A Whole New World

A Whole New World – Chapter 1

It was suspense. It soon gave away to pain as the task was carried out – the punishment – the sentence.

Drip, Drip, Drip, splashed blood to the floor – my blood.

I did not cry out, I vowed not to. Only a coward cannot take responsibility for what they've done. But it wasn't the pain that was overwhelming, it was humiliation. Even us, the low – or the infidels – play by rules of honor, honor is very important. Some bribery prevented this from being worse – this could have been in public. I shuddered at the thought, but it continued – why are such corrupt people allowed to rule us?

Ever since the “Enlightenment” – no, that's those demons’ term for it – there was a different system of law. Such laws governed life, and held a communist-like grip on society. The good thing was, the punishments were quick, just a few minutes, rather than wasting years in jail, under the old system.
The seemingly cruel sentences were almost nothing, thanks to modern-day technology – obtainable by the black market. Only the squeamish were afraid of these sentences – those civil rights activists, democrats, and the entire left wing in general. In short – the ones that ruined us.

I was blindfolded during these moments, another testament on humiliation. Such people – damn them! – They gave us such a bad reputation! They do not have the slightest notion of honor, to know a man, will take responsibility – cowards! Now those demons think we cannot watch the carrying out of our responsibility without vomiting – humiliation.

In 16 years – my lifespan – I’ve seen more blood than all of those socialists combined. My colleagues would have probably done more than their fair share of killing.

In my mind, I cut to a scene when I uncovered an ancient book – in what were the remains of a library. It had been about the one – the traitor – unwilling and indecisive allowed those scattered demons to unite. The democrat – or socialist (those terms are synonymous nowadays), the one that made history, as the first… My mind trailed. I could not take the fact that our ancestors screwed up – so badly they did.

Drip, drip, drip – more blood flowed, but to a lesser rate.

They would make sure their victim did not die, how it was done, I had no idea. But their intent was to make the victim suffer – and leave a visible everlasting mark. An everlasting mark – that’s what mattered, not so much the former, but the latter – oh so much pain. Those demons did not keep criminal records – they did not have long arduous trials that would take years – they made marks, upon the body – permanent ones.

Although this is preferable compared to a jail sentence, it carried – for those in our profession – an overwhelming statement of failure. They took a knife and make a quick slash or two on the right side of their face, deep to scar the victim. Everyone’s mark was unique. This intrigued me – how everyone stayed unique despite the fact they kept no records.

The knife drove its course – it hurt – two slashes, not one. One through the middle of my right face, from the forehead down – another across my cheek. Here, my fate was sealed; I would be seen as a second-rate thief, no one would be able to trust me – unlike the golden days before. Trust, I thought, and the memories came flooding again.

I remember when I was still a child, maybe of nine or ten, I remember the Master telling us, just go and know that you can do it. To believe in yourself and not believing will result in certain death. I trusted that I would not screw things up, the many heists I pulled – amazed everyone. A child can manage such things!

It wasn’t like the old days, where you went up to someone with a gun and say “give me all your money!” If you did that, then chances are they have an automatic rifle rigged somewhere to shoot you. Thievery had become an art, an art of deception, trickery, and chance. With technology, everything must change – everything.

The story that was over a hundred years old, the story at the end of World War two, would be an example of what technology does. But the end, it was all decided by one thing, a paradigm shift. We could kill millions, flatten cities, and invoke the apocalypse with the push of a button.

The story of Nagasaki and Hiroshima was over a hundred years ago – it is wise not to dwindle on regrets, on the past…

To me, I felt humiliated, I wondered if the other people, with criminal marks – which was quite a few of them. I felt childish, I just failed once, and I can dust myself up and keep on going. No one can be perfect every time. But how I just hated to lose, I wanted to be the best – I must live on, to keep that promise that I made.

There was another sharp lapse of pain. The blood had stopped flowing, that means they sealed the wound. I kept thinking about that promise, and how I would fulfill it. My mind kept giving away to anger and thinking about how they had ruined it. It was for this black liquid that I was born in poverty, it was for that I had to steal and kill, for that I suffer – no, not suffer - humiliate myself, this I had to deal with for 16 years.

