La-Bastille

Verse Trois - Steel hearts

Verse Trois – Steel hearts

To love you is my punishment. And your punishment is what keeps me alive.

—Etro, La Bastillian, La Bastille 2089 AP

In Dominic’s eyes the world seems to be clouded in a tempest of red. The harsh color and the darkness it brings slowly envelop his body like molten fire as he burns from within.

The air smells and tastes like burnt copper in his tongue and mouth.

It’s the acrid smell and cutting taste of something very familiar.

His very own blood.

His heart races, abruptly slows down, then squeezes in his chest tight before it jumpstarts yet again to pound with an electric jolt. Over and over the feeling stirs his insides, making him want to throw up but nothing comes out.

“A girl screaming,” Cid gasps as if witnessing an event unfold before his very eyes.

The boy doesn’t know why, but for a fleeting moment he feels like he’s seeing through the eyes of the man who’s thrashing on the ground before him. As if he’s able to tap into Dominic’s mind and bring out the worst memories from the man’s psyche, “No! Make it stop!!” Cid screams as he tries to disown the memories that are not his own, but of the man who’s down on the ground fighting to take back control.

Dominic can feel invisible intrusive hands sinking into his brain matter, pulling apart both his hemispheres as if in an effort to pry open what is inside. It’s almost impossible but he can feel his brain splitting in the middle as if a surgery is being conducted while he’s wide awake, and it makes him thrash on the ground trying desperately to stop the pain caused by something that is slicing.

Cid slows his breathing to relax and bit by bit the hold he has on Dominic fades away, “I’m sorry,” he whispers, shaking, then steadies himself as he walks to round the corner to get as far away as possible.

The apology reaches Dominic’s ears but his mind is too busy trying to overcome the critical mass of nerves that is threatening to explode inside his head. He recoils like a ball while pulling at his hair as the world around him starts to spin. But still he manages to clasp his gun and with a shaky aim shoots only to miss his target.

Outside Dominic’s body the world appears normal. Absolutely still with no strange occurrence. Nothing is really moving. The earth isn’t shaking. Only he can feel the shifting of the ground beneath him. And so he continues to retch, gasp, and heave while trying to keep his head from exploding.

The cold rush of panic chokes his breaths as the fleeting sensation of life fading away becomes apparent. And before that happens he pulls out a rectangular sheet of thin glass from his breast pocket. His phone.

He can feel his heart giving up, constricting as it tries hard to pump blood into his brain in order to keep his consciousness alive. Dominic starts to shake, fighting for his breath as the beating organ slows down with each passing second. And so with what’s left of his energy—and with hands trembling—his fingers perform an awful job of speed dialing for backup, or anybody who can help.

Dominic fights to stay awake. He mutters words to himself that remind him to stay alive. His blood is spitting through his veins, as if finding its way back into his heart with difficulty, giving him intermittent heartbeats that are not enough for his organs to sustain life.

“Hel-lo? Help me…” his voice breaks, trying his best to call for help to whoever picked up, “Please…”

He wills himself to focus, with his heart beating an unfaltering rhythm, keeping him alive, barely. His heart is working much too hard and before he can utter another word he feels himself flatline.

The pain is like a moment, and it feels like it’s meant to go on forever and yet it’s felt in an instant at the same time—a kind of emptiness that washes over him and goes away as fast as it comes.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

“Run thermal imaging scan.”

A scanning device made of white ceramic in the shape of a pod hovers over Dominic’s body. Tentacles with nodes come out of the shell’s body to shine blue strips of gyrating light over Dom’s head going down his shins.

With every part scanned, the pod projects a three-dimensional holographic image of its assessment, highlighting Dominic’s sustained bodily damages.

“Dom…what have they done to you?” a kind and gentle voice murmurs sullenly, “S-start the cleansing procedure. Activate healing phase. Now.”

The pod retracts its tentacles and out comes rods of blue LED to replace them. The floating pod hovers over Dom’s body to flash an electric pulse of blue light over the damaged areas, steadying spastic muscles and neutralizes cellular damage for faster healing, relieving the host of his pain while leveling all vitals to become normal.

“I almost lost you,” Etro glides his hand over Dominic’s naked torso, from his tortured chest down to his bruised ribs as the pod does its job. He wipes his tears with the back of his hand while pulling another pod which he sets from automatic to manual.

Etro adjusts the settings on the pod and the round device changes shape into a handheld piece of equipment which is almost flat against his palm. He smoothes the apparatus over the many cuts and bruises on Dominic’s arms and legs to reduce the clotting of blood underneath the skin. A low-pitched echo is released with every scan the device makes.

