Predatory

Someone to Lean On

 "H-how much do you want to know?"

"Everything," Tarn said. "Tell me everything."

And I did! I don't know why I did, but I did! Everything suddenly came flooding out of me.

I told him about New Vos, but not the part he knew about. 

I didn't tell him about crystal palaces, villas overflowing with gardens and wealth, streets lined with gold paint that was so blinding you had to squint in the light, and happy sparklings clinging to their smiling, love-stuck perfect parents.

I didn't tell him about the beautiful opera houses, stunning sculptures, and cafe's that washed you over with the aroma of freshly made expensive desserts that everyone outside of the city could only dream of. 

No.

.

.

.

.

I spoke of the New Vos that no one knew about. The New Vos that I was from.

.

.

.

I spoke of narrow, wet underground streets lit only by dim, artificial light provided by grimey yellow lamps. 

I spoke of the dead bodies pushed to the sides of the street that mingled with the living ones outside of the spark mine that the council kept hidden from the rest of the world. And the appalling smell that came from the piles, and the scraplets that would scatter into different directions from their feasting site. Usually knawing away at some unfortunate nobody's finger. Dead or alive, it didn't matter. They looked the same.

I spoke of a people so dirty that you couldn't tell what color they originally were, nor could you even scrub the rust and dirt off of them anymore to find out from the years of dirt and impurities that had caked onto their armor. Their dull, rust-colored optics the only sign of color on their entire bodies.

I spoke of sparklings wandering the streets, who had been abandoned so long ago they didn't even cry anymore. They knew no one would ever come. So instead they huddled together in the streets, their solemn faces expressionless, with no word said amongst them.

I spoke of The Chasm, and the horrors of a place so evil even the Functionist council feared it. The place filled with the bones and hatred of the victims abandoned there eons ago after being thrown into the pitch blackness alive.  

I spoke of the air-ship docks, where dirty femmes would only come out at night to greet crew after crew of even dirtier mechs.

I spoke of the midnight rendezvous the council members and their "associates" would have at those docks with those femmes.

I choked up as I began to relate to Tarn everything that had happened, everything that had brought me here. And as I did so, I started to remember what had happened. A dangerous thing, remembering. My lips trembled as the words poured out. Words I had not said to anyone, ever. Not even to Flamecharge when she was still alive. At some point, I must have started crying, because my face was wet, and the salty tears were dripping down my lips and onto the floor.

I paused and looked up at Tarn. I doubted he wanted me to go on about a ramble that had little to do with our previous conversation. Yet he said nothing, and he prompted me to go on, so I sniffed, and then complied.

I told him about Flamcharge bringing me in off of the street, only to hide me in the opera house. About the optical lenses, about the seemingly endless amounts of white paint that I had to wear daily to cover up the unsightly soot color of the faceplate that I was unfortunately created with.