A/N: If anyone notices, yes I rewrote and/or edited a lot of this chapter. Some things have changed, but nothing that would change the overall plot.
"The child is the most brutal of soldiers, capable of committing horrendous atrocities, even more so than the adult. The adult knows right from wrong; the child does not" - paraphrased quote whose author I cannot find but have heard before. Enjoy!
Don't we all love being children, growing up with two loving and caring parents who would gladly give up their own lives for our own? We never cherish what we have until we lose it. Fortunately, or rather unfortunately, he didn't have that problem. He didn't have to worry about being grateful because he had nothing to be grateful for. Plus, there was nothing to be grateful for on the streets anyway. Here, in the underworld of the city, amongst piles of garbage and tent cities and abandoned warehouses, nobody cares what you are grateful for. The rules are simple; take, or what little you have will be taken from you; fight, or get the shit beaten out of you; and sometimes, kill or be killed. He had learned quickly the way things work down here.
"Hey kid, you got an ounce?" The voice was old and raspy. The man wore an old wool coat, stained with alcohol. He had rotting, blackened teeth; well, only for the few teeth he had left. He had sickly yellow eyes, pupils dilated, and open sores on his face. The man looked about fifty. For a drug addict, that meant the man in front of him was roughly thirty.
"It's gonna cost you," Shepard replied, his hands tightening around the worn paper bag. Get them addicted, then gradually increase the price as they needed more; a simple and effective method to make money.
The man coughed into the sleeve of his jacket. "This is the fifth time!" He eyed the bag in John's hands, fantasizing about the drugs inside.
"Ya, I don't care. Pay up or get the fuck out. Hundred or nothing." Shepard crossed his arms over his bony chest, trying to puff himself up and look bigger than he actually was.
However, the man was undeterred. He lunged forward, trying to grab the bag of drugs. Shepard sidestepped and tripped the man with his foot. Already off-balance from his dazed lunge, the man fell to the ground. John grabbed the back of the man's head and smashed it on the floor. A trickle of blood began to leak out. The man wasn't dead, but he definitely wouldn't be remembering anything. Shepard began to rummage through his pockets, searching for any money in the man's coat. Finding what he was looking for, he removed the credit chit. One-thousand credits. Must have cashed in that unemployment welfare check recently. Shepard stuffed the money into his backpack and started to walk away. It was getting late, nearing the end of his shift anyway. Time to return to the boss with the earnings. He'd only give them the drug money and get his cut back. The theft didn't belong to them, it was his.
He climbed a fire escape, it's rust rubbing off on his hands, turning them maroon. Reaching the top, he looked over the slums. Smoke rose into the air. Garbage piled on every street corner, waiting for the pickup that never came. This place was a filthy mess, but it was home. He started to run across the rooftops. The buildings were only separated by meager alleyways and narrow streets, the distance engendered not enough to stop Shepard from jumping between roofs.
"What do you mean you can only give me two hundred? I sold way more than that!"
The man behind the counter raised his hands, showing that the situation was out of his control. "Listen kid, I'm sorry, but money's been tight recently. I'll add it to your records, but business hasn't been so good lately."
Shepard snatched the credit chit out of the accountant's hand. He would take what he could get simply because there was little else that he could do. "How so?" Shepard asked.
"No clue. And before I forget, Marcus told me to tell you this: meeting at his place."
"When, tonight?"
"Now."
Shepard sighed under his breath. The last thing he wanted to do was see his manager or get beat up again. Some monsters are just too big to topple. Then again, Shepard wasn't much to look at. He was like a flee on the back of a wooly mammoth. He retreated down the hallway, away from the 'banker'. Well, technically he was a banker for Meryl Lynch; but he had to run after he got caught embezzling money into his own accounts. Now, he worked underneath the city, in a crumbling building, handling drug money, waiting for the one day he slipped up and got killed. This place was the great equalizer, capable of reducing even the wealthiest who lived in mansions to little more than bookkeeping slaves.
