it is days like this that elliot can swear he can feel his tattoo prickling under his skin like the bird there is trying to escape. early morning, it is; he still feels the nipping chill of night against his back even though the sun is warming his front. in an hour, anybody without shoes or serious callouses won’t be able to walk on the ground without burning their soles. for now, it is quite the opposite and elliot rolls over to warm his back. the area directly underneath him leeching his heat is warm in comparison to the stone he’s now on-- like a block of ice. he buries his head in his hands and breathes, and makes his body feel like his own.
his belly feels hollow and sore. fire prickles behind his eyes every time he closes them, only to explode into kaleidoscopic geometries of color. he can’t remember what happened last night, only that something did and it is the reason he feels like he’s been booted from death’s stoop. had the door slammed in his face. a shoe thrown at his retreating back through a window. in all probabilities, he’d settled down somewhere to spend the night and someone had spotted his damned tattoo-- and then they’d kicked him out. possibly forcefully. likely by throwing a bag over his head and kicking him until he decided to leave, if the vaguely boot-shaped bruise on his side proves anything.
the ache in the front of his head blooms into a stabbing pain when he raises his head to look at the sky, a fevered blue tempered only by white, rainless spits of clouds. this place is terrible. his nose is bleeding. he huffs and wipes his face, and gets blood all over his hands for the effort. it drips into his mouth and he gives up, rolls onto his back again, and lets the blood stem its own flow.
presently, his attention is brought to the gallivanting clouds. wind pushes each across the breathless expanse of sky, presses them together and pulls them apart like the too-saccharine spun sugar at that carnival. he spends another hour in iron-tinged contemplation, sunning himself like a cat on the cracked earth as blood slides thick over his tongue and dries on his hands. the clouds all travel one way--
the meg. megacity one. it hovers on the horizon, a mile away, a buzzing hive of humanity. elliot’s never been inside, only preyed on those old and infirm judges that chose to venture into the wastelands. of course, he’d always been a part of the frenetic mass of his-- former-- gang. one of the lucky ones to always survive. one of the judges brought a rad-cloak with him once, and elliot had claimed it as his own trophy and wore it around everywhere until it became tattered. then, he’d torn it into strips and made a braided belt out of it.
he should try, just once. he is, like all children, in the belief that downfalls are for others. he is no longer bleeding, and he is very hungry, and in his jacket he has a packet of something entirely unappetizing. he plans his attack as he eats. when has he become so numb to the taste? his belly whines and he mimics it back, petulance in a breath. he is done with the food far too quickly, and so makes his move.
he walks. saves his energy until he fully reaches the enormous walls of the meg. in a blink, he is out of the yellow desert and into a gray knot of concrete and humanity. someone notices him and screams. it’s better than being attacked, so he simply grins and makes his way deeper.
he’s here. oh, boy, won’t this be a story to brag about?
