La-Bastille

Verse Deux - The pulse of love anew, Part 1

Verse Deux – The pulse of love anew, Part 1

I understood what pain was even before I knew how to spell it. I consider pain as my friend, an ally whose sole purpose is to make me feel numb and help me forget. I’d rather live in pain…for now. And when I’m ready to let go I would. I would. Just not right now. Not right now. For I can still remember her.

—Dominic Reinhardt, Academy Patrolling Officer, La Bastille 2089 AP

Dominic lifts a heavy silver-framed photo from behind a stack of high-grade micro projectiles which—during his time as an Academy Militant—was a soldier’s bullet of choice, because the shrapnel only incapacitates reprobates, not killing them.

He tips the photo in his hands. The metal frame feels cold to the touch, and so is the memory of the girl wearing a tutu in the photograph.

Freya…please, forgive me.

Freya, Dom’s little sister.

She’s smiling in the photograph. But in Dominic’s eyes she is crying rivers of blood. Screaming for help.

Dominic can still remember the horrific memory. And it slices through his brain like a doctor’s scalpel whenever he looks at the photograph.

His sister’s death is like a muddy imprint on his soul that no amount of prayer can ever wash away.

Dom can still remember what it felt like to hear Freya’s desperate cry for help. Her shrieks of horror ringing through his humanity during that cold night when there was no moon, no light. It was the look of terror they shared between them that he remembers the most about his little sister, and it became his constant nightmare up to this day.

Freya was backed up against the wall clutching her ragdoll in one hand, tears streaming down her face, her knees trembling as she recoils to the sheer horror and brutality of their father who, yet again, went home drunk, smashing and hitting everything and everyone in sight.

Their mother—a bruised, lifeless body thrown down the steps outside the patio, with her mouth covered in blood and her vacant eyes staring blankly into the heavens of the darkest of nights, as if she was surrendering her soul to a god that didn’t exist at the time of her murder—was the stuff nightmares are made of.

Dominic and his sister rushed past their own mother down the steps, not looking back, wanting desperately to save themselves from their own abusive father.

There was no one who could help them. It was one of those nights during early La Bastille when the moon refused to shine after a day of sunlight clocking for more than twelve hours. A phenomenon that up to this day cannot be explained by modern science.

The two didn’t make it past Central Bridge as their father caught up to them with a broken bottle of whiskey in hand, which he used to knock Dominic out cold, slamming the head of the poor boy into the jagged railing of the bridge until he became half-conscious.

Freya was lifted by the neck, her face turning blue as she kicked with her legs and fought with her hands using all her might to break free from the nightmare that was their father.

She was thrown over the bridge, her screams filled with nothing but Dominic’s name as she plummeted into the darkness.

Dominic couldn’t save her.

He couldn’t have saved her even if he tried.

She fell into her death. And then she was gone.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

La Bastille is heaven.

La Purge is hell.

To live in La Purge is like kissing the problems of the earth and worshipping its nightmares.

It is a nest where darkness breeds in the absence of light.

Everything is limited in La Purge, down to the rations of water and viable food. No one wants to live down here. Not a soul. If given the chance, the La Purgians would choose to be up there in La Bastille where there is hope, light, health, and the promise of a new beginning.

To live inside the floating city of La Bastille is to be blessed, for it is in the skylines amongst the clouds where infinite possibilities are virtually endless.

But no matter the differences, one city cannot function without the other. Hence there is a line between them, for they are two different components working in two different ways, trapped inside one bottle and forced to co-depend in order to live. Much like oil separating from water. Both are essential. But aren’t the best of friends.

“Tinkerton, come here boy!”

A mysterious little shoebox-looking automaton wheels itself on the ground gathering dirt, its wheels creaking as if crying for much-needed motor oil. It sluggishly rolls and roils, in dire need of lubrication to increase its mobility.

It stops, stubbing the foot of the boy calling its attention.

The robot’s eyes look like binoculars as it pans up, its lens pulling in and out, focusing on the face of the boy with bright, golden hair.

“I told you not to wander far,” the boy lectures with an accusative finger.

Blue and green eyes squint to rebuke the automaton, and what it does is make the shoebox robot give a squeaky mechanical sound as if it’s saying sorry for wandering far into the woods without permission.

The boy bends at the knees to pick up the wily little robot, “How many times do I have to tell you not to wander far,” the boy raises the automaton in the air and sways it playfully from side to side, “You’re my only best friend. And if you go and get yourself lost, or worse, taken apart, then…then I won’t have a friend,” he pulls Tinkerton into his chest, rubbing off the dirt from its wheels that have fallen off to cling onto his hooded vestment made of sack.