After the pods finish with their work, a two-dimensional image displays on the monitor of Etro’s computer which is a thin sheet of glass propped against a metallic stand. He voices in a few commands and the program on the computer transforms into a full-scale, holographic three-dimensional image projected from a tiny camera.

Etro studies the floating image of Dominic’s anatomy, zooming in and turning the holographic image around with his hands while poking in certain places to pull out certain parts of the 3D model that need more scrutinizing.

He compares Dom’s vitals against the set standards only to find that some parts of his body below the lower regions still need more attention. And so Etro voices a set of commands for the hovering pod to lower down Dominic’s abdomen to perform a high-frequency invasive pulse.

The blue pulse of energy seeps through Dominic’s body to reach the damage done to his kidneys.

Etro is no doctor, but he’s a prodigy of the Academy with his advanced studies in Anatomical Surgery and Advanced Health Care. He also is responsible for the invention of the Pulse Machina, the pod device he’s now using which can perform non-invasive procedures without the need for surgery.

Once satisfied with the cleansing process, Etro turns off the devices so he can focus his attention on the man who’s yet to awaken.

Dom’s eyes flutter open. His deprived senses become flooded with sensation as soon as he tears open his vision to the room around him. He is momentarily blinded by the overhead light as he awakens.

“Reduce illumination,” Etro voices and the lights go down a few degrees, bathing his room, his bedroom, with a tarnished glow.

Dominic looks around, surveying his immediate environment. He’s still weak and lightheaded, and his body feels like it’s been ripped apart and then reassembled—a body’s normal reaction after a cleansing procedure has been performed.

A sheen of sweat is covering Dominic’s face, neck and torso. But what surprises him is the cool sensation he feels down his exposed lower regions. And as he completely opens his half-lidded eyes the first thing, or person rather that he sees is, “Etro?”

“Hey,” the boy responds, teary-eyed as he clasps one of Dominic’s hands by the bed, “I’m so glad you came around. You got me worried.”

Dominic looks at Etro with surprise and gratitude, “I must have…must have dialed you but I wasn’t…” he is quite uncertain of what to say. He remembers calling for help but he wasn’t aware that he must have dialed Etro since the boy is a contact on speed dial.

“It’s okay. Everything is fine. Oh God, Dominic, I almost died when I found you,” Etro chokes but he wills himself to pull it together, “I picked up the phone and I heard you crying for help and thought nothing of it for a second. But then I had a feeling that you were in danger so I used an app to lock on your phone’s location and when I found you…you were…you’re—”

“Hey, don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying.”

For all the times Etro showed Dominic the many ways he can love, the much older man still doesn’t understand him completely, let alone share the feelings the boy has. The amount of care Dom has for Etro seems to be limited and doesn’t go beyond what can be called an intense form of brotherly affection, or passionate lust during the many times they shared a bed together. As much as Dom’s grateful for the boy’s help, he still regards Etro as a friend. Only a friend. And nothing more.

Etro stops crying and caresses Dominic’s arm. He tells himself that touching Dom affectionately in places other than his privates might bring the man closer to him. It is absurd, but Etro wants to believe that by showing kindness then maybe Dom will find it in his heart to show love in return.

Dominic can feel spikes down his throat, “Water…” he murmurs, and it makes Etro rush to retrieve a glass of water from the steel table by the bed.

Etro slides his arm under Dominic’s neck to cradle him upwards while tipping the mouth of the glass slowly into Dom’s lips, relieving the man of his thirst.

Dominic pulls back slightly, “Etro…”

“Drink. Drink, Dominic. God, your heart was about to give up and your vitals were—”

“Why am I naked?”

Etro stiffens, and then swivels to put down the glass on the table. For a moment there’s a soft kind of sadness in his eyes, but he’s quick to compose himself to say, “I needed to do a full-body check. It’s protocol.”

Dominic sighs and pulls a look of mild annoyance, stubbornly grabbing the sheets to cover his lower body as if he just got violated.

“Oh, seriously? After all this time?” Etro tugs away the sheets as if to stress his point, “Don’t you give me that look,” he says while draping the sheets back to cover Dominic’s exposed privates, “It’s not like I haven’t seen all of you before.”

Dominic sighs, “I’m sorry,” but the apology comes out insincere, vacant, like there’s nothing there.

Etro perches by the side of the bed to caress and sift through Dominic’s hair, “It’s okay. Just…I just want you to know that I’m trying.”

