2. A Scrap Heap Life



WHEN THE NIGHT descended upon Denver, temperatures would plummet. Fall was approaching, and now the remaining days of summer were fading away with the light of the sun. Streetlights would flicker in the streets, lighting up and then darkening the empty avenues of the city outskirts. Neon signs, showering sparks from faulty circuits and poor maintenance would scream their advertisement across an entire city block. A thick layer of fog, a by- product of the day's polluted, hovered over the lonely avenues, its presence unnatural and sinister. At this time, and at this particular location in the city, everybody knew it wasn't safe to be wandering around.

Where city suburbs would be, there were crumbling apartment blocks, derelict and abandoned. But from their gloomy insides burned fires, and contained people, humans, cuddled in thick blankets, who seemed to live their life around that burning stump of old furniture. Across these blocks were other buildings: industrial workshops and shop-houses, all as dilapidated as the blocks. They had been looted, left to rot; there were groups of people, huddled around fires as in the blocks nearby. Beside these scenes of poverty, were more neon signs, above buildings where the hookers and drug-pushers got their day's salary. Oh yeah, and there were the slums and the squatters.

Shadowy black, growing wild and unkempt, was the shame of Denver. Sprawling around a polluted drain and dotted with small, enclosed fires, were the shantytowns and slums. A foul stench would reek in the air as people neared this messy clutter, the only sound heard being the hacking coughs and cackling of fires. They stretched across the entire outer district, like a horrible disease marking its territory. Among the slums, were shacks, adorned with zinc plates, and shanties, littered with refuse and mud. People, their figures dark and indistinct in the night, lived in their crude foundations. Their faces were momentarily lit by the fire, and the light had revealed dirt-covered faces: ragged features, the thin, bony cheeks of smiling children, and scraggy-clothed teenagers, their eyes glazed from inhalants. All of them living each day with the hope that someone, someday, might open a life full of promise; a life that was hidden in the depths of space untouched.

No place like home.

Half concealed in the murky alleyways bordering the slums, her face illuminated by the crimson red of an advertisement panel, Akima Kunimoto pushed aside on of her sleek, purple bangs, then buried her face in her hands. Living in the slums had taught her that she was a nobody - and on hazy nights like these, it wasn't safe for a nobody to be out on the streets. She settled her head in between the rise of her two knees; the dim lights would cause her ragged leather pants to shine, and that might attract attention.

In the dark of her mind, she could hear sound: people were out on the street, picking their way around. Noises, teenagers talking in their dirty slang and their deep breaths for each round of inhalants, filled her ears now that the silence overwhelmed her. Slowly, they were walking towards where she was, their footsteps pounding in her brain. As long as they're not Drej. she told herself.

The shadows cast by these figures fell upon her, blocking out what light there was completely. She heard a wolf-whistle, then some laughs.

"Hey, who's this here?"

She was sure it was a hand; violating, cold, coming down on her skin. She let that hand part her jet-black locks; she'd thought that if she didn't respond, they would think she had died from an overdose. But the hand went on, like a knife, cutting, reaching the nape of her neck.

At once, she seized the hand; it was warm, mild with burned-out cigarettes. Hardly getting to her feet, she flung it away as hard as she could, before plunging her head back down into the curled arch of her arms on her knees.

"Oooh, she's a tough one!"

"Get her, Spike!"

Now there was something else on her head. For a moment, she could've sworn that it was just the hand again, its feel silenced by her hair. But when it moved, she felt it burn. It was flaming hot, a lighted cigarette, moving to her neck again.

She rose; with one hand she removed the burning cigarette. Her eyes slowly coming into focus, she saw five boys, all older than her. They were from the slums too, she saw, for their torn slacks and ripped shirts were coloured with dirt and grease. Her anger had turned her hard and malevolent, her bangs sprayed across her face in a wash of purple. The boy in front, an open bag of powder still in his right hand, laughed. He touched Akima again, but she snarled, pushing away the warmth of his touch. Her breathing, rapid and irregular, came in bursts that broke the silence. She wasn't human now; no, she was a cornered, desperate animal. They all laughed.

