Fan Fiction ❯ Fission ❯ Lawless City ( Chapter 7 )

Chapter 6: Lawless City

Pain. It seemed everywhere. It was so omnipresent that Ambrose could even feel it in his sleep, and was unaware that he had even awakened. He thought, for a brief moment, that he was dreaming. Perhaps he was seeing the future, or maybe a forgotten past, or perhaps he was just dreaming. But the more he lay staring at the bland brown ceiling, and the longer he lay on something too hard to be considered a bed, the more aware he was that he was not asleep. His left leg ached and he couldn't bend it, and any movement of his head sent pain like hammer strikes against the back of his skull. Add to that the constant soreness of the rest of his body from the crash, and he was certifiably miserable.

Despite the pain of doing so, Ambrose felt the need to turn his head about and visually explore his surroundings. He was in a small room, approximately five feet by seven. The ceiling, walls, and floor were all made of the same rough, brown rock. There was a small desk made of metal opposite his squeaky, lumpy bed. The desk was cluttered with papers, dusty black plates, and, most visible of all, a strange blue sculpture. Between the desk and the bed, there seemed barely room to stand.

Yet standing is exactly what Ambrose wanted to do. He had to know where he was, and he was determined to not let the pain get the best of him. He didn't have to remove sheets; the bed had only one, and he was on top of it. Slowly, painfully, he pulled himself into a sitting position. The pain made this so difficult that he sat for several moments panting, waiting for the hurt to recede.

As he sat waiting, and with as little movement as possible, he checked himself visually. He was still in his officer's uniform, though by now it was gritty and torn in several locations. There was a strange set of three seemingly plastic bars wrapped around his wounded leg - probably a cast of some kind. It explained his inability to move the leg properly; the cast was tied both above and below his knee, as if purposefully to prevent him from bending it.

Ambrose wondered for a moment whether or not he was in some sort of hospital. Glancing at the overall griminess of the place, however, he cast this idea aside. So was he a prisoner? He looked over at the door and wasn't surprised to see a large, metal one shutting him off from the rest of the world. He wondered if it was locked; it being so would confirm his fear of imprisonment.

The pain had mostly receded by now, and Ambrose felt it was time to take on standing. Slowly, one leg at a time, he turned himself so that he was sitting on the bed's corner. The pain wasn't as bad this time, though it was still quite powerful. Gritting his teeth and bracing himself, he grabbed the side of the desk in front of him and tried to stand. The agony was brutal, and each instant seemed like a minute as he slowly pulled himself into a standing position. Finally, after what seemed ages, he was up, if leaning against the desk for support. The hurt had developed to unbearable heights, and Ambrose found himself waiting once again for it to go down.

As he stood there, leaning heavily against the desk, he tried once more to focus on something other than the pain. The sculpture was right in front of him, glaringly visible, so he decided to study it, instead. It was a very unusual thing, made of a curious stone that, through the eyes, appeared to be made of nothing more than colored clay. He braved a touch and found the odd stuff to be hard as a rock, however. The sculpture was shaped like nothing Ambrose had ever seen: three curvy, stick-like legs; a large central body that was flat and straight on one side, twisted and random on the other, complete with a gaping hole in between; five waving arms that could either have been tentacles or some form of decoration; and a large, thick head that appeared to have a hollow crown atop it. It was decidedly the most unusual thing he had ever seen.

By now the pain was, once again, bearable. Now he decided to quest for the doorway, and so began to slowly turn himself in its direction. With painful, wobbling steps he managed to reach the door. He leaned himself against the wall carefully, panting slowly as his leg burned agonizingly. Yet he wasn't finished; he had to know if he was a prisoner or a guest.

He looked the door up and down, but saw nothing representing a handle of any kind. He reached a tentative hand towards it and pushed lightly. It didn't budge. At first he felt a great sense of dismay, and wondered who those turban-men were who apparently had him captive. But then his eyes caught something they had missed before; a small hole, which seemed just large enough to place a couple fingers in, was in the center of the door, about waist-high. A thought came upon Ambrose, and he reached into the hole. It was not deep, but he found he could easily curl his fingers to grip the door. He pulled, and the door swung open without argument.

Resuming his slow pace, Ambrose managed to go through the door with slightly less pain. He was now in a room that was only slightly larger than the bedroom; ten by eight feet, he estimated. It was lightly furnished and less cluttered. There was a single small chair that appeared to be made of the same grey material as his bed had been. There was a small, round object with a large, hollow bottom and a flat top; it gave Ambrose the impression of an old stove. He also saw a small set of cabinets, which appeared to have been built inside the wall itself. There was what appeared to be a sink, though it lacked a faucet and was far from smooth, and a dirty table with plates sat unimaginatively against a wall. There was one closed door, fitted with a large metal device that was apparently intended as a locking system. It, too, had a hole in it for opening. There was also a single window, with no glass in it.

