That's it, you've decided: you're going to die down here. The thought should be more depressing, but when you turns it over in his head, there's only a sense of grudging acceptance.

This is what you deserve, probably.

You try to live life like all the feeds say that redbloods should: you keep yourself in your cart, with your books and your taxidermy, and you work. When you deal with others, you're well-dressed, docile, and helpful to the higher castes: in short, you're respectable.

When you act like you should, it works out. When things go wrong - when a customer tries to cull you, or a deal goes badly - well, it's because you slipped, made a comment you, shouldn't have, wore something you shouldn't have. When you behave properly, it works.

It doesn't earn you much respect, no matter how polite you are. It doesn't get you many friends. But you've never died, and it's only when you decide to go out, live a little, and act like everyone else - immoral, disrespectful, churlish - that you ever seems to come close.

(Even now, you know that's not precisely right. Most of the time, you've gone out and come hive the next evening or by midnight at the latest: embarrassed, maybe, but perfectly fine.)

(But ypu're bleeding on a sewer floor, in the one place that your moirail would never think to look to retrieve you, and that means you're going to die here alone, where your body will be eaten by squeakbeasts and grubs. Right now, the gloomy thoughts feel right, and that's all that matters.)

You give up on staying upright and curls up on the ground instead, your horn scraping against the concrete. Hinnom is gone, you can't walk any further, your eyes are so heavy, and all you wants to do is sleep.

So you close them, and you let the darkness settle in.