Oh, such luck. It’s just one of those days, I wonder as another cloud of icy breath slips through my lips—something that I envy I wish I could do now. Without another thought, I shove my fidgeting hands into my jacket’s pockets. Freezing? Fear? Who knows at a time like this?

“Hey? You listening? The boss asked you a question, punk.” Something metallic lightly taps the back of my head. I instinctively let out a shudder, something the boys chuckle at. “You’ve got a lot of nerve walking all by your lonesome through these parts of the town,” the one farthest from me circles around me, letting his bat hit the snowy concrete and dragging it behind me. Any moment now I expect him—any of them, to whack me—an action that never comes.

He’s right. You’ll never catch me dead walking around—especially not at a bad time like these. Looters, rioters… NOSP agents are up to no good, you never know what you might expect as the sun starts setting. “Not much of a talker, eh?” another one remarks. The posse laughs again.

Glancing around, besides their questionably fashionable jackets and excessive straps they wear nothing but black or green boilersuits. Most of their jackets are embroidered with extravagant slogans of all varieties. Ranging from army Legionnaire scribbling, anti-Federation messages like a caricature depiction of the Prime Minister with his head decapitated—you name it.

And then, of course, are their hannya masks with elaborate war paint color schemes. If memory serves me right…

Another jab from behind, I stumble forward. “Hey, hey, hey!” A woman off to my right taps my shoulder with a golden adorned bat, “anyone home in that head of yours? It’s freezing, but it ain’t that cold!”

—The Zero Nakamura gang, some kind of biker gang that happened to foster in this troubling, unforgiving city over the years. These misunderstood misfits range from your typical troubled youth of society to returning Legionnaire veterans—some are rumored to be as old as Mars combat veterans. The Zero Nakamura have clashed with the NOSP on more than one occasion; hell, I heard they were bold enough to raid a NOSP headquarters right in the smack of town.

“You know, when someone is talking to ya, you’re supposed to acknowledge them and humor them a little, no?” The woman says with a sneer, poking at my feet with her bat. I grit my teeth, clenching my fists but standing firm nonetheless.

“That’s enough, Emilie,” A large man steps forward, his bat eagerly tapping against his wide shoulders. His jumpsuit is partially unzipped, and his elaborate jacket flutters in the cold breeze. He’s nicely toned, to say the least. In comparison, I shudder and hug myself in the freeze. He has golden pompadour hair that nearly covers his hannya mask—and unlike the others, its horns are torn off, and a scar-like crack zips horizontally across the mask. His oceanic eyes seem to burst at any moment through the burgundy-matte hannya mask.

At first, the woman chuckles. But it takes a stare from the man for her to back down. “Sorry, Mountain,” the woman murmurs. And in a crunchy unison, Mountain’s posse widens the circle. And for a brief moment, a NOSP armored van wails by, blinding everyone with its siren. My eyes take some time to readjust, and in that span of a second the realization hits me; I’ve lost that minuscule window of opportunity to make my escape. No one comes to my rescue, no one to save a nobody. Nobody can save me.

“Listen, buddy,” Mountain speaks after adjusting his collar—not even glancing to check he’s in the clear. His burly chest heaves with each icy breath. “I’ll make this plain and simple for you—that jacket,” he points with his bat—more like a studded metal club—at me. “That jacket of yours,” his deep eyes look me over. “It’s nice, it seems cozy… it’d look great with graffiti, yeah? Maybe a bit of spraying here and there.”

I clear my throat. Snugging my jacket. Carefully wrapping my hands over my last resort to not arouse suspicion. One of the Nakamura boys squints at me but says nothing to the others. Is he catching on? “You know where I’m going with this, right? I don’t like having to spill things out with civilians. It’s not my thing. I’m a nice guy. Reasonable,” Mountain gestures with his club towards the snow. “Take it off,” he orders.

“I—I can’t,” I answer. Digging my heels into the snow. It’s just like how those overpriced lessons were. The Zero Nakamura merely chuckles at first—hesitation, maybe, not wanting to upset Mountain.

“And why’s that?” The Nakamura honcho answers. My hand fidgets, ready to brandish at any given moment. I don’t want to do this, it may not even work. I should run for it. I might be able to jump over onto the snowy canal below. Might hurt my legs a little, but it’s better than what I have coming.

