First World

Everyone knows the name of Ivan Stratinsky. He is the kingdom of Russia's best. This street rat born in the lower kingdom's slums is the best boxer the country knows.

This murky kingdom of steam and steel is overcome by the power of fists of blood and flesh.

Atleast, that's what Ivan wishes.

Truly, Ivan is a boxer; yet his fame extends no further than Rus's lower slums. He fights not even on a national stage, but on a stage in the back alley of Timber's bar. Of where he is undefeated!

The slums in which he lives were dirty; they were filled with filth and grime sure; all the buildings were made of dull rusting metal, yet more pressing was the dirt within the residents. All the people killed to survive, sparing no one age or gender.

For such a rich empire as the Russian Kingdom, some may wonder how it could be so lawless, so tainted.

***

In the late 17th century, the Kingdom of Russia was the first to discover steam energy. The genius hero Baluzair discovered it 'miraculously' and by utilizing this, they became an ultimate worldwide powerhouse.

This sprang upon the greatest innovations this nation had ever saw: the creation steam blimps, steam engines, and steam factories all fostered economic sucess and prosperity.

Yet, even more intriguing was the innovations of the poor class; made from the need to survive: from the creation of steam powered knives, steel armor, and steam powered "motor-bikes" arose gangs of steam-lined plebians who, through innovation, uprose the oppressive rule of the rich nobles.

Obviously this failed! No matter how advanced they might be, they held no power against the advancements made by the rich; the uprising of 1754 led to the massacre of thousands on both sides, the nobles and the poor.

This angered the rich, and in their wrath they began their cruel reign. They began to cut food supplies to the slums, water supplies, and in total remove funding. This led to the development of a theive-like society in the lower slums; where people killed and stole to survive.

Ivan was born in 1780 in the lower slum of Rus. Born to a mother who life was dictated by her flee from his oppressive father. His mother had stolen money from Ivan's father before he was born. This led to his father tracking down his mother with the intent to murder. Eventually, fate caught up to Ivan's mother, where his father killed her right infront of his eyes.

In fear of retaliation his father fled, leaving the barely five-year-old Ivan to fight for himself in the streets of Rus. Where Ivan wandered for weeks fending for himself in the society of darkness.

Around this time, Ivan's 'adoptive' father enters the scene. The boss of a illegal boxing ring, who saw this young child fighting for his life, but moreover saw dollar signs. He trained Ivan to be the boxer he is today.

***

"30 rubbles on the young lad" a man calls out

"Ohhh, but he's yet to even touch seventeen" said another.

Idle chatter rang out from the steel covered walls of the alleyway. Ivan, the undefeated champion, had found his way into his next fight.

Burrowed in the corner of the makeshift boxing ring was a strong middle-aged man, a true giant; diagonal to him was a small sixteen year old Ivan.

It seemed as though a fight of a lion and a mouse.

This fight seems as though it's an unfair match, unequally balanced. Though one must not get their hopes up. David has beaten goliath before, and this isn't Ivan's first giant.

Sweat is beading down Ivan's face, as so much is remorse.

'what am I doing here' Ivan ponders.

You may assume that the greatest fighter in all the slums is riding on a wave of ecstasy, pure joy from his cut of monetary success; yet for Ivan it's the opposite. The feeling of winning has become so familiar that it's left him feeling empty. There's no joy in the fight, only sorrow.

Thus, Ivan decided. Today was his last day in this cruel steel society. He could no longer take the fighting, he fought to survive and that was too much on his young conscience. If Ivan won this match, he would run away!

The opponent looked strong, probably strong enough to atleast land a few hits on Ivan. Yet he was doubtful. Looks are only a facade, technique is truly what mattered.

The ringmaster stepped in the middle of the makeshift ring. "Fair fight boys, winner takes by first knockout. Begin in 3, 2, 1, Fight!"

Here it begins again, the strenous cycle of a fight. Ivan dove forwards, fast and effecient, that was his mantra.

The instantaneous rush of lactic acid building up in his legs was familiar, he swung his arm, a right hook. No connection. The man had somehow dodged this fast attack, though that's often typical. In a fluid motion, as though he was parrying the attack, he sent a fist flying at Ivan's stomach.

However, Ivan was faster than that. He grabbed the man's fist and used the acceleration to propel himself sideways; where he then proceed to throw the man over his shoulder.

It would've been over like that, had Ivan not hesitated. Something in him wanted to lose. Wanted to escape. Though only a small part of him. He quickly brushed that of, as Ivan went to send his foot spiraling into the man's skull, his leg was caught, and the burly man had thrown Ivan across the ring like a steam dart.

Ivan was quick to recover and flew at the man, yet he was foolish. The man's fist connected with his jaw, sending him backwards in a dazed spiral. His vision blurred, however this was no time to stand there stunned. He quickly recovered.