Dom turns his head to look up into the eyes of a child who he has mated with more times than he can count, “Stop trying, please. You know I’m not ready.”

A stab of pain, “I know,” Etro whispers, rising from the bed, “And perhaps you never will,” he adds frigidly as he walks to where Dominic’s uniform is draped on the couch, “Here’re your clothes. See yourself out when you’re ready. You know the security code to my apartment. I have to go to the Academy. I’m late for school.”

“Etro, I’m sorry.”

Dominic’s voice is but an echo as Etro clasps the handle of the door tight. He can feel his heart wanting to escape his chest. For all the kindness he had shown, it’s still not enough. The gloom weighs down his naturally buoyant expression as he turns around, “I have to study. I’d rather have wisdom in my eyes and knowledge in my head, Dominic. Than be blank and stupid and believe in something that is not there.”

The door closes behind Etro and the boy wills himself to pull it together. If love really was such a beautiful thing, then why does his love alienate him? Why is it unrequited when all he ever did was give his all? His everything? Why is it not enough? “Someday you will love me,” he whispers as he peels himself off the wall. He believes that Dominic will learn to love him someday. But for now he has to deal with the pain. Just for now.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

La Purge looks like an underground village where the lowest in the hierarchy are found. Families are scattered and have set up homes for themselves wherever they please, making La Purge look like a resettlement, a squatter’s paradise.

Some have made tunnels into their makeshift dwellings, making the most out of the decrepit shelter where ventilation is poor at best, and the moisture of acridness in the air is as thick as blood itself.

“Cid, I’m sorry. I don’t want you doing any of that work but the Notice came up and I have to let you go.”

“It’s okay, mother. It’s okay.”

A Notice is a job order handed to every able-bodied La Purgian.

Cid’s mother, Ulna, is an exception since Orem chose to clock his wife’s hours into his own, taking all her working hours to double his just to spare Ulna from having to do long, grueling hours of manual labor.

“It’s okay, mother. I can handle it,” Cid smiles as Ulna brushes the boy’s hair back and covers his scalp with the hood of his cape-like sack, “I love this. Even if it’s scratchy,” he says, smoothing a hand over the pelted texture of his hooded vestment made of synthetic barley wheat and sack.

If Cid’s clothing were to be transported back in time say 2015, then it would have made for an expensive fashion statement. But at 2089 it’s hardly fashion, and yet in Cid’s eyes it’s the most beautiful article of clothing he has ever laid eyes upon.

“Yes, I know it’s scratchy but give it time. The fabric will smoothen the more you wear it. It dulls your glow and makes you look like the others.”

“Mother.”

“Yes, son?”

“Someday when I make something of myself, I promise to take you and father up there,” Cid looks up, “I’ll work hard for that location reassignment so you two can have a better life.”

Ulna smiles. She just smiles because words evade her. Cid has so much faith in the system, and he believes that there is a chance for him to make something of himself. Ulna doesn’t say anything to squander the boy’s dreams. Dreams are powerful when a person truly believes. Eighteen years ago her faith brought her Cid, and so she has nothing but faith in his little boy. His dreams may not happen now, but she knows someday his boy will have a promising and better life.

“Go,” Ulna whispers, biting back the tears, “Go and make me proud.”

Cid tiptoes to kiss Ulna in the cheek and then calls for Tinkerton to join him.

He waves his goodbye to his mother, and with Tinky in tow the two make the arduous walk to the factory where hard labor is waiting for the now 18-year-old.

Dirt has caked around Cid’s feet by the time he arrives at the plantation. A factory just like where his father works. But his father Orem works for waste management and segregation. Cid’s supposed job is what comes after the management and segregation part. He is to melt and reprocess junk into viable materials that can be recycled and reused. A less physical type of work, but demands more attention and precision since he’ll be manning control boards using a series of commands.

Cid and Tinky enter the plantation, with the robot making hydraulic sounds as its beady binocular eyes shift from side to side as if on a guided tour of the factory, “Tinky, pull up information. Enter Factory Control Boards.”

As soon as Tinkerton hears the command, its computer starts to pull up information about Factory Control Boards. He consolidates his search and then projects a holographic image which Cid studies for a couple minutes, memorizing all the vital pieces of information he needs to do his work, “Save to Slot 1,” Cid gives the command and Tinky pushes the information on the top slot for easy access should Cid need the data at a moment’s notice.

Tinkerton makes a mechanical sound to call his master’s attention. The robot projects a holographic image of jumbled words forming into a sentence stating, ‘Go get ‘em Tiger! Rawrr!’

