Sky City (The Rise of an Orphan)

by RD Hale

  'Come on, let's go.'

  The men vanish into the corridor we just left so we dart from our hiding place to scurry through the door they originally entered, virtually flying down a stairway and peering into a door pane. A casino room of flashing lights and bleeping noises hypnotises swathes of gambling addicts whose earnings are being devoured by slot machines. They are too preoccupied to care as we blend into the badly dressed crowd of unfriendly faces.

  'I'm not going to make it home in one piece, am I?' Vytali asks.

  'Hey, you're the one who wanted a bit of excitement!'

  Titan Stolastic

  I head to the bar and eye a list of illegal drinks to ruffle my companion who has taken a seat to admire this ungentlemanly entertainment. Leering eyes do not veer as purple lighting offers glimpses of dark lipstick and sweat-beads trickling on topless bodies. Formerly girls, now fiends in suspenders, gyrating against metal poles to the growling music like a seedy ballet.

  Bringing drinks over, I take a seat and we clink glasses together then pour searing liquid down our throats. Vytali's eyes stream as he thumps his chest.

  'It burns, it burns!'

  'Like the fires of the underworld! Ready for the next one?'

  'Hell no.'

  'Course you are!' I raise a glass and Vytali reluctantly clinks his against mine, putting the brim to his lips with absolutely no idea of the side effects, but I resist the urge to laugh as he swallows this sinister concoction and wipes his grimacing mouth with his sleeve.

  'Whoa your... your face, it's changing. I must be hallucinating. Awesome!' Vytali blurts out.

  'Nah, you're not hallucinating. It's really happening. That's what the drink does to you!' I snigger.

  'Well I hope I'm hallucinating. You don't look human!'

  'Neither do you, take a look at yourself.'

  Holding out my wrist I lean towards my drinking buddy and tap my holowatch to take a selfie. The built-in 3d imager captures the moment our inner-demons have chosen to surface, projecting the image of scaly goblins in the company of naked gorgons. The creature wearing my hoody has a glistening blue complexion and his evil cohort has warted green flesh which warps as bone is restructured. Lipless mouths sneer and chins and ears stretch into sharpened points with small horns bulging out of their, or rather our foreheads.

  'Oh my fucking goddess! Am I gonna stay like this?' the green demon shrieks.

  'Well, they say the drink reveals your true self! But you can relax, the effect is usually temporary.'

  'So have the girls really changed or am I just imagining that part?' the green demon asks.

  'Er, that's the part I'm not clear on, I mean who would pay to see topless monsters?'

  'I would!' The green demon grins.

  We spend seconds, minutes or maybe hours staring at the carnal performance. Altered perception detaches us from repulsion as snakes slither on gorgon heads and yellow eyeballs amplify the lowlight. An upside down demon flicks out a fork tongue, hanging with muscular thighs around a silver pole and her hissing reverberates in my ears. Another sweating stripper's smile reveals a glinting fang as her swaying hips approach our table.

  'You wanna grab a room?' the stripper asks.

  'Fuck yeah,' I reply.

  I am escorted through sparkling lilac curtains to a booth with a camera fitted to the ceiling, where I sprawl on a red leather sofa. The private show of debauchery commences and this exotic dancer takes on a more human form as she cavorts in a black negligée. Possessed by indignity she drops on all fours and transfixes me with goading eyes, crawling until we are nose to nose and I can smell the mintiness of her breath.

  'How old are you?' she asks.

  'Twenty one,' I reply.

  'Really? You look younger.'

  'You look older.'

  'Cheeky... You're quite cute though.' She turns away and her negligee slips to the carpet, revealing a G-string and nothing else.

  'I'm paying you for a dance, not for bullshit.'

  Fake diamond earrings swing as the stripper leans forward with a finger in her mouth. Thick makeup cannot fully conceal scowl lines etched into the skin around her eyes, and a tattoo of a heart with a keyhole sits between her breasts. She thrusts her pierced nipples into my fleetingly impressed face but despite such a scene being all that should occupy a teenage lad's mind, I am strangely unaroused.

  'I'm not patronising you hun. I just think you're cu... No touching!' She slaps my hand away from her waist.

  'So I'm not so cute then!'

  'Fair enough. What's a kid like you doing in a place like this? It's pretty dangerous.'

