified my Guild certifications? Why?”
“Because it frees the Doctors of any association with you. Sure, it looks bad that someone can pass themselves off as a licensed doctor, but it looks far worse if they rubber-stamped a terrorist and took them into their flagship hospital. So why don't you prove you really care about this City, and sign?”
Kyr's thumb hovered over the signatory button as all hope drained away. He wanted to believe he could fight this by standing defiant, that the Doctor's Guild would come through and attest to his upstanding character and selfless devotion to duty, but it was hard to deny the captain's logic. Right now, nobody wanted to appear unpatriotic.
“Maybe we should ask him about co-conspirators?” the younger Enforcer suggested. “His wife, for example, or his children?”
Instinct caused Kyr to fling himself at the Enforcer, but they were ready for him. A blow to the gut staggered him, followed by a blow to the jaw that left him sprawled on the floor, blood leaking from his mouth. He was dragged back into the chair, punched in the face again for good measure, and handed the pad once more. “Seems we hit a nerve!” Bast announced. “I'll make this easy then. You sign that confession, and I'll make sure everyone knows your family had nothing to do with your little terrorist movement.”
Shuddering in pain and shock, Kyr blinked the tears from his eyes and pressed his thumb against the pad. There was a brief chirrup as it read and saved his thumb print. Just like that, any hope of freedom was gone.

The next day, just before dawn, Kyr was loaded onto a waiting transport and driven out of the City. It was a long journey in a windowless box, and the constant shuddering made his jaw ache. A double mandibular fracture with surrounding tissue damage, based on the location of the pain and the looseness of his lower teeth. He wasn't the worst of the convicts; of the other five passengers three were sick or injured, one severely.
The sun has passed the zenith by the time they came to a halt. Ahead of them was a large fenced encampment with access granted only through an iron-grey gatehouse – the titular Iron Gaol. Enforcers in dust-blown black armour and sporting the red armbands of the Watch awaited them, beckoning them forwards with curt words and gestures.
The Kyyreni ahead of Kyr stumbled and fell. It was an ugly drop, from standing to face-down in the dirt without any effort to shield the collapse. Kyr stooped to check on him, only to be dragged back and hurled to the ground by one of the Watchmen, who stood on his tail for good measure. The former doctor let out a bark of pain, which in turn caused fresh agony in his jaw.
As the convicts were secured, an officer emerged. He was, like Kyr, an anomalous figure; Dawnsider blond, but by some quirk of fate the two were pinked nosed, rather than the more typical grey or black, and his fur had a dirtier shade than most. The Watchman loomed over Kyr and asked with vague disinterest, “Did you strike that man?”
“He is sick,” Kyr rasped, trying to speak without moving his jaw. “I'm a doctor.”
The officer glanced down at the unconscious convict, who had been rolled onto his back. Then he returned his attention to Kyr, leaning back and forth to examine his features. “Someone broke your jaw. Take them both to medical immediately.”
Kyr was made to carry his sick companion by his Watch escort, who spoke only to tell him when to stop, when to move and when to turn. After winding through the bleak corridors they came upon a small, but well furbished medical facility. A waiting orderly took the unconscious Dawnsider from Kyr, who was immediately grabbed by the Watchman, wrestled into cuffs and secured to a metal bar against the wall. His grunts and protests went unremarked, and instead the guards focused on the more urgent patient. Over his shoulder, Kyr watched the man vanish into the next room, after which he heard a faint, but familiar sound. Rejuvenation? The thought brought a new sense of unease to the former doctor. He had no desire to return to childhood, especially in the place like this!
“Hey!” he cried, despite the pain it caused him. “You can't make us penitatas without consenting to it! He didn't sign the contract!”
The orderly gave Kyr a puzzled look, then smiled in an unkind manner. “Maybe you should stop talking before that jaw gets worse?”
Before long, a child was carried out of the rejuvenation room – a six year old Dawnsider male. He was placed in one of the medical cots, then the Watchmen turned their attention to Kyr. He fought them, for all the good it did him, but they were content to beat him into submission and drag him before the eldritch machine in the next room, binding him to an operating table and aiming the emitter at his chest. It was a cruel thing to do, as the machine took a long time to charge; twenty or thirty minutes at least. Plenty of time to exhaust himself fighting the restraints, plenty of time to imagine what hell might follow. Then came the whirring of alignment mirrors, the metallic clack of a shield dropping, and the staccato buzz of energy discharge.
The rejuvenation beam hit Kyr like a pulse of fire, and he howled as oblivion claimed him.

He came back to life in the medical ward, handcuffed to his cot. A Watchman nearby looked up as he stirred and approached, notepad in hand. “Kyr son of Ozra, can you confirm your residence?”
“Six-” he stopped, shocked by the high-pitched nature of his own voice. “Six-Nineteen Townhouses.”
“Next of kin?”
“Iyas daughter of Iya. I have a son, Kyrat, and a daughter, Akyel.”
The Watchman nodded as he went down the checklist. “Good. They will be notified of your incarceration. I am sergeant Hjoldn, and you are my charge now. I like the easy life, convict; don't make me work, and I won't make you suffer. Can you stand?”
Kyr tried, and almost failed. He couldn't go far cuffed to the rail of the cot, but he was able to get his balanced on new, unfamiliar footpaws. He took the chance to examine himself, only a little bashful at being nude in front of the Watchman, and felt a curious pang of loss at seeing his tail lacked the thick, dark tuft of fur at the end. Now it was smooth to the tip. He was definitely a boy – the fur colour confirmed that, as did the parts still between his legs – but his new age wasn't quite as clear; five or six, maybe seven. The cuff was removed. “We will go to the quartermaster, where you will receive your entitled possessions. Walk.”
His 'entitled possessions' were presented to him with military precision - clothes: two pairs of boy's shorts (maroon), two boy's shirts (maroon). He was permitted to put one of each on as they were handed to him, with the others folded and carried. Grooming was next: one toothbrush, one flannel, one bar of soap, one canvas laundry bag for dirty clothes. Cutlery followed, and it was the cheapest cutlery Kyr had ever seen – a two-piece set consisting of a spork and pronged knife, blunt and made of plastic. He also received a well-used cup that had been green at one point before most of the paint chipped away. Finally, there his indulgence: an envelope containing two dozen pieces of blank paper (medium letter size) and one soft-lead pencil.
Carrying all his worldly possessions in his arms (the clothes had no pockets), Kyr was marched outside into the vast, open grounds of Iron Gaol. It was a quarry. In fact, it was several quarries; Kyr walked past three of them, some worked by adult convicts and others by children. Each quarry wore a different colour, which he noted matched the paint on the long, low bunkhouses overlooking the work sites. It was not surprising then that Kyr was ordered to circle around the third quarry and head for the maroon buildings on the far side. He was led inside the nearest of the buildings to find sixteen beds in two rows of eight, crammed as close together as was possible. Each bed had a locker made of clear plastic to its left, nine of which had clothes and other items inside. At the far end of the room was a transparent door showing a tiled room beyond. Each of the bed and locker combinations was inside a white rectangle, which Kyr rightly guessed identified the designated living space of each resident.
“Walk to bed ten, convict,” Hjoldn said, following close behind. “This is your locker. Place your belongings in there and stand at the foot of your bed.”
Kyr did as he was told. Hanging on the end of his bed was a white marker-board. Hjoldn provided a black marker and ordered him to write his name and prisoner number: C3F-A22-005. “You should memorise that,” Hjoldn added. He pointed firmly towards the ground, drawing Kyr's attention downward.“This is your space, and you are expected to maintain it. You will make your bed each morning before the work detail begins. The latrine is though that door, brushes and mops are stored in there also. The entire barracks is responsible for the communal area and any unoccupied cots. If your space is neglected, you will be punished. If communal spaces are neglected, you are all punished. Is that clear?”
“Yes sir,” he answered, as that seemed the only sensible response to give.
Hjoldn briefly glanced at the timepiece on his wrist. Then in a tone that was if not sympathetic, at least tolerant added, “It hardly seems worth you joining the work gang now. You will remain in the barracks until your evening meal. I would suggest you take some time to write to someone you trust and ask them to arrange visitation. We will read any letters you send.” Then, to Kyr's surprise, he removed a few small squares of tissue from his pocket and tossed them on the bed. “You might want those. Most new convicts do.”
With that, Kyr was left alone in his new home. Away from prying eyes he finally broke down, wailing in anguish over all that he had lost. He howled himself to exhaustion, his tears soaking into his new pillow, until he was simply too tired to cry any more. After using the gifted tissues to wipe his eyes and blow his nose, he explored the barracks as much as he could. The latrine turned out to be two squat toilets with a basic spray nozzle for cleaning oneself afterwards, and a sink with separate hot and cold taps. The cold tap had “DRINKABLE” written on a tiny brass plaque on the tiles behind it.
Eventually, his solitude was interrupted by the arrival of nine other rejuves – six boys and three girls, all Kyyreni. He stood by his bed nervously as they all trudged wearily to their own cots, most throwing themselves down without acknowledging him. The boy in the next bed, a Daysider judging by his orange fur, was the first to speak to him. “You new?” he asked.
Kyr nodded. “My name is Kyr, I just arrived here today. You must be Rhyd?” he had read the names on each of the beds.
“That's me. Enjoy your day off, you'll be breaking your back with us tomorrow.”
It seemed clear from Rhyd's tone that he was in no mood for lengthy conversation, so Kyr followed his example and lay on his bed. Nine tired, sweating children gave the air a faintly stale aroma, but it was hardly the top of his concerns. After a few minutes, he decided to take the advice he was given earlier and write a letter. It was made more difficult due to the lack of a solid surface to lean on – his bed gave too much, and his knee was hardly wide enough – but he eventually penned a brief, yet heartfelt letter to his wife and children. A few tears dripped into the paper as he folded it up and slipped it back into the envelope for sending.

