Knackered Bloodfists

A/N: Far from satisfied with this, but here it is. For the ToC competition. It might be littered with errors, because I haven't had the time to proofread, but I'd like to work on this--and maybe expand it--later. ~P

You are one of those pesky human beings that appreciate ‘living in the moment'. It's a strange philosophy, but it appears to work—most of the time.

Your eyes are refusing to stray anywhere this afternoon, although the manager has told you that the sky outside is a clear scarlet, bold and beautiful. It is the busiest time of day, however, and you do not wish to displease her, what with the steady influx of Strangers from all over the city, popping in to ‘catch a bite', but staying on for more. There will be time enough to 'look at the sky' after the shift, you tell yourself. Time enough to get out of this uniform and go for a walk and look at the bloody sky just as I please.

Which, in layman's tongue, means there probably won't. There won't be any time and there won't be any walks. You've given in to the reality, however, and you know well that your Function lies here. Wren, the café worker. Wren, the simple-minded. Wren.

Just Wren.

And you're fine with that, honestly. Or that's what you like telling yourself anyway—but then he strides into the café every single day, the goddamn idiot ... and really, you can't help but get distracted.

Ding.

He arrives at a quarter past one, clad in red—government colours—and takes a table by the window. Table 46, with the finest view in the café, overlooking a brick wall.

You scowl to yourself, because yes, this is completely normal, but it still doesn't explain why he distracts you so. Strangers come from all over to see the Wall, after all; it has collected graffiti over the years, poems and crude words that are photographed and sent to the museum, to be hailed as works of art. Obscene gestures and wills, calls for revenge against the government, all sorts of things that are now taboo—it intrigues people.

So you are not surprised that the man always sits there, although he remains silent and contemplative—which is odd. You settle your chin on your palm and scrutinise him carefully, face twisted into a frown. His face is intense, impassive.... Most people find it hard to contain themselves when they catch sight of Godzilla, as you have taken to calling the Wall—not out of fondness, or fear, but because the word has been scrawled in large, yellow letters across its greasy surface. You are often wondering what it means, what ‘abortion' means, what a ‘i heart jessica' is ... and you wonder sometimes if life will ever allow you to leave the café, and find out.

‘People were once like that, you know,' most strangers say, pushing their spectacles onto their foreheads and grinning widely. ‘People actually thought Thinking was right, and that Services were wrong. It's criminality, on these walls, but it's artistic, isn't it? Although I think...' here the speaker pauses—always pauses, because you have heard these words a thousand times—and continues, ‘I think the government has left these walls up as a reminder.'

‘What would you like to order?' you ask, tipping your neon hat over to the customer with a smile. It's become a ritual: the strangers ramble on about Godzilla and you listen, but never asking any questions; then, you're supposed to ask them to place their order. It never changes, the routine, and you've grown used to it. But sometimes you wonder what it would be like if it were to change. Would the universe collapse? Would the Manager fire you and send you back to the institution, where children are raised to Comply? Or would the world continue with its steady pace, unperturbed by a crick in the cosmos?

Then—you remind yourself. Slapstick, Wren! Thinking is not allowed.

The man at table 46 has never placed an order.

*

He frowns at you as you skid over the marble floor, mirroring the manager's exasperated expression,—‘Can't you see the “wet floor" sign, Wren? Bloody kid.'—and grab the table to keep from sprawling on top of it. You straighten up hastily. The man does not look amused.

‘Er, top of the morning to ya.' You don't know where the greeting comes from just then, but it seems to be the most appropriate thing to say.

He grunts. You clear your throat.

‘What would you like to order?'

His eyes remain fixated on Godzilla, at a small patch of wall. You're an idiot sometimes, but you can tell that the man is ignoring you. You crane your neck, trying to get a clearer view of what he's looking at, but there's nothing there that you haven't seen before. Peeling paint, rust red, graffiti, swollen oaths. The usual.

You tap your pencil against the spine of your notebook. Sir? you mean to say. Your order?

Instead, the connection between your tongue and your brain breaks loose. ‘What's your name?' you ask.

He looks around, eyebrows raised. They're very fine eyebrows, you notice, as if drawn on with a pencil and shaded to perfection. His eyes are strange, too—very dark, like a Native. You've never really taken note of their exact shade before, probably because he always has this fez/fedora-ish hat pulled low over his face. But they're a striking ochre, with lines of orange nearer the iris. Incredible.

‘Waow,' you say stupidly. ‘Are you a native? I didn't know we had Natives in Government!' And you grin widely, because you're thinking, This is so cool.

His thoughts don't appear to be much similar. He actually looks rather bored, although he does sit up a little now, and look at you thoughtfully.

‘Yeah,' he says, ‘I am a native.'

