[r.Astro] Wicked little machines

The rough surface of the unforgiving ground scratched Keane’s face, sharp pebbles cutting into his jawline like little daggers. Lucky for him, he’d grown so used to the taste of dirt that its aversive texture and metallic tang had long since lost its adversity. “So what is it you’re looking to accomplish, aside from this generous free exfoliation treatment?” It was difficult to garner that sardonic grind that he desired, cheek pressed hard to the ground with the pressure of a boot on his skull. But being thrown off balance did not throw off his edge.

Unfortunately, that edge did little to turn his current situation in his favour. “You don’t fuckin’ deserve what little air this planet’s got left to breathe.” The Outsider spat and kicked Keane hard in the ribs. The impact of the boot suggested a steel toe. “What’re you even doin’ out here? Spotting to round up people like me to power your fuckin’ mansion on the bright Inside? Or maybe your car?” Each question was punctuated with yet another kick to the ribs, until Keane was unable to hold back a groan. “Or are you gettin’ some shit tonne of money from rounding up the less fortunate to make your big dome glow?”

“You know,” Keane craned his neck to look up at the man who threatened to crush his ribs with his boots at one wrong movement. With the midday sun a bright orb haloing him from behind, his features were indiscernible. “If I knew what the fuck it would take to make you clowns realize we’re all on the same goddamn side, I’d do it. But I can’t fucking help my heritage.”

“Yeah. Shame, ‘bout that.” The man moved his foot from Keane’s sore body, but maintained his threatening position with the strategically pointed barrel of a gun. It was an older model, probably older than Keane, himself. The kind that was designed to kill, not incapacitate. “Truth is, Haller, a lot more of us ‘clowns’ would be ec-fuckin-static to mount your head on a wall, since we can’t have your daddy’s. Son of a bitch died too soon; never had any idea what he did… If making you suffer for it is enough to make him turn in his grave, it’d be worth it.”

It was the same story, again and again. Keane was beyond tired of hearing it; he was downright bored. “Right. ‘Cause killing me is gonna solve all of your problems?” He was in no position to argue, but the words were already out, and kept coming, as they always seemed to. The strongest currency for bruises in the world, it seemed. “You want revenge and think I owe you something ‘cause I’ve got the blood of the man that’s responsible for your situation; I get that. But at the end of the day, it’ll all be the same; and whether I’m dead or alive, you’ll still be an Outsid—”

“Shut your damn mouth!” Another crack to the ribs by the toe of his assailant’s boot killed the words in Keane’s throat. “Lemme tell you something, smart-ass: there are a lot of people who’d pay big money for the opportunity to put you down for what your daddy did. More than the bigwigs pay for their own little human power supplies. That could sure make a difference in my sad little life.” Stepping out from in front of the sun, the man’s face revealed deep creases and graying hair that betrayed fifty years of age, if not more. If his filthy skin and presence among the detritus of this bygone city didn’t colour him an outsider, the plethora of bruises—from blue and fresh to yellow and healing—certainly did. “I’m not gonna be the one to kill you, boy. But I’ll make sure I benefit from your death. Now get up, real slow, nothing funny; just because I won’t kill you doesn’t mean I won’t make you hurt.”

Getting to your feet after being kicked while down was no easy task, particularly with the added attempt to hide pain behind pride. With great care, the thirty-year-old maneuvered himself onto his elbows, easing first into a kneeling position before making an attempt to stand. “You don’t suppose I could be really cliché,” he began, taking a chance and meeting his soon-to-be kidnapper’s gaze, “and tell you that you really don’t want to do this?”

“You can say whatever you want,” came the other man’s bored reply. “Doesn’t mean I’ll change your situation.”

“Well… for your benefit, I’ll say it anyway: you don’t want to do this.” The strained ghost of a smile that he’d been maintaining for the benefit of cushioning his ego dropped as Keane extended an arm, palm forward. A signal to stop. “Christ, isn’t there enough violence in what’s left of this world, already? If money is what you want, then let me help you. There are other ways, I can direct you to people—”

“Christ isn’t gonna come to your rescue.” The assailant spat. “Yeah, I’ll bet you ‘know people’. You think I was fuckin’ born yesterday? Now turn your ass around and move, no fuckin’ funny business. I’ve got some people who’ll be real interested to meet you.”

“Look, I’m not fucking with you! Just put your weapon—”

“What part of ‘move’ don’t you understand? Get going!”

“Just listen—”

“I said move!”

Keane stiffened and closed his eyes before he could see the gun go off.

Keane’s father was not responsible for the end of the world; it had been on its way out long before he was born, and his father before him. In fact, some argued he was the mind behind human survival.
Some. But certainly not the majority of what was left of the world’s population.

The struggle had begun hundreds of years before, with the threat of non-renewable resources nearing depletion. The domino effect of destruction had started with oil: tapped dry from every corner of the earth, mankind sought alternate ways to power their vehicles and alternate technology that didn’t depend on the precious earthen resource. Solar-powered energy had seemed like an attractive option, except for the day-night transition posing too great a problem for the technology and machinery that required extensive amounts of power, inadequately garnered during daylight hours. Wind and water power served somewhat as failsafes, on some occasions, but when the two elements failed any given area for days, sometimes weeks at a time, solar resources depleted far too quickly, leaving blue-collar homes to choose between heating their home offices during the day, or their bedrooms at night, and resulting in critically diminished hospital assets and services.

And that was not, by far, the worst. Life was trying, very touch-and-go when an unprepared world was forced to rely on the elements, after having turned its back on lending a thought to Mother Nature for so long. It fell chronically into jeopardy, however, when the very devices and machinery by which humanity survived continued to contaminate the earth with pollution, and direct sunlight eventually diminished globally by approximately thirty percent. Cities fell physically and structurally, one at a time, beginning in technologically prolific Asia, followed by Europe, Australia and North America at equally overwhelming rates, and finally South America and Africa, exploited for its resources so extensively that lack of power was only one of the many causes of its gradual decline. The energy-reliant population of earth was forced to find another more reliable, self-sustaining source of energy, or run the risk of extinction.

No one would have thought to look to their own bodies for the solution they desired. Not until young North American biochemist William Haller offered the hopeful insights that would prove to be both the world’s salvation and, ultimately, its demise.

Scientists had looked to every possible natural resource that might serve as an adequate (and renewable) resource of power, but what was adequate wasn’t renewable, and what was renewable (and at this point, there was so little) was not adequate. The one natural source that they had failed to consider, however, was that of the human body. William Haller, only a young graduate student by scholarship at the time whose own family struggled to survive day by day, was quick to switch his focus from health and medicine to jump on the bandwagon and search for the key to human survival when his study of the human body’s own electrolytes sparked a hypothetical idea. The chemicals responsible for electro-signals that occurred naturally in the human body kept it running like a machine for an average of eighty-five years. They reminded the heart to pump blood, the lungs to draw breath, the eyes to blink; they carried signals in neurological synapses and regulated thought and feeling.
And, more importantly, a healthy human body never stopped producing them. As long as humans existed (and they already proved to be a species that simply refused to yield to extinction), so would this potential.

With years of trial after clinical trial, Haller finally harnessed the human electrochemicals to serve humankind beyond their original intention, with only a small cost to the individual—depending on what it was for which they were acquiring power, of course. On one hand, the enduring power of human biochemical energy as applied to modern technology exceeded scientific expectations; even the youngest and frailest could power an electric toothbrush. A vehicle, on the other hand, required no less than an entire fourteen-hour days’ worth of human energy alone—and only if it drove for eight hours, unless it was equipped to run on secondary sources of energy. It was needless to deny that hybrid technology was key to survival, but the edge of human bioelectricity was almost enough to allow humanity to return to the life it had once known.
Almost. And that life wasn’t for everyone.

Power and the world around which is revolved was sustainable again—but only for a select few. Contrary to what Haller had originally intended, returning to comfortable living was not an option for the entirety of the human population. Though reliable, the implications of converting human energy to power electronics demanded only a fraction of humanity to be sufficiently served; and like all commodities, the ticket into privilege was money, and lots of it.

Social stratification had never been so prominent and transparent since the hierarchy of the middle ages, and climbing the latter toward prestige was near impossible. This was due to the true problem not concerning the matter of sources, but rather, the age old vice of human greed and overconsumption. A single person didn’t have the energy to spare to power their car and their home, their computers and appliances and every other corner of electricity upon which their homes were built; they wouldn’t be alive, let alone conscious. Living a comfortable (but not necessarily luxurious) lifestyle required the full extent of daily energy of approximately three adequately rested human beings; luxury more than doubled that requirement. And borne of this dilemma was a society of people who, on one hand, lived well and comfortably, and on the other hand, people who slept their lives away to sell their energy in an ironic attempt to earn money for their survival.

Then there were people like Keane Haller. Those who lived on the outskirts of the big cities, among the detritus of once-been places that were deemed beyond repair and too much trouble to rebuild. People who resisted and spat on the new system, who found their own way around this near-Armageddon, one way or another. It wasn’t always honest, and it was never safe.

And, unfortunately for Keane, choosing not to belong to the Insiders and their stratified system of privilege did not necessarily earn you membership among the Outsiders. Especially not if you happened to be the offspring of the man whose ideas planted the seeds that grew the corrupt roots of a devastated new world. 

The assailant hadn’t taken the hint; even worse, his trigger finger, eager though it might have been, was not quick to his benefit. Death smothered the man so slowly that Keane doubted the fatality until, at last, his knees buckled and body slumped forward. Only with a sharp (albeit painful) jerk to the side did he manage to avoid cushioning the man’s final fall. But he couldn’t look away fast enough to avoid witnessing the lifeless expression and trickle of blood that seeped from the corner of his mouth.

For half a moment, nausea overshadowed the throbbing in his head and ribs. “That wasn’t necessary,” he mumbled through a painful attempt to sit up. “You could’ve incapacitated him.”

“I believe the words you are looking for are ‘thank you’. To which I will say, regardless, you are welcome.” A shorter man wielding a smaller (yet less archaic) firearm replaced the weapon in his belt, smoke still leaking from its mouth. Dark eyes fixed on Keane with about as much emotion as they had previously shown the fallen man; which is to say, not a lot at all.

“You know you’ll get in shit for murder, man. They’ve got ways of finding out.” Left to find his own way to his feet, Keane took his time, leaning on determination alone as he rose to his full height. “Don’t get me wrong; come on, you know you’ve got my gratitude. Fuck knows what that guy would’ve done with me, but… man, Stefano. Life’s a commodity to the assholes in charge. And killing’s not your game.”

“No. But apparently it has been yours for a long time.”

Keane squinted against the sunlight haloing the ally to whom he owed his life tenfold. He looked like the Stefano he’d always known and respected, one of the few assurances that kept him hopeful in the desolate outskirts of the thriving cities. But he wasn’t looking at him the way he always did, with concern and respect; camaraderie. He was looking at him like he didn’t know him.

“Stef, I don’t know what you mean.” Keane began to take a step forward, to close some of the distance between him and his long-time friend, but something stopped him. Likely the feeling that, for reasons beyond his knowledge, they were no longer friends. “I don’t kill. I never kill, you know that. What’s gotten into you?”

“I’ve heard a few facts on the wind, you could say. Unfortunately, they don’t speak in your favour, Keane.” Stefano pressed his lips together, wiping perspiration from his brow with the back of his hand. The sun had tanned his skin ochre, almost identical to the colour of his hair. “I want you to tell me the truth. How much of you is human?”

