from the smokestacks is actually steam? Or are they somehow linking our minds together as some sort of giant battery? If so, how come so many in the slums are without power? Maybe someone should use that collective energy to power more water purifiers!
-Quado
7
T he filthy polluted puddles disappear as the cracked terrain soaks them up and retakes its place, the slums back to normal. Dry. Harsh. Unforgiving.
Frank welds more metal in his shop, his hands still covered in permanent grease. He glances up to see two approaching SEOs. “We’re closed,” he grumbles as he furrows his brow.
“We need to ask you a few questions,” the first SEO states.
The group of misfit kids watches from afar as the two Enforcement Officers lead Frank away. Suddenly, a shadow looms over them. Turning back, the shadow belongs to Neil, along with two more SEOs. They nab the misfits before the group can flee.
A short time later, Frank, the misfits, and three other slum residents sit along the edge of the dirt path with their hands bound, guarded by the officers.
“The Cicadas will tell you nothing,” announces one of the misfits.
The leader of the group immediately kicks dirt at his buddy, “It’s Pegasus.”
“Honest, we were just playin’ around,” another of the misfits begs. The final member nods his head in agreement.
“Quiet, all of you,” Frank urges. “Don’t give ‘em nothin’.”
“None of us know anything,” claims one of the slum residents.
“You were the only ones who saw the Collectors,” an SEO lashes back. “Somebody here knows something.”
“There are eyes and ears everywhere,” Frank says. “We weren’t the only ones.”
The SEO steps over to Neil and waits for further instructions. Neil sizes up the detainees.
“Let them go,” he orders, then addresses everyone at once. “The Agency thanks you for your cooperation.” He walks off as the suspects are released.
A short ways around the bend, Neil returns to the blast site where he nearly died. He notices scavengers have already stripped away anything useful from the charred remains of his old utility truck. He spots a slab of wood sticking out from the dirt, followed by another, then a metal handle – all pieces to Inna’s wagon. He squats down and unearths a buried wheel.
Just then Neil’s PDA vibrates to interrupt. It’s Slayter calling. Neil ignores the buzzing device, only able to take Slayter in short spurts, then thumbs the charred wheel, debating what to do with it.
Neil slows his replacement utility truck outside the antique shop. A handcrafted sign in the window states it is currently closed for business. His eyes drift to the landfill in the North to the location he first heard Inna’s melody and undoubtedly where she is right now. He drives off.
The utility truck lurches into the landfill on a dirt path, flanked on each side by crooked towers of stacked trash. While the Downtown Sector has endless skytowers of deteriorated buildings, the landfill has endless towers of compressed trash. It almost resembles the abstract art statues that were popular near the beginning of the millennium as the towers manage to bulge out and contract in places that physically seem impossible, defying gravity by not toppling over.
Neil parks and gets out, but there isn’t a soul in sight. Just pure silence. He moves about the truck, scanning, listening, ready to give up when suddenly the melody strikes. He tracks the song to find Inna halfway up one of the mounds, then watches as she wipes the dirt off trinkets before arranging them in a pile. Her youthful presence injects a sense of life into the graveyard of discarded items.
Neil moves to get a closer view when his boot suddenly sinks down into the trash and he stumbles over.
“Well this is a surprise,” Inna says as she turns and spots him knee-deep in a hole. She climbs down to help him up. “Are you okay? I heard about your partner.” Neil brushes it off and nods he is
-Quado
7
T he filthy polluted puddles disappear as the cracked terrain soaks them up and retakes its place, the slums back to normal. Dry. Harsh. Unforgiving.
Frank welds more metal in his shop, his hands still covered in permanent grease. He glances up to see two approaching SEOs. “We’re closed,” he grumbles as he furrows his brow.
“We need to ask you a few questions,” the first SEO states.
The group of misfit kids watches from afar as the two Enforcement Officers lead Frank away. Suddenly, a shadow looms over them. Turning back, the shadow belongs to Neil, along with two more SEOs. They nab the misfits before the group can flee.
A short time later, Frank, the misfits, and three other slum residents sit along the edge of the dirt path with their hands bound, guarded by the officers.
“The Cicadas will tell you nothing,” announces one of the misfits.
The leader of the group immediately kicks dirt at his buddy, “It’s Pegasus.”
“Honest, we were just playin’ around,” another of the misfits begs. The final member nods his head in agreement.
“Quiet, all of you,” Frank urges. “Don’t give ‘em nothin’.”
“None of us know anything,” claims one of the slum residents.
“You were the only ones who saw the Collectors,” an SEO lashes back. “Somebody here knows something.”
“There are eyes and ears everywhere,” Frank says. “We weren’t the only ones.”
The SEO steps over to Neil and waits for further instructions. Neil sizes up the detainees.
“Let them go,” he orders, then addresses everyone at once. “The Agency thanks you for your cooperation.” He walks off as the suspects are released.
A short ways around the bend, Neil returns to the blast site where he nearly died. He notices scavengers have already stripped away anything useful from the charred remains of his old utility truck. He spots a slab of wood sticking out from the dirt, followed by another, then a metal handle – all pieces to Inna’s wagon. He squats down and unearths a buried wheel.
Just then Neil’s PDA vibrates to interrupt. It’s Slayter calling. Neil ignores the buzzing device, only able to take Slayter in short spurts, then thumbs the charred wheel, debating what to do with it.
Neil slows his replacement utility truck outside the antique shop. A handcrafted sign in the window states it is currently closed for business. His eyes drift to the landfill in the North to the location he first heard Inna’s melody and undoubtedly where she is right now. He drives off.
The utility truck lurches into the landfill on a dirt path, flanked on each side by crooked towers of stacked trash. While the Downtown Sector has endless skytowers of deteriorated buildings, the landfill has endless towers of compressed trash. It almost resembles the abstract art statues that were popular near the beginning of the millennium as the towers manage to bulge out and contract in places that physically seem impossible, defying gravity by not toppling over.
Neil parks and gets out, but there isn’t a soul in sight. Just pure silence. He moves about the truck, scanning, listening, ready to give up when suddenly the melody strikes. He tracks the song to find Inna halfway up one of the mounds, then watches as she wipes the dirt off trinkets before arranging them in a pile. Her youthful presence injects a sense of life into the graveyard of discarded items.
Neil moves to get a closer view when his boot suddenly sinks down into the trash and he stumbles over.
“Well this is a surprise,” Inna says as she turns and spots him knee-deep in a hole. She climbs down to help him up. “Are you okay? I heard about your partner.” Neil brushes it off and nods he is
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