Feeding time brought life back to the barracks. Somewhat rested, the rejuves seemed downright excited for their meals as the sergeant escorted them to the mess. Kyr took his awful cutlery and followed directly behind Rhyd, hoping to build upon his brief first introductions and use the boy as a font of information... or perhaps even a friend. The dining hall was situated equidistant between the maroon buildings and an earthy green set of structures. There were twelve greens already present, most of which had already received their meals. A third detail was making room as they queued to collect and fill their meal trays. Hunger hit immediately, so fiercely that the boy had to clutch his stomach to brace against the pain. How long since he had last eaten? A Day? Two?
Dinner consisted of boiled beans and two brands of slop. One was meaty, the other fishy, yet both were surprisingly flavourful and their mushy texture meant his cheap utensils were usable. It was far from what he was used to, but he'd eaten much worse during long shifts at the hospital when there wasn't time for a proper meal. To drink they had room-temperature water.
There was precious little talking during the meal. “You want to eat fast,” Rhyd warned him in a brief pause between shovelling slop into his muzzle. A life in busy hospitals had at least taught Kyr that vital skill, and he was successful in clearing his tray by the time the maroon work-gang was told to clear up and leave. Their bellies full, or at least fuller, they made the trek back to their barracks in silence, only for conversations to emerge once the Watchman had departed. Kyr was the subject of choice, though he didn't appreciate the focus on his crime – in his mind he was innocent, and he told them as much.
One of the girls piped up, “Ooh, you want to stop that talk, new boy! Being innocent's a serious crime around here!” Her words got a laugh from the others.
“Fine,” Kyr relented, “I am – or was – a member of the Republican movement.”
The confession seemed to impress a few of them. Rhyd gave a thin smile and asked, “terrorist, huh? Ever kill anyone?”
“No!” he snapped, and his room-mates mocked his defensiveness. “I had nothing to do with the Terror whatsoever, save trying to help the victims!”
“The Terror?” Rhyd asked, and an attentive quiet fell over the room.
“You don't know?” Kyr asked, and when he was met with shaking head and negative murmurs he did his best to tell them about recent events. He described the detonations, and the broadcasts he had glimpsed on screens at the hospital in the brief instances where he wasn't focused on the sudden influx of casualties. In truth, he knew precious little for certain, but the nine rejuves clung to his every word. First in awe, then in horror. When he described how Wrongside had burned, a boy at the far end of the room buried his head under his blanket and sobbed.
Without meaning to, Kyr held court for the entire evening. When their Watch minder returned to order them into their beds Elik, the Nightsider girl jumped from her cot and screamed at him, “How could you not tell us about the attack on the City? Our families could be dead!”
Hjoldn snarled at the girl. “Get in your bunk or I will put this entire barracks on punitive measures for a week!” she obeyed – they all did.
The Watchman took a moment to calm himself, his eyes fixed on Kyr all the while. “I suppose this was going to happen eventually. I don't know what he told you, so let me say this: the City was attacked, as were other locations. The threat is over, and order is being restored. We didn't tell you because, to be blunt, there's nothing you could have done about it. We didn't want you to worry. As for your families, we have your next of kin recorded and it is our policy to inform you if your next of kin die or are otherwise no longer available. In other words, no news is good news.”
“Sir?” Kyr spoke up as Hjoldn reached his bed. “How do I go about sending my letter?”
The Watchman paused. “Have you written the recipient's address on it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then give it to me. I'll have it sent for you.” He tapped his foot impatiently as Kyr recovered the folded letter and surrendered it. “Alright, lights out. For the sake of the new boy, and a reminder to the rest of you, there'll be no sharing of cots. Don't think we aren't watching.”
There was a general shuffling as the other rejuves undressed. Kyr noted that the other convicts didn't put their used clothes into their washing bags, but folded them up and put them back into their lockers before climbing bare-furred under the sheets. Kyr did the same, if only so he didn't stand out. Satisfied his charges had tucked themselves in, Hjoldn strode to the door, shut off the lights, and locked them in.

