by Rachel West
The protestors falter in their chant. Even the bravest of men would be cowed by the approaching force. I crouch low and close to the building, hoping with every part of me we aren’t seen. That the Praetors don’t mistake us for one of the stupid, stupid protestors and throw us in prison for the rest of our lives.
Even from this distance I can make out the terror on the protestors faces. All but the leader – he leaps from man to man, brandishing his sign like a sword, as he gathers the protestors into a tight group; herding them together as he circles around them in an effort to protect them. I shudder and lean back. Red wraps his arms around my shoulders in an attempt at comfort but all I feel is dead weight. It doesn’t matter how skilled of a fighter the leader may be. There’s no saving any of them.
“We should go,” Red echoes my thoughts. “There’s nothing we can do.”
I let him pull me away. But no distance is far enough to prevent me from hearing the sound of the first shot. The scream of a woman.
None of them have a voice any longer.
CHAPTER 5
I told Red that Jaxon had only been passing through – that he was gone and it was over. But I was wrong. Even though he’s gone, Jaxon is everywhere. I picture his face as I clean my kitchen. His laugh as I sip my morning milk. He even invades my dreams. It’s like he was the dawning sun, bright and new, and now that he’s gone everything seems lacking. It is impossible to stop thinking of him. The light in his eyes; the intense, probing stare.
But as winter approaches even the memory of Jaxon fades and soon all that’s left is me, the map, and my consuming desire to rescue my sister. For the first time since she’s been taken I can actually see hope sparkling in the distance. Mocking me. Drawing me forward.
I spend two weeks replicating the map Jaxon left. I memorize every inch, making sure the copy is perfect. When I finish, I give one to Red; for him to hide in his home, so if I ever get raided, I won’t lose everything.
“You’re insane,” Red says. He drops a cold drink in front of me. Real liquor, more than I could ever afford. For the last seven years Red has been making his living fighting in the Coliseum. He’s made enough that he could move out of Westwick Slums and into one of the better districts. But he chooses to stay. Every time I ask him why he mumbles some nonsense about not forgetting where you came from. About the slums being home.
He does keep one of the nicer apartments though. Three bedrooms - though two always go unused. Even when I stay the night, on days where I’m too tired to dodge Praetor parties searching for curfew breakers, I always sleep on his couch. It’s a luxurious thing. Leather and cloth, and wide enough for two people to lay side by side.
I sit there now, savoring my drink as Red paces in front of me. “How are you even going to get out of the city?” He pauses then goes for a different tactic. Pointing at the map he says, “You don’t even know which one she’s at. There’s over two dozen of them here, and for all we know there’s probably more. What are you going to do, search them one by one? Calling out for her until you find her? You’ll just get yourself killed.”
I open my mouth. Close it. That’s exactly what I was planning on doing. Annie and I are sisters. I feel like... I can’t explain it to Red, but being sisters we will find each other. It’s how things are supposed to be.
“And what about all the dangers out in the wilds? You’re not exactly a fighter. And even you can’t run fast enough to escape everything out there.”
For the first time, doubt tickles at the back of my mind. I pause, leaning back and propping my feet up on the table. The Millennials have ruled our world for three hundred years, led by the Great Uniter. Before the wars, before the destruction, there were a lot of cities. But back then, people were always fighting, destroying everything. Until there was almost nothing left. People were living like barbarians. Fighting for their lives in the wilds against nightmarish creatures that haunt the empty lands.
Then the Great Uniter came. He stopped the wars and brought us together. Everyone living in one city. Shortly after the technology to lengthen life spans was perfected. It’s why we call them Millennials. Rumor says with the right dosing they could live for a thousand years. Longer even, but no one knows for sure. I’ve seen the photos though; in over three hundred years the Great Uniter appears to have aged a year, maybe two. Changes so small they are nearly unnoticeable.
So he built Haven; where millions upon millions of us live. The norms, cramped together at ground level. With the wall surrounding the city we can’t build out; so we build up. The Millennials at the very top, living high above us, on their crescent shaped floating city held aloft by powerful technology.