“The hell kind of question is that?”

“How much of you is organic, Keane?”

The sound of silence that engulfed the space between them hurt Keane’s ears. Or maybe it was the acceleration of that pumping mechanical organ—wires, timers and synthetic tissue—in his ears. Somehow, by some cruel twist of fate, he was caught. But he was too afraid to face. “What exactly did you hear, Stef? You know me… you, of all people, know—“

“Your heart, Keane. It’s mech, isn’t it?” The thick certainty buffering Stefano’s voice was betrayed by the lack of such in his expression; he wanted to be wrong, while knowing full well he wasn’t. “Can you look me in the eye and tell me you don’t have a scar down the middle of your chest from the surgery? Would you prove it if I asked?”

Caught, and trapped. Checkmated. Keane wasn’t a good liar to begin with… and Stefano was holding a gun. The imagery before him had never unsettled him so badly in his life, because he’d never considered what it might take for the man to shoot him. “What do you want from me?” He murmured, not breaking eye contact for even a second. “I didn’t ask for this, Stef. I don’t know what you heard, but it wasn’t my choice.”

Stefano shook his head. It suddenly seemed too heavy for his neck. “You never told me. Five years, I watched your back, and you’re just another fuckin’ hypocrite.”

“I was fifteen, Stef! Fifteen. My father made the decision, I was unconscious—”

“Does your father continue to make your decisions? Does he make you buy biopower to keep that heart going? Or do you even buy it honestly?”

“What, are you asking me to lie down and die?” An edge crept into Keane’s voice, and a heat unrelated to sunburn crept into his face. “You think I’m proud of it? I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, man, but I didn’t lie to you. And I’m not a hypocrite. I am still fighting for what I—what we—believe in. But I need to be alive to do it.”

“And does being Keane Haller make you worthy of being part of the grey area, when everyone else consuming biopower is part of the problem?” Stefano looked away, his shaggy mop of dark hair rustling as he shook his head. “I can’t play that game, man. I know where I stand; if you don’t, then I can’t help you.”

“Stef…”

Tapping the firearm at his hip, like his hand was undecided as to whether he should draw it again, Stefano cast a final glance at the man he’d felled. Remorse glittered unmistakably in his dark irises. “This is the last time I’ll save your life. And the last time that you will see me.” Turning away from his former friend, he didn’t look back.

Stefano wasn’t his only ally. But he was his best one, and suddenly the prospect of watching the man to whom he owed his life at least sixfold struck him with a despondent sort of anxiety. “Stefano, I don’t know how you found out. And I’m sorry you found out the way you did, but… please, you need to realize it doesn’t change anything. I know where I stand—and it’s exactly where you do. Hey… hey! Didn’t you hear me? I said I stand with you!”

But Stefano wouldn’t be swayed, and Keane was helpless but to watch the man walk away, disappearing behind a dilapidated old strip mall. A moment later, his only company was a dead man, bleeding out at his feet.

Swearing a vulgar oath, Bill Haller’s son kicked violently at the dirt on broken concrete. Life intact, but one valuable ally fewer… incidents like this made him reconsider the worth of drawing breath. What was the point of being alive when you had nothing to life for?

Does being Keane Haller make you worthy of being part of the grey area, when everyone else consuming biopower is part of the problem? Stefano was right; he wasn’t special. He had no right to consider himself an exception to his own rule, even if he’d never asked for the mechanical organ that pumped blood through his veins and arteries, circulating precious oxygen. It was a battle of morals he couldn’t win: the Insiders, city dwellers and over-consumers of biopower, wondered how he could shun a system and the science behind it that (literally) kept him alive. The Outsiders, who rebelliously inhabited the outskirts of biopowered cities, saw him as a fake crusader; a poser, for surely someone benefitting from this system couldn’t actually be so opposed to it.

He’d never asked for biopower. He’d never asked for his heart, or any of the other semi-mechanical artificial organs that yielded a greater prognosis for the recipient than those wholly organic in nature. He couldn’t directly be blamed for either, but being the son of William Haller and benefitting from the implications of his father’s very research, he was no one’s idea of someone they could trust, let alone someone who inspired revolution. Instead, he was the face of a villain who didn’t exist; a face to blame, because the disdain hadn’t died with his father. He’d simply inherited it, and looked enough like the man to be an unwilling surrogate to the derision that Bill’s research had garnered.

And the fact he didn’t make a habit of wishing for his own demise made him the villain he’d never wanted to be.

Wiping perspiration from his forehead, Keane knelt next to the fallen man to salvage whatever he could from the body. He hadn’t been untrue in his claims against condoning death, and it sickened him to benefit from his own assailant’s demise (despicable though he’d been), but passing up opportunities such as this did nothing to promote survival in the cities’ outskirts. Considering how little of value he could find on the cadaver (a knife, a cell phone that had run out of power, and a single half-drained biobattery), the guy really must have been desperate to exchange Keane for some form of compensation. He’d seen how far people were willing to go in desperation; it was never pretty.

“I tried to warn you…” The 30-year-old muttered with regret as he stood, grieving the loss of this rare, sunny day, most of which he’d spent running for his life. With his own phone in smithereens somewhere on the filthy concrete, a casualty in his flight, he plugged the biobattery into the man’s dead cell phone. And not without reluctance; while the device wouldn’t drain the entirety of its meager power source, Keane would’ve hoped to use it for a more critical matter. But the way events had unfolded suddenly rendered the need to get in touch with the few allies he had left as priority.

When the phone’s screen flickered to life, he dialed the only number left in his scant repertoire of friends, holding his breath until someone picked up a moment later.

“Who is this?”

“It’s me, Cam… thank God. Almost thought you wouldn’t pick up.”

“You don’t believe in God,” the speaker muttered with distaste. “Where the hell have you been? Whose phone are you using? This isn’t your number.”

“My phone is officially MIA. Trust me, the phone’s owner won’t be missing it; tough I’m willing to bet it’s just as illegal as mine was.” Keane sighed into the receiver. “Listen, today’s been one hell of a shit storm. Ran into yet another member of my anti-fanclub… Stefano saved my ass. But then he walked.”

“What do you mean, he walked?”

“He’s not supporting us anymore. Or, rather, he’s not supporting me… which vicariously means you. And everyone else.”

It sounded as though Cam turned his head away from the receiver to swear. “Are you kidding? Please tell me you’re kidding. Please…”

“I feel like ‘kidding’ implies it has to be funny. There’s nothing funny about this.”

“No shit. What the hell happened?”

“Misunderstanding.” For now, Keane needed to leave it at that. He couldn’t risk losing another close ally to the knowledge of his inorganic heart. “I’ve got to go deal with some stuff right now; I’ll call you later, though. Consider this my new number until it’s destroyed, stolen or deactivated, like all the others.”

Cam expelled an exasperated sigh. “I’ve been trying to reach you for hours, and all I get is an ‘I’ll call you later’? Fine. But I’ll be expecting some explanations. We need to stop this Collective from falling apart.”

I’m not even sure if it’s possible, Keane thought as he hung up the phone. Wherever Stefan had garnered this personal information, there was no guarantee that Bill Haller’s son could close that can of worms and keep it under wraps, lest anyone else in their small, biopower-oppositional collective catch wind of it as well. 
But, like he’d told his friend, worry for that issue would have to come later. Now that he’d managed to touch base with someone still backing him, it was imperative that he tended to the next priority on his list, that being—quite literally—a matter of the heart.

Evening was just beginning to touch on the horizon by the time Keane looked on the lights and sky-high towers of the city where he’d been born. There were no walls, no excessive measures of security that separated the privileged (and underprivileged) Insiders of the city domains, and the Outsiders who chose a different walk of life in the outskirts of a neglected past, among abandoned buildings and their abandoned history. What separated the two walks of life was resolve, and those who benefited from the system revolving around biopower (along with those who were determined to succeed in becoming one of those very beneficiaries) resolved go keep it going; those too put off by its nature, or who had removed for too long to see a way of ever re-entering, resolved not to pay it any heed.

Or, like Keane, resolved to see it dissolve, one way or another. Someday. Hopefully, soon. Regardless, the schism among the Insiders and Outsiders maintained those identities, for better or for worse… but probably the latter.

So little had changed, in the thirteen years since he’d willingly ceased to be a resident of the city, and therefore an Insider. Since the death of his father, when he’d only been seventeen years old and had claimed a life outside the city, he’d returned to it more times than he cared to admit—and not for nostalgia’s sake. For every treasured ally that he had in the outskirts, he had less than half within the privileged city. In fact, there was only one name and face on which he could unconditionally depend.

At least, that was what he’d thought. Had he known that morning that he’d lose two of his closest friends to circumstances beyond his control, Keane never would have risen from the blanket on that old church floor.

It was difficult not to stick out like a sore thumb on the pristine streets of the pristine city, and all of its pristine citizens. Keane always did his best, cleaning his body and hair at whatever water source he could find, and donning clothes that, while nowhere near touching the recent fashion of the privileged class, at least didn’t make him look tatterdemalion. There was nothing to be done about the sunburns or bruises, though the majority of them were hidden by the dark ringlets of hair that coiled to his chin, in desperate need of a trim. Fortunately, passersby never seemed to pay him much heed, either too caught up in the buzz of their prestigious lives to notice, or too spent by selling their energy that they didn’t care.

Regardless, he always insisted on meeting with her in the dark, where shadows obscured alleys, in places where people did not care to look. Today, he waited at the back of a factory, temporarily shut down for lack of resources to power it. The chances of authorities noticing his still form in the shadows were slim, but Keane’s mechanical heart raced, nonetheless, and perspiration broke out on his forehead in spite of the evening breeze that had picked up. She was late; this was reason enough for concern, because she was never late, and waiting around made him a sitting duck. 
Thirty seconds before his resolve crumbled, impelling him to flee, she rounded the corner. Her face was pale, russet hair pulled back to reveal sharp cheekbones, and the whites of her eyes were pink and watery, and rimmed with red. As if she’d been crying.

“What happened?” Keane’s guard had dropped, up until she stepped into a patch of light, illuminating her pallor and sad eyes. “Did someone hurt you? If you’re in danger, Helena, I—”

“No, Keane. I’m not. I’m well… as hard as it may be to believe.” She said. While he was inclined to believe hr, the smile she flashed him did not reach her eyes. “I’m sorry I’m late. There’s… I only came here because… there’s something I need to tell you.”

“What is it? I’m here; you know you can tell me anything.” Keane was, of course, expecting bad news; it was all that this had brought him, after all. Just not of the nature that Helena explained.

Helena pressed her lips together and meditated on her thoughts momentarily before she spoke. “Robert and I have finally saved enough to… invest. He recently got a promotion, and, well… Thanks to your help, my own savings have grown. So we’ll be okay now, and… we want to be parents. Now we can be.”

The tension pulling at Keane’s facial muscles relaxed into a sobered expression of acceptance. This was not bad news; it wasn’t even unhappy news. Helena had been his friend since childhood, and not even their difference in chosen lifestyles changed his feelings for her. Now that it sounded as though she had a shot, a real chance at being happy, he could not be unhappy for her. “You’re going to try for kids, huh?” When he smiled, it was genuine. “Good for you guys. You deserve it, Lena.”

“Not try. I… I’m pregnant. Five weeks.”

If the nature of Helena’s air of remorse in spite of this seemingly happy news hadn’t dawned on him before, it certainly did now. “You can’t contribute your energy for biopower.” Keane stepped forward and lay a hand on her shoulder. “You, of all people, deserve an out. I’m glad for you, Lena. If you can climb out of that pit and stay out of it, then do it.”