It wasn't yet dawn when Kyr awoke. He lay in the gloom for a time, unsure of whether to rise or not, but his bladder ultimately cast the deciding vote. He tried to wash the lump out of his throat with a few handfuls of cold water, but it failed to ease him. In the end, he retreated back to bed and lay there until a banging on the door roused the others. “Sun's up!” the Watchman's voice rang out, and the rejuves rose from their sleep with a series of moans and mutterings.
As Kyr opened his locker and reached for his clothes, Rhyd called out to him. “You want to put yesterday's clothes back on,” the Daysider boy said. “We do laundry once a week, so you'll want something clean to change into.”
The former doctor put his clean clothes back as advised. “How often do we get access to bathing facilities?”
“Once a week, same as laundry. Beds are changed once a fortnight.”
With everyone up and dressed, the morning routine began. There was a certain elegance to the efficiency of it all – the two rejuves closest to the door headed into the latrines, and they returned carrying a floor brush and dustbin each. While they made their beds the next two used the facilities, and so on. Beds were made and the floor was brushed. A large black bin sat in the corner to receive the fur, dust and dirt that had accumulated the night before. When Rhyd had finished his area he said to Kyr, “pass these back when you're done, it's my turn to do the empty cots. It'll be your turn tomorrow.” A girl named Sel had drawn the duty of cleaning the latrine area.
With mere seconds to spare the beds were made, floors swept and the equipment put away. Sergeant Hjoldn entered and walked along the barracks, inspecting each area in turn. He seemed satisfied with what he saw. He then inspected the latrine area. Once he was done, Hjoldn pointed towards the door and said, “convicts, file out and line up outside. It's a fine day for work! Convict Kyr, aren't you forgetting something?”
Kyr paused, confused by the comment. He looked around and saw the others had all collected their cups, and did the same. “Much better, can't have you dying of thirst on your first day!” Hjoldn laughed as the boy hurried after the others.
It was, admittedly, a fine day. The sky above was near cloudless and the wind was barely a sigh. Hjoldn joined his charges. “Today we shall be working here in our homely little quarry. You will excavate the dirt and rubble from here, carry it in carts up the far embankment and deposit it in the gathering site marked by the yellow flags, just behind those buildings. Remember, you are a team, and I expect you to help your new team member learn how to work the quarry. Descend in single file and begin!”
Shovels and wheelbarrows were waiting in the quarry. The ten of them got to work, piling the stones and shovelling the dirt into whichever wheelbarrow was nearest. Kyr made sure to pace himself with the rest, mostly copying Rhyd and taking a similar amount of material. Between shovels of dirt or handfuls of stone, the Dawnsider glanced about to see how many other convicts might be present, or how many guards. There was another team at the opposite end of the quarry, all adult males in dressed in dirty white. They had one Watchman assigned to them, and at least one other was wandering the lip of the quarry.
“Convict Rhyd, that barrow is full. Go empty it,” Hjoldn announced.
Rhyd caught Kyr's eye and tapped the barrow handle. “Help me with this.” Kyr did as asked, grabbing the other handle as together they lifted and pushed. It was unfairly heavy, and overloaded by Kyr's estimation, but a part of him suspected that was deliberate. The winding path up the quarry side was stressful to say the least, as it had been difficult enough to push the load horizontally, never mind up a slope. By some miracle they made it, and the final stretch was downright merciful in comparison. They pushed the wheelbarrow together into a tipper arm, which easily emptied its contents and returned the delightfully empty barrow to them. They were both panting and sweating after their struggle.
“The quarry... that's all loose stuff, just rubble dumped in, right?” Kyr asked as he tried to regain composure. “We're not excavating it, we're just emptying it.”
“Let's get back,” Rhyd said tersely. Kyr let the matter go. They didn't take the same way down, but instead looped around the entire quarry to enter from the same approach they'd taken initially, leaving the nearer approach clear for other teams of rejuves to struggle up with their own wheelbarrows.
That was how the entire day was spent. It was long and painfully hard, but after the second wheelbarrow a pair of females in grey uniforms brought a water barrel down into the work area, which was much welcomed. Yet cold water could only do so much; by the time the Kyyreni were allowed to drop their tools, Kyr was more than done for the day. The sun high above was a grim warning that more was likely to come.
The midday meal was a pastry eaten while sat on the dusty floor or using stones for improvised seats. They were eaten with dirty hands – the rejuves held them by the thick end of the pastry and bit through the thinner ends to each the filling. It was cheap meat in a greasy gravy, but no-one was opposed to it, Kyr least of all. The educated part of his brain new it was unhealthy, but the animal side loved every bite. He washed the meal down with more water before turning his attention to other matters; here, as ever, his fellow maroon-clad workers acted as a guide. Without instruction or asking permission, those who had to empty their bladders did so against the nearest quarry slope. Only one of the girls asked permission to be taken back to the barracks.
“How much longer do we have to work?” Kyr asked Rhyd quietly as they enjoyed their post-meal rest.
“We're about half done,” Rhyd answered.
The former doctor glanced back at the rock pile behind them, his mind wandering back to his earlier, unanswered question. “We're not doing anything useful, are we? Once we empty the quarry they fill it back up, right?”
Rhyd huffed angrily at the comment. “Took me two whole weeks to figure that out. But no, they don't fill it back up, we do.”
Kyr shielded his head in his paws, hoping to hide the tears of despair. “I don't even know how long I'm here! They didn't tell me! With rejuvenators it could be decades... it could be forever!”
“Convict Kyr!” Hjoldn barked, silencing Kyr's lamentations and the idle chatter of the other rejuves. The boy's head snapped up to meet the disapproving scowl of the sergeant. His left arm snapped up, pointing a digit back towards the barracks. “Go to the top of that ramp, then walk clockwise around the quarry until you return to that point. Then come back here. Go!”
He obeyed, although he was left confused as to why he was banished in this way. The distance from his peers had one advantage – he felt far less self-conscious about crying as he walked. The size of the quarry meant he had time to calm down by the time he'd finished his circuit, returning as the first of the newly filled wheelbarrows was hauled away. He wordlessly rejoined them, with neither they nor Hjoldn speaking of his brief departure.

When the work day ended, Kyr did as the others had the day before. He collapsed onto his bed, limbs burning from the toil. He didn't care that his hand- and foot-paws were caked in dust, or that his clothes were dirty; he just needed to lie still until the aching stopped, and when it was time to eat the act of moving caused fresh misery. He had just enough sense to inwardly curse this new existence; would it be like this forever? Always dirty, sweating and tired? Always starving hungry? The meal that seemed plenty yesterday wasn't nearly enough today. He longed for more, but there was no more to be had.
“How long have you been here?” Kyr asked Rhyd when they were back in their barracks. He had noticed the boy was quite thin compared to the others.
“Couple of months, why?”
He paused, unsure if he should voice his concerns aloud. “Have you been here longest?”
“No, that'd be Van. But everyone else was rejuve'd after I got here. I was a Penny at first, in the City; I ran away from my master, attacked an Enforcer, and... I was kidnapped by a Ny'ee. The bastard almost killed me, and when I was found the Enforcers sent me here.”
Kyr glanced over at the orange-furred youth. “If you don't mind my saying, you look a little underweight.”
“I was a lot worse when I got here,” Rhyd grumbled. “I knew about this place ahead of time, felt sure they'd work me to death within a week. Instead, they nursed me back to health. I was put with a female work team, mostly sitting and watching them work. I don't think they minded because of how sickly I looked. Over time I got stronger, and they started rejuving everyone, so I wound up here with Van, Sel and Leyl. The rest trickled in over time.”
An amused snort came from the bed opposite. Leyl peered over at Kyr and asked, “Did you think they were starving us or something?”
“I wouldn't say no to being fed more,” Kyr replied.
“Welcome to the club,” she answered. “We all want to be fed more.”
Clearly listening to the conversation, Sel in the next cot over whistled a note and sang, “Our stomachs are empty and so is the hold, but we will have glory tomorrow I'm told!”
From the far end of the barracks came an off-key reply. “Our captain has eyes on a glorious prize, with a hold full of silver and gold jewellery!”
“Let the rest make that tally, and I'll take the galley! For a full stomach's worth more than riches to me!” Sel continued joyfully as the others perked up, lending their voices to the shanty. Kyr joined them, though he couldn't quite match Sel's passion as she belted out, “Our stomachs are empty and so is the hold, but both shall be full by tomorrow I'm told!”
Sel, it turned out, was a genuine pirate. Not a raider, but a true lawless marauder of the void. For her, the songs of the stars were spiritual, a link to family and friends now gone. She treated them all to a rendition of Space is Wide and Good Friends Few, which was met with applause. By the time bedtime came, Kyr had almost forgotten he was in a prison.

He remembered by morning, waking up so stiff that he could barely do his share of the daily chores. That day was like the one before, and the one that would follow. Four days into his term he felt filthy and broken, and a torrential downpour on the third day scarcely improved matters. The misery was only assuaged by wash day; instead of being marched outside to work, the rejuves took their clean clothes and grooming items inside their wash bags to the shower block, which they all used together. Bathing around females made Kyr uncomfortable, but he knew he'd have to learn to live with it. After all, he was expected to relieve himself in sight of females on a daily basis. Hot water drew some of the deep ache from his limbs, and he was pleasantly surprised when Sel offered to scrub his back, even if she made a point of telling him not to get any ideas. When they were all clean and dressed in fresh clothes, the dirty items were bagged and left behind.
They spent the rest of the day in the recreation yard, and most of that sheltering under the roofed half of the yard as the rains returned. Nobody was in the mood to do much except sit around and complain about how much their muscles hurt, but Rhyd and a few of the boys invented a game around throwing rocks into puddles for points. As far as Kyr could tell, Rhyd won.
Wash day was the one day a week that they had any rest. With very few exceptions, every other day was a work day, following the same awful routine – wake up, work, eat, work to exhaustion, eat, sleep.
On day six, one of the boys was summoned away from the group and ordered to go back to the barracks. He didn't return for the entire shift, but rejoined them for the evening meal. His family was dead – parents, brother and two sisters, all burned to death in Wrongside during the Terror. On day seven, Leyl was sent away in the same fashion to learn her son was believed dead, though they had yet to find a body. After the next wash day – which was also the day when the bedding was changed, much to Kyr's delight – Leyl was again called for a private consultation. Her son's remains had been found, what little there were.
Not long after, when Kyr was summoned to the barracks just after the midday meal, he was understandably terrified. So frightened, in fact, that he was crying by the time he entered the barracks, to the confusion of the Watchman inside. “Convict  C3F-A22-005?”
“Y-yessir,” he blubbed. “W-w-who died?”
The Nightsider gave a puzzled grunt. “Nobody died, convict. I am here to deliver you a care package from your family.”
Kyr was offered a clear plastic box. It contained printed letter and a pair of sturdy hand-gloves and matching foot-gloves. “These are the items we have decided to allow you to receive,” the Watchman explained. “Put the gloves on if you wish, and put the letter in your locker. You may read it on your own time. Back to work, convict.”
That day had one last high point, and it came from an unexpected source. As the rejuves trudged back to their barracks, Hjoldn pulled Kyr aside. “Your family sent a care package of treats, which we would not normally allow. However, I am willing to make an exception on one condition; they are shared with the entire detail.” Kyr accepted. After dinner, Hjoldn paid them an unexpected visit with a tray containing ten upo and ten strips of chewy sour candy. “I made each of you a promise when you joined my detail; don't make me work, and I won't make you suffer. I have had to do precious little work of late, so consider this a reward for keeping your end of the bargain.” Although Kyr didn't say anything, his bunkmates all seemed pleased with him that night – Sel even dared to cross the room and give him a peck on the cheek. He had to assume they knew.

