Post by ghost on Apr 20, 2012 17:40:55 GMT -5
WIP. Please read and comment.
--The Boy and the Hill
March 5, 2031
There went Hell.
Flames licked at the burnt night sky, blackened by the smoke and ash left behind by the waves of debris. Enflamed, flickering winds tossed the ash into the sky, leaving a cloud of blinding debris...if only that mattered.
There was no one left to wade through this storm of smog, no one to feel the licks of flame and heat bathe their skin in sweat. No one to watch as the remains of [think of name later] Watch crumble into itself, implode in a heap of cement and a variety of metals.
And suddenly, there was someone.
A pale, cold hand scraped the edges of the rubble, ravenously scavenging for purchase among the loose hill. And there was, as the lone man lifted his half-dead weight over the lip of security, and into this outside cloud, this smokescreen.
He stood.
His legs nearly disappeared from beneath him, begging, begging to melt, to join the boiling blood within his body in its liquid heaven. No such mercy was dragged out of the man’s will, as his strength, and the crumbling cement column he leaned upon, held him on his feet. His satiated hands rested there, where they would (seemingly) never move from again, coming to a final rest. But he knew there was work to be done, so much work. His glazed-over eyes pierced the smoke and ash like the sentinel that the column had stood, standing among the remains of the Watch, the lone survivor, a reality all too real to him.
“So, this is how it ends.”
There was thunder radiating from this storm of smoke. Deep, deeply delved within the debris, were soldiers. Platoons, entire platoons thundered toward the broken remains of the Watch, coming to row over the survivors. They did not seriously expect any opposition at all, and if any came, they could only imagine that it would be a failing, dying effort from a lucky soldier, someone who had survived the blast.
They didn’t expect anyone to be this close to living.
Allen Smith, a recently-enlisted Private of the UNMC, took hold of his sidearm, feeling a wave of nausea wash over him. It was ridiculously overbearing.
And it would only be moments before he
“--got blown up!”
January 2, 2031
Dry laughter echoed around the dead table of joyless men. Stories of death and aversions to the chaos created by warfare was the only way to distract someone in the UNMC from the fate waiting outside, all too well known, especially to those stationed on [...still working on a name] Watch. The war outside, outside their comfortable, well armed little home, was drawing closer every day; and as they idled, others died, expending themselves to keep those ahead alive. None of them wanted to ruminate over this, not even under the thumb of a spare second after dinner duty. No, it was a fate quite incommoded to their conscious, leaving behind an amiable, but dead mien. It was as parched and humorless as a military desert in the Watch, but at least they were left blissfully unaware of the situation at hand.
“So, Allen. What made you sign on, eh?”
A low, bemused chuckle came from the side of the table furthest from the window, with dusklight filtering in quietly. He leaned in slightly, to add an emphasis to his words. “You know that it’s a forced things these days, right?”
Nodding gathered from the whole of the table, with one voice speaking up for it. “Yes, but, why? There are ways to get ‘round it.”
Another chuckle. “Come now, do I look a rich man to you? No, I didn’t have the money to pay the fine.”
Fine was probably a harsh way to put it. It was, as from the government, “a small fee, to continue our peaceful and happy lives”, and the “reward” for not paying such was “a brief period of community service”. The apparent joke was that “peaceful and happy” was synonymous, to politicians, to “poor and miserable”, and the same for “reward” as “penalty”, and “brief” as nearly a “life sentence”.
Yes, it was a wonderful world in those days.
“If you’ll excuse me.”
Allen stood from the table, leaving a bleeding wound in the table. Emotion and interest seemed to flow out from the men as he wandered off, their blank stares meeting without much recognition. There was nothing there to matter, anyways.
He stood in the whitewash kitchenette, the uniform, sterile whitewall and white-plastic-esque floor glaring him down, making his emotions shrink inside of him. Society did this to him, society did this to people. Society did this to society. Emotion was not relevant. Opinion wasn’t, either. Government didn’t care; as long as there were living beings, as long as violence was minimized, it was perfect.
In this, this maddening dream of theirs, they created more violence.
The refrigerator opened with the pop of the hollow vacuum once inside. Allen’s warm fingers had barely gotten a grip upon the cold, smooth glass of the curving bottle neck, before it fell from his grasp.
“They’re dead! Fourth Platoon is dead!”
