A gunfire forces me awake.

The sound sends me upright in a matter of seconds, firing my nerves up into action as if I'm already accustomed to being harried in this realm. My sudden movement drills my spinning head, and the way my left wrist becomes difficult to move tells me the bandages have been redressed.

I thought I'd wake up in my room and mourn for work like my routine in any normal day, but as I slowly recount everything that has happened, I feel overwhelmed. Everything's bound to change.

Weights are fastened upon my will to stand, and my body's coaxing me to plop back on the welcoming sheets. Nonetheless the thought of the gunfire holds me still. Either the shot comes from somewhere outside the apartment, or it's just the amplified sound echoing throughout this lair.

Flecks of light stabs my bleary sight as I squint by the wrought window pane. Groggily, as I rub my eyes, I turn to my right side, and the emptiness of the sheets tells me I'm alone in the bed. I brush my hands past my ears to muffle the noise coming outside the apartment, a cacophony of bickers, of howls and of chatter, which causes me to crease my eyebrows.

Forcing myself to move feels like dragging a wet sack of cement. I rake my hands through my matted hair, fingers tangling with my locks. It's a first for me to sleep on a different bedroom from a completely different place as Oakley and I aren't really the sort of people who would leave their homes for even a day. Now I doubt it if we would even have the chance to come back. 

I gently rub a hand on my shoulder through the hole of my turtleneck, feeling the bumps of the mark I receive yesterday. Pain still ignites whenever I apply the slightest pressure, making me wince and stop.

"Oliver," I weakly start; my voice comes out dryly.

Dragging myself across the bed, I plant my feet on the cold aging floor and survey the rest of the room for signs of him. But there's no one around. The portion of the room ahead of me is less illuminated as the room lights are turned off, and the only illumination are the flecks of orange coming from outside through the window behind me. He's probably down to get breakfast or something, maybe to steal perhaps? We didn't really arrive here with a wad of bills, and Oliver seems pretty pro in the art of thievery.

Since there's nothing else left for me to do, I opt to lay myself back on the overused bed, letting my lazy will claim me as I stare blankly on the shadows that adorn the ceiling.

I'll weave up a plan to reach Oakley, wherever she is. It's barely two days since the Holland family name has earned its place in the Kill Queue. So I still have high hopes of finding Oakley out there. It'll probably take us some time though, since she's currently overseas.

I'll find you, Oakley. I mutter within my head, and it is when I hear the door fling open.

Before I could straighten up, an unfamiliar voice slams my ears. "You know, I'm not paid here to watch you sleep all day."

With my muscles tensing, I bolt upright in an instant, and a small scrawny woman clad in black dress stands primly by the door that's left ajar. Her creaseless eyes dart to mine; long hair drapes down her arms that's crossed on her chest, and her complexion, though only illuminated by little light from outside, tells me she's an easterner.

It's neither her mocking tone nor the fact that she's a stranger standing by our room that intrigues me, but rather the mention of "paid."

"Who are you? I think you've come to the wrong room, miss," I say as politely as I could, keeping in mind that not all who dwells in this place isn't a criminal, albeit she all but roll her eyes at me.

The girl storms in. My eyes plastered at her movements, and my hands curl to fists as my heartbeat takes pace. She whips an arm back to slam the door shut, then she jabs at the switch beside the door, and lights quickly flood the room, causing me to squint for a second. And as my eyes adjust, the girl strides to my left side and nabs something beside me.

I quickly gaze to what she has reached out for. The girl unwraps two styrofoam boxes from a brown paper wrapping, and, as she opens one, the pungent smell of burned milk smacks my nose. Though I'm able to relax myself a bit in realization—food. She yanks a white plastic fork taped beneath the box and firmly hands it to my palm, forcing me to peel my fist open. If I'm not mistaken, this is some kind of white pasta.

"Oliver told me you barely ate a scrap yesterday. For a newbie who doesn't eat much, I'd say you've got some tough shell to survive a day out there," the girl says as she takes a sit beside me, and confusion quickly sets in at the mention of Oliver's name.

She takes the other box and rests it upon her lap. If it isn't for the fact that she's going to eat as well, I'd think she's up to poison my stomach.

"Wait, how'd you know Oliver? Where is he? And who paid you for what?" I ask as I inch away a bit from her.

