Kingdom City: Resurrection

Kingdom City: Resurrection by Ben Ireland

Copyright © 2014 by Ben Ireland

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher. For information visit www.xchylerpublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, descriptions, entities, and incidents included in this story are products of the authors’ imaginations. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, and entities is entirely coincidental.

Published by Xchyler Publishing at Smashwords,

an imprint of Hamilton Springs Press, LLC

Penny Freeman, Editor-in-chief

www.xchylerpublishing.com

1st Edition: February, 2014

Cover and Interior Design by D. Robert Pease, walkingstickbooks.com

Edited by McKenna Gardner and Jessica Shen

Published in the United States of America

Xchyler Publishing

For Trish, because everything.

Mamiya Mitsuno stirred but couldn’t open his eyes. Nearby, a voice whispered his name.

He can’t hear you, a woman hissed with irritation.

Somebody’s fingers snapped close to his face. Are you sure?

Mitsuno tried to surface from the fog which enveloped his body. His skin prickled with gooseflesh. The place must have been a large, empty room, from the way the voices echoed. He shivered from the cold. Where the hell am I? Get up, dammit.

The man’s voice moved closer, a shadow darkening Mitsuno’s eyelids. I think his hand just twitched, he insisted.

Involuntary muscle spasms can be expected in all the patients. Don’t let it disconcert you. He isn’t aware of his surroundings.

Like hell I’m not! Mitsuno tried to shout, though no sound escaped him.

The woman yawned. Just begin the amputation and we’ll see if he responds. I haven’t seen one feel it before.

Amputation? Mitsuno’s mind spun. He heard her pen clicking rapidly. It was a moment before he realized she was pushing it into his forearm, hard.

See? He’s unresponsive. We’ve got three more to do before four, and I need to teach you how to do it right. There are more coming soon.

More? the man asked. How do they, you know, end up here? What makes them different?

The injection only works on about one third of them. The rest are disposed of. If the body survives the initial shock, they are delivered here. We have to keep them on life support until the body recovers, and in that time, we are able to perform the replacement.

So, there is only a certain period of time during which the surgery can be performed?

Surgery? What blasted surgery? Mitsuno’s heart pounded in his chest.

Yes. She didn’t sound like she had much patience left. And like I said, we have four to do today, so shut the hell up and pay attention.

Okay, the other speaker mumbled. Mitsuno heard shoes click, the sound moving away from him. Something heavy and metal scraped across a table. The left? the man asked, his voice echoing from across the room.

Yes, every time, she responded. Mistuno felt the pressure of a strap against his forearm and heard the clinking of a buckle. No more than five centimeters below the elbow. Right here, she said. Her hot breath fell on his bare abdomen as she bent over him.

The sharp rasp of a bone saw filled the air, drowning all other noise.

The blood began to thump desperately in his head. Again, he tried to speak, to shout, to demand what the hell they meant by ‘amputation.’ He couldn’t understand what he was hearing, but he knew he couldn’t lay there waiting to find out. He ripped and tore at his arms and legs, willing them, begging them to move, yet they did not comply. For the first time in his life, his body let him down.

Mamiya Mitsuno’s chest clenched in terror as he comprehended what was happening. He could only lay there, paralyzed, listening to the wet scream of the saw as it tore into his flesh.

Blake and Julian came upon the rusted fence as a small breeze whispered through the woods around them. A night owl hooted in the darkness and Julian gasped. Blake laughed and hit him in the arm.

The wire had been bent out of shape so many times by trespassing teenagers, it offered little resistance. Blake pressed the loose wire upward as he crawled underneath, soaking his pants in the wide, cold puddle between the roots of a ghost gum. He groaned at the thought of the lecture he was sure to receive for ruining his jeans, and ducked his head, reaching for a low branch to pull himself through to the other side. Julian grunted as he wriggled through the fence behind him.

Tonight is the night, Blake thought with a smile. He turned at the sound of a branch snapping behind him. Ouch, Julian exclaimed as he clutched at his palm.