He pushed open an old wooden door, slamming it against the wall. A dim light flickered in the stairwell, and he could hear the dull buzzing of electricity running through the filament. Shepard began to descend the staircase, each step causing the wood to creak and slightly warp, even under his minor weight. He noticed the slight haziness that clouded the air, and he started to sniff the air once or twice: they were smoking down here again. In the beginning, he had questioned its safety, but he'd gotten a pummeling, and he quickly learned to keep his mouth shut. Nobody cares for your opinion, or what is right or wrong, down here.
He reached the bottom floor and was faced with several hallways, each going in different directions. Maybe if the cops ever came here, they would have trouble navigating this place, but not Shepard. He slowly navigated the corridors, in no particular hurry to arrive at his destination. He was surrounded by old cinderblocks, some covered in green mold. While being better lit than the staircase, the lamps in the ceiling still cast an eerie glow on everything.
Eventually, he found the room he was looking for. He knew this was the right place; both because he had been here before and also because he could hear the rowdiness of the men inside. He pulled the door open, only to be hit by an intense blast of drug-laden air. He tried to waft it out of his face, but it was a lost cause as he was going in the room anyway. He stepped inside, pulling the door behind him.
"Shepard! What the fuck took so long," Marcus yelled at him. The last person Shepard wanted to hear.
"I just got back. How bout you give me the money I'm owed, and I'll arrive a little faster." An empty beer bottle came careening at his head, but Shepard deflected it with his arm, and it shattered on the wall behind him, sprinkling the floor with brown glass. It would most likely stay there for the foreseeable future; after all, nobody cleaned up this place, and he definitely wasn't going to start.
A group of men sat around a cheap plastic table, cards and chips scattered about. They were playing poker again. Shepard could only mull over the irony; playing a strategic game with thousands of dollars on the table, and they were all impaired by drugs and alcohol. Shepard could have joined, even easily won. But all the money he would have gotten would have been taken away because he wouldn't be able to hold them all off in a fight. Sighing with discontent, he pulled a chair over and took a seat, watching the game.
"So, you needed to see me?" Shepard asked.
Marcus rested his hand of cards on the table, face down of course. He indicated with his gaze that the others should stop as well, and they complied. It still sometimes shocked Shepard that such rough characters, with tattoos covering their bodies and scar tissue dotting their skin, could be so afraid of one man. Combined together, they could all easily overpower Marcus and kill him. But they never did. That was the power of dominance and hierarchy. Marcus had earned his place already. Shepard was a nobody.
"We have a job tonight. We leave in an hour!"
Everyone looked at him for an explanation. Marcus scanned their expectant eyes, and a scowl of anger flashed on his face.
"Down on 116th. Some other fucking gang is selling red sand on our blocks. The boss has tasked us with dealing with it."
Some of the other men in the room removed their sidearm from their waist, displaying their flashy armaments on the table. However, Shepard was less than enthused. "What do you mean 'deal with it'?"
Marcus started to laugh, an evil bellow that echoed throughout the room. "Well, we're going to kidnap one of them. Torture them. Find out who's selling to them. And kill them," he stated with glee, almost as if he was going to enjoy the task ahead of them.
Shepard stood up, preparing to argue against Marcus. "Wait, wait… I never agreed to this. I sell drugs, that's been the arrangement since the beginning." He crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm not a murderer."
Marcus slowly started to walk around the table, approaching Shepard. "Who's been feeding your sorry ass?" Marcus reached the end of the table. "Taking care of your ass?" He was only a couple feet in front of Shepard now. "Watching out for you?"
Shepard tried taking a step backward, but he crashed with the chair behind him and fell into it. Marcus charged him, smacking him in the side of his head. "Cause it wasn't the fucking government or military! With their stupid laws! And their rules!" Spit flew out of Marcus' maw as he screamed at Shepard. "So what's it going to be? I'll just fucking kill you right now!
"Al-right," he managed to choke out in fear, "alright."