This realm seems to be the breeding ground for crimes, and there's no telling who does what. And I'm not letting my guard down just because she's a little shorter than I am. Even so, she does look younger than I am.

"I'm one of the few people Oliver knows in Site A since he doesn't come around too often," the girl says in a monotone as she takes a forkful of pasta. Her accent reminds me so much of eastern people.

Oliver did say he sometimes comes around this place when I go to work, so I'm not surprised he knows a few people.

"You haven't answered my questions, who paid you, and for what were you paid for?" I ask again.

This time, she halts from eating and turns to look me in the eye, her eyes show no hint of emotion as it streak to mine.

"Oliver paid me to look over you while he went over to the Nano Depth, a computer agency in Site A that'll stash all your informations away from government's reach. Orders are to not let you leave this place till he comes back," the girl says without averting her gaze, and it's hard to tell whether or not she's annoyed by judging her tone of voice; it seems kinda natural for her.

Hot blood quickly rushes to my head.

"Oliver paid you?!" I pipe, my voice raising a fraction, but the girl didn't do so much as a flinch.

"You know, I've got tons of work to attend to when he interrupted me, guess it's just fair to give me something in return for delaying my other jobs," she says as she tears her gaze off of me and gets back to eating her pasta.

I did not expect her to have a job at all, considering she seems only to be around fifteen, nor did I expect Oliver to have something to give her.

"Well, I'm not a child, and I needn't anyone to look after me," I mutter in knitted teeth, my hand squeezing the plastic fork in patented exasperation.

"He said you're too young," the girl mutters as she takes another forkful.

"I'm eighteen?" I snap.

She takes her last bite, her freehand rummaging through the heaps of paper wrappers, then she produces a tissue, wipes off the ort from her lips before turning back to me to say, "I'm sixteen."

"And you have job," I say in a statement. "You're not even at the legal age."

"Everything's legal here, Kiera. I'm sure Oliver told you that," she says as she stashes the fork within the box and closes it.

My eyes widen.

"You know my name," I mutter in a statement; of course, my name would be a minimum requirement if he would ever ask someone whom I've never met to look after me.

"Oliver told me. That's probably not your real name though. People these days hardly trust each other, and, anyway, it's for their safety to hide their true identity, so it's understandable. The name's Farhan Macklemore, but you can just call me Farhan," she says as she faces me and pompously sticks a hand out.

I politely shake it.

"Name's Kiera Holland," I say. "What were you doing before you came here? I'm just, well, curious since you seem so young."

Farhan tenses at my word, her brows creasing, and she suddenly seems reluctant to answer. Her gaze bears anywhere but me, probably a muted way of telling me it's none of my business. I guess it'll be deemed rude to pry on further.

But before I could take my words back, she cuts me off.

"I was in a decent high school, and I also used to babysit my cousin. But, well, I guess I'm good in botching up my responsibilities. I did something that put my family name in the wanted list. The authorities hunted us, and when they're convinced that we're completely gone, I was forced to hide here," Farhan says, her voice falls down a bit, but her composure's unchanged, cold, reserved, and prim.

I think I don't need to ask how she botched up her work, I might be crossing the line already if I do.

"But what if you're not the last Macklemore alive? Who knows, Farhan. You might still have another relative out there. If you're able to survive and you're just sixteen, I'm sure others, especially the adults, could do just the same," I say.

"I doubt that, Kiera. My parents died here, I was only twelve when I came here," She says impassively.

"Well, how about the Nano Depth? Maybe they can do something," I suggest, prodding on my pasta with my fork.

"My relatives' information are still banked up there, but that's the farthest they could go. Nano Depth is like a network of hackers that keep information, not trackers," Farhan states.

"Wait, if Oliver went there to help hide my information, then he should do the same thing to Oakley!" I crow.

"Who's Oakley?" Farhan asks.

"My sister. I wasn't able to contact her yesterday, but if the authorities are already probing on the information of every wanted names, then we need to hide her datas as well," I say as I attempt to stand, but Farhan stops me midway as she plants her hand on my marked shoulder, thereby making wince in pain.

"I'm not letting you out without finishing your food. Oliver'll be furious if he finds out," Farhan commands as she presses upon my shoulder to force me to sit down.

As I take my seat, I look up to her.

"Wait, does it mean you're letting me out once I finish this—uhm, thing?" I ask.

Farhan gazes on me smugly.

