Company

O N E

Shriden
. . .

The light filters strangely through the broken window. It forms a rectangular puddle of gold at my feet, a spotlight of sorts, illuminating the center of the room while leaving the corners shrouded in darkness. A human shadow flickers across the golden floor, accompanied by heavy footsteps. They are the steps of a man who knows great loss. They are my dads steps.

No dust gets kicked up as he walks, the worn wood having been swept too many times for that. Instead as my dad paces, he disturbs the particles in the air, sending the spiraling out of the light, and out of my vision. I lean back in my chair and sigh, absentmindedly rubbing circles over the tattoo on my left wrist. It's a seed, with a tree stretching up and branching out slightly, the tips of the branches just barely reaching my palm. My dad gave it to me when I turned ten, the day I finally became a true Outsider. He said, "Whenever you find yourself doubting our cause, remember the Three Brothers, and all that they stand for. They will carry you forward with the knowledge that you are fighting for something good. Something worth fighting for."

All the outsiders have the same tattoo, in the same place. It binds us together. It's the Outsider symbol. And we were it with pride.

My dads been up all night trying to figure out a way to get my mom out of the city. Since she lives within city walls and under droid rule, she can't contact us, and vice versa. For the past seventeen years, she has been stuck in the Mubs. Small, metal, bubble like things all clustered together. Kept in line by the sting of a metal whip and the blast from a gun. Forced to work for the Droids, manning their factories, and providing entertainment. By suffering. I've grown up living as an Outsider. It means staying outside of the city and trying to remain under the droids radar. If we're caught, they'll make sure we suffer slow and painful deaths. But otherwise, I'm free. And I've had to live with the knowledge that while my mother suffers, I'm free to run around the city ruins and do almost anything I please.

Loud footsteps pounding down the hallway drag me out of my thoughts like a ship pulling up anchor and put a stop to my dads pacing, directing our attention to the door. Jordan stands there, not even out of breath, his dreads tied back with a rubber band and his dark skin blending flawlessly with the shadows. "Peter, Shriden." He nods at each of us in turn. "You're needed out back."

My dad runs a calloused hand through his thinning, gray hair. He does this whenever he's thinking. "Tell the others we'll be right out."

Jordan looks to me and I nod, he returns it and runs back outside. My dad sighs once we hear his footsteps fade and runs another hand through his hair. He looks over at me and I raise an eyebrow, silently asking him what this is about. He shakes his head, indicating he doesn't know, and starts to walk after Jordan. I follow him. We walk through the dark, stuffy hallway over creaking floorboards and enter into the brightly lit kitchen. I blink my eyes to adjust to the sudden change in light as my dad crosses to the glass, sliding door. Well, it's no longer glass, that disappeared Long before we ever got here. Now it's a plank of wood, with small, rectangular holes covering the entire surface, stuffed with bits of plastic to complete the look. Its a terrible sight, but it works, and we can still see outside.

The safe house we're using is a broken down house that, for the most part, survived the Droid war in 2045. Outsiders like us have been using this place for the past 900 years, fixing it up using materials from the surrounding ruins and from things stolen off of Company transports. So far, we haven't been caught.

We walk across the short stretch of dirt that acts as a backyard before entering the small metal shed that was built when I was no more than eight. It has tall metal sides, with plain wood flooring and a bent piece of metal for a roof. The door is just a cut out in one of the walls where someone attached hinges and called it a day. Like the sliding door, it's not pretty. Sandra, David, Ben, Maggie, Scott, Chloe, and Jordan all wait in the wide metal box, spaced in clumps around a table. My dad runs his hand through his hair again, making it look anything but neat. Than again, nothing about us is ever 'neat'.