"Feisty, isn't she?" Spike said.

"She thinks she can beat us down?"

"Let her try," Spike sneered.

The hand came, but Akima responded before it made contact with her hair. Her right foot, curled and ever ready, went from the ground to Spike's abdomen, crushing it as hard as she could. Spike recoiled, his face contorted with spasms of agony as he fell to the ground. Eyes burning with hate, she eyed the others.

"She got Spike!"

"Get up, Spike!"

"Finish off the bitch!"

"Yeah, get the bitch!"

Hearing the taunts of those behind him, Spike scrambled to his feet, staggering sideways. She saw something gleaming in his hands; before she knew it, Spike had lunged at her, and caught her by the throat with his choking left hand. Switchblade drawn, he stabbed it into Akima's thigh. She silenced the sudden pain that was threatening to paralyse her right leg, fighting on. He balled her right fist and then hit Spike squarely between his eyes. Fumbling with the switchblade, she swung her foot at him again, this time going for the crouched head and smashed it like a sledgehammer into his skull. Spike recoiled once more, his face bleeding, then stumbled headlong into the arms of his friends and collapsed.

"You killed Spike, bitch!"

"We're going to screw you bad now!"

"Beat the shit out of."

"Drej!"

Acting on instinct, Akima moved herself into the cover of darkness once again, seeing Spike and his friends scuttle away like rodents. Standing, listening intently for every sound, she heard footsteps again. They were heavy and lumbering; soon an icy blue glare filled the street, and two Drej Drones trudged past the darkness that had concealed her. She knew all too well how the Drej react if they saw her around at night - like the vermin she was, they wouldn't hasten to gun her down.

When the Drej had passed, and the deafening stillness that they brought gone, she focused her attention on her wound. It was a good thing she wore that tight leather, for it had taken much of the damage. The cut didn't run deep, and it would heal soon. But deep inside her, were wounds she knew that could never heal by themselves, and that was the reason why she was here, on this deserted alleyway, on this bleak night.

She hated every episode of the life that she was born into; it would've made a best-selling narrative if a writer knew her story. They would've portrayed me as a hero, she thought to herself nastily. And for one second, she forced herself to recall it: the Drej dragging her parents away into the night; her grandmother dying all alone in bed all because she had received the ghastly news too late; how her mentor Mohammed Bourain was gunned down by the Drej. Each waking moment of hers was filled with death, pain and misery. She forced herself to breathe the poisoned air each day only for one dream: revenge.

"Contemplating on life, I see?" went a voice that made her jump.

In the murk of the shadows, a ragged, scrawny-looking boy revealed himself. He had jet-black hair like Akima's; at his chin sprouted a messy goatee, and his tousled hair fell down his back onto his shoulders. He looked at Akima with deep bronze eyes, which were brought out by his torn, acid green shirt and khaki slacks.

"Ishaq, you're late," Akima glowered at him.

"Sorry, Friday prayers," he muttered under his breath. His eyes went to the blood on Akima's thigh. "You shouldn't fight those boys you know, the Drej are the real enemy."

Akima chortled derisively.

"Come on," he beckoned. "They're waiting."

Mohammed Ishaq led Akima to an old, deserted building. He fumbled with a chain for a second, before pushing open the front door with a clang of iron hitting iron. All Akima could see ahead was darkness. She hesitated at first; she had enough trust in Ishaq to abandon the thought of him luring her into darkness to abuse her, but this wasn't part of the agreed plan. Ishaq closed the door nosily, then said: "Straight ahead, there'll be some steps. After that, the corridor only goes one way."

Akima obeyed. Even in the darkness, she moved stealthily silent. Although she considered darkness an enemy, it was their only ally when it came to survival. She could hear Ishaq blundering behind her and by the sound of it, he had accidentally stubbed his toe on a step. Once the flight of steps ended, the corridor was lined with shattered windows as it led onwards were a flickering light dimly lit one of the rooms. On the walls, the fire produced shadows that danced in contorted shapes. There were people by the fire, Akima told herself, and they were waiting for her.