“You’re not… upset with me?” Helena’s eyes began to fill with tears again, but she blinked them away. “That I can’t help you this time? Or… well, probably not ever again?”

“Come on, Lena. You’re a friend, and you’re worth more than an energy source especially to me. I hope you can believe that.”

“But what about you?” Lifting her hand, the city-dweller pressed her fingertips to his chest, near his heart. “Keane, can you tell me you’ll be okay? I wish I could give you another contact, but I just don’t know who you can trust.”

Keane grinned. “I’m a stubborn son of a bitch. I’ll figure something out.”

“Do you promise? Promise me you’ll take care of yourself.” Without warning, the young woman stepped forward and threw her arms around his neck, catching a sob in her throat. “Promise me you’ll be okay. Promise.”

“I promise. Get a hold of yourself, Lena—you’re going to have a baby. A family. Why the hell are you crying on my shoulder? Give yourself a little more credit than that, huh?”

Helena nodded and sniffed back more tears, releasing her dark-haired, sunburned companion. “We probably shouldn’t see each other for a while. But don’t disappear completely… okay? I want to see you again, after this baby is born and I’ve got a better perspective on life from then on.”

“You can bet on it. But I should get going, and so should you. Promise me you’ll take care of yourself, won’t you? Sleep in and eat plenty of healthy food. Use that precious energy for yourself for once in your life. And for your baby, of course.”

“I will. Next time you see me, I’ll be several pounds heavier, and hopefully not sleep-deprived; although with a baby, who knows.” One more smile, and she touched the side of Keane’s rough skin, forever in need of a shave. “This isn’t goodbye.”

“No. Never goodbye.”

When Keane walked away that evening, hands in the pockets of his stolen blue slacks down the city’s increasingly calmer streets, it was with a heavy and conflicted heart. What had happened with Stefano couldn’t be helped; that was a bridge that would never be repaired. But Helena had never meant to hurt him… And yet, his single source of that precious extra biopower (for which he always compensated her dearly, of course) to help fuel his inorganic heart was now no longer a source. It officially rendered him out of options, and now with only a week before he would begin to experience complications with his mechanical organ, without a steady flow of an external source of precious biopower.

But where did you go, and who were you supposed to find, when your very life relied on something you stood wholeheartedly against? I need to find a way to stop this, he told himself. I will find a way to stop it. But I can’t do that if I’m dead.
The trouble was, he was no longer certain how much that mantra was supported by conviction, and how much it had just become another excuse to draw breath.

And was there really good and evil, in a world where everyone was only doing their best to survive, and to justify that survival? These tragic and difficult times yielded a number of questions for which there would never be an answer. This was merely one of many.

It was an age-old saying.

Beauty is pain, the wealthy cooed—well-dressed women smiling through the sting of blisters on their feet as blood stained the inside of their high heels. We must suffer for our looks, still others affirmed, wrestling into impossibly tight, form-fitting garments to tuck away any piece of themselves that might betray their humanity. They pierced holes in their flesh willingly to adorn with faceted gems and polished metal. Women ripped away body hair with scalding wax, men paid hefty sums to have hair implanted in balding scalps, and both doused their skin with unpronounceable chemicals to combat the toll of years of similar abuse. And still they grinned, still they were willing to bear it, still they passed along their brutal ideologies to their sons and daughters to perpetuate the cycle. And the cycle, it seemed, would endure as long as did society’s coveted upper crust.

The great rift between the classes meant that the physical aches of the top were vastly different than those anguishes experienced at the bottom. It was an issue of classism, of socioeconomic rifts irreparable by any conceivable sutures. Although symptomatic of the greater world’s self-absorption, the need to survive was exclusive to no station—the rich kept their power by hoardingit, and the poor sacrificed theirs with barely enough left to keep their own heads above the turbulent water. It was vicious and it was cutthroat, but it was reality.

While the wealthy dedicated their existences to perpetuating the luxuries that padded their lives, those less monetarily fortunate were forced to be grateful just for the chance to get by. At its inception, Biopower seemed the solution to the class divide; international economists and scientists agreed that this was a chance to level humanity’s playing field on a global scale. It looked plausible on paper—and indeed, for the first time in decades, a beacon of worldwide optimism shone like a shining promise of better times through the existing clouds of despair. But no amount of studies and predictions could account for those who were unwilling to put their technological lifestyles on hold while the remainder of the population caught up—and in the end, that was what dampened the glow of an easier future. That potential became real only for a select few.

As cities around the world grew and thrived for the first time since the release of bioenergy, the demand for electrical power increased exponentially. At first, the lower classes allowed themselves hope; the electronic boom meant more opportunities to sell their own bodily energy, giving their families more stability by way of extra income. But the system was soon overcrowded and overloaded—the few official, government-sanctioned corporations that harvested biopower could barely keep up. Not only did they lack the proper equipment to produce and transfer the new tremendous volume of generated energy, they also lacked the facilities to accommodate the mad rush of volunteers ready to sell their time and life force for a bit of extra cash.

The Boom, as it became known, was a sign of both new economic growth and of incredible systemic instability. The widening rift between the haves and the have-nots was the inevitable product of too much expansion, too quickly. The struggling power companies paired with the extreme demand for their services—in part from necessity, but more so the result of greed—prompted prices to skyrocket, the apogee of which became out of reach of even the wealthiest hands.

Until that point, members of the lower class fell into one of two categories: drained completely dry, or unable to find an “in.” The peaking of utility rates inadvertently caused demand to fall. The corporations, caught off guard in the midst of equipment and facility upgrades, therefore dismissed as many of its employees (that was to say, “donors”) as was possible to make up for their sudden lack of incoming cash flow from customers. The consequences, as they soon learned, were dire.

As leading producers of new tech, North America and Asia became the epicenters of the resulting societal quake; coupled with their vast collections of large urban areas, they benefited most from the Boom…or so they did initially. They had built too quickly, played the game too arrogantly, and ultimately toppled the hardest from their high horses—dragging the masses down with them. Civil unrest threatened violence. Europe fared only marginally better; dependent as they were on their international brethren for natural resources and manufacturing, their smaller populations and more modest cities made it easier to cope with the economic and political chaos following the Boom.

The recovery was gradual, and indeed, many argued that recovery had happened at all. Regardless, energy distributors perfected their collection and distribution protocols, and in general, quality of life did improve—at least for those above the poverty line, those who lived within the shiny new confines of the upper class urban metropolises that now dotted the globe.

For the rest of the populace, the endemic problems exacerbated by the Boom haunted the decrepit streets and dilapidated storefronts—a vicious poltergeist no exorcism short of whole-society reform could banish. But life had a way of permeating even the most dire of environments. It may not have been pretty—it lacked the showy blooms of what the wealthy considered beautiful—but it was resilient in the absence of nourishment in a way none of the delicate, posh blossoms of the elite could hope to endure. There was a resulting pride in the downtrodden that prevailed despite the robotic misery in which their sun rose and set, a rugged pulchritude that that reclaimed and redefined life to make it their own.

That did not mean, however, that all was well. There were uprisings; there was violence. Despite their best efforts for a positive outlook, only those privileged upper-class percentiles were content with how things were. But rebellions did not always require volume or show or weapons or force.

Sometimes the most effective revolutions began quiet and small.

She didn’t remember much—a flash of yellow light in the plush purple darkness, the thick perfume of salt and citrus on the wind. Rare as such culinary luxuries were, she thought of that hazy night each time she bit into the tangy flesh of an orange.

Now, however, the scent of lemon in the air left a bitter taste in the back of her throat. Dasha Kovalis had never been an easy child, and trapped in the emotional throes of puberty, the fourteen-year-old version of that spunky little girl was as strong-willed, stubborn, and sharp-tongued as she’d ever been. She imagined she took after her mother, who had never been in the picture; she was nothing like her soft-spoken and docile father, a tall, gentle giant of a man.

But that was precisely the man with whom she had argued that evening. She gritted her teeth against the chilly night and pulled her threadbare sweater tighter around her bony shoulders. 

• • • “Dasha, honey, sit down.”

• • • She wasn’t sure what made her obey the soft command. The urgency in her father’s tone, perhaps, or the heavy tension that suddenly made the air in their modest kitchen hard to breathe. His accented English tended to make everything sound dire, but this time it had substance beyond simply sharp vowels and glottal consonants. The rickety dining chair squealed in protest as she dragged it out from beneath the table, plopping her weight down across from the two familiar faces opposite.

• • • “Dasha, we…” This time, it was the woman who spoke.

• • • “Lorna, let me.” Her father’s helpless glance from his girlfriend to his daughter sparked both curiosity and concern in the latter.

• • • “What? Just…what?” Dasha retorted, tilting her chin forward expectantly. “Tell me.”

• • • “Lorna and I are going to be married.”

• • • A beat passed. This was not news that the teenager felt warranted such a somber, serious prelude. While not her biological mother, Lorna Coolidge had been with Dimitar Kovalis for as long as Dasha could remember. The woman had lived in their tiny flat with them for years. For all intents and purposes, the couple already was married—the only thing missing was the paperwork.

• • • While Lorna was a decent woman, she and Dasha had never seen eye-to-eye. It wasn’t that they didn’t get along, but neither had their relationship been much more than that of longtime acquaintances. There had always been a disconnect between them that prevented any sort of emotional bonding, and certainly nothing resembling the mother-daughter connection she knew her father had hoped would blossom. The absence of familial chemistry frustrated her father, but there wasn’t much else to be done; as long as she put in her best effort for his sake, Dasha knew their arrangement could last. For despite her adolescent antics and frequent acts of defiance, she was willing to tolerate a lot for her hardworking father.

• • • “This doesn’t seem like news,” the teenager confessed at last, arching a brow. “Why do you still look like you swallowed a bee?”

• • • Dimitar smiled at hearing his daughter repeat the phrase he himself so commonly used, but the glad expression failed to touch his eyes. “Dasha, Lorna is pregnant.”

• • • As soon as the word left the man’s mouth, Dasha laughed. “That’s a joke, right?” She looked to the middle-aged woman, her brow furrowing as she read the truth on their solemn faces. “But…aren’t you too old for that?”

• • • “Dasha!” her father hissed.

• • • “I’m not trying to be rude! I’m trying to wrap my mind around this!” she said defensively.

• • • “It’s true that my age is a complicating factor,” Lorna confessed, draping a hand across Dimitar’s forearm. “We never thought this would be possible.”

• • • “Well, all right, then. It’s settled,” Dasha said, sitting up a little straighter. “Can I go now?”

• • • “Not just yet.” Her father paled behind his dark beard. His accent always grew heavier when what he had to say was difficult to voice. Dasha, reading these signs, braced herself. “Honey, you know this means Lorna can no longer work. And we’re having enough trouble getting ends to meet as it is.”

• • • “What are you saying?”

• • • “I’m saying…there are two options for you.”

• • • “For me.” It wasn’t a question, but a repetition born of surprise. Surprise that quickly turned to suspicion, and it shone like daggers in her blue eyes.

• • • “If you wish to stay here—”

• • • “What do you mean, ‘if I wish to stay here’?”

• • • Dimitar sighed. “If you wish to stay here,” he went on, his voice barely above a whisper, “you must drop your school enrollment and take Lorna’s place at the resort.”

