OVERTURE to Nocturn (Part One)

Worthless continues to scrub the floors of the quarters it had been allotted today. Dunking a wrinkly-wet hand into the bucket of soap-water, he pulls out a dripping rag, and the warmth of the water, the sound of drops spilling back into the bucket from the rag, provide a degree of comfort. Sensations Worthless feels so much every day.

Worthless and a handful of other fools continued to clean up the quarters they had been allotted today. With their usual confused, sluggish stupor. Their matching aprons, their matching caps. Yellow. Worthless was special, though, you never named a fool. He had been named. The officers called him Worthless once.

From his hands and knees on the damp tiling of a just-scubbed floor, the fool saw a handful of soldiers move through the quarters. They towered a foot or so above the fools. They were men. Contemptuously grimmacing at their species-cousins, they left boot tracks all along the puddles of soap, making Worthless cry.

The other fools continued to clean the quarters they had been allotted today. Floors had to be clean enough to eat off of. What else did the fools have to eat off of, anyways? Worthless cried. It was special, though. Named. The officers did. And dirtied floors.

"OUT OF MY WAY, TRASH!" shouted an officer as he bashed another fool's head into the wall. Worthless wasn't special anymore? The fool named Trash giggled as the bruise burst into blood. It was named. The officer looked at Worthless: "WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT, TRASH? STOP DROOLING, GET TO WORK!" Kicked Trash-- he was now Trash as well.

Alone, the fools continued to clean the quarters they had been allotted today. Trash stared and drool, holding its side where it had been kicked. The other trash giggled and cried, nursing his wounded face. Trash-that-had-been-Worthless hobbles to Trash and decides there cannot be two of one.

The other Trash understands, the kind giggling fool offers an "I WILL", not fully understanding.

So trash begins the process, throwing it towards the favourite soapy bucket. Starts to push Trash's head into the bubbles. "NO I WON'T, I WON'T, NEVER MIND" Trash protests simply in words that do not convey its panic. Begins to resist.

Trash-that-had-been-worthless feels a pain shoot through its body as a now-soapy, giggling Trash punctures its skin somewhere with something sharp. Now in a primal defense, Trash-that-had-been-Worthless flies into a rage. Red.

Trash continues to scrub up the floors of the quarters it had been allotted today. It is crying. But it is special. Only he has a name. Nobody's named the other fools. Red. Must clean the floors. Clean enough to eat off of. What else did the fools have to eat off of, anyways? A crowd gathers in horror around the floor-scrubbing fool while the others go on cleaning.