“This jacket belonged to my old man,” I respond. The shivering only gets work. “I’ve had this for as long as I could remember,” it’s getting harder to talk, the coldness sweeps in through the jacket and makes me jitter with each passing moment. It’s like the only thing I have for an identity. It’s what makes me who I am in this godless wretched city. Possibly the only thing that keeps me sane.

The Zero Nakamura only laughs in response. “Ain’t that adorable?” One of the members cries out—Mountain lowers his metal club and rests both hands on it, undisturbed by the snow blanketing us and the peanut gallery.

“One of my boys needs it,” Mountain says, I follow his gaze to a younger member who only wears a black boilersuit, plain, mostly. He has a half-mask and short brown hair. He looks bewildered, and his bat is smaller than the others. “Poor momma’s boy ran away from home and hasn’t found his way yet in the crew—only his second day out on the prowl. You understand, right?” Mountain says, another icy mist escaping through his mask. “I want to do this the easy way—you part ways with your heirloom and we’ll be on our way.”

I only hug my jacket tighter, taking a step back. The circle encloses again. “Am I to take that as non-compliance?” Mountain asks. He blinks several times and raises one hand to gesture the others at me.

Extreme pain reverberates from my lower body. I let out a scream that nobody hears—a cry for help drowned out by the howling, uncaring wind. Then a sudden pull at my jacket as the Nakamura tries to pry it from me—all it takes for me to whip free and brandish my pistol.

“Get back!” I cry, my hands fumble from the pain and cold. “So help me god, I’ll do it!” I wave it around at the shocked Nakamura. The barrel points at several of the individuals—at Mountain, the woman, and then lastly the boy. The poor kid falls to the snow, his eyes widening by the second.

This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

“All it takes is one shot and NOSP will be over the scene like flies!” My lungs burn with each word. “Is that what you want? Is that what it’s worth over a goddamn jacket?! Is that what this city has come down to?!”

It’s a bluff. The pistol can be hardly qualified as a pellet gun—I could never be bothered even paying a pretty dollar for the ammunition. Those crazy bastards in Terra outlawed guns well beyond my time and expect spacenoids to live pretty little lives. And look at where that’s gotten me—this facade of a world into!

Several steps back, “nobody move—and I’ll be on my way,” I sneer. I grip the pistol as tightly as I can in this numbing cold. Just a few more steps—and I’ll be on my way to—

I nearly black out as I crash to the snow bedding, insane pain prevails from my lower back. I hear a grunt as the pistol is kicked over the railing.

It failed. I’ve failed. The Zero Nakamura hone in on me like vultures and beat me senseless—ripping my prized jacket off me. Soon enough, only the snow is left to bring me solace as my back becomes a practice target for the Zero Nakamura.

But this feeling of twisted paradise doesn’t last long. I’m propelled up from my snowy grave and given the full-frontal treatment. I can’t wrestle away, I can’t so much as turn. It’s as though I’m lobotomized, hanging only from the hydraulic grips of several Nakamura members keeping me upright. My vision blurs in and out—and all I can make out is Mountain standing from afar, resting with his metal club as his goons make work.

And the beating stops. The pain lingers—my knees give out, and the slayers of snow cushions my collapse. Painful gasps escape me as I realize the only breathtaking thing about this city—the pure, blissful snow now stained crimson. I slump forward—but my hair is pulled back by the woman. The Zero Nakamura remarks something to one another, and the young lad steps forward.

Someone helps him raise and shadows him as he practices swinging his bat. We make eye contact—time has frozen for the two of us. He takes one foot forward, then the other.

The bat shakes in his hands. He’s as scared shitless as I am. But in my case, all I desire now is death—an end to this torture. Most of my life has been varying degrees of suffering. All I’ve wanted is a paradise—and maybe this kid and his bat is the key to it.

My heart beats rapidly… progressively, as the kid takes a few more steps. I can’t make out anything else anymore. My vision narrows to just the kid and nothing else. The world is a blur, and soon enough it won’t be even that. To be done in like this—is merely misfortune. Even as a child I faced nothing but hardships… in these fleeting moments fueled by pain and misery I can only wonder if I ever truly experienced a genuinely happy moment in my life. I’ve never once considered suicide—I merely soldiered on, for my sake and my parents.

Where did I go wrong? Where did they go wrong? They did their damn best. And I’d fault them over nothing. I can only wonder how I should apologize that I’ll be seeing them sooner than expected. I have no idea what I should say or do. I failed to carry on with their dreams of getting to space. I’ve never been religious, much less believed in the afterlife.

