As the sun was about to settle down, the sound of a boy could be heard across the neighbourhood.
''Newspapers! Newspapers! Selling newspapers for only half a kred!''
With no one rushing his way, the boy decided to pack up for the day, not wanting to be on the streets after it turned dark.
He felt delighted as he walked across the dirt, rejoicing the 1 and a half kreds he had gotten for his family. Only being a few hundred steps away from his house, he arrived before sunset with much time to spare, newspapers in tow.
Entering his abode, he greeted his father and mother, who were respectively sitting on the living room couch, by jumping on them. Happening to be malnourished, the boy was light; light enough not to be a problem.
''Hey there Nixon.'' His father reproached calmly.
Not wanting to drag this out, his mother, with a stern face asked ''How much did you get us?''
With a smile, Nixon happily showed them the money he had in his pockets ''I got us 1 Kred and a half!''
A split second later, his dad snatched the money out of his hand and then stared at his son. ''Now you only owe us 2000 Kreds, keep up the good work.''
After receiving the validation, Nixon enthusiastically got off the sofa and went to his room after taking some nutrition paste with him. Not having much to do after that, he decided to lay down and close his eyes, listening to the whispers of his parents in the process.
His work, even if it wasn't difficult, was strenuous. He had to make sure he wouldn't get robbed or worse. It was for that reason that he felt dazed immediately after hitting the not-so-comfy cushion—a place of refuge for Nixon.
Sitting on his mattress, dazed and about to fall asleep, Nixon remembered a crucial part of his day. Getting up once more with his shaky legs, he sprung to life as he set himself on the unglazed window. The sunset was blooming upon the land, and Nixon had almost missed it. This was his tradition, one that he wouldn't miss. He reminisced on how he had been taken off the streets when the sunset was in full view, on how he had been saved by the people that he now knew as ''Mom'' and ''Dad''.
Even if his small room lacked warmth, he had resolved to never complain about his home. The streets were dirtier than the walls he lived in, and the people were even worse than cockroaches on the floor. He had even plastered photos of him and his family on the walls throughout the years.
Closing his eyes on the stool, Nixon relaxed as he was bathed in the radiance of the sun who was, for some reason, hotter than usual at this hour. Unmoving, Nixon rested as he began to sweat, his eyes watering in the process. Noticing some peculiar sounds outside, he unwillingly opened his eyes and looked through the window—not thinking much of the situation as he did. Looking outside, his curiosity turned into denial and then into fear. What he saw truly shook him to his core. Dozens of slashed bodies were littered along the road, and many of the houses burned with the wind.
Disbelief took over as ripples of sweat flowed down his face, neck, and jawline. His eyes lingered on the bodies of his fallen neighbours as he trembled. He stood there dazed, his body felt sluggish as he thought of the situation. How could this have happened? Wasn't he selling newspapers on those very streets not too long ago? Who and what could have brought this level of destruction?
At this point, he had gotten off his chair; instead, he had assumed an upright position. Quickly and quietly, he poked his head out of the window, wanting to know more about the situation—many he saw were dead, yet there were others still moving on the ground. Focusing on those lucky ones, he expected some relief; however, his expectations were broken, because most of them were either flopping like dead fish or, even worse, holding their gouged-out necks with their hands.
Nixon was a proud boy—he had survived these hard times without anyone to back him up, at least not until he found his new family—but he cried, right there at his window, knowing he had no chance to live. The trail of mass murder ended at his doorstep; Nixon wasn't dumb, he knew how to expect the worst, but he'd never expected it to come so quickly. Just minutes ago, he'd been selling newspapers on the very battlefield he now gazed upon.
The cloud of death became suffocating as he heard noises coming from downstairs. Nixon cowered in fear as he heard his mom and dad rushing upstairs whilst screaming profanities. Had he been stronger, better fed, and able to fight, Nixon would've been charging at the intruder, yet he was the contrary of all that was bravery, strength or power. He was weak and powerless, hungry and starved. His bravery ended at the line between life and death. It was for this reason he decided to hide; to hide in his closet.
It didn't take much time for his parents to enter his room. Through a small peep hole, Nixon saw his dad hold a rusty pistol while his mom was holding a nailed bat. Both were sweating bullets as they tried to barricade themselves with what little was found around his room.
Trembling, his mom told her husband to hurry; to lock the door and prop up the chair to the entrance. Having nothing to lose, he complied hurriedly. At this point, loud steps could be heard on the other side; they carried weight and anger.
Louder steps could be heard as Nixon closed his eyes. Both of his parents were shouting at the man trying to make him stop, yet nothing was getting through his thick skull.
Through the chaos, the strange man, who was behind the door now, stopped and opened his mouth for the first time. His voice was rugged as he told them to open the door.
