The Plan was a cold engine in Leo's mind, but to make it turn, he needed fuel. Information. Resources. Opportunity. The next day in the pens, his eyes were no longer glazed with despair or frantic with experimentation. They were sharp, analytical, scanning his environment with the focus of a general surveying a battlefield. Pen Seven was no longer a prison; it was a resource node. The rats were not just filth-generators; they were a renewable crop. And he needed a better farm.
His work—the endless pushing of slurry—became a cover. As he moved the mop in slow, mechanical arcs, his gaze catalogued everything. He noted the patterns of the guards' patrols along the perimeter wall. He timed the intervals when Janus disappeared into his shack or went to argue with the farrier. He studied the rat colony itself, its social structures becoming clearer. The younger, skittish rats stayed near the water troughs. The larger, slower, more confident ones congregated near the back wall, where the stone met earth in a messy, burrow-riddled junction.
And beyond the main herd, separated by a low internal fence of rotting wood, was a smaller, secondary enclosure: the breeding pens. A sign, faded and stained, hung crookedly: BREEDING STOCK - DO NOT DISTURB.
These pens were different. They were shallower, drier, filled with more straw and nesting material. The rats here were plumper, less active, and far more numerous. They piled together in squirming, squeaking mounds. The air here was thicker, warmer, with a pungent, musky smell that cut through the general filth. This was the heart of the colony. And crucially, it was more secluded, tucked into a corner where the high walls of the stable and a storage shed met, casting it in deep shadow for most of the day.
A perfect, target-rich environment. If he could get in there at night, the yield could be higher. But the risk was greater too. More rats meant more noise, more chance of a commotion. And the gate to the breeding area had a heavier latch, one that squealed like a damned soul when moved. He needed data.
His source of information had to be Elara. She was the only other person here who saw the yard not just as a workplace, but as a living space to be understood. She knew the rhythms, the unspoken rules.
He waited for his chance. It came during the midday lull. Elara was scattering seed for the Glitterhens in the adjacent pen, her movements calm and efficient. Leo, hauling a bucket of scraped muck towards the runoff channel, "stumbled" on a loose stone. The bucket tipped, its foul contents sloshing dangerously close to the fence between them.
"Ugh," he grunted, more for effect than from genuine annoyance, as he righted the bucket.
Elara glanced over, her expression neutral. Their eyes met for a second—the now-familiar silent acknowledgment of shared existence.
This was his moment. He kept his head down, pretending to fuss with the bucket handle. He didn't look at her. Speaking directly would be too bold, too noticeable. He let his words slip out, a low, almost inaudible murmur carried on the breeze that always seemed to blow from Pen Seven towards Pen Six.
"The breeding pens," he whispered, his lips barely moving. "Are they checked at night?"
He heard her pause in her scattering. He didn't look up. He could feel her gaze on the side of his face, weighing his intent. Was this curiosity? Stupidity? Something else?
After a heartbeat that felt like an hour, her reply came, just as soft, disguised by the clucking of hens. "Only on Moonsdays. Why?"
Moonsdays. The first day of the week. That was four days away. A window.
He didn't answer her 'why'. He couldn't. He simply gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod, a signal that the message was received. Then he picked up his bucket and trudged away, his heart beating a steady, purposeful rhythm. He had his intelligence. Four-day cycles of security. It was a pattern. Patterns could be exploited.
He risked one glance back as he reached the runoff grate. Elara was watching him, a faint crease between her brows. Her grey eyes held no accusation, only a deep, cautious wariness. She had given him information, a small trust, and he had offered nothing in return but cryptic silence. He saw the question in her look: What are you planning?
He looked away first, pouring the muck into the channel. He couldn't tell her. Not yet. The Plan was too fragile, too insane. To voice it would be to make it real in a way that might shatter it. And he couldn't risk her thinking he was truly mad, or worse, reporting him out of fear for his sanity. Their silent solidarity was a lifeline; he couldn't strain it.
Her wariness was a price he had to pay. For now.
With the 'when' established, he needed the 'how'. Luring a single rat in the open was one thing. Drawing multiple rats in a controlled manner in the breeding pens required bait. Better bait.
His lunch that day was, as always, a tragedy on a tin plate: a scoop of watery potato mash, a piece of tough, grey meat of dubious origin, and a heel of black bread. He ate the meat and mash quickly—his body screaming for any protein and calories. The bread, though, he handled differently.
He tore it. One larger piece he ate slowly, savoring the bland sustenance. The other, smaller piece—a crusty end—he palmed. When no one was looking, he slipped it into the deep pocket of his oversized coveralls.
It was a start.
Dinner yielded another crust, a few boiled carrot pieces he pretended to dislike and pushed to the side of his bowl before surreptitiously pocketing them. He felt a ridiculous sense of triumph over these meager scraps. They were not food; they were capital. Investment.
Back in his bunk, he carefully wrapped his loot in a scrap of cleanish rag he'd torn from his old tunic. A small, sad bundle. He hid it under his thin mattress. It smelled faintly of bread and root vegetable, a strangely domestic scent in the reeking bunkhouse.
That night, as he lay waiting for the sounds of sleep, he didn't stare at his status screen. He thought logistics.
Breeding pens. Moonsday check. Four-day window.
Bait: Insufficient. Need more. Save every scrap.
Access: The loud latch. Need to oil it? With what?
Execution: Can't swing wildly in a crowded pen. Need a bottleneck. Need to find or create one.
The Plan was no longer an abstract trio of steps. It was unfolding into a web of practical, gritty problems. Each one was a puzzle to be solved, a constraint to be worked around.
He closed his eyes, not in despair, but in concentration. The engine of his plan had been designed. Now, he was gathering the tools, the grease, the fuel to make it turn for the first time.
The preparation had begun. The long, meticulous road from theory to bloody, grinding practice was under his feet.