It took two weeks for them to empty their side of the quarry, and the reward was a half day's rest. The next day the rejuves were sent to another quarry. Kyr thought the subtle change of scenery would make a nice change, but each day they would trudge home and see the quarry they had emptied slowly filling back up through the sweat and toil of another work-gang. Morale within the barracks hit a new low; every night at least one of them cried themselves to sleep. It was almost a relief when they returned to their original, now filled work site. The general mood improved now they couldn't see a daily reminder of how pointless their lives here were. On the day they began again in their home quarry, Hjoldn seemed oddly anxious. He had gone the extra mile to make sure his uniform was pristine, and he was not alone in his desire to appear perfect in appearance and duty. The reason why became clear by late morning; a rough-looking Dawnsider was touring the Iron Gaol with three rejuves trailing behind, two in the dark blue of the Guild 'prospects' and the third in full black with a yellow 'correctors' armband. Kyr squinted up at the rejuves and noted the oddness of the nearest boy's arms. No, 'he' wasn't a boy at all! He remembered the Guildmoot, and the slaves the Enforcers had brought to the event. “Is that their Guildmaster?” he asked, causing Rhyd and the others to look up with him.
Holjdn stepped into his field of view, radiating annoyance. “You turn your gaze back to the pile, convicts! The Guildmaster does not wish to be stared at by the likes of you!” They did as they were ordered, though Kyr followed their route from the corner of his vision as best he could until they vanished from sight.

The ex-doctor wrote one letter a week to fiends and family, but never received any replies. As he handed over his fourth to the sergeant he asked, “sir? How long was I sentenced to? Nobody ever told me.”
Hjoldn seemed irritated by the question. “You will remain here until we pardon you, convict. That's all you need to know.”
It became harder to sleep. The monotony of his Sisyphean task took an ever greater physical and mental toll upon the boy, and even the meals they were fed began to weigh on him. It was the same food, day upon day – the same fatty pastry for lunch, the same meaty mush for dinner. It was made all the worse by the haunting silence from his family; did the Watch even send his letters? Were they simply destroying the replies? Inevitably, he began to slip. Hjoldn declared that he had not properly swept under his bed (it had been an especially muddy day prior) and he was  sanctioned. After evening meal that day, while his colleagues rested, Kyr was marched alone back into the quarry to haul rocks under the direct supervision of the sergeant. He was in tears when this extra work ended, trudging back to his bed to find everyone else already tucked in and trying to sleep. Not only did he have to suffer from extra toil, but now the others were mad at him for robbing them of blissful rest. He wasn't surprised when it was suddenly his turn to clean the latrines next morning.
Less than a week later, he slipped again. He was on sweeping duty, and with time running out he'd prioritised the communal area rather than making his bed. Hjoldn wasn't impressed with the rush job, and he got extra work hours again. This was the breaking point. Kyr was physically a child, after all, and in that moment his physical body was calling the shots. During this extra work shift he threw a tantrum. “I won't do it!” he wailed, “I won't work anymore!”
“Everyone works, convict,” Hjoldn replied. If Kyr was in a more stable frame of mind, he might have caught the tone in the sergeants voice when he added, “but if you don't want to do hard labour we can find you some other job.”
“I w-won't haul r-rocks anym-more!” Kyr blubbed, oblivious to what he was getting himself into. Instead, he was lulled in by the almost fatherly way in which Hjoldn shrugged and said, “alright, let's get you back to the barracks.”
“R-really?” he asked, and Hjoldn seemed to be doing him a favour. There were no nasty surprises on the way, or even after being put to bed. The cruel trick was saved until tomorrow.
Hjoldn made his inspection as normal, but rather than send the rejuves out he focused on Kyr. “Those are worker clothes, convict. You don't want to haul rocks, remember? Strip.”
There was some curious whispering as Kyr undressed, but a sharp glance about the room by Hjoldn put an end to that. Bare furred, Kyr was told to follow the others. Hjoldn gave the same speech as always, telling them all what they already knew – it was a day of hauling rocks and dirt. The sole difference was that he put a cuff around Kyr's left wrist, and used it like a leash to guide the boy into the quarry. While the others began to work, the nude blond Kyyreni child was led to one of the metal marker poles around the edge of the work area, close to the side of the quarry commonly used as the group's urinal. “Sit down,” the sergeant ordered. As Kyr folded up on the ground he was yanked off-balance, and before he could recover his arms were pulled behind his back and cuffed together around the pole. The boy tried to stand, but the cuffs had been looped through a metal ring close to the ground, forcing him to sit.
“Convicts, attention!” Hjoldn barked out once Kyr was restrained. “The first rule of the Iron Gaol is? Everybody works! Convict Kyr here doesn't want to haul rocks with you, so I have found him a new job. You will use him as your urinal from here on out.”
“What?” Kyr cried out in shock, causing Hjoldn to turn his attention back to the boy.
“That one you get for free. From now on, every protest I hear from you is an extra day shackled to that pole. Do you understand, convict?”
The boy had no choice but to nod. He didn't even dare answer 'yes sir'. He managed to squirm into a cross-legged sitting position to at least be more comfortable, but other than that all he could do was wait for the inevitable. It seemed like the water delivery came early that day, and the work team was given a pointed reminder to stay hydrated. “Bastard!” Kyr hissed under his breath.
It was Sel who 'broke the seal' on Kyr's new job. She crept over sheepishly, her paws clenched nervously around her waistband. He could tell by how she moved that she'd been holding it in – they likely all had, given that Kyr had already had to relieve himself and had drunk far less water. “I'm sorry,” she whimpered as she removed her shorts and straddled him. Childishly, he took the opportunity to glance at her privates, taking a brief, perverse pleasure at getting something remotely good out of the ordeal. Sel gave a little grunt, and Kyr flinched as a hot stream of piss began soaking into the fur of his chest. The splash caused some to fleck against his muzzle, causing him to jerk his head away in disgust, for all the good it did. The Kyyreni girl apologised again, almost in tears as she pulled her shorts back on and ran – literally ran – away from him.
Soon after, practically one after the other, the rest of them followed Sel's example. It was bad enough being soaked in the urine of a girl who seemed to like him, but the boys who followed were far worse. It felt all the more humiliating, and their piss stank far worse. He found himself longing for rain to come and wash him clean, but the sky was cruelly clear. All that was left to do was sob, and sit in the foul puddle his colleagues had made for him.
When Hjoldn brought him his meal, he looked up at the Watchmen with wet, pleading eyes and whimpered, “I'm sorry! Please let me go back to work!”
“Do you want to eat or not?” Hjoldn asked, and Kyr obediently bit into his pastry. He didn't speak again until Kyr had been made to eat the whole thing, save the outer crust. “You are going to sit here, soaking in piss, until I decide you deserve to rejoin the others. This won't end today, and it won't end tomorrow. It ends when I am satisfied you have learned your lesson.”
For the rest of the day, Kyr was left to sob to himself and try to shut out the smell as the collective urine of nine rejuves dried into his fur. He was used again before the shift ended and they were all marched back to their barracks. Kyr was too broken to think he might be allowed to shower first; he wasn't.
No-one was happy about the situation as he marched towards the latrine. Embarrassed apologies were offered on the way past. Sel joined him, trying her best to help him wash in the sink. “What did you do to make him so mad?” she asked, but Kyr wasn't in the mood to tell her. He felt stupid. Worse, he hated himself for bringing this fate down upon his head. All he head to do was shut up and follow instructions!
He wasn't allowed to eat with the others. His meal was brought to him. So I don't stink up the dining hall, he pouted to himself while he ate. When his peers returned, all still sheepish, he resolved to make the best of a bad situation. “Guys... don't hold it in tomorrow. It's a lot worse for me if its potent.”
The next day was cold, wet and windy. Dust and grit blew into his face constantly, and after the first rejuve had relieved themselves over his chest it stuck to his fur. He wondered if Hjoldn had told them to aim at his chest when pissing on him. Unable to move, he began to shiver in the unseasonal cold, to the point where his teeth chattered and he almost welcomed the spray of warmth his role as a urinal brought him.
The only thing that kept him going was the hope it would end soon. The third day was the worst of all, as now his long periods of forced immobility were making him ache just as much as hard labour. Tomorrow was wash day. Surely that meant an end to this? He closed his eyes and clung to that hope as Rhyd pissed on him yet again.
On wash day, Kyr hopefully did as was expected, putting his little-used clothes in the wash bag and grabbing his kit. Hjoldn moved to block his path. “Where are you going?”
Kyr's heart broke at the question. He opened his mouth, but only shuddering whimpers escaped. “Washing is a perk, convict. You haven't earned it.”
The words made Kyr collapse into a howling bawl of shame. The dream of being clean was the only thing that had kept him going! It was bad enough that his sheets would stink of piss for another week, but now he wasn't even allowed to wash properly? It was beyond cruel!
“Sir! Please, he's had enough!” a feminine voice protested.
Kyr glanced up to see Sel stepping up in his defence. “Please, sir? At least let him shower!”
“You know better than to involve yourself with punishments, convict!” Hjoldn warned. “If you know what's good for you, you'll get your tail to the showers.”
Sel stood her ground. He didn't hear any exchange, but the sergeant turned back to him and dragged him off the floor. “Get to the shower before I change my mind, convict. Both of you.”