• • • The teenager’s jaw dropped. “The resort?” It was a colloquial term used to describe the accommodations provided by the biopower collecting agencies. It was a joke on more level than one. The arrangements were typically large warehouses divided into cubicle-like spaces containing a bed or a cot, allowing “employees” to donate their energy while they slept or rested—not unlike a hotel. More cruelly, it was also what most people referred to as their last resort for survival, either for themselves or their families.

• • • “You are young. You would be very desirable to them. All that fire, all that energy in you…” Lorna did her best to look hopeful. Dasha was livid.

• • • “The only other option is for you to leave,” Dimitar continued. “You could finish your education at a boarding school. I looked into it, and Palace has some openings for the summer.”

• • • “Palace? Really?” Dasha leaned back in her chair so quickly that the front legs jumped off the floor with a scrape. “We’re thinking of the same place, right? Palace the orphanage, on the other side of the city? The one named for the sludge-moat creek that surrounds it? Sounds glamorous, Papa. Really nice.”

• • • “I know this won’t be an easy adjustment for you, Dasha, but your father and I never thought this was possible…”

• • The chair toppled over with a clash as the teenager flew to her feet, eyes flashing fire. “You mean you were trying for this? You wanted to send me away?” Her fury settled on Lorna. “Replace me with…with someone…someone of your own blood?” She threw up her hands and turned around, marching out the door and down the spiraling staircase despite their calls of protest after her. The corridor smelled of lemony cleaning solution—the kind the building owners used to mask much worse odors. She held her breath and burst outside.

It had been hours since she’d stormed from the flat. The slow, ominous peal of clock tower bells pulsed like the city’s dying heartbeat, announcing that yet another day had begun with midnight’s arrival. It was dangerous to roam the streets at night, particularly for a slight young woman rife with energy to spare—she would be a magnet for poachers, the street gangs who were in the business of kidnapping to fuel their black market biopower operations. But she didn’t care. Perhaps, she thought, it would be a better fate than having to choose between her future and her family. Maybe with them, she could make a name for herself.

As much as those aggressive thoughts satisfied her anger, the logical part of her knew she was being ridiculous. Now that she’d cooled off—figuratively and literally; the spring night was cold—she could see that she’d lashed out. The last thing she wanted was to hurt her father; he hadn’t meant to wound her, after all. This was an impossible choice dealt from necessity’s hand; she couldn’t believe he would willingly deliver such an ultimatum to his only daughter.

Only daughter for now, she thought scathingly in spite of herself, and the rage bubbled up anew.

She was too lost in her thoughts to notice the rusty black van pull up just behind her as she shuffled down the cracked sidewalk. It wasn’t until three men jumped from the back that she realized something was wrong. Without turning to look back, the sound of rapid footsteps in triplicate prompted her to take off in a sprint. The roar of an engine accompanied, and she was soon overtaken by gloved hands and strong arms.

Her scream was muffled by a palm covering her mouth, her neck trapped by an elbow. Wild-eyed, she twisted like a panicked cat, momentarily freeing her arms and legs. She landed hard blows on two grown men, gray bandanas covering the lower halves of their faces. Her next kick was backwards, the sole of her shoe landing in the groin of the assailant restraining her from behind. He gasped, relinquishing his hold, and Dasha emitted a blood-curdling shriek as she flailed to keep her balance.

But a fist collided with her cheek once, twice, before she could scramble away, and as her ears rung and eyes blurred in shock she felt herself being lifted off the ground. Gagged once more by a hand, her legs gripped tight, she squealed as loudly as she could from her throat alone and thrashed her limbs.

Dasha!

Had someone called her name? Or was she simply imagining her father’s accented voice? 

She didn’t allow herself the sudden hope of Dimitar’s physical presence until one of her attackers stepped away, dropping her feet to the ground in the process as he confronted her father and her father’s companion—a man whose voice she recognized as belonging to Jonny, their upstairs neighbor from the building. The sound of a scuffle ensued, and Dasha toppled to the concrete in front of the van, her vision exploding with multicolored stars as her head struck the pavement.

Dimitar lunged for his fallen daughter just as Jonny fought the last of the poachers back into the vehicle. By the time they heard the tires squeal and the engine roar, it was too late.

Dimitar Kovalis succumbed to multi-system organ failure less than twenty-four hours later. He slipped away in an understaffed, overworked hospital on the edge of their city district, with Lorna Coolidge holding his hand at his bedside. The nurses said it was his burly body that saved his daughter from the worst, shielding her from the tire treads and the weight of the van. But even that was no guarantee of her survival, and there was no telling the deficits that could result should she wake.

Alone in the adjacent room, Dasha remained comatose, oblivious to her father’s quiet passing. As they wheeled Dimitar’s body away next door, Lorna hovered in the doorway, her cheeks stained with tears but her eyes expressionless as she gazed upon the teenaged girl’s still, bandaged form. Casting her gaze down, the middle-aged woman turned away and disappeared down the sterile hospital hallway.

Stone-faced and steady, Dasha pierced the skin of her inner forearm and skillfully slid the long, flexible needle into the blue-purple vein that snaked beneath the surface. The disconcerting tug on her flesh indicated that the piece was in place, and she relinquished her hold on the ornate metal object as her blood slowly filled the tiny swirling tubes that construed its design.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. That was how many blinks it took before her field of vision cleared. Like a sudden crescendo, the light and color of her surroundings—on her right side, at least—flickered to bright, vibrant life. She blinked again and waited for the full image to focus.

“Hey, Dash, you okay?”

Mordecai’s voice startled her. Dasha scowled and turned around, lips tightly pursed. “You know,” she said, straightening, “sometimes you make me wish both my eyes were bad. Then I wouldn’t have to see your ugly mug hovering in the doorway interrupting me all the time.”

“Ha ha, very funny,” the eighteen-year-old boy returned sarcastically, reaching out to give the curly-haired woman a playful shove.

Despite herself, Dasha smiled and nudged him back. “You’ve seen me put in my device a hundred thousand times, and yet you still ask me if I’m okay. Of course I’m okay.” She arched a brow and pointed at her false right eye. “I’ve been doing this for thirteen years. And this is the most efficient one yet. No complaints.”

Mordecai leaned against the doorway, folding his lanky arms across his chest and shrugging with one shoulder. “I don’t know why you don’t just…leave it in. Isn’t that the whole point? Permanent solutions?”

Dasha sighed and sat on the edge of the mattress. “It’s complicated. It’s not like I’m incapacitated if I let the charge die out, you know? I’ve still got one good eye. And it’s not like I’m dependent on a leg or a liver or a hand…” She reached out and wrapped her hand around Mordecai’s wrist, giving it a squeeze of acknowledgment.

“It’s just my first two fingers and a thumb, excuse you,” he puffed, flexing his fingers into a tight fist. Sure enough, even in the dim light of the closet-sized bedroom, the telltale glimmer of bionic metal was obvious. “I’m not incapacitated without them, either, but you don’t see me ripping out my device every second hour.”

“Fuck off, Morty. Yours is a little more complicated.” The twenty-seven year old woman smacked him with a pillow, shaking her head. “Have you seen Christine today?”

“Oh, nice tactic, changing the subject to avoid talking about your weird, compulsive, masochistic habits,” the young man teased. “But no, I haven’t seen Christine. I’d try giving Matthias a ring.”

Dasha sighed, pulling out her phone. “Fine. Okay. Some privacy, please?”

“All right, all right, I’m going.” Mordecai held up his hands. “Later, Dash.”

Without uttering a response, the young woman reached over with her foot and closed the door with a slam that betrayed her agitation. The room was hardly big enough for her small bed, and the severely pitched ceiling meant she could only stand up fully at the door, but it was her space—space that, despite the ragtag community that had grown under the building’s roof, was a sanctuary she relied upon for her own sanity.

Dasha Kovalis was not known for her outward warmth or familial demeanor. Her genial relationship with Mordecai Pierce was the exception to a general rule of unapproachability, one that had served her well since her partnership with Christine and Matthias Standing. Their business was not necessarily a lucrative one, but it was nevertheless beneficial—and Dasha was on the front lines of it, bringing in donors and clientele alike.

It was never easy, working the Black Market. Though many of the underground transactions were drug or arms-related, Dasha’s unique task force was not without competition—competition that came mainly from poachers, the very same brand of people who had nearly kidnapped her thirteen years prior and who were responsible for the death of her father.

She’d been lucky to escape with her life, for more reasons than one. Her injuries had been severe—broken bones, blood loss, and a coma in which she’d stayed for fifteen days. Eight hours after she regained consciousness, the vision in her right eye faded, then went completely black. The doctors called it a retinal artery occlusion, a complication resulting from a clot that dislodged from the surgical site in her chest and traveled upward through her bloodstream. With the nerves and tissue starved of oxygenating blood for so long, her eye was extremely susceptible to infection. The subpar conditions of the underfunded hospital was a virtual guarantee that her permanent blindness would be accompanied by such a plague—and indeed, the severe ocular infection that ultimately resulted required complete removal of her eye before the bacteria spread to her brain.

In its place they inserted a nonfunctioning glass likeness, one that shifted and rotated with the movement of her muscles—almost unrecognizable as a false eye. When they released her from the hospital, no one could detect the difference. Not even Lorna.

The prosthetic eye, and indeed, all of her medical care, would have been completely unaffordable to someone of Dasha’s social standing. What few emergency rooms left that served the lower class were required by law to complete due diligence, to put forth a strong initial effort to treat or rescue those affected by extreme trauma or illness. After that, they were allowed to withdraw care if the patient or patient’s family could not prove they had sufficient funds to pay for sustained care. It was less an act of cruelty than it was an act of necessity; even the most well-meaning medical staff were limited by their outdated equipment and lack of resources; there was only so much they could do with the power they were sanctioned, and sometimes, horrifyingly, it just wasn’t enough.

But patients, especially young patients, were often sponsored by the biopower companies in exchange for later employment. Someone like Dasha, an otherwise healthy specimen full of youthful exuberance—energy to be harvested, that was—was the perfect candidate for the program. The company paid for her medical expenses with the agreement that, upon healing in full, she would “work” for them, with her age and physical prowess allotting them more bang for their buck. Having no other choice, Dasha signed the contract as soon as she was able to lift a pen—but she never intended to follow through.

Thankfully, it would be some months before she was recovered enough to be worth anything to the biopower harvesters. But in the meantime, they sent her home, home to a flat devoid of her father’s warm presence and filled instead with the cold indifference of Lorna Coolidge. The woman, grief-stricken, could barely take care of herself through the haze of her sadness and the complexities of her pregnancy.

Dasha could see the disgust on Lorna’s face whenever she looked at her. If the woman blamed Dasha for Dimitar’s death, she never admitted it aloud, but the teenager could feel it; she could sense it. The bitterness became overwhelming, and Dasha counted the days until she was well enough to make it on her own.

She’d happened upon Christine and Matthias Standing, a doctor and an engineer, respectively, quite by chance—and quite literally by collision. Still unused to her new condition and slightly dizzy from being on her feet, the teenager had bashed into the couple on a street corner. After apologizing profusely and offering an explanation, she noticed the same parallel spark in each pair of kind eyes—a spark of interest, of curiosity.

“Maybe you’d like to come with us,” Christine had said musically, clasping Dasha’s hand affectionately in her own. “How’d you like to be able to use that eye again?”

And so began a partnership that had lasted over a decade. Harvesting bioenergy outside of approved facilities was strictly illegal, but that was precisely what the Standings had begun to do in spite of the consequences. Using an intricate network of actual volunteers, most of whom Dasha had brought in over the years, they established a small-scale “resort” of their own inside an abandoned apartment complex in the heart of the lower district. It was Black Market power, but it was ethical Black Market power, and they were committed to distributing that energy where it was needed most.