And outside the city limits? Monsters. Demons. Creatures half organic, half robotic. Built in the old days when there was nothing but war.
I remember when I was younger, eight or nine maybe, my mother brought me to the very edge of the city. There are supposedly gates at ground level, but no one is ever able to find them. Only the Millennials have the ability to leave, with their giant, floating zeppelins.
My mom brought me so close to the edge of the wall that tingling electricity raised the small hairs on my arm. Of course, I could hear nothing from beyond the wall – it’s too tall and too thick. But she began telling me stories of the times before. Of the creatures that now shamble past, haunting the land beyond the wall.
Then all of a sudden I could hear them. The clack clack clack of their gears rotating. The scraping of metal on metal as their mechanical legs push them ever forward. A strangled cry full of anger and desperation, because while the flesh rots, the mechanical parts keep them alive.
I shudder and turn back to Red. “I can’t just leave her,” I say, “I won’t.”
“You won’t have to,” He stops pacing, “but we’re not ready yet. Once we find out more, once we’re more prepared, we’ll save her. I swear.”
I nod my head because I have to agree. Without Red there is no hope at all. At least with him there is a chance, no matter how slim, there is still a chance. “Yeah, okay.” I knead angrily at the pillow in my lap. He may be right, but I don’t like it. It’s so frustrating, knowing I am so close. And I know that it will take time. I know I’m not ready. I don’t even know which of the prisons she’s in. I need more time. But the waiting burns like physical pain.
The clock on the wall tells me curfew is nearing. “I gotta go,” I tell Red. My frustration must have been more apparent than I thought, because Red pulls me into a hug, squeezing my arms so tight I can’t breathe, and suddenly everything is okay again.
“See ya, kiddo,” he mumbles into my hair.
I scrunch up my nose. “Don’t call me that,” I say. Just because he’s three years older doesn’t mean he gets to call me kiddo. I’m no one’s kiddo.
“Yeah yeah,” he pushes me towards his front door. “Be careful on your way back. The Praetors have been patrolling a lot more recently. I saw them replacing some of the cameras last night.”
I snort. Good luck with that. Whatever cameras they replace will be gone within a week. At least in our part of the neighborhood. The one bonus of living in the worst part of the city. Here, we aren’t as closely watched as the rest of Haven’s inhabitants. The people of Westwick wouldn’t stand for it. Not when the majority of them make their living in ways that would get them sent to a work prison for life. And for some reason the Praetors allow it. Other than the occasional raid and small patrols looking for curfew breakers, they leave us mostly to ourselves.
I take the elevator down, over a dozen flights, the device shaking and groaning the whole time. My fingers tap of their own will against the wall as the small, enclosed space of the elevator leaves me impatient for freedom.
On the first floor a rat goes darting by my feet. I jump back and hiss at it, but the small creature pays me no mind. Outside, the air has a charcoal scent to it; a smell that tells me the crematorium at the edge of the Slums has begun. I glance quickly at the sky – a few minutes past
curfew. Damn. I lower my head and hurry through the streets, knowing the chance of encountering the Praetors is slim, but I’m wary nonetheless.
At night, despite the millions of people crowded within Haven, the city grows quiet. Billboards and skyscreens darken leaving only crimson tinged warnings and clocks flashing the late hour. The night seems to close in around me with an expectant heaviness to it. The feeling you get right before a fight – the knowing that something is about to go wrong but having no way to stop it.
Rustling from the alley to my right draws my attention. At the far end a man digs through the garbage. When he sees me, he growls something under his breath too muted for me to hear. I sneer back and reach nervously for the synthblade at my waist. I keep my eyes on him as I cross in front of the alley. Here in the slums your neighbor’s make easier prey than those in the wealthier districts. The Praetors don’t care what we do here; when one rat kills another all you have to worry about is cleaning up the carcasses.
