Interface

Mara

I look down at the bag full of copper bits in the urchin's hand, contemplating if I should make the deal.
If I take the bits, then I'd have enough to get food and drink for a month! Not to mention a potential bottle of booze for mom. But if I take the deal, then I'd be worthless in the future. Also, mom would have a fit if she found out what I'm considering.
The urchin grimaces at me, hocks a generous glob of black saliva into a corner, and starts to withdraw his hand, but- in the blink of an eye- I've taken the money and start sprinting away.
He tries to stop me, but he doesn't realize that I've already memorized every possible escape route. One of the perks of being raised on the streets is that I know most of the alleys like the back of my hand, and I'm less likely to ever be caught if I know the best ways to escape bad situations. It'd be better if I actually stayed OUT of bad situations, but... that will never change as long as I live in the slums.
I dart down the alleyway nearest to me, and barrel headfirst into a pipe barely wider than my shoulders.
I can hear the bum screaming and cursing and beating the pipe, but he can't quite grab hold of me.
No one ever does.

A few hours later, I stagger back to the house.. If a rundown, abandoned factory counts as a house. I look up at the desolate concrete building, wondering if my luck will ever change, before I shrug off the stupid idea and head inside.
I head into the kitchen area and plop the bag of copper onto the counter, hoping that mom is sleeping off the effects of the booze, and not shambling around the factory like a zombie brought back to life by black magic.
Luck, however, is not on my side. As usual.
I smell my mother before I see her. A stale mix of cheap booze, and vomit, mixed with a strong scent of pure BO.
I sigh and turn around, wincing when I see my mother.
Living in the bad part of this God-forsaken town has not been kind to her.
If she had been raised by a rich-or even middle class- family, then she might've been quite beautiful, but as she is, the only feeling I have for her is pity and a small hint of fearful anticipation.
She's scrawny- like me- and her faded shirt is slipping off of her left shoulder. Her dark hair is unkempt and raggedy around her face, which is hollow-cheeked and sleepy-eyed from sleeping off the alcohol she regularly binges on.
She looks at me with those sunken, hopeless eyes of hers, and she growls at me before lunging towards me and snatching the bag of copper pieces from my open hand, causing me to flinch away.
She empties the bag onto the counter and counts the pieces with a greedy hunger that I usually only see in the big businessmen on the screens, then she rounds on me with a scream and a few choice oaths.
" WHY IS THIS ALL YOU BRING ME????? DO YOU WANT US TO STARVE???" she screeches, before cuffing me harshly. Her hands smell soapy, and that means that she's been at work for who knows how long, then she probably came home and drank her paycheck away.
She hits me again, but the blow rebounds off my hair, and I have to bite back a snarky remark about how she drinks enough to starve both herself and me.
I move away from her, and mumble an apology, keeping my eyes on the dusty concrete floor. It's best not to engage in an argument with my mother- especially not when she's drunk. In other words, I never engage my mother in any arguments, because she's always drunk.
If I had a memory of her sober, then I would cherish it like a priceless treasure.

Mom sends me away with a stinging slap to the face, and I slink away to my 'room'.
Its more of a half-room, half empty air, but it is nice to have somewhere to seek shelter without worrying about Mom barging in, armed with a bottle and her formidable temper.
I look out at the broken city, at the glowing domes of the Upper Levels in the distance, and I wonder how the uppity people can stand not being able to see the sky.... Or maybe they can? Mom told me about a thing that allowed visibility on one side, but not on the other.... Maybe the domes are made of that stuff.
I lean against the warped wood of an old cupboard. All these thoughts are complex, and they're making me feel like my eyelids are made of lead.

I wake up with a jolt, and I'm not sure what woke me up at first, but then I see the smoke coming from the city below.
My world is on fire.

I run among the burning buildings, trying to figure out what's happened to the city, but everyone is panicking too much to answer any questions I ask.
An alarm blares out across the flame-decimated city, and I clap my hands over my ears.
The alarm causes a bunch of people to sleepily poke their heads out from their rat-hole excuses for houses, and I can see the terror dawn on them when they realize what is happening.
They run everywhere like the panicked gutter-rats that they appear to be, and I weave in and out of the mayhem with relative ease, picking pockets as I go.
At one point, I manage to steal a foodpack, and I shove it into the front pocket of my shorts with relative ease.
Perhaps, after the fire has been dealt with, I'll take the foodpack home, and have a lovely meal all to myself.
I chuckle at my own joke. Mom can sniff out food better than a Sentinel can sniff out trouble, and that's saying a lot. I probably will never have a meal to myself. Secondly, day-old Beesees is hardly a luxury.