Chapter 13: The Desire to Live

Two days after Yasha leaves, the populace ushers in the “Crown Prince’s” birthday. Lasting for an entire day, the enormous celebration also marks the end of the busiest time of year in the Protected Area.

But unlike the previous years, martial law doesn’t end with the arrival of summer. Rumor has it that the Lord Consul has run into some difficulties, that the previously suppressed rebels are undergoing a revival—but most people pay no mind. The rebels were whipped years ago. A resurgence is less likely than even trouble with the gangs.

Either way, it has nothing to do with 329.

All that occupies him is Yasha, always Yasha. 329 uses the new wristcom Yasha gave him to take photos of himself wearing those clothes. Not long after, Yasha’s response appears on the wristcom: also pictures, cartoon people with hearts for eyes, and photos of herself with lips pursed blowing kisses. She’ll say treacly but empty sweet nothings, and announces, frequently, how busy she is. The third week after she leaves, 329 starts to suspect that he was only dreaming that night, that he’d dreamed her asking him if he loved her.

329 brings up that night carefully. After long hesitation and repeated consideration, he asks Yasha if he can do with those clothes as he likes. “Of course!” says Yasha’s reply. “Like I said, they’re yours.”

She doesn’t say anything else. She still doesn’t return.

The sixth week, 329 decides to get rid of the excess clothing. Most of the outfits are too elaborate for normal wear. Rather than let them take up space in the dorm, he’d rather exchange them for credits. He knows of a black market nearby; the merchants there don’t care where the goods come from, or who comes to trade for them, as long as they make enough profit.

Credits from this kind of transaction are, of course, illegal, and can’t be used to repay an Exile’s debt, but they can be used on other things, like food, rent, medicine…right now, 329 doesn’t have any expenses, which means he can save the money. If you don’t squirrel away food during the abundance of autumn, you’ll starve to death in the winter. No matter how long the “autumn” might last, it’s always good to prepare.

It takes an afternoon to pack everything and prepare. At midnight, 329 leaves the dorm, taking the clothes with him into the twisting alleyways. He keeps the expensive garments in a rough, crude burlap sack, and walks for the places with fewest people. His first transaction is eminently successful; the merchant agrees to buy the clothes at a hundredth of the original price, and announces that he’ll give him an extra twenty percent if 329 sells all the remainder to him.

The black market doesn’t stay open for long; there’s not enough time to make the trip twice in one night. The second transaction takes place the next day. It goes smoothly as well, although 329 gets the vague sense that he’s being watched. He doesn’t actually see anyone, but out of caution, he decides not to continue to do business another day in a row. 329 spends a solid three days inside the dorm, and only ventures out again on the fourth.

The transaction goes without a hitch. He doesn’t see anyone on the way there. As he heads back at three in the morning, he finds his path blocked off.

It’s the narrowest point on the route. Really, it’s nothing more than the small gap between two abandoned buildings. 329 chose it because it’s so narrow that there’s no room to place surveillance. And precisely because it’s so narrow, a few wooden crates are enough to barricade his way, no room to go around them. 329 last passed through a few hours ago; if anything had been here then, he couldn’t have missed it. Who would move all this heavy stuff into the path?

329 shivers.

He pushes at the crates. They don’t budge. He immediately turns, takes a few steps—then freezes. The Protected Zone’s artificial moonlight shines down on the unlit alleyway, revealing a black silhouette at the mouth of the alley—like the crates, squarely blocking 329’s way.

“Hello?” 329 forces himself to sound calm.

His voice echoes in the empty alleyway. This place is remote enough that even a scream might not be enough to summon anyone.

The silhouette doesn’t answer; nor does it turn away. Whoever it is takes a step forward, allowing 329 to see the gun in his hand.

329 puts his hands up, indicating that he won’t resist. He waits for the man to slowly approach, expecting it all to be a misunderstanding, expecting the collar on his neck to dissuade the man from any unwise decisions. Exiles are property of the government. You can harm them, but you can’t kill them—anyone who does also becomes Exiled.

The silhouette walks closer. 329’s heart begins to sink.

The man clearly knows 329 is an Exile. In fact, he knows 329. His name is Johan. He’s a beta, 329’s coworker. A few months ago, Johan had yelled at a guest who’d tried to harass 329, then met 329’s thanks with disdain; a few weeks ago, Johan had watched Yasha bring 329 into the store, into the changing room, with the expression of someone regarding a maggot.

Even that time, a few weeks ago, Johan hadn’t looked as terrible as he does now.

They’re close enough now that they can see each other’s faces. Johan looks deeply haggard, like a completely different person than the staff member in the store a few weeks ago. His hair sticks up wildly; his eyes are bruised and bloodshot, as if he hasn’t slept. At the minimum, he hasn’t shaved his stubble in days. His hands shake. When he speaks, 329 catches a whiff of alcohol.

“You’re a whore,” he says, his voice trembling.

It’s not a new insult, even if Johan has never said it before. 329 doesn’t know if he should respond, so he remains silent.

“I saw…I saw. She fucked you in the changing room, you even kissed her! You let her do that to you! You bent over for the elites just for those pretty clothes, god! Just for some food, for a place to live, you caved?” Johan said feverishly. “You don’t even care, do you? You’ll fuck anyone, as long as they give you things, you won’t even resist!”

