They called it the Bronx Massacre.

It happened fifteen years ago. The UN was about to vote Ravinia as the spiritual leader of the world. But as a last-ditch attempt to change their minds, a rebel group that called themselves the Foundation held a rally in Yankee Stadium, hoping to sway the vote. Unfortunately, it was to no avail, and the UN voted in favor of Ravinia. Those at the rally watched the announcement in despair, thinking it couldn't get any worse…when it did.

Three helicopters appeared seemingly out of nowhere, and Ravinian guards dropped down from them, as well as coming in from all the entrances. It happened so suddenly no one could stop it, no one could move, could only look on in horror. As they watched, a man walked onto the stage that had been set up on the field. A man they all knew and hated.

Alexander Naymeer. The founder of Ravinia.

People booed and screamed for him to leave, but he paid them no mind. "My friends!" he called, as if his audience was anything close to being on good terms with him. "The choice has been made. Our noble cause has been recognized. A glorious future awaits, but there is much work to be done." Some were trying to rush the stage, but the guards held them at bay. Naymeer continued, "Today is the beginning. It is a day that will forever be looked back upon as the turning point of mankind. It is the day when we grab hold of our own destiny and begin to create the life we so rightly deserve."

Naymeer's calm voice suddenly became harsh. "You are here today because you have made a choice. Rather than rising to your fullest potential, you have chosen to let other lead the way for you. You have chosen to tear down rather than build up. You criticize rather than strategize. Instead of working to improve your lot, you are satisfied with being carried on the backs of others.

"For that, I pity you. If we are to see our way through to a greater world, we will no longer make excuses. No longer tolerate lethargy. Idleness. Sloth. You have chosen your own path. You could have reveled in the glory of Halla. Instead you will be swept away by the tide of purification."

As the end of his illustrious, well delivered, and totally bullshit speech, the leader of the elite thrust his hand into the air, the gray ring on his finger glowing.

And it is at this point that every single documentation of this event ends, as if all the cameras suddenly cut out. There is no record, not one, of what happened after, only this:

Over 70,000 people went inside the stadium that day.

Not one person came out.

There was nothing inside the stadium to show what had transpired –no bodies, no blood –nothing but charred grass.

There were people who attempted to seek out the truth of what happened that day, but eventually fear won out over curiosity. The world was afraid to stand against Ravinia, and their power grew until no one could. They went from being mere 'spiritual advisors' to replacing the UN as world leaders, and set in motion Naymeer's plan for Utopia.

National borders became more and more 'lines on a map' than solid boundaries, until eventually they disappeared entirely, and the world became one great country, the U.R.R. (United Republic of Ravinia). Great cities and fantastic venues were constructed – but for the Ravinians alone. For all those who did not fit the ideal, all the common people, walls were built – walls that cut them off from the glory of Ravinia and enclosed them in settlements called Horizon Compounds. Those in the compounds were forced to work, doing all the menial tasks and labor that the Ravinians would not, and were watched over by robotic 'dados', the Ravinian's guards. The 'Horizons', as they were known as, became ghettos, filled with crime and disease, and the continual, mindless labor combined with poverty broke the wills of the people, ensuring that no one would dare rise up against Ravinia.

The wills of most people, anyway.

For there were some that refused to give up, coming together to defy the force that had destroyed their world. They plotted against the Ravinians, and kept alive the memories of those who had fought them before. They searched for answers, and were the few who still dared to seek the truth about what had happened on the day that it all started at Yankee Stadium –

While Kurogane tried his hardest to forget.

…~…

Kurogane's eyes flew open, taking in his surroundings. He was lying down, in his apartment. The clock on the nightstand read 7:00. He closed his eyes, trying to steady his breathing. A dream. Just a dream. Idiot.

