Disparity

"Me! Me!" 

"Choose me sir!" 

"Please let me in! I have a family to feed!" 

"Three." 

There was a metal gate between an opening of buildings, behind it stood a factory, and in front stood a crowd of wretches. The amalgamation of men and women alike squirmed against the fence, each person trying to get to the front, trying to express as much of their desperation as possible. 

A man behind the gate looked on at the crowd, finding the strongest, most capable of the bunch. He callously pointed his finger at the horde and picked with a number. 

"Four, five." 

"Choose me! Choose me!" 

"Hey! Over here! Hey!" 

The voices continued, echoing through the street. Yet the man behind the gate counted calmly, his voice somehow breaking through the cacophony of shouts. 

'I feel sick, damn it. Stop moving so much!' 

Mark was pushed around the crowd like a leaf stuck in a drain. He had always prided himself on being able to keep his body in shape, fit enough to fight for his own on the streets. But these people- if he could even describe them as such, were like walking bundles of muscle. It was hard to even begin to compare himself to these people. 

His hopes of entering were utterly, mercilessly dashed in the torrent of desperation surrounding him. Yet, he gathered air in his lungs and stretched his mind. 

"Over here! Hey! Choose me goddamn it! I have a- I have a family of ten to feed!" 

He evoked mercy, compassion, sorrow, sympathy, benevolence- everything useful that he could think of in the guy who was counting, synchronizing it in harmony with his words, making them stand out to the man's ears above all the other shouts. While Mark heard his words get drowned out, he was certain that they were received by the man. 

"Six, se-" 

The counting paused. 

Mark watched as the man behind the gate looked for the source of the plea he just heard, then looked at him. He pushed his ability to the limits when the counting man focused on his tear-jerking face. 

Then he watched as the counter looked down at his body, and scoffed. 

'Seven, eight." 

Taking his eyes away, the counter continued to bring forth new people, completely ignoring Mark as if he were some lowly insect that stumbled onto the scene. 

'H- how dare this man. This pompous asshole! Wait until I get my hand on your flabby neck, you goddamn miscreant!' 

"Nine, ten- that's all! Scram!" 

The crowd ceased their seething movements. The flame in their hearts visibly extinguished, the desperation, the glimmer of frantic hope in their eyes dulled to a miserable somberness. 

They began to recede, but in the wave of people drawing back, one remained still. 

A lone man trembled, he shook in trepidation, rage- and most notably, dreadful insanity. 

Mark looked back, slightly interested in the outlier. He immersed his hearing, trying to make out the man's mutterings. 

"-first goddamnit it, this whole time, and yet, yet... AND YET!" 

The wretch broke into a frenzied dash, his vehement eyes locked on the opening of the gate with a mad glint. 

Whether it was those chosen or those abandoned, they turned to look at the hysterical sight. Those entering moved to the side, not wanting to be caught up in the chaos. 

A guttural howl echoed from the madman as he rushed through the metal gates. 

Throughout the whole process, the counter stood still, callously looking at the wreck of a person before him. 

It took a few seconds before the ardent wretch approached the counting man, slowing down and catching his breath. 

"I- I've been here before- the goddamned sun rose- I was first. Give me- work." 

The counter didn't blink, nor did he have any other reaction. He simply regarded the man the same way he would watch water trickle down a drain. 

"Of course." 

He took some coins from his pocket and stretched his hand out, ceding the money. 

The madman approached slowly, like an untrusting dog nearing a feeding hand. He reached forward tentatively, receded slightly, and then willed himself to grab the coins. 

And just before the madman could grab the shiny metal, his hand was thrown away.

Better said, his whole body was hurled into the nearby wall. 

Mark watched the whole thing happen.

From out of nowhere, two ordinary-looking folks appeared from an alleyway behind the gate. They swiftly, silently made their way to the madman before rushing forward and ramming into him. 

Now, the counter put the coins back in his pocket while the two hired hands grabbed the madman by the arms, delivered punch after punch to the limp body, and had it stand. 

They then dragged it further into the factory grounds. 

'Well, the guy got work like he asked for. Too bad he isn't getting paid for it.' 

He could swear that he heard sobbing. 

The counting man then remembered that he had people coming through for work- though now they were doing so with extra caution. He smiled and took some coins out of his pocket, handing them to the chosen workers. 

Barely a few coins for the intensive labor they were about to suffer through. Ah, what a profitable- terrible way to go about business. 

Humbly hiding their dissatisfaction with the low wages, the chosen few accepted the coins and went to the factory, slightly relieved to see nobody rushing at them from the alley. 

'Ohh, those guys must have been from a gang- wait, that makes a lot of sense now!'

Mark could see how the big gangs such as the Spheks and the Hounds got their weapons. They simply put some of their members on guard duty at factories and were repaid with arms. It truly is a brilliant- messed-up way to go about things. But then again, it kind of suited the rotting world. 

He spat on the ground and turned around, preparing to head to some other place. 

Stealing glances at the unchosen bunch around him, he could tell what they were thinking, because he felt the same way. 

'Why, when this war ends and I get a stable job, the first thing I'll do is make sure to beat up that goddamned factory owner!'