Far above the sounds of mice in the sewers, above the sound of iron clashing with steel in a cramped room, above the rooftops of the city, and far, far above the city itself, a cloudy sky was very heavy, but not as heavy as it had been a half hour ago, when the first drops of rain started to make their journey down towards an endless sea of land.
Now, that first rain drop hit the ground. It was barely audible.
Then a few moments later:
Water fell from the heavens like stars cover a pitch night sky in a shepard's field, covering the rooftops and the streets with sheets of water. Already people were closing shutters and windows. It would be a harsh storm.
Meanwhile, in the sewers, none of this could be heard, not even the occasional crack of thunder far above.
In fact, if one stopped still, nothing could be heard at all. To the trained ear of one who spends their time in the sewers often, it is also the sound of trouble, an omen to a dangerous future. It is the sound of a thousand small, tiny feet, not scurrying along, not scavenging, not fighting for survival.
The mice knew what that silence meant. As they all hid in their nooks, cracks, and holes, they knew that more water was coming. A lot more water, and anybody who was down there, had about five minutes to hide, escape, or start holding their breath.