Five inches taller than Blake, Julian’s gangly frame often caused him to be clumsy. He sported unattractive, unkempt hair, and his clothing always had an odd, grey tinge to them. Blake, with his strong hands and wide shoulders, considered himself a natural athlete. He kept his straw-colored hair messy, too, and thought he managed to make it look cooler than Julian ever could.

Emerging from the brush bordering the woods, Blake took in the sight around him. Though he’d never seen the mines before, he recognized the scene immediately from all the stories he had heard. To the right, the large ‘Caution: Open Mine’ sign was tethered to the uncommonly tall chain-link fence. The rising moon hung behind it, casting long, diamond-shaped shadows on the gravel road in front of them. Blake stepped quietly past the chained, barbed wire-topped gate, his breath forming white clouds in the moonlight.

Glancing over his shoulder to make sure Julian was still there, he strode across the road as silently as possible. Julian followed. If he made an effort to be quiet, Blake couldn’t tell. His friend hopped, trying to keep up with him as he wiped his bloody hand on his pants.

Sneaking into the mines was a rite of passage, essential if you wanted anyone in school to take you seriously. Julian claimed he’d accomplished the feat seven months earlier, on his sixteenth birthday. Today was Blake’s birthday. He grinned, clenching his teeth, holding back an excited laugh that threatened to escape. No one had attempted to sneak into the mines since the Blue Friday attack.

The loss of three thousand police officers, six months prior, had devastated the people of Kingdom City. Blake even knew some kids whose parents had died. He didn’t feel sorry for them, though. His father had died before he could remember and his mother worked all the time. He was used to taking care of himself.

Blake wanted to make sure the first attempt since the attack was a memorable one. Jackson Denning, who always carried the hunting knife he had stolen from Mr. Moore, had made it all the way to the rusted elevator that led to the lower levels of the mine. Blake planned on making it farther. He would go to the lower levels, even if he had to hold the flashlight in his teeth as he climbed down the cable. He would be a legend.

Tonight is the night, Blake thrilled again. Julian caught up and stammered in a low voice, Dude, my mum’s gonna kill me when she sees my pants. She only goes to the laundromat once every two weeks, so if I get anything on them, she’ll go nuts. She gets psycho about stuff like that, you know?

Blake tried to hide his grin.

Don’t bother, man, said Julian, resuming the argument which had been interrupted when they crawled under the fence. Hank said that Jackson Denning said the floor, like, collapsed when he left. Had to run for his life. There’s nothing after the entrance but a massive hole. Jackson Denning was lucky to get out alive. Julian panted from the effort of hiking and whispering at the same time.

Coming to a row of tight, thorny brush, Blake moved forward purposefully, pushing the branches aside, ignoring his friend. He could see a cliff face jutting upwards like a knife blade sticking out of the earth, hiding the entrance to the mine. Unable to contain himself any longer, he started to jog toward it, the gravel crunching under his size tens. Julian whimpered and picked up the pace, his long legs eating up the ground until he was next to Blake again.

Mum’s gonna kill me, Julian grumbled.

Blake spoke without turning. "Jackson Denning just doesn’t want anyone else to get in as far as he did. That story is crap. When I tell Miranda Thomas how far I got in, I won’t leave out the part where you turned chicken-shit on me before we even made it to the cave."

Shut up. I’ve already been in. I don’t have to go again. He looked nervously over his shoulder.

Spoken like a true coward. Blake smiled at him, his lips slipping back from his teeth.

He watched Julian square his bony shoulders, trying to hide the anxiety on his face. He almost laughed at him, then thought better of it. Blake wouldn’t admit to anyone that he was afraid to go into the hole alone. Still, it was time to make a name for himself. He swallowed as the mouth of the mine came into view.

What the hell?

I told you it was caved in, Julian said with an air of relief.

The entrance, unmistakable from all the stories Blake had heard about it, lay gagged with large stones.