A couple of impossible blinks. There was no possible way, not ever. Fourth Platoon was impossibly massive, and massively armed, as well as defended.
All as the bottle fell, came into a brief contact with the angry, white-plastic floor, and
--shattered, exploding into shards of irate, keen knives.
December 12, 2030
“Men, duck and cover!”
Everyone dove for the ground; oh, the hospitable ground. Even the hard thump of flesh-on-dirt was much more kind than the shrapnel of a live grenade.
The drill sergeant didn’t particularly care about who survived his boot camp. As long as they could still hold a gun and act, at the most, as cannon fodder.
“This is wonderful.”
“What was that, Private Allen?”
A whoosh of wind left the man’s lungs as he received the sergeant’s boot to his chest, and being the larcenous [enter noun here] he was, the sergeant managed to steal every last breath from him. After a moment of desperate sputtering and coughing, Allen twisted painfully onto his back, staring up at the sky, and the drill sergeant (but mostly the sky) with a trained expression.
“Nothing worth repeating.”
His boot swung back again.
“--sir,” he hastily added, to avoid further damage to his bruised rib cage, and to keep the scrap of metal stuck shallowly into his shoulder exactly the way it was. Shallow.
“That’s right, me boy,” he said, grinning in his own jovial, sarcastic way. “Never forget that bit, and you migh’ make it out without so many bits in you!”
The drill sergeant’s laugh seemed to worsen the dull throb already gathering around the shrapnel stuck into his shoulder.
All in all, it was turning out to be a better day than most.
And it was only six in the morning.
“Get up, you lazy arse.”
A rough slap to the back woke Allen from his daze, his eyes coming to meet those of another man, imprisoned in this camp like himself. It didn’t particularly matter how he got here (nonetheless, it was for rebuttal of taxes), just that he was here now. Once you were in, the chance that you came out at all was equivalent to sniping someone halfway across a continent with a pea shooter. If you managed to accomplish this God-send of a task, then you usually ripped off a limb or shouldered a nice little case of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
The list of surviving veterans was about ten, give or take nine.
“Thanks,” he replied gruffly as a deeply calloused hand tore him from the dirt, with only a momentary stumble to his feet.
“Bet you’re loving this guy as much as I am.”
Allen threw a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure the drill sergeant was out of earshot before he said anything else that could potentially earn him dinner duty. He turned his head back around to get a proper look at his assistant in standing. Like he needed one.
“Probably more.”
Both laughed grimly, before shutting their mouths at a moment’s notice when the Sergeant let his eyes fall malevolently upon them. Allen shuffled in the other direction a bit, subconsciously. The sun hadn’t risen yet, and it was fairly cold to boot; it was still winter. Right smack in the middle of it.
A round of shouting ended their morning session, which had started about four A.M. No one could tell for sure anymore; maybe they had woke at three, maybe five. They were all too busy in their groggy misgivings over their four (or five?) hours of sleep.
Most trudged off for the barracks, which would be filled with noise until the real fun began at eight. No one complained, too much, bar the muscle pain and sore joints. Most men were fit to such a military life, as they lived poorly and already had to exert themselves daily, but those who weren’t were basically taking a long-term vacation to Hell.
And apparently, Hell was colder than their drill sergeant’s humour during the winter.
“‘ow long you been stuck here?”
Allen glanced sideways as he and the other man walked sidelong towards outer rim of the camp’s defenses. It was a place for free conversation, outside of the Drill Sergeant’s aura of maddening laughter.
“Allen.”
The man accompanying Allen stopped for a second in his tracks, before coming to a light jog to catch up again.
“‘ow long you been here?”, he repeated without much further hesitance.
“Two months, maybe three. It all just blurs after awhile.”
“Greg. And, yeah.”
They shook hands as they reached the edge of camp. It was not uncommon to meet at least five new recruits in a day, what with the ongoing inflow and outflow of meat.
At least, that's what the Sergeant called them.
Allen winced again. The three-quarter inch bit of shrapnel was starting to hurt now. He thought about taking it out later.
Then, Greg tore it from his shoulder with an empty, flaring pain.
“YY-- hey, wha’ in tha ‘ell was that for?!”
“It’s out.”
Allen grumbled quietly, and they both laughed again.
It wasn’t so bad out here, watching the barren wasteland of sand and rock beyond camp. Better than dinner duty, Allen supposed. Yes, much better.
“Cold out, ‘innit?”
