He was a punk, twenty-nine and disabled. His shaggy blond was always unkempt and the sleepy grin he gave to all the pretty young girls revealed the yellowing of his teeth. The black tee-shirt he nearly always wore was a bit too loose and smelled of smoke. The dark circles under his bottle green eyes gave him a certain character and the piercings under his lip only added to his rough appearance.
Looking at him, most people would see just another rebel, just another man who refused to make himself useful by landing a real job instead of whatever it was that his kind did for a living. He was easy to overlook and he was easy to judge. But this man was not another anything, he had a name and he had his reasons for living.
The war had been at least eleven or twelve ago. Hell, he couldn't really remember. He didn't want to remember. Everything he had, all of it, was lost because of that stupid nonsensical war. That's what he would tell everyone who dared to ask him about his service. Sure, it was an honor to wear that uniform and serve his country, but it wasn't making him happy now. He lost his friends and he lost the one person he thought he could hold onto forever.
He was receiving a monthly benefit as a payment for his services. It wasn't anything impressive, but enough to cover the rent for the project homes built right after everything was cleared, which included the ruins of cities that were only memories to most of the population. The children born in the recent years only knew of the places by stories passed down by their parents. But there were some who, of course, vowed to keep their children in the dark of all the harsh realities that went on a long time ago, even though it was still in recent memory.
Up until about six months ago, the war and everything connected to the whole shebang was freely talked about among various political and social groups, but after a certain bill dubbed The Renascence Act passed through multiple parliaments and houses, it became illegal if there were no formal and most likely censored discussion approved by various leaders. As of yet, no requests have quite made it through the process of being approved despite what has been said in the media owned by the new governments.
It was all a mess, but a mess swept tidily under the rug by a well-meaning, although lazy maid who had much better things to with her time. That's what Arthur believed so sternly. Everything and anything had a special process or a code of law to follow. The world was not so gigantic anymore, instead it was one unit, one big international neighborhood. What once was separate, the old United Kingdom, the United States, Australia, and all the other countries in the world were now each part of a new world government with mirroring laws. An issue in Russia was everybody's issue. An issue in the Philippines, also, would be a topic hotly debated by representatives from everywhere in the world. And if a leader of a country was being particularly naughty, he would be asked to step down from his position. Anything other than a compliance would not be accepted.
Even with all his criticisms of this change, Arthur, at the least, appreciated the aid and awareness of those suffering in places still in shambles by the events which led to the renascence. Some places were still in the dark, but were promised to soon be as constructed as of the rest of the redeveloping countries.
Arthur watched the broadcasts with heavy eyes, muttering to himself about how some idiotic proposals were often given too much consideration. Lately, an American representative had been pressing forth the idea of a super highway to connect to countries over the stretch of the ocean. Ridiculous, he thought. But those Americans loved the idea of making money from ocean resorts that would surely follow the super highway, even if they were capable of such nonsense. It would be a waste of aid money, surely.
The metro was one of the few ways Arthur travelled other than his wheelchair. The one in his city, although monitored by those infuriating enforcers, had a bad reputation for trouble and trouble often followed Arthur no matter what he did. So it came to little surprise when the skinhead wannabes had set him aside as a seemingly easy target in the dim, graffiti littered platform.
"Nice wheels," said the tallest of the group, presumably the leader, probably no older than eighteen or nineteen. He carried himself with too much effort to appear intimidating and the others followed suit. "Mind if I take them for a spin?"
Arthur, though a little uneasy, scoffed. "Why don't you and the other shits suck each other's balls and call it a day?" He half-chuckled at his own words and tightened his grip of the chair, expecting the worse from this situation. Five against one disabled man had a rather obvious outcome. He wasn't kidding himself.
"Let's beat this fucking wanker," commanded the now red-faced leader, as he hurled his fist toward Arthur's face.
He thought he was going to die right there on the platform. His wheelchair was now separated from him and he was now a helpless crumpled heap, being beaten to a bloody pulp by a bunch of damned kids with nothing better to do. The more he struggled, the less of a thing he could do about his situation.
But then, a whistle, the annoying ones the enforcers used, was blown. Arthur groaned, and to his relief, the attackers got up and ran away to avoid being detained. Little did they know however, there was only one enforcer present and now he stood over the bloodied Englishman, trying to catch his breath.
He was young, from what Arthur could tell from his eyes which were now beginning to hideously swell. He had a face that looked almost babyish and immature, likely a reject from the military to have this low level job of monitoring the worst metro station ever. "Hey," he said, bending over to gawk at him. "Dude, are you okay?"
"Do I.." he wheezed. "..bloody look like I'm okay? I don't exactly enjoy being a punching bag nor like lying around on a damn dirty platform in my own blood with some idiot asking stupid questions!"
"Geez, I'm sorry." The young man stooped down and pulled Arthur by his arm. "Can you stand? Do I need to call for backup or anything?" He had heard of stories like this, of gangs beating up people and stealing whatever valuables they had, but this was the first time he had actually witnessed it in person.
The wheelchair was out of arm's length and apparently went unnoticed by the greenhorn enforcer. Arthur yanked his arm away and pointed to the chair in frustration. "I can't stand. Bring it closer, twat." He watched confusion cloud over the blonde's face, but then it finally registered because soon enough Arthur felt himself being lifted like a ragdoll and positioned back into the seat of the wheelchair.
The Englishman grimaced while the man fumbled with something in the pocket of his uniform. "What are you doing?"
"Trying to find my tissue to wipe your face," he responded, pulling out candy wrappers and crumpled papers. "Just a second, I know it's in here somewhere." The nametag pinned crooked on his jacket gleamed, catching Arthur's eye.
"Aren't you supposed to keep a first aid kit? I don't want you wiping your used tissues all over me, that's disgusting." Arthur had already wiped most of the blood from his face with his sleeves. He was in pain, but it only reminded him as his time as a soldier. This little annoyance was nothing compared to then.
Jones, according to the nametag, paused and glanced down the platform. "Well, I kind of lost the keys to the office they gave me, so, uh.." He stepped behind Arthur and began to push the wheelchair. "I'll just take you over the department and have you file a report and I'll totally find somebody to patch you up."
..Until next time, my loves.