They also expended effort for developing and building technologies that allowed those in need to create power on their own—like Dasha’s biomechanical eye, powered by the pumping of her own blood through her veins, or Mordecai’s hand, powered by more deeply-imbedded implants at the base and summit of his spine. They were self-sustaining prototypes, living examples of a kind of perpetual motion—but they were works in progress. Still, progress was progress. She was just glad to be part of it.

Of course, there were those who fought against all use of biopower, the underground extremists who spat on even the smallest consumption of the human-generated energy. It was the very principle of the thing that they were against; the source didn’t seem to matter. Dasha had known about those forces all her life, having heard rumors of their conflicts throughout her childhood. Rebel groups, gangs, whatever they wanted to call themselves—the young woman wanted nothing to do with them, and not simply because of her eye. They stood to destroy what she had helped to build, and while she might have agreed with them when it came to the class divide, wealth distribution, and harvesting companies, she was not so naïve to think there couldn’t be benefits to the system when so much else had failed. She was living proof, wasn't she?

That was yet another reason why it was essential to screen their participants, and to keep news of their existence under tight wraps. It wasn't just the authorities that they feared. One whisper to the wrong person, and their entire operation would be in jeopardy, and the threat could come from either side of the coin.

They were doing the best they could in an impossible situation. And Dasha fully intended to keep it that way.

This was going to be her revolution, and she would accomplish it one heartbeat at a time.

"I'm telling you, man. You look like absolute shit." Cam tossed his friend a decanter of water; fresh or not, it was too precious a commodity to pass up. And Keane looked like he needed it. "Maybe you're coming down with influenza or something; I feel like this place is a fucking breeding ground for it. Don't bother giving the decanter back, if that's the case."

Keane knew all to well that it was not the case, but water wouldn't hurt. Downing the contents without taking a single breath in between, he tossed it back. "I already told you; I'm just tired. Nothing to worry about." 

"Seems like everything to worry about." The bald man wrinkled his nose and rubbed the back of his head. "You're like... restless, or something. Like you got some goal you're not telling me about. You still that bummed about Stefano? 'Cause don't let the fucker bring you down; it's his problem, not yours, man."

Except that it really is my problem, Keane thought, pulling the fingerless gloves over his calloused hands. "How much time do we have left on the bike?"

"Wait--what? Why're you takin' that?" The motorcycle was Cam's baby, his favourite find in the past month. Still worked like a charm, though the amount of biopower it required was almost never worth the distance it covered. After draining himself out of consciousness once, just for the sake of eight to ten hours on the vehicle, it was quickly decided that it should be reserved for emergencies only. "Keane, you really gotta tell me what's going on. 'Cause unless it is an emergency, I ain't letting you take my girl."

"It really is important, Cam. I promise I wouldn't be taking it if it wasn't." Keane turned his blue eyes on his reluctant comrade, arching a dark eyebrow. "Come on. How much time?"

"Two hours, max. Remember that's my energy you're running on, man," his friend shook his head. "But whatever. Let's make a deal: I let you take my girl, you tell me what exactly is going on with you. What do you say?"

Keane turned the key in the ignition, and the motorcycle roared to life. Two hours might not be enough; that was tough to consider. Frankly, he wasn't even convinced his heart would hold out for two more hours, if he didn't soon find a source of biopower. "Deal," he told Cam, adding quickly, "When I get back."

Leaving his astonished friend behind at the abandoned store front, Haller took off, enduring a dumpy ride on forgotten, neglected roads. Towards the the centre of this abandoned city, you were sure to find a biowhore or two--the unsavoury name given to the people who sold their live and time for money. They'd be better off at the Resorts, in the real cities; at least there, they'd be more fairly compensated. But something, either family ties or family feuds or simple obstinacy, kept them away. Kept them a walking shell of themselves when they were, in all honesty, better off dead.
It was a lifestyle to which Keane had always been strongly morally opposed, and was proud to brag that he had never resorted to using them as a means to keep his heart beating.

But that had all been thanks to Helena, he realized. One of his truest friends, and probably one of the bigger reasons that he was still alive. But Lena was moving on, and rightfully so; he couldn't burden her anymore. Desperate times, desperate measures... He'd always hated that excuse. He still hated it, even as he finally saw fit to use it.

It had been a half hour, and Keane should have been paying attention to the signs. More short of breath than ever, pain in his gut, a cold sweat... Yet he hadn't dared place a finger to his pulse, for fear of what he might find. In the end, however, it would have at least saved him a good deal of cuts and bruises...
He wasn't sure quite when he lost control of the bike. One moment Keane was upright, the wind and dust in his face, and the next, he was on the ground, face bleeding and pain shooting down his arm. Worst of all, it was hard to breathe.

"Can't..." The word was lost on the wind; no one was around to help him as his heart slowly, finally, began to fail.
The last thing he saw before he closed his eyes were the spinning wheels of the motorcycle, burning what was left of the precious biopower that Cam had invested in it. And now, he wouldn't even be able to pay the guy back..."

Dasha Kovalis had never considered herself lucky, although it could be argued that anyone dwelling in the decrepit districts of the outskirts who had breath left in their lungs were, in a twisted way, fortunate. She was genuinely grateful for a lot of things—she had a roof over her head, allies she could trust, and a cause that kept the fire in her soul blazing bright through the world’s shitstorm of dark impossibilities. All things considered, she did not want for much, except perhaps a little more food on her plate at mealtimes…but who didn’t? What more could she ask for, truly?

The thought haunted her, because none of it was enough, not really. It wasn’t simply ambition that kept her invested in the Standings’ scheme, or even the Black Market itself; she’d had no childhood delusions of breaking free from the traps of her social station, and she’d never envisioned a future that didn’t involve going hungry and cold, sleeping her prime adult years away at one Resort or another. The life she currently led was already miles ahead of where she thought she’d be at twenty-seven, and the fact that she was alive at all was a testament to the same determination and resilience that had made her a handful as a child.

But she also never thought she’d lose her father. She never imagined the accident that almost cost her her own life; she never anticipated losing her right eye, or having to run from who were essentially the Resorts’ bounty hunters after skipping out on her hospital contract. She never foresaw that the source of her relief would also make her a target for renegade extremists and government authorities alike. Fate was all too keen on toying with her, it seemed, and in life’s cruel game of give and take, each move was unpredictable at best and vicious at worst. Dasha might have laughed had it not been such a harsh reality to bear.

She didn’t know what she wanted, but she knew it was more than what she had. Material wealth was not a concern beyond what was necessary for survival; no, this was a visceral drive for something she could not hold in her two hands, for something beyond the scope of what she currently could access. Whether that had something to do with biopower, or mechanical organs, or something she’d yet to discover—well, that wasn’t a call she could yet make.

When she set out that morning, she hadn’t anticipating making a step toward that vague goal. Though their operation was hidden in plain sight amongst the rest of the neglected cityscape, it was a good distance from the center of the largely-abandoned city, where the lowest of the low tended to gather. Dasha’s was a familiar face amongst the biowhores and drug addicts who frequented the central plaza, and as she was neither customer nor officer, most simply glanced away as she strolled across the broken bricks.

Perhaps ironically, the Plaza was one of the most efficient places to recruit new faces for her own below-the-radar harvesting. They couldn’t pay quite as much as the biowhores’ typical seedy customer, but they made up for it with the promise of safety, health monitoring, and a meal—draws irresistible to the energy-workers who had no ulterior motivations for joining the trade. Dasha’s main contact from the area, a middle-aged woman named Yvetta, had reached out the previous week with news of a sudden influx of unfamiliars, many of them too young and vulnerable to be able to donate safely. Giving too much too fast could very well kill a person, and without knowing the signs of distress, it was often too late by the time they realized they’d overshared. With any luck, Dasha could convince them to join her instead, at least until they had a few donations under their belts.

She never got the chance. As she rounded the corner, a streak of movement down the block caught her eye, and she furrowed her brow with suspicion. Motor vehicles, even the two-wheeled variety, were quite rare in these parts. Not many could afford to power them, and even those who saved up their stores would be reluctant to ride so recklessly. Either this person was a daring joyrider with a death wish, or…

…or something was desperately wrong.

“Shit!” the young woman breathed, watching wide-eyed as the bike swerved out of control and toppled to the curb. Pushing her satchel to her back, she broke into a sprint as the terrible scrape of plastic and metal on concrete pierced the air. Gravel dug into the flesh of her knees as she knelt at the dark-haired rider’s side.

“Hey,” she prompted, placing her hands on the man’s shoulders. “Hey, can you hear me? You okay? Hey!” Glancing up at the spinning wheel just feet away, she stood and twisted the key in the ignition, killing the motor instantly with the simple gesture. When she returned to find the driver unmoving, she gritted her teeth and pressed two fingers to his neck, seeking a pulse. “Come on,” she muttered, readjusting her fingertips. “This…” She arched a brow in confusion. What she felt beneath her firm touch was not a typical heart rhythm. Dasha was no medical professional, but it didn’t take a doctor to determine that something was amiss…

As she withdrew her hand, the small silver ring on her finger snagged on the rider’s collar, pulling the fabric of his shirt down just enough to reveal the top of a telltale scar. She gasped and ripped the cloth straight down his torso, exposing a long, slightly pink scar straight down his sternum.

A mech heart? “No way,” she said aloud, incredulous. She pressed her fingertips once again to his neck, this time draping her opposite palm over the scar. Sure enough, the tiny discrepancy in timing—and the weak, irregular rhythm—all pointed to just that.

“Okay, I don’t know if you can hear me, whoever you are,” the young woman said quickly, throwing her bag back over her shoulder and rolling up her shirt sleeve. “But this…” She bit her lip and wrapped her fingers around the small metal device in her forearm, squeezing tightly near each end and sliding the dual flexible needles from her flesh. Two pinpricks of blood beaded on her skin, and it was only moments before the vision in her right eye faded to black. “…this is gonna feel really strange, and it’ll probably hurt. But it’s important that you don’t move.” She held her breath and lifted his left arm, prodding the muscle beneath his bicep in search of the faint pulse of his brachial artery. As long as blood was still circulating through his limbs, there was a chance for her device to function, giving his heart the boost it needed to make it back to her operation.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she located a long, snaking vein in his forearm and wasted no time in inserting the needles. When she put it in her own arm, it was easy to know when it was properly seated; she could feel a distinct, aching tug when the needles settled into place and the blood began to fill the spiraling tubes. With the unconscious rider, she had no choice but to guess, and to hope that she got it right.

One, two, three, four, five. That was how many blinks it typically took to restore power to her eye. This device was much too small to sustain an organ as complex and vital as a heart on its own, so it made sense that it would take longer to stimulate a reaction in this man…right? she thought, her own, organic heart racing in her chest. She counted to five once more, twice more. Come on…

The young man’s eyes flickered open. She planted her hands on his shoulders and leaned close. “Don’t move your arm,” she instructed, perhaps a little harshly. “Stay calm. Panicking will use biopower that your heart doesn’t have, and my device won’t be able to keep it going. I’m here to help you. I’m gonna to help you to your feet, and then I’m going to drive us back to help on that thing. Do you understand? Blink twice if you understand.”

As soon as he acknowledged her with a pair of sluggish blinks, she leapt toward the motorcycle, hauling it upright with a grunt. Next was the more difficult task of helping the rider, which she accomplished mainly by steadying him as he rose on his own and swung his leg over the seat behind her.