He sat up, and winced. Giving your bed to a stranger and sleeping on the floor, though hospitable, was not kind to your back. He stretched, and looked around. All was as it should be, everything in its place, though it wouldn't look it to the uninitiated. Kurogane's idea of organization was that every piece of paper, every pencil, every tool and shoe and article of clothing strewn about the room was in that specific place for a reason, and anyone who touched anything or –unthinkable though it may be –put anything away in a drawer, would irreparably upset the balance of his apartment, and throw the world as he knew it into chaos.

It wasn't a dirty place, though. A bit dusty in places, yes –it wasn't as if he was going to poke about with a feather duster –but mostly clean. There was just a bunch of stuff: on the floor, on and under the dresser (though not much in the dresser), on the nightstand, on the kitchen counters, completely covering the big green couch in the corner, and in the bathroom. There was usually stuff on the bed, too, but today, something else occupied it.

The blonde man lay there, unconscious, looking no better than he had when Kurogane picked him up last night. He had tried his best to dress his wounds when he had got in the apartment, but it wasn't something he did often, so he had no idea of knowing whether he had done any good or not. Right now it didn't seem like it: the man's breaking was shallow, and he seemed to be running a high fever along with his injuries, or perhaps due to them.

Kurogane was beginning to regret bringing him home. Without treatment, the chances were high that the man wouldn't make it, and there weren't any hospitals nearby. What was he going to do if he died? Even if he could afford a proper burial, his car was broken down, and he sure as hell wasn't lugging a dead body ten miles the coroners. Tossing him in the dumpster underneath his window would be easiest; admittedly insensitive, but better than rotting in the streets, they way some of the homeless would end up doing this winter.

He stood, grumbling to himself as he walked over to the window and opened the blinds. He squinted his eyes as the light streamed in. Rather bright for 7:00. Was it daylight savings or something? He yawned, and turned away from the window to face the bed. He stood over it for a moment, staring at the man.

"You better live, damn it," he muttered. "It's going to be a real pain in the ass if you don't."

…~…

He was in the kitchen making coffee when he heard the crash.

His first thought, after reaching for his gun (which he'd left in his coat in the other room)was that it was the blonde; he then discarded this notion as implausible. Perhaps a burglar? But what the hell did he have to steal? After deciding that someone breaking into his house this early in the morning was an equally ridiculous idea, he grabbed a frying pan and stormed into the bedroom to find out what was actually happening.

There was no one in the room, save for the blonde, who did not appear to have moved. The window was shattered, and amidst the broken glass on the floor was an old baseball.

"Stupid kids," he grumbled, kneeling down to pick up the glass.

The doorbell rang. He sighed irritably, and then went to answer it. He flung open the door.

"What?" he demanded.

The timid-looking boy standing there jumped. His eyes widened. "Um," he began nervously, "I –um –my ball went through your window."

"Yeah."

"Can I –have it back?"

"No," he said, and slammed the door in the kid's face. He leaned against it, and closed his eyes.

After a few moments the doorbell rang again. He opened the door.

"Please?" the boy asked.

He sighed.

"I promise it won't happen again," he added, as an afterthought.

"Stay here," Kurogane ordered. He went into the bedroom, picked up the ball, and returned to the door. "Here," he said, handing the ball to the kid. "Now scram."

The boy needed no urging, and took off down the street. He shut the door. "Stupid kids," he repeated. What were they doing playing ball so early in the morning anyway? He was throwing the glass from the window into the dumpster when the doorbell rang a third time.

"Look," he yelled as he headed for the door, "I gave you your damn ball back, now what the hell do you –"

He stopped short as he opened the door.

Standing outside was not the kid from before, but a young woman: pretty, and with light brown hair cut in an inverted bob. She was dressed warmly, her mittens clasped in front of her. Her big brown eyes gazed up at him.

Sakura.

"What ball?" she asked.

"Nothing. Nothing." He ran his hand through his hair, and then gestured inside. "Come in."

"Thank you." He closed the door behind her as she stepped inside. She tilted her head, studying him. "Are you all right?"

"What? Yeah, I'm fine." He gave her an odd look. "Why shouldn't I be?"

