◀ R A Z ▶
Name: Coraz Dominguez
Location: Zamboanga City
My massive boots hammer the puddled pavement, producing sparks of liquid. Zephyrus keeps on jabbing me with his icy darts as I slog through beneath his thunderclouds making sounds closely resembling that of a crotalum.
I'm searching for a place where I can watch a live interview of General Garvon Savillin. According to the rumors in school, he'll be offering a full scholarship—but limited to ten—for any Phyrivox whose age is in between twenty-one and twenty-five. I'm twenty-one, and I had celebrated my birthday last week. An official announcement about the scholarship will be aired tonight on Hajer Laurent's Show. I can't miss this.
The only nearby place where I can watch TV is Haver Resto. Its wide solitary front window is made of glass that stretches from floor to ceiling supported with heavily screwed bar metals painted into a rough wooden hue, mimicking the color of some bark of a tree. Neatly manicured sweet briar shrubs are lined up in front of the massive glass. I can hide in them and peek in through the window.
Luckily, the two guards are both busy entertaining a costumer in a hooded coat. So, I take the opportunity to run through the free pathway and duck behind the bush with my belly about to snap and my legs about to crunch.
I'll be sick.
Biggy George Ariel busted my gut and snatched my money behind the school. All because I barked at him to leave Nerdy Viktor away.
I place a hand on my battered belly, hoping for the pain to reside. My soaked-up uniform adds to the ordeals I'm facing. Its collar attempts to strangle me out of breath, just like the waterproof device from which my wrist is still adapting on its tight grip.
I loose up the collar of my shirt, finger hooked on the placket. Unaware that I have applied much force than I intended, its button tears off and flies out of sight. I hiss for unconsciously venting all my discomposures to it.
Maybe I'll look for it later.
I crane my neck a little, keeking from the bush and sweeping sight through the costumers served by waiters and waitresses. There's nothing much fashion to men donned in formal black and white suit. Women, however, are equipped with jewelries varying from gold to silver to the many precious gems that glint under the light of the chandeliers, marking their ranks in the society.
The only thing that's outlandish in their countenance is the WristLock each of them is wearing. Blue, orange, yellow....
My attention diverts when raindrops form a channel that slices through the bruised part of my left jaw. I clench my teeth, fighting back the pain that has shattered into a thousand fibers slithering through the nerve tunnels in my body. There's nothing I can do but to ignore it, fueling myself with the thought that a part of my goal is accomplished.
When the advertisement on the television ends, signalling the start of the awaited show, costumers abandon their buzz. Even them are interested of the scholarship offer. Their eyes glue on the screen.
Hajer Laurent appears on screen with the usual smile whenever he does his introductory speech.
"And now," Hajer says after a moment's intro. "Let us all welcome, the Head Master of National Oxblood Academy, General Garvon Savillin."
YOU ARE READING
Partition
Bilim KurguDAMAGED. That's what the society calls us, the prisoners, the ones who are feared and hated. We are parasites of our Intelligence Bodies, the carriers of the plague. At least, that's what the Majarlikan military forces said. Of course, it's a fabric...