A solitary nod met the question, bouncing off in an attempt to save any warm breath left. Their uniforms weren't exactly made for cold weather, and were fairly temperamental. It was more a old-rag-colored thin jacket and aging cargo pants, both of which had already been worn before, and bloodstained, and torn. This grenadier drill just added to this uniform’s accomplishments within the camp.
“How’d y’ manage to get thrown in here?”
A slight grin spread across Allen’s face. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was just a spur of the moment sort of reaction.
“Well, I guess
--that’s it then.”
August 4, 2030
Allen ran his frustrated hands through his dark hair, looming over a haunting computer screen. “We’re screwed.”
Knuckles popped from the other computer in the small office space in the apartment as Joey rose from his desk in the same frustrated manner. “Even combined, we can’t pay it?”
Allen shook his head dejectedly. “Damn,” the other cursed, pocketing his hands, moping in their downfall. “Then we’re going to get put in then.”
This time, he nodded dejectedly. “Damn politicians already set the penalty. It’s too late now.”
“No chance for a raise?”
“If I asked, I’d be fired. And beaten.”
Allen wandered to the window, glancing out onto their ever-growing city, the sky beginning to grow smoggy again as the noontime sun rose fully, exposing the pollution of their raised industrial standards. “Then that’s that. We’re both going in then.”
He turned, and no one was there.
“Joey?”
The man glanced about the room, pivoting on his heel for a full three-sixty view. Joey had run out. Allen put his head into his hands, plopping sulkily into his work-chair. “Goddammit, he’s run out on the rent.”
A gruff groan came from the man, sulking now. If there had been even a shred of hope before, it had been rerun through the shredding machine that was debt. It was a dejected feeling.
The man stood carefully without any further reproach to the situation. He simply pocketed his hands in a state of cluelessness, ambling toward the door. If I’m going to be dragged into this, I’m going to go down kicking.
In a final resolution, he stepped out the door of his apartment, never to return again. He ran a hand through his hair before returning it to his pocket, his mind already buzzing with a cautious glaze. The film of thought wrapped in a chokehold around his conscious as he waited, patiently and impatiently, for the elevator he now swayed in to stop. Once it had, he made haste to exit, taking a final glance back toward the complex he had called home for.. years? Time was just as slurred as a common drunk these days: everything remained the same. If change came, it came subtly and in a way that the government usually concealed behind its slanderous propaganda and its constant stream of lies. Allen now floated along this very same lie: the penalty for inability to pay for your own home. A small fee to continue our peaceful, happy lives. A brief period of service, for the bettering of our nation.
The question was: if everything was so perfect, then what service was there to be enlisted to?
Allen shook the daft idea as he pushed through crowds of people, as blind to the world as he was. No one ever stopped to even so much as glance toward another; no one spoke. No one thought much, either: no, they had people for that. It was with this that Allen navigated toward a hub for transportation, without drawing suspicion.
Once waiting for a subway, he stopped to think, finally. He felt a bead of sweat swell and fester along his cheek, causing a shiver to run down his spine. The salty bead of restlessness tasted on his lip, and he instantly felt eyes on him.
“You okay, buddy?”
Allen looked sidelong at the man beside him. He realized he had been fidgeting incessantly and stopped the motion as much as his mind would allow, pocketing his hands again to keep the incriminating pair apart. “Fine,” he murmured. The man beside him let his gaze linger curiously for a moment, before looking ahead again, into space across the tunnel.
The subway arrived without much further invoking for Allen. The sweat had stalled for the moment, but he could sense it just below his skin. It was gathering, and a rising feeling caught in his throat. Something was wrong.
“Hey, buddy.”
Him again.
“You dropped this.”
Allen turned to find the same man holding out a wallet. The male smiled both nervously and gratefully, before his muscles locked.
“I don’t carry a wallet on me.”
In a flash of motion, the man with the wallet had lunged out with a taser-like object. Allen grabbed his wrist and twisted, forcing the weapon from his grasp before shoving him into the window of the moving subway. Now that it was in motion, he couldn’t escape. He realized with a dreadful groan that Joey had to have called the situation in. “Bless your soul,” he muttered beneath his breath, to himself. “I know you meant the best.” Debt was not something the government looked at kindly. Not at all, in their case, apparently.
Allen moved forward through the subway’s many cabs, making sure to survey cautiously each from a small window before intruding. The subway was surprisingly near-to-empty, which only led to a more tense state. He could almost feel the thump of feet, somewhere, ten cabs behind, of the government’s goons.