"Then, GET UP!" Marcus roared. John complied, eager to avoid further confrontation. But while his body followed Marcus' orders, his brain did not. He felt like he was about to walk into a giant mistake. Did he have a choice? The answer was no. He made his choice all those years ago when he decided to leave the orphanage. In retrospect, he couldn't really blame himself. There was barely ever any food; they had to fight over garbage scraps and eat from dumpsters. The staff routinely beat them. Rats and roaches and every pest imaginable surrounded them, crawling in the walls and on the floor and the few belongings they did have. After he left that place, he made his choice again, when he didn't have any money or food, and he decided to start selling drugs. He made sure never to use them, not wanting to get addicted. He'd seen what they did to the people he'd sold them to. He'd made his choice years ago, and now, entrenched in this miserable place, he would not be able to get out from under it without severe consequences.
They patrolled the surrounding blocks, making sure no police were near. Shepard could only snort at the irony. What was the point? The police were never here. The area wasn't important enough for the city; the upper-level districts, where the well-off lived and controlled government, were of a much higher priority. It would cost them too much money to protect the people down here, and they were perfectly content to leave the lower levels like this.
Hiding under a dirty yellow awning, Shepard could see the target. While the man was definitely older than Shepard, it couldn't have been by more than a couple of years. He wore an old-fashioned drawstring backpack, much like himself. Despite this, Shepard could tell he was new to the job; the man mostly looked at the floor instead of watching around him. John knew that mistake well and made sure it never happened again. He learned quickly that not paying attention made you the easiest victim. Being negligent was a luxury people couldn't afford down here. Unfortunately, it would be too late for this man. He couldn't deny feeling a bit guilty, but even if Shepard stopped himself, this man was still doomed.
Marcus had parked one of the gang's air-vans down the block, waiting for his crew to complete the job. John heard Marcus' aggravating voice over his earpiece. "You guys are good to go. Grab him now. Once he is down on the ground, I'll drive by and you guys can take him in the cargo area with you." While implants linked via omni-tool would have been more convenient, proper medical care for cheap was nonexistent at this level; it was much more affordable to use old school equipment being thrown away.
Five men, including John, began to approach their victim from different directions, walking casually. The dealer, oblivious to his impending capture, continued to stare blankly at the ground, waiting for his next customer. However, the only 'customer' he got was the jab of a needle in his neck. The plunger of the syringe was pushed down, and sedatives were injected deep into his neck. His screams of pain were cut short as more men surrounded him, clamping hands over his mouth, reducing his loud cries to muffled screams. His struggling quickly faded as he was overwhelmed by the chemical cocktail.
As promised, Marcus brought the van over to them. John helped to carry their victim towards the back of the truck. They tossed the man inside, and Shepard climbed into the back with the others. Each of the gang members tried to secure themselves as best they could, but it was a futile attempt without actual seats. The van began to move, and several of them almost lost their balance as they began to accelerate.
John began to have second thoughts about his actions. He'd never killed a person before, and he'd hoped he would never have to. While he wouldn't mind it in self-defense, this was anything but. This was outright murder. The depths to which I have fallen. Trying to resolve his guilt, he comforted himself in the fact that he wouldn't be the one to kill this man. He was going to die anyway, whether Shepard was here or not. Sighing in frustration, Shepard held onto the railing inside the cargo area as the van made abrupt turns. It would seem Marcus' driving was as worse as ever. Then again, none of them had ever gotten their licenses anyway.
They arrived back at the complex, again deep underground the city. They jumped out of the van, dragging the man's limp body out of the truck and letting him drop off the edge. He hit the floor with a sickening thud, and Shepard flinched.
"Come on, bring him downstairs," Marcus ordered as he walked past them swiftly. They picked up the body, some grabbing a limb, others supporting the torso, as they carried him through the hallway to the staircase. Marcus opened the door and ushered them down. The weight of so many bodies on the wooden staircase caused it to groan in protest louder than usual. When they reached the bottom, Marcus started to walk down a different hallway, towards a section of the basement Shepard had never been to and told never to go to.
They approached a room with two men armed with shotguns standing guard. They swiftly stepped aside as they saw Marcus approach, allowing him and the others passage into the room. John could tell the walls of the room were made of red brick and cement through the plastic… wait, plastic! He quickly realized that the walls and floor of the room were covered with thick, translucent plastic sheets. He was stunned by its presence, but it quickly dawned on him why it was here: it made the mess about to be made a lot easier to clean up. The room was sparsely furnished, with a singular metal chair placed against the wall. John was now thoroughly terrified, but even more scared of backing out in front of Marcus.