He brings up Yasha keeping him. He brings up several assaults by strangers. 329 is surprised he knows about all this. His silence doesn’t satisfy Johan, who presses the gun against 329’s chest, demanding an answer.

What can 329 say?

“Permit” others to treat him like that? He’s never had the privilege of “permitting.” Yasha comes and goes according to her whims; her boons are bestowed and withdrawn without rhyme or rhythm. 329 can’t request anything, and can’t refuse anything. Any citizen can freely torment an Exile; resistance only brings trouble. “There’s no use resisting,” 329 tries to explain. But Johan flies into a rage.

“That’s all? Doing whatever’s easiest, giving in to hardship!” He waves his arms wildly, his voice full of an astonishing despair. “Why don’t you fight them? You caved! Why couldn’t you hold out? Why?”

“Because I can’t,” 329 says softly.

“Of course you can! How could you not? You’re, you—”

This gunman begins sobbing. This grown man covers his face and starts to bawl. His bizarre reaction puzzles 329, and sends a wave of prickling fear through him. He carefully takes a step to the side. Johan lifts his head violently, thrusting the gun barrel against 329’s throat.

“You have no self-respect! A prisoner, a slave, a whore!” Johan bellows hysterically. “How can you live like that? I can’t take it anymore! If I were you I would have killed myself long ago!”

How strange. It’s 329 who’s lived through all this, yet a bystander says he can’t take it. Yes, his life truly is awful. He’s an Exile. He can’t have children or be marked. He’s lost half his life’s worth of memories. He struggles for life on the poverty line. And he’s fallen into the hands of an inscrutable member of the elite…If asked point blank, even 329 wouldn’t be able to tell you why he’s so determined to live. All he can say is that humanity’s ability to adapt is quite powerful. Even if you have to live in mud, you’ll find a way to live in mud.

Death is a release; it takes more courage to live. But only if he lives can he see the light of the artificial sun. Only if he lives can he see and hear birds flitting by the window. Only if he lives can he caress soft waves of red hair. For these small, unimportant things, he clings to the bramble vines on the cliffside. Even if he bleeds, he won’t let go.

Johan isn’t 329. 329 wants to live.

Johan sniffs hard, wipes at his face, then lifts his head once more. This time, he no longer looks despairing, no longer looks enraged, but somehow it strikes even deeper fear into 329’s heart. The muscles of Johan’s face spasm a few times, forcing out an ugly smile.

“I’ll give you release,” he says.

The gun sounds. At the same time, 329 drops to a crouch. The bullet grazes his hair and buries itself into a wooden crate. He awkwardly rolls on the ground, avoiding a second shot. Johan pounds out bullets without restraint, the gunshots deafening in his ears. 329’s palms and back are covered in sweat. The desire to live has him ducking and dodging in the narrow alley, trying to charge past Johan and escape. Flying splinters of wood split his skin. A bullet hits his leg. He falls to the ground.

329 stares at the gun muzzle in terror. He tries to crawl. He can’t move.

“Shh, don’t be afraid,” Johan murmurs. A martyr’s radiance flashes across his face. “I’ll uphold your good name unto death. We love you, we…”

“No!” 329 shakes his head violently. “I don’t want to die!”

“Shut up! Shut up!” Johan’s suddenly shouting. “You’re not that kind of man! They ruined you! You were once my idol, you once led the people of the entire lower city in revolt, your name should have been unimpeachable! Look at you now! No. That’s not right. You aren’t him. The Commander’s dead. How dare you wear his face—”

Bang!

First comes a hole, just the size of a fingernail, appearing on Johan’s forehead. Only then comes the bang . His corpse topples backwards, onto the ground, blood and brains spilling out. A line of light splits the air; the red-haired girl descends from the sky. Without taking time to gain her footing, she throws herself into 329’s arms.

329’s heart is still hammering. Everything happened too quickly. The relief of dodging death mingles with the terror of having been on the brink, leaving him shaking all over. How absurd: the people who hate him and view him in contempt haven’t done anything, but a person who claimed to love him wanted to murder him. How strange: the alpha who’d killed a man, who’d saved him in the nick of time, who’d displayed her might, is sobbing in his arms, trembling, even panicked and lost than he is.

After six weeks, 329 sees Yasha once again. Her arms wrap around him like a vice, as if trying to press herself into his chest cavity. Her teeth are chattering, her delicate frame shivering without stop. When she lifts her head, 329 sees a terrified face. The normally self-assured young aristocrat is bloodlessly pale, her eyes red from crying.

She looks like she’s in more need of comfort, even protection; this is enough to makes 329 calm down. Unconsciously, he strokes her back. The motion seems to jolt her back to herself. Yasha cups 329’s face, eyes sweeping up and down wildly, searching for any possible injuries. She discovers the bloodstain on 329’s legs; the red makes her cringe, as if burned.

“A petty criminal, how laughable…I nearly lost you, it’s all my fault, I’m a fool, an idiot, an imbecile, so close, the same mistake.” Yasha babbles to herself, her words fast and frantic, like a startled woodland creature. “I need to watch over you every moment of the day. No, I can’t leave you outside. Believe me, everything’s fine now, don’t worry. I won’t lose you a second time. No one will hurt you ever again. No one, no one ever, will take you from my hands.”

Her grip is too tight, almost painful. Not waiting for 329 to respond, Yasha takes something out and aims it at him.

White light flashes across his vision. 329 loses consciousness.