Chapter Text
He was a child in the Backstreet. Short stature, lanky torso, but armed with the untamed ferocity of an animal. He decked a much older boy in the jaw, and while he was stunned, smacked a wooden plank over his head. The older boy, who had thought he was picking on easy prey, ran out of the junkyard, clutching his wounded face and cussing.
Fifteen years old, Mason Durand discarded the wooden plank in a pile of junk. A fresh bruise on his right cheek was already swelling. He plucked a few splinters out of his hands before reaching down to pick up the spoils of his fight. It was a strange piece of metal unlike anything he had seen before. There were grooves and circuit patterns running along the spheroid, signs it had belonged to a much larger mechanism that had been taken apart and discarded here. He tossed it in a canvas sack full of other usable metals, hauled the sack over his shoulder, and headed out of the junkyard to Dad’s workshop.
The workshop was sandwiched between two retail stores further away from the junkyard. A bell gave a small ring as Mason opened the door inside. At the front counter, Dad was conversing with a grateful woman. Her left arm glinted under the light, a finely crafted prosthesis relative to the cheap materials that made it up.
“Please, Lambert, you’re asking for far too little! I can pay the full price.”
Dad waved his hand flippantly. “I’m not taking your heating budget for the next two months, Ms. Anders. It’s only October, and it’s going to get colder. This amount is all I need.”
She placed a thin stack of Ahn on the counter. “Well, if you insist. Thank you for your stellar service as always.” On her way out, she greeted Mason with a lopsided grin.
Lambert Durand once belonged to a prominent family of bioengineers in L Corp’s Nest. As the youngest child, he suffered constant belittling and overbearing pressure to succeed in the craft from his family members until one day, he scrounged up his savings and joined a charity initiative that offered free prosthesis services to Backstreets residents in need. This decision led him to find the love of his life. Currently, he ran a normal prosthesis workshop known for charging its customers at affordable prices in spite of Lambert’s high quality craftsmanship.
He approached Dad at the counter. As he was counting the money, he frowned, deepening the wrinkles imprinted on his forehead. “She still paid half of what I deducted from her.” He scratched the back of his head full of neatly-trimmed indigo hair.
“Then she only goes one month without heat,” Mason remarked, to which Dad scoffed. He walked around the front counter, past tables lined with tools and half-completed mechanisms, until he reached an empty table to lay out his spoils. It was Mason’s personal work bench.
“So, what’s today’s haul?” Dad asked. Mason lifted the sack off his shoulder. He turned it upside-down and haphazardly dumped its contents across the table: bolts, discarded contraptions, a broken blade, and the weird sphere of metal he found. Dad’s gaze immediately honed in on the sphere. He snatched it and held it up to his face. “Where did you find this?”
“In the junkyard. Why?”
He lowered the sphere, facing Mason. “This core utilizes J Corporation’s tech. Are you sure you didn’t see anything else?”
Mason carefully picked up the broken blade. It was metal he procured before his scuffle with the older teen. “I found this next to it.”
Dad brought his face closer to inspect it. “The edge is full of chips.” He returned to the core. “This piece of tech probably came from a broken Fixer weapon. The weapon itself was broken, hence why it was tossed out. See all the dents disrupting the circuitry? There’s usually armor protecting cores like these, but whoever last owned this must’ve gotten into a rough fight. Whatever’s powering the Singularity might still be active, though, so this could be reused. Just not for any purpose that suits us.” He handed the core to Mason. “Sell it off.”
“Okay.”
Mason went to the back of the workshop with the rest of his haul, unlocked the door to the storage room, and stowed his extra materials away. Instead of putting the core in a bin full of items to sell, he pocketed the core in his pants. After locking the storage room, he returned to his work table and brought out his current assignment carefully set off to the side—connecting the wires or “nerves” on a left forearm.
About half an hour later, the cuckoo clock in the lobby of the workshop sang, springing a little bird out of a window-shaped cubbyhole. The clock had been masterfully carved by an artisan who passed away several years ago. Everything from the delicate curvature of the green leaves to the uneven roof shingles covering the cozy cottage, which held the inner workings of the clock, had been sculpted out of wood by human hands. It was Dad’s most prized possession, which he proudly hung on display for customers to see.
At the table next to Mason’s, Dad took his gloves off. He began sweeping his station clean. “Time to go home.” Mason quickly cleaned up, and the two went outside to lock the shop.
Peach clouds drifted across the evening sky. Orange sunbeams casted long shadows behind shabby but sturdy buildings. Surrounded by other adults heading home, the two walked down the street in complete silence.
There wasn’t anything that needed to be said between father and son, not unless the former wanted to compliment the latter for a job well done, to which Mason would then grin shyly. However, this beguiled the disappointment Mason felt whenever a customer complained about a prosthesis he worked on, only for their complaint to magically disappear the moment Dad tweaked it for them. He doubted he was ever going to live up to his dad’s reputation, or his expectations. He was only reliable enough to collect scrap.