Ambrose dragged himself to the window. It was high, about up to his neck. He looked through it cautiously, not actually coming too close, but all he could see was a great brown wall that stood about two feet away. Unfazed, he turned to the other door and stumbled to it. Once he reached it, however, he was forced to once again stop and recuperate.

Closing his eyes against the pain, Ambrose considered for a brief moment the idea of moving over to the chair and resting in it for a few seconds. He tossed that idea away, however, for fear that once he was in the chair he would be unable to get back up. He realized he probably had lost a lot of blood, for the exertion was making him feel weak and feeble. Although he knew better, he cautiously reached a hand back, feeling his bald head for the wound. It took him a moment to locate, as the pain seemed equally spread across the back of his head and neck.

He felt a soft substance, probably a form of cloth, and realized that whoever had treated his leg had done the same with his head wound. He didn't feel it too much; just touching the cloth was enough to send violent bursts of pain through his skull. He instead contemplated the identity of his captors. Apparently they wanted to keep him alive or they wouldn't have treated his wounds. So what where they after?

The answer came to him almost immediately: they wanted to question him. Why else? He thought back, recalling how the people looked. They hadn't seemed too advanced technologically, and there was no telling how long they had been on the planet. Perhaps he, Wolfen, and Dios were the first visitors from space they had had in a long time.

Thinking about the young Private and doctor made him immediately wonder where they were. It was clear they weren't around here, unless maybe they were in the next room? He needed to find them; they were his responsibility now. A sudden fear that he had already lost the only two people left in his charge motivated him to move on, and he reached a hand for the door. He peeked through it and was made speechless at what he saw. Slowly, he pulled himself into the doorway to get a better look.

Ambrose was in a giant, dark city. The world was brighter than he remembered, suggesting it was day again. Just before him was a narrow street paved with small black stones. All around the street were closely packed buildings, some small, others as high as four stories. All were made of the same rust-colored stone, and there were no parallels, no nice ninety degrees to these buildings. Some were crooked, some had curves in their build, and others had great holes in their sides. The area looked and sounded in every way like a slum. Yet beyond the buildings were more buildings, taller, more structurally sound. As Ambrose stared skywards he saw some that would classify as skyscrapers, their rust-brown peaks silhouetted by the rolling black clouds.

The city was not cluttered with people and vehicles, as many Earth cities are, yet still the people's presence was clear all over the place. Some men walked about, going to do whatever it was they did in this world, looking like lifeless drones with soulless eyes. There were women, too. Some wore garb similar to the men, trousers and shirts and other such garments, all torn and dirty. Some, on the other hand, wore significantly less, and stood about advertising themselves to the passing men with desperation in their faces. The few children Ambrose saw were lifeless, sitting or standing about quietly with looks of boredom and hopelessness. Occasionally some men, wearing a strange one-piece uniform and armed with guns, stalked importantly by; a policing force of some kind, he thought.

As Ambrose stared quietly at this scene, he felt greater despair and hopelessness than he could ever remember feeling before. It was as if the life, the hope, the very emotion of these people had been sucked away. Everyone was so thin and gaunt - it was appalling! There were no smiles, no voices; everywhere there was dirt and despondency. He couldn't help but wonder what it was that drained these people of life.

Slowly, cautiously, Ambrose crept down a rail-less set of stairs, setting foot on the street before him. As if on cue, a strange vehicle rumbled by him slowly. It was a large abomination, with eight wheels and a single large headlight on a long, beak-like front. The cab of the vehicle was very round, yet there seemed no symmetry to it at all. It was driven by an elderly woman in a gritty purple outfit, and in the back of the vehicle was a large compartment.

The vehicle rumbled slowly past and stopped in the middle of the street. As Ambrose watched, the double doors on the back of the vehicle opened and gave him a clear view inside. He saw people, mostly men, all wearing the same faded purple of the driver, all with that same sad look upon their faces. He noticed that some of them were exceptionally dirty, even compared to their comrades; they had great black stains on their clothes and skin, and their faces were long and tired. These stepped out of the vessel like foot soldiers, and dispersed without a sound; some walked away down the street, others stepped miserably past Ambrose, and some crept away into nearby buildings. When all these had marched away, several more approached and went in. When the vessel was full once again, the doors on the vehicle closed with a grating sound and the vehicle drove on.