The subway halted eventually, the doors sliding open with a hollow hissing sound. Allen stepped off, and broke instantly into a sprint. He had no second thought that they would now be after him, for the crime of assault. Especially when performed on a government worker.
The sunlight above ground blinded him temporarily, and in his forgetfulness, he threw up an arm to cover his face. Before long, his eyes had adjusted, and he was moving again. Though, he was not moving so quickly now, but rather trying to blend in with crowds. He ditched the effort with a curse, being returned with only odd looks and expressions. It was too obvious now, and besides.
The wail of the sirens grew ever closer.
Allen broke into a sprint.
Closer.
He drew in a deep breath, his lungs swollen nearly to bursting point, taking in all the air he could before making a last ditch effort to outrun them.
Closer.
He barreled through crowds, knocking a few pedestrians over as he went, not offering even a word of apology.
Closer, so close...
Allen ran out into the street, in the middle of busy traffic, or what would have been if the agency cars had not blocked it rapidly.
Further. Behind m-
There was a strong, blunt force applied to his back before the world threw up, leaving him spiraling toward cement, the impact--
nearly shattering bone, but it was recoverable. His legs would be sore later, however.
June 16, 2020
“C’mon, that was nothing!”
Bright laughter cheered Allen past the sore, overextended feeling in his legs now, standing with some difficulty. He glanced skyward, towards the building they had been trying to climb. A local restaurant, one that they loved to bother. The owner loathed them with all his heart.
“Let’s see you get to the top, then,” Allen tossed back, putting up the challenge.
Joey grinned smugly and ran straight for the building, as if he could phase right through it. Although such a feat, or rather, failing of such, would have been much more amusing, Allen found himself smiling all the same as his friend tried to scale the wall. It was laden with old bricks, a window sill, and an old drainage pipe. It should’ve been easy enough to climb, if they were actually trying any more than in a leisurely manner.
Nevertheless, Joey was on the roof.
“Told you. Now, get up here, actually try for once.”
Allen gripped at the wall, pulling himself up meticulously, but scaled it in the same way Joey had, after having watched his movements. It was fairly easier than he could’ve guessed.
--The Boy and the Hill
March 5, 2031
There went Hell.
Flames licked at the burnt night sky, blackened by the smoke and ash left behind by the waves of debris. Enflamed, flickering winds tossed the ash into the sky, leaving a cloud of blinding debris...if only that mattered.
There was no one left to wade through this storm of smog, no one to feel the licks of flame and heat bathe their skin in sweat. No one to watch as the remains of [think of name later] Watch crumble into itself, implode in a heap of cement and a variety of metals.
And suddenly, there was someone.
A pale, cold hand scraped the edges of the rubble, ravenously scavenging for purchase among the loose hill. And there was, as the lone man lifted his half-dead weight over the lip of security, and into this outside cloud, this smokescreen.
He stood.
His legs nearly disappeared from beneath him, begging, begging to melt, to join the boiling blood within his body in its liquid heaven. No such mercy was dragged out of the man’s will, as his strength, and the crumbling cement column he leaned upon, held him on his feet. His satiated hands rested there, where they would (seemingly) never move from again, coming to a final rest. But he knew there was work to be done, so much work. His glazed-over eyes pierced the smoke and ash like the sentinel that the column had stood, standing among the remains of the Watch, the lone survivor, a reality all too real to him.
“So, this is how it ends.”
There was thunder radiating from this storm of smoke. Deep, deeply delved within the debris, were soldiers. Platoons, entire platoons thundered toward the broken remains of the Watch, coming to row over the survivors. They did not seriously expect any opposition at all, and if any came, they could only imagine that it would be a failing, dying effort from a lucky soldier, someone who had survived the blast.
They didn’t expect anyone to be this close to living.
Allen Smith, a recently-enlisted Private of the UNMC, took hold of his sidearm, feeling a wave of nausea wash over him. It was ridiculously overbearing.
And it would only be moments before he
“--got blown up!”