She caught a glimpse of a scene as she strode silently along - a fire, enclosed in an open barrel, surrounded by three people. Two were human; from the glowing light, she could make out fingers, arms and coarse, rough faces. The second was a Mantrin; she had already guessed how it was. Illuminated by the fire, they looked strangely impressive; the shadows cast by the fire stretched out on the ground behind them, as if, in the dim light, they were imposingly tall.

Once she entered in the presence of these three people, they turned around, examining her with their eyes and minds. There was silence for a minute, until one of the humans spoke up: "She's a girl."

The Mantrin, Stith, eyed him angrily. Despite the light of the burning flame, the darkness still shrouded his face; it was impossible to tell how he looked like, but she made out a pair of thick, black eyebrows. Akima felt a surge of anger course through her; she hated being the main subject of attention just because she was a girl as, in her opinion, she was just as hard as anyone else.

"You never told us, Ishaq," he growled. "How are we to know that she's up to."

"I'm ready for anything," Akima interjected, her teeth clenched, hands curled into fists. "Anything you can throw at me."

"A tough one we have here," he sniggered, but it was silenced by the cackling of the fire. "So you're not afraid of this mission? This is not some game here. You do know that it involves your life."

Akima shut her eyes; she remembered the day, eleven years ago, when she watched the Drej Drones torch the slum with their weapons, firing upon any human that they saw. She could remember how they had turned their guns on her, ready to blast her away like they had done to countless children before her. But her parents had saved her; her father that thrown himself into the line of fire, the blast tearing through his flesh. And most of all, she could remember how she watched, tears blurring her vision, as the Drej dragged her parents into the darkness. Since that day, she had never been afraid of anything; and she wasn't going to chicken out when the chance came for vengeance.

"Look into my eyes," she taunted, advancing on the man. "What do you see?"

"Hate," he responded. "Burning hate."

"And now tell me: do you see me playing any fucking game?"

Eyes narrowed, he shot a glance at Ishaq, who shrugged elaborately.

"You trust her, Ishaq?"

Akima cast a glance at her friend, grinning. Ishaq was her closest friend, and the deaths of their only guardians had brought them closer. They made a great team; for a year now they had worked together, stealing the food and cash they needed for them to survive. For one thing, Akima liked Ishaq for the security he gave whenever they were together, and he liked her for that one thing that made her different: her will to fight on.

"I'd trust her with my life," he replied.

Silence filled the room once again until the other human spoke up.

"Best we'd better get ourselves introduced," went the second man. He approached Akima, and extended his hand. She noticed that he had a small smile on his badly-shaven face. "I'm Joe Korso, leader of the resistance movement that staged last month's attack. My friend here is Rasz, fresh out of prison, are you?"

Rasz moved away from the fire, but Akima was sure that he was sneering at her. "Yeah, fresh out of finishing school," he said, sarcasm running in between every word. He was now just a few inches from her, his face right in hers. "And I need no girl in my team."

He pushed Akima away from him; his back turned, Akima was ready to launch herself upon him when Ishaq caught her by the arm.

"I can't stand him either," he whispered. "But if you hit him now, you'll never be able to get a place with us."

Rasz circled them. Akima could feel his piercing gaze, hot on her skin; he retreated to a corner and folded his arms, head tilted to one side, frowning at the scene before him in disgust.

"If there's anyone else that's up to the challenge, Rasz, you tell me," Stith demanded.

"How about Lee?" he asked.

"Haven't heard of him since yesterday," Korso told them, shaking his head. "I've got a feeling the Drej got him already. His store in the city's been sacked, burned to the ground. If we try to contact him now, it'll just give away our intentions. He's out."

"Akima's better than Lee," Ishaq piped. "Lee was a coward."

Everyone turned their stares on him.

"Yeah? Prove it," Rasz barked.

The two of them had started towards each other before Korso intervened.

"Enough!" he barked, his commanding voice firm and controlling the two of them. He stood between them, like a divider between two enemies. It served nonetheless to display his authority as their leader. "What the hell do you two think you're doing? Fighting each other like petty animals, like blind dogs snapping at what they can't see. You're wasting the energy that could be used to fight Drej on people who are your allies!" he turned to Akima. "If you can't stand Rasz being your superior, then that's as good as showing defiance to me, so beat it. And Rasz, if you can't stand her being with us, you can go back to your finishing school. Get it?"