Blood dripping from Ivan's cut lip, he had to take the next move or it was over. Ivan swept his leg in a low kick, his signature move, sending the large man pummeling to the ground. This time, without hesitation Ivan slammed his foot into the man's jaw; it sent a powerful wave of pain through Ivan's foot, but furthermore, took down goliath once and for all.

The ringmaster stepped in, "1-2-3, Winner! Ivan Stratinsky!"

The crowd cheered. Dim steam lights flickering overhead.

It was decided.

That final low kick had sealed his fate. By the pain of success, this young boxer had his final fight. Through his blurred vision, he got a look at this gory scene one final time. The cardboard ring, complete with elastic side bands pressed against the steel walls of the alleyway. The floor littered with blood and sweat, held the loss of one man, and the escape of another. A large crowd gathered around the downed man, leaving an opening towards the rusted steel lockers against the alley walls.

Ivan started his way out, sneaking behind the excited fans who were looking to sneak a peak at the damage done. 'Such a fleeting excitement" he thought, looking on in pity as he walked to the lockers to grab his bag.

He set out, sneaking through the crowd as to avoid conversation, heading for the river bank which lay as his final destination. Each step through the rat infested roads of Rus pounded with the sound of metal and memories. Bad memories nonetheless. Memories of dog-eat-dog competition for food, memories of thieving, of murder. The metal walkways were paved with markers made from blood.

Ivan trudged onwards, he had no regrets; even if someone stopped him on the street, trying to halt his progress, he wouldn't stop. Yet that was unlikely. Ivan spent all his time in the ring, so much so that he had no friends, and his "adoptive father" would only ever bat an eye towards him when it came to dollar signs and cash checks.

Ivan even had to fend for himself to eat most nights. Some days even having to go as far as to eat the plague infested rats. One must kill to live, even when life presents death through life. Truly he lived a life of solitude.

He arrived. On the trash banked riverside, where needles and knives were as common as rocks and sand. It was slightly beautiful in a way; the light red water reflecting the setting sun, served as an escape to the trash wasteland of metal and steam that lies in the slums.

There was no one around, no sounds but the flow of running water and an occasional seagull crying out, in its desperate attempt to feed itself. In the slums, men were like seagulls; they fought to find food and ate whatever lies on the ground, sometimes even that being their fellow brethren.

It was a serene final place of escape. No one would hear him except the birds in the sky; no one would see him but the water rushing past which would hide his escape; no one would stop him, but the ground beneath his feet.

Peering into the water he saw his reflection. His long blonde hair, blue eyes and scarred visage. All a reflection of his time in the slums. This worlds version of hell. The long hair, unkept, dirty; and the scars which show his desperate battle to survive, a battle which was in vain.

'I wonder what it might've been like if I hadn't lost my mother' he pondered. Would he still be in the slums? Would he still have became a boxer? Would he still have inevitably faced the forgotten consequences of being associsted with hades dwelling, known to us earthly beings as the underworld?

It doesnt matter in the slightest anymore. Ivan grabbed the inflatable steam raft in his bag, and stared upon the foldable rusted metal frame. Does all things in this twisted world need to be of metal and rust? Curses to the one who discovered steam energy.

Ivan unraveled the raft, and pressed the steam chamber. Which inflated it.

Lifting the raft into the stream, he takes in the beautiful sight of the river. Ivan stands on the delta, where this vast river opens into a sea of setting pink. Overhead the opening hangs two beautiful willow trees, their long branches leaning over the water creating the one most beautiful sights in the entire region. A set of nature in a society of steel. White pedals bloom on them; and the long branches creates shade, like wreaths of a king.

They don't sway or move as there's no wind, they're still. Ivan wishes that the willow branches would sweep him up into a comfortable cocoon of warmth and comfort. That they would serve as his permanent residence for the rest of his bygone existence.

Yet, there remains no reason to ponder any further. Ivan has just been wasting time.

Ivan faces the willow trees as he begins to embark.

this is his final sight.

Yet as fate would have it, Ivan heard footsteps behind him, echoes an agent of steel who emerges from the foliage behind him with a steam weapon pointed towards him.

"Ivan S. slum citizen B357, put down the raft and come with me." demands the government hound.

Ivan didn't care anymore. If he lived or died, he was going to escape either way. He started running, running for his life.

A shot rang out.

…

…

Nothing…

He was alive and well.

Ivan turned back to face his assailant to see him standing still, like the willow tree without wind.

Ivan looks at the weapon. The bullet had stopped mid air and the steam from the gun was the only thing moving, moving upwards. The world around him had stopped, everything except the cursed steam.

