Ynk stands on a street corner, eyes cast down to avoid any unwanted attention. It's been a few months since "the raid of District 1017," as the news has dubbed it, and Ynk has yet to run into anyone from his hometown. He's wandered from district to district, slipping into groups that travel from place to place in packs to avoid being seen, trying to find a place to stay. He knows he can't stay in one place for too long, though, as that's just begging for trouble.
He'd stopped along the way long enough to get his body fixed up by an oblivious-looking nurse who didn't recognize him the entire time he was there, to the boy's surprise. He still has a limp, though his ribs have healed, so at least he can spin as much as he wants without his side threatening to do him in. So that's a plus.
Though, being healed doesn't help him figure out what to do now.
Ynk sighs, slipping further into the alley, his mind wandering to the riot. He still can't believe how everything went downhill. Granted, everything was already going downhill for him, but that was to be expected. He was prepared to die—not for people to revolt and cause a chaos team to drop on their heads.
He still doesn't know how he made it out of there alive.
I'm just glad those idiots didn't bother to check for a pulse. That wouldn't have ended well, Ynk thinks, pulling his hood over his eyes. He begins scribbling on his arm with a pen as he walks—filling in a makeshift map on his arm that he uses when he's able to afford looking at it.
He stops just outside of the recreation center—getting some strange looks here and there, as everyone in this town's aware he's not a native, but they don't recognize him due to this plain, blank mask he'd stolen on the way to this district. Not that it'll be missed, considering the man that gave it to him had put a bullet in his brain before Ynk could do anything about it.
Still, he's paranoid of being noticed and taken in for treason, and he knows he won't get lucky a second time.
He knows now that what he tried was foolish; a poorly-planned announcement to the public, who barely listened to him any other time and were bound to ignore him again? It was stupid—childish even. Though, in the long run, a foolish decision like that, while making him an enemy to the Order, and just about everyone else for that matter—it'd also been what saved his life. In a way, he should be grateful for his terrible decision-making.
Guess it doesn't matter either way, he tells himself. I'm not doin' something like that ever again.
An officer walks by, and the boy tenses up, pulling down his sleeve—dreading the worst, even though he's not sure if the officer will recognize him in the first place. You never know with these guys, he tells himself.
He tries to act like he has a purpose, sitting near the steps and messing with his pen, drawing lines on his jeans.
Ynk relaxes when he notices how the woman focuses more on her phone rather than him. Thank you, universe.
He slips inside the recreation center, trying to blend in with other youths his age.
Kids of various ages mill about, though Ynk's relieved to find that the place isn't packed. Some exercise on treadmills or lift weights; others sit around at the tables and read. Many wear Faces, keeping to themselves...except for one.
The girl sits in a corner of the room, sitting at one of the many tables. Ynk notices her first because of how colorful she is, compared to all the other kids; dressed in a puke-green jacket that's two sizes too big and a blue dress, from what he can see. Her fingers tap on the table, worrying her bottom lip as she stares around.
YOU ARE READING
FACELESS
General Fiction[Originally written in 2017 for an assignment; expanded and reworked overtime, though eventually I decided this was as far as I was going to go with it. Hope you like it!] As is customary when one reaches twelve years of age, the Order has manufactu...
