Primal Gambit

Chapter 1: The Raid

In the dregs of fallen humanity, on the outskirts of a massive metal metropolis that saw itself a hub of technological marvel and progression, the outlaws reveled. One forgotten borough by the name of Clearway lied at the very heart of anti-progress. The epitome of how man had come to abuse the dwindling resources that remained, Clearway was the most notorious haven of decay and criminal activity. What was once a resolute borough built to house the industrial laborers commuting to and from The Dark City each day had become the wretched bottom of society. It was there in the pits that Marcotte would annually commit "raids" – plucking the spoiled and corrupt incongruences and relocating them permanently. Oftentimes under the radar, these hunting parties' actively targeted individuals that could no longer function as a working cog in the country war machine.

A man lay tattered across papers and dust and splintering floorboards that poorly muted the goings on above and beneath him. The silver spoon his starved hands grasped clinked the nearly empty can of moist beans as his meal came to an end. Lifting from the orifice the final spoonful of soupy gruel, his hands shook as he brought the utensil to his bearded mouth – dropping precious bits in the process. His tongue smacked the roof of his mouth as he fought the sour, unwelcome taste. His eyes winced as he choked down the last of the mush before dropping the can to the floor. With a wipe of his tattered shirt sleeve he cleaned off his face.

He looked at the other users in the den, all lying face-up – their eyes bulging, pupils dilated. Their heads calmly swayed from side to side as if they had spent a lifetime on the sea and were just now getting readjusted to still life. The room was filled with dense smoke; what little light there was came from neon signs that hung on an adjacent apartment complex. Surrounding walls had been warped by ash and rain and sog – further perpetuating the high for the junkies that plagued the floor. The sound of gunfire, fights, and the cries of the damned all bled into one entity that was muffled only by the raucous reverberation of rape being committed in a room nearby. Hideous shouts of pleasure and horror tormented Arthur, though they brought him to a place of profound wonder. How he had ended up in the nadir of man with nothing left was a question that plagued his conscience with each passing day.

The thunderous echo of rotors steadily built from afar like a storm about to hit. Renegades and drifters who had grown accustom to the Reapers that cut the clouds apart already begun to scatter like rats from the nest. These machines were once used to rescue men lost at sea, their girth grand enough to blot out the sun, their winged propellers shifting vertically when they opted to loom overhead. The sound outside quickly evolved from mayhem to fleeting footfall as the unwanted fled from the streets and took to shelter. Arthur put his head out the window and looked to the sky. The clouds reflected a jaded blue from the moon – an image so calming and still that it seemed not to belong. The decrepit buildings around him creaked like an ancient alarm that moaned to the wasters stagnating within. He looked down at the borough streets as scores of men ran – men who lived each day on the very bottom. They had everything to be afraid of, but nothing more terrifying than that which flew on steel wings and parted the sky. The beasts were coming.

His eyes lashed the night sky, trying desperately to catch a glimpse of whatever drew near. He saw two black objects in the distance. There they loomed, coasting over waves of wind – waiting for the opportune moment to strike. Those with any foresight had already fled to the lower levels – knowing just how Marcotte raids were carried out. For a moment, Arthur wondered which of the tweaks on the floor would be selected and abducted by the masked men. He gazed upon the users, and even though his life was now no better than theirs, he still felt as though his fate was more important.

When he looked back out the window he saw nothing. The fleeing vagabonds of Clearway had vanished and the nearby sounds of rape had ceased. The entire borough was silent; in the eye of the hurricane. As the silence dragged on Arthur began to feel a flourishing sense of nausea. The thumping beat of his heart was matched only by the propellers of some unknown entity lowering itself before the building. The nearest beast finally appeared, spotlights dousing the room in abducting white light – scanning. When the light moved to another room, Arthur peered over the sill to witness the great hovering machine. The metal was a pattern of dark olive and bright yellow. The nose of the Reaper was shielded by a massive steel grill, giving the vehicle the appearance of a goliath dragonfly. Grated doors slid open on the sides, from within the old professor could decipher masked men barking orders and preparing themselves to raid. Droning horns began to drown out everything around.

Arthur inhabited the tallest floor of the building; it wasn't long before he felt the pounding of men being dropped onto the roof. Too weak to move, the withering man covered his head in the tattered rags that hung upon his malnourished frame. Under the torn shawl, the sound of boots and equipment echoed from the deformed walls. With each passing minute, Arthur heard sounds that filled him with impending doom: the blast of doors being kicked open, the crash of bodies dropping to the floor, and the curdling screams of those being taken. Like when he was a child playing hide and seek with his brothers, Arthur tried to flatten his body the best he could – a feeble attempt to mimic a pile of rubble.

The banging became louder as the marauders moved closer to his room. In the pit of his being he knew he was going to be taken. Had his masquerade failed, he knew there was nothing he could to do stop them. Such was the case when the door to the room was kicked so hard the top hinge broke. The door hung like a dead body as shuffling men entered. Arthur struggled to maintain his breathing as his heart hiked into his throat.

"Oh man, Husk, looks like we hit the jackpot." One of the wheezing men grunted through a rebreathing unit.

"Nah, look at them." A creaking floorboard meant to Arthur that one of the men was kneeling before a body. "Tweakers. Breathing corpses. These things won't sell. Keep looking."

The professor felt the impending tremors of boots against the splintered floor. The steps came closer as he listened to the raiders who began to lose hope of finding quarry within the decayed room. Suddenly, the thin cover gave as the rags were savagely ripped from his being. He felt uncomfortably exposed as he was met by the face of a masked man inches from his own. Before he could say a word, a gloved paw snared him around the throat and stole the wind from his lungs.

"I take it back," Husk growled, "Jackpot." He chuckled – mechanical air breathing into Arthur's nostrils before his entire world went black.