We're Called Halfies

Are You Going My Way?

*Deliciously Edited*

As I fall from the top of the hotel, my mind goes blank. My body takes over, going through the motions of preparing to land on the ground. I don’t even have to think about it. This is what my body is used to. A kind of fun that I used to enjoy.

Falling used to be fun.

Humans used to have Dropping competitions, where kids and teens would find the tallest building they could and try and jump from the top to the bottom across buildings all through the Cities. Most kids would break bones, tear ligaments and shatter cartilage but the thrill was in the injury. Because of the ease of curing such injuries, in their society, the kids are daring, testing the limits of their hospital’s capacity to heal. But they always heal the wounds, no matter the severity. Broken bones can be cured in an instant here.

But I’m going off track.

I used to go into these competitions, winning and going harder and faster each and every time I entered one. Pretty soon, I was crowned the most Daring of the Droppers. That was, I was the the most Daring of the Droppers until the organisers realised I was a Halfie, blessed (or cursed, depending on your DNA purity persuasion) with extraordinary senses of balance, agility, speed, strength, brains, gifts over matter ... whatever your Halfie component was, you were genetically programmed to pick it up and excel in that field. So I was kicked out of the Drops for the unfair advantage I had, with a threat of having the Protectors set on me if I didn’t leave. But the years of falling, dropping and tumbling has left me with muscle memory that will probably stay with me for fifty lifetimes.

When I near the ground, my eyes snap open and I do a somersault for fun as I land crouched on the ground. My combat boots are thick soled, not for comfort, but durability. These suckers have to last me for another six months before the Protector’s Academy gets its bulk military grade combat-approved boots. So until those Protector assholes get their boots, these less than legal boots need to last.  

I straighten from my crouch, pulling my hood over my head and grab my satchel as I walk out of the back of the hotel to the main drag. The streets are usually patrolled by DNA snatchers and Protectors, so walking the back streets is...well...ill-advised for Halfies. But I’m game enough to try my luck today.

Walking passed the shops is my favourite pastime. The shops seem almost like a gateway to another life....a life I could’ve had if I hadn’t been created with this animal gene. The mannequins look happy and the clothes they wear are gorgeous. Satin, silk, lace. Materials I want to wear, but know are to flimsy to support my lifestyle. Satin’s Silkhouse, The Lace Bodice Boutique. Places and shops I want to visit, however, my fear of rejection and instant death outweigh my desire to try on these clothes. To taste this exotic lifestyle of elegance and freedom are dreams that I hold on a high pedestal. It’s a little superficial, but hey, I’m a fugitive. Let me want fashion and freedom if I want.                  

“Excuse me!”

Startled, I look to the left at this old lady who is trying to pass me. She sounds exactly a hundred years old and looks about as friendly as a Goat Halfie with looks to match. She’s waiting expectantly at me to move out of her way so that she can pass to...I don’t know; her weekly gossip session or gambling match. I step out of her way, moving to the left of her so she can go on her (not so) merry way. What a Bitch.

As I step to her left, my sly hand reaches into her bag and pulls out a money purse, heavy with what I expect to be gold and silver pieces from her gambling matches and her sheer determine to outlive her (most definitely) long suffering relatives. The wallet goes swiftly into the pocket of my jacket and I turn away, walking swiftly in the opposite direction of the crabby old lady. I successfully make it to the end of the street when I hear a shrill shriek.

“Protectors! Protectors! That bitch stole my purse! That bitch is a Halfie!”   

I swear softly, “Just my bloody luck”  

I draw on my ANA for this run. These stupid Protectors won’t give up until that stupid old cow has her money back, meaning I’m being chased by the authority once again.

Could something today just for once go my way?

I swear to god they can all go to hell when I’m done running from them.