Abandoned City

Dry wind billowed over the barren landscape, conjuring up little dust devils and sending bits of garbage scurrying over the dirt as though with a life of their own. The skeletal forms of dead trees stabbed up toward the harsh white sky, creaking and snapping in the passing gust. The sun beat down on the Earth, unnaturally large and sharp in the sky. It had been years since it had last been called beautiful, or magnificent. It's golden luster held no sway with the people of Mecha; indeed, they referred to it as piercingly white and cursed it's name under their breath.

Just beyond the desert, on the heat hazed edge of lifeless land, there was a town. The buildings rose tall and menacing on the horizon. The wind rushed in through broken windows and rotting door frames, blowing burnt and yellowed papers out into the open air. The concrete lining the streets was cracked, often revealing layers of dry dirt and, deeper down, clay. The empty streets were narrow and long. Shop fronts were broken and vandalized, the graffiti long since faded with age. No business people were to be seen rushing from place to place; no children played in the streets. Not even rats, it seemed, could live here. The State had dubbed it uninhabitable years ago. This was Mecha, City of the Forgotten.

Mecha wasn't as empty as it seemed to the casual eye. The sewers had been drained and converted to a make-shift metropolis, complete with shady vendors openly advertising their illegal wares, a black market, and a supermarket that was hosted in one of the roomier chambers. It had been cleared of the mechanical paraphernalia controlling the city's sewage system, and filled instead with rickety wooden shelves half-full of blackened cans of beans, ripped open bags of potato chips, and dented cans of flat soda. A roaring trade went on here, with teens bartering with the children who bought their ill-gotten food.

For Mecha didn't house any adults -- adults were all assigned jobs at the age of 18, paid good cash, and promised safety from foreign slave traders. Only children and teenagers lived in Mecha, waiting for their eighteenth birthday and freedom. Until that day arrived, though, they were forced to live in poverty and sickness in the underground town. As a result, most grew up lean and fairly muscular - most of the meat they ate was hunted in the desert, and often the chase lasted hours.

One particularly scrawny girl, around seventeen and nearing adulthood, was walking without purpose through the long aisles of the Market. Like all children of Mecha, she had sun-baked brown skin and a hard set expression. Her eyes were dull brown, darting around constantly in their sockets, the occasional tear running down her dry cheek. She wiped them away absentmindedly - these tears were common among Mechans, due to various allergies and, of course, the heat. Her clothes hung limp and dirty off of her bony frame. They were made for comfort and convenience, and so were open in many areas. She wore a thin, short-sleeved shirt of gauzy white material underneath a stiff black leather vest. Her pants were cut off just below the knees, made of something like canvas, but thinner and more breathable.

Many Mechan teenagers, upon reaching preteenhood, underwent surgical procedures to see them through to adulthood. These mostly involved a weapon of some sort being concealed on their person, without having to wear cumbersome thigh or arm holsters. These generally tended to get caught in dead shrubbery, and this wasn't good for hunters. And a hunter she was.

These surgeries were always very painful, and very expensive. Only teenagers that designated themselves Hunters or Protectors were allowed to get them. Even Surgeons - a very small group of adults who catered to children, and had no actual degrees - agreed to perform these operations.

She'd gotten hers at 12. Rather than the thigh holster deal, she'd gone for the forearm - a more complicated operation, but more convenient for the customer. She'd gotten a small part of her inner arm cut off, to be replaced with a narrow tube of metal. She'd been knocked out for this part, luckily, but she'd been very aware of the intense burning behind her eyes. It had felt like white fire roaring through her veins.

Now, though, she could hold a small knife in the tube. The Surgeon she'd gone to - a cheap and well-trusted one that dealt often with Mechan children - had added another accessory for a small fee. He'd implanted a switch in her thumb which, when pressed, pushed the knife out of it's sheath and into her open hand. Very smooth.