‘Cool,' you say. And because you've already lost your inhibitions out of excitement, you go on, ‘You're a little laconic, aren't you?'

You swear his face twitches into half a smile—although you think you might be kidding yourself just a tad—as he leans back and taps his wrist against the table.

‘I've been told,' he mutters. ‘I wasn't aware it was part of your Function to chat to Strangers.'

You're miffed, but you decide not to show it. ‘It's not my function to chat to Strangers, but I can talk to Natives however I like. Anyway,' you say savagely, ‘aren't Natives supposed to stay out of the city? What're you doing dressed all in government red?'

‘None of your business,' he says easily. ‘I could tell you if you were to sit down, though.'

He knows his cards well, you think, glaring at him. It's against your function to sit with a Stranger—the last time someone tried that, the manager had them sent to the Outskirts, where the natives work in the mills. Before being exiled, you were whipped publicly and branded on the back with a ‘N'—for nescient. You have been witness to enough episodes in the last year, along with the rest of the common workers, and you have no desire to experience the same.

But then again, you've never talked to a Native before, either.

‘I can't,' you hiss, ‘sit down with you.' Suddenly, you realise how tremendously suspicious this entire situation must seem; you can sense the Manager's eyes boring into the back of your skull and you feel hot all over. What excuse will you make for standing here this long? ‘So sorry, Manager, sir, customer couldn't decide if the beef was more tempting with cheese or with mustard. Then he invited me to sit down so we could go over the technicalities of the order.'

Crappity crap crap crap. You fiddle with your neon hat and pretend to scribble something on the notepad. ‘Anything else, sir?' you say loudly.

He laughs, then stops abruptly. His gaze slides over to the wall again. ‘Yeah, you stay in the Common Dorms, don't you? Above this building?'

‘Hm,' you say, nodding. His eyes flicker to your own.

‘Then, Worker, if you're really that keen to find out who I am, you'll drop by the Wall sometime.' He smirks.

‘Hell knows I'd never slip out of the dorms,' you mutter. But his gaze is electrifying and you've spent too many days staring at this stranger—too many days to count. Why weren't you ever stationed nearer his table before? you wonder. Why have you been watching him for the last six weeks, wondering who he is, why he sits there, and why he comes to see Godzilla every day? It puzzles you, because you cannot answer yourself, and for the second time today, your lips form an answer on their own.

‘I'll be needing a name. If you're not there?'

His stare is gravitatious, ochre eyes dark and unwavering. ‘Narth,' he says, finally. ‘You'll find me at East End.' Raising his voice slightly, he continues, ‘I'll have a salad with that, if you don't mind.'

Behind you, you can hear the sound of glass breaking; cocking your head to the left, you see that the Worker at table 37—Shed—has dropped the dishes he was carrying, and stares at you openmouthedly. No doubt he'll be telling the Manager later—that the government bozo finally cracked and ordered something. You smile to yourself as you scribble on the pad; ducking your head as you leave, you mutter, ‘I'm Wren.'

Narth leaves before the salad reaches his table; you see his hat disappear as he stomps out the door—red coat flashing in the dusk.

*

You've often thought about the Government—although, admittedly, you've never voiced your opinions regarding it to anyone—and you think the system is quite flawed. History isn't taught at schools, but you know enough to scrape by: a couple of decades ago, society was completely remodeled—what it was prior to the remodeling, you don't know—and everyone was given a Function. The Strangers are the aristocrats, the royals, the people who have half-days at their office jobs and roam the streets of the city with their bald pates glinting in the sun. Like coins, you've often thought. The Workers are the people who supply goods to the Strangers; the Managers keep them in check. Institutioners are the teachers of sorts, and the Children...

Well, they're Children. But they're not many of them now.

You've often thought about a society without Functions—you're thinking about it tonight, as you slip into your pyjamas and wait for the Manager to make the nightly rounds. Your head hits the pillow as the whistle blows for the Workers to get into bed—but you will stay awake tonight.

Here's your chance at learning more about your world, Wren. Here's your chance. You'll be breaking tons of Functions, the punishments will be awful if you get caught, but you can chalk it up to sleepwalking again. Maybe spend the night in a dumpster and pretend you don't know why you're there when they find you in the morning...

You wonder if the sky is red at night.

*

Narth meets you at the east end of the wall, the end nearest the cafe door. You don't go out much, so this is quite the experience, and you relish the feeling of cold night air striking skin. But you're careful, making sure to wrap your face up in a scarf, and pulling your trench coat over your pyjamas. No mistakes, Wren.

