Burned.

Seeing my foster parents was unnecessary; as soon as I got into the city there were signs of the dealers’ presence. Spray-painted tags that had sloppy poleepkwan writing concealed within their designs, numbers written in the insides of public telephones and bathroom stalls. “For an out-of this world experience, call XXX-XXXX;” “got shrimp? Call this number.”

It was dark when I arrived in Flagstaff, and early in the morning. The night life was out and about, stalking fresh meat for the market and piling their “wares” up and down streets and in the few buildings I managed to sneak a peek into. Like the docks in New York, I wasn’t noticed—I stuck to the alleys and other undesirable locations, and the few people that saw me could care less. What’s the point of reporting a prawn here? Better to jump him if he looks like he’s got something worth stealing and leave his twitching corpse for the fuzz to find.

Something worth stealing…like a backpack. I realized my fatal flaw as soon as the calling started.

“’Ay. Grillo.” Strangely, this voice was feminine; the smug, boisterous tone of a runner was unmistakable. “’Sup?”

Tentatively I turned and stared at a wall just past the woman’s ear, not directly looking at her but analyzing what she looked like. You never look a runner in the eyes, or a dealer. It’s disrespectful, and more than enough reason for them to kill you. I didn’t want to get killed or seriously miamed, so instead I averted my gaze and croakily spoke. “What?”

“You’re pretty far from your stable, ain’t ya?” She pointed to my lower torso. “I see that tag you carryin’. It ain’t ours.”

“Urm…yes. Yes, it’s not yours, but I’m just passing through—” Fuck! If they thought I was trying to sell to anyone here, I was dead. I still had Blue Fly’s logo embossed on my hip, which when coupled with the fact I was sneaking around made me look guilty.

“Bullshit. You’re turning tricks, ain’t ya?” A deeper voice cut in from my left. It must have been another runner, or maybe even a bodyguard—this guy was tough. Silent alarm bells went off in my head as the man walked in closer. “Ain’t ya, camarón?” He pinned me against the wall with a forearm. “I asked you a fucking question.”

I whimpered and felt the dull crinkle of bills through the cloth of my bag against the wall of the alley. “I…don’t want any trouble…” This was too much like all the times I’d angered Blue Fly, all the times I’d done or said something wrong by mistake and paid dearly from it. “Please j-just let me go…please please please…” I could almost hear the phones again and feel that pipe bashing against my skin. Vishnu, this was it…world-wide, this was it. New York, D10, Arizona…it’s like this everywhere. Where could I go where I wouldn’t be raped or mugged by someone?

“Nah. I don’t think I will. Hey chica, get the light. Let’s put some shrimp on the Barbie.” He held out a hand; the woman put something into it and stepped back, grinning. I met her eyes this time—she glared back and I looked down. The man smirked and shifted his grip on me; he held a lighter. With sickeningly deft moves, he smashed it against the wall and let the clearish liquid drip on the section of plating that the logo was painted on. It was as if he’d practiced it; I tried to squirm free as the other runner lit a match and held it to my soaked hip. The lighter fluid ignited immediately, and it felt like someone had decided to rip my plating off.

I failed. I’ve done nothing except get myself hurt and make it worse for any poleepkwa in the area. I’m so sorry everyone...please forgive me, or at least overlook this transgression. I haven’t gotten anything done…

On The Road Again...

“Promise you won’t be gone for a long time?”

We were curled up on one of the couches in the rec room, oblivious (for now) to the tiny tears our exoskeletons made in the fabric. You could tell which chairs and sofas were preferred by the poleepkwa who worked at the base—after a while they looked moth-eaten and gnawed by the small puncture wounds unknowingly produced by spines.

Jack, Jill and I were all huddled together in a collection of shell plates, warmth, and comfort. Jack blinked up at me with wide eyes as Jill tugged at my vestigial arms playfully. His voice was wavering. “Promise you’ll be back soon?”

A small brown knapsack—borrowed from ARFA’s locker room—lay at my feet; my tattered overcoat (found in a trashcan in d10) was on my back. It was the little things that broke apart the happiness of the moment, the tiny indications that no matter how wonderful this frame of time was, it would have to end soon. Sighing, I wrapped my arms around them both and smiled wanly as they snuggled in close and warbled quietly. They were always so happy if someone hugged them, even if they were worried before...it’s as if that simple embrace has the power to erase the worst of fears and anxieties. Vishnu, they were my little angels, love and intelligence in poleepkwan form. The sentimentality is well-deserved for them—I don’t lie when I say that, or think it. It’s true, every single word.