January 2, 2031
Dry laughter echoed around the dead table of joyless men. Stories of death and aversions to the chaos created by warfare was the only way to distract someone in the UNMC from the fate waiting outside, all too well known, especially to those stationed on [...still working on a name] Watch. The war outside, outside their comfortable, well armed little home, was drawing closer every day; and as they idled, others died, expending themselves to keep those ahead alive. None of them wanted to ruminate over this, not even under the thumb of a spare second after dinner duty. No, it was a fate quite incommoded to their conscious, leaving behind an amiable, but dead mien. It was as parched and humorless as a military desert in the Watch, but at least they were left blissfully unaware of the situation at hand.
“So, Allen. What made you sign on, eh?”
A low, bemused chuckle came from the side of the table furthest from the window, with dusklight filtering in quietly. He leaned in slightly, to add an emphasis to his words. “You know that it’s a forced things these days, right?”
Nodding gathered from the whole of the table, with one voice speaking up for it. “Yes, but, why? There are ways to get ‘round it.”
Another chuckle. “Come now, do I look a rich man to you? No, I didn’t have the money to pay the fine.”
Fine was probably a harsh way to put it. It was, as from the government, “a small fee, to continue our peaceful and happy lives”, and the “reward” for not paying such was “a brief period of community service”. The apparent joke was that “peaceful and happy” was synonymous, to politicians, to “poor and miserable”, and the same for “reward” as “penalty”, and “brief” as nearly a “life sentence”.
Yes, it was a wonderful world in those days.
“If you’ll excuse me.”
Allen stood from the table, leaving a bleeding wound in the table. Emotion and interest seemed to flow out from the men as he wandered off, their blank stares meeting without much recognition. There was nothing there to matter, anyways.
He stood in the whitewash kitchenette, the uniform, sterile whitewall and white-plastic-esque floor glaring him down, making his emotions shrink inside of him. Society did this to him, society did this to people. Society did this to society. Emotion was not relevant. Opinion wasn’t, either. Government didn’t care; as long as there were living beings, as long as violence was minimized, it was perfect.
In this, this maddening dream of theirs, they created more violence.
The refrigerator opened with the pop of the hollow vacuum once inside. Allen’s warm fingers had barely gotten a grip upon the cold, smooth glass of the curving bottle neck, before it fell from his grasp.
“They’re dead! Fourth Platoon is dead!”
A couple of impossible blinks. There was no possible way, not ever. Fourth Platoon was impossibly massive, and massively armed, as well as defended.
All as the bottle fell, came into a brief contact with the angry, white-plastic floor, and
--shattered, exploding into shards of irate, keen knives.
December 12, 2030
“Men, duck and cover!”
Everyone dove for the ground; oh, the hospitable ground. Even the hard thump of flesh-on-dirt was much more kind than the shrapnel of a live grenade.
The drill sergeant didn’t particularly care about who survived his boot camp. As long as they could still hold a gun and act, at the most, as cannon fodder.
“This is wonderful.”
“What was that, Private Allen?”
A whoosh of wind left the man’s lungs as he received the sergeant’s boot to his chest, and being the larcenous [enter noun here] he was, the sergeant managed to steal every last breath from him. After a moment of desperate sputtering and coughing, Allen twisted painfully onto his back, staring up at the sky, and the drill sergeant (but mostly the sky) with a trained expression.
“Nothing worth repeating.”
His boot swung back again.
“--sir,” he hastily added, to avoid further damage to his bruised rib cage, and to keep the scrap of metal stuck shallowly into his shoulder exactly the way it was. Shallow.
“That’s right, me boy,” he said, grinning in his own jovial, sarcastic way. “Never forget that bit, and you migh’ make it out without so many bits in you!”
The drill sergeant’s laugh seemed to worsen the dull throb already gathering around the shrapnel stuck into his shoulder.
All in all, it was turning out to be a better day than most.
And it was only six in the morning.
“Get up, you lazy arse.”
A rough slap to the back woke Allen from his daze, his eyes coming to meet those of another man, imprisoned in this camp like himself. It didn’t particularly matter how he got here (nonetheless, it was for rebuttal of taxes), just that he was here now. Once you were in, the chance that you came out at all was equivalent to sniping someone halfway across a continent with a pea shooter. If you managed to accomplish this God-send of a task, then you usually ripped off a limb or shouldered a nice little case of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
The list of surviving veterans was about ten, give or take nine.
“Thanks,” he replied gruffly as a deeply calloused hand tore him from the dirt, with only a momentary stumble to his feet.
“Bet you’re loving this guy as much as I am.”