Moreover, the son’s gait was stiffer today, bogged down by the weight of the secret he was keeping in his pocket.
They reached a four-story apartment building and went inside. They ascended the staircase until they reached the third floor. At the end of a short hallway, they stopped so that Dad could search through all of his pockets until he found the one he had thoughtlessly stuffed his keys in.
Their apartment greeted them with an open space. The living room to the right was connected to the dining room on the left, which shared the same space as the kitchen. Beyond that was a narrow hallway that led to one bedroom for the children, one bedroom for the parents, and one bathroom.
Odelie was lounging her body across a couch when they came in. The twelve-year-old launched herself off the couch toward Mason, excitement sparkling in her eyes as she stuck a map of District 12 in his face. “I did it!”
“Did what?” Mason grumbled. Behind him, Dad hung his coat in the closet before walking around them.
“Mom lent me her map and said that if I could bring us back home, I’d get to keep it! And I did!”
“Good job for knowing basic directions.”
Odelie either missed his sarcasm or ignored it as she continued. “You should’ve seen Mom today! I finally got to see a Level 3 Duel!” She giggled. “That guy’s head went flying! There was so much blood, even Mom said it looked pretty!”
Dad turned to Mom, who was pouring out cups of water by the kitchen sink. Despite having washed her long locks, there was still a little cowlick sticking up on the back of her head. “Chantal, I thought you said you were going to do something about Odelie’s fixation on blood.”
With one hand holding a glass, Mom held a metallic palm up and shrugged. “I said it was a clean kill, guess that’s how she interpreted it. Well, I don’t think it’s a big issue as long as it’s not hurting anyone. I’m thinking about setting her up with our neighborhood watch when she turns sixteen. Oh, that reminds me. Apparently, Peter held his retirement party today. The old fart cashed out on all of his investments.” She rolled her eyes derisively, and Dad grimaced.
“Who’s Peter?” Mason asked as Mom downed half the cup of water in her hand. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve.
“You don’t remember Peter? I thought I talked about him before. He was my trainer when I first joined the Cinq. We used to get along, until he snitched on your dad’s parents while he was running away from home for that sweet reward money. I cut him off, we moved away, and I haven’t talked to him ever since. I only heard today that he’s retiring, and that he’s going to spend his time leading his neighborhood’s watch from now on. That guy’s also an information magnet, so he’ll probably hear about Odelie’s existence if she joins.”
Mom turned to the dinner table, where a brown paper bag had been set. Scowling, she rapped her metallic knuckles on the table. “Odelie, for the last time! I already come back from work exhausted, and I have to take a shower or your Dad complains about how much I stink. The least you could do is have the table set before I come out of the bathroom! I told you we’re having takeout tonight!”
“Ah, sorry!” Odelie rushed into the kitchen. On the tips of her toes, she reached for an overhead cabinet and took out four ceramic plates.
Chantal Durand was a Grade 2 Fixer in the Cinq Association’s South Section 2. She lost both of her arms in an accident after getting into the Fixer biz. However, she lucked out on her initial prosthesis manufacturer, who gave her functional arms at a somewhat affordable price, allowing her to recover and rise through the ranks. Such an incident never occurred again. Currently, her arms were high-grade prostheses from an engineer in the Nest which she acquired through a work visa, and were currently being maintained by Lambert.
With an angry huff, Mom ripped the paper bag open took out a plastic takeout box. The smooth surface nearly slipped out of her fingers, but her other hand flew out and caught it. “Fuck, that was close!”
Dad snapped his fingers and pointed at the glass jar full of coins in the living room. “Swear jar.”
Mom’s lip quirked. She found a coin in her pocket, set it on her mechanical thumb, and flicked it. The coin cleared the entire distance and landed in the jar with pinpoint accuracy, letting out a little clank as it landed on a pile of other coins. Pouting, she held her hands out at him. “Lambyyy, why didn’t you ask if my finger pads are fine instead? I think they’re getting smooth.”
As Dad went over to check Mom’s hands, Odelie groaned. Mom wasn’t going to set the table while Dad was inspecting her prostheses, so Mason joined everyone near the dining table and emptied the rest of the takeout bag.
“Hm, you’re right,” Dad mused, “the padding’s been worn down.” He gave Mom’s right shoulder a reassuring pat. “I’ll get that fixed next time you have a break.” However, his hand never left her shoulder. Mom gently lifted his hand and cupped it around her face.
Odelie was setting plates down when she saw what their parents were doing. She lowered the last one on the table mat before painfully elbowing Mason in between the ribs. He winced as she whispered, “Are they about to—”
Dad leaned in for a quick kiss on the lips. Odelie gagged, and Mason pursued his lips in disgust.