"Like I said, I'm good at botching my work. Since you're a newbie here, I guess it wouldn't be that bad if I let you in for a brief tour would it? Show you the ropes." Farhan declares in an uptalk, and I beam back in response.

As I glare down on my own pasta, I can barely regard it as food. The putrid stench of burnt milk still lingers upon my nostrils, and traces of black fluid brimming out from its burned portion seem jarring for the eyes. I look up to Farhan once more.

"You want me to eat this," I say rather as a statement; I couldn't even start to think where on hell they've cooked this.

"You need something that'll give you energy, trust me, it'll be handy," Farhan assures, albeit I find it wavering.

It'll probably give me cancer more than energy.

Gulping down my reluctance, I halfheartedly take a forkful. As the lukewarm pasta rests on my tongue, I chew it hastily, struggling to dispel its displeasing taste as I down one forkful after the other. My face contorts, and a groan escapes as my lips part.

As I finish my one-hell-of-a-road-kill food, I stash the fork within the box and left it along the strewed wrappers.

"Where can I find the bathroom here?" I ask.

Farhan looks at me disapprovingly.

"Don't even think about puking up everything you've eaten, Kiera," Farhan warns, her reprimanding look bearing down on me.

Well, I have no choice but to comply.

"Alright."

"Bathroom en suite's that way," Farhan flatly mutters as she points her finger at the far left of the room, and it's only when I notice the bathroom perched there all along.

And so I bolt for the door and turn the lights on, flesh pink tiles adorn the floor and the walls are coated in off-white hues. I proceed to the sink adjacent to the toilet and let the freezing water cascade down my palms. Deep mechanical groan rumbles from within the walls, as the tap water continues to jet out from the faucet. I idly wonder where they get their source.

I splash a handful onto my face and stare at my reflection on the mirror in front. My cobalt eyes shine jet blue beneath the fluorescent lights, and my hair's left matted and disheveled.  I rake my wet fingers through the strands of my hair, forcing it down as it get tangled. Until I decide to just tie it all up into a ponytail. Then I poke the new dressings of my wrist. It's hardly painful now, the wound's probably healing fast. 

As I make my way off the en suite, Farhan flips her hair back and gazes at me impassively.

"Nano Depth?" I raise her an eyebrow.

Farhan primly nods.

If there's anything more annoying than the pungent smell of the wet market, or the alleys by the shanties in Creed Holme, then it would be Site A. Commoners in dirty shirts totter by the crowded walkway, their noise echoing throughout the place. Strands of my hair lay on my cheeks, sticking upon my sweat amidst the heightened humidity, and the smell of lubricant and rust hangs sharply in the air.

Another thing that constantly turns my attention are the heaps of metalwares cradled upon their hands. Ash and grease smears upon most of the structures, even on the faces of some kids that bolt past us.

The way the some makeshift infrastructures are crudely built makes it hard for me to distinguish what they are. Farhan, on the other hand, seems delighted with my reaction.

"Get used to this kind of setting, Kiera," Farhan says, her voice barely audible amidts the noise.

Then a gunshot blares, which instantly sends us to a crouch. A shriek escapes my lips.

"What's that!?" I holler, but no one answered.

Even if the sound ricochets from above, I couldn't look straight up, as the industrial lights stab my eyes with every attempt.

"Test, done!" A voice booms far ahead in the ranks of small buildings, then the crowd straightens up and carries on, noises materializing back as though nothing has happened at all.

As Farhan turns to check on me, I shoot her a questioning look. "What was it?" I ask.

Farhan grabs my hand in lieu of answering and pulls me back on our way. A mechanical sound groans, then, far above us, a scream shrills out. A panicked woman clinging upon the ropes above comes sliding down as she bursts from the holes on the wall, pretty much on the same way Oliver and I arrive here.

"The gunfire you heard was from the Test Drive," Farhan pipes as she spares me a short glance.

"Test Drive?" I ask as I dodge a few hurried bodies.

"A company for innovation, is all. You know, I've been told that before The Shearing forced all criminals into hiding, scientific breakthroughs amass, and the previous inventors who were unlucky enough to have their family names included in the wanted list were able to hide here with most of their prototypes, and all of it are still kicking up to this day, which are being run by the Test Drive," Farhan blabbers, and I could barely keep up as we squeeze through the crammed pathways.

"Oh, different guns eh?" I add.