It’s a relief when I finally spot my apartment building. I crawl up the fire escape and am about to push my window open when something draws me up short. The small red thread I keep tied across the bottom corner of my window is fluttering. My eyes narrow as I poke at it. One side has clearly been pulled out from the bent nail that holds it in place.
Someone was in my apartment. Or still is.
I slip out my synthblade from its sheathe in my boot. I grip the blade tightly, and again repeat my promise to one day save up enough to get the weapon recharged. Though, even with no charge the blade can do more damage than your average knife.
My eyes recognize him instantly, but my mind takes a few moments to come to the same conclusions. “Jaxon?” I ask. My voice sounds wobbly with released tension. He’s wearing another hooded jacket, nearly identical to the one he wore last time we met. The hood is pulled up, completely shadowing his face so the only visible part of him is the light reflecting off his eyes.
“Hello,” he says the word casually, softly, but something is wrong. A faint hint of pain thrums in the back of his tone. I notice how he’s sitting in the chair. Back stiff and straight. Hands resting neatly on his knees. Certainly not the graceful, languorous way he carried himself before.
“What’s going on,” I say. I’ve tensed up again, searching the rest of my apartment warily. Has he brought Praetors with him? I am certain the end I’ve been expecting has finally come.
When he doesn’t answer I take a step closer. He flinches back, and a choked cry of pain escapes his lips. I pause, confused. That is not the reaction I expected. I press my hand against the light panel closest to me, flicking on the brightest light above.
He flinches again, but I reach forward and pull his hood down. One of his eyes is swollen purple. The skin just underneath is split open from a heavy hit. A bruise, nearly hidden by his tattoos, covers his entire cheek.
“The twins get you this time?” I joke, trying to lighten the mood.
“No,” he says, but doesn’t tell me more. “Would you mind getting your first aid kit? I could use some…assistance,” his mouth twists like the word has to fight its way out.
“Oh,” I shake myself. What was I doing just standing there staring? “Of course. Hold on.” I dart into the bathroom, yanking out the first aid kit. “These first,” I hand him two pain pills.
“I might need a few more than two,” he says with a wry grin that is quickly replaced with a pained grimace.
“Don’t be a baby. These are strong enough for a little black eye.”
He startles me by standing up and I take an unconscious step back. Even covered in bruises and cuts he still commands attention. He’s impossible not to look at. Not to be drawn to.
Jaxon peels his jacket off followed by his shirt, and for some reason I began blushing. I can feel the heat as it creeps up my neck and into my cheeks, “Uhm,” I paused awkwardly, “there are other ways to pay me back.”
Jaxon shoots me a confused look then his eyes brighten with humor, despite the agony he is clearly in. A flash of his teeth leaves me feeling oddly pleased with myself. Within moments any satisfaction I felt is erased. He spins slowly, showing me his back.
My stomach twists. Five gaping welts cover his back. Whip marks, I recognize immediately. I’ve seen worse. But there is something horrific in seeing his perfect skin marred by such ugliness. Millennials are something different from the rest of us. In their world there is no pain. No hurt. My tongue begins to prickle against the oncoming rush of nausea.
“Okay,” I say, then repeat again, steeling myself, “okay. We can take care of this.” I’m not quite certain who I am trying to reassure. “Lay down,” I tell him.
“Where?”
I look around. That’s a good question. “On the floor.” I point to the tile in the kitchen area, “Wait a second. I’ll grab you a blanket.” I find my extra woolen blanket and lay it out on the floor. After a moment’s hesitation I grab him the pillow from my bed. “Okay,” I gesture towards the floor.
He drops himself slowly to his knees then carefully arranges himself on the blanket. The light above shines directly on his wounds, making them look a thousand times worse. I run my fingers along his back, tracing the unmarked skin between the welts. He shivers under my touch, “Sorry,” I mumble.
I can tell the wounds aren’t fresh. A day, maybe two old. They’ve begun to grow crusty and hard with scabs. But no one has offered him any treatment. The slightest movement would be enough to tear the flesh back open.