"Open the door and I'll make it quick."
Not knowing how this man looked, one could mistake him for a wondering demon. Malice and authority radiated from behind the door. Anger and power came crashing down as he tried the door handle once more.
For a split second all was quiet, the world around him stopped spinning and all was good. But the tranquillity he now bathed in was quickly drained as he kicked open the door.
Splinters and pieces of wood flew all over—some even hitting the closet door at tremendous speeds.
Nixon was unharmed, but the same couldn't be said for his parents, who both were sprawled on the ground. The blow had tossed both of their weapons far away from them.
Bickering and almost on the verge of tears. Nixon's father got on his knees and begged on the intruder's feet. Each word he spoke tucked a feeling of dread and terror. His life, his existence, lay in the hands of a mysterious and evil being.
Holding the man's shoes with his hands, he began to beg feverishly.
"Please stop! We've done nothing wrong. You come here to kill us all when we have nothing? Take our house, our food, heck you can even take our s—"
Suddenly, the once contained blood lust came crashing down like a wave of despair. The man, who had once been at the entrance of the room was now standing at the window. Barely a few seconds had passed, yet everything ended so quickly.
His once proud father lay rest on the cold hard wood as his neck gushed with blood. His once lively mom looked at the closet with her droopy eyes— the last thing she would see. All of this was too much for Nixon. He wanted to cry but he couldn't, for he was there, the man who did it all. He hadn't dared go close to the crack in the closet, so he didn't know how he looked. But he knew very well that if he survived. The death of this vile, damned creature would be assured. He promised the death of both of his parents would nourish his hunger for power, redemption and revenge.
His shaking stopped, his silent sobbing ceased, but the anger inside of him grew. He wouldn't forget what happened here today, and he most certainly wouldn't forget his mother's eyes, glazed and empty, his father's hands clutching his shredded throat like a failed prayer, and the desperation they both had.
The assassin stood there on the window for a while before returning to the door. Even with all his heavy armour, his footsteps were nearly impossible to hear. It was as if he was hovering on the ground instead of walking on it. Coming closer to the boy's mother, Nixon heard him gruesomely take back his knife from her skull, the blade glinting with a wet, crimson sheen. He couldn't bear to watch the rest, yet he knew he should have looked at the man more attentively, because it was then that he left.
Adrenaline and other factors kept him sane, but now, alone in the closet, he couldn't help but feel trapped and confined. The scent of gunpowder and copper clung to the air. He had to leave. Making sure to wait a while, Nixon left and went directly to his dad.
Kneeling beside him, Nixon took hold of his hands, still warm and twitching, still clutching his throat, and held them tightly. At this point, he cried his last drop; his last flicker of emotion. His parents, who had picked him up from the streets, had just died in front of him. They couldn't even put up a fight. The rusted pistol his father once held settled near the window—the same window where they'd watched sunsets paint the slums in fleeting gold, the same window the murderer had rested upon like a vulture.
He was shaking but not out of fear but out of pure and unfiltered fury. His father's hands were bloody and slimy and now so were his.
Getting up, he went to his mom. Crouching in front of her, he looked into her still eyes. The life they once held vanished without a trace. Her skull bled from the knife wound she had taken, and nothing could be done about it.
Getting up once more, he went towards the pistol. Once near the window, he crouched down to pick up the gun. His head rose next as he looked upon the land he had once called home. Fires still ran high, and houses kept getting toppled over. The night was truly dark.
He had nowhere else to go. His home, his room, his bed and perhaps even his soul, were now all violated; stanched with the crimson colour of the blood of his parents and hundreds of others like them. Looking back, he returned to his comfort place, which was now the closet where he had seen it all...
_*_*_
Running in the opposite direction of the crowd, Falco watched as mercenaries threw incendiary grenades at the buildings—creating an air guzzling vortex. Escaping from their homes, entire families were shot down as the gang used their heavy weaponry.
He ran as fast as his 2 legs carried him, smoke entering his lungs as he gasped for air. The muzzle flash of the weapons they used could be seen from miles away, their bullets flying past him, only missing him by a hair. The men around him were killing all the eye could see, making sure they caught all of the more resilient prey.
He took cover in the looted stores and buildings while running through them. If he was surrounded, Falco ran through alleyways and back doors. He made sure to hide his tracks and kept moving towards home. His mind churned as he thought of Mia. Was she safe? Had anything happened to her? Falco didn't know, all he could do was hope. The years they spent together meant everything to him, and he vowed that he wouldn't lose her that easily.
