Jim was worried. He had spent enough time in deep trouble to know when something was not right. He had developed a healthy sense of paranoia because of it. It kept him alive, and often helped him make more money than he normally should. Because of this sense though, he had an itch that he could not scratch.

He knew something was wrong. He had known since Laurence was cornered by the bobbies that there was something coming, and it was nothing good. The main reason why he felt this way was two-fold. First, their jobs had gone a lot more smoothly than they had ever gone before. Sure, Laurence had become untouchable by the bobbies around Spring Street, and the desolate strip in general, but this smoothness was unprecedented. The second reason, the one that got Jim’s hackles up most, was that the most vicious of Laurence’s enemies had all gone to ground. The six men and women, led by Damien the brute, had all completely disappeared from the Spring Street premises. They said it was because they were planning the biggest job that they had ever done, but Jim was suspect.

It seemed more like rats leaving a sinking ship to him. They had left as quickly and as quietly as possible, and when Jim broke into their chests in the sleeping hall, he found them empty. No one emptied their chest. Not even when they moved up to a private room. They just took the chest with them and the chest in the hall was replaced.

Everything that had happened screamed for Jim to be suspicious, because no one acted the way Damien’s troupe had unless there was a reason for it. He just could not see what they were planning.

In the end, he decided to go to Orwell and ask for advice. If the night manager did not know what to do, then Jim would give in to his paranoia and simply go to ground. If he did know, then Jim would help in whatever capacity he could.

Jim paced up and down the hallway outside Orwell’s room for a good five minutes, still seriously considering giving in to his itch, but after a lot of thought he knocked on the door. He waited, and waited, and just as he was about to leave, the sound of locks unlocking and a deadbolt sliding open echoed from behind the thick, wooden door. A very bleary eyed leader of the Bashers answered the door. When Orwell saw Jim, he mumbled something incoherent about sleep and ushered the boy in.

The room was odd. It was a simple room, hewn into the rock like most of the rooms in the base. There were three very simple light arrays set up in the ceiling to offer varied levels of ambience in the room, as well as two water arrays and a chilling array. One water array gave a small stream of variable temperatures and the other sat in an alcove and only belched out warm water. In comparison, just the amenities of the room were quite extravagant.

The thing that made the room odd was its state of clutter. Around the bed there were clothes and bags and various tools strewn everywhere that could be seen. There was only a small outline of a human within the clutter where Orwell obviously slept. On the other hand, the rest of the room was perfectly clean. Jim could not help but imagine Orwell as a dragon, sleeping on its hoard when he saw the bed. It was the first thing that had made him actually smile for days.

As Orwell made himself a drink from some leaves of a plant that Jim did not recognise and hot water, the younger boy say on the floor and began talking. “Orwell, I know you probably don't like getting woken up in the mornings, but something is very wrong right now. I couldn't take it to Nae because she would definitely fly off the handle, and Laurence would listen to me but not really understand why I'm so worried right now.” He paused, fiddling with one of the many strange devices near Orwell’s bed. “I'm not sure how, but I think Damien the Brute and his team have betrayed us.”

Orwell spat out his drink when he heard that. There were occasionally times when people with grudges would levy the betrayal charge at their enemies, and it was usually investigated before being summarily ignored, but this time Orwell was having difficulty believing Jim was lying. Generally speaking, the betrayal charge was one that was declared in public, so even if the target was cleared of the charge, there would still be great suspicion of them by the general masses. It was a calculated manoeuvre when someone hated their rival, or enemy, enough that they think the best choice of action is to get them ostracised from the community.

“Why do you think that?” Orwell said, quickly waking up.

“Okay, so it doesn't seem like much, but for the last couple of days I have been feeling really nervous about something, to the point of paranoia. When I get like this, I know something bad is going to happen.”

“Like prophecy?”

“No, it's a... danger sense I guess.” Jim put the toy down and looked at Orwell. “I looked into it, even broke into their trunks, and found some things that don't add up. Damien made a big deal about planning some big heist, but it looks more like he's gone to ground rather than gone to case some big house. Their trunks are empty, for one thing. That never happens.”