What the hell am I supposed to do now? Blake kicked at the ground, gravel skittering away from his shoe. Quickly recovering from the initial shock, Blake smiled—this could be a bigger story to tell. He pulled his flashlight out of his pocket and clicked it on. The small circle of light danced back and forth over the heap of stones as he scampered up to the top of the pile.

 There, look. I can see inside. He pointed to a small gap in the rocks in the upper right corner of the entrance. Sliding the flashlight back inside his pocket, he hefted a rock and threw it over his shoulder. I can climb in if I just move these.

Blake’s gaze flicked down as he heard the loose stone beneath his feet start to move, and he fell. His head spun in a split second of weightlessness. Pain exploded up his leg as he landed on his knee, taking the breath from him. He knelt there for a moment, letting the agony ebb, and then stood, ignoring the fiery throbbing in his limbs.

He breathed in deep and recommenced removing the large stones. He was sure the knee of his pants was split. They were his birthday jeans, but he dismissed the thought quickly. He’d been sixteen for exactly twelve hours now. Mum’s wrath would pale in comparison to the cheers he’d get at school.

Blake shook his head with disgust. He was beginning to think like Julian.

He looked over his shoulder. You don’t have to help. It’ll make the story cooler when I tell everyone I moved the rocks myself.

Julian gave Blake a slack-jawed stare. Then he clicked his tongue and walked over listlessly. Taking the closest rock, he threw it to the side.

But it’s caved in, he whined.

Might as well get something in exchange for your bloody jeans, Blake teased with a smile. Or not. You can just keep on bleeding and I’ll tell everyone tomorrow that it was your biggest contribution.

The gap in the rocks increased as Blake and Julian grappled with the small boulders. The work was tedious and seemed to take forever. Blake’s mother rarely rose early, but at this rate, he wouldn’t be home until after she woke up, and he would not receive a warm welcome when he did. The police would probably already be there.

Shadows in the darkness beyond the stones shifted and Blake paused. He was sure he didn’t see it, didn’t see eyes looking out at him. Hey, Blake said, his heart suddenly jammed in his throat. I think I saw something in there.

Despite the cold air, Julian wiped a drip of sweat from his face. His eyes widened as he scowled at Blake. His breathing turned asthmatic. Come on, Blake. Let’s go. This is dumb.

Ignoring him, Blake pulled the flashlight out of his pocket again and shone it in the small gap.

A face stared back at him.

Blake took a stumbling step backward but maintained his beam of light. The blank, yellowed eyes of a man watched him. He appeared to be sleepwalking, his face twisted from some agonizing dream. Groping blindly at the rocks, the man slipped, his face disappearing from the light. Fear spread across Julian’s expression as a tremulous whine escaped him.

They could still hear the man beyond their own whimpers—stumbling, trying to reach the cold night air beyond the barricade. The sound of a thousand whispers reached their frostbitten ears—more people in the cave, trying to get out.

The man’s face appeared again at the edge of the mine’s opening. He screamed, his mouth stretching beyond normal bounds, the shrill sound hideous and childlike. A hand reached out from the hole, barely missing Blake’s collar. With a yelp, Blake fell backward down the pile of boulders, shredding the back of his shirt. He could feel the bursting heat of opening lacerations.

A rock dropped through Julian’s trembling fingers as Blake lay in the dirt, shaking. Louder now, they could hear the crack of tumbling rocks, and the moan of a thousand voices, echoing cries of pain and confusion.

Julian bolted.

Scrambling to his feet, ignoring the pain in his back, Blake followed, his feet slipping on the stones. Julian fell to the ground as Blake shoved him out of the way, making it to the fence first. He felt the metal press against the scratches on his back as he crawled on his stomach through the mud to the other side, sobbing sounds of panic escaping him.

Fat drops of rain began to fall before they reached the road. Within minutes, torrents of water began to run down the rocks at the edge of the forest. The boys hurriedly mounted their bicycles. They did not stop to say goodbye at the bridge. Julian turned left and disappeared beyond the orange, rainy haze as Blake turned right and raced home in the cold, stinging rain.