He wanted to fight back, but he wasn't like the ones facing him. He had never taken a dose of nano-machines, nor had he been thoroughly trained to fight. He was a mere mortal compared to the wave of metallic men raining down on him. It was for that reason that he decided to flee, desperately dodging the militant's fury as he took cover behind pieces of debris, some even glowing orange from the fire.
Jumping from pieces of rubble to another, he stuck close them while making sure he wasn't seen. Men and women alike were scouring the territory, their vehicle dwarfing some of the surrounding buildings as it rolled over them, trampling over people in the process. He looked around praying to find the protectors who were supposed to be at the front of the conflict, yet they were nowhere to be found. Trembling, Falco stopped and leaned on some cover. His eyes were shut, his heart was racing, and his world was ending. Ever since his parents had vanished, his world was turned upside down, from the exile of his home to the hard work he did every day to survive, Falco had fought for him and his sister. He dedicated himself to her, even buying her an expensive gift, but all of that was turned to ash when he saw building after building go up in flames. He was scared; petrified even.
Truthfully, Falco had never seen a slaughter of this magnitude before, not even the ''Vase Tragedy'' could compare to this situation. Hundreds of people were dying, and no one was doing anything about it. He tried to find a solution, yet nothing came to mind. Despair turned into loathing as he remembered the "discussion" he had with the receptionist. Back then, without even knowing it, Falco had wasted precious time. Time he could have spent with Mia who was still out there, somewhere...
Needing to calm down, Falco took deep, burning breaths as he thought of a plan. Minutes passed by as he kept thinking, yet nothing came to mind. The fires were increasing, and he had little time before he was found.
Almost at his limit, he found something; something incredibly dangerous. Far away in the distance stood a surviving neighbourhood; its buildings practically unscathed compared to what was happening everywhere else. It seemed as if the mercenaries hadn't arrived there yet. Normally, death would await him if he were to travel on the road without protection, but, in front of him rolled a transport vehicle who was approaching him at a steady pace.
On top of the vehicle, the cries of a machine gun operator could be barely heard over the deafening roar of the engine and the sporadic bursts of bombardments he made. Switching between the ground and sky, the huge mounted weapon shook the moving fortress with only its vibrations.
From a distance, he was able to see his bald head glistening due to the heat as he shouted furiously to the world.
"Where are all the people! I was promised fun! Not this bullshit!"
Scared out of his wits, Falco crouched even lower than before, hoping he wasn't seen. He was surprised when the shooting passed over him, instead landing somewhere further away. The screams and cries of people could be heard as he closed his eyes. Opening them again, he saw some of the stragglers deciding to run, showing themselves in the process. It was this split-second decision that sealed their fate, needing but a moment to extinguish it.
Almost vomiting, he glimpsed as the unfortunate were being turned into minced meat. Their last mark on the world, in this city, was only a red mist which was hanging in the air.
After a few more seconds, the shelling ceased. Falco watched as the monstrous vehicle, now only a dozen meters, was plowing through the scattered remnants of the buildings it had destroyed, their skeletons being an omen of death to any unfortunate who had to traverse these parts. It had 4 huge wheels who were interconnected—almost welded to the car. This gave Falco an opportunity. Its undercarriage was subsequently high enough for him to crouch under and pass unnoticed, at least until he made it to the building. With the distraction on the road, he would be able to hide without being seen.
As the car drove towards him, he prepared himself. The gunfire started once more, and the vehicle was now only a few meters away. Falco took advantage of the commotion as he peaked his head out, watching out for any unforeseen individuals.
Not noticing anybody, he turned his attention to the automobile. Curious, he looked at the bruised hull. Deep scars could be perceived, some even a few centimetres deep. Falco was too panicked to think straight, yet when the car came close enough, he needn't but a second to leap out of his hiding place.
On his legs and arms, Falco tried to craw at the same speed as the car. His hands were burning as he tried to dig into the dirt. Looking around, he took notice of the state of the car. The underbelly of the vehicle reeked of blood and dust; its mechanical parts were rusted into oblivion and the 4 hubs, the connectors of the tires to the vehicle, were drowned in lithium grease—it was clear that no one truly cared for this metal beast.
The situation was dire. Debris stuck under the wheels of the vehicle flew towards Falco at alarming speeds. Grease and blood from the roof of the vehicle dropped on him as he covered his face with his mitts. His skin burned as he touched the magma like metal. Everything around him was on fire, metaphorically and literally. He felt miserable, his skin burned, his lungs were full of smoke, and his ears rang. Outside, the noise of crumbling buildings could be recognised, the screams had ceased and now, the machine gunner could be heard screaming incomprehensible gibberish.
