Less Than Alive: Still Kicking

Riots: They Start With A Word

When school ends and we all funnel out of the building like a herd of mindless cattle seeking greener grass and bluer skies, we have something like seven hours before curfew. Plenty of time to cause trouble. (And, in theory, get home and do one’s homework.) But, I’m a little different, as you may have noticed.

The moment class ended I rushed over, not to the nearest exit that was not a window, but to one of the many open computer rooms. From there I did two things. The first was rather simple: I printed out a map of the location detailed on the pamphlet. (Well, I printed ten copies, because apparently my fingers are clumsy and the A key is right next to the one key and this school does messed up math, but whatever.) The next thing I did was waste away an hour assaulting my homework until it was fully—if cheaply—complete.

Model student, that is me.

Students are all over Academy City after class, from the food courts that seem to spring out of thin air, to the arcades and stores that cover the business district from top to bottom. I mean, of course there’s a lot of cash to be made here. After all, something like 70% of the people in this town attend one campus or another. And students are known for being very responsible with their money.

It was along one of those crowded roads that I found myself after my work was done. Men and women mingled with boys and girls, a sea of colourful school uniforms plastered in badges and emblems from various clubs. Merchants called out for attention while the ritzier shops had music systems beating out light-dubstep rhythms that made my steps bounce.

I liked this place, in a weird way. I know that talking to strangers is not my forte and that I’m rather pessimistic at times, but there’s something about being in such a lively, active city that just makes your blood run hot.

So I got the heck out of there as quickly as I could.

The next bit of my story’s rather dull, and as any good (or at least half-decent) narrator would, I’m going to skip ahead. Suffice to say I got home, avoided any strange dark alleys, took a long shower, realized that all my clothing was composed of the same dull uniform, realized that I didn’t care, got dressed and ran outside just as the sun was starting to get a little low on the horizon.

Taking out my map—one of the few items I could levitate, since it weighs next to nothing—I found the quickest route to the outer edge of the city and began walking along, the path illuminated by hundreds of streetlights as I got farther and farther from the centre.

Someone could have planted a giant sign saying “Here be industry” the moment you crossed from one sector to the next. Dormitories turned into warehouses and open parking lots where semi-trailers sat in the twilight. Containers were everywhere and train railings cut through the streets—not those of the ultra-fast passenger vehicles, but trains made to transport cargo, the things needed to keep the city’s heart pumping.

It’s funny how you don’t really think about where the stuff you’re scarfing down comes from. Or your clothing. Or your technology.

As I slowed my pace down and walked ever onwards on the main road, I looked up to the stubby smokestacks and the many warehouses that were sometimes lit from within, not really perturbed by the darkness beyond the range of the streetlights. Maybe I should have been.

Something rustled behind me, subtle, like a leaf in the wind, but in my state of heightened nerves and full awakenedness (blame the shower and weird setting), I saw it coming. I spun around, my shoes scratching at the pavement. My feet were planted, forming a rough square around me, a solid base.

A leaf scattered on the pavement before the wind carried it on.

False alarm?

Or so I thought.