Autumn hardly had time to think, and she liked it that way. She took a deep breath, suppressing the thoughts which threatened to surface in those brief moments of silence.

She looked through the kitchen window at her unmown front lawn and untrimmed hedges. Somewhere close by, a dog barked viciously. She looked around for something else to do. The old porcelain sink was clean, the pale ceramic tile was swept, and the laminate countertops were bare, except for the breakfast essentials. The coffee was brewing, the toast down, the eggs hissing in the pan, and the lunches packed.

Dangerous.

She looked down, hoping there was something she’d missed. She was already fully dressed in black t-shirt and jeans and running shoes. She pulled her long, auburn hair into a tight ponytail, pausing to inspect the split ends. Stacy, her best friend, would tell her she needed to cut them off. She didn’t care. She moved about too much at work. It made taking care of herself practically pointless. Getting ready for her job was too easy. It wasn’t enough to distract her.

She maneuvered the dishwashing stool into its corner between the refrigerator and the wall. The small, old media feed, the hologram wavering unsteadily in the air, muttered something about the Blue Friday tragedy, six months ago today.

She didn’t need to be reminded.

No one needed to tell her that every officer that worked for her husband, Paul, had been victim to a senseless terrorist attack. To remind her that he, the Chief of Police, had died, too. Autumn could still hear his voice through the phone, rasping from dust, saying that he loved her, that he loved their babies. Even after six months, she still woke up screaming for him to hold on while she got him out. Every time she went to sleep, he was still there, trapped, calling to her, choking out the words, I love you.

She looked at the plaque the city had given her, and all the other spouses, at the commemoration ceremony.It hung on the kitchen wall next to the blank square screen of the videophone.

Funeral.

Next to the plaque hung a photo taken at their last picnic. She studied Paul’s exasperated face as it grinned at her from behind the small window of glass, his dark hair cropped policeman-short atop his square, handsome face. Her arms encircled his strong neck, clinging to him as if the universe were held in place by his presence.

In the foreground, their daughter, Amber, waved at the camera, black hair framing her fourteen-year-old face magnificently. She wore jeans, a blue tank-top featuring a cartoon cat with a bow in its hair, and a mischievous, toothy grin.

Paul held their son, Michael, in a headlock to ensure he did not move until the definitive click of the camera sounded. Michael was two years older than his sister. His hair was lighter than his father’s, and much shaggier, tousled locks falling over one eye. He glared at the camera, though looking closely, she could see the tiny smile he tried to hide.

For bravery and service

far above and beyond the call of duty.

Paul F. Stevens.

Chief of Police—North Quarter

Kingdom City

The plaque was different from the others that had been handed out, larger and mounted on oak. It’s the least they could do for their Chief of Police. Not like anyone else lost a loved one that day.

The only other picture on the wall was a photo of Autumn with her paternal grandfather Kaberry. She was nine at the time and stood next to him in his wheelchair. He was laughing, his eyebrows rising high into his wispy white hair as Autumn leaned over to kiss his scruffy, wizened face.

Despite the brown hue of the old photograph, he was obviously blushing. Her grandmother had passed before Autumn was born, and it seemed he had taken a special interest in her as the only woman left in his life. Autumn’s mother had no interest in a relationship with her father-in-law, or anyone at all, really. But Grandpa Kaberry was doting and kind, and more than anything, he was wise.

The day he died, he had bequeathed her a pair of handmade samurai swords. He knew how much she loved the style of ancient weapons, and they were works of art. They sat in the glass display case above the fireplace in the living room. She reached out and touched his wrinkled face, wanting so badly to ask him for help, for advice on how to deal with the loss of someone she loved so much.

Dangerous.

She ignored the babbling media feed in the background. She didn’t need to be reminded how many days it had been since she had lost Paul, but it had still come as a surprise when the device woke her up with the words.

One hundred and eighty-two days.

Walking back to the counter, she sliced a banana into the blender, followed by soymilk and protein powder. The toaster clunked, startling her from her thoughts. She threw the blackened toast on a plate on the table and put in two more pieces of bread.