‘I'm shivering,' you say, surprised, when Narth walks up to you, as naturally as though it isn't past midnight and you're simply out for a stroll. ‘My feet are wet and I'm ... shivering.' You wrap your hands up in your scarf and peer at Narth closely. His eyes are laughing.

‘People do get cold at night, yes,' he says, and his voice is much freer than you've heard it in the café. He nods at the stretch of wall before him; in the darkness, it seems to loom above you, at least fifteen feet high. It is intimidating. You realise that the piece of Godzilla you can see from the café is just that—a part of the Wall, and Godzilla is like a country on it. Far above ... you crane your head back at stare at the red, peeling paint, like wisdom peeling to the ground.

‘It's like the wall is withering with age,' you whisper, ‘and falling to the ground in clumps.'

'A lot more falls to the ground than just that, in these parts,' Narth says, sounding distant. There is silence, during which you scan the wall up and down, and look ahead at the slim passage between that and the café; it looks ominous.

‘Follow me,' Narth says.

You comply.

The walk doesn't last for more than forty minutes. Several times you wish to ask a question, but then you don't, because you are suddenly terror-stricken and confused. Halfway along, Narth takes a bottle of water and hands it to you silently. From his eyes it's quite apparent that he's made the journey several times: a dark alley spiralling straight along the side of the wall, a cramped hide-hole where the peeling exteriors of old buildings, café-houses and restaurants leave their grimaces. The wall is red, red, red. Functions are functions, functions, functions. What is red but a name?

Your thoughts are very jumbled up tonight.

‘Narth,' you speak quickly, as if desiring escape from your thoughts, their prison. ‘Narth, what was the city like before remodeling? Before functions?'

He doesn't stop walking, nor does he glance at you as he answers, but walks along with his hands in his pockets, tall frame silhouetted in the flickering neon light. ‘Life was different, I guess,' he says. ‘I don't remember much of it, because I was six when the new Laws came in, and I was sent to the institution soon after that. But ... it was a good life, what I remember. I played outside all the time; we had a house, not these facilities that people are divided up into. And people mingled.' He pauses. ‘It was very different, I guess.'

You nod. ‘Sounds different.' You wait for a while, then ask, ‘You said you were going to tell me ... why's a Native part of the Government?'

‘You know the whole story behind Natives, kid?' Narth says. He slows down and falls into step beside you. ‘A decade ago, all the kids who were born to their parents—the second kids—were seen as a burden upon the economy. The second kids, the third kids, and if the unlucky parent had any kids after that, they'd soon follow. They were tossed into the Outskirts of the city, trained to run the textile mills and such. But after a while, when people began getting injections to stop pregnancy altogether, the government realised that they were running short of a workforce.' Narth hesitates slightly, and stuffs his hands deeper into his pockets. ‘Soon after that, the Natives were given a new Function.'

You're almost afraid to ask, but you do it anyway. ‘And that was?'

‘Reproduction.'

He takes you onwards until the wall ends; you expect something grand, but instead, it appears to be the entrance to a small, ratty house, with a sign hanging over the entrance. Geritz, it says. You ask Narth what it means and his reply is cryptic; he takes you inside.

The walls slouch, the floor is covered with a tatty old carpet, and huddled in the corner are a bunch of women talking amongst themselves in hushed voices. There is a large stain in the middle of the room; it looks like blood. You retch as you back up against the wall, and Narth grabs your hand. He drags you inside, deeper, where the women glare at you accusingly, and you bewitch yourself into thinking, This is all my fault.

Deeper, deeper into the strange clinic, into a corridor that is dank and smells like rot. You hear the crying of a child from behind one of the blue doors. At least, they appear to be blue, in the dim fluorescent lighting, but it's hard to tell. On and on, for what seems like forever, until you're in an operation theatre of sorts. Then, at last, Narth turns to you, eyes burning with rage, and fear, and shame. ‘You asked me why a native is in the government,' he says. ‘Well, I work here.'

The world is spinning around you. You sit down on the floor. ‘You do this ... what they—what they do there?' you ask dumbly. The look on his face is answer enough—you understand.

‘I—I carry out the process,' he says. ‘Supplying the injections to the Strangers, impregnating the women with chemical sperms—the whole lot. Hell, some of them are cancerous when they're produced, the drugs. But we still do it anyway.' You can almost see the shame radiating off his body; you can see it in his eyes and his posture, the way he tosses his hat onto the counter and stares at the surgical instruments with despair. It's something akin to madness, you think to yourself.

Out loud, you say, ‘Why don't you just stop?'

His answer is simple. ‘It's against my Function.'

Later on, when you are outside again, and he's walking you home, you rub your hand against the wall and wonder if there is a world outside of the one you know. 

But even if there is, you are not supposed to know. 

The sky is so red tonight. His eyes are like knackered bloodfists.