The day after Sel defended him, Hjoldn paused his inspection of the barracks and glanced askew at Kyr. “Why aren't you dressed, convict?” It was the most wonderful question he'd ever been asked! He was almost laughing as he donned his clothes, including his beloved gloves, only to have his stomach fill with lead when he saw Sel stood nude opposite him.
When it came time to relieve himself, as he knew it invariably would, Hjoldn seemed to be waiting. “This one's mouth got her in trouble, convict. Make her think on that.” Sel, her muzzle wet with tears, held her mouth open as best she could as Kyr pissed over her tongue, making her gag and wretch. For the next three days, every time Kyr emptied his bladder it was into her mouth. He cried with shame every time, and it was almost a week before she spoke to him again.

It was a hard lesson, but the boy learned it. He kept his head down, he laboured where and when he was told, and he kept his living space tidy. He was a long way from content, but it was better than the alternative.
The only other changes in his life came from the weather, which was always a change for the worse. Whether it was sunny or stormy, they were expected to work, save for one day, a day so fierce that the rejuves were shaken from their beds by thunder and gale-force winds.
The morning routine had been completed as normal, with twelve Kyyreni children stood anxiously in front of their lockers, silently praying that Hjoldn wouldn't show up. They all flinched when Hjoldn and another Watchman had burst in, soaked to the bone despite their rainslicks. The wind caught the door and slammed it against the wall so hard it left a crater in the wall.
“Check the pipes, water and sewage flowing?” the sergeant asked his companion, who went to inspect the latrines. The windows rattled with every blustering uprise in the wind. Rain crashed against the building like a wave. The inspection came back fine, to Hjoldn's relief. “Until you are told otherwise, you are to remain here in the barracks! Food will be brought to you.” That was the last they saw of any Watchman until past midday.
Kyr decided to enjoy the chance to sleep in, as difficult as it was with the storm raging around them. As he began to doze off the boy was jolted back awake as Sel shuffled under his covers. “What are you doing?” he hissed, “you'll get us both in trouble!”
“I need to cuddle,” she answered, her voice dripping with sorrow. She wrapped an arm around his chest and held him close. She was soon asleep, snoring gently in his arms. It was, in Kyr's opinion, the best hour of his life as a convict thus far, having a pretty, and nude friend's fur against his own. He savoured the sight of her in brief, cheeky glances under the sheets; soft brown fur on her sides and back, dark grey from the knees and elbows down. A long trail of almost-white fur ran from her collar bone and spread across her four undeveloped breasts, over her stomach and crotch, then curled up between her legs to taper out along the base of the tail. Her patterning was pleasing to the eye indeed.
She returned to her own area upon waking, and by the time lunch arrived she was leading their little group in a sing-along of Trapped on Ryyksaad. Lunch was, of course, meat pastries. Since they were eating with clean paws for once, most of the rejuves ate the whole thing, thick crust and all.
With his stomach painfully full for a change, Kyr lay in his bed and let his food settle. He had been inactive all day, and the stillness made him stiff as always. This time, tucked up against the shrieking wind he was at least able to nap, or would have been if Sel hadn't chosen to interrupt him again. “You want more cuddles?” he asked her.
“Actually, I was thinking of something a little more exciting,” she whispered. The girl lay her muzzle upon his chest and closed her eyes, feigning sleep as before, but her paws wandered ever so slowly down Kyr's stomach. “Play along,” she sighed.
His own paw moved, inching along the girl's pale stomach to find the hidden pinkness between her legs. She shifted just enough to let his fingers in, her breathing becoming heavier as his nail teased her girlhood's sensitive outer lips. Her own touch found his sheath, each careful stroke sending a pleasant electricity through his spine. Sel's paw was torturous in its slow movements, and it seemed she had no interest in matching his own growing pace. Instead, he mirrored her own, timing his soft, tickling strokes of her labia and clit to the teasing of his own sac. He loved the feeling of her paw, but his young body took time to react as he wanted it to; it took several minutes of edging to draw the boy's shy length from his sheath, and many minutes more of cruel tickling touches to harden it.
Kyr kept his eyes tight shut and tried to steady his breathing. The rest of the room was full of voices, talking and laughing, with no sign any of them were paying any mind to him and Sel. He stopped listening in time, no longer caring if they were caught or not. He focused instead on the building need for release he felt growing in his sac, and the wetness on the tips of his fingers.
“Roll on your side,” Sel whispered, and Kyr shuffled so his twitching length was pressed against the warm fur of her stomach. “Sssh, be patient.”
Her instruction was hard to obey. She had been edging him for half an hour, leaving him pent up and desperate. No doubt sensing why she added in the softest of sighs, “rushing will get us caught. We're just asleep.”
So her teasing went on, as did his own. The girl's play at sleep would have been convincing if Kyr's fingers were not aware of every twitch and thrust between her legs. When she was ready for him, Sel gave no outward sign; she merely cupped the boy's length in her paw and eased it gently between her legs. With soft instructions breathed into his ear, she urged him to slowly, carefully line up and enter her. His swollen knot pressed against her entrance as she tensed around him, squeezing in the most joyous of ways. It took all his will not to smile; he'd made her cum just from partial penetration. He pulled out just a little, giving himself enough space to hump into her without knotting. Sel tensed and relaxed in rhythm with him, offering maximum stimulation and coaxing him to his own release.
He fell asleep inside of her, waking only when she squirmed out of his bed and slipped to the latrine. Kyr stirred and rubbed his eyes, even giving a yawn for the show of it. Half the room was playing cards, with the rest split between reading, writing letters or sleeping. He carefully wiped away the lingering fluids from his crotch using his bedsheet and swung himself out of bed when Sel returned. “Come on, let's play some cards,” she said, beckoning him over.
Van welcomed the pair in. Nobody commented on their nudity – half the players were bare furred as well. Van did give them both a cheeky smile as he dealt them in. “What do I have to do to get some cuddles, Sel?”
The girl bared her teeth in a pained expression, “you have to share something fucking terrible.”
“Oh, sorry I asked,” Van replied, wiping away his cheeky grin immediately. None of the rejuves mentioned Kyr and Sel's cuddling again.