They deposited the man in the center of the room as Marcus closed the door behind them. "Alright boys, now the real fun begins!", Marcus bellowed with a sadistic grin plastered on his face. John and the other men looked at each other, trying to determine if any among them knew what was going to happen next. They all knew this man was going to die tonight, but the odd steps they had to go through to apprehend him, and the fact that they had to bring him into a guarded room with plastic over the walls, only expanded the grim possibilities that could happen.
He pointed at a pile of ropes with his hand, giving new orders: "Get that rope over there. Tie 'em up to the chair." He then picked up the lone metal chair and slammed it down in the center of the room. As John and the others complied, encircling the man's arms and legs with rope, Marcus abruptly left the room. A minute later, Marcus returned with pliers, hammers, and a syringe full of orange liquid. He tossed all but the syringe to the floor, keeping the delicate syringe within his fist. After approaching the man, Marcus stabbed the needle into their captive's neck and administered its contents.
The man's eyes started to flutter open. Initially, he was dazed and confused, but once he scanned the room, fear quickly crept onto his face. "What the fuck! Who the fuck are you people! I swear I'll…" the man started to say before realizing that his threat was hollow. He tried to stand up but found himself tied down by ropes. He tried to scream for help, but the sound only bounced off the thick walls, reaching no one that could help him.
"You have two options; one, tell us everything you know about the gang you work for and we'll let you go; or two, we'll beat the crap out of you, get the information, and then beat you to death."
"I ain't telling you nothing, bitch! Let me out of here or when my people find me I swear to god I will kill…"; his response was cut short as Marcus smashed his fist into the man's face, knocking several teeth out. The man futilely spit out blood and the remains of his shattered teeth, only to have it end up on his shirt and pants.
"John, grab those pliers over there."
When John heard this, he was too afraid to even move. He didn't want to be in the room, let alone take part in this man's torture. Wasn't kidnapping him enough? The man continued to struggle in the chair, and Shepard watched it with intent, secretly hoping the man would escape.
"NOW! WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR!" Shepard was knocked back into reality, away from his daydream: there would be no hope here. He quickly reached for the pliers and walked towards Marcus, holding them out for him to take. "What are you giving them to me for? You're gonna be doing it. Start with the fingernails."
John looked at Marcus with shock on his face. "I can't," he choked out.
"If you don't start tearing out his nails in the next 5 seconds, I swear I'll have those guys over there do to you what you were supposed to do to this guy."
John wanted to think that he didn't know how he got himself in this mess, but he knew exactly how he got himself here. But to him, it wasn't fair. He didn't ask to be orphaned after slavers attacked Mindoir and killed both his parents; he didn't ask to be sent to an orphanage on Earth. His whole life he had felt trapped, forgotten, and left with no good options. He wanted to be smart and successful, like all those people he saw on those Holo-vid TV shows, but he knew it was futile. He was in a gang basement, holding a pair of pliers, and about to torture a man who had never done anything to him. Sighing in frustration, John stepped forward and faced the man. He was clearly dazed; being drugged twice and then punched by Marcus tended to do that. With shaking hands, John opened the pliers and then grabbed the man's rebellious index. Marcus put a hand around the man's throat and began to squeeze with moderate force; not enough to suffocate, but just enough to make it very hard to breathe. "Last chance, jackass, tell us what you know and where you get your shit, or tonight is going to be a long night."
John was hopeful; maybe he would tell Marcus what he wanted to know and John wouldn't have to be forced to pull the fingernails. Unfortunately, his hopes were gradually dashed as the man looked back at Marcus, staying quiet, hateful gaze plastered on his face. "John. Now."
Reluctantly, John began to pull with the pliers at the man's fingernail, gently at first. Marcus noted that the man still had 10 of his fingernails, and slowly turned his head to face John. Fuck it, my life or his, John thought to himself as he started to pull with more force. The man started to scream, much to John's terror, but he dared not stop. Noticing that the nail was still refusing to budge, he started to wiggle the plier side to side, increasing the man's already loud screams of pain. After a few more agonizing seconds, John pulled the nail free; his hands shook in fright, and his grip around the pliers was so tight that he couldn't drop the nail.