“Hang on. You have to hang on, because there's nothing I can do to hold you on this bike,” she instructed, her commanding tone masking her own terror as she started up the two-wheeled contraption. Dasha had never driven a motorcycle before, let alone with a passenger—and now she was blind in one eye on top of it all. Fortunately, she knew the best route to their destination.

All she had to do now was get them there in one piece and pray the power didn’t drain out…in both the literal motor driving them and the metaphorical motor driving him.

...you hear... can... whoever you...
There was only blackness, a dizzying undulation of shadows behind his eyelids. As soon as it enveloped him like the cold caress of a harsh winter's night, Keane found himself faced with little resistance to its allure. He could still feel the pain, like a dull, slow ache in the background about which his mind was hastily trying to forget.
But there was also that sensory intrusion--a voice. Words. He spoke plain English just as well as anyone else who grew up with it as a first language, but in the fog of this nothingness, comprehension was impossible. The words simply floated by, disjointed, and without any meaning...

It was so easy to ignore--everything. The sounds, the pain, the pressure on his skin, that unfamiliar voice uttering words that should have been familiar...
And then, all at once, it returned--everything. Mercilessly. A sharp ache in his forearm jolted Keane awake, and the breath that he drew into his lungs reached so deep, it was as though he were breathing for the first time. The next thing he knew, he could feel every slow, painful beat of his mech heart, which sent jolts of pain down his arms when he attempted to move--but he couldn't. Not on his own.

Fortunately, he had help, he realized as his eyelids lifted to reveal a young woman standing over him.

Stay calm. Panicking will use biopower that your heart doesn’t have, and my device won’t be able to keep it going.
Fuck... what was going on? Who was she, and how the hell did she know about his heart? Gradual awareness set in when he looked down to glance at his shirt, torn open at the neck, revealing that telltale pink scar. A glance to the left revealed a familiar device hung near the underside of his forearm, embedded in his flesh and vein by two needles. It was only then that he realized with a start what has happened: his heart had stopped. He'd gone too long without a boost, and now the piece of metal in his chest that had been designed to save his life was effectively killing him. Or, it would have, had it not been for this woman's impeccable timing, and the tiny, rectangular box of life support that was keeping him going.

Unable to lift his tongue to speak, Keane blinked twice, the very weight of his own eyelashes heavy on his lids. The effort to stand was excruciating, let alone get himself on the back of a motor cycle. Imagine that your limbs suddenly tripled in weight, and with every breath that you took to make them move, your chest swelled with pain--and that was currently his reality. Fortunately, he managed to pull himself onto the back of the motor cycle, and lean heavily against the woman in front of him. Who was she? And why was she helping him? No one helped anyone int he Outskirts beyond the cities; it was every man for himself, and not every man made it, that was for certain.

Wherever she was taking him was beyond his intuition, but in truth, it was the last thing on his mind. Keane's focus was on the pain in his chest, which gradually, but surely, evaporated like the perspiration on his skin. Breathing wasn't so difficult if he kept it slow, calm, like she'd suggested--even in the wake of her questionable driving, with its sharp turns and inconsistent speed.
Their destination, when at last they came to a stop, was just as unfamiliar as the woman who had brought him to it; then again, everything looked the same in the scorching heat in the afternoon. By the time they came to a stop, he'd regained his faculties and autonomy enough to slide off the bike, and tear the device from his arm. Two trickles of blood drizzled from the tiny punctures as he tossed the device in a slow, underhand throw to the woman. "Don't waste your power on strangers," he cautioned, but not without a note of deep gratitude.
Before Dasha could say a word, Keane reached into one of the many pockets of his filthy, brown cargo pants. What he retrieved didn't look much different from the gadget that had been embedded in his arm; it was, in fact, a smaller, newer, more efficient and more compact version of the same thing.

Without a beat of hesitation, he plugged two retractable prongs into the bike, siphoning the bioenergy that powered the vehicle into the small, silver square that fit in the palm of his hand. Cerulean eyes returned to Dasha as he drained the motorcycle of the very essence that allowed it to run. "Where are we?" he asked her. "And who are you?"

When the young woman pulled the motorcycle down the narrow alley that separated headquarters from the vacant buildings behind it, she breathed perhaps the longest sigh of relief she’d ever let pass her pursed lips. Her patient still clung to her back—alive, if his grip on her waist was any indicator—and they had miraculously not depleted the remainder of the bike’s power supply before arriving at their destination. If anyone in the Outskirts believed in miracles anymore, this small victory would certainly be considered one of them.

Despite the wind from their speeding dash across the dilapidated urban terrain, the heat of the afternoon was enough to coat Dasha’s skin with a thin sheen of perspiration. The temperature seemed even more stifling when they came to a standstill and parked the bike, deprived suddenly of moving air and the mild solace it brought from the cruel glare of the sun. The meager shade of the warehouse structure to their left provided little real relief. 

The young woman dismounted the two-wheeled vehicle hastily, keeping one hand on the shoulder of her anonymous passenger as she withdrew the support of her back. He was sitting up straighter now, but though his pallor had improved, his ashen complexion and glassy eyes remained cause for concern. She gripped his arm as he slid off the seat and onto his own two feet, withdrawing only when he seemed steady enough to keep his own weight above the gravel. He looked like shit—appropriate for someone who had been minutes from death—but at least he was conscious.

“It’s not a waste if I don’t really need it.” The young woman watched carefully as he removed the small copper rectangle from his flesh with shaking fingers. She caught it one-handed when he tossed it her way, the flexible needles ensuring no accidental punctures in her palm. “Especially,” she went on brusquely, narrowing her eyes with impatience as the dark-haired stranger siphoned the remaining power from the motorcycle, “if someone else’s life depends on it.” She pocketed the valuable piece of bio-hardware without bothering to return it to her vein, choosing instead to wrap her iron grasp around the man’s upper arm to lead him inside. “And it’ll all have been for nothing if we don’t get you charged up. That may have given you enough fuel to walk and talk, but you probably don’t have much more than, what, fifteen minutes before your heart starts to give out again?”

Ignoring his inquiries for the sake of saving time, Dasha guided him inside, escorting him down a dim corridor that eventually opened up into a modest atrium at the front of the building. Whatever the building had formerly housed, its prior bright grandeur—visible in snippets of gilded framework and sculpted architectural details—was now lackluster and shabby. Black and white checkered tiles were chipped and gray beneath their shoes, and the tall windows near the scuffed wooden staircase were coated in so many layers of grime that it was astounding light could shine through at all.

Though the building was four stories tall, the lobby staircase was mostly for show (or at least that was its initial intent when the building was constructed) and led only to the second floor. Dasha nodded towards it, paying close attention to the man’s balance at her side as they ascended. When they reached the top doorway, she paused, turning to face him.

“I don’t know who you are, so I’m taking a hell of a risk bringing you through these doors,” the young woman said, her light blue eyes meeting his. “I don’t expect you to trust me, but I do expect you to follow my suggestions if your plan is to live more than the twelve minutes you’ve got left on that charge.” She pursed her lips and quirked a brow. “You’ve got a mech heart, so I can’t imagine you’re any real stranger to…alternate sources of biopower. Am I right about that?” She didn’t wait for him to respond before she continued. “Well. Let’s get you charged up.”

The scene beyond the nondescript door was a drastic shift from the landing just outside. Whatever walls might have divided the space in the building’s past life had long since been demolished, leaving a broad, open room lit on either end by the sun streaming through tall industrial windows. The wooden floor creaked beneath their weight as they stepped forward, facing four rows of low cots divided by short, waist-high privacy screens. There were twenty in all, and only three were currently occupied. A slow day, Dasha thought. Normally, that news would have frustrated her. Today, with her stranger in tow, it brought relief. 

“Lay down,” she instructed curtly, indicating the bed furthest from the cluster of sleeping donors. “Those guys will be out for…” She paused, leaning over to inspect a chart tacked to a crumbling cork bulletin board on the wall. “…another seven hours, according to the schedule. We’re just using this as a place for you to crash until your strength is back. Don’t look so worried.” Truthfully, she couldn’t tell whether the expression on his face was concern, or simply that he felt physically ill. Perhaps both; she wouldn’t blame him.

“But before I hook you up,” she went on, tone hardening somewhat, “you’re gonna have to tell me who you are, how you got that heart, and what you were doing on a bike like that near the city center.”

Charged up? Keane looked on at the seemingly abandoned warehouse with suspicion. The fact that the stranger suggested she had the means of providing him with the biopower his failing heart required meant that she wasn't at any deficit of it--which was not a commonality among the drifters and nomads of the Outskirts. A thief, maybe? One of those terrifying predators that didn't bat an eyelash at capturing unsuspecting others and draining them of every bit of their energy until their body could not longer sustain itself and gave out altogether?
No--he wasn't exactly a prime candidate for that bullshit. She'd know full well, considering he'd been moments to death when she found him.

"With all due respect... I think you committed to that risk when you picked my body up from the place where it would have been happy to die," he murmured, helpless but to lean on her for support. Every breath, though easier, was still a laborious feat, never mind the energy that it required to put one foot in front of the other. Twelve minutes... So that was approximately how much time he had before his life would flash before his eyes again. Perhaps it was the coward in him, that small part of him that refused to bow to death, but despite the questionable atmosphere of this place and the vibe that the woman was giving off, she was right ultimately right: he didn't have a choice. And now was not the time for a moral dilemma. Anyway, hadn't he been seeking out a biowhore in the first place?

Who are you trying to kid, Keane? You're a fucking hypocrite...

There was no great amount of convincing needed to get Keane to lie down; being off his feet, he noticed a significant difference in the expenditure of energy from the output of his heart. It was almost akin to getting bitten by a snake; the less you move, the slower the venom worked its way through your system. In his case, minimal movement actually bought him precious seconds of further existence among the living. 
Second that, truly, he felt he was having considerably more difficulty justifying, of late. But this woman thought she was doing him a favour, and frankly, didn't need to know about the moral dilemma of his very existence.

"So... I've got twelve minutes to live, and you want my whole life's story." He couldn't help but grin at the irony; the circumstances of his life were both too significant and yet not significant enough to be expressed in twelve minutes. In the end, he decided on an abridged version of omission. "Name's Keane, and the heart wasn't my idea. It was organic until my late teens, until you can believe that, but then it just... started to give out. My dad thought he was doing a real smart thing by getting me a replacement with a lifetime guarantee." It wasn't much of a guarantee, though, if you didn't have the privilege of accessing the means to keep it going. "And in case you didn't notice, I was kinda running out of time. I was on the lookout for anyone who might be able able to help, but... well, you know the rest."

Blue eyes focused on the divider in front of him, separating, it seemed, the donors from the receivers. So this is just an Outskirt Resort.... The thought of what was happening here, and that he was about to benefit from it, made his stomach turn. "Where do they come from?" He asked, referring to the sleeping individuals at the other side of the room. "And what do they get? I'm only assuming they come here willingly... you don't look like the kidnapping sort."

Dasha watched as the dark-haired stranger lowered himself to the cot. With her eyes narrowed and her arms folded across her chest, she towered above him like a vigilant caretaker, or perhaps a prison guard—appropriate, considering that, at the moment, she was more or less filling both roles. Slight though she was, her height, along with the stern look that seemed to be her face’s default expression, loaned her an aura of menace that defied her size. She might have been more concerned for her own physical safety had this man not currently been wiping his feet outside Death’s door, but for now, she was in charge—and she was glad the stranger was heeding her instructions, for both their sakes.