  'Having a few drinks. A lap dance. Might watch a couple of fights. Might even participate if I'm in the mood.' I smirk.

  'Oh tough guy, eh?'

  'Yeah course. Why, you want my number?'

  'No you're not cute, remember?'

  'So why do you do this, take your clothes off for a living? Must be pretty depressing, imagine if your mother knew!'

  'My mother is a dead prostitute, I'm heading up in the world. Anyway, if it's so terrible then why are you here?'

  'Bit of casual amusement, a story to tell my friends.'

  'So you should enjoy looking, but I shouldn't enjoy being looked at?'

  'I'm glad your having fun!'

  'I'll have even more fun when you pay me. Time's up, tough guy. That's twenty credits.'

  'Twenty credits for that!'

  'What do you mean - for that? Okay out, ungrateful little shit.'

  Scowling, the stripper snatches the money from my hand and I return to our unoccupied table, presuming my demon friend is in a private booth. My attention is diverted by a nearby stripper with a garter full of credit notes and as I enjoy the view, my strumming fingers splash against the damp surface. I count five empty glasses which have accumulated in my absence.

  Strolling to the bar I order a couple of pints of ale and by the time I have gulped mine down Vytali has not returned so I drink his pint and head to the men's room. Overpowering vapours of urea molest my nostrils upon entry and yellow stains cover the lower half of the walls. My feet slosh through retch-inducing puddles as I swing open cubicle doors one by one and the third contains someone hunched over the toilet. A straggle-haired zombie greets me with a soggy chin and lifeless eyes, before turning back to vomit.

  'Sorry, wrong person.'

  The fourth and final cubicle is locked so I hammer my fist on the door but I get no answer apart from a protracted groan. I bash with my shoulder until the flimsy lock capitulates and the door collides with the inhabitant.

  Familiar shoes are poking from underneath the ajar door so I squeeze inside to see Vytali with elbows resting on the toilet seat. Vomit is splatted against the cistern and his clean-cut handsomeness has somewhat gone astray as bile trickles out of his nostrils.

  'That's better!' Vytali wipes his mouth with his sleeve.

  'Get up. You'll get soaking down there.' I grab his puke-soaked shirt to pull him onto floppy legs.

  'I had another two or three drinks while you were gone. I dunno what you bottom levellers put in your drinks, but it's nasty stuff.'

  'You don't want any more then?'

  'Of course I do!'

  'Okay, but you're slowing down. I'm keeping you off the strong stuff.'

  Vytali seems oblivious to his soaking knees as he leaves stomach lining in the toilet bowl and I resist inhaling the miasmic stench he has thoughtfully acquired to avoid causing offence to the regulars.

  'You wanna stick around here?' I ask.

  'You kidding me? I just stuck two hundred credits in the bra strap of some stripper. At this rate I'm gonna be broke! Let's go see a fight,' Vytali suggests.

  'They hold the fights in the basement. I'm warning you mind, these things can be brutal.'

  'More brutal than a public execution?'

  'Well... no.'

  'Sounds like fun to me!' Vytali grins with the bloodlust of a true Citizen.

  Fight Club

>   We hold the banister to stabilize our legs as drunken gamblers barge past us on carpeted stairs and I sensibly opt to not punch them in retaliation. Descending into the notorious basement, we reach doors bearing the words: Fight Club and I fantasize about smashing foes to the canvass, but in reality my only victory will come in the form of a betting slip. Lumpy-headed bouncers stand with folded arms and their smirks suggest they enjoy their role a little too much.

  'No getting carried away in there, lads. Any sign of rowdiness and we'll be throwing you in the ring!'

  We enter the arena of fired up hooligans who stand on curving steps, keen to give the impression they would be prepared to climb into the octagon when in reality only one percent would have the balls. I peer between fists clutching gambling slips as the announcer speaks from the cage, illuminated by a lighting rig, and the sense of anticipation invigorates my clouded mind.

  'Gentlemen, we have another challenger. Can Lehyru Genasekara beat Johle Oumyn?'

  Two glorified brawlers with mid-toned complexions step into the ring, ready to put their bodies on the line for a Level One Citizen's pocket change as the door slams shut. A ripped vest hangs over the bulging trapeziums and beer gut of the first combatant. His swollen jaw and war ravaged scowl confirms him as Johle Oumyn.