He turned to face the city, a slight hiss is heard in the air; seeing an array of steam collecting in the sky, all simultaneously. Cars are stopped, factories halted, buildings creaking.

The most silent this city has ever been. No steam, no honking, it's all stopped.

but why?

There's a crash. Not anywhere specifically, but everywhere. As though the entire worlds air had been turned into one big sound wave, there is a crash of metal. The birds fall out of the sky, as the steam ball that collected in the sky begins to rotate vigorously and glow a fluorescent blue slowly lowering towards the city of rust.

Along with the crash, as if hell had called his name, the ground beneath Ivan split open. He began to fall through. Falling through a pool of dark blue, as the only light above him—the open ground—begins to close back up.

Ivan falls, deeper and deeper in, he is sinking. In a dark, warm body of water. It doesn't hurt, nor is he fearing drowning for he feels no longer any need to breathe. It's as though a moment of peace overtook his entire body. No fear, no pain, all the years of endless torment and depression are gone.

It's as though all time stopped; it's as though Ivan were floating through an endless space of peace. Like the warmth of an embrace, this was the embrace of the ocean.

Was this death?

Had the bullet actually connected?

Had the moments leading up to Ivan's death been a cultivation of all that met to his will and wishes. All had seemed too perfect; the steam wraith of a world that was Rus had lost its core essence in that final moment. All the steam, the metal, the rust. It had all ceased in that second.

Ivan could only have wished that it had happened before his 'death' (though that wasn't the case)

…

Silence.

Why could he still think? Why could he see? It was dark. Why could he feel, the water and warmth?

If this had really been death, shouldn't he have ceased already?

…

'Woeful child of despair and pain, thy misery had brought change to the realm of your existence.' A loud male voice spoke. It was peaceful, yet firm. Like a father figure, authority but caring.

'Whose there' Ivan called out in mystery. Suprisingly he could speak, the water didn't seem to fill his mouth, if it was even water at all.

'I am the voice of the one who holds all dreams. Your revery is only a facade of my disposal. O' woeful child of misery, I have seen your suffering and offer you another chance at life.'

Another chance? Had this been like those storybooks that Ivan had read in the past? With the hero's who are reborn in another universe? Whose stories shifted the creation of our steam empire?

'This is truly an unfavorable state for you to be in, it must cause much confusion' spoke the voice 'let us meet in my abode'

In a moment, like the travel of light, the dark world around Ivan began to shift. The water began to fade into a sense of nothingness, empty air; and the darkness began to spring light, as a ground formed beneath his feet. Yet it remained warm.

'Turn to face me child'

Ivan spun to meet the voice. There before him stood a man, who appeared to be an elder, one of vast age. Wearing beautiful robes of white, dawned with the design of a willow tree. He wore a leafy crown of gold, and his skin shone like a fire of white. His white beard matching the robe like snow.

'Who are you, or where are we?' Ivan asked. Curious to who this new host is.

'As stated, I am the host of all revery. Though I believe in your universe I may be called a diety.'

A diety? 'Have I died?' asked Ivan.

The man laughed, 'No child, I stopped the gun before it went off. You haven't died, yet it's safe to say your soul no longer remains in that plane of existence. You're neither dead nor alive. I would call it the state of dream.'

If Ivan hadn't died, what then was the vision he saw before? Had it been the truth? Did Ivan really see the world he wanted begin to form?

'if you stay silent child, it shows disrespect' the man spoke 'first of all you may call me Typheer. I am known as the diety of Dream, the supreme realm. Second, that world you saw truly had been created, built upon your despair. You served as the cultivation of pain and sorrow that fundamental changed that realm'

It was completely astonishing. Ivan had no words; this whole dream thing? a god? it's all so foreign. Yet comforting. Comforting to know that there was someone out there who watched, who looked favorably upon him in his ultimate suffering.

'What happens to me now?' Ivan asked. If, he changed the world, does he return? Or is everything changing? Must he remain in this realm eternally?

'Goodness, you're so eager to depart from me child, have I not been welcoming? Unfortunately for you, you will not escape my pesterence even in your next life. You child are to be reborn. However though,this time; us deities look favorably on your birth. You will be blessed as a child of dream. You will be reborn of another world. One other than your own as a human who transcends.'

Rebirth? Ivan is to become like the hero's of the past. That ensues more to be discovered. Ivan had so many questions, though it seems that they would not come to pass. As his high host seemed to be running low on time.

'Child we don't have much longer. Afeirdna is eager to get you into the next realm. I look forwards to our next meeting. Fated child of dream.'

The man stepped forwards and looked Ivan in the eye. He raised his hand and pushed Ivan backwards.

"Depart O' child, make a story that exceeds that of your predecessors."

With that ivan fell.

He fell into darkness.

He fell into sleep.

Into dream.