When he settled, she perched on the edge of the cot, facing him. His color had already improved with the shift in position, but she knew better than to take that as a sign of true well being. Despite herself, she returned his grin with a smile of her own. “Eleven minutes now,” she corrected, the hardness of her tone contradicting the curve of her lips, “and some number of seconds, probably. Easier for that heart to pump blood when you’re horizontal and it doesn’t have to fight gravity.” Her bony shoulders lifted and fell in a shrug. “So, it’s up to you. Give me a reason not to let you die, and I won’t.”

It was something of a bluff, and both of them knew it—she wouldn’t have dragged him all the way here, ripping her own device from her flesh to shove it in his veins, just to let him fade to black in front of her eyes. She also had no way of knowing whether or not he was lying. Nevertheless, it seemed appropriate to screen him in some way, if only just to say she followed some semblance of the protocols she herself had put in place for protection.

“Right. Well. I’m going to want details, Keane,” she said when he paused, rising to her feet. “As I’m sure you are going to want details from me. I’ll fill in some of those blanks when you’ve got more time to listen, all right?” Her tone had become hurried. “I’m trusting you to stay there, because even if you tried to run, I think you’d keel over before you got very far. We both know it’s in your best interest not to move.”

Leaving him for a moment, she disappeared through the door whence they’d entered the second floor room. She took the stairs two at a time as she descended to the basement, where the surface-level power stores were located. Thick metal cylinders stretched from the concrete floor to the rafters, where custom-cut holes in the wooden beams and ground floor floorboards allowed them passage ever higher. They stopped just beneath the floor where Keane lay, in close enough proximity to collect and store the power from their donors both wirelessly and intravenously (as the analog back-up method).

What servers were to computer networking, the metal towers were to biopower harvesting. The collection cylinders functioned essentially as gigantic external storage units, able to accept and output energy as needed. Newer models of similar systems were now efficient enough to convert and channel down any firsthand feed to a usable voltage, all at the speed necessary for a reliable current—but with older technology such as this, direct hook-ups were typically too strong. Instead, the energy was broken up into smaller, more accessible “packets”—thin, sometimes rigid, sometimes flexible portable units that could be physically plugged into or wirelessly paired with common technological devices in close proximity.

Each large cylinder could hold hundreds of such units at the ready, stored in lower anti-static chambers accessible from code-protected doors at their bases. Dasha punched in her unique twelve-digit code, retrieved a flexible, vinyl-like square the size of her palm, and locked up the chamber before racing back upstairs. She’d been gone a scant five minutes, but time was likely already taking its toll. Without waiting for permission, she strode to his side and gently slapped the power patch on his bare chest, which was conveniently still exposed due to the path she’d ripped in the unfortunate garment.

“If you don’t start feeling it working in the next few minutes, let me know,” she told him, taking her place once more on the edge of the cot. The request was unnecessary; he’d let her know one way or another by way of his deteriorating condition, after all.

“Back to your questions, as promised,” she said after a few beats of silence, her blue eyes (or, eye; her device was still in her pocket, after all) searching his face for signs of improvement. “I’m Dasha. And this”—she gestured widely, indicating the warehouse room—“isn’t what you think. Although I did kidnap you. Sort of.” She offered him a hesitant half-smile. “We’re not Poachers. And this isn’t a Brothel full of biowhores, either.” She chuckled, but the sound was dry, humorless. “Welcome to what we call the Gray Resort. Ethically harvesting bioenergy and doling it out to the needy masses for twenty solid years.”

She paused, turning her attention back to her patient. A tiny green diode flashed from his sternum, indicating that the patch was functioning. Whether is heart was receiving its transmission was another matter, one that only Keane could confirm. “Feeling it yet?”

"Running away with only minutes on my life probably wouldn't be the stupidest thing I've ever done," Keane mentioned as she turned her back to leave, but just as transparent as her bluff was the fact that he sure as hell wasn't sitting up anytime soon, let alone dash out of the only place--and away from the only person--who could possibly help him.

Tired though he was, the nomad was far from at ease, however, even with approximately ninety percent certainty that his life wasn't about to end. The same thing that bothered him about the Resorts bothered him about this makeshift bioenergy pit; that heavy silence that hung in the air, so still that you could practically hear the sound of the donors' chests rising and falling from every slow breath that they took. It felt akin to standing alone in a cemetery, where you expected everyone to be dead, only to become aware that some of the individuals six feet underground had, in fact, been buried alive, and it was only a matter of time before their oxygen ran out...
At least that scenario would yield a quicker death.

And speaking of moments ticking away... Keane didn't wear a watch, and he wasn't counting the seconds, but just as he'd felt his heart begin to pick up with the aid of his stranger benefactor's advice, he could feel the strain begin to set in again. How his chest felt heavier with every breath, and it required immense effort just to turn his head... Where was she? Perhaps she'd decided he wasn't worth her time, effort and bioenergy, after all. Mechanical organs in and of themselves were a drain on society, the hearts, most of all. He'd never understood the benefit of body parts with infinite life when the life that they sustained was far from infinite...

Struggling to consciously lower his heart rate, Keane had just closed his eyes when the sound of foosteps broke the eerie silence. The woman had returned with a curious spare patch at hand, one that pressed flush against his left bicep. It felt warm against his skin, and the sensation climbed as it coursed with bioenergy, though not to the point where it burned. "Ethnically harvesting bioenergy, huh? Haven't heard that one before; kinda sounds like an oxymoron, if you ask me." Not that now was the time to be kicking this gift horse in the mouth. Not when he, himself, was a walking oxymoron, with a moral framework that didn't fit the framework of his not one-hundred percent organic body.

"So what, here, makes it ethical to harvest peoples energy and steal hours from their lives?" Perhaps he could have worded it more eloquently, but as he began to feel better--and he was feeling better--he became more vocal. "Sorry. I know it's weird that someone whose life requires other peoples' generous donations of hours and days that they could spend living their own lives, but I'm just genuinely curious as to how this is any different from the Resorts in the city... But to answer your question, yeah. I'm feeling it." Perhaps a little too much, insomuch that he was overestimating just how much he'd recovered in a matter of minutes. As he tried to sit upright, dizziness too him by the shoulders and forced him back down. "Though not enough yet, apparently... In the pocket at my right knee, there's a little gadget that'll approximate how much time I've got, if I were to take this thing off of my chest right this moment."

At the young man’s vocalized skepticism, Dasha could only shrug. “It’s ethical collection. I didn’t say we were revolutionizing the whole concept of using the human body as a power source,” she said, although she sounded more annoyed than actually defensive. His criticism was not unwarranted; she was well aware of the social and moral problems the entire system perpetuated, having been a victim of society’s brutal truths on more than one occasion in her life.

But she also knew that rewriting history was an impossible pipe dream, and as deplorable as their current reality might have been, Dasha was not so foolish to believe she could change an established system from her present station. Abolishing the use of human energy was not so simple as getting the upper percentile to agree to an alternate source, even if there were an alternate source. Class and wealth differences aside, the framework upon which the biopower-dependent population was built ran deeper than candid acceptance. At its introduction, technologies had to be re-engineered to run on this new power source, power grids were rebuilt and zoned, and even basic commodities like transportation and street lamps were given complete overhauls tailored specifically to human energy. To flip the proverbial switch on bioenergy was to send mankind tumbling into quite literal darkness—and utter chaos.

Dasha’s attitude was mirrored by the entire Gray Resort operation—do the best they could with the resources they possessed. They may not have been able to alter much about the biopower pandemic itself, but they could be crafty about how the product was gathered and consumed. At least, she reasoned, they weren’t in it for profit. Their equipment consisted of goods stolen from corporate surplus lots, commandeered in a series of expert heists not long before Dasha had come into the picture.

Still, this man’s feelings about the whole thing were abundantly clear even in the few words he had spoken. It didn’t necessarily bother her; she was no stranger to dissention, and as long as he didn’t rat them out to the law, it didn’t matter what he thought. Gratitude she would take, of course, but even that was probably a lot to ask for. 

“The donors here are volunteers, like I said.” She paused when he tried unsuccessfully to sit up, quirking a brow that seemed to say, Shouldn’t you know better? Clearing her throat, she went on, omitting little; whether or not she kept secrets was irrelevant now that he’d seen the inside of their headquarters. “We don’t pay them. It’s more of an exchange, really. A collective. Only those who plan to use the power can donate, meaning that they’re essentially paying their own bills instead of draining themselves to run some yuppie’s limousine in the big city for pennies on the hour from a corporate Resort making billions.” A sardonic smile lifted the corners of her lips. “They contribute, they get access to the power. It’s free up to the amount they themselves have given, and anything beyond that they get at a rate three-quarters lower than any official providers. The money goes to keeping the lights on in this place, updating equipment, and research. And,” she continued, “we also offer weekly meals to those who need it. Protection, too, from the authorities, from corporate bounty hunters, from Poachers, from rebel causes.”

The young woman reached up and slid the elastic from her ponytail, allowing her curly hair to fall messily to her bare shoulders. “So, I’m gonna put all my questions about you even having a mechanical heart aside for now, and ask you this,” she drawled, reaching into his leg pocket per his instruction and placing the small metal gadget in his outstretched hand. “Now, bitterness I get, sure. I'm even on board with resentment. But how is it that someone came to feel so opposed to the thing that’s keeping him alive?”

Volunteers, huh? It all made sense in its own morbid way. People paying their dues ahead of time so as to be able access it at a more convenient (or, perhaps, a more crucial) time wasn't such a strange concept in a world where your own body no longer provided sufficient energy to live. Not when everything surrounding that human body couldn't sustain it, and without the ability to sustain biopower technology, it couldn't be sustained.
Such was the tragic paradox of the so-called revolutionary source of power, an era where humankind hadn't exactly solved its problem of crucial dependence on power and electricity. It had, in fact, only created more problems, one being the its own slow, painful extinction.

Dasha's explanation did make sense, and Keane couldn't refute it. But it didn't make him feel any better about benefiting from it.

"So they pay it forward, huh? Yeah... I can see that as assuaging moral discomfort," he admitted, taking the tiny, coin-like device that she'd handed him and pressing it over the pulse just under his chin. A series of tiny lights around it illuminated by about a third, with the remaining two thirds unlit. Nine days... maybe a little more. In a handful of minutes, Dasha's technology had provided him with another week before his heart gave out again; in about a third of an hour, it could likely charge his mechanical organ to its max potential.
Except that he wasn't sure he wanted it to. Not if this energy didn't belong to him, and not if he couldn't pay it back.

"I should be good for about a week, now," he informed her, removing the disc from his neck and folding his fingers over it again. "If you want to disconnect me, now, then by all means. 'Cause if this is a 'pay it forward' kind of place... Well, my body can't exactly comply with the rules." There were a few exceptions when it came to mechanical organs, depending on their function, but as a rule, those whose lives--the pulse of their blood in their veins and the drawing in of air in their lungs--depended, were not advised to donate bioenergy. They were refused at the Resorts, unless they paid to benefit from them, but were otherwise too much of a liability, given the strange fragility of their otherwise invincible mech parts.

Was it really such a mystery as to why he hated his heart? Typically, the people who didn't understand were either 100% organic, or turned a blind eye to the social implications of biopower.