There was a definite pause; amidst the unnerving silence, both Akima and Rasz eyed each other, eyes narrowed, with intense dislike. An air of hostility hung heavy around the room.

"Right," Rasz said, finally backing away, his eyes losing some of the defiance Akima had seen earlier. "Now I see whose side you're on. Until Sunday morning, we've got nothing to say about each other."

Rasz took his coat from the dusty floor; in one swift motion, he donned it, letting the sides flail at Akima, blocking the fire momentarily. Without a word, he swept past her, eyes burning deep into hers; she followed his loathing stare, until he disappeared down the corridor, cloaked by the darkness.

"Damn asshole," spat Stith. "Just because he's out for revenge doesn't mean he suddenly gets what he wants."

"We're all out for revenge, Stith," Korso explained to them. "But by Sunday, not only will we have it, our names will live in history forever. The Drej won't be forgetting us in a hurry, and the mere thought of our actions will strike them down with fear."

"We're doing this for humanity, aren't we?" Ishaq retorted.

Korso didn't answer Ishaq. Instead he stepped up to Akima, looking at her resolutely. "You're Michio's daughter, aren't you? Well, it isn't much of a surprise that you'd grow up to be as stubborn as your father. He would've been proud. But your eyes, you definitely have your mother's eyes."

"You knew my parents?" Akima exclaimed, astonished.

"Yeah sure. Your father was part of this resistance movement, until the Drej killed him with your mother. I met them a day before they were taken. I knew Bourain too; from all the stories he told me, you are the sleek, feisty girl he described."

Akima tried to hide the sudden flush of her cheeks. She never knew that her mentor liked her that much.

"Can you fly any kind of aircraft?" he asked.

"Trained at the Aurora Flight Academy," she replied. "Should be a piece of cake."

"They make them all right at Aurora," Ishaq grinned.

Korso circled Akima for a moment, then returned to his place by the fire. The night wearing on, they had become aware that the surroundings were biting cold; with each breath Akima took, the heat of her exhalation would trail out before her. Both Ishaq and her moved forward, warming themselves by the pleasant, inviting warmth of the heated fire.

"It's settled then," Korso said, warming his hands and placing both of them on Akima's shoulders. "You will be a fighter for our cause."

They all beamed at her; Stith had given her a powerful nudge on the elbow, while Ishaq had made a move to hug her. Yet Akima still felt lost in a thousand thoughts: finally, she was going to show the Drej that she was as human as everyone else.

They departed with words of encouragement; in the depths of the night, nobody saw them leave the abandoned factory and go their own ways. The street was deserted, a disturbing silence filling the neighbourhood. The descending fog wafted through the silent road, misting the weak glow of the streetlights. Akima and Ishaq walked together, back to the slums, listening intently for Drej patrols that might be lurking hidden in the midnight fog.

They walked in silence for a while until Ishaq spoke to Akima in an apprehensive sort of tone: "You do know what we're going to do to the Drej, don't you?"

"Yeah, sure I do," she responded.

"And you do know what's going to happen if they find out that you've survived our mission."

All colour in Akima's face drained almost immediately; even Ishaq didn't feel like thinking about it. "Yeah, I know. They'll rape me, rip me, bang me until I wish I was never born and suck every living cell out of my body until I become as lifeless as death itself."

Ishaq stopped the two of them in the middle of the road.

"So if we die on Sunday, Akima," he said and he stretched out his right hand, clasping tightly to Akima's in a tight grip. "I want to make sure that we die together. I don't want to lose another person that I love to the Drej."

He gently stroked Akima's bangs with his hand, finally coming to rest on her lips. She wanted to say something to him, but couldn't bring herself to do it. Something was holding her back.

"I don't want to lose you, Akima," he said with tenderness in his voice.

"Ishaq, I ."