Quietly I spoke, eyes darting around to check if anyone was listening in. Nobody should know ahead of time what I had planning, except my children. I didn’t want to cause unnecessary worry or goad someone into coming along by accident. Quickly in, quickly out, and it would be over; ideally that was the way this was going to work out. “I promise. I’ll be back Monday, maybe even sooner. I won’t be gone long.” My grin grew in earnest. “Hey, we’ll even watch a movie when I’m back here. How does that sound?”

They were enchanted by the idea, and began babbling excitedly. My practiced antennae managed to pick up their individual statements even when they spoke at the same time.

“Ooh—ooh—can it be the Jungle Book?”

“Can Judith watch too?”

“And Jake?”

“Jake’s got a lot of bruises, have you noticed, Jack?”

“Yeah. I think Judith’s—“

“I’ve got to go…” Carefully I moved them to the side, off of my lap, and sadly hugged them one last time. “I’ve got a train to catch.” I broke off the sentence there…they didn’t need to know that I’d quite literally be doing that. Better for them to think I paid for my ticket, or was given a ride.

Jill and Jack watched me leave the room, clutching onto each other with the space I had occupied still between them. I was strangely heartbreaking to watch—as if they would stay that way for the rest of the weekend, waiting for me to return and slide back into place so everything would be normal and happy. Secretly a part of me hoped that that was true, and they would wait. They’d wait, and know without a doubt that I’d come back.
_______________________________________________________

“Six-fifty. Damn, you’re far from home.”

I grimaced and jotted something down on a notepad: ‘you could say that, but I’d rather you didn’t. I won’t bother you. I just want the food.’ I didn’t expect anyone to understand me here, so I’d had the foresight to bring along plenty of pens and a pad of paper for communicating. Pulling the crumpled wad of bills from my backpack, I held up seven of them and passed them over to the tanned, weary man. Luckily he didn’t object to their ratty condition. Vishnu was on my side in that respect—I’d had no time or means to tidy them up. His wrinkled face split oven in a gap-toothed smile; money was money, and I’d given him more then he’d asked for. Good—that meant I might actually get the beef jerky I’d been eying.

The old man grinned and pocketed my money, then passed over the bag of jerky, winking at me with a slightly filmy eye. “Who’s going to listen to an old guy like me? Go on, mister alien. I won’t tell a soul. There’s no-one here who’d believe me anyway.” He croakily laughed and swept an arm out to encompass the dry landscape. “’Cept maybe those folks in that building east of here. I reckon you’ve heard of them.”

Was he talking about ARFA? Hopefully not. The base was supposed to be secret. I shrugged and bolted, stuffing the remaining money and jerky into my backpack. Now I had food, and therefore one less worry.

I caught the train later as it sped by. It’s a simple method, albeit dangerous. You jump up, grab onto anything you can get at and climb onto the top of a boxcar, keeping your grip against the howl of air moving past you as the train speeds ahead. It’s terrifying, it really is, and I hope I don’t have to do this very often. I read about it from books written during the Great Depression, though it’s a lot easier said—or read—then done. Vishnu granted me another boon today: there was an opening in one of the boxcars that enabled me to drop in. Right now I’m huddled amidst boxes of I don’t know what, typing away at this little phone and watching the service indicator in case it runs out. There are two bars left out of five, so I better hurry this up.

I’m fine; I’m about to cross the state border and go into Arizona. My destination is Scottsdale, though I’ll end up in Flagstaff beforehand. There’s been…well, I’ve gotten word from my parent, about my parent. The people that owned me finally decided to contact me via email (I guess they read the blog) and say they’re willing to point me to the guy they bought me from. This is, quite possibly, some of the stupidest things I’ve done, I know it, but if this turns out good…I could at least learn about my real parent, if not see them.

One bar left. I’ve got to go. Good night, everybody, and see you Monday.

They seem to think that I've been saving people in District 10 all this time, that I've done good and liberated the oppressed. Apparently someone told Jack and Jill this, and it grew in their minds as ideas can only do with children. It's an amazing thing...leave them with a simple explanation and they craft a mythology in your absence, substituting the real flesh that isn't there at the moment with words and ink and dreams and hopes and aspirations. Wonderful, simply incredible; it's horrific, because their Olo isn't the Olo that I am. I haven't done the things they think I've done because I can't. I couldn't have done it--I have none of Sherry's drive or Seth's strength or Jake's tenacity or Christian's intelligence...for the past week or so I've been the trashcan prawn, the call-prawn who sold their own flesh for empty promises. Not a "hero."

I...I want to hold them close and just tell them flat out, whisper it to them: Vishnu has made you too good for me, or I have made myself too low for you. Either way, it isn't as nice as you think it is. I'm not the hero you seem to think I am, and as much as I try I will never be. Don't you realise that? Don't you see that, you wonderful, amazing, enthusiastic fools? I love you two with all my heart, and yet that heart is breaking because I will never be good enough. You need--you deserve--someone with a heart of gold; mine is pewter and fired ceramic.