As the weather cleared, normal life returned to Iron Gaol, and their community grew to twelve with the addition of two more rejuves; a Dawnsider named Tokkr, and a Day-Night mongrel named Ban. Sel was convinced 'Ban' wasn't his real name, and said so repeatedly to the boy's annoyance. “If you're going to pick a fake name, 'Ban', don't pick the most common name there is!”
Tokkr was in the bed next to Kyr. He was an odd sort, a former soldier by his own admission. “My superior officer sided with the traitors during the Terror. I never saw any actual fighting, but nor did I defect. I was guilty by association.”
“I know all about that,” Kyr replied bitterly.
The new rejuves gave Kyr a new perspective on his monotonous little world, as he saw them go through the same period of acclimation he had experienced. Now he was the one advising Tokkr to wear his old clothes until wash day, or explaining how the barracks cycled the various cleaning duties. He kept Sel's scepticism in mind as the new boys settled in to the punitive labour cycles; Tokkr seemed to innately understand what was expected of him, always standing ram-rod straight during inspections and applying a focused efficiency to his work. Definitely a military man, Kyr concluded. Ban was much harder to respect; he complained, loudly and incessantly about everything. During his first day in the quarry he collapsed, too exhausted to keep working. This would happen often enough that the rest of the barracks lost any sympathy for him, just as they grew sick of his constant crying over being allergic to the soaps used to wash the bedding, or how the dust from the quarry was scarring his lungs. Kyr loudly declared his expertise on that matter, explaining to everyone there was no reason to believe there was anything toxic in the quarry. Ban still complained all the same.
“You were a doctor, Kyr?” Tokkr asked soon after this aforementioned speech.
“I was. I guess I never will be again,” he added unhappily.
“Then I suspect it was you I heard about. One of my colleagues was in the hospital when you were arrested. He told me of how you were escorted out by the Enforcers. The rumours he shared suggested you were part of the Blighted Cult, or some other group behind the Terror.”
Kyr snarled at the accusation, “Absolutely not! I was guilty of nothing more than wishing for our world to be governed more fairly than it is! Yet it seems that's more than enough to damn a man to a lifetime of hard labour!”
“I was merely stating what I had heard, I never meant to offend you. I apologise.”
“Accepted,” he replied. It wasn't worth holding a grudge.

As the days grew shorter, and the weather more hostile, the Watch decided to provide additional clothing to the detail. Two shirts and two pairs of trousers were given to each of them, which on colder days most switched to wearing. Rhyd wore his old clothes under the new ones, being more sensitive to the cold than most, as did Ban. All of them were jealous of Kyr's gloves, often vocally so.
On one such chilly day, as a harsh wind chill caused the temperature to plunge, Ban collapsed while helping to push a wheelbarrow. The boy tumbled like a discarded toy into the quarry, rolling head over tail down the slope before coming to a sprawling stop in a pile of dampened sand. “Freeze! All of you, freeze!” Hjoldn bellowed, but Kyr didn't listen. He ran to the fallen boy as fast he could.
“Don't touch him!” he snapped as Hjoldn drew near. “It's vital you don't touch him! If he's injured his neck or spine you could cause severe damage!”
The sergeant's eyes narrowed. For a moment Kyr feared the Watchman would strike him, but then in a low voice he said, “you were a doctor once, weren't you?”
“Yes sir, so please let me help!”
Hjoldn nodded. “I'm calling this in.”
Kyr turned his attention back to the mongrel child, speaking to himself as he performed an examination. “Body temperature normal. No sign of compound fractures and only minor dermal abrasions... you were unconscious before you fell.” He risked laying paws upon Ban, checking his eyes and inside of his mouth, then brushing his thumbs through the boy's fur to closely inspect the skin beneath. He pressed his ear against Ban's chest and listened intently. “Fluid? Sergeant!”
Hjoldn was at his side immediately. “What do you need?”
“I think he has fluid in his lungs! Get him up. Rhyd, help me hold him. Sir, I need you to strike him in the back, hard!”
“You said moving him might be dangerous,” Hjoldn countered.
“He is drowning, sergeant! Do it!”
Hjoldn's blow staggered the two rejuves, but achieved nothing. The second, on the other hand, caused Ban to vomit bloody fluid. Several of the rejuves shrieked in horror as Ban began to retch and choke, fighting for air. “Thank you, sergeant. Ban, can you hear me?”
The crunching of boots signalled the arrival of orderlies from medical. They took the gagging, sobbing boy onto a stretcher and hurried him away. Ten of the remaining rejuves all watched on in shock. Kyr, on the other hand, focused on Hjoldn. “Respiratory problems are common in mongrels. I suspect that the hard labour caused a rapid onset pulmonary haemorrhage, a bleed into the lung. Lack of oxygen caused a faint, and the fall could well have exacerbated the bleed.”
Hjoldn wiped the sweat from his brow. “You are all on lockdown,” he announced rather quietly. “I want you all back to the barracks until this is over.”

The next morning, Hjoldn addressed the matter of the mongrel boy. “You will all be pleased to know that convict Ban is expected to make a full recovery. So that you know he is safe and well, once he is well that is, I will arrange his visit so you can meet him again in person. I will not lie though, he was close to death for several hours. He is lucky to be alive.”
Ban's eventual visit was a relief for all of them, but Kyr especially. Despite assurances, he had harboured dark assumptions about Ban's ultimate fate, suspecting he had perished and the Watch were simply lying to them. The mongrel was now being kept in a cell block within the main building, a wing previously used to incarcerate those prisoners who had grown too old and infirm for hard labour. “I really wish I could be back here,” he said tearfully. “I hate being on my own so much.”
At lights out, when Hjoldn came to take Ban back to his cell, Kyr chose to raise his concerns to the sergeant. “It sounds to me like Ban is being kept in solitary confinement, sir. That can't be right, surely?”
“Careful, convict,” Hjoldn warned softly. “You should know all too well you have no right to question our decisions.”
All eyes were on him now, but he knew he had to try. “I merely wished to offer my medical insights. Isolation can cause stress, which can lead to increased blood pressure. It would appear to me to be in the boy's best interests to be kept in a social situation, a low stress environment. It would also mean he is being monitored for any further health problems.”
The Watchman folded his arms in a slow, deliberate motion. “It's a good argument, convict. Judging by all those anxious faces, I think it would be good for the morale of the barracks to have him back. However, no matter how much you try to squirm around it, you are talking back and questioning my instructions. Do you understand what that means?”
Kyr's ears flattened. “Yes sir,” he whimpered.
“Convict Ban, return to your old bed. I will have your possessions brought in tomorrow.” He headed for the door, paused, and turned to face the rejuves with his paw upon the light switch. As they climbed into bed he announced, “The entire barracks is on punitive measures – extra work detail for one week.”

Despite the extra hours worked, the punitive had some unexpected perks. The first was that when the detail went to work, Hjoldn brought Ban with them. The mongrel was made to wear a collar, complete with leash that was tied to one of the metal boundary markers on their work area. This became the norm, as did the unspoken acceptance that the rejuves could briefly pause their work to keep him company, providing they didn't push their luck. It meant that each of them got at least half an hour a day more rest – a tiny boon, but one they all clung to jealously.
Kyr took one such break to ask about Ban's criminal history. “I attacked an Enforcer,” he confessed. “I jumped him on the Palace Common and bit his arm, or tried to. Just ended up breaking teeth on his arm guard.”
“By His Hammer! Why'd you do that?”
Ban's muzzle grew hot with embarrassment. “I thought being a rejuve would cure me. I've had breathing problems all my life, always been prone to sickness, and then my sight started to fail... well, I couldn't afford the treatments or implants, and I thought when you rejuved it fixed all that stuff!”
Kyr let out a sympathetic sigh. “For most of us it would have, but your health issues are too complex for a rejuvenation to fix. You're a product of two different species, Ban. The only way to fix you would be to split you down the middle – make you a full Nightsider, or a full Daysider. As far as I know there's only one rejuvenator on the whole planet that can do that, and even then it takes a lot of power and those precious rejuve crystals to do it. I don't see them ever offering that to a convict.”
“Figures,” Ban sighed. “You... you should probably get back to it. I wouldn't want to get you in trouble.”
With a nod and a pat on the boy's shoulder, Kyr did as advised. He heard Ban start to cry as soon as his back was turned.

