The sun has barely risen when I get back to the streets that lead to Fletcher's garage. It's hotter than I'd expected it'd be at this hour. The weather's only been getting worse lately.
Lost children glare at me from across the road with scowls that linger within my heart long after they are gone. They remind me of how I once was when I first arrived here. I wish I could buy them food, clean T-shirts and water, but I barely have enough to keep myself alive.
A crow flies past me and squawks. Its leg is missing. My chest tightens. They're almost extinct, and this is how we treat them.
Like food.
I find Fletcher's garage at the next street corner. Its windows are still broken. I click my tongue. Idiot. I told him he should fix it, but he never listens.
As I step over shards of glass—scraps of metal—through the entrance whose door was smashed to rubble long ago, the irritating sound of Fletcher's snores come to flood the room that has barely been touched by daylight; left blue, by the stroke of midnight.
I bring a fist to my chin. I clear my throat.
Fletcher gasps. "Ian?"
"Who else?" I ask.
He groans. "Dude, what the fuck— Do you know what time it is? Where were you?"
A huff escapes me. I bend down to lift an old, moldy tile beneath my foot. From under it, I grab my backpack, whose tint has decayed to a darker, more depressed grey. As I sling the damned thing over my shoulder, my breaths hitch, and I wince. It still fucking hurts, and I feel like shit. Fuck.
Fucking android.
This is all his fault.
"I was nowhere," I tell Fletcher. He rises from the couch, and I'm reminded that I need to patch up the spot that's been ripped again, near the edges of its armrest.
Fletcher raises a brow. "You don't look like you were nowhere."
I roll my eyes. "Look," I say. "I just ran into this jerk who wanted me to help him investigate some bullshit, but I turned him down, so it's whatever, really."
My old friend frowns, then scratches the back of his head. "He let you go? Just like that?" Fletcher pauses to glance out from one of the garage's window-frames. A hooded man, who stands right outside of it, catches both our attentions.
Out of the two of us, however, Fletcher is quicker to react. His fist dives into his jean's back pocket. In his hand materializes a gun. He points it straight at the man, then says, "You shouldn't be here. You've got ten seconds to scram."
The man is gone in eight.
"Fucking creep." Fletcher shoves his weapon back into his pocket. He cringes. "Who the fuck does that..." My old friend sighs. "Anyway, Ian—" His eyes meet mine once more. "Are you sure you're not in any kind of trouble?"
Fletcher's gaze darkens; he lowers his voice. "We could go... take care of the problem, if you'd like."
But I wave his idea away and shrug it off. "I'm fine," I say. "You worry too much. I was just asked to investigate a case. It seemed sketchy, so I didn't outright refuse. He probably thinks we're meeting up sometime later this morning." My foot hits the start of the attic's steps. I scoff. "Sucks for him though, I won't be going. Anyway," I yawn; god, I'm beat. "I'm taking a nap. Wake me up in three hours. Thanks."
As I begin to walk up the stairs, I hear Fletcher mumbling the words, "If you hadn't been my boss in the past, I would have thrown you out, you know."
This makes me stop in my tracks, and peek at him from behind the wall that had separated us. I smirk. "Then, I'm glad I was."
"Just go, Ian, fuck off."
I chuckle. The stairs creak as I leave him be.
My room is just as I'd left it—in ruins, full of spare parts and masks I don't use anymore.
I grab a blanket off the wooden floorboards. In the streets below, somebody coughs.
The wool pinched between my fingers starts to unravel. The thought that I'll need a new blanket briefly crosses my mind, until it is erased by the fact that my life has been reduced to choosing food over comfort. Always.
I lay down onto the makeshift mattress that sits lifeless across the floor. The edges of each pillow that's arranged into a rectangular puzzle dig into my back. But I'm exhausted. I don't care anymore.
Soon, I see black.
I don't know how much time passes. There is a brief shimmer, a glint of bright yellow, before red drips down walls and comes to paint the scene laid out before me. Saki runs towards my figure. She calls out my name. "Come on, Ian! Join us!" Years have gone by since we last met, yet, she still looks like a child here.
I try to lift my foot.
But I'm stuck in quicksand, and I'm sinking, deep into an abyss filled with maggots. Dead things.
I bite down against the taste of bile. I tell Saki to wait. "Please," I shout. "Don't leave me here!" But she's gone. Into the light that draws further away from me with each passing second.
I blink.
The silhouettes of my parents holding hands stand beside Saki.
They laugh. They start to walk away.
I try to yell again, but what comes out of my mouth isn't sound. It's slime. Neon-green and viscous. And I choke on the words I'd wanted to say.
I reach out to grab the light. It is much more tangible, softer, than I'd expected; this startles me.
"Saki. Saki. Please." I whimper.
The breath I take is deep. "Please." My lungs ache. I weep. "Don't leave me alone."
The soft fabric crushed between my fingers is pulled from my hands. However, I refuse to let go. I tug, and tug, and tug until the sound of a grizzled tear brings me back to reality. My attention wanders to the ground, now lit a darker shade of tangerine by the heat of the sky.
I rub my eyes. A piece of the blanket is tangled around a nail that pokes out from beneath the old wood. "Crap." I cover my eyes, fall back into bed, and sigh. "How am I even going to fix that..."
When silence falls across my room once more, it occurs to me that the usual noises made by Fletcher working on other people's bikes aren't present.
My brows furrow. I get up and stretch my shoulder. It doesn't hurt as badly as it did before, but I should probably take it easy. As for my nose...
Damn, I gulp. I wish it looked terrible because of the crack in the mirror before me, but holy shit, I need to put some ice on that.
I waddle back down the stairs. "Fletcher?" I clear my throat. "Hey, man, do you have some leftover—" My eyes widen.
I freeze.
This place is a wreck—more so than usual. Everything has been turned upside down, and the couch's surface is even more ripped than before.
Fletcher's glasses lay smashed, discarded amongst the floor.
My gaze darts left, then right. I inch forward and keep a hand on the blade hooked around my belt. But there's no one here. This place is deserted.
I don't understand. Who would do this? Fletcher is needed and well-liked around here. Harming him would bring more of a loss than a win to us all.
I think back to the Assistant. I gulp. Is he the one responsible for this? There's no way I'm waiting to find out. I'll fucking kill him.
If I have to force the intel out of his circuits, then so be it—but he's not getting away with hurting my friend.
I run back up the stairs and grab my things. As I change into my sneakers and tug my gloves onto my fingers, then down to my wrists, I hold onto the windowsill and haul myself up, onto the roof.
The light is dying in the sky—yet, every cloud remains, even if there is no rain. I crack my neck. I put on the biker's mask I'd modified two years ago. "Fucking hell, Fletcher," I mutter, as I dash towards the next rooftop and make the jump.
"You better be all right."