Shaking her head, she avoided Ishaq's gaze and continued down the street. She couldn't think now, her mind was blank, unable to think up of anything. Ishaq loves me, so why don't I love him? She questioned herself. They lived together, worked together, even suffered for each other. And suddenly she was refusing his affection, she was refusing love that felt so comfortable, so tender, so pure to her.

Isn't that what she wanted? she thought. Love; she just wanted love in her life. Her happiest experiences were when she was with people who loved her: her parents, her grandmother.even Bourain loved her; he treated her like a daughter. And when these people were gone, she had felt as empty as ever; desolate and miserable, as if her life was plunging down a bottomless chasm, and there was no redemption.

So why is this different? She thought angrily to herself, Ishaq could be an affectionate friend, a loving partner. So why don't I love him?

Akima had been so lost in her thoughts that when she looked up, so could see the billowing smoke and ramshackle erections that told her she had reached the slums. At night, there were only boys out in the open, brooding around fires, speaking in hushed, quiet voices. Right now, she could feel their eyes on her, hot like lasers grazing her skin. But she took no notice, walking straight past them into her house.

It was more a home to her than anywhere else. On all four sides, the walls were zinc plates, propped up on the ground and supporting a large, inclined zinc rooftop. A twisted television aerial spiraled on the roof provided them with a window into Drej propaganda and a one-sided viewpoint of the rest of the human world. At the far corner was a single rusting standpipe, concealed by a dividing plate and accompanied with a bucket and a measly cake of soap. As she walked in, she nearly hit the coffee-table before her. She didn't want to do anything else now but cry for her own betraying emotions. Tears streaming silently down her cheeks, she stepped into the bed, a meagre pile of old cushion and cloth, pulling the blanket her cold body, as a wave of both anger and sadness overtook her.

The door creaked open again; she knew that this time, it was Ishaq. Fighting to hold back the tears before he saw her, Akima wiped her face against her blanket, then got to her feet. Ishaq, too, was sobbing silently.

"Why, Akima? Why?" he questioned. At that moment, Akima felt melancholy, utter helplessness in her heart. She wanted love, but she was denying herself its warmth. "Don't you love me?"

"Ishaq."

They fell into each other's arms. The warmth of Ishaq's body made her long of the times when she felt confident inside herself; she was insecure, susceptible to emotions and feelings. As Ishaq pulled her closer, she desisted letting her hold him back.

"I do love you Ishaq," she whispered sadly. "But not as a friend, but as a brother."

"I'm sorry I'll only be loving you for a few more days, Akima," his hand slipped into Akima's. Embracing tightly, they stood, silent for a whole minute, until both of them guided each other through the darkness to the bed. Pulling her closer for warmth, she felt a hand to her cheek, warming the cold tears that had created channels on her face. Ishaq's breath was hot against her face; for what seemed like eternity they stared into each others' eyes, devoid of any kind of movement, until Ishaq turned the other way, still sobbing under his breath.

She glanced at him, his back facing her, and for the first time, she realised how similar they really were. Orphans, strong-willed, stubborn, both wanted to find love and meaning in their lives. her thoughts swirled ceaselessly in her head, pondering, thinking, why had it all come to this. A dark night, in a shack, on the same bed, minds afflicted by each other, crying; standing before a sceptre haunting the coming Sunday, that cast its shadow down upon them. A Sunday where they would prove that they were going down fighting, in a universe where humans were considered filth and scum.

The Drej, she thought. They were responsible for all this hardship. They were responsible for all the broken lives, the torn families and. the pain she had brought down on herself.

In the darkness of the room, she could feel that pain going through her heart like a searing spear. It was emotional pain like no other, for she'd have given anything for this pain to cease . she just wanted it to stop.she just wanted to die.

She had refused love; what was wrong with her. Then, deep in her mind, a voice spoke:

All the pain, all the broken love. it will end this Sunday.

Staring at the darkness around her, Akima shut her eyes tightly, Ishaq's warmth like a blanket around her as they embraced in their sleep. Yet this embrace was emotionless and she could hardly sleep. Eyes open, the darkness was all that she could see. The rapt silence had told her that dreams would not come easy with dejection and a broken heart together on the same bed.



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