WHERE TO MISS YOUNG?
If one were to look closely at Victory, one would find it indiscernible from Defeat
All the world is a wilderness now. A strange sort of wilderness, one that had cement instead of soil, glass instead of leaves and soot and ash instead of pollen. Orderly. Clinical. Cold. Blue, grey and black.
Gone were the days where the warmth of the sun could soak into the earth and between your toes. People didn't know how to miss what they'd destroyed. Guilt morphed into resentment and resentment grew into anger.
Anger grew into war and the cycle began again.
A man walked along the damaged pavement, careful to not trip on the many pot-holes and broken rocks that lay upon it. He was dressed in fine threads- black and grey and gold glinted at his wrist, brilliant in the dreary evening. People seemed to automatically move out of his way, clearing a path in front of him.
Crowds tended to do that with him. He was a Big Man and one did not court the wrath of his kind. The people knew as they always do. His men controlled the streets. Nothing happened on it without their permission. You lived and died at their command, whether you knew it or not.
He strode with great purpose, quick but measured - calculated. He had somewhere to be, that much was clear..
The crowd had thinned out, he realised.
He was entering a less than savoury locality- a place where people, sensible people, didn't loiter about for no reason. Not if they wanted to leave with their kidneys intact.
He mustn't have known this, poor man, for almost as soon as he turned a corner he was beset by a small figure. Spindly legs wrapped about his waist as the it hoisted itself onto his back. He could feel the warmth of breath on his neck and a sharp prick. And everything went black.
Men, for all their arrogance, could never control the young and the hungry for they would make all the shows of acquiescing before turning around and biting the very hand that held its face to the tar. He ought to have known.
The fool knew no more.
Not for an entire hour when he awoke and found himself sans clothing, sans shoes and sans gold watch.
Elle was running late.
Her apprenticeship with The Doctor had her operating on her last fucking nerve at all times. She was his little bitch and she had to thank him for that honour- picking up after him, suturing open incisions after the completion of a surgery, bringing him coffee, running the drip. She had to do it all. The worst part? She had to pay him for the chance.
Elle liked the idea of being a Doctor, Elle did. She wanted to save lives. However, she also liked the security it offered her. Everyone needs a Doctor, even the very rich. She would never go hungry again.
Yes, she had to surrender any free time she had. Sure, she had to eat only two meals a day instead of the usual three but it would be worth it in the end.
That's what she'd been telling herself for years.
Elle had but ten minutes left before the start of her shift at the Cornucopia. She had to get into costume, get fitted with the prosthetics and throw back a shot of gin all within the span of ten minutes. Pulling on her age-softened leather gloves, she climbed onto her motorcycle and kicked off the stand. As with most of her possessions, the motorcycle was inherited. It had been her father's before he'd married her mum and he'd cared for it with all the love he had left after her death.
It rumbled like a grumpy old troll and spluttered to life. As with all of her possessions, it was in dire need of repair.
The streets were crawling with crime and Elle had learned to take care of herself. Tazers. Elbows. Cricket bats. Teeth. Nails. Guns. All were fair game in an unfair world. The bag she had slung over her thin shoulders clunked dangerously. She didn't carry these objects lightly. The world had grown darker around her and after being hurt repeatedly, Elle realised something. It wasn't about defence anymore. No, the time for that had past. It was hurt or be hurt. Stun or be raped.
Elle hadn't been dangerous. She wouldn't hurt a fly, they said. She might mug it, sure. But hurt it? Never.
She didn't contest it but she doubted the veracity of that statement. She always had, but now she had reason to.
If anyone, at any point, tells you that living through a nuclear winter is worth it? Sock them over the head and get out of there. It fucking sucks.
It sucks for the usual reasons, and then for a few completely unexpected reasons as well. The first devastating blow was delivered through the air. Poisoned and radioactive, it sucked the life out of vegetation. Crops just wouldn't grow. Year after year. Famine became the new normal. Starvation the new epidemic. The small reserves of water they had was rendered undrinkable. If hunger had driven men to crime, thirst had driven them to madness. The whole world had collectively gone mad.
