The Rose of Flames: Rising Tides

Prologue

July 4, 2041

10:45 P.M.

New York City, USA

Loud explosions were ringing in the air, the sky above a beautiful midnight blue with hints of purple to it. Stars were only now starting to show their faces while laughter, singing, and a joyful racket echoed through the streets of New York City. Lights were bright, sparklers were flaring, and it was one of the best Independence Days that the United States had seen. Hardly anyone was concerned, even though they were soon going to be thrust into a conflict unlike any that the world had seen before. The smell of hotdogs, burgers, and other summertime foods lingered in the usually-polluted streets, as did the smell of burnt-out gunpowder; children loved using things like sparklers or the little Pop Its.

However, there was one child who couldn't properly enjoy the festivities. She was sitting on a flat roof, gazing up at the night sky above that was being showered with fireworks. She had a tattered gray hoodie that was starting to be too small for her broad shoulders and black leggings that were also in a similar state of disrepair. Adorning her face was a pair of thin-rimmed purple glasses, turned a murky gray color from a year's worth of grime, and a long scar that stretched down her left cheek. That, too, was covered in a year's worth of filth from not being able to properly bathe. Her eyes, although glinting with slight joy, were covered by her worn sweatshirt, and her hair was in such a state she didn't wish for anyone to see it.

This child was twelve years old, and she'd already been through hell. She didn't like to talk about it, however; it wasn't anyone else's business, not that anyone could have cared less for the homeless girl. She'd learned that the hard way when no one was willing to help her a year ago after she ran away from the only home she knew. While she was now free and listening to happy families and friends enjoying the festivities of the Fourth of July, she wasn't welcomed; no one wanted a filthy brat around, especially when she had likely stolen from them. Not that they knew it, anyway.

Having run away, the only option the twelve-year-old child had was to steal. It was all she knew. She could do some basic math, had some decent grammar and writing skills, and some history and science facts were stored in her mind, though she was far behind her peers due to the life she'd gotten herself into. As she gazed up at the brilliant show above, flashes of her past flitted through her mind, though she pushed them aside. She'd seen them enough in her dreams not to care, even if some always shook her to her core. The child reached her hand into her pocket and slipped out a small piece of folded paper. Gingerly unfolding it, she read two names that she'd scribbled carefully onto it: her parents. The people she never knew existed. Somewhere, in this large, crazy world, the people who were meant to raise her were out there. And she intended to find them.

Too bad I have no clue where to look, the child thought with a huff as she ran a scrawny thumb over the names before folding the slip of paper once more and stuffing it back into her pocket. It had been a year now, and she was still no closer to finding out where the end of her journey would be, or even how long it would be before she finally reached it. All she could do now was continue to live off scraps and whatever she stole before she made her way to the next town, city, state, or country. Sighing, the child looked over her shoulder and spotted two figures, both robots, looking up at her and pointing. Those robots were Clorias, sentient robots produced by the Clorium company. She had no use for them, but she wasn't surprised that the pair of Clorias had seen her; some days, it seemed like Clorias cared more about the child than other people did.

Despite this, she looked back up at the sky. She'd already snatched some scraps from picnics earlier in the day, and she wasn't too hungry, despite what her malnourished form depicted. Red, gold, blue, and white flashed across her body as more fireworks flew into the sky and burst in the air. The child was starting to hear the laughter dying down and be replaced with concerned muttering. She knew what was going on without even having to look down: others had noticed that she was up there, alone, and probably hungry.

Frustrated and wishing she wouldn't be stared at, the child stood up and began to walk toward another section of the roof; New York City had very easily navigable rooftops. Able to tell that even more people were noticing a homeless child on the roof, she picked up speed and soon vanished out of sight of the main road. Relieved that she could finally breathe a bit easier, she laid back down and continued to watch the show. It was quite peaceful; the most peaceful she'd seen in a while, now that she thought about it. It was rare that she could get a moment of peace or relaxation, thanks to the horrid life she was stuck living. As such, she was grateful that she finally had a moment to allow her heart rate to slow down.

Over time, she'd learned that there were ways to protect herself from being noticed. Not that she was good at them. As the laughter began to dwindle and the fireworks were put out and stored for next year, the child got up and began to wind her way along a path she'd been mapping out over a few weeks in her head, taking care to avoid streetlights and densely populated areas. By the time the moon was fully above her head, glimmering dimly in its waning crescent form, the child had reached a narrow alley that was littered with boxes and had a small area for a fire nearby. Not bothering to try and light one for herself, she walked past it and clambered over a crate and onto a pile of neatly-arranged boxes that made a sort of den or cave. On the floor were layers of blankets, a sketchbook, pencils, and colored pencils. Climbing down and situating the blankets over herself, the child grabbed the sketchbook and a pencil, then flipped to a clean page. Thinking of that night's events, the child began to draw.

While it wasn't perfect, the child also knew that it was a significant improvement from when she first started to draw. She'd drawn a portion of the New York City skyline, though a bit wobbly and sloppy, with fireworks bursting in the air around them. Not feeling like coloring it in by then, for it was well into the night at that point, the child closed her sketchbook silently and set that and the pencil down in the mess of sheets. She was tired, and even now, her stomach was aching with hunger. Reminding herself that it would be wise to get some actual food the next day, and maybe to clean up a little bit while she was at it, the child closed her eyes and allowed the darkness to fill her vision.

Feeling relaxed, calm, and maybe even a bit happy, the homeless thief drifted off into sleep as the bustling city of New York began to wind down all around her.