Mom giggled. She flipped a vibrant lock of crimson hair over her shoulder. “Kids, don’t be so rude.”
“Then don’t do it in front of me!” Odelie whined. “Kissing is gross!”
Mom turned around. “Oh, come on, Mason, do you—” She was disappointed to find him nodding in agreement with his sister. However, disappointment gave way to concern when she noticed the bruise on his cheek. “Mason, did you get into a fight today?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you win?”
“Of course I did,” Mason said.
“That’s my boy!” Mom went around the table and ruffled his hair, eliciting a sheepish grin from the teen.
“Alright, that’s enough,” Dad said. “Grab the silverware so we can eat. I’m starving.”
Five years passed.
Now a twenty-year-old man, angry and vindictive, Mason stormed the workshop during after hours and unlocked the door to the storage room. In complete darkness, he deftly flicked on the light switch, a practiced motion. The cheap light bulbs on the ceiling flickered, illuminating a cramped space lined with shelves brimming with the scrap he collected over the years.
“This will be the last time I visit this fucking place,” he spat, rummaging the shelves for spare parts and materials. “I’m not going to spend the rest of my life holed up in this fuckass shop!”
At the age of nine, he dropped out of school under the assumption that he would apprentice at Dad’s workshop until he inherited the business. His parents were obviously reluctant to let him drop out, but they relented after learning that his grades were falling behind because defending himself from an affluent bully had made him the target of gossip and ostracization. Dad tried his best to home school him while teaching him the craft. However, the life of a prosthesis engineer grew vapid as the years went by. Before long, he was insistent on changing paths again, this time to his mom’s line of work—the exciting life of a duelist-for-hire at the Cinq Association. A more exciting life away from his parents, so they would no longer have to watch over him...
He carried out a pile of materials in his arms and dumped them over his work station. He reached into his pocket and revealed the Wing technology core he had stowed away under his bed for five years, wrapped in an old rag and layers of dust. He set it down on the table before getting to work, assembling what would become his first and only weapon as a Fixer.
When he stormed off, Mom was convincing Dad that he should let their son try to be a Fixer. Mason knew what it was like, given the number of times he and Odelie followed her to work on their days off. Still, during the first night, he was so angry that he refused to come home until it was 2:45 in the morning, about half an hour before the Sweepers began their cleanup.
He marched back home. As he approached the apartment building, expecting his parents to be asleep, he received the scare of his life when the door slammed open, and Mom stormed out in uniform, rapier gripped in her left hand. Tonight, she was not just a mother, but a soldier prepared to fight the world.
Dad was running out the building behind her. “Chantal, wait, at least one of us needs to stay behind—”
“It doesn’t matter! If we don’t find him until Night in the Backstreets—”
She stopped when she saw him. The full force of her determined, protective wrath crashed down on him like a wave. Mason, who had felt so bold a moment prior, withered under her gaze.
“Do you have any idea how worried we were?” she demanded. “I told you what happened to your grandma, and even if the Sweepers don't get you, do you know how many Rats could’ve been waiting for a hapless victim to come by? Don’t ever leave like that again.”
Mason nodded fearfully. Suddenly, her harshness gave way to warmth as she embraced him.
It would never happen again.
For the next few days, he toiled on his weapon. Despite working in plain view of his Dad, he managed to keep the core a secret. When he finally finished his masterpiece, he brought it to the junkyard for testing. A hammer sat on the end of a retractable staff. The weapon could extend to the length of a polearm or shorten to an actual hammer. He had hidden the core within the hammer’s head, something he thought himself very clever for doing. The weapon didn’t break when he smashed it through several wooden planks. He considered it a success.
He passed the Fixer test, got his license, and joined an Office recommended by Mom. His first job went awry. Mason argued with his boss that he couldn’t be blamed for hammering those Rats into unrecognizable hunks of flesh. Firstly, he hadn’t expected to kill them so easily—J Corp’s technology was capable of “locking” anything on a conceptual level, and though the core in his weapon was half-functional, it was still capable of weakening muscles with a touch of his hammer, even though the original core could’ve completely locked them in place. Secondly, he was too terrified fending for his life to remember the objective. Mason’s insults broke the final straw, and he was promptly blacklisted from every Office in the area. Not even Mom’s influence could save him from that.
When she heard the news, the disappointment in her dull red eyes was clear as day. She wasn’t mad at him for defending himself, no, she was disappointed that he couldn’t control himself. That he failed to swallow his pride and admit that he did not complete his mission in a satisfactory manner. That his career as a Fixer ended as soon as it began.