As she looked around the Market for something she could afford, eying the Food Dealers with distaste - they were all crooks, of course - she played idly with the switch set into the joint of her thumb. She didn't press too hard, for fear of frightening any nearby children. She'd spent her last hunk of jerky on a dry piece of mango. Fruit was rare in Mecha. She regretted the deal, though, convinced the Dealer had asked her too much for too little.

"Six!" somebody called. She turned at the sound of her rank - Sixth Hunter, or sixth most successful hunter in Mecha. Only toddlers bothered with real names. "Six," the voice said again. She spotted a black-haired, pale-skinned boy pushing his way toward her. She recognized Neuve, or Liam Little, as she'd known him as a child. He was the Ninth Protector, having managed to get a total of thirteen preteens cheap surgeries. This is how Protectors were ranked - by making sure somebody else was able to protect themselves, they were the protectors. Since Hunters already took English numbers, Protectors were ranked in French. He grinned, revealing several gaps where teeth should have been. "I've got something you're going to like," he said upon reaching her.

She frowned. "I doubt it. Go on, let's see what you've got."

He unclenched his fist and showed her what lay in his palm. Her heart skipped a beat.

Apparently, Neuve noticed. "I told you, didn't I? Chicken. A real, genuine chicken leg. Want to share?"

She hesitated. Of course she wanted to share, and she knew he would. The two were like brother and sister. Still, she felt she would be robbing him of his treasure.

"It's yours, Neuve," she said evenly. She looked away from the leg and into his light blue eyes. "Make that last for yourself. I had some mango, a week or so ago."

"Let me guess," he said, touching her elbow. They began to walk. "You bargained away the last of your food for that mango."

She looked at him. "What did that chicken cost you?"

"Bag of potato chips and some Coke," he said sadly. "I think the Coke was bad, anyway. Tasted like salt."

"Everything here is bad," Six reasoned, grinning slightly. They reached a cylindrical doorway and turned out into a sunken street - or, as it used to be, a sewer. People hurried along the ledges, not wanting to be caught alone with any of the gangs of kids huddled up in the corners. They were liable to attack stragglers for whatever they had. Six sighed. "Including the people."

Neuve looked down at her, clicking his tongue in disapproval. "Everyone here is doing what they have to in order to survive past eighteen. You're almost there; you should know what it's like."

"I never said I was good."

Neuve shook his head, but remained silent.

After a while, they emerged in Bunk 26, the room they'd both been raised in. It was slightly smaller than the Market, but three times as full of people, mostly children. Along the sides there were bundles of blankets, pillows, even books for the lucky ones. The sound of a crying infant echoed off the metal walls.

They made their way to the very back of the room, angling for the left corner, where they slept. The further back they went, the older the inhabitants became. Six was the third oldest in Mecha, and Neuve was fourth. They twisted down into their blankets, not bothering to change clothes. They had no sense of time in Mecha. Six and Neuve were both exhausted. The unfiltered air significantly shortened the day for Mechans, rendering them drowsy in six to eight hours after waking up. The two blinked groggily at each other, inches apart. There wasn't much room in the Bunk.

"I think I heard Police today," Neuve mumbled.

Six gaped. "Police? In Mecha? We haven't had Police since we were six. They don't know we're here, do they?"

Neuve sighed. "I always sort of thought they knew," he said. "Those men are built like wolves. I'd bet ten to one they can smell us from a mile away."

Six worried. "We'll have to get the Poncho back together," she said, half to herself. "I can't believe it."

"The Poncho? Don't kid yourself. Most of them have moved into the cities by now. They're in their twenties."

"I didn't mean them, idiot," Six said. "I meant start a new unit. They were meant to protect us from the Police. We need them, even if you're not absolutely sure it was them."

Neuve groaned. "You know, of course, the Poncho consists of the first ten Hunters and Protectors. And that includes both of us. Do you deny this?"

Six smiled without humour. "Yeah," she said. "I guess, this time around, we'll be risking our lives up against the wolves."

"Great," Neuve said. "Right before our eighteenth birthdays."