Ayame
was dead. At least, that’s what she kept telling herself. She was wondering
what sick whim of fate had awoken her, that she must be conscious of her end.
She lay still on the glass-littered pavement, trying to breathe as little as
possible. Blood was leaking out of her mouth and nose, but she made no move to
help herself. She pictured herself already a corpse, her soul wandering away. It
was a peaceful image.
The men- two of them- hadn’t noticed that she’d regained
consciousness. To them, Ayame was as dead as she was to herself. They’d killed
her. She had no idea why. There she’d been, minding her own business,
dutifully on the way to work. She really couldn’t grasp why people couldn’t
just leave one another alone. Why did they have to kill her? The government
would’ve killed her one day anyway, and then her body would’ve served some
purpose. This death was meaningless, and its stupidity mildly embarrassing.
She hadn’t died alone. The balance of the act seemed comforting in some
strange way- two men, two women. Though her eyes were closed, Ayame sensed that
they were standing over Mia, her companion in death. They were talking, a
slightly jovial air to their voices which were packed with adrenaline.
“Well, what should we do with the bodies?” said one.
“I guess we could just leave them here. Nobody gives a shit about these
whores, anyway.” This was the voice of the man who’d killed her.
“I don’t know. Aren’t they, like, the property of the Empire or
something?”
“I’m telling you, nobody cares.”
“I don’t like it. It’s so blatant. Almost like spitting in our own
faces, you know?”
“Let’s cook them. I’ll bet if we burn them up a little, a whole
bunch of their gross Clanmates’ll come out and eat them.” The guy was
giggling.
“That’s sick!”
“Think about it. It’ll probably even look like the damn gross Dauern
did it, too.”
“Funny. Ok, let’s do it.”
They wandered off to find a trashcan in which to burn the two dead girls.
They were so moronic, so juvenile, barely any older than Ayame herself. She felt
angry that she had to die this way, angry that she was awake to feel the fire
lick and then consume her.
I did everything right, she thought in her fury. I had a
future.
Now she had nothing. She’d never get out of the Firehouse where she
stripped. She’d never walk away from the required world of pimps and into the
soft lights of the townhouses and co-ops. She’d never reproduce. She wondered
why she couldn’t kill the men- why they could end her life and walk away,
while if she’d fought back she’d be arrested. Her life had ended the moment
they’d laid their hands on her.
The two murderous idiots returned with the big round dented cans, a
couple a piece. She could hear a slight, yet distinctive crackle that indicated
the start of a fire. She could imagine them as they bent over Mia, folding her
up like a robe. She heard them grunt as they lifted her, the sounds of her poor,
broken little body being shoved into the flaming trashcan.
They were coming for her. What an embarrassing way to die. Ayame
wanted to scream- a howl that would come from the very darkest pit of her being,
one that would embody all the indignities she’d suffered in her life. She
didn’t want to give herself away. She knew that her dead body would be
deposited in the circular inferno. If she was alive, perhaps they’d start the
whole episode again from the beginning. Maybe it would be worse. Ayame had to
stay dead. Her body would join her mind soon. Afterward, perhaps someone would
come along and feast on her partly-cooked flesh. It could be that her death
would serve the purpose of feeding someone else.
Morons One and Two were standing over her. One said,
“You sure she’s dead?”
“Who gives a shit? This is getting boring.”
Silence. It was kind of a long silence, too.
“You got a problem, buddy?” Two said, suddenly aggressive. “Get the
fuck out of here.”
Just as Ayame was assuming the intruder was one of her poor, bulldozed
Clan, her ears were filled with the noise of a brawl- the grunting, the dull,
fleshy thwack of landed punches. Somebody fell into one of the cans. The
lack of screaming indicated that it wasn’t one of those in which fire burned.
Curiosity was not natural among Dauern, who had the tendency to shut out
anything that did not directly involve them. However, Ayame couldn’t help but
open her eyes.
She wanted to smile at first, watching. Some guy had shown up, like one
of those invincible heroes that crash through the movies. Good-looking,
muscular, and apparently confident, he fought with the fluid motion of someone
who knows what they’re doing. He was kicking the shit out of the Morons.
And then, Ayame realized that he may not be a savior after all. This
wasn’t a movie; she was not a beautiful Upper-Clan damsel. Odds were, the guy
was just another psycho out to enjoy a little violence. When he was finished
with her attackers, he’d probably turn on her to indulge himself a little
further. Maybe he’d be the one to put her in the flaming trashcan.
The idiots were running away. The fighter turned to her and was
approaching fast. Yeah, he’d end her life now, complete the work that others
had started. As he got closer, she began to feel a little dizzy, as if the
pavement was gently rocking beneath her. She was getting pins and needles now,
too- most likely from lying so long in the same position. She was hot, as though
the fire was creeping closer along with the fighter. So many “why?”s flooded
her mind. Her broken spirit ached for release, and she let loose that howl which
was trapped within. She felt herself flooded with black water, cool and
stagnant.
When she opened her eyes again, the guy was holding her, rocking her
slightly. Her body still felt tingly, and her eyes were wet- her face sticky
from blood and drying tears.
“It’s ok, you’re ok…” the guy soothed. What the hell?
She thought, dazed.
She opened her mouth and let the pooled blood run out. She spat out a
tooth. Her nose had stopped bleeding. She felt huge and aching and bloated. She
snuggled closer to the stranger, realizing that she hadn’t been held by anyone
since her mother, all those years ago. He was warm and smelled of clean clothes
and the outdoors. She felt terribly desperate and lonely. Ayame let herself cry
a little more. The guy continued to soothe her, to touch her, to hold onto her
like a friend she never knew she had.