The reporter on the media feed, Henry Something-or-Other, droned like a lawnmower. She caught the hologram out of the corner of her eye. The caption for the image read: ‘Phillip Montgomery: Reportedly Killed in Blue Friday attack.’ The reporter sat on his red couch across from his guest. They must have been showing some old footage from just after the explosion. Autumn didn’t know anyone had survived, but apparently someone had. She hadn’t paid much attention to anything for a while after Paul called her that one last time.

Mum, where’s my shoes?

Thank the stars, Autumn thought, grateful for the interruption. Her daughter thumped down the stairs. Only fourteen years old, she was the most beautiful young lady Autumn had ever seen—not that she was biased. She had her father’s black hair and absorbing blue eyes. She wore the Yarra High School uniform’s blue and white plaid skirt and white collared shirt, and a blue bow in her ponytail.

By your bag. Autumn pointed to the pink backpack sitting expectantly in the entryway. Michael, she called, time to turn off that game and get ready. She glanced hopefully up the stairs, looking for a response from her son. None came.

Can I help?

She almost tripped over Amber, who had moved silently in front of her to scrutinize the plate of blackened toast, a forced look of appetite on her face. Autumn took in a sharp breath. My goodness, you can be sneaky when you want to. She wasn’t often startled so easily.

In a minute, Mum, a voice called out from upstairs.

The eggs started to crackle angrily. Autumn composed herself.

You don’t have a minute. Hurry up—Amber, butter the toast for me, will you?—Michael! she shouted.

Mum, he whined.

Michael. Get your butt down here.

Hang on.

I got your report card, mister.

Autumn heard Michael swear under his breath.

Her daughter retrieved the toast and put it on a plate. Jam, she said with a nod as she turned a piece of toast over in her fingers. Lots of jam.

Autumn pulled a plate out of the cupboard and dumped the contents of the frying pan onto it. At least the eggs weren’t burning anymore. Paul had always liked his eggs a little overcooked.

Damn it. Even when she was busy, he could still find his way back in.

Autumn heard Michael’s computer game continue to scream and rat-a-tat upstairs.

Now! she shouted.

All right, geez, he retorted, but the shooting didn’t stop.

Frustrated and tired of arguing, she walked swiftly to the pantry. Reaching inside, she opened the breaker panel and, from repeated use, found the upstairs fuse easily. She flicked it off, then back on. The canned gunfire in her son’s room abruptly ceased.

Fine, I’ll come down, Michael yelled from upstairs.

Closing the pantry door, Autumn turned and collided with Amber. Amber spun with the movement and turned it into a smooth back walkover as her breakfast clattered to the floor. She stuck the landing in the entryway, snapped her legs together, and raised both hands above her head in a perfect gymnast’s pose. She ignored the toast and plate that was now broken on the kitchen floor.

Autumn grinned, despite what the impromptu gymnastics had done to Amber’s hair. Footsteps thumped, louder than necessary, down the stairs. The lowest step creaked, as usual.

Michael rounded the corner and stepped into the kitchen, his hair as deliberately messy as ever. Dad let me play the Gamestream before school.

He wore the standard uniform of a blue polo shirt and a new pair of khakis. Autumn didn’t have a lot of money to pay for clothes, so Michael had started doing yard work for the neighbors on weekends. Before too long, he was maintaining every yard on the street. If he wanted to spend his money on pants, Autumn knew there were worse things he could be doing.

His masculine jaw, currently clenched, and wide shoulders belonged to someone much older than sixteen years. He raised his chin as if noticing her for the first time. I’m ready.

There was a crunch as he stepped on the broken plate.

Dammit, what the hell is this? He hopped backward, holding his foot.

Are you okay? Autumn asked immediately.

Michael hopped out of the kitchen and sat down on the stairs to draw out the needlelike sliver of plate, throwing it back to where it came from. He removed his sock. A trickle of blood made its way down the sole of his foot.

Can I stitch you up? Autumn asked.

Oh, can I? Amber volunteered. I’ve been dying to try it on a real person.

