Lotus Flowers in the Slum
Once breakfast ended at the Perfumrose Orphanage in Punk City, the older kids headed out, leaving only the young ones behind. Those who ventured outside worked until dinnertime to earn money. Government and institutional subsidies were woefully insufficient to keep the orphanage running. Sure, what could a bunch of kids really bring in? But it at least covered lunch, allowing the place to scrape by on a razor's edge.
"May the children return safely today as well."
Like always, the Orphanage Director bowed her head toward the cross in prayer. Once finished, she tended to the kids too young to go out. Tending meant teaching them letters and basics, then letting them play inside the orphanage. Watching them romp in the yard, she thought of those who'd gone out. She sent them off to run errands for cash, but fewer than half actually did. Most veered into darker paths—gangs, scavengers, child mercenaries. At that age, with blood running hot, grabbing a gun must've looked cool. Even setting aside the allure, it paid better than errands.
This latest batch had several who'd already joined gangs.
—What's this tattoo all of a sudden?
—It's nothing, Sister. Just... felt like it.
They often hid tattoos or played it off to avoid worrying the sisters, claiming they still had some conscience. But their efforts were pointless. After years running this place, she knew every gang's tattoos and where they went. Still, she turned a blind eye, pretending not to notice. She loved the kids and knew how dangerous gangs were. She knew the grief of meeting orphanage graduates in funeral homes. Yet she couldn't stop them. The orphanage stayed a neutral safe zone in the slums partly because its alumni filled various gangs, banning gunfire nearby. Some were even executives. Gangs were a necessary evil.
Thinking back, even in a place like this, those kids grew up so kindly...
But lotuses bloomed even in mud. Some avoided the bad paths, growing up normal like their peers. Amon and Sonia. In this environment, they never lost their goodness. One loach could muddy the water, but a single lotus rising from the muck could purify it. The murkier the pond, the brighter the lotus shone. They were those lotuses. Thanks to them, this batch had fewer bad apples than most. A few years back, gang kids recruited others, creating a vicious cycle. But not this group—no open gang promotion. The director was deeply grateful for her two lotuses. They felt heaven-sent, letting her dream of a better future.
At the same time, it pained her. Their talents were jewels, unmarred by mud, radiant. Had they found good parents, they could've shone in a wider world.
Am I the one holding their ankles back...?
Listing their gifts never ended: child-actor beauty, athletic prowess, sharp minds. But the standout was divine power. It appeared once in tens of thousands. Mana was near-universal, replaceable, replicable by tech. But divine power's miracles? Irreplaceable. Holders were prized by corps, governments, religions alike.
The director discovered theirs during an incident at age nine. A childish fight over nothing. Stopping it, Amon radiated divine power.
—You can't fight friends. Violence is only for heretics, beasts, and monsters.
With those ominous words, he subdued them. Even orcs and beastkin with natural strength fell easily. Her patchy knowledge confirmed it—the overwhelming surge unmistakable. The orphanage flipped that day. Soon after, Sonia's surfaced similarly, flipping it again. Two in one orphanage? She toasted this blessed generation.
But joy faded fast. Divine power was coveted, and those without it often destroyed what they couldn't have. Corps embodied that mindset. Crisis bells rang.
Thankfully, only she noticed. Her silence kept them safe.
Though corps and governments aren't pushovers either...
No secrets lasted. Sonia's power was hideable, but Amon's blazed for all outside to sense. Soon, corp suits and officials swarmed with donations and funds. Their intent was obvious. She played dumb.
—By the way... can you sense divine power, Director?
—No, not at all.
She feigned ignorance through endless probes. No reactions given. Orgs learned only of potentials here—nothing more. Stalemate: they couldn't cut aid, orphanage grew richer. Good for all.
But as it prospered, her heart tightened.
Am I clipping their wings?
Fool the enemy by fooling allies first. She told the kids only they had special power, hiding it was divine. No monopoly—just protection. Love's choice. Still, guilt gnawed: suppressing their talents. Today, seeking relief, she rested her arm on her prosthetic leg, bowed, eyes closed.