For an hour, screams echoed throughout the halls. Mostly because of Shepard and what he was being forced to do. John almost believed that he was the one being tortured, but a glance at his victim readjusted his perspective. Eight of his fingernails were missing. The left shinbone was cracked in half, making the leg look a little less straight than it should have.
"Wait… please, I'll tell you what I know," he cried, his agonizing howl of despair scaring Shepard to his core. "You'll let me live, right?" asked the man.
"If you tell us everything. Start talking; locations, members, drops."
"Alright… they, they have this place at 3756 Blake Street, 4th level. We weren't supposed to know but I followed a supplier back one day. From what I have heard, that's where their boss sits during the day. They smuggle some light arms there too. That's all I know, I swear. They said if I ever said anything, they would kill my family. Please, let me go; I need to get out of this city."
Marcus looked at the man for a couple of seconds and then replied: "Thank you for your help. You have made my day a lot easier. '' He then reached to his waistline and pulled out a gun from under his shirt.
"Wait, you said you'd let me go! Please, you promised…I never even killed anyone" cried the man.
Marcus laughed before replying. "I guess you're right. I did say I wouldn't kill you." Marcus then held out the gun for John to take.
No, no, no. Why can't we just let him go? I am not doing that. Don't touch the gun.
Marcus, sensing John's hesitation, then reached towards his waistline again to produce another gun, which he promptly pointed directly at John's head. "You kill him, or I will kill you both. We don't have compassion for our enemies."
John was thoroughly terrified; he had never killed anyone before. Having to take a life had never occurred to him when he joined all those years ago. He was just in it for the money. As John reached for the gun with shaking hands, he again mentally kicked himself for the actions he took that led him here. John held the cold metal handle with a death grip, turning the safety off as he did so. He had never held a gun before, but what truly terrified him was that he was being forced to kill someone in cold, blooded, murder. He pushed the barrel it into the man's forehead; he tried to look into the man's eyes one last time, to at least acknowledge the soul he was about to take, but the look of terror and anguish instantly made him look away. "Please, man…please don't do this…I told you what you wanted!"
John again hesitated, fear paralyzing his body and mind. Click, John heard next to him, realizing that Marcus had turned off the safety of the gun pointed at his head. He realized his time had run out. He tried to look at the man one last time, but finding himself unable to, looked away as he pulled the trigger.
The gun rocked in his hands, and he almost dropped it. He was instantly covered in blood, and easily identifiable pieces of brain were splattered on the floor. 'Marcus did this. It is not your fault', he tried to tell himself. But then he remembered who pulled the trigger: he did this. Marcus looked at the other men assembled in the room, who mostly watched the show with little interest and told them: "Clean this shit up. Burn his body in the incinerator. And change your clothes. The last thing we want is for someone to get caught with evidence."
Marcus looked at John with a grin plastered all over his face, easily contrasting the stunned shock on John's. "You're a man now. This is life on the streets. There is no room for good, you know that."
John was too shocked to say anything. On some level, he had always known that what Marcus said was true, but he still had options, didn't he? John wanted to think of himself as a good person, that his soul was still pure. But he quickly realized that what was left of his innocence had been splattered on the floor and all over his shirt.
John tried to hand the gun back to Marcus, but he refused. "Keep it. It's yours now. Think of it as a little present cause your gonna need it soon. M-6 Carnifex. Good gun. Got it when I mugged some drunk alliance soldiers on leave."
John sat in the aircar next to Marcus. He wanted to go with the other members, but Marcus had insisted; well, harshly insisted, that is. As soon as Marcus reported the information that he had gathered, he was told that he was to take a team, capture the building, and kill everyone inside. Turf war time, and it was John's first.
Marcus brought with him: the same men from yesterday's events, John, and a few other older men that John had never seen; he assumed they were hired muscle for the gang, but he was never given the specifics.
John did not want to be here. He was barely keeping it together after yesterday; he felt broken inside. Any semblance of his humanity slowly bled out of him as the hours dragged by, replaying the events in his head over and over again. The desperate pleas of the man, the feel of the gun in his hand, the splatter of blood afterword; he was sure these memories would haunt him forever.
