They called it the City of Light, but it was colorless. The streets between the broken buildings were narrow and cramped, dull and grey. The light only managed to illuminate the dullness of the city itself. One shouldn't be fooled, however, it was quite alive, bustling full of people at all hours of the day, but it was more reminiscent of a reanimated corpse than anything else. It was a city back from the dead.
Odette knew it had once been called New York, though that didn't much matter to the people that lived there now. Majority of the buildings were rebuilt ruins, but it was still easy to find "New York" engraved on walls here and there. She imagined it had once been much grander than the mess of buildings it was now. The City itself was quite large, large enough so that most of it had yet to be reclaimed from the destruction nearly one hundred years ago, leaving all of the city's population to live in the same crowded area. She had grown up in the same large house on the same large street for her entire life. It did not escape her how fortunate she was.
Her parents had thrown quite the fit when she decided to move into one of the buildings they owned. The area itself wasn't particularly known for it's safety, but it was a quaint little studio apartment on the bottom level of a larger complex. Her parents owned majority of the real estate within the city, and were quite perplexed by her choice of apartments. It wasn't until she explained to them that she planned to pay her own rent that they understood (though still did not approve).
And so it was in this tiny apartment, in a not so well off area of the City of Light, that Odette found a nearly dead boy on her doorstep.
It was a rainy night that left her tossing and turning, it seemed she could not get comfortable. Something felt wrong; the room, the air, she could not tell, but she was unsettled, to say the least. It wasn't until she heard a soft scraping at her door that it finally made sense.
Crime itself was not unfamiliar to her street, but this was the first time she had seen any criminal act herself, so when she hesitantly opened the door with the largest knife she owned in her hand, she was surprised to find a pool of rain and blood leaking into her apartment.
There was a boy not one foot away, face down in the bloody mixture. At first she was sure he was dead, but his limp, outstretched hand, reaching for her door, made her rethink her assessment.
Without a thought, Odette dropped the knife, stepped into the rain and rolled the boy over. Mud and blood painted his lifeless face. She reached for his neck and found he was warm, a slow pulse beating underneath his clammy skin. She glanced up through the rain, searching the ally for some culprit but found none; the street was empty.
It was then that Odette realized she had only two options. One involved dragging a nearly dead stranger into her apartment, and the other ended his most probable death, neither of which being the preferred choice. After a moment's hesitation, Odette grabbed the boy by his armpits and began to tug.
~
John Murphy awoke with a pounding headache in a dimly lit room. It took him a moment to shake the blurriness from his vision. A surge of energy swam in his stomach as he realized he was in an unfamiliar space, in an unfamiliar bed. His left side was throbbing along with his head. He searched his thoughts for his last memory, but even that was blurry. Murphy made to sit up but recoiled as pain splintered through his body.
The room was small, entirely draped in wood paneling. A bedside table was next to him, a lamp a top it. He was memorized for a moment; it had been over a month since he'd seen electricity, and truthfully he'd never expected to see it again.
"You're awake. Good."
A girl stood just beyond the light.
Murphy tried to sit up again and winced.
"Don't!" She lunged toward the bed, "You could tear your stitches, and I really don't want to have to do that again."
Murphy didn't quite know what to say. He'd never met a civilized human from the ground before.
She had long brown hair that waved around her figure, her blue eyes wide with concern.
"Stitches?" he choked out, his throat raw and raspy.
"Well, yes…" she said slowly, "You were stabbed." She furrowed her eyebrows when he said nothing. "Do you not remember being stabbed? I feel like that's something you'd remember." She plopped down into the wooden chair beside him, crossing her arms.
"No, I—well, vaguely." He recalled the men chasing him and the shock of pain, but after that, nothing.
"Huh. Interesting," was all she said before shooting up from her seat, "Oh! You must be thirsty! Here, let me get you water."
The girl danced around the chair and headed toward a sink on the far wall, next to a refrigerator and small countertop. She grabbed a glass from the shelf above as she turned on the faucet.
"You have running water?" Murphy tried not to sound as astounded as he felt.
"Hmm?" She mumbled, glancing over her shoulder at him, "Oh, yeah. What? You don't?" She resumed filling the cup without expecting an answer. "Sorry. That was rude. I know there are areas of the city without running water." She crossed the room and handed him the water.
Murphy slowly raised himself up to accept the glass. He downed it in three gulps.
"Do you want more?" She asked as he set it on the table beside him.
"Got anything stronger?" He smirked.
She raised an eyebrow at him and crossed her arms. "Perhaps, but I don't think that's the best idea right now. But hey, I'm no doctor."
"Yet you gave me stitches?"
"Well, it was either that or let you bleed out. At least I'm a seamstress, okay? You've got some professional stitching in your side now." She snatched the empty glass and went to fill it again. "You don't sound very thankful that I saved you're life. Don't make me regret it."
Murphy only let out a small chuckle. His life wasn't exactly some miraculous thing to save.