"Guns, vehicles, gears, name it! They're the framework of this place, and everyone's helping them get what they need," Farhan responds.

"So that should explain the metal scraps everyone carries with them huh?"  I say.

"Yeah!" Farhan hollers.

As we stride against the crowd, we abruptly turn right. Whichever way we go, people amass. My throat grows dry and my lips are parched as I pant in heat. The unwelcome taste of the white pasta earlier seems to latch itself on my tongue. I'm gravely in need of water.

We pass by some shacks, criminals busying themselves with their businesses. Then several stalls ahead, a bottled water lies in display on a table beside the crowded walkway, tempting me to steal. I feel like finally seeing an oasis in a tiring trek on a scorching desert.

I don't care if isn't cold, as long as I could drink it.

As we stride past the shack, my hand darts out in a heart beat, nabbing the water and tucking it against me. No one seems to notice what I just did, well, except for Farhan, but, instead of reprimanding me, she flashes me a grin.

I beam back and pull my hand off her clutch to rip the bottle seal. Opening it, I quickly down the bottle until it washes the last trace of  white pasta off of my tastebuds, quenching my thirst at the same time. Then I toss the bottle along the walkway.

We come into a portion of Site A that is unlike the previous one. Albeit it's still crowded, there are now duplex houses around, and the road is distinguishable. Ahead of us, another building lies against the wall, and it's bigger and looks more advance, very much in contrast to the apartment.

"That's Nano Depth?" I ask. 

"Yes, and that's where Oliver currently is," Farhan hollers amidst the noise.

After striding past several more street-side stalls, we arrive at the foot of the building.

This is it, we hide the datas, we dodge the authorities, we find Oakley, period.

The building's circular lobby smells of hot coffee, and is flanked with corridors. I follow suite as Farhan approaches the receptionist ahead on a counter. The woman receptionist clad in white lab coat politely beams at us.

"Ms. Macklemore, a pleasant noon, what can I do for you?" Greets the receptionist.

It surprises me that she knows Farhan.

"Might I ask where Mr. Hawkins is?" Farhan responds primly, then the receptionist holds up a clipboard and scans through it.

"He's currently at Room 29, you can take the corridor to your right." The receptionist says.

Farhan mutedly nods and waves me onwards.

The walls of the corridors we pass by are made of glass, allowing us to peer through and see what's happening within each room. Most of the time, it's all various kinds of computers together with their workers. But, as we take pace, I happen to spot a man clad like a doctor injecting something on a patient. What's he injecting? I don't know.

Room 29 comes to our sight, and, as the room door flings open, Oliver nearly stumbles to our path. Both Farhan and I gasp as we skid to stop, taking a second to catch our breaths.

Oliver flinches.

"Kiera?" he says in disbelief; his annoyed gaze darting from me to Farhan as though watching a tennis match.

"Look, I can explain—" Farhan starts when Oliver's glare lands at her, but I cut her off.

"Oliver, the datas, we need to—" I struggle as I try to recover from panting, but Oliver intercepts.

"I know, Kiera, I've already managed to download all your important files," Oliver says irritatedly.

"No, it's not just about me, we need to hide Oakley's too! I can't let the authorities find even a single file from my sister, Oliver!" I pipe, wiping off bids of sweat from my forehead.

This time, Oliver turns a bit pale.

"Oliver?" I slowly ask, my heart pounding a drumbeat within my chest. "Is something wrong?"

Oliver angrily rakes his hair.

"Look, uh, I know I need to hide Oakley's data, and I still need Nano Depth's assistance, there was some problem along the way, and, I—I don't know, It's just—I just—" Oliver stammers.

"Oliver, just get on with it," I say in knitted teeth, heat erupting along my skin.

Oliver breathes out heavily and rakes another hand through his hair. His eyes bear down on me with concern.

"It's Oakley, her data's all missing," Oliver says.

Raddled: showing signs of age or fatigue
Pompous: affectedly or irritatingly grand or solemn
Prim: stiffly formal and respectable
Putrid: rotting and emitting a fetid smell
Another chapter done! My updates, as usual, would be a bit slow again as life suddenly got in the way, but, hopefully, I'll be able to update a chapter per week if I get lucky. Sorry for the wait though. Anyhow, what do you think about Farhan Macklemore? I'd like to know your thoughts!

Vote | Comment