Allen threw a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure the drill sergeant was out of earshot before he said anything else that could potentially earn him dinner duty. He turned his head back around to get a proper look at his assistant in standing. Like he needed one.
“Probably more.”
Both laughed grimly, before shutting their mouths at a moment’s notice when the Sergeant let his eyes fall malevolently upon them. Allen shuffled in the other direction a bit, subconsciously. The sun hadn’t risen yet, and it was fairly cold to boot; it was still winter. Right smack in the middle of it.
A round of shouting ended their morning session, which had started about four A.M. No one could tell for sure anymore; maybe they had woke at three, maybe five. They were all too busy in their groggy misgivings over their four (or five?) hours of sleep.
Most trudged off for the barracks, which would be filled with noise until the real fun began at eight. No one complained, too much, bar the muscle pain and sore joints. Most men were fit to such a military life, as they lived poorly and already had to exert themselves daily, but those who weren’t were basically taking a long-term vacation to Hell.
And apparently, Hell was colder than their drill sergeant’s humour during the winter.
“‘ow long you been stuck here?”
Allen glanced sideways as he and the other man walked sidelong towards outer rim of the camp’s defenses. It was a place for free conversation, outside of the Drill Sergeant’s aura of maddening laughter.
“Allen.”
The man accompanying Allen stopped for a second in his tracks, before coming to a light jog to catch up again.
“‘ow long you been here?”, he repeated without much further hesitance.
“Two months, maybe three. It all just blurs after awhile.”
“Greg. And, yeah.”
They shook hands as they reached the edge of camp. It was not uncommon to meet at least five new recruits in a day, what with the ongoing inflow and outflow of meat.
At least, that's what the Sergeant called them.
Allen winced again. The three-quarter inch bit of shrapnel was starting to hurt now. He thought about taking it out later.
Then, Greg tore it from his shoulder with an empty, flaring pain.
“YY-- hey, wha’ in tha ‘ell was that for?!”
“It’s out.”
Allen grumbled quietly, and they both laughed again.
It wasn’t so bad out here, watching the barren wasteland of sand and rock beyond camp. Better than dinner duty, Allen supposed. Yes, much better.
“Cold out, ‘innit?”
A solitary nod met the question, bouncing off in an attempt to save any warm breath left. Their uniforms weren't exactly made for cold weather, and were fairly temperamental. It was more a old-rag-colored thin jacket and aging cargo pants, both of which had already been worn before, and bloodstained, and torn. This grenadier drill just added to this uniform’s accomplishments within the camp.
“How’d y’ manage to get thrown in here?”
A slight grin spread across Allen’s face. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was just a spur of the moment sort of reaction.
“Well, I guess
--that’s it then.”
August 4, 2030
Allen ran his frustrated hands through his dark hair, looming over a haunting computer screen. “We’re screwed.”
Knuckles popped from the other computer in the small office space in the apartment as Joey rose from his desk in the same frustrated manner. “Even combined, we can’t pay it?”
Allen shook his head dejectedly. “Damn,” the other cursed, pocketing his hands, moping in their downfall. “Then we’re going to get put in then.”
This time, he nodded dejectedly. “Damn politicians already set the penalty. It’s too late now.”
“No chance for a raise?”
“If I asked, I’d be fired. And beaten.”
Allen wandered to the window, glancing out onto their ever-growing city, the sky beginning to grow smoggy again as the noontime sun rose fully, exposing the pollution of their raised industrial standards. “Then that’s that. We’re both going in then.”
He turned, and no one was there.
“Joey?”
The man glanced about the room, pivoting on his heel for a full three-sixty view. Joey had run out. Allen put his head into his hands, plopping sulkily into his work-chair. “Goddammit, he’s run out on the rent.”
A gruff groan came from the man, sulking now. If there had been even a shred of hope before, it had been rerun through the shredding machine that was debt. It was a dejected feeling.
The man stood carefully without any further reproach to the situation. He simply pocketed his hands in a state of cluelessness, ambling toward the door. If I’m going to be dragged into this, I’m going to go down kicking.
In a final resolution, he stepped out the door of his apartment, never to return again. He ran a hand through his hair before returning it to his pocket, his mind already buzzing with a cautious glaze. The film of thought wrapped in a chokehold around his conscious as he waited, patiently and impatiently, for the elevator he now swayed in to stop. Once it had, he made haste to exit, taking a final glance back toward the complex he had called home for.. years? Time was just as slurred as a common drunk these days: everything remained the same. If change came, it came subtly and in a way that the government usually concealed behind its slanderous propaganda and its constant stream of lies. Allen now floated along this very same lie: the penalty for inability to pay for your own home. A small fee to continue our peaceful, happy lives. A brief period of service, for the bettering of our nation.