No, and hell no, Michael said. Just hand me a bandage. He glanced up and added, Please.

Autumn took one from the first-aid kit in the pantry and handed it to Michael. He put it on the cut and replaced his sock.

So, what did we say about your grades? Autumn continued.

Michael glowered at his sister, who grinned from ear to ear as she spread jam liberally on a fresh piece toast. What’s her problem?

Focus, Michael.

The media feed mumbled relentlessly in the background.

The commemoration speeches, surviving spouse fund, all the look-good, meaningless shit the city put on so people wouldn’t complain. People like their meaningless shit, it gives them something to do. It makes them feel like the Suits that don’t even know them care about their feelings. Too much noise. Autumn commanded the media feed into silence.

Yes, focus, Em, Amber said sagely.

Don’t call me that, Amburger.

Autumn handed one of the charred pieces of toast to Michael. could feel another weak day beginning. She had hoped she was past them. She unplugged the toaster and tossed it across the kitchen. It struck the wall with a clang and fell into the trashcan. She turned back to her children.

Michael, be nice. So, what about your report card?

Still stunned from his mother’s three-pointer with the toaster, he hesitated. I told her not to call me that.

Michael took a large, crunching bite, pushing his face into the toast until it crumpled, half of it falling back to the table. Amber let out a disgusted noise. He glanced at her as he bit into the toast again, and she stuck her tongue out at him.

Michael. Your report card.

I don’t know, he said through a mouthful of bread.

A ‘D’ in history is not acceptable. And I’m surprised at your firearms grade. You’re typically an exceptional marksman.

I suck, okay?

Autumn sighed, irked by his excuses. You do not. You just need to spend less time on that Gamestream and more time on homework, okay? And the shooting—no one likes a show off, but if you’re good, there’s nothing wrong with showing it.

Sure. He consumed another large chunk of toast, grinning as Amber made a disapproving noise. If you’ll let me practice my marksmanship here. He smiled innocently at his sister.

Autumn slapped the table and Michael stiffened. It’s not just grades the university looks for, it’s attitude. I know you’re good at combat, and I know you’re smart. Still, if you keep up this behavior, you will end up as a mall cop or a store clerk. I know you would hate that, but that’s where you’ll be.

Mum, I’m not going to end up behind a counter. Michael chuckled. My dad was one of the chiefs of police and my mum is the Whisper. I think I’m going to be fine.

Autumn shook her head. I can’t help you if you don’t help yourself.

I don’t need your help anyway. Michael took another bite of his toast.

You sure act like it, Autumn sighed.

Amber picked up her toast with two fingers and nibbled on it daintily. She inclined her head toward her brother. We all need help, Em.

Don’t call me that.

Michael, we’ll talk about this after school. If you don’t shape up, I will be taking your Gamestream away.

Michael opened his mouth, but her words seemed to sink in and he snapped it closed.

Autumn reluctantly put the lunch sacks in her children’s backpacks. The bus would be there soon. Maybe she could make them stay home from school. She could take them to the city baths for a swim. No—she could think these things all she wanted but could never let her weakness show on the outside. Her babies needed her to be strong. Autumn smiled humorlessly. She wouldn’t even know how to be weak, not in front of anyone, at least. She handed Michael and Amber their backpacks.

Hurry up and get going. She kissed Amber on the head. Love you. With a little more effort, she managed to wrap her arm around Michael’s neck in a loose headlock. She frowned at the slightly oily feeling that came away on her lips as she kissed her son’s hair.

Love you. Wash your hair tonight.

He grunted and tossed the half-eaten toast across the room and into the trash. Love you, Mum, he mumbled reluctantly but sincerely.

Amber smiled and returned the kiss to the air in the direction of her mother. Love you.

As her children walked out of the door toward the bright orange bus at the end of the street, Autumn almost crumpled, putting a hand on the counter to hold herself up. The silence blanketed her like thick smoke. Leaning against the sink, she watched Michael push his way past his sister through the narrow folding bus doors. Amber followed, chasing her brother up the stairs and swinging a kick at him. Then the doors closed and the bus left, carrying away the only distraction she had until she would leave to meet Stacy.