The second perk, from Kyr's perspective, is that the extra workload seemed to break whatever walls Tokkr had thrown up around himself, to the point where he openly complained about the Watchmen supervising them.
“These extra hours hardly seem fair,” he muttered as he and Kyr hauled together towards the dumping site. Neither knew how many times they'd done it – the trips blurred together after a few weeks.
“What about this place ever was?” Kyr countered, wiping sweat out of his eyes and off his thermal pads.
Tokkr chewed the rhetorical question for a moment. “The Watch as I knew it was strict, but this feels malicious. You were just trying to help that boy, provide for his needs.”
“How do you know of the Watch?”
“My family,” Tokkr answered, before yelping as an unseen rock almost sent the wheelbarrow over. He continued as they regained control, “I had a cousin stationed in Black Pit. His name was Tadr. He... he was killed in the line of duty during an assassination attempt against Watch-Captain Haal.”
“Maybe he shouldn't have tried so hard,” the ex-doctor snarled as they brought the wheelbarrow into place. “I know that name, the 'Demon of Black Pit'. Rumour was that if you broke even a single rule while in his clutches he'd never free you, leave you to rot forever in his dungeon.”
Tokkr stared off into the distance. “Yes, my cousin mentioned something about that.”
Realising he was treading close to insulting the dead, Kyr added, “I'm sure your cousin wasn't as bad as his commander. I'm sure he was like you, unwilling to follow his leader down the wrong path.”
With a sigh, Tokkr took up his handle of the barrow again, prompting Kyr to do the same. “My cousin did tell me about Watch-Captain Haal, but I don't believe he's responsible for this... this damnable place. Iron Gaol was always a work camp, but it was a camp with purpose! These quarries were dug to provide construction materials – sand and sandstone, or general aggregate. The Watch-Captain that Tadr described was... was a man who wouldn't suffer any form of time-wasting. This camp is nothing but time-wasting! Pointless work for no reason other than to tire us out and... and...”
The wheelbarrow shuddered to a stop as Tokkr released it and stepped back, head shielded in his paws. All Kyr could do was put an arm around his shoulders and offer support as he cried, “I know how you feel, I went through the same thing. I suppose I still am, but you need to push through. If you start to give into this it'll only earn you a lot more misery. At least we're almost at dinner time!”
Tokkr made a sound somewhere between a sob and a snort. “That's another thing! It's not right that we eat the exact same thing every meal! It's hardly a strain on resources to offer a little variety!”
“You're selling what's already sold, Tokkr,” Kyr said in heart-felt agreement. “Come on, let's get back before we both earn ourselves something worse than extra work!”

The end of their punishment cycle was marked by the arrival of mail. Only half of the barracks received any letters, and Kyr was pleased to see he was one of them. What seemed strange though was the sheer number of them – a full stack! He began glancing through them as the Watchwoman deliverer passed the last few out, his joy turning to sick anger when he saw the dates written in the top corner. “Ma'am, why were these held onto? Why wasn't I given them straight away?”
“Mail is a privilege, convict, you get it when we say you do,” the grey-furred female answered with the same spiteful look he had seen on all too many of the Watch.
“What about my letters, the ones I wrote? Were they even delivered?”
“They were sent this morning,” she answered dismissively.
Kyr leapt from his bed in shock. “All of them? Every letter I wrote since the first week? Because that's how long you've been keeping these!”
Her right paw went to the baton at her hip. “Convict C3F-A22-005, you've just earned yourself a stay in the box.”
“My name is Kyr!” Kyr shouted back at her, losing all control in the emotional tempest this cruel revelation had brought about. “I have a fucking name!”
The baton was drawn and readied. “For that, I'm doubling your time in the box! Move, before I triple it!”
Kyr's anger swiftly burned out, replaced by a hollow sickness as the reality of his own stupidity began to sink in. He stood in mute horror at his own insanity, barely resisting as the Watchwoman grabbed him by the arm and began dragging him away. In a daze, he heard a voice behind him call out, “Let that boy go, Watchwoman!”
She turned, and Kyr turned with her. Tokkr was stood in front of his bed, physically shaking but stood as if at attention. The female showed her fangs and spat, “There's plenty of room in the box for you as well, convict!”
Tokkr flinched at her words, but rather than back down he drew in a deep breath and shot back at her, “Access my records: 99B-331-A04. Locate the emergency contacts or next of kin and call them immediately. The names in the files will mean nothing to you, but if you are perceptive the call-code will have significance.”
She met the statement with a sneer, “You think you're the first convict with rich parents to pass into the Iron Goal?”
“The contacts are not my parents, Watchwoman. The number in my file is a direct line to Watch-Captain Okad.”
The Watchwoman froze, her expression shifting from anger to puzzlement, then the briefest flicker of fear as she wondered if such a claim could be true. Tokkr pressed her further. “Call it now, on speaker. Obey my orders, or I will see to it you are dishonourably discharged from the Guild!”
Releasing her grip on Kyr, the Watchwoman did as ordered. She tuned her communicator and punched in the call-code. After a brief pause, to her absolute horror, the call was answered exactly as Tokkr promised. “This is Okad, who is on this channel?”
“This is Corrector-Captain Haal. I regret that I have to put an end to my observations earlier than anticipated. Please make all staff of Iron Gaol aware of my presence.”
“Understood, Haal. Are you alright?”
“I shall be presently. Watchwoman, you may terminate the call.”
The Kyyreni female was visibly shaking, a sight that provided no end of schadenfreude for the rejuved convicts. She opened her mouth to speak, but Haal cut her off. “Do not speak to me, for I assure you that nothing you say now could possibly help you, and would very likely make things far worse. Get out. Stand outside and wait until I call for you.” The female promptly fled, leaving a room full of bewildered children in her wake. For what felt like a lifetime, a stunned silence filled the barracks, interrupted only by the soft clack of Haal's nails on the floor as he paced between the unoccupied beds in an attempt to calm himself.