The question was: if everything was so perfect, then what service was there to be enlisted to?
Allen shook the daft idea as he pushed through crowds of people, as blind to the world as he was. No one ever stopped to even so much as glance toward another; no one spoke. No one thought much, either: no, they had people for that. It was with this that Allen navigated toward a hub for transportation, without drawing suspicion.
Once waiting for a subway, he stopped to think, finally. He felt a bead of sweat swell and fester along his cheek, causing a shiver to run down his spine. The salty bead of restlessness tasted on his lip, and he instantly felt eyes on him.
“You okay, buddy?”
Allen looked sidelong at the man beside him. He realized he had been fidgeting incessantly and stopped the motion as much as his mind would allow, pocketing his hands again to keep the incriminating pair apart. “Fine,” he murmured. The man beside him let his gaze linger curiously for a moment, before looking ahead again, into space across the tunnel.
The subway arrived without much further invoking for Allen. The sweat had stalled for the moment, but he could sense it just below his skin. It was gathering, and a rising feeling caught in his throat. Something was wrong.
“Hey, buddy.”
Him again.
“You dropped this.”
Allen turned to find the same man holding out a wallet. The male smiled both nervously and gratefully, before his muscles locked.
“I don’t carry a wallet on me.”
In a flash of motion, the man with the wallet had lunged out with a taser-like object. Allen grabbed his wrist and twisted, forcing the weapon from his grasp before shoving him into the window of the moving subway. Now that it was in motion, he couldn’t escape. He realized with a dreadful groan that Joey had to have called the situation in. “Bless your soul,” he muttered beneath his breath, to himself. “I know you meant the best.” Debt was not something the government looked at kindly. Not at all, in their case, apparently.
Allen moved forward through the subway’s many cabs, making sure to survey cautiously each from a small window before intruding. The subway was surprisingly near-to-empty, which only led to a more tense state. He could almost feel the thump of feet, somewhere, ten cabs behind, of the government’s goons.
The subway halted eventually, the doors sliding open with a hollow hissing sound. Allen stepped off, and broke instantly into a sprint. He had no second thought that they would now be after him, for the crime of assault. Especially when performed on a government worker.
The sunlight above ground blinded him temporarily, and in his forgetfulness, he threw up an arm to cover his face. Before long, his eyes had adjusted, and he was moving again. Though, he was not moving so quickly now, but rather trying to blend in with crowds. He ditched the effort with a curse, being returned with only odd looks and expressions. It was too obvious now, and besides.
The wail of the sirens grew ever closer.
Allen broke into a sprint.
Closer.
He drew in a deep breath, his lungs swollen nearly to bursting point, taking in all the air he could before making a last ditch effort to outrun them.
Closer.
He barreled through crowds, knocking a few pedestrians over as he went, not offering even a word of apology.
Closer, so close...
Allen ran out into the street, in the middle of busy traffic, or what would have been if the agency cars had not blocked it rapidly.
Further. Behind m-
There was a strong, blunt force applied to his back before the world threw up, leaving him spiraling toward cement, the impact--
nearly shattering bone, but it was recoverable. His legs would be sore later, however.
June 16, 2020
“C’mon, that was nothing!”
Bright laughter cheered Allen past the sore, overextended feeling in his legs now, standing with some difficulty. He glanced skyward, towards the building they had been trying to climb. A local restaurant, one that they loved to bother. The owner loathed them with all his heart.
“Let’s see you get to the top, then,” Allen tossed back, putting up the challenge.
Joey grinned smugly and ran straight for the building, as if he could phase right through it. Although such a feat, or rather, failing of such, would have been much more amusing, Allen found himself smiling all the same as his friend tried to scale the wall. It was laden with old bricks, a window sill, and an old drainage pipe. It should’ve been easy enough to climb, if they were actually trying any more than in a leisurely manner.
Nevertheless, Joey was on the roof.
“Told you. Now, get up here, actually try for once.”
Allen gripped at the wall, pulling himself up meticulously, but scaled it in the same way Joey had, after having watched his movements. It was fairly easier than he could’ve guessed.