The blindfold was removed, and I could see, my right hand – bloody, and on the floor, completely disconnected with my arm. It seemed to have wiggled a bit, and the stump, carefully wrapped in a bandage, was bloody also. I also knew there were red streaks on my face – streaks of blood. The punishment for a thief – the hand that steals…must be cut off.

I wanted to vomit, but restrained myself – that will just give them more reason to humiliate me.

The law did not apply to just infidels, it applied to everyone, and just the harsher punishments were used on the infidels. To infidels, there were no alleviating circumstances – no exceptions – if you were found guilty, the deed was done, if you were a man, you did not complain. The case was different, if you were a socialist, or a coward.

What was worse would be the 20 mile walk back to the slums, in public. Well, I would be home. When I am home, it was done with. It wasn’t some lengthy jail term, the trial and the sentencing took less than an hour to complete. That didn’t cheer me up, tomorrow – I would have to enter Lux – the underground black market – and purchase a prosthetic hand. I would be welcomed by the thieving community with a mixture of sympathy – and of course, humor.

All throughout the streets, I was jeered at; tomorrow, I would be looking to set the score. As more distance was covered, my mind gradually sinked to deeper thoughts, calmer ones. Then the thing that never refuses to leave my mind – the promise.

Then, I remembered the old man – the master. The past, the records on which we dwell on – the collapse of Twin Rivers, the earthquake, the storm season, and then hyperinflation. We gave in to something that had seemed so successful – the fastest growing, and full of false promises. The ones who tried to stay true to ourselves were branded as infidels. To submit was an easy way out – cowardly. We do not solve anything by changing to an even more flawed school of thought. Those records – the records are the only link now, to realize what we truly are – free minded humans.

If it wasn’t for the promise, I might have given in, but I had chose to fulfill it, and rely on life-risking endeavors. Maybe it the promise that stopped me from doubting myself, and to push on. Numerous times I believed, numerous times I lived.

I kept on thinking about Roux – a diversity of people and places. Situated 10 miles below ground it was a long trek down. Amidst the exotic dancers, beer, and brothels – which I am too young to indulge was the Black Market. There, they are all criminals, yet some sense of trust, people exchanged goods, acting upon the laws of supply and demand. There – the sneakiest of them all were realtors – it was difficult to get property in Roux, real estate yielded high profits – at little risk.

Roux maybe had a population of fifty-thousand, a few of them were former business magnates who are concocting fancy Ponzi schemes. Others are smugglers, who import contraband goods from abroad. Then there were the merchants, honing their wares, from archaic daggers to the most unbelievably high-tech gadgets. Roux had plenty of inns, bars, and casinos – as not many were full-time residents at Roux. They say that if you stay under there for more than a few months, you lose your sanity, due to a lack of sunlight.

As a criminal – I was actually well-educated. I would spend time reading master’s old books. Daring criminals, daring heroes alike, to give me something to aim for. This gave me an edge, perhaps, my fear of being humiliated, my fear of failure. I usually trusted my colleagues for the brains, I provided the doing part – the practical part. But at the same time, I knew enough about the knowledge part of thievery to have everything click, everything made sense.

Thinking about that brought me to Qaiza, just few days before – with my partner. More like the traitor and I – Qaiza was a research and development firm. The building was completely white. On the inside there were four, one facing each direction, buildings, all connected to one central vault – which stored all of the chemicals the scientists needed for research. Each building was connected to the central vault by a large corridor.

At the very highest floor, floor 100 – the vault contained a metallic powder – not even a milligram to ever exist in the world. This would be my most prestigious heist to date. The plan was simple, smuggle myself into the corridor, steal a guard’s ID, take the elevator to the hundredth floor, take the metal, and escape. For weeks the traitor and I planned the task, he suggested that I use a bomb to blow up on a random exit, and the guard to that exit.

On the day of – I smuggled myself in by portraying a student (the traitor’s suggestion) and applying for a job as a secretary. But that would have meant that I was robbing Qaiza in broad daylight – but I had trusted him too much. The lady came to greet me at the mezzanine, she took me to her office on the fortieth floor. I asked for her name, but I received no response, it seemed like she was sedated or hypnotized.

I sat down, and at exactly 3 PM, my watch started beeping, I said sorry, to get a grunt as a reply. I had realized the possibility that something was wrong here – but no, my sense of danger did not pick up.

