MUDDY WATERS

Kudos

Last time:
»The deserted feel breathed the spirit of The District, and The District was a very dangerous place.«

Did he live here?

He gulped at the lump in his throat and set off down the desolate slope in a drunken stagger, squinting his eyes at the more interesting features of his surroundings. A dented, muddy green car that carried a baseball bat's bruise on the driver side window; a nondescript yet relatively intact two-storey building emitting pounding music and multi-coloured light flashes that gave him a headache; a man in tattered clothing who looked like he was approaching his sixties, lying propped up against the brick work, and who seemed to have made it his primary occupation to stare into the void before him. ... He considered speaking to him and maybe ask him a question, but thought better of it.

Although the homeless man was the only person he encountered, he felt paranoid and nervous, as though he was being watched from the gaping eyes and mouths of the houses he passed. Maybe it was due to his current condition or whatever he had done or consumed prior to waking to it, but it seemed to him like the streets were recoiling from his presence—like he was a virus, a forbidden or unwanted influence to this strange metabolism.

Walking on bare feet at some dreary 288 Kelvin (AN: 14.85 degrees Celsius, 58.73 degrees Fahrenheit) wasn't a favourable influence on his sense of time, so he settled on counting the streets, while he shivered. The road signs were scribbled all over with what appeared to be alternative names that had been assigned by the inhabitants. 8-02, which he had found himself in, was 'Gate o' Paradise' (maybe a former border of the city's ever-growing tumor), the next was 'Hell 2', followed by 'Josselyn Gov St' (8-62) and 'Alice owns evryhtin' (9-122).

He spotted a number of wanted posters, which after a while he could sort into two categories. The one—officially dressed orders of arrest and execution that showed off yellowed watermarks like scars and some of which were littered with black ribbon and graffiti, such as 'will b missed', 'hero' or 'may his soul float'; the other kind were makeshift patchworks, sporting declarations like 'ENEMY' or 'DEATH TO' in ragged letters which were accompanied by polaroids and newspaper cuttings, most of them defaced grotesquely. Beneath the majority of them were what seemed to be coded messages regarding bounty money and donator. There were some re-occurring candidates; a bull-necked Klingon with a chipped tooth and a cruel twitch about her mouth; a black man with a soft expression and white frosting over the crown of his head whose neat appearance juxtaposed the mouldering environment around.

The most striking one was a federal officer, a captain, with a stern yet handsome face. His eyes were daggers and his lips a thin, determined line. His black curls were streaked with threads of silver. His posture was pristine. He looked like a figure from a history book. Fierce and troubled and proud. There were '40pg' offered for his head by 'BW' and '90pg' by 'MORAN' under the condition he'd be captured alive. Someone had drawn him horns and a jagged tail; next to another, a speech bubble read, 'slaughtered 58 and ^__^ed !!!'

At the corner to 9-150, there was a little shop—a real shop—called 'Kudos', according to the faded sign shadowing the first storey windows. The dusty showcase allowed view on a display of food and everyday items; clothing, tablets, hairdryers, small phasers and even books—real physical copies. A poster behind a dangerously piled accumulation of tableware declared, '.50 (or X of the same value)/each call!'

He swallowed hard, weighing his chances. Maybe he should. ... But who to call? ... Or he could ask how to get out of The District ... But where to go? ... He had to start somewhere. ...

He took a deep breath for courage and the four steps to the shop door at the same time. It was marred to the point of opacity and the letters 'BW' were gaping at him in red spray paint. The same BW who had offered '5pg' for the Klingon and 40 for the captain? Did they own this shop? Was it some kind of gang symbol? Was it wise to enter their territory? On the other hand, at the moment, anything, including the prospect of a malicious phaser attack, seemed like a step forward, so he gave a shrug of indifference to himself and assaulted the sticky handle.

The darkness he entered enveloped him with an unexpected comfort. The air was heavy with stenches. The married flavours of foods, hand-me-downs, smoke, moulding books, and melting plastic stole a gasp from his lips and left a shallow taste on his tongue.

He blinked away the third onslaught of tears since his awakening and inspected his surroundings, while forcing his feet into a slow drudge to the counter. There were three people, beside himself: a young man in an oversized knit-sweater and beanie, who was thoughtfully sucking at his cigarette, absorbed in a copy of Shakespeare's 'The Tempest' which he had apparently freed from one of the shelves that were lining the walls like grim giants; a girl with dark skin and five piercings stringing along each pointed ear, turned away from the replicator to deal him a frown; the shop owner, a short man whose bald head bore a vicious looking scar and several popping veins narrowed his eyes and gave him a half-nod.

He walked past the coats and sweating cheese in nervous silence, cumbersomely fumbling out his money chip. He cleared his throat. 'E-excuse me—' he said, almost startling at his own voice. His tongue felt clumsy around the words and the shop keeper's glare didn't help either. 'Could you, errm, kindly give me directions to the, errm, the, err north-border of The District, sir? I-I could pay—' He swallowed hard, when the man slammed something on the counter that looked like a Klingon disruptor, cradling it with plump, mottled fingers.

'Oi, yhou! Arren'th yhou one of Billy's loth?' (AN: footnote 1) The sudden cacophony of sounds had him swirling around on the spot; his attacker was the girl he suspected to be half-Romulan. She waved her coffee at him. 'Yhou'rre in rrikht stathe. Didn'th k'now hre leth's hris fohlk go'down rrabbith hrole ... whath's yhourr name ahgain?'

He blinked, confused. Billy's lot? ... Go down where? ... His name? ... He felt the headache returning. 'I don't—I ... I don't remember,' he whispered, a panicked crack of his voice accentuating the last word.

The girl squinched up her face in what seemed like pained amusement. 'Fvadt. Oi, Weeggins? We goth corrpse. I thhink hre's withh yhous?'

Her hand soared up and cramped in the fabric of his sweatshirt. She was at least ten inches shorter than him but had the strength of an adult. Before he could protest, she had dragged him to the misty niche where the man with the beanie dealt them a bloodshot glimpse over the worn edge of Shakespeare. He frowned. 'You alrigh', Shezz?'

He squirmed in the girl's stranglehold nervously. 'Errm ...'

'Hre isn'th. Hre corrpsed. Shouldn'th yhou luck outh morre fohrr yhourr peopull?' she piped up but closed her mouth, when Billy lifted his hand. She even let go of the sweatshirt. He plugged the coffee from her grip and jerked his chin at him. 'Walk wif me?'

_____________________

Footnote 1:
Oi, you! Aren't you one of Billy's lot?
You're in a right state. Didn't know he lets his folk go down the rabbit hole ... what's your name again?
Fvadt (Romulan, Damn). Oi, Wiggins? We got a corpse. I think he's with you?
He isn't. He corpsed. Shouldn't you look out more for your people?

Huge thanks to MartyCameron, who has co-created the Romulan street accent with me.

Sources
www.rihan.org

Twitter: @brainsandsocks
Constructive criticism is always welcome.
Live long and prosper!🖖