  The unblemished challenger throws his shirt onto the claret-tinged canvass to howls of derision. Bouncing on toes, Genasekara raises his fists with a wild-eyed grin and other than finely-etched abdominals, his leathery skin reveals only bones. A man carrying a satchel and a notepad approaches us.

  'Oumyn two to five. Genasekara thirteen to five.'

  'Twenty credits on Oumyn.' I wave a twenty credit note amongst dozens of hands, unsure how the collector keeps track of who paid what as he snatches my money and correctly hands over a slip reading: 20 on Oumyn.

  The referee speaks to the fighters then steps back from the Titan Stolastic emblem on the canvass and the bell rings. Oumyn immediately charges on heavy feet and attempts to grab his skinny foe but Genasekara dances out of reach, countering with a swift flurry of punches.

  Oumyn is like a tortured bull with eagerness to gain vengeance, but he is caught by another stinging combination. He wipes a trickle of blood from his mouth, then Genasekara punches his ear and he drops to one knee as the roaring intensifies.

  'I don't believe this, the guy's twice his size,' I say.

  'He's too beaten up from his previous fight,' Vytali replies.

  The challenger moves into finish the injured champion, but Oumyn grabs Genasekara's wrist and smashes him in the face with a hammer fist. Standing up, Oumyn relishes the opportunity to fight at close quarters and lands another heavy hammer fist on his staggering opponent.

  Genasekara is grabbed by a dozen pairs of hands as he falls against bars and he gets pounded until his head flops. Oumyn grabs his neck to slam him to the canvass and stamp a heal into his temple. The referee wraps both arms around the winner, but he stamps once more as Genasekara lies motionless. A pair of men enter the cage and drag the comatose casualty out by his ankles, leaving a blood trail. The roar is thunderous as the announcer steps into the ring with microphone in hand.

  'And your winner by knockout for the third consecutive fight is Johle Oumyn.'

  We watch another two cage fights which result in another two vicious knockouts for the reigning champion and I lose the fifty credits gained from the first match by betting against a wounded but relentless warrior.

  'He's exhausted and beaten up and they still can't beat him. I could do better than these wimps,' I fume.

  'Do we have any more challengers? Two hundred credits for participating. Five hundred if you win. Surely someone is brave enough,' the ring announcer asks.

  'This lad is, he just said he can beat him!' a nearby yob yells and Vytali looks horrified as the crowd yell: 'Fight! Fight! Fight!' But I shrug my shoulders, smirking with the confidence gained from my specialist training. Hands slap the back of my inebriated head, sharpening my focus as I skip down to the arena, tensing arms to fire up my metabolism. Lunatic faces press against bars invoking memories of prison as I reach the cage door. The referee awaits with a flushed, flabby face and sweat patches on his tucked white shirt, which fails to restrain his overhanging belly.

  'What's ya name?' the referee gasps, appearing ready to keel over as though he has competed in one of these gruelling matches himself.

  'Arturo Basilides.'

  'Ya sure you wanna do this, kid?'

  'I'm not a kid.' I stare down at these writhing fingers.

  'Your funeral.' The referee shrugs.

  A breath of air whistles upwards as the referee shakes his head as though resigned to sending a slumdog to the slaughter but it is foolish to underestimate a member of the rebellion.

  'We have our final challenger of the night. Can Arturo Basilides possible survive against Johle Oumyn?'

  Flinging my shirt onto steps, I loosen my arms to ensure they will function effectively as I step into the arena. My spine jars as the door slams shut, signifying I have reached the point of no return. And if things go badly this man will not ease off like my mentor would, but I know what I am made of. As I grit teeth adrenaline surges through my flesh and possesses me like an enraged demon. This guy is nothing compared to what I have faced.

  I throw a combination of punches to ready these fists of destruction and the roar is turbulent. Ferocious. Inspirational. The referee beckons us to the centre of the octagon where I stand face to face with the cauliflower-eared lunkhead who is suddenly bigger and menacing, but I tilt my head back to look him in the eye, unperturbed.

  'Are you crazy or stupid?' Oumyn snorts.

  'Both.' I sneer.

  'This is going to hurt.'