Unfortunately, however hard John tried to get away from the horrors of life, he couldn't. Now, he was trapped, sitting in an aircar next to a maniac, with no hope in sight. Comm chatter from Marcus' omnitool, one of the few he had ever seen, informed them of the situation. "Ready and in position," said one; "waiting on you" stated another. Marcus got out of the aircar and started to walk towards the back door of the building. Reluctantly, John got up as well, jogging after Marcus.
The building was a large warehouse. Its glass windows were covered with grime and dust, and its bricks, which should have been red, were faded to almost gray. "Shepard. Get ready. Once we go in, it's going to be a mess. Kill anyone in there, do you understand? No hesitation or they will kill you."
John gulped and nodded his head; 'at least they will be trying to kill me this time', he thought to himself, recalling last night's murder of the helpless man.
Marcus stopped in front of a rusted metal door and looked back at John. "The others will be blowing open the front entrance. We are going to flank them from behind while they are distracted and kill them. And take out your gun. You gonna walk into hell with your hands empty?" John quickly got Marcus' pistol, his pistol, and held it in his grip. The weapon felt lighter and heavier at the same time; John was now more familiar with its weight, but the weapon dragged him down with the memories of last night.
Marcus turned to John and told him "Get Ready", before opening his commlink to the others: "Boys, now's our chance. Show these assholes what a TRUE gang looks like". Marcus shot the lock off the door in front of them and walked inside, John close behind. The back of the warehouse was filled with rows of crates stacked on top of one another; some were drugs, but others were most likely smuggled goods, mods, and weapons. John started to hear gunfire and screaming from the men inside as he made his way to a set of stairs. The stairs led up to a wide walkway on the side of the warehouse, with cargo crates scattered about, which he hoped would provide perfect cover.
John ran up the stairs quickly. Finding a large crate, he ducked behind it. There, I am far enough away from Marcus that he won't know I didn't fight. And no one will find me up here either. John sat there for what seemed like an eternity, listening to the sounds of gunfire as the rival gangs shot at each other and dodged back into cover. Eventually, the sounds of gunfire subsided and eventually disappear altogether. Hoping that the fight was almost over, he ran back down the staircase and slowly approached the middle of the warehouse. John could see that people had died, their bodies left as mangled heaps on the floor, torn apart by mass accelerator rounds. Blood pooled and flowed everywhere he looked. He increasingly became concerned as he found none of the men that came with him were alive; everyone appeared to be dead. But that couldn't be right, somebody had to fire the last shot, right?
"Shepard, you fucking dumbass… once I get up I am going to kill…" Marcus had tried to say but was cut off by a bout of intense coughing, spraying droplets of blood into the air. John froze, unsure of what he should do. Kill him? Run? Help him? His pondering was quickly cut short as Marcus raised his gun and shot John in the arm. Shepard dropped his gun as the shot had torn through the ligaments and tendons in his arm. He clutched the injury, fingers tightening to try and stop the bleeding, as he slowly walked backward. Abruptly, Marcus got up and rushed John, landing an elbow to his stomach and shoving him to the floor. John tried to get up, but his body felt like lead.
"We had a plan, but you fucked it up. Now everybody is dead cause of you," Marcus accused him. "You're gonna pay the price. You're going to die like the rest of them." Marcus raised his pistol and pointed it at John's head. All he could do was look down the barrel of the gun; I guess this is how that man felt yesterday. Only fitting. Knowing there was nothing he could do, John sat there, each second an eternity as he waited for his life to end.
Suddenly, John found himself encased in blue energy. The shot fired from Marcus' gun hit him in the head, or at least it should have. "What the fuck?" Marcus said in shock. Seeing that John was still alive, Marcus proceeded to fire the pistol until it blared an overheat warning. With each shot, the blue aura around John dimmed and flickered, but held fast. "When did you become a biotic freak?" Marcus asked in bewilderment, walking backward slowly. I've had enough of this, John thought as he got up. He called back the fear he felt, but a more prominent emotion came with it: hatred. He was tired of having to perform Marcus' grime biddings, getting beat up, and threatened. The strange blue aura again enveloped John; he felt wisps and crackles of energy form around him. He directed his newfound power toward Marcus with an outstretched hand.