Rather than returning to the prosthesis workshop, he was too ashamed of his failures to face his Dad. He spent the next two years in limbo collecting scrap and returning to the workshop to help out with minor tasks, but not quite committing. The part-time jobs he took on didn’t stick. The longer this stasis went on, the more helpless he felt. When had his life fallen into such a rut? Were it not for the unconditional support of his parents, he would be Sweeper food by now.
Meanwhile, Odelie never quit going to school. She had started volunteering for their neighborhood watch. He recalled a time when their parents praised her for chasing away a duo of Rats. Of course she did it right, and not him. In the past, Odelie prattled to him about how much she wanted to be a Fixer like Mom, she actually had a chance at having a successful career. If he didn’t exist, his parents could actually focus on her instead of worrying about him all the time.
He wanted to disappear, yet he wanted to live. He wanted to admit he was wrong and fall in line to a career that would let him survive, yet he still yearned for self-fulfillment. Two years of letting regret fester inside of him culminated in the single worst decision he believed he had ever made in his life.
At 22, Mason was walking home early from Dad’s workshop. After crafting his weapon, he started a habit of carrying it slung over his shoulder on a leather strap whenever he walked alone. He thought it did a good job at warding away threats, except this time, when he got tackled into an alleyway. He landed on his right side, scraping his elbow on concrete, but he ignored the pain as he scrambled upright.
The narrow buildings of the alley framed his assaulter at the entrance. The man wore a dirty hoodie and some cargo pants. There was something off about his gait, the way his arms swung from side to side before he lurched forward. As Mason sidestepped a rather slow hook, he noticed the beer bottle in the man’s other hand.
The man stumbled ahead of Mason. He let out a frustrated groan. He smashed his bottle against the wall and held the broken end and all of its jagged edges at Mason. “You! Shut up and gimme all your money before I kill you!”
“I didn’t even say—”
“I said shut up!”
The man thrust his broken bottle. Mason backpedaled out of his reach. He could easily run away now if he wanted to, but part of him felt indignant. Was Mason really so depressing to look at that a ragged drunkard chose him to mug? So hapless that a Rat chose him to be his next victim? So doleful, so pathetic, so worthless, that the world thought it could erase him using this buffoon?
Instead of wondering whether he should flee, he wanted to ask himself a different question: why should he flee from an imbecile?
Red filled his vision. It coated the floor, painted the walls, tinged the very air he breathed; it stood to reason that the enemy in front of him be painted red, too. He shrugged the hammer off his shoulder. In its shortened form, he palmed it in his left hand, widening his stance. He waited for the drunkard to attack. And when his opponent swung, Mason lashed back.
His hammer connected with the drunkard’s ear. He recoiled off the wall with a loud grunt. Massaging his temple, he looked around in a daze. “Fucking hell, that hurts." He glanced at Mason, and his eyes widened in fear. "H-hey, wait, I don't know what I did to you, but can you put down the hammer? My memory's a bit hazy—”
There was a deafening sound as Mason’s hammer cracked the man’s skull clean open.
He collapsed in a heap. Brain fluid pooled over the concrete floor. Mason’s chest heaved. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.
He just killed someone. And not for a job.
It wasn’t even close to sunset yet. Could he even leave the body here? What if someone came looking for him? Then again, surely, no one was going to come for this emaciated alcoholic—
“Ralph?”
Mason’s heart leaped into his throat. A voice was calling out from the other end of the alleyway. “I swear the bar was around here. Dude, where are you?”
Run. He had to run. Before Mason could flee the scene, however, a head poked around the corner.
“Ralph? What...” A young man who looked remarkably like the drunkard Mason had killed widened his eyes.
Shit.
Mason bolted. He ignored the newcomer’s cries to get his ass back here and ran. He ran through the streets, in and out of twisting alleyways in an effort to lose the threat. When he had looked over his shoulder enough times to convince himself that he wasn’t being followed, he walked the rest of the way home.
Murder happened in the Backstreets all the time. He had nothing to worry about, Mason told himself. This wasn’t a problem. Nothing was going to come from this. Still, he made sure to confess to his parents what he had done that day before heading to bed.
A Syndicate 250-members strong showed up on their street a few nights later, demanding an individual by the name of Mason Durand. The leader of the gang new exactly who they were there for.
Mason stood in front of the door leading out of the apartment, pale and afraid. His hand trembled over the doorknob. He was done contemplating, and was mustering the courage to walk outside and throw himself at the feet of Ralph’s brother, begging for them to take him if it meant sparing his family.
Meanwhile, his parents disappeared into their bedroom. They reemerged in full gear, Mom in her Fixer uniform, and Dad carrying a bulky suitcase which he had never seen before. Mom told both Mason and Odelie to come outside with them. Mason would be fine, Mom reassured him with a brave smile. Trusting their parents, the children followed them outside and into the sea of hunters that awaited on the streets.