"You weren't at work," she replied. "You didn't call in sick or anything, so Marty sent me down to find out what was wrong."

"What are you talking about?" he began, and then stopped. "Hold on," he told her, then went into the bedroom to check the clock.

It still read 7:00.

"Goddamn it," he growled.

"Oh my god."

He turned. She was standing in the doorway, staring at the man in the bed. "What –who is that?"

"I don't know," he replied with a shrug. "I found him on the street last night. Looked like he could use some help."

"My god, he looks terrible." She walked over to him, laying a hand on his forehead. "Why didn't you bring him to a hospital?"

"Too far away. And anyway, how much better off would he be there?"

She said nothing. The hospitals in the Horizon were always busy, even more so during winter, and supplies were low. Just as many people died with hospital treatment than without.

She gently stroked his hair. "Poor thing," she murmured softly, "Poor, poor thing."

"Yeah," he replied noncommittally. He glanced up. "So, um, are we going back to work, or –"

"Yeah." She reluctantly pulled herself away from the blonde. Typical. She was always a soft one, he thought to himself.

She turned to him and smiled. "Shall we go?"

"Yeah." He got up, grabbing his coat off the couch. "Let's go."

…~…

"Don't you have a car?" she asked him, as they walked past the place where he had found the man.

"I do," he replied.

"Why don't you use it?"

"It broke down six months ago."

"Huh," she mused. "Wouldn't think that would be a problem for a mechanic."

He gave her a sour look, but she just laughed. "I'm just kidding, Kurogane."

"Mmm."

"So, do you think you're close to figuring out the problem?"

"It's not a matter of figuring out the problem. I know what the problem is."

"And?"

"The transmission broke. Needs to be replaced. Trouble is, I haven't been able to find a new one."

"So you walk."

"You do, too," he pointed out.

"I know. There's nothing wrong with it. I was just wondering why, that's all."

"Why do you walk?"

"I don't know how to drive."

He glanced at her. "Why?"

She shrugged. "Don't have anyone to teach me. My father died in one of the early attacks, and my mother..."

"Yeah," he said quickly.

She glanced at him, then finished. "I can't afford driving lessons, either."

They walked in silence for a while. "I… could teach you. If you like," Kurogane finally said.

She smiled at him. "That's nice of you. But I really don't mind walking. And I couldn't afford a car anyway."

Her smile turned sad all of a sudden. "It's funny. Well, no, not really funny, but…" she trailed off.

"What?"

She hesitated. "I've never experienced this, of course, but I've read… in books…that before Ravinia came around, sixteenth birthdays were a big affair. There'd be lots of cake, and a big party… and you'd get your driver's license." She looked wistful. "I remember my sixteenth birthday. My mother had one of her bad spells, and I had to take the day off to take care of her. I remember praying, Please, God, all I want for my birthday is for my mother to be okay."

"I'm not complaining. Parties and driving are usually the last things on my mind anyway. But sometimes I try to imagine what my life would be like if Ravinia had never existed… and I can't. It's just so surreal." She paused, thinking. "Let's see. We'd live in a nicer house, I'm sure. I'd have gone to high school, and I'd have lots of friends, and I'd know how to drive. My father would be alive, and my mother would have better treatment, and Syaoran –" She closed her eyes suddenly.

There was a long silence. "I'm sorry," he replied lamely.

"Don't be. It's just a silly fantasy, anyway." They had reached the door of the shop. She opened it. "Let's get to work."

...~...

Author's Note:

I do not own the concept of Ravinia or the Horizon Compounds, or Alexander Naymeer and his speech. I do not own Halla or the dados or the Bronx Massacre. They belong to DJ MacHale and 'Pendragon'. I do not own Kurogane or Fai or Sakura, because they are fictional and, in any case, I'm poor and wouldn't be able to feed them. I do not own Yankee Stadium. I do not own the UN. I do not own a car.

Fai will wake up in the next chapter, I promise.

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