Ambrose wondered if the vehicle was intended to be a transport to some sort of job. He looked around at the gaunt faces, the depressing atmosphere. How could anyone keep up a motive for working in such an abysmal city? He felt a great urge to leave the place, to run away and wipe the memory of it from his mind.

Painfully, Ambrose turned about to examine the rest of the city. As he did his eyes came across something lying beside the stairway of the building he had just left. He quickly realized it was an elderly woman, sleeping. Ambrose felt a great deal of pity for the woman, yet despite what respect told him he felt himself stepping closer to her. In this way he came upon the sad revelation; she wasn't sleeping, unless it be called the eternal sleep. Her aged face was pallid, her chest failed to move under her ragged brown garments. The site of the corpse had an intense effect on Ambrose, and the urge to flee this nightmarish city came to him with severe urgency.

He turned and began to walk agonizingly down the street. He didn't know where he was going, but he knew any place had to be better than here. The city had to end somewhere, didn't it? He tried to think of something, tried to make his mind focus so his eyes wouldn't notice the grim surroundings and the pain. Once again he found himself contemplating the idea that he was dead, and this was Hell, or Purgatory, or Limbo, or some other spiritual land of nightmares. Perhaps the desert episode was just an introduction, and now he was on the main course of the nightmare.

He made an attempt to think of something that would raise his hopes, some great beacon he could recall that would permit him strength in this ugly place. Faces passed his mind, people and places and things, but nothing stuck, nothing gave him that push he lacked. For a brief moment he silently cursed people like Wolfen. He knew that Wolfen had loved that cadet, Miki, and that the young pilot could imagine her face easily. Wolfen had a source of hope in his memories, a face that could remind him that life wasn't over, that things could still go right. Ambrose had nothing. No children, no wife, no parents, not even an old lover to recall. He had been an orphan, and had devoted his life to his job at the exclusion of social commitment. People had always told him that he needed to gain a social life, to meet people, to go on a date for a change. But his response had always been the same; no time, not interested anyway, don't need a companion. My, how the tables had turned.

A shadow passed over Ambrose as he walked, and he paused, mostly in surprise that there actually were shadows on this dark, dreary world. His eyes regained their focus, and he looked up to find himself confronted by a teenager. The boy was of heavy build (though still obviously malnourished) and just slightly shorter than Ambrose. He looked up at Ambrose with a sad expression, his dirt-covered face apologetic.

"You're hurt." The young man stated simply. Ambrose stared at him blankly, surprised at having been addressed directly by one of these poor people. He looked around and noticed that he had meandered into a completely new area; nothing looked alike. The young man pointed at Ambrose's uniform. "Those decorations… where they hard to earn?"

Ambrose realized he was pointing at the stars representing his rank, as well as the decorations that pointed out some of the awards he had received in the service. He was amazed to find them still present, even after all that had happened. He touched one, an eagle-shaped decoration given for bravery in combat, which was especially important to him. The teenager watched Ambrose as he pulled it from his uniform and studied it lovingly.

"Those are very important to you." The young man pointed out, gazing studiously at the eagle. Ambrose looked at him, saw a strange look in his eyes, and cautiously returned the decoration back to its original location. "What is it to you?"

Their eyes met, and Ambrose noted the same hopeless desperation in the young man's eyes that he had seen in the populace of this gloomy city. The teenager hesitated for a moment, and then bowed his head sadly. "I'm sorry…"

Suddenly the teenager was on him, grabbing at Ambrose's decorations wildly. The sudden attack shocked him, and he felt pain sear up his leg as he stepped away. He reached up and tried to catch the desperate hands, to protect the medals that were all he had left; but the teen was strong and Ambrose was injured. One by one the decorations were ripped from his uniform and disappeared from view into some unseen pocket.

Ambrose, at first, took on this new opponent with a clear mind. After all, the man was desperate and desperation leads to mistakes. But then the teenager looked up, for only an instant, and Ambrose saw a hungry, mad light in his young eyes. This boy was more than just desperate; he was down to his last rope.

Ambrose realized he was losing this fight, that his last remnants of Earth were disappearing before his very eyes. Worry filled him, and in a last hope he grabbed the Eagle, his most precious decoration, with every intention of at least saving it. Yet the teen had seen how important the Eagle was, and apparently seemed to think the most important was the most valuable. His hands ripped at Ambrose's fist, fighting mightily for that last piece.

Ambrose pushed the teenager away with as much force as he could muster, jerked his hand away, and tried to run. He took one step and felt such a searing jolt of agony in his leg that he collapsed. The teenager was on top of him, pulling and tugging and trying with the fervor of the desperately mad to get to the small silver eagle. Ambrose's leg burned, his head was in so much agony it filled his mind like a plague! It was all too much; he lost consciousness.