"Lord, please bring my children home safely today."
No finger unscathed. But some hurt more. She prayed extra for her sorest.
Even knowing it might irk the others.
Finishing errands for goat beastman Johnson, Amon headed back. Another uneventful day. Dodging distant gunfire, deliveries done.
Ding-dong!
Alarms hit Amon and Sonia's phones: 75 dollars deposited each.
Eight hours for 75 bucks. Delivery minimum wage was dogshit. But no complaints. Pure humans, no gene tweaks, nanites, or magic engravings—their output beat pros'. Plus, money wasn't tight. This made them top earners at the orphanage. With monthly stipends, luxuries beckoned.
Satisfied, they headed home amid routine gunfire and speeding cop cars. Swinging fry bags for the kids, they crossed at the light. Amon scanned for reckless bikers when Sonia spoke.
"Amon. You tithing that too?"
"Yeah, of course."
Blessed looks, talents—he wouldn't be an ungrateful beast.
Sonia nodded. "Mind if I do it too?"
"Go for it. Why not?"
"But those kids call it sucker shit, tease ya for it."
"Oh, them?"
Amon recalled "those kids"—the rotten crew. Fists over words, crime over good deeds, curses over kindness. Blaming the world for their twists, bullying innocents. Not on good terms. They'd picked a fight to assert hierarchy, got wrecked as a group. Shifted to isolating him. His shining(?) personality foiled it. Teasing Sonia was part of it—frame him as a pushover via tithing. He ignored it, even convinced her otherwise.
"Tithing's a ritual to stay grateful."
"Grateful?"
"Yeah. For these blessings, safe days, meeting someone like you. Keeps that heart alive."
He added it wasn't forced—follow your heart. Her soft explanation swayed Sonia.
"Then to not forget gratitude for meeting you, I should tithe too?"
"If it's sincere."
'Those kids' were long forgotten. Talk turned to daily thanks: orphanage shelter despite orphanhood, director's devotion, adults like Johnson giving kid jobs for pocket money. Even this shithole world had gratitudes.
"And thanks to you, I eat tons of meat!"
Amon awkwardly turned. Her chest—30% his credit? Shaking mad thoughts, he agreed. Nearing home, Sonia dashed ahead wondering dinner, Amon following.
One corner from orphanage, blockers appeared.
Talk of the tiger brings it running.
Sloppy-dressed, sneering delinquent pack. Seeing them, Amon recalled the beef's origin. Simple: early bloomers thought it talent, bullied quiet Amon, lost bad, nursed grudge. Since, constant sabotage attempts—mostly futile, so he ignored.
Bored, he waited their event. Leader Jimmy needled, annoyed by nonchalance, got to point.
"Punk. Know what this is?"
Shirt off: white snake tattoo. Children of the Snake gang. Decent size in town. Jimmy awaited reaction—stammer? Bluff?
Amon's? None.
"Huh. Tough filling ranks, huh? Clock in tomorrow."
Zero fucks. Jimmy couldn't retort—"rank-filler" hit home. White snake marked temp cannon fodder pre-initiation. Amon knew from subquests distinguishing fodder, grunts, brass—careless kills triggered chains. He preferred clubbing all out.
Anyway, no fear. Henna-washable shit.
"Sonia, let's go."
Fries in hand, he passed. They blocked—
"Whoa—those are for lil' sibs. Cool?"
Food trumped all. Jobless lately from gang play, broke, lunch-scraping—they folded. Plus, piss off orphanage? Global curses from kids and sisters. Imagining bloated them aside, they yielded.
Not hunger. Amon smirked at cute defeat, tossed a bag: "Save some for dinner. Clean up, don't let kids see."
Off with Sonia. Pack disbanded on fries—loyalty shallower than a bag.
Jimmy's crew urged him: eat up. Pride screamed kick it, but friends mattered—declined, "Not hungry."
Glared Amon's way.
Orphan punk pities me?
Grinding teeth at innocent Amon. Another Amon win.