“You are Haal?” Sel asked, breaking the silence. “You are the fucking demon of Black Pit?”
Haal paused his pacing at the question. “I have not been Watch-Captain Haal for some time now. Not since the attempt on my life that led to my rejuvenation and designation of 'medicalos'. Now I command the Office of Correctors, the branch of the Guild charged with supervising and operating the penitatas program.”
“Why would a captain of the Enforcers Guild be posing as a convicted criminal?” Kyr probed.
“I did this to gain insight. You were right about me, Kyr; back then my reputation as the 'Demon of Black Pit' was well deserved. I was as bad, if not worse than the stories claim. Perhaps when you see my medical records you would feel some hint of sympathy for the man I used to be, but sufficed to say rejuvenation changed more about me than my age. I rediscovered aspects of myself I had long since lost. I... struggled with these revelations, but I was also haunted by my past. I tried to take up command of the Office of Correctors, only to be met with an outright mutiny from my staff due to who I was. I knew I had to see with fresh eyes what the Watch had become because of me and so I took leave to return to Black Pit and observe its operations. When Guildmaster Kadan informed me that the Iron Gaol was routinely rejuvenating inmates, I saw an opportunity to gain a level of insight that would otherwise be impossible; to become an inmate myself. A false identity was created, and thus 'Tokkr' was born.”
“And what did you learn, captain?” Sel probed. There were daggers in her voice, and she was far from alone; others were looking upon the young Enforcer with barely concealed malice.
Kyr stepped between Sel and Haal. “More importantly, why did you reveal yourself like this? You must have had a proper plan for extraction?”
“I did, but that would have meant leaving you to rot in 'the box', and I could not in good conscience do that.”
“So if everything had gone to plan, what would have happened?”
Haal paused in thought for a moment. “Does it matter? We are here now, and if I were you I would not be wasting this opportunity. Of all the things I hoped to learn, this afternoon's encounter has left one ideal in particular at the forefront of my mind; the future of justice. I was a product of the old world, and the old way, of a justice system that could simply wait out a problem. Convicts would grow old and die, or be released at such an age where they could not threaten the good order of society. Now we are immortal, and we have fought a war against those who would have held rejuvenation as a weapon over the populace, with youth and new life solely for the faithful. This cannot be so – our society would destroy itself if rejuvenation were to be used in such a way. Your time here is finite, and even if you leave here old and broken, you would swiftly be restored to childhood. In a few short years, we would have to deal with you as we made you.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” Sel spat.
Kyr heard Rhyd's bed creak. The Daysider appeared at his side. “He means that if we leave here full of hatred for the Watch, the City and the people in charge, it'd just be a matter of time before we burn it all down.”
“Correct,” Haal affirmed with a nod. “We could leave you here for centuries, but what is a few lifetimes to an immortal? I understand now what others have wished to teach me; the punishments we enact must be fair, and I fear there has been little fair about this place for a long time.”
Kyr saw now what opportunity Haal referred to. “You want to know about our mistreatment? About the ways in which this place has wronged us.”
“Precisely.”
So Kyr told him, and others followed. They described the uncaring way that the Watch reduced them to an identity code, how basic questions went unanswered, and of course the many inventive punishments they had suffered; Kyr and Sel's humiliation at being used as a urinal was shared, but other long-serving convicts had their own examples: convicts being forced to sleep outside in the freezing rain, being force-fed dirt or made to lick a Watchman's boots clean, being made to count every single grain of sand in a heap. Kyr began to wonder if some of the stories were being made up on the fly, as each was more extreme than the last; he noticed how Haal didn't quite suppress an eye roll when Sel passionately declared she'd seen four convicts buried alive for plotting an escape attempt. Soon after that, he raised a paw to signal he was done listening.
“You have given me a great deal to consider, convicts,” Haal said. The subtle use of that term created an immediate sense of distance between Kyr and the Corrector-Captain. It somehow made this strange exchange all the more real. “I cannot say for certain when matters will change, but rest assured that I have the ear of the Guildmaster himself, and Guildmaster Kadan has a notorious lack of tact. The operation of the Watch will change by their own free will, or by his bloodied fist. There is one last thing I will do, however, before I leave...”
Haal approached his locker and retrieved his allotment of paper, which he presented with strange formality to Kyr. “You appear to be the most fond of written correspondence, so I'm sure you will put this to good use.”
“Would it be alright if I wrote to 'Tokkr' once in a while?” Kyr asked with a smile.
The Corrector-Captain did not return it. “I despise corruption and nepotism, convict. You are free to write to whomsoever you wish, but understand that I will not appreciate receiving letters begging for my favour.”
“I understand. I'll keep my letters purely confined to the many and exciting social events of the barracks,” the ex-doctor replied, this time causing Haal to smile.
Hjoldn appeared soon after Haal left, looking rattled. He looked about the room before announcing, “Convicts! This little spectacle has made you late for your evening meal, so hop to it! I don't want any of you getting ideas either; tomorrow will be like any other day, and until you are told otherwise all this... this drama changes nothing. Convict Kyr, you are on ice so thin you'll drown if you so much as fart, understand me?”
“Yessir!” the boy answered sharply.

It took two whole weeks for any significant changes to occur, which was more than enough time for the barracks to believe Haal had left them to hang. In reality, the shift had happened long before – Kyr received a letter from his family, and it was clearly written just a few days before he obtained it. The other change, which went unremarked but subtly felt, was Hjoldn's definition of a 'full' wheelbarrow had become somewhat less full. But the two week mark was significant because that was when Hjoldn spoke to them directly of change. He entered for his morning inspection as always, only this time he carried with him a pale white box. There was the merest hint of blue to it, which made Kyr's heart skip – it was the exact shade used by the confectioners in Palace Common.
“Convicts, your attention please. I'm sure you've all been engaged in all manner of rumours concerning Corrector-Captain Haal's little stunt, but I want to make something clear to you all here and now; despite what you might have thought, I have been looking out for you. I've even turned a blind eye to certain behaviours. You know who you are, and you know what that behaviour is. You are watched every hour of every day, so consider that a not-so-subtle hint to rethink what you get up to when you believe my back is turned.” Hjoldn had not looked at any of them during his speech, and Kyr was glad of that; he had turned bright crimson at the memory of his sexual encounter with Sel.
Hjoldn opened the box, and it was indeed full of treats. Sticky, sugary little cups of heaven! Sour chews, jam cakes, and honeyed jerky! “You get one of each to eat now, and the rest go in your lockers for later.”
Once all of his charges were stuffing treats into their maws, Hjoldn discarded the box and stood in much the same place Haal had a few weeks ago to deliver his further news. “Once new provisions arrive, we will be organising a new meal roster. You will find a little more variety going forwards. Quiet now!” he snapped as the eleven rejuves broke out in whoops and happy laughter at the news. “When the City returns to normal, and as other colonies ready themselves to adopt the 'penitatas' system, we may be handing some of you over to new masters. If any of you have some major objection to becoming a penitatas, make it known. But keep in mind that it might be months, or even years before you become a penitatas, if you become one at all. In line with this, we have decided to adopt new measures of dealing with behavioural infractions. You will be spared some of our more inventive punishments from now on, but that just means there's a whole new set of ways you will be made miserable if you decide to break the rules. Have any of you stood in the pillory with a bored audience? Yes, I see you know what I'm referring to.”
“Finally, I will say this – Corrector-Captain Haal suggested that we should work to establish, and I quote 'a sense of trust and mutual respect'. As I see it, trust and respect go two ways, so if there is anything you would like to say, now is the time. Perhaps there's something you'd like to confess, in the interests of honesty?”
It seemed painfully clear to Kyr what the sergeant was referring to. He glanced over at Sel, who had a look of shame and fright on her soft, sweet muzzle. Despite her gaze begging him not to, Kyr raise a timid paw. “Sel and I... we've cuddled together. More than cuddled... we had sex.”
Hjoldn's mocking smile said I know. What surprised Kyr, however, was Van. “Some of us... have gambled for favours.” Between Van, Leyl and three other boys, a timid confession emerged of how their occasional games of cards were, in fact, a gambling ring – the prize being covert sexual acts while the rest of the barracks slept. The revelation that this had been going on since before Kyr joined them left the ex-doctor stunned.
The Watchman gave a snort as the shameful confession finished. “You're a fucking horny lot for children, but apparently that's a side-effort of your condition. Child bodies with adult minds, or something like that. Well consider past wrongs forgiven, but any kind of sexual conduct going forward, even so much as cuddling in the same bed, I will come down hard upon! If you are truly desperate to fool around, you can beg permission. Assuming you've been good little boys and girls, I might let you indulge your dirty selves. But anyone who so much as flicks their tail up without my say so will be put in a pillory and have their backside beaten purple. Your friend on high has given his blessing to that, so don't go thinking you can write a letter crying abuse! Any questions?”
There was one that snuck its way like a dirty worm into Kyr's mind. Sex was allowed with permission? The giddy memory of Sel in his bed made him want to ask, but he spent too long day-dreaming. “No? Good. Outside, convicts! You have work to do!”

As they filed out, Kyr paused. “Sir? I did have one question. How long was I sentenced for?”
Hjoldn seemed unwilling to answer, but he did eventually concede. “Life, convict. Your sentence is life. Before you ask, I don't know what that means for you either. Traditionally, 'life' means fifty years at least.”
The news killed any joy he once had. “Fifty years?”
The Watchman placed a paw against the back of his head and gently pushed him forward. “You asked, convict. If it's any comfort, you might get spent at least some of that in the City.”
As he joined the others, ears flat and tail dead behind him, Kyr felt an unexpected touch upon his paw. He glanced across, then followed the grey-furred paw up to an elbow that blended into brown, then up to a familiar, smiling face. “You too, huh?” she asked.
“Yeah, me too.”
The girl chuckled dryly, glanced over her shoulder to make sure Hjoldn was facing the other way, and planted a peck on his cheek. “At least we've got life together, right?”
Kyr smiled, a hot blush flooding through his cheeks. He was definitely going to ask Hjoldn for permission to share her bed tonight.