litranaut

Some fucker was shining a floodlight straight into Sam’s eyes. He opened them, very slowly, and was horrified to discover that self-same fucker had poured sand under his eyelids.

And shat in his mouth.

Morning, Sam discovered, had broken. And then buggered off to make way for afternoon. Which was why the sun was shining into his room.

“Bastard Sun.” His voice was raspy and his throat hurt.

He remembered screaming and howling into the night. He looked around is trashed apartment and winced. Not through shame, but because of the crushing hangover he had.

He had to move, and shifted to hands and knees. His hands screamed. The knuckles were swollen and bleeding.

Her remembered taking his argument to something…he scanned the room and found some bloody pock-marks in the wall.

Christ – he hoped he hadn’t broken his knuckles. He couldn’t afford to have them fixed.

He lay on the floor and moaned. Everything hurt. He needed medication.

Relief was a hobble to fridge. He screwed off the bottle top and took a swig, the cheap alcohol burning its way down.

He coughed and toasted. “Get up at the tree you fell down by.”

And took another, long, swig.

***

It didn’t help so much.

But neither did throwing up and shaking. Sam was running out of constructive ideas, so he abandoned the disaster area and retreated to a shower, where he huddled in the corner and let the rain pour down on him.

He couldn’t do it anymore. Going out, cutting deals, getting beaten, keeping his friends alive. There had to be another way.

The system’s house phone rang. Sam let it run to the secretary. It was a slight expense, he had a hacked version, but it was more personal than an answerphone. Well. Everyone pretended it was, and interacted with the personality differently.

It was a potential date. He had no desire to see her. He’d call her later and feed her some lie to get off the hook.

Something struggled in the back of his head. It felt like an idea.

“Hello” His voice sounded like shit. He coughed and tried again. “Hello.” Not quite.

For the next 20 minutes he worked on his hello. Gravelly, old, cynical. He added a twang. He tried it with a coffee, to make sure he could carry it off with liquid. When he was happy he got his secretary to dial one of his friends through an anonymous proxy.

***

“Yeah, who is this?”

“Is this Edward?” Sam asked, voice as good as it was going to get.

Eddie laughed. No one called him Edward. “Yeah, yeah. This is Eddie. Who is this?”

“Ok, Edward. I’m asking the questions here. I’m cawling from the local precinct.” Sam paused, took a loud slurp of coffee. Eddie had stopped laughing. “I understand there was a little…altercation the other night, with you and your buddies. Is that right?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t think I know what you’re talking about officer. How did you get this number?”

“It’s Detective Sergeant to you, scum-bag. And let me remind you that I am still asking the questions. Why wouldn’t I have your number? You think it’s too important to have out there or something?”

Sam milked the call for about 10 minutes before hanging up. He was on Eddie’s speed dial. It wouldn’t take lo-

“Yallo.”

“Shit. Sam. I was just on the phone to some hard arse detective. He was grilling me about the other night.”

“How’d you know?”

“What do you mean, how did I know. He told me.”

Sam paused. Wondering when to tell him. “Pick up Allan and come over. You probably don’t want to talk about this on the phone.”

***

15 minutes, and a half arsed attempt at tidying, Sam sat with his two friends.

Eddie had been going on about the call since he got in, pausing only to notice the mess. “Bad night, huh?” And then back into it.

“So, what are we going to do, Sam? Are they onto us? Is this worse?”

“How’d you know it was a cop, Ed.”

“He said so.”

“How’d you know.”

“He SAID so. Shit, Sam. You fucking gone deaf?”

Sam tried on his new voice. “Let me remind you that I am still asking the questions, Scum bag.”

There was a moment’s silence. Then Allan was laughing and Eddie had launched across the room. Sam had expected this and placed the biggest amount of shit in his path. Eddie went down.

“Stay down there unless you want trouble. This is our fucking way out. We’re going topside.”

And for the rest of the day Sam laid out his plan.