Orwell swore. “Look, I'm not going to jump to conclusions because you've actually looked into things before you called betrayal, but we can check it out.” He took a sip of his drink before continuing. “First, we look into the claimed logs. If his claim is bogus, then that should completely sway me. If not, then we will dig deeper. Maybe we can ask people about the Brute's team, see if anyone let anything slip. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Orwell quickly donned some clothing and they moved to the claimant hall. This hall’s role was three-fold. First, it contained a map of the desolate strip, with road names and buildings on it. This was used to stake claims on, with small flags. The general rule was that if there was already a flag on a place, you avoided the place. Second, there was the message board. Pinned to it were, on average, twenty messages about bobby patrols, wanted posters, and occasional updates about the status of the gang. The third use for the claimant hall was the trading board. A large message board at the far end of the room was literally covered with notes about items and trinkets that people had but did not need. If anyone had an interest in a certain trinket, then they could look at the trading board and discover if there were any people willing to trade it for something. This entire room was reminiscent of a claimant hall of a large guild, so there were many people in the gang who wondered who in the history of Spring Street had the nerve to steal from one.

When Jim and Orwell arrived in the claimant hall, the place was quiet. This early in the morning there were next to no people around, as everyone in the headquarters would be asleep, and the people who weren't were on jobs. They walked over to the map and began checking each flag placed on the table. Upon each flag were the initials of the leaders of the various teams, with a small wax tablet attached to the side of the table that could be used as a key.

Jim immediately began scouring the map, looking at each flag individually to find the DTB initials that he knew would either prove, or falsify his claims. As he did, Orwell ran his fingers down the wax tablet, hunting for Damien’s name. He reached the end of the list long before Jim had looked at all the flags, and when he did he looked up at the boy, a slight frown creasing his forehead.

“Jim,” he said, “Damien’s name isn't here.”

“I don't need his name, I know the initials. DTB. If we can find the flag, then we might find out where they are.” Jim began searching with renewed fervour.

“No, you've missed the point. They've removed their name from the list of active teams. Damien has left Spring Street.” Orwell’s voice was not the normal jovial sound that Jim recognised, there was a hint of anger in it that completely changed the way Orwell spoke. “We need to get word out, I have a really bad feeling about this.”

They moved off to the mess hall, where there were a few members of the gang sitting, most resting from a job well done. When they entered the room, Orwell pulled the attention of everyone there and sent them off to different parts of their base, to get everyone into the mess hall, and to notify the gate keepers that night. As people woke, word spread like wildfire. Someone had betrayed the clan. The halls echoed with the sounds, as well as the shuffle of people moving about. Eventually, a crowd had gathered within the mess hall, and surrounded the two faces of the Spring Street Bashers.

“What's this about?” Nae whispered to Orwell.

“I'll tell you in a second,” Orwell whispered back. He turned, slowly looking every person he could in the eye, before climbing onto a table. “Ladies and gentlemen, I apologise for disturbing your regular rest with some awful news. There has been a betrayal amongst us.”

The gasp of the crowd broke Orwell’s measured pause for effect. “I do not say this lightly,” he continued, “but there are several people here who have been at a head with the accused before, and know how vicious he is. I can only assume that his hatred for everyone in the clan has reached a point where being one of the most powerful and respected individuals in the gang is no longer good enough. That's right, the person, no, the people who have betrayed us are the crew of Damien the Brute.

“Now before you start clamouring amongst yourselves about the validity of this claim, I would like to raise our key pieces of evidence. First, all their belongings have been removed from their chests, but the chests have not been taken. Second, the name of the crew has been removed from the annals within the claimant hall. Third, they left the gang around two days ago, making a large deal or of a big score; and Fourth, the entire crew left to case a building. Six people are simply not needed to do that.”

Orwell got off the stage and then looked at Nae. “Pass the word around, Damien is black-listed.”