Men scrambled for power. Large men, rich men, intelligent men. They swiftly rose to the top of the economic totem pole and built themselves a new world order. One that suited their purposes; their lifestyle of excess and hedonism. They built themselves worlds of wonder, augmented with technology and poor, desperate, pretty women.
That's where girls like Elle came in.
At first glance, Cornucopia wasn't imposing in size nor was it very pretty. At second glance, it was downright ugly.
The non-descriptive walls were painted a sad looking beige. The floors were stripped of any carpeting that may have covered it once. The lights were fluorescent and threw even the prettiest face into ugly relief.
The front facade of the building itself served to hide it in plain sight. It was illegal, after all, what they did in there. It was illegal though the very people who legislated and passed the bill were the ones who spent most of the time in there. But what's a little pretending, right? Everyone does it.
Cornucopia could have been any old office building if not for the incredibly plush armchairs scattered around the single room and therein lay the pretense.
Attached to each armchair was an IV infusion set- a simple plastic bag holding clear fluid, a central attachment line and a connector. A smallish helmet like object lay on the armchair itself.
This was why the men and women flocked to Cornucopia. It was for intents and purposes, a drug den. And Elle for all intents and purposes was a drug dealer. Well, she'd started out as a Medico-aid, inserting the IV lines and ensuring the working of the pumps. Keep the customer comfortable, she had been told. Keep them upright. Wipe the drool off their faces and if anyone good luck forbidding, dies, well, take anything valuable off of them.
She had started off well within the conventions of morality, however, the owner had taken one long look at her and had her fitted out for her own set of costumes. Costumes to make the 'experience' more realistic, she was informed.
So then she learned to pretend. Dress up as Queen and Fairy, assassin and whore- anything the customer wanted. She dressed up pretty, put on a happy face and stroked and petted and kissed the hallucinating fool in the armchair.
Was she a whore? No.
Was she for purchase? Absolutely.
War had been hard on everyone.
'Get in. Be quick about it, now. You're already late. Come in. Why are you always covered in guts? Jesus, Ellie. You don't have time for a shower. Here, give me your jacket. Have you been stealing The Doctor's cigarettes again? I told you not to. It stinks to high heavens, girl and it'll kill you dead, first chance it gets'
Elle was greeted with a barrage of words. Delivered with great alacrity and dare she think it, concern? For after all, Philip was a friend. A large man with a larger heart, he'd taken young Ellie Young under his wing. He clucked over the dreadful state of her hair and he tutted over the cold-torn skin of her lips. He tightened her bra straps before she started and always, always gave her a hug.
Elle had been young, she supposed, for this line of work. Not quite eighteen, she'd joined in hopes of paying The Doctor's exorbitant training were few and far between. Their training was reserved for the rich and famous. The Uppers, they called themselves. She remembered wanting to become a Doctor when she was young, when the world was less fucked up. She had grand illusions of saving people, patching folk up and loving them back to health.
Elle hadn't been the smartest child.
No, Elle had been young and beautiful. Cornucopia had been the only logical option.
The Owner had stood her under the glare of a spotlight in nothing but her pants. He'd circled around her like a large bird of prey, poking here, prodding there, evaluating her attractiveness.
She was a long person, he'd told her. That was the only way to describe her. Long limbs, long fingers, long hair, long nose, long eyelashes. She was long and men wanted her.
She didn't reply. She knew that. She'd known that particular fact since puberty. Girls, she was told, grew into an awkward stage between duckling and swan. However, she just grew long.
Puppy fat melted off her body and her cheekbones could have be used to peel carrots. She wondered if it was because she had starved so much as a child. She'd smile her little vulpine smile and promise herself that it wouldn't be for long. She'd grow fat and soft and content, just you wait. She just had to go through hell first.
She was twenty now. A round number. Clean. Not too old and not too young. She reveled in this strange sort of mediocrity. Her dreams of becoming a Doctor had lost any real desire to save lives. Why save the suffering? Why prolong their pain? No, she trained for an entirely selfish reason- security. No one questioned their kind. They were rich and powerful and it was the one profession that was accessible to anyone. One didn't become rich in this world ruled by nepotism, no. One was either born rich or died hungry.
Becoming a Doctor would save her.
