A peaceful street alongside a crater; the market stalls of wenge wood covered in purple and gold overhangs; the dirt trampled by hordes of shoppers, desperate to rebuild after the disaster. Business continued because it had to, a break could be disastrous for the businessmen, they could lose millions of kilos in gold overnight, let alone real estate. So, as they watch from their perches atop the buildings – built with their money and rented sweat –, a whirlwind brew. A stream of compact air pierces through the crowd, sending fathers, mothers, kids, pets, litter, tumbling across the street, until business resumes, for they must.
For the people who slave their lives away as they dream of slaving another's, business knows no end; stall destroyed rebuild it, money stolen earn it back, a ransom for a family member, they can wait until the bill's paid. A slither of bank note on the ground can be salvaged and joined with others to create a false community, built upon a shared slave-hood, one that if they could, they would inflict on each other; not out of spite, but out of human nature. Business continues, even in the scorching sun.
Within the city, a prideful hospital, clean as can be, rests unconcerned with the destruction outside its threshold of influence beside a police station to its right. "RESERVED FOR THOSE MOST IMPORTANT," their sign reads. Inside, behind the doors beneath the sign, receptionists chat and relax; people in black suits and red ties sit in wait. On the desk, on the right, greets patients with a bouquet of Kerria and Gazania, an aroma soothes the nose, a galaxy of rich, enticing, sweetness; a board of names, sick and rich; a couple of computers, thin but full of all the information needed to find someone's home, steal their work, and silence them, or get someone else to do it for you. A gallery of unstained windows outlines the walls with gold framing, keeping them in place. No one looks outside, why would they; their sick. Then they do. The doors blast off their hinges, a gale seats the room. 'A doctor… NOW!'
A shadowy silhouette glares towards the receptionists; it holds another figure, the shadow of a girl. The sun staring over the silhouette's shoulder makes vision an impossible task in that direction, but the sun's rays cannot block out sound.
'O-o-o-of course sir-r-r. Jus-st one minute,' responds a shaking receptionist, typing her hands into overdrive. The heating is on, but everyone's mouths froze shut, why would they speak; their sick.
'Come on, Hannah. The doctor will be here soon, and it will all be ok.'
Appearing from under the desk, one of the receptionists waves them over. A woman with short black hair in a ponytail; white glasses and a white suit dress that surrounds her slim waist. 'Name please.'
'My name's Sao; her name's Hannah.'
'Sao? And, Hannah, ok, let me just right that down.' The receptionist pulls out a pen with a light on the back. As she writes Hannah's name, it turned on and off in a pattern, as if she was following the rhythm of a song: quick, quick, quick, long, long, long, then three quick flashes again. She repeated this, even after writing Hannah's name, the light shining out of the window behind her. 'Please take a seat, sir.'
Sao lies Hannah across a row of chairs vacated by the black suit wearing retreaters. He constantly dabs a wet flannel on her burns; she does not flinch; her eyes do not open.
'Um, excuse me, sir…' another receptionist, different to the one at the counter, walks over to Sao.
'Is the doctor ready?'
'Yes, he is. Please, come with me.'
Sao hoists Hannah into his arms – with magnifying glass attention to Hannah's surroundings – and follows the receptionist to a corridor opposite the entrance. As the three move down the corridor, Sao and the receptionist are never separated by a metre; Sao watches as rows of doors pass him by; he grows increasingly anxious, his eyes switching from left to right: white, blue, white, blue. The door does not appear on either side; instead, it presents itself at the top of a staircase that finalises the corridor. The receptionist stands by the door, opening it and allowing Sao and Hannah to move ahead as she watches. The door shuts behind them; click. On the other side, waits a hundred blinding lights that block out the sun.
'Don't move! Don't move!'
The lights block their source, only allowing a tiny crimson laser to poke through each ray; Sao's chest floods with red.
'Guns?! Don't shoot,' clicks, like a field of grasshoppers, pound Sao's eardrums. 'Please, I'm begging you. This girl needs a doctor urgently.'
'Ready!'
'She's innocent, let her go! I beg of you.'
'Aim!'
'Why?' Sao's face collapses into waterworks; the stress strains his mental capabilities. His tears cool Hannah's burns, a drop at a time. All he can muster in his moment of defeat is to shield Hannah with his body. His stoicism lasts with him to the end. It is within his instincts.
What must be going through his head at this moment? The potential outcomes which result in safety, the past choices that could have led to preferable conclusions.
Freedom, a better life, but does he want that life, maybe this is the life he wants, the life he choice unconsciously, or is it the life chosen for him, by our world, it knows best, especially for its guardian. If he made other choices, what becomes of the girl and boy? The chances offered to them stripped due to another's actions, is that selfish or just, fair or cruel; the girl forever restrained to a wooden post, subject to the will of those in a higher power; the boy isolated in his community, abandoned by his creators, passed on like a baton. All wish to push forward, never halting for anything. They share a common trait they all want to remove. It is shone upon but vital for their life to continue. All three have it: selfishness. They can no longer change the lives they chose or persuaded. Once again, it is not his death that worries him. Why would he; he has another.
'Halt! Stop there! Don't move any closer!'
A hooded figure walks from behind the door as if walking into his bedroom.
'Who is that…?'
Sao does not remove his body from Hannah's; her life is more precious to him than what is behind him — a hand plants itself on Sao's shoulder. 'You said you needed a doctor?' Looking up, all Sao sees is a man taking the lasers' focus, his face covered by his hoodie's shadow.
'Freeze! Don't move!' The armed men bark at the man. The man does not shout; he disciplines them with words like they were mere dogs, 'You really shouldn't be waving those boom-sticks around at a patient. Not very ethical now, is it? Seeing that you seem to be today's guards, Sunday's guards, I'd assume your little runts in the organisation. I hope you remember the law.'
The one who appears to be the commander – identified by his endless number of badges over his heart – clenches his fist. 'Ready! Aim!'
The hooded man scratches the back of his hood, 'Human's never cease to disappoint me.'
The lasers close in on the man's heart.
'Fire!'
'Pfft.'
As the air settles, Sao peeks towards the shooters; they are all dead — each with a bullet to the head. To his right, the hooded man remains, untouched, unfazed, his left hand still on Sao's shoulder, 'Such a shame. Humans are truly pitiful, aren't they?'
Lifting Sao off the ground, the man removes his hood. Underneath hid long grey hair, paired with a lean face layered with pale skin, which looks likely to shatter; an eyepatch covers his right eye; his left is of green colour: emerald or jade, a wash of health and disease, 'I guess I should fix her up.' He gets closer to Hannah to examine her burns, 'Despite how it looks, this isn't too bad. It looks like the girl recovers just fine after a few week's rest.'
Sao collapses in relief. His heart can't handle the change in mental state. He stays, collapsed, by Hannah, the un-named man leaning on the wall beside them.