Seeing blue light expand around John, Marcus turned around and began to run. But before he could get very far, the sphere of energy around John exploded and sent a wall of force toward Marcus. The impact was strong enough to send him slamming into one of the warehouse's massive shelves; as Marcus tumbled to the floor, the shelves and their contents crashed down on top of him. As the noise cleared, John could hear the faint sound of sirens in the distance. Picking up his pistol and sliding it into the waist of his pants, he started sprinting as fast as he could.
After leaving the warehouse and dodging police around every corner, he stopped to assess his injuries. Seeing an entrance and exit wound, he assumed that the bullet had passed clean through his arm. It had also stopped bleeding for the most part. Good, he thought to himself. While he didn't wish that he was shot, the fact that the wound had stopped bleeding and he didn't have the bullet in his arm meant that medical care wasn't an immediate necessity. Unfortunately, a bullet wound would still arise suspicion. Seeing a homeless man with a jacket down the empty street, he approached him and drew his weapon.
"Give me your fucking jacket. Now", John demanded. The homeless man looked at John, got up, and started taking off his jacket. As the man started handing over the jacket, he threw it at John and lunged for his gun. Given a split second to contemplate what to do, John did the first thing that came to his mind and pulled the trigger. John sidestepped the man as he fell to the ground, dark red blood pooling out from under him on the grimy street. John immediately froze, unsure of what to do next. His mind raced but quickly decided that he needed to get out of here fast. He picked up the jacket from the ground, thankful that the pool of blood hadn't reached it yet, holstered his pistol which felt heavier than ever, and started to walk away swiftly as he decided he had a train to catch to Vancouver. Far enough away from New York that it would be hard to implicate him, but also large enough to hide within the crowds of people there.
When he reached the subway, he looked around to make sure no cops were there. He proceeded to hop over the turnstile. If the cops were around, he would have paid, but the last thing he wanted to do was leave any trace of himself.
Over the loudspeakers, John heard: "Tonight's last train to Vancouver will be departing in one minute. Please proceed to track 17." Upon hearing the announcement, he sprinted down the length of the station until he found a staircase with a bright orange sign that said "Track 17" in bold, black letters. Running down the concrete steps two at a time, he barely made it into the train as the doors closed behind him.
Looking around the train car, he found it almost completely empty. Good, the fewer people that saw him right now, the better. He took a seat and allowed himself to feel some slight relief. As the adrenaline of the last hour faded, he began to feel the aching pain in his arm from the gunshot wound. Only making matters worse, he began to feel a powerful throbbing in his head, a precursor to the worst migraine he had ever had.
As the train began to move, he contemplated today's events. He felt broken and inhuman. Almost 18 now, and he had already killed three people. While Marcus might have had it coming, he had killed two others in cold blood. He thought that he should take out the pistol, Marcus' pistol, and end things right here and now. What do I really have to lose anyway? he thought to himself. His entire life he had been a criminal, and now he was a murderer; he had no family, no friends, and had done nothing important. Fuck it, he thought and reached for the pistol. As soon as he touched its handle, he stopped. If I kill myself, that homeless man would have died for nothing. I won't let Marcus' pistol take one more person today. If he killed himself now, then all the things he had to do, including killing his… victims would have been for nothing. No, he would carry his burden, those invisible scars, for the rest of his life, hoping he could one day atone for them.
Trying to think of something else to ward off his suicidal thoughts, he wondered just what the hell the blue energy was. Is this some kind of magic? he speculated, but he quickly shot down the idea. Playing back the events in his head, he recalled Marcus calling him a "biotic". He roughly remembered that they can manipulate their environment using Mass effect fields, but he never remembered being exposed to any element zero. As a matter of fact, he didn't remember anything about his old life; his parents had died when he was two after Batarians attacked Mindoir.
John tried to stretch out and relax on the seats, but found it difficult to get comfortable in hard, unyielding plastic. When he closed his eyes to get some sleep, all he could focus on was the pain in his head. Deciding it was going to be a rough 3 hours, he tried to settle in as best he could, listening to the holo-advertisements that displayed on the walls of the train.