What am I doing? She asked herself suddenly.
She pulled away from him and he made no move to keep her. Ayame gazed up
at him, studying the rugged face he had. His eyes were some dark color- there
wasn’t enough light to tell which. He was pleasant enough to look at, but his
hair bothered her. Most of it was black, but his bangs were white, luminous in
the dark. It needled her, as though that hair ought to be the key to his
identity, as though she should remember it from somewhere. She wasn’t fond of
the feeling.
“Who are you?” Her voice sounded weird, as if she shouldn’t be
using it.
“My name’s Harata. Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you.”
I won’t hurt you, he thought bitterly. He looked at the girl in
the darkness. Her face was bruised, bloody and swollen. There was a gash on her
head, and more on her arms. Her legs were scraped, as if she’d been dragged
along the ground. It was the remains of her clothing that told the story of what
had happened. Her tiny shirt was in tatters, most of it gone, bra slashed open.
One of her breasts was completely exposed, the other peering out here and there.
Whatever she’d been wearing below was gone completely. Her underwear was still
tangled around her feet.
“They…” he began, but couldn’t force the words from his tongue.
She understood him anyway.
“Yeah. Both of us.” Her voice sounded resigned.
“I’m sorry,” the Clanless spoke softly, feeling remorse that he
hadn’t been along sooner. He reached for the knapsack he’d been carrying. He
began to rummage until he pulled out a brand-new t-shirt and a pair of jeans.
She’d need a belt, too.
Quietly, and with slow, fuzzy motion he began to dress her. As he pulled
her nearly non-existent panties back up, he asked,
“What’s your name?”
“Ayame.” She made no effort to say anything else. Her head was
throbbing, and nausea had taken hold of her stomach. She submitted wholly as he
put clothes on her. They were brand-new and still smelled of the stores where
they’d been purchased. Ayame had never worn new clothes before.
“Did you know those guys?” he asked.
“No. Never seen them before.”
He carefully guided her arms through the sleeves of the shirt. She said,
“You’re going to be sorry you did this. Those guys will pin this
whole thing on you. I hope you have a good lawyer.”
“You know the difference-“
“What I say doesn’t matter. Those guys were Empirian, and unless you
are too, if they say you did it- you did it.”
“I’m not Empirian,” Harata said in a subdued voice as he eased the
overlarge jeans up her legs.
“You’re not Dauern, too… are you?”
He wanted to cry and scream and tear at his hair, yelling and yelling: Yes
I am! I’m just like you! And I’m going to destroy everyone who hurts our
people!! Instead he replied,
“No, not that either. How do you feel? Think you can stand up?”
“OK.”
With his help, Ayame made it into a standing position. She shook a little
as a fresh shot of pain surged from her head.
“Thanks.” She gazed up at Harata. What’s his deal? She
wondered. “I guess you must be Decameron, huh? The last ‘do-gooders’ left
these days.”
“I’m not Decameron.” His voice sounded a bit weighty, like he was
trying to convey a greater meaning with those three words. A silence fell
between them. Eventually, he broke it with a tentative question.
“You know the Legend, right?”
“I think everyone knows that: return of Qa Haran, nine Champions,
united Clans, happily every after, blah, blah, blah.” The Dauern’s voice was
bitter.
“Qa Haran isn’t coming back.” He spoke with conviction.
“Why not?”
“He died. There’s another Clanless Diasminian.”
This guy was truly right out of the movies.
“Who? You?” Ayame wanted to giggle, but forced herself not to.
“Yeah, me.” He sighed heavily. “I have to get going. I’m leaving
the city tonight. I need you to come with me.”
“I’ll be ok, really. You go ahead.”
“No, I mean- you have to come with me. I can’t leave you behind.”
“I have to get to work. I’m already late-“
“You can’t go to work like that. You’re hurt-“
“But I can go with you?”
“It’s different.”
“You know what happens to Dauern who don’t go to work? They die. Then
you’d have helped me for no reason.”
“This is different, Ayame. You’re one of the Champions!”
The nausea she’d been feeling caused her stomach to heave and churn.
She bent over and was sick.
“Please find someone else.”
“It doesn’t work like that. I don’t get to choose.”
“Please… go away. You’re obviously crazy. I have to get to work.”
“Look,” he pulled his ID out of his wallet, handed it to her.
“I’m Clanless. Even the government says so.”
“I can’t read,” she informed him after a cursory glance at the
card.
“To be honest, I’m not that good at it myself.”
“They’ll kill me…” it was then that she realized that she was
arguing. She’d never argued before with anyone; always did what she was told.
He was allowing her to argue with him. He was being both patient and fair. Ayame
found she liked him, wanted to go with him. Maybe then she could escape
the world in which she and her friends were exploited, raped, and killed.
“Ok,” she said with a firm determination. “I’ll go. But…”
“Yeah?”
“Those guys. They tore off my necklace. I know it sounds stupid, but
it’s the only jewelry I’ve ever owned. It was my mother’s. Can you help me
look for it?”
“Sure.”
They looked about for a few minutes, and Harata found it not far from
where the girl was lying when he found her. It was too dark to get any ideas
about the color of the metal or the single oval stone. He found himself dying to
get a good look at the Dauern. There were too many questions dancing in his
mind.
“Here. Found it. Ready?”