Cid laughs, for he knows what tigers look like since Tinky has the whole of Wikipedia stored in its database, making the robot an invaluable archive brimming with terabytes of information that most La Bastillian’s don’t even have access to.

The two walk up to where people are working. The smell of sweat and labor is thick in the air with the workers’ faces gleaming with oily perspiration. Cid frowns a bit but smarts up the courage since he practically grew up in the same horrid environment. And working in the same habitat is not going to make that much of a difference.

Cid swallows as he goes into a vacant work station. His nerves are starting to give him spasms but he’s quick to take slow, controlled breaths to will his body to relax. He looks up to see pipes and circuitry lining the high ceilings in a grid-like pattern, like veins inside a person’s brain, pulsing with electricity. The same lines snake their way down the walls and underneath the floor, making the workplace look like a living, breathing organism.

“You sure you can handle yourself, kid?” asks one of the workers who’s wearing a dirt-caked yellow construction hat.

“Hmm-mmm,” Cid spreads his smile, nodding.

Tinkerton retracts its binocular eyes to hide inside its shoebox body. It sits quietly on the floor between Cid’s ankles. It doesn’t need to conserve energy since its main power source is a thermonuclear cell that Orem secretly found, stashed, and engineered, thus allowing the robot to function for as long as there’s enough motor oil to grease its wheelies. But still it chooses to rest since its services are not needed at the moment.

Cid works the control boards like a professional, thanks to the information Tinky consolidated from web archives and Wikipedia. He pulls a series of levers and pushes a combination of buttons on the control panel and the crane on the other side moves to follow those orders as it separates the junk into sections of what is viable material and what is to be melted.

“I’m impressed,” the man wearing the construction hat swivels to look at Cid, “For a first-timer you know your way around this place.”

“Hmm-mmm,” Cid nods, pursing his lips, mischief drawn over his smile as he expertly maneuvers the crane from one spot to another, lifting by-products beyond salvation to melt into the flaming mouth of the incinerator.

“I’m Jack,” the man extends a hand and Cid takes it.

“I’m Cid. My father’s Orem. He works with waste management.”

“Oh, yeah, I know the guy. Your father’s a techno-whiz. If only the Academy knows that.”

“My father doesn’t want them to know,” Cid says, dividing his attention between the man and the work he’s doing.

“Why’s that? With your father’s talent he can be issued a location reassignment. And when that happens you get to live up there in the skylines.”

“Father said that he’d rather live a simple life than be a lapdog of the rich and wealthy.”

“Wow. That’s deep,” Jack bobs his head, “Oh hey, you see that?”

Cid looks to where Jack is pointing—a neon advertisement on the screen, “Hmm, I don’t understand why they bother putting those here,” Cid says, not completely focusing on the advertorial since he’s busy working the crane so as not to ruin his momentum.

“It’s to remind us that colors exist,” Jack says, wistful. And it makes Cid realize the hope that the neon sign brings. Its colors are a reminder of hope, even to the most jaded La Purgian.

“I’ve seen the colors,” Cid proclaims, “They’re really bright up there.”

“You have?” Jack asks, disbelief in his tone.

“Yes. I visit La Bastille. But only recently have I seen what is really inside. And it’s all so beautiful.”

“Hey kid, can you do me a favor?”

“Yes, of course sir.”

“Can you get me one of those candies from up there? I only ever saw it once in an advertorial and my daughter’s begging me to get her a packet.”

Cid smiles, “But I don’t have money to spend.”

“Heh,” Jack chuckles, “It’s funny that you’re named after the La Bastillian currency and yet you yourself don’t have any.”

Both laugh as they work through the mountains of trash and discarded products. The whole place looks like a museum of electronic artifacts where a tornado happened to pass by, throwing all kinds of wires and metal in dastard heaps all over the place, as high as mountains.

“It’s like working through a hurricane that just ripped through an electronics museum,” comments Cid.

“What’s a hurricane?”

“Oh, nothing. It’s nothing,” Cid pulls his tongue. Obviously the man doesn’t know who and what Mother Nature is since he doesn't have access to information like Cid does. It makes Cid grateful at the thought that between his ankles sits Tinkerton, his very own library of information.

“Better keep up, Cid,” says the man as he picks a pile of trash to incinerate.

Cid matches Jack’s fervor as they both rummage through the hills of discarded junk using the mammoth cranes. They comb through every piece of electronic equipment available and separate what’s useful from what’s not.

At the corner of Cid’s eye he can see a man walk in. The man is donned in a patrol guard uniform with a glowing tablet in hand, “AP394069. Step forward.”