As the kid raises his bat over his head, I close my eyes one last time. I draw what may very well be my next breath, and ponder; maybe in the next life, I’ll live in a world where I and others can achieve our dreams with ease.

My shoulders suddenly light, and I find myself once again embraced by the snow. I can make out shouting—just barely—and a stampede through the snow—it’s not long before it fades and ringing takes over. My head throbs relentlessly.

Using what energy I can, I crane my neck and see a pair of black boots in my periphery. I hear nothing but muffles drowned out by the ringing—and as the ringing stops, I can hear a man’s voice. This person seems to shake me, and I’m slowly but surely coming back to my senses. A surprise, given the shock I’m enduring.

I’m cold. I’m so cold. I want to say, but the words never form. Whoever this person is—it could be an angel for all I know—they sit me up straight and pat me down. My battered mind only simply wonders. Are they another thug? Perhaps someone chasing after another’s prey? Are they operating alone? Who of all people could scare off the Zero Nakamura?

My vision is still blurry, they face me and pat my frozen cheeks. Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere? The words slowly come to me. Questions I try to answer, but the dizziness makes it hard to formulate an answer.

They get up and shuffle around as if looking for anything valuable before coming back to stand in front of me. They pat my cheek—roughly, this time—and out of reflection I slap their hand. The man pulls his hand back and chuckles—and, oddly enough, that is enough to jolt me to life.

“Am I dead?” I whisper, squinting as I stare up at my angel retrieving my soul. Maybe the last couple of seconds were hallucinations. Maybe…

The man ponders—a little chuckle. He only grins, extending a hand out to me. It’s practically… the single nicest thing someone has done to me in my life. Someone who notices me… who offers their support—if only briefly—to someone whose life is literally on the thread. I must be dead.

But his words defy that. Truly, this man is a magician, capable of reviving a pathetic little fool straight from his frozen tomb.

“No, you’re not dead,” the mysterious stranger answers “so… er, this may be an odd time to ask, but… what’s your name?” My eye ducts are frozen the moment my emotions attempt to pour out of them. And yet—and yet, my body is warm. It blazes as fiery as ever, like a phoenix igniting its surroundings in a fiery blaze of reincarnation.

My name? A question so mundane—so typical, but for me, it feels like being asked a million-dollar question. I cannot even remember the last time I’ve been asked my name—the last time I even recall ever thinking about my name.

It’s almost like the first time I’ve genuinely been asked the question. A question so simple in its very nature, yet colorful.

My name…?

“Shin,” I splutter; we lock eyes as my lips tremble. “Shin… Araki.” I use what little strength I’ve regained and clasp his offering hand.

“Shin Araki,” the man repeats, nodding and smiling. Just hearing those words uttered by another gets me riled with emotions. We work together slowly, keeping me on my feet. But I nearly fall over—to which the kind individual is quick with carrying me by the shoulder.

It doesn’t snow as much. The night feels calmer. Like a still moment. A moment that I couldn’t express to this kind stranger. The familiar silence makes me at ease—my body disperses all negativity. The kind warmth of this man is my spell over this hellscape we live in.

“I…” the guardian angel looks at me in curiosity. He seemingly takes a moment to answer, perhaps coming to the same contemplation one way or another. “I never got to ask for yours… your name, I mean.”

A long trail of silence follows. Dawn begins to break, and I see for the first time a colorful view of the world. Our word. This world that Shin Araki and this man of integrity soldier on through. And the man ponders, concentrating full speed again. Where were we going? It didn’t matter.

And like the snap of a finger, I’m brought back to reality when the angel clears his throat—perhaps out of embarrassment. I’ll never know, it doesn’t matter. “My name,” he begins, “is Karwoski.”

Karwoski… it’s a name that practically imprints itself on me. Struck by profound eureka, I spring free of Karwoski and find myself rejuvenated—Joy? Adrenaline? My mind races at such an exciting speed that I have no idea what it could be. Whichever the case, I find myself struck by awe, extending a proposition of sorts to the equally captivated Karwoski.

“Karwoski!” I proclaim, oddly caught in the moment by my sudden excitement, “I present to you this: the two of us, binding together to fight and survive in this city! One’s back to the other—brothers-in-arms in this unfateful world!” Karwoski, thunderstruck by the bewildering question, stumbles back and nearly loses his balance.

Karwoski scoffs and gets up to take my offer by the arm. This mutual promise is predestined for the two of us—for Shin Araki and Karwoski.