It was not actually set to beep – the beeping had been a cue to ensure most of the security measures had been disabled, for the next 15 minutes, any Researcher ID pass could enter the vault at the top.

In the beginning – I had wondered how Roux would see me, maybe not even with sympathy – for even if I had the best excuses. A failure is a result of your errors, not anyone else, this is why Socialists have never succeeded and never will. People turn to the government to take upon themselves their own mistakes, not taking it to solve it themselves. It is not that opportunities did not come to you – it is that you missed them and willingly so!

My memories came back to Qaiza – what could I learn from such an experience? According to plan, I knocked the lady out, with a bit of regret – which softened my blow. But it did not matter – underneath my cloth glove was a carbon-fiber gauntlet, I quickly snatched her ID pass.

Another complaint about socialists – the carbon-fiber gauntlet represents strength, no matter how much the strong spares the weak, the weak will always be weak. No matter how much regret I felt, however hard was that blow to make, she will always lose consciousness. The only way to spare her was not to strike at all, but it is necessary to strike – or it spells your own doom.

I took the ID badge, and headed towards the elevator. I looked at the floor plans on my watch – I was in the North building. There were two guards at the vault entrance on the fortieth floor. I asked for entrance, they asked for ID. I had prepared a modified ID pass, loaded with a stunning electric shock. I gave showed it to them, they leaned slightly closer to look at it. It was simple deception – while they were looking, I shoved the ID to one’s face with my left hand, and fired a stun gun into the other with my right.

I took the security guard’s ID. I glanced at my watch, seven and a half minutes – better hurry. With the security guard’s ID, I would be able to access the 100th floor. I rode the elevator to the 100th floor, knowing quite a few guards would be there.

The ride would take about two minutes, from the 40th to the 100th, ample of time to put on armor, a helmet, and get out a flash bomb. I found only three guards without gas masks – and realized this was too easy. I detonated the flash bomb and let out a vial of sleeping gas, then I opened the vault with the lady’s ID, it worked.

The vault opened, and there was what I wanted. I took the vial containing the precious silvery speck – a stable isotope of Roentgenium.

Here I realized this had been too easy – what could that traitor have planted me with. I knew – the bomb that could blow open titanium, in the vault, I searched it, and felt a tiny chip – GPS.

I knew that I had to do something. If I set it, it will detonate in 30 seconds, in 30 seconds – I can open the vault – make a dash for the elevator – but it will take me about 3 minutes to get to the first floor, ample time for them to be ready. I sent a code red – for another one of my colleagues to prepare a getaway car. I planted the bomb on the east door, and retraced my steps to the elevator.

I took the elevator to the second floor – the door opened, and a hundred armed men were waiting. Stupid – stupid… why did I not realize that you can just press a button to have the elevator open? I wasn’t thinking straight – but what choice did I have? I held my arms up – heartbroken and betrayed.

I had almost deserved it, I should have noticed when the woman appeared sedated. The fact that a bomb that can blow up and kill the guards on the other side of the wall was wishful thinking. In fact all of it was wishful thinking – when I was shown the plans, a long hallway – two guards – it was too easy.

Was master wrong? Was it flawed to make a plan with imagination? Hundreds of times I was told to have a good imagination. His library was filled with books about them . Maybe I relied too much on planning – but how can you expect to survive without one?

It was almost night time – the entrance to Roux would be open soon. First, I went to refrigerator, and got food and water. It was slightly difficult to open the zipper to my bag, as it is a job normally for two hands – I tried using my stump, but it had hurt. But eventually – I got it open.

I took melancrin and rubbed it where the knife had carved into, the scab healed, but the scar – the mark – remained. Melancrin – a fortune to buy, but a necessity, rapid recovery was needed for those who were wounded in heists. The poison at the tip of the knife counteracted anything and everything – it would leave a mark forever.

Memories returned about Qaiza. I finally found the problem. I was too immersed in my own goals to realize that the opponent has a cunning art too – their art of deception. Their art of catching thieves – is just as good as the art of thievery it self.

Then I thought – about the promise. How do I fill a promise to someone whom I believe is dead?

Await more! - The story will continue!