For a moment Cid wonders what it all means, but then he realizes that the alphanumeric code is his job order number.

“Go ahead, I got this,” whispers Jack, expertly manning two control boards at the same time to allow Cid to walk up to the patrol guard.

“Where’s your ID?” asks the guard.

“I don’t have one, but I’ve a Notice,” Cid pulls a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolds it before the officer.

“No ID. That means you’re new. Okay, the Notice. Hand it over. Or better yet, read to me.”

Cid blinks, “Okay. It says here that As an able-bodied La Purgian, you are hereby issued work orders to participate in various duties relating to care of maintenance, electric, waste management, segregation, and disposal. Please bring—”

“Skip to the end.”

“Um…okay. Failure to appear at the place and hour of these duties named in this Notice subjects the violator to ration restriction and possible loss of residency. Bring your Notice with you when you report for work, or until you get an ID.”

“First day of work and you already have a violation,” menaces the patrol guard.

“What did I violate?”

“Your work station is rigged with a timekeeper. You showed up a minute late.”

“But…”

“No buts. Next time you won’t receive your food ration as punishment,” the patrol guard leans closer and places a hand on Cid’s shoulder as he whispers, “You know, there’s always a way to work around these…minor squabbles. I won’t have to punish you if you do me a favor,” he squeezes Cid’s shoulder and the boy just looks at him with a bewildered gaze.

“I don’t understand.”

The patrol guard leans closer, much too close, “Personal favors. You know. You, spending the night with me. And if you agree I can write a letter to the Academy and the Valkyria, authorizing for your transfer. I’ll sign the papers for your adoption. Freedom. Freedom to join me where I live. A La Purgian like you is woefully underprivileged. What I’m offering is a chance for you to receive a location reassignment without the hassle. All you have to do is sleep with me for one night. Just like that,” the guard snaps his fingers.

“I don’t think I want that.”

The patrol man’s hand squeezes harder on Cid’s shoulder, “You ever been up there? It’s beautiful. Here it’s all factories and junk. Up there are data centers, entertainment networks, power grids that are more colorful, and transportation hubs. It’s heaven.”

From his work station, Jack watches as the patrol guard makes a sly move to caress the young boy’s lower back. What Jack does is tilt the scoop of the crane at a slight angle, causing a pile of trash to fall over the patrol guard’s head. Cid jumps out of the way just in time before the hunk of discarded wires and chips come pouring down.

“I’M SORRY!” Jack hollers from his work station and it makes the patrol guard snarl while picking up wires draped around his shoulders.

The patrol guard walks away huffing, noting something in his tablet.

Cid looks to Jack and the man gives the boy a reassuring smile, as if communicating that he’s got Cid’s back.

Cid returns to his work station and utters his silent gratitude to Jack. They both busy themselves through their long, arduous tasks and the day passes like any other with most of the workers lugging themselves tired as they take a remedial break before throwing themselves on yet another long shift.

“Hey kid, look what I found,” Jack says, holding a small device that looks like an age-old thumb drive.

“What is it?” Cid asks.

“It’s a precision laser cutter that emits a short blade of blue light,” Jack thumbs the switch and a low humming noise is produced, but no short blade of blue light comes out, “Aw…no, it’s broken. Here,” he hands Cid the device, “Keep it. Maybe your father knows how to fix that.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“No, really, thank you. Thank you for saving me back there.”

“Heh, not a problem kiddo. Just be careful. Patrol guards like that dude enjoy preying on young ones like you. You stay away from them. Sometimes they steal children and take them up there and use them to satisfy whatever sick pleasure they have.”

“What kind of sick pleasure?”

“Um…nothing. Just…just refuse whatever they’re offering, okay?”

“Um…okay.”

“So ah, you take care of yourself,” Jack says, leaving, “If for any reason you go up there, don’t forget my daughter’s candies, okay?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll remember!” Cid waves his goodbye then bends to tap on Tinky, “Come on boy. Time to go home.”

The robot comes to life, gyrating with hydraulics as its legs and binocular eyes jut out. Cid picks Tinky up so the automaton wouldn’t use any of its oil reserves, “We’ll get our daily ration and tell mother about our day and Mr. Jack.”

Tinky does a robotic sound then projects a hologram, ‘Work sucks. I’m so tired.’

“But you didn’t even work.”

‘LOL.’

“Huh?” Cid asks, confused, “What’s an LOL?”

‘Laugh out loud.’

“You’re weird,” the boy laughs as he makes his way back to their hut.