The little boxy robot makes another mechanical sound. This time saying that it understands what is said and will not disobey its master ever again.

“Cid!” the voice of a woman, “Your father forgot to bring his lunch again. Would you mind going up, love, and give this to him.”

Smiling, Cid drops Tinkerton to the ground and the robot bounces itself then steadies.

Cid nears their hut with an extra kick in his steps, delighted that the task given to him can afford him a chance to sneak out.

Tinkerton follows behind Cid with a bleep and a bop. Bleep-bop, bleep-bop goes its mechanical sound as its wheels roll over the earthy ground.

“Here,” Ulna smiles, giving Cid a squeeze bottle filled with motor oil, “Grease up Tinkerton. He’s already starting to squeak with rust.”

With delight, Cid ducks inside their hut to sit down, pulling Tinkerton in his lap to apply grease on its wheelies so it will stop from making squeaky sounds.

Tinkerton is not just a mysterious little shoebox-looking automaton. It makes itself useful by the sheer amount of information stored within its deceptively-looking, boxed-up, pieced-together scraps of circuitry.

Cid’s father, Orem, downloaded the whole content of Wikipedia into Tinkerton’s motherboard before the Academy abolished all search engines and websites. The Academy did this so that they can control the stream and flow of information, limiting people’s knowledge to the barest essentials and archiving terabytes of information in a concealed database deep within the bastion of the Academy’s stronghold.

Sitting beside Cid, Ulna takes a mortar and pestle made of granite, crushing the oats to separate into much smaller granules. She does this so she can economize their food ration.

“Cid, I know you’re grown up. But I don’t want you wandering around without me knowing,” Ulna says, though she already knows of her son’s mischief, sneaking off to take a peek of La Bastille every now and then when no one’s watching him.

“I know, mother, I know.”

Bleep-bop goes the sound of the wily little robot, as if seconding what Ulna said.

“Not you too, Tinky.”

Bleep-bop.

“Mother.”

“Yes, Cid?” she stops and pivots to her son, “Is something the matter?”

“Why am I different?” the boy asks, and it’s a question that he always asks whenever he’s about to go up, because up in La Bastille, and down here at La Purge, no one looks like him. He seems to be the only one born with a glowing complexion.

“You and father have normal black hair. Mine is gold. And my skin. My skin is a little bright, too. When I go up to take a look at the people living in La Bastille it makes me feel like I’m a freak.”

“Cid, love, you are special. Believe in that.”

“You always say that. But I don’t really understand what you mean.”

Ulna sighs, “You remember the story I told you about the baby born at the pond in La Darkleth?”

Cid nods, frowning, “Yes, the bedtime story you always tell me about.”

Ulna smiles and pats Cid’s head, “It’s not just a bedtime story,” she leans to kiss her son’s hair, “It’s your story.”

Cid gasps, opening and closing his eyes in disbelief, but then a moment passes and he narrows his gaze, “Real funny. It’s like you’re saying I’m a creature of the lake.”

Ulna laughs at that, “Not of the lake, love. Of the pond,” she ruffles the boy’s hair, “Now go. Your father’s waiting.”

Bleep-bop.

“No, Tinky. You stay,” Cid tells his little shoebox, “We just greased your wheelies. Your wheels will get dirty again.”

Tinkerton projects a holographic image of jumbled words forming into a sentence.

‘Wash me after every use,’ the words say.

“No,” Cid shakes his head then points a finger, “Stay.”

Another holographic image is projected.

‘Arf!’

Cid laughs, “Now that’s a good boy. Stay.”

Cid makes his delivery. His father, Orem, grateful for the oatmeal he has for lunch.

Cid, listen to your mother. Don’t mingle in the affairs of the La Bastillians. They are hostile people. Inhumane.

Orem’s words can only go so far in lecturing his son. Both father and son know this. And on several occasions the father just shrugs it off, understanding that curiosity is more powerful than any form of lecture.

Cid finds his way into the corner, at the far side of the factory; in the same floor where his father works sixteen-hour shifts doing waste management and segregation.

Above a tattered awning is a warning about unauthorized entry. It’s flashed in big, bold letters. There is also a subscript outlining strict limitations on what a personnel can and cannot do beyond this point.

Cid dismisses the warning sign. He has snuck up in here more times than he can count. But today is different, because today he isn’t just planning to take a peek at La Bastille. Oh no. He plans to be in it.

