Do you know the relationship between your two eyes?
They blink together,
they move together,
they cry together,
they see things together,
they even sleep together.
They live their entire lives right by the other's side.
But they never, ever see each other.
The morning was cold and the fog hung so low in the air your feet cut through it as you walked. Thousands of citizens began their blank-faced routines, praying for one more day to hope for the next, for one more meal, even a scant one, to keep them from their not-so-far-off fate.
Red hair, cut short, was so caked in natural grime it looked brown. Bright blue eyes stared out at the world with a lonely, desolate stare. But deep inside the darkest of the pits lay a tiny thought. A hope. The hope of a tiny ring hanging on a chair under his shirt.
"Daxter," called a familiar, slurring accent, "someone threw up in the bathroom again. Get to it!" Rolls of flesh slid and jiggled as the command was shouted over the loud music, a floating chair nearly toppling the meatball right off it's perch as it leaned forward for emphasis.
Blue eyes moved to roll in their sockets before rotating up and to the left.
"Krew, baby, you should stop eating those hot wings. You know they upset yer wittle tummy." The wit went flat without a look to accompany it, half-lidded eyes closing more as the lythe but tall body slowly moved into action, away from the counter. The floating blob glared as it watched, it's chair humming angrily.
Unporportionally long fingers wrapped around the mop handle, the other hand sliding to the bucket, a groan with it's heave. Water splashed onto the floor with each uneasy, strained step the entire way to the men's room.
"Stupid, loudy Krimson Guard... Come in here and have a gay ol' time before pukin' up their entire day's food... for ME to clean up! Stupid, stupid..." Tiny grumbled left thin lips as his rear hit the door, pushing it open. A gasp when a sandal slid on soapy water, and the bucket went flying right over his head. His arms flung back as gravity took hold of him. But the floor did not claim him, as a solid chest met his back instead.
"Sweet mother'a--" He leaped away, arms up at the ready. "Shi-- Sorry, sorry! I was just--"
His voice stopped. It was almost like looking in a mirror. Tired blue eyes stared back at him in annoyance, but not in anger. This man was not drunk. A thick, calloused hand ran through cropped, green-blonde hair as full lips curved into a deep frown. One hand was hidden behind a thick body, and the redhead knew what he was hiding.
"Sorry... Just, uh... came to clean up the mess." His thumb jutted towards the stalls against the wall, and he glanced to see an obvious murky puddle near the end of the line. His eyes darted back to the man before him. "Was you, buddy?" No response came. Not a nod, not a word. Not even a guilty look. "Ah... Well, you go get yerself some water, 'k? It'll make you feel better. I'll uh... Clean all this up..." He looked to the floor, now reflecting in soap-water and filth.
The blonde didn't hesitate, stepping with wide strides around him and out of the restroom. The redhead sighed, lifting his fallen mop from the floor and righting his bucket, beginning his chore.
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The water was warm and dust fell blissfully to the bottom of the glass. But the boy had been right. It had helped.
His still-dry throat tingled slightly in after-taste, dark blue orbs scouting the room of drunkards and women. The beat was too loud, the lights too bright, the shadows too dark. Too much of something for one so used to nothing at all. The desert seemed so peaceful compared to the nightlife of the city. Metal everywhere, nothing organic but the clothes on one's back. You couldn't even consider yourself organic. You were a pawn, not even real. A drone to be used and abused by your master, your protector.
But eyes had seemed so different. Those eyes.
Looking around the room or on the street, it made no matter. Souls dragged behind the feet, eyes on the ground or darting cautiously ahead while a red-metal giant passed by, then glared with diluded hatred once they'd disappeared.
But those eyes. Those blue mirrors... So full of something else. Seemed ready to just explode and let the entire world drown in it.
He'd not been angry. Surprised, annoyed, confused. But those eyes had bled the anger away like anti-poison.
His face had been near repulsive in the gleaming bathroom lights. The dirt and dust and oil and smoke caked to his skin was so vidible it hurt almost as bad as the neon streams. But it reminded him of home, of the dusty, dirty people he'd left behind. That did not bother him so much.
But the two stark white squares forcing themselves between thin lips were like a huge target. And the lank, submissive frame had conflicted so much with the eyes it hurt his head to remember. Fingers rubbed closed eyes, memories pooling behind dark lids. The blue washed over him, like ice cold water. It hypnotized him and awoke him at the same chest ached and burst with each breath through rememberance.
But the sound of solid, metalic footsteps broke his hypnosis, his own heated eyes turning wide to the door.
"This building has been ordered shut down by his grand protector of the city, Baron Praxis. All inside are under arrest for harboring fugatives and underground rebels. Surrender now!"
His ear caught another sound, his eyes flickering to the bathroom door. He was just quick enough to catch a streak of red flee through bar, to the counter and out a side door, a blonde woman, the bartender, being dragged behind rushedly.
His common sense returned a split second before a gun butt collided with his temple, a strong, thick arm rising to block the hit. A moment of shock and his body leapt into action. Another arm rising to pumel a shielded face into submission, metal-capped boots balancing while one rose to deeply dent hard armor. But his valor was not enough, and a shimering streak of blue light clasped onto him, his body flailing mercilessly in agony, each nerve on fire and frantic for release. What fel like an eternity in pain finally diminished, and his body fell to it's knees. He was out cold before he ever hit the floor.
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Sweaty hand held for dear life as he pulled her through the dank, under-used kitchen to a set of double back doors. Confused, wide eyes darted between him and behind them, a loud comotion soon catching up. He suddenly stopped, gripping the woman's shoulder's tightly.
"Listen to me, Tess. As soon as we get outside you head towards the stadium and hide out there, ok? I'll head to the slums--"
"Daxter, no-- We have to--"
His answer was a final motion, throwing her out of the back door. He emerged behind her to find half a dozen raised barrels towards them.
His mind shut off time. Thoughts spun faster than the blink of an eye, calculating the entire alleyway, the guards, and the woman pushing back against him. His mind sobbed in agony as his arms pushed her aside before reaching for a long wooden plank from a broken palette. He swung, the first raising covered arm to deflect the blow. But another thrust into his gut quieted him, his knees folding so his body met the ground. He shouted to the woman, not watching as she hesitated before darting away fearfully. Instead he could only watch as a gun raised, swinging at him and catching him across the face, a deep gash tearing open from cheekbone to chin. His body collapsed limply to the broken pavement.