Curiosity killed the cat they say? Well Falco didn't care as he stuck his head out from the undercarriage. All sound but the engines had ceased, and not a soul was in sight. Around him lay rest numerous buildings and rubble. Bones were protruding from the ruins and blood coloured the walls. A lake of blood had been shed here, and he wouldn't forget. He had to get back home, even if it killed him.
Falco was desperate and unwilling to give up. This forbidding situation, as difficult as it seemed, was just an obstacle to him. His willpower wouldn't allow him to die here, not now.
As he kept looking around, he recognised the neighbourhood he had once dreamt of. Unscathed buildings rolled past him as he kept crawling. This was his ticket home; his way out. Coming on level ground, he fixed his gaze on a house; its entrance was wide open, and all seemed secure. The metal beast was moving beside the building he sought, and no one knew where Falco was. His chances of escape were growing steadily as he got ready. Yet, it also meant that the stakes were much higher without there being any diversions.
The boy willed himself for another roll, one incredibly more difficult and dangerous, as he crept closer to the entrance. With nothing distracting the gunner now, Falco would be much easier to spot and shoot down. In a few moments, Falco would be leaving the blood and grease infested undercarriage - his only line of defence. He was anxious, but not enough to not try.
As he raised his right arm to wipe some sweat away, he noticed his trembling; his whole body was infected, and he couldn't stop. All the feelings he was suppressing like pain, anger, heat and anxiousness were burrowed through him like a needle. He didn't have much time left, he only had a few seconds left and here he was, wasting them by cowardice.
Quickly, he went through his pocket looking for his knife. He was going to stab himself to clear his mind, but, he instead held the golden necklace he bought for Mia. His head cleared and his mind stopped buzzing. The world seemed to stop as he focused on his goal.
He vigorously put back the necklace and rolled towards the entrance of the 2-story building—it's entrance wide open. Immediately after crossing it, Falco leapt sideways to hide himself. He wheezed as he relaxed himself on the wall. The air of the building was a mighty contrast to the burning inferno; thus, he made sure to nourish his desire for clean, cold air.
His whole body ached as it pleaded to rest but Falco had other plans. His home was right around the corner and his goal was close. He couldn't stop here, in this lifeless building full of dust and broken furniture.
Now gotten up and walking again, he peered at his surroundings with greater detail. He didn't have much time to wander around these parts, but he hoped on finding something useful. Having been in a paramount situation full of danger and death, Falco felt the need to eat or drink something. He looked around, hoping to find something to satiate his hunger, yet it was for not—the house had been ransacked and its contents long gone.
Disappointed, he went towards the stairway. The house reeked of dust and the rooms ponged of death. He heard nothing, not a sound. The stairs creaked as he walked to the upper floors. Falco expected the worst, but it never came. Opening the first door, he instead found 2 bodies.
Falco's breath hitched as he entered the room. Blood streaked the walls in frantic arcs—someone had fought like a cornered animal. Ripped pictures of a happy family were littered along the floor and fragments of bone were scattered across the walls. Perched over a dead woman, Falco question himself on who could have cause this level of mayhem.
His eyes lingered on the dead woman's skull, then it went down to her neck and then to her arm. Contemplating, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his knife. Even if it seemed like no one was close by, the blood had yet to dry—it was still wet, and the body hadn't cooled down either. He felt exhilarated, having escaped certain death and being closer to home, he had to be careful. One wrong move and his world would blackout.
Step by step, he made sure not to be too loud. Looking around the room and seeing no sign of danger, Falco decided to look at the man's corpse more attentively.
The man's throat was a ruin of torn flesh. His hands, frozen in a clawed grip, seemed to beg for a mercy that never came. From his face to his torso, his whole body reeked of blood—not just his own, Falco realised. The metallic tang clung to the air like a curse as he coughed.
Changing views, he looked at his face. He realised that the man was around his mid 40's— a rarity in these parts. Sadly, he couldn't discern more than that.
"Clearly this man fought someone in close combat." Falco thought as he put his hand under his chin.
Strangely enough, he didn't have a shirt. His pants were also ripped—almost torn apart.
Falco second guessed himself as he got up and kept inspecting the whole room. He started with the mouldy mattress then he went to the window.
Bloody prints were spread across its stool and casing. The view was nothing short of horrific. Behind him stood a dead family and ahead lay the burning houses of his town. Wanting to quickly distract himself. Falco opted to investigate the closet.
Needing to catch a breath from all the smoke, he wanted to take off his mask, but in the process of doing so he looked at the floor.
Paying more attention to the hard wood, he noticed fresh footsteps leading right towards his destination.
Keeping his mask on, Falco raised his head—and froze. A whimper. Faint, but unmistakable. It came from the closet. His hand trembled as he took a defensive stance and approached the door, but before he could, a loud shout full of anger and fury befell the room.