'He's been here for an hour, Ellie. An hour! Gosh, you are lucky he isn't an itchy sort. His elbows are remarkably smooth, did you know? Strange man. Strange elbows. He's here every week and yet he has no tracks? Remarkable!'
Though Philip had been Elle's first real friend. Her second friend had been Mr. Gee.
He'd sit in his armchair and pretend to trip, all while talking to Ellie. He'd regale with strange tales of travel and adventure and love. She'd been extremely suspicious at first but one did not mistrust Mr Gee for long.
It just didn't happen.
His manners and his smile could bowl over a hissing cat.
He'd become her Patron. The one constant in the chaos of her life. She loved him jealously though he'd never once given her reason to be. He'd never once asked for another girl. Not even when Elle had come an hour late. Not even when Elle had failed to turn up all together.
No. He didn't ask the Floorman for another girl, he had instead insisted on receiving The Doctor's number. He'd fixed up an appointment all so he and bring Elle a cuppa.
Warm and sweet. Just like Mr. Gee himself.
He was a tall man. Long, like her. She fancied that she was much like him. Tall and thin.
For, though Elle would die before she admitted it, in the deepest, hidden nervous tissue of her being, Elle had imagined up a world where Mr. Gee was her father and her, his favoured child. These false memories brought her more warmth than any amount of alcohol.
'Mr. Gee!' Elle cried and flung her arms around his narrow shoulders. 'I'm so sorry to keep you waiting'
'I've fair torn up the fabric of the couch, my dear. I do so desperately need my fix'
Elle grinned at that. She'd never once inserted a line into him and she certainly hadn't allowed anyone else to either. His veins were pure as could be and Elle was the only one who knew.
'Well then, Mr. Gee. I hope you're ready for a night of pretense. Right on. What would you like to see today?'
He'd always had fun with his requests. He'd ask for her to dress up as Wizards and Dwarves, all with great big beards and bushy eyebrows. It made her laugh, happy and open, and seeing her laugh seem to please him. She'd dress up as a Witch- warts and all. Her costumes were painstakingly made and utterly ridiculous.
Mr. Gee had saved her from a life of wearing little scraps of clothing for money and given her a life where she laughed for it instead. Elle wondered if he knew that she would do anything for him. Kill for him. Die for him.
'I had your costume sent for yesterday. Why don't you go find out? I'm loath to ruin surprises, as you very well know' Mr. Gee extended his arm towards the greenroom. 'Go on then, lassie', he urged, 'this one might take you a while to get into. I dare say you might even need help with it'
Elle stared. Something was off. Something wasn't right. She could taste it on the tip of her tongue and smell it in the back of her nose.
She nodded and set off. It wasn't right to question Mr. Gee. Not right at all. Philip followed closely, matching her stride. He would prepare her for the night as he always had. Dress her down and then up again. Paint her face. Make her look like whatever she was supposed to look like.
She stared at her reflection. What in the world was she wearing? She'd looked at herself from the left. She'd looked at herself from the right. She'd spun around half a dozen times. And yet, Elle just couldn't find the joke.
She was dressed in a simple tunic of fine, grey linen that lay soft on her skin. Stretchy black leggings and a sensible looking pair of boots completed the look- though what the look was supposed to be was beyond her ken.
Philip clucked.
'You aren't going to get any money dressed like that, lassie. You're right drab, you are. Maybe you ought to pull the neck down or the sleeves off'
Elle had waved him off. Politely, of course. What Mr. Gee wanted, he got. These clothes were neither hinted at sex nor humour. They were merely sensible.
That thought alarmed her.
'Don't be a fool Elle. When is dead and gone, you'll be left wanting for Patrons. No one wants a lass dresses like bloody ol Robbin Hood. Ain't no one. Let me atleast brush on some makeup. You're look fair peaky"
And so he had. He'd made her look like a less wraithlike version of herself, for which she would be unbelievably thankful in the coming days. It annoyed her now, but she'd see the value soon. She didn't care about her face. She needed to go out and ask what he meant by dressed her up like a Sherwood reject. As she looked closely, something struck her, that unsettled her completely, entirely and totally.
She was dressed for a long journey, she realised.
Where to, Miss Elle Young?
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