The mob had formed a small clearing outside the apartment building. Before the Syndicate leader could say anything, Dad dropped his suitcase on the ground. It sprang open with a contraption that unveiled a pair of metal gauntlets. He slipped the gauntlets over his hands with practiced ease before punching them together. Electricity crackled as flickering branches of blue light coiled around them. “You folks are about to learn first hand why I got into so much trouble with the Tres Association over a weapon for self-defense.”
Meanwhile, Mom drew her rapier at the leader. “Kids, we’ll clear a way for you. When we do, run as far as you can.”
Grinding his teeth together, the leader raised an eyebrow. “Really? What do two old geezers think they can—!”
Like a silver arrow, her rapier skewered the leader’s neck. She growled to his choking face, “You won’t lay a finger on my son,” before slicing his neck wide open, showering the street in blood.
His right-hand man screamed at everyone to attack. Two waves of bodies converged on the family coming from either side of the street. A whirlwind of silver sword strokes held back the wave to the left, metal flashing under the moonlight, and high-powered discharges of blue lightning blew back the wave to the right. With their combined forces, the parents had cleared a path for their children to the empty alleyway straight ahead.
Mason took Odelie’s hand and ran into the alleyway. Among the Syndicate members who tried to sound the alarm at their escape, the sounds of flesh being torn asunder and electricity discharging silenced their cries. They dashed through the winding, narrow paths, towering walls of darkness surrounding them at every turn. Moonlight bounced off of bricks and pipes, providing the only source of illumination for Mason to navigate by. If he wasn’t so familiar with the alleyways of their hometown, they would have gotten lost a long time ago.
When the chorus of violence began to grow faint, Mason heard sniffling. He slowed to a stop and turned around, his heart skipping a beat as Odelie’s hand let go of his. He saw her faint outline move as she wiped her face. Sniffs turned into sobs.
Gently, he put his arms around her. “Odelie, they’re going to be fine.”
Odelie rested her chin over his shoulder. “H-how do you know? There’s so many bad guys, a-and just two of them!”
“I believe in them. I know they’ll win.” He hugged Odelie tighter, and she buried her face in his shoulder. After she finished gathering her bearings, they hid in a dark corner of the alleyways behind a dumpster.
A naive child would believe their parents knew all the answers in the world. In the same way, Mason truly believed his parents would win. His mom was invincible, and his dad was intelligent. They would fight their way out of the mess that his utter foolishness put them in. If anything went wrong, he trusted they could get away. Then, they could return home as a family before Night in the Backstreets began. That future was what he believed in with all his heart because the alternative would be too much to bear.
A heart-wrenching scream pierced the night. The siblings darted out of their hiding place. Without communicating, Odelie took Mason’s hand, and the two raced back home.
That voice sounded like Mom’s.
By the time they got back, they were watching the remaining Syndicate members flood their apartment building. It was a party of about twenty, a mere fraction of the force they arrived with, the rest of which littered either side of the street like a blanket of corpses. Nonetheless, they were the victors.
Dad’s remains were strung up on a line of razor wire near the entrance to the building. Blood trickled down his swaying arms and legs, each one hacked off his torso with a saw. His decapitated head hung upside-down in front of his chest. Razor wire had been threaded into his throat and out of his bloodstained mouth. Glassy eyes were rolling into his head.
Mom was lying on her back. She had a perfect view of Dad where she laid. Her prosthetic arms had been crushed open, scuffed by dents, scratches, and shoe prints. Exposed wires released sparks. Her legs were in no better shape; knees and ankles bent at unnatural angles.
Mason thought she was dead until she coughed. He rushed over to her without the slightest care that the Syndicate members might return at any moment.
She barely managed to turn her head his way. “Mason, get out of here,” she croaked. Another cough sent a fresh stream of blood dribbling down the side of her face.
“No, no! We can—we can still get you out of here.” Mason hooked his hands under her armpits. When he tried to drag Mom to the alleyway, she let out a weak groan, face twisted in agony. Mason stopped, horrified. “Odelie, help me—”
His sister was approaching Dad’s remains. Lip quivering, she reached out to touch his hand and withdrew her bloody fingers to her face. She studied their scarlet sheen, then looked at Dad’s face. She cried.
Mason felt Mom’s head tap against his thigh. “Mason, listen to me carefully. Put me down. Look to your right.”
He set her down before looking to his right. There were shadowy figures in the distance. Many silhouettes gave off a sharp red light where their eyes should be, accompanied by the distant sounds of clanking canisters and garbled voices. Those figures were getting closer, attracted by the sweet aroma of fresh food.
Mom continued. “They took my sword, but my parrying dagger should be somewhere around here still. Please, find it for me.”
It didn’t take long for Mason to find the elegant blade glinting under the streetlights. He supposed his mom wanted to arm them with as many weapons as they could carry, but that was less urgent than the wave of Sweepers heading toward them. “I found it, what now?”