It was audacious. It was epic. It was the most dangerous, fool hardy thing he had ever tried.

“How long do you think this will take, Sam?” It was probably Allan who asked. To be fair – it didn’t matter at that point.

“Two weeks to get it in motion. And then we fast track. I don’t want to be old, or dead, here.”

Which is how, two weeks later, Sam found himself sitting opposite the most dangerous man he knew, laying out his plan.

Sam sat staring at himself in the window.

It was raining.

It was always raining.

He brought his hand to his cheek, pressed, feeling the bone underneath. It was still tender, but it would do. Like his shitty life, his new face would do. And he’d have to get some money into his insurance before another trip to the emergency room.

He drained his beer, crushed the can and tossed it on the mound on the table. It hit the top, spinning, slid to the edge, and toppled over, onto the pile on the floor

He was never getting out of there.

A search light lit The Elevator as it climbed The Spyre. The flash taunted him. The Elevator was climbing. Taking some lucky bastard away from the Tow. The only way to escape the grind, the violence.

“That’ll do.”

He remembered the command. The one that stopped the pain, but not the shame.

The two words with the power to dole out just enough of a beating. To determine just enough of a warning. Painting the boundary within which he could play.

“That’ll do.”

That night, Sam had seen what was going to go down. It’s not like it was uncommon. This was how it was. You fought your way through The Tow. You done deals; you lied; you cheated; you fought your way to the top. Because it was only the toughest got to climb The Spyre. He’d huddled with his crew, told them to get out while they could. They counted as henchmen, as hired guns.

“You can kill the hired guns but you only beat the dealers.”

He passed them the days takings and told them the hospital he was registered in. Then all he had to do was wait. Or, becausehe was always a cock, walk through enemy terrotiory to short cut home.

***

The fist detonated, white hot, behind Sam’s eyes. His face hit the ground – not that it had so far to travel as he was already on his knees. His nose crumpled on impact.

“That’s going to cost me,” he thought.

A hand reached into his hair, gripping it, and pulled him back onto his knees. Blood and RealBone(tm) dripped over his lips.

“I need to cut that No one needs that much of a grip.” It was his last moment of clarity that night. The fist came down again, this time a ring sliced dangerously close to his eye. The ground was much less kind this time. He felt teeth shatter, his lips splitting, sliced inside and out.

A voice spoke from beyond the wall of fog rapidly moving in.

“That”ll do.”

***

Sam cried tears of frustration. Of impotence.

“It won’t do.” He sobbed. Shocked at the sound of his own voice. “It. Won’t. Do.”

A seething anger grew. A loathing of his place, his station. His shitty life. He kicked the table in front of him, sending cans flying. Sam leapt to his feet, screaming at himself.

“It won’t do. THIS. WON’T DO”

He set about his flat, his rage needing somewhere to go. It went into his furniture, into his walls. And it went on for hours. When it finished he may bleeding and sobbing on his floor.

Like so many other nights.

She exhales in the dark.

“You can touch me if you want.”

***

The couple were sat in the sun by the window. She eats cake.

“We should fake our own deaths and run away,” he says.

***

“We have 4 minutes to save the world, ladies and gentlemen. Are we in place?”

***

Marcus crouches behind a desk, bullets are flying over head. “Screw this.” He yells to his team “We’re kicking this old school.”

Smoke grenades fire into a corridor. He counts off 3, and makes a break for the door as his team sends a wave of bullets to cover him.

***

Sam stared at his new face in the window.

The memory of the fist detonates, white hot, behind his eyes.

His face hit the ground – not that it had so far to travel as he was already on his knees. His nose crumpled on impact.

A voice spoke from beyond the wall of fog rapidly moving in.

“That”ll do.”

Tipping the table in front of him, Sam leaps to his feet, screaming at himself.

“It won’t do. THIS. WON’T DO”

***

A girl stands at a podium. She’s 10, and all grins.