"What's your name?" He asked after a moment of silence as she filled up the glass again.
The girl returned with a full glass of water and set it on the bedside table. She studied him for a moment, as if deciding if he deserved the information.
"Odette. Odette Hale." She crossed her arms. "And who are you?"
"Murphy."
She raised an eyebrow, "That's it? Just Murphy?"
He rolled his eyes, as if annoyed. "John Murphy."
"Okay, then, John." Odette sat in the chair next to him, "So, are you going to explain to me how you ended up nearly dead on my doorstep in the middle of the night?"
Murphy hesitated, could he tell this stranger the truth? Clearly she assumed he was from the City of Lights, which made sense, but how would she react if she knew he was an outsider? If he lied to her, how long could he keep it up without giving it away? He'd only been in the city a day.
"I, uh," he readjusted himself, fully sitting up in bed, the pain in his side echoing across his abdomen. "I don't remember, really." It wasn't a complete lie, he didn't remember laying outside her door, or bleeding out. He remembered running through the streets, ducking behind street vendors and shimming into alleys, but the men were relentless. They knew he was an outsider, a savage, they called him, but they wouldn't listen. They only wanted him dead. They wouldn't have any savages in their city.
At least they were more merciful than the Grounders had been.
"You don't remember? Anything? Well, what's the last thing you do remember?"
"I—" He had never had trouble lying, but her eyes were filled with earnest concern, and he felt his lie breaking on his tongue. He ran a hand through his hair; it stuck together in clumps. "I was, uh, just walking home. It was late. I guess I went down the wrong street."
"Well, crime isn't exactly uncommon around here." She leaned back and crossed her arms again. "Do you know who did this to you?"
He shook his head, "No. I've never seen them before."
"So you don't remember what happened but you remember who it was?"
He didn't hesitate this time, "I remember faces. Blurs. But I remember not recognizing them." The lies were getting easier the more she pried.
She nodded and pursed her lips, looking away. She wasn't sold on his story and it was painfully obvious.
"Look, I know this sounds bizarre but I—I just don't remember." Murphy put on his most pitiful face.
"Where do you live?" She locked eyes with him.
"What?" He stalled for time.
"You said you were going home, do you live near here?"
"I don't know where I am, exactly." He grabbed for the glass of water and took a long sip, ignoring the pain in his chest.
"We're just east of the Governor's house, on Fell Street." The concern in her eyes had given away to a stern look of suspicion; all her soft curves and turned to rough edges.
Murphy racked his brain for any street sign that he'd seen in his day in the city, only one came to mind. It had struck him when he saw it; it had been one of his mother's favorite composers.
"Beethoven."
Her glare didn't soften, "that isn't exactly close to here."
"I realize." He tried not to break eye contact. He knew looking away would only make him look weak.
The girl sat forward, sighing, as if giving up her investigation. "You must be hungry." She stood and walked toward the stove. The knot in his stomach loosened.
"Yes, now that you mention it." His headache had subsided sometime ago, but the pain in his side was burning.
"I made some soup earlier. I'll warm it up for you."
He could tell she was avoiding looking at him, finding something to busy herself with. They were silent as she stirred whatever was in the pot.
"How did you know to stitch me up?" He asked.
Odette didn't turn around, "I've heard that's what you traditionally do when someone has been cut." There was an edge of sarcasm in her voice.
"I mean—how did you know the damage wasn't more? That simple stitches would save me?" He wasn't as curious about this as he led on to be, but he preferred to keep the conversation on her.
"I didn't. I just stitched you up and hoped you didn't die in my bed. That would have been hell to clean up."
The concerned, soft girl was gone. Suddenly, she was cold and sharp. She knew he was lying.
He watched as she ladled the soup into a bowl and turned off the stove. She paused a moment before turning back toward him, putting her hands on her hips.
"You look, and smell, like you haven't showered in weeks."
He snorted, "Showered? No. I don't have a shower."
She came toward him fast, anger in each step; the robe she wore over her nightgown trailing behind her. "Oh, come off it. I know you're lying." She stood over him, arms crossed. "You looked at that lamp like you've never seen electricity before, you're surprised I have running water, your clothes are covered in sand and mud, your body is full of scars and cuts, you clearly haven't bathed in weeks and you expect me to believe you were randomly attacked in an alley while you were walking to your house on the other side of the City? Come on."
Murphy sighed and rolled his head to stretch his neck. There was no point in pretending anymore. Hopefully she wouldn't rip his stitches out. "You're right. I'm lying."
Odette's eyes grew soft again and her shoulders loosened. "So just tell me who you really are. I deserve to know whose life I saved." She was no longer on the offensive.
Murphy didn't say anything. Instead, he stared at the couch across the room. Where would he even begin?
"If I didn't know better," she said softly, "I'd say you came straight out of the Dead Zone."
His eyes flicked to meet hers, "I did."
"What?" She breathed.
He shrugged his shoulders in defeat, "I did. And that's why they stabbed me."