I don't speak the words; they claw up my throat but are beaten back until they retreat and tear at my stomach and lungs. I simply move on and walk through the base. It helps, somehow, to be in motion...like the air moving around me will carry away some of these thoughts. Sharklike--stop swimming and you die, you asphyxiate. Somewhere in the back of my head I visualise pipes and tarp, hear the faint echo of a telephone. Do I really deserve this life, or that one? Who made that decision?

No. That question no longer matters...whoever or whatever decided, decided. What I'd like to know is how they made that choice, and why. Vishnu has His reasons, and I've been content thus far to rest easy with that knowledge. But now, I'm not. Out of all those killed in the egg trade and d10--this entire crisis and war--I wasn't. Maybe I should have been, if that meant keeping the greater, kinder, more deserving ones alive. So many have died...the innocent, the oppressed. They died, but I haven't; a call=prawn hasn't died. It's almost laughable...such a rarity. But why? Why have I lived when the better ones haven't? Why?

Solicitation.

“Hey, prawn.”

That used to be an insult or a warning—when I heard that I would tense, look around and brace myself for danger, altercation. Now it isn’t; it’s a call, a request that’s closer to a demand but still tentative, still polite in the uncertainty of the outcome of this situation.

I could do two things in response to this; acquiesce and submit, or deny and flee. What I have to offer is too valuable, too sought after and rare in its deplorable quality, to risk being damaged…they wouldn’t shoot at me. There’s always the chance, though. They might, if they think that they’re getting blown off or stiffed. Destroy the thing that refuses to obey…that’s the reasoning behind D10 it seems. Grunts appear to think like that when they bring the cattle prods to touch our plating, when they stomp down with heavy boots and squash our flesh into the dust…

Out of fear alone—or is it more? Is this just the life drive, pressuring me to remain alive and aware, or am I seeking death, and becoming unaware? Does it even matter at this point?—I halt, turn around and plaster a masklike grin onto my face. This is my protection…I have no weapons or strength, but only deceit to defend myself with. You know nothing of what I’m thinking, human. You have no idea what I could be planning. I know what you want, but do you know what I want? No. You don’t, and you never will. I’ll sooner die then let you penetrate my brain along with the rest of me. “Yes?”

And then we’re grinding away at it, flesh roughly scraping against flesh for no reason other then the rand note. The rand note…it’s nothing but a slip of paper. Its worth is assumed…you can’t eat money, or drink it when you’re thirsty or use it as a coat when it gets cold. It’s a promise, a chance at getting the things you need; a chance, nothing more.

Is this why the other person enjoys it? Do they think that they’ve won something—they’re getting instant gratification while I must wait to receive mine? I have nothing to show for this, while they’ll walk away flushed, a smirk on their face, delighted and tingling. I have a scrap of printed paper for my troubles.

What the john thinks is immaterial. We’re both filling out our end of the deal, and we could care less what the other thinks. For something supposedly so intimate, sex is cold and detached. I’ll be gone soon enough—he won’t have to look at me again or worry about feeding, clothing, caring about me. If he wants, I’m just a walk down the street, a phone call away. Available, but not always there. All play, no work.

Maybe that’s what they want: detachment. They want it, but without the intimacy, or the work of caring about the thing you’re screwing. I’m not a living, thinking, feeling being to this man—the only part he’s interested in is the bit there between my legs. The rest of me could be rotting, ravaged, wet with decay and he wouldn’t care. He’d still keep grinding away, sending wave after wave of pain spasming up my spine, lengthening the splits in my plating with unconscious rocking motions. I could die and he wouldn’t care.

They want to get something for nothing. That will never happen, though—there’s no such thing as a free lunch, or free love. You have to work, or give something up, if you expect to receive something else in return. It’s a fallacy to even trust that you’ll get anything at all; things don’t turn out the way you want them to.

When the john is gone, I find a pen and scrawl his name on the rand note. He’d like to pay me off and let the world forget what’s happened here. I won’t…I will remember this. For as long as I have this blood money in my possession, I will look at it and remember where it came from and how it came to be mine. The rest of the world may forget—he may forget—but I will not. I cannot.

Erie Canal.

I've got a mule, her name is Sal,
Fifteen miles on the Erie Canal.
She's a good old worker and a good old pal.
Fifteen miles on the Erie Canal.

We've hauled some barges in our day
filled with lumber, coal and hay
And we know every inch of the way from
Albany to Buffalo.