“Hello, Mummy.” Suddenly shy, she looks down. “I’m OK. Don’t be sad. I saw you on TV crying. Don’t be sad.”

***

The letter sits on the table. It’s wrong, too dark at the edges. Not to much placed as…written into the scene.

Austin looked at it. “Is that it?”

His friend looked at him, “Let’s see – it’s the only letter in the room, and it has one word on it, Zarkophski. What do you think?”

***

The butt of Geraldine’s gun slams into Dan’s head hard enough for him to feel it through his armour.

“What part of that order did you not understand, soldier? You do not do this on my watch.”

Dan was on his feet, his own gun drawn, pointed at his captain.

***

Naomi hefts the broken body of her friend.

“See, this is why there’s no side kicks”

***

A hand reaches out.

The body is emaciated, stretched.

The face warped. Free time has seen better days.

“Help me. Please, someone, help me.”

***

The eyes of a sleeping giant snap open.

***

Litranaut Season 2

***

Marcus slips his key into the ignition, pauses, looks out the window at his friends.

He smiles and turns the key.

***

Continues

***

The fireball engulfed the car, throwing it into the air. The blast threw his team to the floor and shattered windows. It landed in slow motion, the sounds of the flames and car alarms echoing as the image fades to black.

The coppery tang of blood made Sam’s nose tingle. He looked at the bodies. The death that he had wrought. 

“It was the only way,” he repeated the mantra. Keeping the basics, changing the tactics.

He stared at his new face, reflected back at him.

This is everything he had worked for. All the death; all the pain; all the money. All the Sacrifice.

It was all for this. This moment.

This triumph.

He brought his hand to his cheek, remembering the start of this journey.

His face hit the ground , this nose crumbling on impact.

All that was behind him. He was free. 

He turned away as the doors closed and The Elevator started its long journey up.

Through the glass wall, reinforced naturally, the whole of The Tow was visible. 

His house. The site of his first deal; his first, and subsequent, beatings. The hovels of his friends. Friends…gang members…bodyguards.

Everything, in fact, except the final price of that journey. The sacrifice of his friends.

Only one person could ride The Elevator.

He remembered how they’d sit and watch the elevator shaft. Everyone did it. Watching to see if one of them was escaping to the High Life beyond the Cloud. Or if pain and misery was coming the other way.

It was only one way out of The Tow – beating everyone else. Rising to the top by any means necessary.

The elevator hit The Cloud. The layer of filth that enclosed The Tow. Shrouded it. Kept the gaze of the masses away from the land of milk and honey. Everybody wanted it – but no one knew what it was they were getting. All they knew was that it meant living like an animal – either predator, or prey. That was the modern way. 

The Elevator started to slow. Sam straightened his suit. Now was the time to see if it all paid off.

The Elevator juddered to a halt, the floor alarm pinged. Which covered the sound of guns cocking.

And as the lift doors opened, so did the guns.

Above Cloud didn’t want any filthy upstarts muscling in on their turf. Keep them fighting each other. Kill those which threaten the status quo.

THAT was the modern way. That was the only way.

Brian leapt from his bed. 

Morning!

How he loved it. The best part of the day, filled with the potential for another set of wonderful experiences.

He reached for the two, small pills on his bedside table and took them with the tepid water he left out the night before.

Two steps to the sink. Don’t think bedsit. Think en-suite. He smiled at his reflection. “Our running joke, hmm, mirror?” He threw some water on his face and stared at his reflection.

His eyes locked his own, his face neutral. A drop of water formed at the tip of his nose. His jaw tightened. His fingers gripping the edge of the sink.

He had to wait until the drug kicked in.

This was the cross over. Now his emotions were laid bare, raw and jagged.

If anything were to bring Brian down, mornings were.

The droplet grew fat.

The medicated fog rolled back in, and he felt the weight lift from him. The water dripped from his nose.

Brian looked away from the mirror, taking a deep breath to center himself.

Surely it was going to be a beautiful day.