Because you’re filth. Everyone who knows you thinks it when they see you. Where you come from. People were always going to see you as the worst humanity had to offer, and that was decided while you still swam in your mother’s womb. Because you are that man’s daughter.

The interlinked catches undone, the frame came undone. Chastity carefully moved each individual panel of glass to the container she carried, rectangular and flat, with individual subsections for different panes of glass. She picked big ones for the larger panes, then moved on to picking out the pieces of the broken panes, and collecting them in one of the later partitions.

She had to be careful in handling it, but she also wanted to be fast. This glass was glass, and glass was sharper than most knives, if more fragile. She had already cut herself once, earlier in the day, and one of her fingertips throbbed where she had jabbed it on a splinter of glass on a surface she’d rested her hand on.

It hurt as she fought to pull some more stubborn pieces free. Metal scraped against glass, hurting her ears.

“Tabernac,” she swore.

Desperate slut, grubbing in ruins. What do you look like now? Filthy. Filthy. Filthy.

The refrain of her own voice turning in her mind, she finished removing the glass, and closed the partitioned container, clasping it shut. There would be more windows, and she would hate every single one. They were so fiddly. It wasn’t just glass; the frame had its own way of being put together, and there were two points she had to press the point of a blade into it to make them separate.

The best you can hope for is pity. Pity or a boner from a guy you’ve distracted enough that he won’t think about who or what you are. Where you come from.

Deftly, with smooth and practiced motions she’d picked up over the morning, she disconnected the frame from the mounts, gathering up the individual lengths of it into one hand, then slid them into another tube she had slung over her back. She capped it, then leaned into the wall, stomach pressing against the base of the window as she poked her head down and through. With the way it leaned against the remaining wall at an angle, it formed a lopsided ‘A’ shape. She looked beneath, and spotted the wire that had run into the window.

Solar windows. They didn’t pick up a lot of power, but they picked up some, and the wires that fed into them had copper at their core.

Pulling on the wire hand over hand, moving away from the wall, over to the other side, she removed the wire from the place where wall met baseboard. It had been painted over, and flecks of paint came away. She formed loops, coiling it around the back of her elbow and her palm, moving into the next room.