Runners, Chapter 1

First of all, she was covered in blood. Her hair was sticking together in clumps, and her clothes were saturated. What he found so strange, though, was her lack of injuries. She was hurt, for sure, but the inevitable conclusion he came to was that the blood was not all hers. He couldn't tell you why he picked her up. He couldn't even tell you why he went near her.

But he did.

She was laying on a pile of broken glass. It must have been a newer window; the shards were all crumbles. If it had been an old window, she would definitely had died. Lucky. She wasn't moving, but her bare midriff was moving up and down, slowly. Her eyes were open, just a bit, and he could see her pupils, though they looked milky and dim.

This was just the kind of thing you saw in this part of the city. If you tried to help every bloody body laying on the ground you'd have no time for anything else, and you would have contracted all manner of disease. You just shook your head and kept walking, and hoped you weren't next.

But he was drawn to her. He couldn't walk away.

He shot looks around the alley before he went over, glancing also up at the now-broken window she had fallen out of. It was a hell of a fall; in all likelihood the soft glass fragments saved her life. Whoever had done this to her was nowhere in sight, at least for now. If he was going to save her (save her? He didn't even know her. What was he doing?) he had to act fast. He knelt down in front of her, and his breath went short. She was beautiful.

There's different types of beauty. There's beauty that inspires admiration, that inspires lust. There's also beauty that just simply inspires. The woman lying bloodied before him fell into this latter category: as he saw her up close, he suddenly felt something welling up inside him. He couldn't tell what it was, but he could feel it in his stomach, crawling up until--

A red hand shot up and grabbed at his shirt, weakly. Her eyes opened up a little more, and something that was barely a whisper escaped her lips.
"Left. Four blocks. 775. Third floor."
"W-what?" he asked, nervously.
"Go...go now..."
He swallowed, and gazed at her for another moment. He felt it climbing his chest until he could barely breathe, as if the something was constricting his lungs. His eyes widened as it exploded in his chest, and he found himself picking her up and running. What had she said? Left.

01 - Morning

Colin let out a big sigh as the ambient sounds of his alarm eased him out of his slumber earlier than he would have liked. He went over to his computer and shut off the alarm, switching it to television mode and bringing it into the bathroom. He left the news on while he covered himself in a thin layer of antibacterial gel.

As he cleaned it off with a wet rag, he listened to the droll of what they called "news." It was all human interest stories; a person training their parrot to hold complex conversations, a particularly lively night at the local retirement center, the kind of story they put on when they had nothing important to talk about. That, however, was all the news ever had.

Next came a cream, rubbed into his hair to disinfect and style. He listened to (and glanced at, occasionally) an infinitely interesting story about a neighborhood's yearly bloc party in Sector 2. They loved to show Sector 2. Colin went to the kitchen and ate a daily morning ration; it was a crunchy, nutrient-rich bar that cleaned teeth and gave the body the energy and building blocks it needed to get it through the day. He looked at the time. He was early, just barely.

Colin walked the streets of Sector 3. It wasn't the worst part of the city by any means, but it wasn't paradise either. The sidewalks were dirty, the buildings full of graffiti, but the chances of getting stabbed or shot were statistically much lower than in sector 4. There was, to some degree, a steady decline of quality of life going down from Sectors 1 to 3 but once one reached Sector 4 one was really in a bad place. Sector 3 was at least somewhat secure, and even if something went wrong you could have the City Police there in thirty, forty minutes on a good night.

He pressed a button on the computer at his side, and a voice told him he was three minutes from his destination. He patted the bag he was carrying, idly checking to make sure his package was still there. Eventually he reached the clinic, and was greeted by the aging nurse.
"You're a saint, Colin. We really need this medicine."
"Its the least I can do. I'm just happy to have a job."
She handed him a meager sum, apologizing several times that she couldn't give him more. He assured her it was fine, and left.

Colin made a living delivering goods that were, in general, above Sector 3. He had a friend in Sector 1 (not a common thing) that was generous (definitely not at all common) and slipped him, quietly, medical supplies and other necessities that the people of Sector 3 couldn't afford. He would have really liked to take the stuff to Sector 4 but he would be killed within minutes for it. The only reason no one did anything about it in Sector 3 was that without him there would be no more. It was easier just to let the stores and the Clinic get the supplies and get them that way. Colin wasn't the only one doing it; but he was the only one that wasn't stealing the things he delivered.

Living in Sector 3, what you found was a general indifference; life was crappy, but what could you do? The Sector was dirty, but you had face-scans, you had clean air, and if you were willing to put aside personal pride you could even get a job. Not the worst place to exist in the world. Bad things happened, of course, but people didn't pay it much notice. You couldn't afford to care about anyone you weren't immediately connected to, so when Colin heard the window smash he didn't pay it any attention. He cared more than the average person but even he couldn't save everyone, and by the time he was headed home it was getting dark anyway.

But then his eyes crossed her, and in that moment his destiny was no longer his own.

He ran out onto the sidewalk, holding the bloody girl, eliciting disinterested gazes from the few people on the street. Four blocks. Feeling her weight, he walked now. What was he doing? He catches a glance of someone lying in an alley and five minutes later he's carrying her somewhere? What was this thing that was inside him, making him do this - no, making him want to do this. He had to. He just didn't know why.

775. It wasn't what you would call a spectacularly modern building. He took her hand, gently, and put a bloody fingertip into the reader, and the door slid open. Third floor.

"Uh...where now?" he asked, his breath labored as he started to feel the strain of carrying her all this way. She pointed to a door, weakly. Another fingerprint scan, another sliding door, and they were inside an apartment. The walls were a faded red, and there was almost nothing there. Seeing a tiny bedroom, he went inside and let her down on a stiff, musty bed. The thin sheet soaked up the sticky blood still on her body.

He slumped down into an old plastic chair, laying his head back. The last thing he needed was to be getting involved in this sort of thing. Whatever she was involved in, it obviously wasn't something he should be anywhere near. Not to mention, this wasn't a great part of the Sector to be in - fingerprint scans? You barely saw them anymore, even in Sector 3. They had to be close to the border, and he could feel instinctively it was too close. He looked at the girl, lying on the bed, her breathing stabilized, and knew it was too late to just leave her now.