“Mason, do you remember what happened to your grandma?”
Mom had told this story a few times before. While hiding, she watched the Sweepers consume Grandma’s body while she lived. It was a slow and agonizing death. “Yes, why?”
“You need to leave me if you want to live, but...I don’t want to die to them.” Tears beaded around her eyes. “Do me one final favor. Please, kill me. Before they do.”
He couldn’t remember protesting. They definitely argued, but as the Sweepers were closing in, he realized this was his only option unless he wanted his mom to suffer. He remembered raising the dagger, face covered in tears and snot as he focused on the place above her heart. This was his fault. This was his sentence for being a failure of a son.
“Mason, I love you so much.”
He plunged the dagger into her chest.
After watching the life fade from her beautiful eyes, he released a shuddering sob. His chest ached as if he had driven the dagger into his own. And maybe, he should. Because if he hadn’t existed, if he hadn’t been so stubborn, if he had been a good boy who put up with his discomfort and misery, and did what he was told without complaining, he wouldn’t have had to kill his mother while his father watched with razors running through his throat. Every fear he had, every little worry and grand anxiety he had about his life’s direction had been confirmed by his own two bloodstained hands.
If Mason Durand’s existence equates to tragedy, he should have never been born.
He placed the dagger against his throat. His Adam’s apple bobbed, but he was prepared to cut through it. His gaze turned to the night sky, hoping the stars would comfort him in his final moments.
And then, someone slapped the dagger out of his hand.
A pair of hands roughly grabbed him by the collar and pulled him up. He met Odelie’s garnet eyes, so similar in passion to their mother’s, heated in anger against him.
“Are you stupid? Mom and Dad, they died for you, and you're about to kill yourself? Everything they did tonight would’ve been in vain if I hadn’t stopped you in time!”
“Let me go,” Mason wailed. “This is all my fault. I should’ve paid the price.”
Odelie was screaming into his ear. “They paid the price so that you wouldn’t have to! They died to give you a second chance at life! Does that mean nothing to you? Go kill yourself then, show me how much you don’t care about them!”
Up above, a window to their apartment opened. Some of the Syndicate members that had been raiding their home pointed down at them and began shouting. At the same time, heavy footsteps and unintelligible language were closing in on them.
Odelie let go of him. She put on a brave face, betrayed by her stiff shoulders and wide eyes at the encroaching Sweepers. “We—we gotta go.”
Mason wiped his mouth on his sleeve before grabbing her hand once more. At the very least, he needed to set his feelings aside for now. He had a sister to take care of. “I know a place where we can hide.”
A few years ago, Mason found a rusted car frame hidden underneath a large mound of trash. Seeing as the structure was surprisingly stable, he made it his little abode for when he wanted to slack off from his apprentice work. He furnished the interior by removing what remained of the car seats and layering the floor in moth-eaten rugs. It barely had enough room for two adults to lie down in, something Mason never thought would happen when he brought Odelie inside his abode.
Through a tiny sliver in the frame, Mason watched the Sweepers pass through the junkyard. They were never found. Once he was sure Night in the Backstreets had ended, he tried to catch some sleep, only to be jolted awake from his half-asleep state by an excited holler.
He peeked through the crack again and saw something orange flickering in the distance. A fire, surrounded by a standing crowd of Syndicate members. He recognized many things such as their family’s dining mats, their old pillows, and Dad’s books being thrown into the blaze. They violated Mom’s violin by dumping it out of its case, breaking the delicate bridge that held the strings up. He had to clamp his hand over its mouth as they fed it to the flames. The ravenous inferno devoured her precious instrument until there was nothing left.
The morning after the Syndicate departed, Mason and Odelie returned to their apartment to salvage what was left. They passed by Dad’s workshop on the way their, and Mason was grateful he hadn’t listened to Odelie’s insisting upon staying there last night. The workshop had also been looted. Dad’s beloved cuckoo clock laid on the floor in pieces, the bird smashed and its cogs exposed.
The heartache struck Mason in full force when he entered their apartment. In the kitchen, empty drawers laid next to toppled chairs they once dined on. In the living room, the swear jar had been reduced to glass shards on the floor, leaving behind a few coins that the thugs hadn’t bothered to pick up. The sofa they used to lounge on had been upturned, and the carpet they used to play fight on had been rolled up against the wall, carelessly swept aside.
The siblings’ bedroom was in a similarly disheveled shape. Their blankets and pillows were missing entirely, and their mattresses had been overturned. To Mason’s surprise, Odelie reached under her bed frame and lifted a loose wooden plank, revealing the sparkly pink diary that Dad got for her 19th birthday a few months ago. There was a wrinkly map of the district sticking out between its pages, the same map Mom must’ve given her years ago.