Below the awning is a barred lift, powered by a single thermonuclear cell, a huge battery alight from inside by a bright blue gas.

With a breath of courage, Cid pulls the rusty red lever that activates the elevator.

The green light goes up and the metal doors slide open, beckoning its passengers to step inside.

Cid goes in and pushes the button going up, to scale several floors to where another factory is waiting. Inside the factory, at the far corner against the wall, is a service ladder waiting to be climbed. Cid climbs it, and at the top of it is another processing plant. It’s like a factory on top of another; a never-ending elevation of the same thing.

The more you go up, the more sophisticated work becomes. But not entirely sophisticated, because the job is practically the same—cleaning up trash. However, in this processing plant where Cid currently stands are those residents of La Purge who are lucky enough to work a blue-collar job—melting and remolding scraps of metal for use in construction of lower apartments in La Bastille, or for other exploits that make use of the recyclable material.

Cid gives a few winks and a few tight smiles as he sneaks out unnoticed by the people working. He goes to where ventilation shafts are waiting to be slid open. He enters one in particular with the unhinged opening; the tight square airshaft leading him to a slightly larger passageway that looks like a round tunnel big enough for him to bend at the waist and duck walk.

He duck walks through the low-ceilinged space where another ladder, secured by a gilded cage, can be climbed. It’s a long climb up but he is not afraid, for as long as he doesn’t look down.

He reaches the top of the ladder and walks to where he can carefully slide back into place the huge steel door that looks like a floor drain.

And then he’s out.

La Bastille at last.

Cid is smiling. Nothing can make him frown, knowing that freedom is within reach. Even though there are still eighty floors up leading to the Central Bridge of La Bastille it doesn’t matter. There are service elevators just up ahead.

Aside from being a laborer, Cid’s father, Orem, also has the combination for the adjoining lift; an elevator that conveniently connects from the floor where Cid is currently standing to La Bastille’s security checkpoint.

Cid goes in the elevator to move up. The elevator dings, and outside is the security checkpoint. But there are no trip-wire alarms or patrol guards in the checkpoint, only a camera that scans for the irises of any individual wanting to cross the threshold.

And this is where Cid’s blue and green eyes come into play.

His irises do not set off any alarms. This he realized the first time he climbed to La Bastille and got his eyes scanned by the camera. After a few failed attempts, the camera came up with a message saying Unknown.

It is the same result now as Cid looks pointedly into the camera’s red eye. After a few beats it flashes the word Unknown and resumes its scan of other entities, bypassing Cid’s presence altogether.

With a look of triumph, Cid ducks the stop lane and steps out into the park connecting to Central Bridge.

He closes his eyes and breathes the cool, clean oxygen into his lungs. He can feel his chest inflate with so much happiness for being here. A hundred floors up and away from La Purge’s stale air and depressing colors.

He opens his eyes and appreciates the breathtaking beauty of the Central Bridge; a two-lane walkalator that travels from the city’s checkpoint all the way to a barrier that looks like a canyon overlooking the Academy—a formidable tower structured out of tough ceramic, giving it the look and feel of an impenetrable fortress. A castle fit only for the holy, and the blessed.

Cid looks around, his sights not settling on one part of the floating city but all around. His head frantically swivels every few seconds as he takes in everything his eyes can devour.

Some of the skyscrapers are an odd shape with protruding balconies made of glass, framed by white lines in a criss-cross fashion. If there’s anything La Bastille is known for, it’s its modern take on futuristic design and fashion.

Cid crabwalks to hop onto the left side of the walkalator, taking him back a few meters where he started his tour. He wants to remember every little detail he sees, breathing-in the city with a hand clasped on the railing for safety.

Pristine architectures of crystals and ceramics are a favorite theme, and the beauty seems to be air-brushed like a painting on the walls of what look like residential apartments.

Cid is now in the middle of Central Bridge, ten minutes into the walkalator which tells you just how long the stretch of La Bastille truly is, not including the alleyways leading to Grand Avenue, Old Town, New Town, and the Atrium connecting to the architectural marvel that is the Academy.

Cid finds himself tearing up at the sheer beauty of all the colorful pages of advertising, as seen on floating holographic tablets the size of dining room tables, all gleaming bright in front of commercial establishments.

Intricate archways with streamers of advertised products move from arc to arc, like liquid film spread across the walls, containing moving pictures and panoramic still shots of the city.

The economy of La Bastille is booming if the gleaming advertorials are anything to go by. The electronic displays are not only for advertising. They also add vibrancy and color to an already daunting metropolis of lights, fetishes, whims, and glamour.