She turned her back to the window. She saw the scorched toaster in the trash, the broken plate lying halfway across the small room, the eggs that she forgot to feed her children, the empty chair that her husband used to sit in, the cup of coffee she still made for him every morning out of habit, the room, the hall, the vast, cavernous space that surrounded her in this cramped, one thousand square-foot mansion.

She looked at the clock on the wall. Twenty minutes. She could spare twenty minutes, and it would be the first time that week. I’m getting better. I deserve to indulge.

Autumn sank to the floor, her back against the cupboard. She pulled her knees tightly to her chest and let herself cry. The sharp edges of the small, obdurate diamond on her left hand dug into the flesh of her right arm. She let it hurt.

Autumn backed the SUV down the drive and stopped when she saw something move out of the corner of her eye. A large mutt with a mottled brown coat watched her from the lawn, baring its teeth. For a moment they made eye contact, its gaze unusually intense for an animal. As she started to back out again, the dog moved toward her, snarling and snapping, biting at Autumn’s front tire.

What’s got you so tiffed?

It followed her onto the street, continuing its futile attack. Autumn slipped the car into gear and drove forward slowly to avoid running it over. Eventually, she gained enough speed, and the animal gave up the chase. She watched the dog shrink in the rearview mirror as she drove away. It bounced up and down in the middle of the street, barking and turning in angry circles. She shook her head.

Autumn met Stacy on Third Street for tea every morning. Stacy always tried to get her to go with her to the places on Sixth, but the tea shops that far up the mountain were more expensive than she could afford. She walked up Empire Boulevard carrying her purse, the chill of night finally leaving the air. She topped the cusp of the small hill and saw the entire city stretched out around her.

To the west, the Funnel-Web Mountains rose a mile above the city. To the north and south, she could see the high, rocky legs of the range jutting precariously into the sky, embracing the city. Offices and extravagant houses, small spots in the distance, met the low clouds on the elevated terrain.

Empire Boulevard ended at the seat of government, the most prominent feature of Kingdom City, set high up the mountain. The beautiful, tall, pale buildings housed the administrative offices. The official name of the campus was the Municipal District, but few residents of Kingdom City bothered to call it that, most referring to it as ‘the palace.’ The architecture, with white stone and glass walls, reminded Autumn of a medieval castle, and set the building apart from the others in the concrete forest. The last vigilant strands of fog clung to the bottom of the mountain, obscuring a thin swath of the city. The structure appeared to be sitting on clouds.

Downtown lay glistening between her and the rise in elevation which marked the most affluent parts of Kingdom City. Autumn arrived at Third Street, catching a glimpse of the city gates before they disappeared behind the glass wall of a shoe store. The small houses and sickly trees gave the eastern part of the metropolis a neglected look. Empire Boulevard, however, was well-kept, all the way to the gates. Just beyond the high, thick walls, wheat-colored fields of the farms flowed in the morning breeze. Beyond them, nothing but desert could be seen until the earth gave way to the horizon.

As the third largest of seven cities, almost four million people called Kingdom City home. And as Autumn studied the rivers of concrete, listening to the murmur and flow of people and the rush of cars, it seemed as cold as an insect-infested graveyard.

She turned away.

A colorful confetti of tea shops and cafés greeted her as she turned onto Third. Stacy sat a short distance away, leaning back in her seat, her blonde hair carelessly hanging over her shoulders. She puffed the cigarette between her lips in a vaguely sensual manner as she watched the passersby. A loose, short dress, cut in a low V, exposed the curve of her breasts—the kind of dress Autumn would never dare to wear. Her cerulean eye shadow was artfully applied, and her already-luxurious eyelashes were laden with mascara.

As always, Autumn felt a small twinge of jealousy at her friend’s beauty. Every day, Autumn spent hours training soldiers, police officers, and teenagers in martial arts, while her smoking, drinking friend managed to be better-looking and skinnier. The