They found a pen for her to write with in their parents’ bedroom, also desecrated. While Mason went into their ruined bathroom to use the toilet and cry, Odelie began documenting the events from last night on a new page. When he reemerged, Odelie made a humorous remark about his puffy eyes. He broke down again, spilling that he was going to do everything in his power to rebuild their lives. She hugged him, and then they were both crying.
“From now on, we’ll stick together,” he gasped in between sobs. Odelie mumbled in agreement, tightly grasping the back of his jacket.
After salvaging all they could, which wasn’t much, they went back to the junkyard. The next two weeks were spent scavenging for food, things to sell, and searching for job postings while hiding from the Syndicate—apparently, they were hunting for the siblings after discovering they were still alive. Their stakeout in front of their apartment and Dad’s workshop meant Mason’s hideout was the only safe place left.
At the start of their third week of living off of scraps, Mason went back to their apartment building. He was rummaging the dumpster for half-eaten food or useful tools when his hand brushed an unsealed envelope. Curious, he plucked it out of the trash.
His eyes widened at the sender’s name. Blood rushed through his ears.
It was a letter from their district’s new Wing Lobotomy Corporation, the recipient being none other than Mason.
He scanned the dumpster’s alleyway for any boogeymen that might be lurking in the shadows. When he was sure he was alone, he opened the letter and scanned its contents. His heart skipped a beat—the Wing was offering him a job? Him? The failure who got his family killed? He was still convinced the letter was fake until it reminded him to bring the Nest work visa that had been included with the letter.
He checked the envelope again. Sure enough, a bonafide work visa card sat within the paper enclosure. He flipped the letter over and found a small map guiding him to the location they would meet him at if he accepted the job. It was a fairly straightforward path that went through only main roads, ensuring the traveler maximum safety.
He couldn’t wait to tell Odelie the good news.
Odelie did not take this news very well.
“You’re going to leave me in this dump?” she accused. “What about our promise? How can you even trust this piece of paper? For fuck’s sake, it says you’re supposed to leave for the job tomorrow!”
“Can you tell me of any place in the Backstreets that uses paper as fancy as this? Besides, this is a genuine work visa! They don’t just give those out!”
They went back and forth, voices rebounding off the cramped confines of Mason’s makeshift abode. Odelie released a cry of frustration before leaving the hiding place, diary and pen in hand. “This is all your fault, and now you’re going to leave me alone! All your fault!”
Her words stung his chest. Yes, it was all his fault, that was why he wanted to accept this job. It was a position at Lobotomy Corporation’s main branch, and his salary was lucrative. Accepting this job was going to be his way of paying back for getting their parents killed, a method of redemption by stepping up and becoming a breadwinner. The contract would only last for two months, so why was Odelie hung up on him being gone for such a short amount of time? Especially when he was accepting this job for her own good.
Through the crack in the frame, he watched Odelie rip a few sheets out of her diary, roll them up into a paper ball, and chuck them away. She sat down and began scrawling a new entry in her diary.
That night, he went to sleep early. At dawn, he roused an hour before Odelie was due to wake up. He flipped to the last entry in her diary, winced at her word choice toward him, and noticed the pages about the night their parents died had been ripped about. He tore a little scrap of paper from an empty page on her diary and wrote a note in it saying he was leaving his Fixer weapon behind for her to defend herself with, and that he was accepting the job offer because he loved her more than anything in the world.
He left the hideout without making a sound. He found a sturdy baseball bat amidst the trash to use defend himself with, clipped it to the belt around his waist, and then set off on his journey. In their letter, the Wing had given him an address rendezvous at. They were going to send a company car that would take him through the Nest checkpoint. This meeting location was two hours away from his neighborhood.
So for two hours, he walked. By the time he reached the address, the company car was due to arrive in ten minutes. He waited idly, contemplating how he might start his journey at a Wing.
Five minutes later, he heard running footsteps approaching him. He turned to his left, and he rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. Indeed, it was none other than Odelie who was heading toward him. Sweat plastered her bangs to her forehead. She was still carrying her diary in a white-knuckled grip, Mom's map poking out of it.
Mason stuttered. “Wha—Odelie, how did you find me?”
She doubled over in front of him, gasping for air. “Mason! You—you could’ve—at least said goodbye! To my face! Asshole!”
He cringed, pulling his eyes away from her fierce glare. “I-I was afraid you were going to be mad. And where’s the hammer I left you?”
“Of course I’m mad!” She exhaled a huge sigh. “But...I get it. You’re doing this for our good, right? I-I’ll do my best to live on my own until you get back.” She gulped and held up her diary. “But that may mean looking for work outside of our neighborhood. And the hammer—do you have any idea how heavy that thing is? I wasn’t going to catch up to you if I was lugging it with me!”
He nodded. Fair enough. He pointed at her diary. “What about that thing your wrote about studying at an examinee town?”