I open up the first aid kit with a sense of déjà vou. Twice now I’ve encountered Jaxon, and twice now I’ve had to doctor him up. The boy really needs to work on his ability to not get hurt. “This is going to hurt,” I tell him “A lot.”
“Do whatever you must.”
I grab some gauze and alcohol. I know enough first aid to know I need to clean the wounds. And I know well enough that it will hurt like hell. I wish I had some morphine to give him, or anything to knock him out a little. My crude doctoring is not going to be easy on him.
“Tell me about your life,” I say. It feels like such a stupid question after I ask. But I need him distracted. If he’s not lying there, tensed up and waiting for pain, my work will go much faster. “Your family,” I narrow down the question, “tell me about your family.”
Jaxon’s entire body goes stiff with the question, and I fear I’ve hit a wound less apparent than the ones on his back. But he begins talking, slowly at first then with more speed. Sounding nearly manic. “I have always wanted to fight in the Coliseum,” he says, “but Father wouldn’t let me. I trained since I was a kid with weaponry. I would be good at it. I could win maybe. Father says it is inappropriate for one of us to fight in the Coliseum. Your friend, the one who was here last time. He fights in the Coliseum. I’ve seen him, he’s good. He-“ Jaxon’s stream of words is cut off with a cry as I splash the alcohol onto his back. His whole body begins shaking with a quiet intensity. I can see him physically trying to hold his pain in. To not let out any further cries.
“Do you have any siblings,” I am desperate to distract him. Seeing his pain brings tears to my own eyes. I know that I am trying to help him, but all I see is his hurt.
“An older brother – but we have hardly spoken in years. My true family is Darren – my best friend. He acts more of a brother than I can expect from my own.”
I begin taping large swaths of gauze to his back. The welts may need to be stitched, but I don’t have the skill for it. The best I can do is keep the cuts clean and let them heal at their own pace. By the time I finish, more lacy gauze is visible than his skin.
“Okay,” I say, “I think I’m done.”
“Any chance I can get another of those pain pills?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I jump to my feet, “of course. Sorry. I should have gotten you more before I even started.” I berate myself for sounding like an idiot. He may be a Millennial, but I am not going to treat him like one. No bowing and scraping and acting like a
servant for me.
“Thanks,” he mumbles as I drop two more pills into his outstretched hand. I shake the bottle afterwards, hearing a few lone pills rattling around. Damn’t. Medicine is expensive, and now I’ve gone and given half of my stash to someone who could afford the best doctors in the entire city.
“You should rest. Come on, I’ll help you up.”
“I am quite certain I’ll be happiest right here,” he says as he hugs the pillow under his head.
“The couch will be more comfortable.”
“The hangman’s noose would be more comfortable than your couch.”
“Hey!” I try to pretend insult but he’s right. I found my couch on the street one afternoon two years ago. Sitting there with one side dipped so low it almost touched the ground. Red came by to help me lug it up to my apartment. One can’t argue against free.
“Okay,” I say, “you can stay there if you want. Just don’t come complaining to me about a stiff back tomorrow.” Jaxon laughs and I wonder what is so funny, then I realize what I said, “Oh, I mean --“ I try to take back my words by he waves me off.
“Are you gonna disappear first thing in the morning again?” I feel a sense of trepidation as I ask. I’m not sure what I want his answer to be. I should hate him. For everything he is. For what he represents. A Millennial. Despite that, despite everything, I find myself drawn to him. I’m intrigued. The silence stretches as I wait heart-in-throat for his answer.
“No,” he looks up at me from under pain laden eyes. “No, I cannot ever return.”
CHAPTER 6
When I wake Jaxon is still laying on the floor. I try to navigate quietly across my small apartment, but when I look down at him, I see his eyes following my path. “Morning,” I mumble. It’s strange, having someone else here when I wake up. Even Red has never spent a night here, it’s always the other way around.
“Good morning,” Jaxon replies stiffly, a sense of caution colors his tone. He pulls himself gently to his feet using the small wooden table to balance himself.