Exhaling slowly, Keane considered her question; or, more specifically, how to answer it without sounding like a complete asshole. "Like I said, it wasn't my idea," he began. It was always how he began explaining his resentment to not being 100% human; an assertion of the fact that it wasn't his fault. "I had a bad heart growing up. But it finally gave out in my teens, and my father saw fit to replace it with metal and mechanisms." He uttered the fact like a curse. It was a curse. "I've never been fond of the idea of organs that just don't die, y'know? Especially when keeping them alive--keeping me alive--has to come at the expense of others' lives. Even if they're only donating a few hours, those are hours of their lives that they're sleeping away. That they'll never get back."

He watched as her hair fell over her shoulders, the way her blue eyes regarded him with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. As if she suspected he was part of one of the very 'rebel causes' from which she thought she protected others. "I like what you've got going here, Dasha. It's about as noble as you can get, in this day and age," Keane told her, without an ounce of sarcasm. "But it's not sustainable. Because we're not sustainable, not anymore. So at times, when it comes down to either fueling my heart or fueling the vehicle that I take to find food or water... well, you can probably see the problem. Sorry if I'm coming across as nihilistic, but this is our reality. And I don't like it."

Dasha quirked a brow at her new acquaintance, her expression caught somewhere between amusement and incredulity. “Really?” she said before she could stop herself. “I just hooked you up to one of the biggest underground power operations in the region after hauling your ass all the way in here from the plaza, and you want me to unplug you? For being an Outsider with a mech heart navigating these kinds of districts, I’d’ve guessed you had the street smarts to take what you can get when you can get it.” She met his gaze, lips curling into a half-smile. “And if not gratefully, then at least unapologetically.”

She shifted positions and reached into her back pocket, pulling out the slim, brushed metal rectangle that powered her eye. “It may be a pay-it-forward kind of place, but we always budget for emergencies. For people who need it for more than just starting up their phones,” the young woman went on, turning the device over and over in her hands as though inspecting it for damage. After a moment, she held it up. “The couple who started this whole venture are also working to improve these things, make them more efficient. Essentially, they want to help people like us get by without sapping our strength from other people.”

Shaking her hair away from her face, she leaned over and rotated her left forearm, sliding the familiar device into the veins beneath the surface. The familiar tug as it seated in place was uncomfortable, but not exactly painful, and she looked up as she counted the usual five blinks it took to restore vision to her eye. When she turned back to her guest, she regarded him with two functioning eyes, sharp and vivid.

In explanation, she pointed, resting the pad of her fingertip just beneath her lower right eyelid. “I can live without an eye,” she went on casually, focusing intently on the young man’s face. “Unlike your heart, it’s not fueling any necessary human function for survival. Having a second eye is a luxury, in my case. But it doesn’t take a lot of power to work, which means that the blood flowing through this thing is enough to give me my full sight as long as it stays stuck in my arm. So long as my heart keeps beating, I don’t need to charge it externally.” She pursed her lips. “Your heart takes too much energy for that…or at least too much for technology like this to handle yet. So, yeah, I see your problem. And I see how fucked up the whole system is, I really do…”

Dasha sighed. “You might be the first person I’ve met with a robot ticker, but you’d be surprised how many others there are who aren’t a hundred percent organic. People who started out at the top, had their lives saved with a mechanical organ, and wound up here because they couldn’t sustain the new monetary cost of keeping themselves alive. And who wants to fess up to that when organic militants would see them killed? The only reason we get to know them here is because they need us.”

She smiled again, this time with less irony. “I guess all that’s to say you’re welcome to max out here. Like I said, I don’t need my own energy anymore, and I’ve donated plenty. Consider it a gift, I guess. Maybe you can pay me back someday, if it really bothers you that much.”

"I may know a thing or two about survival, but if you think for a second that I accept any of this unapologetically..." Keane laughed; he couldn't help it, because despite the hypocritical paradox that was his body versus his moral grounds, she couldn't have been further from the truth. "Then you really know nothing about me. I've already come to terms that the day will eventually come when my heart has nothing left to go on, and that there won't be enough, if any, biopower within reach to save my life. Hell, that day almost came, today, had it not been for you. But this wasn't my first close call, and I guarantee it won't be my last." 

Arranging himself so that he was propped up on his elbows, he watched Dasha carefully, eyeing the young woman as he ran the small rectangle through her fingers. "And what do you mean, 'people like us'? Since when do you and I man an 'us'?" His initial thought had been that she was truly so dedicated to her cause that she kept the biopower booster on her person at all times, in the event that she might encounter other poor suckers like him. But as he watched her link the device up to her veins, followed by the carefully measured blinks, it dawned on him.

"You're eyes. Or, one of them, at least." He answered his own question in a slow drawl as observations clicked into place. "Don't imagine that requires quite as much as a heart does... But I supposed that makes the likes of me and you an 'us'." Or as close to an 'us' as Keane had ever seen. She was right; an eye and a heart were two entirely different things, one which promoted survival, and the other upon which survival wholeheartedly depended. So that was why she walked like she had energy to spare; it was because she did. Even better, her own heartbeat could solve the problem of her depth perception. 

Shaking his head, he scratched the stubble on his chin, every ounce of moral fibre in him attempting to convince him to remove the square electrode from his chest. This was the trouble that he encountered, pitting himself against the biopower movement and yet refusing to himself be a martyr by example. Just like every other human being who had the sad opportunity to walk this pathetic, desecrated planet, there existed the capacity to be selfish. Even if it wasn't necessarily at anyone's expense (not in this case, at least), any friend he had ever made in the Outskirts would turn their back on him if it got out as to where he was, right now, and what he was doing.
There was no winning--never any winning, which brought him to his next point.

"Y'know, I think like you. I like what you've got going here--really. And I'm not exaggerating when I say that it sucks there aren't more people like you, especially around these parts. You've got the kind of attitude that would have prevented us all from getting into this biopwer mess in the first place." Keane took in the facility, all of the empty beds and machinery, before refocusing his hazel eyes on Dasha. "But that's the trouble, Dasha. There aren't enough of you. And your altruism--not to mention, your energy--alone isn't going to have the impact we all need. Robot parts or not, in the end, this situation is gonna fuck us all, higher ups included; nobody died a virgin anymore. Places like this... they just try to help us forget how much it all hurts.

"But, now... it's not just you here, am I right? There's no way you can be doing this alone." He couldn't quite recall, through the fog into which he'd stumbled into this place, but he thought he remembered her mentioning a 'we' with regard to this facility. "So who make up the rest of your band of Merry Men? Are you a large group, or just a few stragglers, trying to make a difference?"

She almost laughed out loud, biting back the sound just as it threatened to escape her throat. A wry smile took its place. Of course she didn’t know anything about him. They barely knew one another’s names; it had scarcely been two hours since she’d scraped him next to dead off the crumbling asphalt at the Plaza and dragged him to the bed in which he currently—literally—was recharging. Apart from the few words he’d spoken on the matter, Dasha had no idea what kind of moral ground the man planted his feet on. She couldn’t pretend to understand whatever background he was choosing not to reveal.

But then again, it did not much matter. As long as he understood that she was doing the best she could with the shitty hand their world had been dealt, then it wasn’t her place to argue with him anyway. The chances of seeing him again were slim once they parted ways, and convincing a man with a mechanically-powered heart that his synthetic organ maybe wasn’t so bad if it kept him breathing was simply not her job. Her task, rather, was to keep him alive with the resources she could access. What he did and what he felt once he walked out the warehouse doors was his own business.

His praise prompted her to look at him, a brow arched high onto her forehead. “Well, you’re right. It’s not just me. We’re rare, maybe, but I couldn’t have managed all this alone. At least not with my background, growing up in the Outskirts,” she said, running her finger absentmindedly around the thin edges of the device in her arm. “We’re stragglers, mostly, disappointing as that might be to hear. We do what we can. A husband and wife team—a doctor and an engineer—started all of this a long time ago.

“They worked for some big power company in the city…I don’t remember which one. Take your pick, they’re all the same.” She shook her head; talking about the corporations always left a bitter taste on her tongue, and understandably so. “They got fired for using corporate resources to help their struggling relatives, and decided to go down swinging. This whole operation is the result of that, and a lot of years building it up with stolen goods and a few stolen personnel. I do what I can to organize things, to keep us afloat. I’ve picked up a bit of science along the way”—she held out her arm—“especially with getting these things right. I’ve had to be a guinea pig for a long time.”

She raked her fingers through her hair and turned back to her new acquaintance. “You know, I bet they’d be really interested in meeting you, with that heart of yours,” she mused. “They might even be able to help out with its efficiency. Either way…what are your plans for power once you get out of here?” She looked at him curiously, as though the thought had only just occurred to her. “I could always tell when my sight was about to fail when my eye was using battery function only. You don’t get that low without feeling something, which leads me to believe you don’t have a reliable source on hand.” She twisted her lips in partial accusation and partial concern. “Am I right?”

Big power company in the city? That was a comment that elicited a loud snort on Keane's part. "Damn right they're all the fucking same," he murmured, with perhaps more ferocity behind his words than he'd intended. "They're all in bed with the same person. Lifelight owns them all; anyone by the name Haller or Saben calls the shots... No matter what company you think you're working for, in the end, you're still working for them."

When his father had perfected the technology, siphoning precious human energy to fuel human greed and its insatiable appetite for consumption of power, he had partnered with a Richard Saben, an accomplished businessman at the time, to make it marketable. Haller's technology and Saben's business expertise were match made in heaven (or hell, depending on your socioeconomic standing), and managed to changed the world as everyone knew it before Keane had even been born. He had hardly been five years old prior to the birth of Lifelight, the Haller-Saben joint company that had been the beginning of the end of all the good that was left in the world.

Unsurprisingly, it hadn't gotten better when William Haller passed away, leaving the company in the lone hands of Richard Saben and his family, who now effectively owned the rights the city as things stood. Although they were in charge of its distribution, they had yet to get their hands on the rights to biopower's patent.
And as long as William Haller's only living heir refused to sign it over--alive or even in the event of his death--it would stay that was. As things stood, it was Keane's only means of really spiting the city and what high society had become. Unfortunately, in the Outskirts, holding tight to the rights developed by his late father didn't give him much of an edge.

"Interested is one way of putting it," the young man murmured. There were enough people who would certainly be 'interested' in realizing they had met the son of the man whose research had allegedly lead the world humanity by the hand to its own doom. "Though I won't knock the idea for a more efficient heart, if you think these blokes can really help." Former employees who'd worked under Lifelight... Well, at least he wasn't the only insider who saw what was going on as not only unsustainable, but dangerous.
On the other hand, he wasn't just about to let anyone from the walks of the Outskirts tamper with his heart, regardless of their standing or intentions. Trust was hard-earned.

If Dasha had been expecting some deep confession of the whereabouts of some such energy stores that powered his heart whenever he felt he needed it, then she was going to be disappointed. "I was on the move because I knew I was low and didn't have a lot of time," he explained, pressing air out of his lungs in a long sigh. "Sorry to disappoint, but I'm just like anyone else who lives in the Outskirts--well, not like the guys who will attack you for your energy, but you know what I mean. I live week to week and day to day. The only reason I'm still alive and kicking is because I'm damned lucky. Lucky to find a source in time, or lucky to find help. Damn lucky that I found both, running into you."

Sitting up, Keane placed a finger to the pulse in his neck. It was running strong and steady, once again; no need to keep being a drain on energy. Carefully, he peeled the adhesive square off of his bare chest. "I'd like to meet these colleagues of yours, though. I'm... curious to hear what they have to say about what they know of working for Lifelight. And, y'know. If they can make my heart suck less."