Low bridge, everybody down
Low bridge, for we're coming to a town
And you'll always know your neighbor, you'll always know your pal
If you've ever navigated on the Erie Canal.

We better get along on our way ol'gal,
Fifteen miles on the Erie Canal.

'Cause you bet your life I'd never part with Sal,
Fifteen miles on the Erie Canal.
Git up there mule, here comes a lock,
We'll make Rome about 6 o'clock
One more trip and back we'll go, right back home to Buffalo.

I wish I could fully describe the feeling that throbs in the back of my head--pry open my torso, peel back the cracked plating and show you my heart. It's right there, that pewter little bit above the coiled loops of intestine and below the scorched dip of windpipe. Can't you see it--oh, it's gone? Forgive me; sometimes it does that. It disconnects from the center and travels to places elsewhere, crawling away from threats like some obscene jellyfish, some primordial thing crying lamely out for an escape from vague, dully sensed threats. You can try to grasp it and shove it back under the rock from whence it came, screw it back into place like a broken lightbulb, but it still wanders. A crusted, crumbling thing, not close to diamond or gold but more like metal, like copper conducting sparks of something great but never knowing it, never actually being it.

I must have left it behind at one of the trash piles. If that's the case then I don't need to worry; it'll turn up eventually and I'll get it back someday. Nobody's going to steal it...what good is a heart in D10? If there is an afterlife, if there is a hell, then this is the closest allegory to it that will ever slash at the face of this planet. Things happen every day that you could...couldn't even imagine. Values and morals take a backseat to the id, the ever-demanding id, and the life and death drives are shredded and clumsily melded together.

Better yet, it's with Jack and Jill, in America...I hope they're okay. I hope they understand why I can't talk to them, and that they know that I'm not abandoning them...I'd never abandon them. Every night, I can only imagine what they are doing, what they're learning and what they think about it. Jill, my little scientist: what have you analyzed? Have you figured out any answers to your questions, or have they only multiplied and formed into a theory, a hypothesis? Jack, my artist and poet: are you in touch with the tune of things, as you say? What have you made--has it made you?
My kids are growing up, day by day, and I'm not there...

The bust had begun so abruptly—a bang, swearing and sudden torrents of gunfire. I hadn’t expected it…I don’t think anyone really did. We’d charged into this blindly, like the cavalry on a battlefield, and only stopped to consider what could happen next when we realized that the enemy had bayonets…but this is a war. It’s a war, and we all knew it.

As the sounds of firefighting and pain rose all around, I looked around and began gathering the poleepkwa near me together. Many of us had hidden behind the crates, wincing and crying out when a child hissed and shrieked in pain. To think that even now, we were hiding behind the next generation to save ourselves…something shriveled up inside me as I looked out at the fighting.

The one next to me had been shot and blood leaked out from cracks in his plating—I tore off my jacket and pressed it to the wound, clumsily tying it with fear-benumbed fingers into a tourniquet. The cracks and scarring were visible on my torso as I turned to face the others around me. They blinked back at me, silent and petrified, waiting…waiting for something. Death perhaps, or freedom. Whichever came first, or was reached first. As terrified as I was, I laughed a bit, thinking morbidly of Braveheart. “They may take our lives, but they’ll never take our freedom.” We had to fight for both, or lose both. Right now, right here.

Too many had died…too many would still die even after this. There was no way I would let this continue, as long as I could do something.

“Come on! We’re getting the hell out of here!” I rasped and tugged the wounded one—Sirius, I think. I knew him, he’d tried to kill me when I was being rented—to his feet, pushing him towards the door, the night air, freedom. “Down low! Out the door to that truck!”

“Is this the police?” Betelgeuse looked up at me. “Where are we going?”
Too urgent to explain; I picked him up and bolted the distance to the truck. He was handed roughly off to one of the poleepkwa already there as I ran off inside. We all ran out, but I continued to double back—the sound of gunfire was like thunder, the muzzle-flashes like lightening. A storm, if there ever was one. Turbulent, vicious…

After aeons it was over…we were at the base. Jake was standing off on his own, a bandage clumsily wrapped around his leg. He turned away when I spoke to him, face pale. I knew why…I could say nothing. People filed past me—the ones who’d pledged to help ARFA. I couldn’t look at them. They’d stood by as we were killed, and I wanted…I didn’t want them dead. I just couldn’t talk to them. I was too tired to hate.

It was as if Vishnu Himself was with me right then; it was as if He’d put a hand on my shoulder and turned me so that I could see the light ahead. At the very edge of my hearing, I could hear His voice…”You’ve done well. Good job.” I let myself feel a warm glow of pride, just a bit, then quietly let it drift off into the night and began to cry.