"Luxury, exillerence, style. Buy the new Raytheon MSx6 sky car today and get a free upgrade to our premium sound systems. No money down, and only 0.6% APR. Visit your local dealership. Terms and conditions apply", the advertisement said in a sultry voice. Yep, this is going to be a long three hours. Why the fuck are they even running ads here, who can buy that? He braced himself for the next ad to play. "Are you looking for purpose, teamwork, and discovery? If so, join the Systems Alliance today. Step up to the plate and defend Earth and her colonies, while having access to career advancement opportunities and services post-enlistment. Special bonuses are available for biotically talented individuals. Come into our enlistment center today and see if you make the cut, soldier," spoke the rough voice coming from the train's speakers.
"Yes, of course, sir. Take a set over here and we will get you started on the application process," instructed the enlistment officer. As she turned to reach for a datapad, John sat down in the chair, enjoying its softness and the texture of the worn, dark brown leather. John glanced around the room; it was a rather small office area, with a few metal desks arranged into 2 neat rows, each with an alliance enlistment officer behind it.
"Here you are, sir. The application process consists of two phases. You will complete this first, so we can register your information, and then a physical assessment to determine if you're 'soldier material', so to speak. Please, let me know if you have any questions and I will be happy to answer them."
John thanked her as he took the datapad. He began reading the text on the first page, telling its readers how 'you are taking the first step towards a better future for yourself and humanity'. Blah, blah, blah.
As John started filling the application, he faced trouble as soon as he passed the line that asked for his name. His citizenship ID number? He didn't have that! "Um… Excuse me miss, but I don't have my citizenship number", John told the officer. "That's alright," she responded in an upbeat tone, "if you want, you can take a minute and call your parents if they are at home. Maybe they can get it for you."
Call my parents? "I am sorry to bother, but I don't think I can get my ID number that way. My parents… my parents passed away when I was young," John stated, feeling depressed. Odd, he thought to himself, I can't even remember them. Why am I sad about something I can't remember? However, he quickly dispelled the thought from his head, ashamed.
"I apologize, sir, I didn't mean to be insensitive or upset you. If you don't have your ID with you, there is a DNA scanner in the post office across the street. They can scan you there, verify you're you and give you a temporary or new one."
And so, John returned 15 minutes later, with his newly minted ID number card. First one he ever owned actually, as the orphanage never gave him one and he never found himself needing one either. Inputting the number, he moved on through the application, eager to complete it. Mailing address? Easy, none. Doctor, none. Health insurance, none. Academics… Oh shit.
John read over the page in front of him, feeling defeated. He wanted to complete it, but he knew he couldn't. Stupid slum kid, that's what she's going to think. After another 10 minutes of signing waivers and consent forms, he reached the end of the application and handed it back to her. "Thank you, sir. Please, just let me ensure you didn't miss signing anything, and you'll be on your way."
John knew his application probably looked really bad. A whole lot of boxes left blank or filled with "none". He gripped the armrest of the chair he sat in, eager to hide his embarrassment. "Excuse me, sir," oh no, here it comes, "I believe you left the entire academic background page blank," she calmly told him.
"That's correct," he replied.
"You need to fill it out sir, so we have a good understanding of your background and how best to place you in your role. Would you mind completing it?"
John sat forward in his chair, moving closer to the officer so she could hear his whispering. "I never went to school. I don't have a GPA, and I haven't taken any of those fancy standardized tests," John stated remorsefully. Ashamed, he sat back into his chair waiting for the laughter to start. What the hell am I doing here? I killed three people last week anyway, they could have found out. I don't even belong here… maybe Marcus was right… I should probably head back into the streets, find a new gang up here. John's rapidly depressing train of thought was cut short when the lady interrupted him. "I understand. Some people aren't fortunate enough. My father grew up in the same way, but he is a great man, to me at least," the woman told him, a sympathetic smile on her face. "You can go on ahead for the physical. I'll submit this. Good luck out there."
John stood up, thanked her again, and began to walk towards what he hoped was a new beginning, a better life. Or so he thought.