Edge Of Realities - Operation R

Chapter 1: The Wasteland's Son

The acrid stench of decay hung heavy in the air, serving to remind us about the world's slow death. C#9323199, known simply as "Nines" to the few who bothered to acknowledge his existence, hunched his shoulders against the biting wind that whipped through the dilapidated structures of Hope City's outskirts. Each step was a struggle, for his body is always weakened by the pain that marked him as lesser than the average, both figuratively and literally.

Nines paused his ever-tortuous walk, breathing in short, ragged gasps as always, but this time more than usually, for he was now in the middle of a more civilized zone, running away from every day's torture. He leaned against a rusted metal wall with a surface warm from the relentless sun that beat down on the wasteland that was ironically part of the last remnant of human civilization. His eyes, always careful despite his physical frailty, scanned the horizon. In the distance, the gleaming spires of Hope's Capital mockingly pierced the smog-filled sky, a beautiful sight to be honest. Not having that much time to gather his thoughts, a flicker of movement caught his attention. Nines' muscles tensed, ready to flee despite the protest of his aching bones. A group of figures emerged from behind a pile of rubble, their faces twisted into cruel sneers. He recognized them immediately – A gang of enslavers, the self-proclaimed rulers of the particular slice of hell that was the outer sector, from where Nines was fleeing after a small slave's revolt happened.

"Well, well," The leader's gravelly voice carried across. "If it isn't one of our little freaks. Where do you think you are going? Have you forgotten our tribute, property?"

Nines' hand instinctively went to his pocket, fingering the meager rations he'd managed to scrounge on a nearby junkyard where he was forced to work in, in company of other unlucky individuals. What he could gather wasn't much, but it was all he had. His stomach growled in protest at the thought of giving it up.

"I... I don't have anything," 

Nines lied, nervously, knowing that this little attempt at avoiding confrontation wouldn't work. He was right after all.

An enslaver from the group narrowed her eyes. 

"Wrong answer, boy. We've been through this already, many times.... this is the last time you will ever try to escape your fate; your skull shall serve as an example for the rest of you maggots!"

What followed was mere pain and fear. Nines tried to run, but his weakened body betrayed him. Fists, feet and mace blows rained down upon him, each impact centered on taking every inch of life out of him. He curled into a ball, protecting his head as best he could, praying for it to end. 

And then, suddenly, it did...when a barrage of shots broke the painful silence.

"Stop right there!" 

A woman's voice, firm and authoritative, cut through the haze of pain. Nines dared to look up. A figure stood some meters afar, wearing a dirty but still recognizable white coat with a cross on the shoulder. The enslavers hesitated to fight back, as they did not bring anything to return fire, clearly weighing their options, after all, it always ends bad when you bring melee against a ranged fighter.

"This ain't your business, doc... we are just victims of the system, you know...looking for a way to make a living" 

One of them spat, but there was a note of uncertainty in his voice, after all it was some people with maces against a crazy woman with a presumably good amount of buckshot. Said woman – a doctor, Nines realized – stood her ground. 

"I'm making it my business then. Leave right now if you don't want to become my next didactical material for anatomy."

Perhaps it was her tone, or maybe the glint of her rusty makeshift weapon, resembling a shotgun made out of some scrap attached to a tool, but the gang slunk away, leaving Nines alone with his unlikely savior.