  'Okay men, when I say break you break. If the bell goes, you stop. Other than that there are no rules. Fight on the opening bell.'

  The referee steps back as the bell rings and I prowl to the centre of the octagon. Without a shred of hesitation I swing my left hand, connecting to Oumyn's chin with a knuckle-jarring impact.

  As I duck my head Oumyn lands a glancing blow behind my ear. Unconcerned I throw a right hook and an uppercut, wobbling my opponent who hits air as I dance out of striking range. Oumyn loses balance when he successfully lands a blow which triggers an angry retaliation and I cut the skin of my knuckle on his teeth. His fist slams into my ribcage and I wobble, sucking up the pain to throw a counter. But Oumyn catches my mouth flush, rocking me back several steps and I taste my own blood.

  Fighting fire with fire we both land crunching blows, but Oumyn barely flinches as my legs turn to jelly. Again his fist cudgels my head and I fall to my knees. Unstable legs respond slowly as I rise and even the act of breathing hurts. A battering ram of a leg smashes my sternum, knocking me onto my reverberating spine. Oumyn's leather boot looms as I shield my already pummelled face, but I roll sideways and he stomps canvass as I clamber to my feet; exhausted and dazed but hanging in there.

  As Oumyn charges forth my increasingly ungainly feet move in lumbering circles and my inhuman opponent swings psychotically, mostly missing but each impact rocks my core. All I want is to even the scorecard but my lungs sizzle with exhaustion.

  I just need to regain my breath.

  These aching arms land scrappy shots and Oumyn's movement has slowed but he catches me clean with powerful blows. The frenzied panorama spins as I squint through the deluge of sweat stinging my eyes. Blurriness resharpens as bars are rattled by spectators and their eyeballs bulge to absorb every ounce of the pain which urges me to capitulate. That shameful instinct fuels my anger and I swing back with added determination, catching Oumyn on the chin with a perfect shot... Infuriatingly, he is still standing.

  The champion surges forward, ducking my wildly swinging fists to grab my waist and slam me onto the floor. My ribcage crumples, causing air passages to spasm, but there is no time for self pity. Oumyn leans across to pound my already battered flesh but I grab his forearm and his twisting b
ody evades a flailing leg as he kicks my cheekbone from an awkward angle. The referee yells in my ear:

  'Kid, I'm gonna stop the fight.'

  'NO!'

  'You're taking a beating. If you wanna continue, you're gonna have to show me something.'

  Those words provide a burst of desperation and every muscle pulsates as I call upon dwindling reserves of courage to bolster my fortitude. Victory is the only consideration. I kick furiously at Oumyn's forearm which immediately withdraws to avoid a radial breakage and I scramble onto twitchy toes. My opponent is eyeballed with contempt and I notice a hesitancy which I capitalise on with a flurry of punches.

  Oumyn swings me by the wrist and backtracks to gain respite, but I lunge straight at him as he gasps for breath. We exchange blows until my legs weaken and again I drop to one knee. Fists rain on my head so I raise a deadened arm to block the blows and I pull his ankle, gaining the opportunity to get up. Then I punch once, twice, three times with the crowd screaming my name:

  'Bas-il-ides! Bas-il-ides! Bas-il-ides!'

  Hairs rise as I Ioad up to smash Oumyn against metal bars for eager hands to grab the overdog. I flying kick his face and the exertion almost causes me to fall but I am buoyed by the chanting crowd. As I pound his lumpy head each blow gets progressively weaker and he breaks free from hands of the mob to shove me away.

  I am desperate to refocus my agony and feel Oumyn's bones crumbling, but a wild swing spins me through the air. Landing flat on my face, I clamber onto legs which can no longer be felt. And as I float above the arena three opponents charge in my direction. Before I can respond my skull clatters against the canvass and my traumatised brain rattles as I notice a blurry face screaming through the bars:

  'GIVE UP! ARTURO, SAY YOU GIVE UP!'

  My eyes regain focus and I look my health-intentioned but wholly offensive friend in the eyes. 'NEVER!' I rise, unconcerned as I am seized and hit again and again because the blows now have little effect. My thrusting head connects with a gratifying crunch, disintegrating Oumyn's nasal bone and I follow up with a furious swing, connecting to his jaw which wobbles from side to side as he spreads his arms in a state of disorientation.