She scoffed. “Oh, so you did read about a lady's private affairs, you no-good skank!”
Mason rolled his eyes. “It was just the last entry, nothing more.”
“Yeah, yeah, excuses.” She smiled. “Well, I may be stupid, but I’m smart enough to know I wouldn’t stand a chance at an examinee town. That’s why I’ll wait for you to come back, and then we can figure out things from there.” Anxiety caused her face to fall. “You will come back, right? You remember what Dad said about what jobs at a Wing are like.”
Mason remembered hearing all about the rumors of working as a feather from him, but it wasn’t like he had a choice right now. He waved his hand nonchalantly. “Honestly, how bad could it be? It can’t be any worse than the average gig in the Backstreets.” When he noticed Odelie was fidgeting with the cover of her diary, his face softened. “Odelie, you’re the only person I have left. No matter what it takes, I promise I’ll come back for you, even if it’s the last thing I do.”
Finally, Odelie’s shoulders relaxed. She closed the distance between them in a single lunge and wrapped her arms around him. “I’ll miss you.”
He held the back of her head, combing his fingers through her hair. “Me too. I love you.”
“I lo—”
A gasped. Odelie shoved him away. As he fell on the ground, he watched her pivot, trying to dodge the swing of a hammer that would’ve originally gone through his head. It wasn’t just any hammer, but the Fixer weapon that Mason made.
Odelie wasn’t fast enough. It struck the back of her head.
She collapsed.
Then, the Syndicate member turned. He pointed the hammer at Mason on the ground, spittle flying as he yelled, “That’s for killing our leader!”
Mason was hyperventilating. His heart beating fast, ready to explode. “I-I-I thought I was your target. What—what did you…”
"Found your sister leaving your little hideout this morning," the thug spat. He hefted the hammer in his grip. "Pretty shitty, but at least it came with a free gift."
His eyes flitted back and forth between the two bodies. Odelie on the ground, blood leaking out of her head. The thug who had been stalking his sister. Was Odelie alright? Did he allow his last remaining family member to die? Was it his fault again? Was it his fault? Was it his fault?
And then, horror gave way to rage. Mason unclipped the baseball bat at his waist. He deftly held it with his two hands, face distorted into a ferocious snarl. “How dare you.”
The next few seconds were a blur. All he remembered was seeing red, and then the thug’s brain matter was smearing the pavement. The next thing he knew, he was dragging the body into a secluded alleyway, ignoring any passing onlookers who had been observing the skirmish. He was pocketing the man’s wallet when he heard a loud horn that made him jump.
He ran out of the alleyway with bloody hands to find a sleek, white vehicle waiting for him. Such a rare beauty attracted more looks than the everyday violence like that which occurred between Mason and the thug. A woman got out of the driver’s seat donning an equally clean lab coat. She eyed his filthy clothes and asked, “Are you Mason Durand?”
“Y-yes!” He glanced at Odelie’s body lying haphazardly on the road. “Can I—”
“Show me your visa, please.”
Begrudgingly, he handed her his visa. When she had verified she was speaking to the right man, she went around to the other side of the car and opened the backseat door. “We are pleased to invite you into the ranks of our Wing, Mister Durand.”
“Wait, please. Can you give me a few minutes to take care of something?”
“We are on a tight schedule. You must depart immediately.”
“Please! Just five minutes!” Mason begged.
Her lip quirked. After some consideration, she said, “Very well. After five minutes, I am leaving with or without you.”
“Thank you.” With no time to waste, he rushed to Odelie’s side. He flipped her on her back and held his finger under her nose. Her breath tickled it. He heaved a sigh of relief before scooping her into his arms, along with her diary, and booking it down the street. He saw the plaque for a neighborhood watch’s headquarters when he was approaching the meeting location earlier. Where was it now? His head swiveled left and right until a familiar glint caught the corner of his eye.
There it was, the bronze plaque labeling this man’s house as a neighborhood watch headquarters. The man was named Peter. He didn’t know if this was the same Peter his mom used to talk about. If it was, did he still care enough about Chantal to look after her daughter? Regardless, a neighborhood watch was the only place he could trust Odelie in the hands of. He gently lowered her on the doorstep and stuffed the wallet he had stolen into her pocket. He frantically knocked on the door before making a mad dash back to the company car.
The woman was already in the driver’s seat when he threw himself into the back. She looked in the rear view mirror, clicking her tongue. “That was five minutes and thirty seconds.”
“Thank you, thank you,” Mason repeated under his breath. He reclined his back against the luxurious leather seat as she started up the car. He felt a rush of excitement as the engine thrummed to life under him, but it was quickly overshadowed by a heavy guilt constricting his chest. Leaning on the headrest, he gazed up at the car’s ceiling, wondering and hoping he hadn’t made yet another mistake, and that Odelie would be alright.