Cid is so happy. Happy that he’s here.

He cannot help but smile at the feeling of being welcomed by La Bastille’s timeless embrace. A place that looks like a dream, where time appears to be suspended, and the only thing that matters is to enjoy and have fun.

However, he also feels lonely. Sad that after a day of escape he has to crawl back to the ruins where he came from.

But for now he’s happy.

And that’s all that matters.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Hunger overrides his sense of self-preservation as he watches intently the apple in the hands of a La Bastillian boy.

“The only thing that can beat time is love. Love is eternal. It’s infinite. It has no end. Time is a b***h if you ask me. But love…love is different. She is forever kind,” says the old woman beside the boy holding the red apple.

Cid does not wish to steal, nor does he want to cause any trouble. But a small part of his being is nagging for him to grab the apple and run.

Hunger trumps logic. And so he decides.

“Oh no! Grams! Someone took my apple—!”

Cid runs. He runs like the wind as he clutches the apple in his hand close to his chest.

His cape-like clothing made of sack scratches against his body as he scampers to where there is a safe hiding place.

A part of his clothing gets ripped as he bumps into a corner with a sharp lining.

He can hear the distant wailing of security and it heightens his fear. He realizes that what he just did will get him into trouble, or worse, get him killed.

His blood starts pumping adrenaline, leaving his consciousness unable to keep up with his stride.

Not seeing clearly, he hits a crate and twists his ankle.

He’s badly hurt, but he wills himself to recover, walking with difficulty with the apple in his right hand, his left palm stretched over the wall for support as he walks, limping.

“Freeze! You are in direct violation of the tenets of La Bastille. Drop to your knees—!”

Cid’s heart palpitates as he pivots to the voice. He drops his head down while backing away slowly, clutching the apple so close to his heart like it’s a treasure. A treasure he stole like a thief.

Cid can hear the sound of the officer’s gun being drawn from its holster, “Pull back your hood. I want to see your face.”

Shaking to the core, Cid lifts his face, but refuses to make eye contact.

He can feel the cold touch of the barrel below his chin as the armed guard tilts his face, “You’re pretty. Let’s see those eyes.”

Cid can hear the blood thumping in his ears as he slowly looks up. The armed guard examines him as they meet eye to eye, but then the man’s gaze drops to take in the sight of Cid’s exposed leg, “Yours is a body that many a man will want to f**k. Tell me, young boy, why are you alone?”

The words ricochet in Cid’s head, the message reaching a part of his psyche that is unexplored. Not understanding his reflexes, he spits, directly onto the face of his captor.

With a look of vehemence, the armed guard backhands Cid across the face, making the boy hit his head against the wall then down the pavement.

Sharp, throbbing pain lances through Cid’s temples like a migraine as he shakes his head to stand.

The officer spits at him, “And to think I was about to let you off easy. I change my mind. We’ll have some fun, little boy…come here!”

The ground blurs again as Cid finds himself getting slammed into the ground. The next thing he feels are his hands getting pulled behind his back, followed by the sensation of a cool breeze kissing his naked bum.

Cid lets out a scream but he’s quickly maimed as the man covers his mouth, “You know what happens to little boys like you?” the sound of a zipper going down, “They get punished…from behind.”

A distant heartbeat, thumping loud.

The feeling of one’s body filling with blood.

The smell of burning flesh and decaying corpses.

“What the…” the man wipes his nose to see blood, “F-fuck.”

Cid crawls around and stands to face the man. In his eyes he sees the colors of the world around him disappear, turning everything into black and white. The only thing that holds color is the exposed sight of a constellation of nerves with beating pulses, the throbbing nervous system of the man kneeling before him.

In Cid’s eyes he sees the man’s vulnerabilities and autoimmune disorders. Cid himself is not even sure if he’s still alive in his own body. He has no control of what is happening. He feels like a spectator watching himself. All he can do is watch through his eyes the constellation of pulsating nerve endings pumping blood into the man’s heart.

Cid dips his finger onto the forehead of the armed guard. The contact sparks a multitude of spastic activity, spreading like venom. In Cid’s eyes he can see the rotting of the man’s flesh from the inside, bones breaking, muscles wasting, nerves burning and rupturing with blood.

Outside, the man doesn’t show any alarming signs other than the gush of blood flowing down his nose. However, the inside, from the inside is a totally different story as the man slowly withers away. It’s like the man’s body is cannibalizing itself.

The man convulses and chokes on his last breath of life, seeing what was once blue and green eyes turn into blazing red…a color deeper than blood.