Long before descendants of Genesee and Adrian had become The City’s lowest slaves, other peoples were taken from another distant land to be sold for food in hidden mountain towns. Secret freedom songs were sung as these slaves labored long in dirt and sun, torn from loved ones only to be watched, scorned, and then eaten casually by any and all around.
The son of a son of a son of a son of a son of a son of a slave teaches himself to sing loud enough for all The City to hear. It is The City’s older children that love his songs the most, his fast and clever words coloring in the lively tunes of his ancestors to perfectly fit each piece of art made everywhere in The City.
His words tell of much seen, and much wanted . . . and then later, of much owned. He even stops in the middle at times to sing The City’s news.
Because of (or to help cause) The City’s rulers’ fondness for lavish ceremonies and lustrous praise for its own sake, the son of slaves is pulled and set to sing in all their most extravagant commemorations. Fortunes are spent to make sure all citizens will want to hear and see him from afar, on their iuns. And all who can actually attend are made more beautiful than any but children could ever really be.
An older child who watches the ceremony on her screen runs immediately out to spend her inheritance on becoming (or staying) like what she sees.
Older children get frustrated with the younger ones who laugh too much, make too much noise, and play too many silly games with winding rules but few objectives.
A young boy views some of The City’s art again and again, and forgets nothing of it. His father is heartbroken, having a child that does not seem to want to play outside.
Far away from all of what becomes of many ancient cannibalisms, the floors of rooms across The City’s outskirts are scattered with children, all giggling unaware, and doing their best to play together well.
I don't know anything 