2 Forbidden District

Very far down south…

Moklo looked around, eyes scanning the vast field before him. Nature asserted its dominion over this area, as wild vegetation and plants colonized every inch of ground. The air all around was pure, completely untainted by the cursed chemical that had doomed the Southern Kingdom to centuries of oppression. Sometimes Moklo fantasized about building a small hut here and growing up far away from his predetermined life path.

A farmer, he snickered to himself. They expect me to grow up to work the fields, out of all things. Those Northern enforcers clearly didn't realize my potential. Just because they won the war didn't mean they were smart, Moklo concluded. Gingerly, he tested the soil before him, and let out a sigh of relief.

It had been days since the last rainstorm, and the ground had dried up enough to walk on it with bare feet. Moklo patted his pockets and smiled as he affirmed the solid presence of his shoes. With winter coming soon, it would have been inadvisable to go without footwear. He was especially proud of this pair—not only did they fit him perfectly, but they had also been discarded by the Imperials. As was all Imperial-quality footwear, they were made with a solid yet flexible bottom, comprised of a material no one in his zone could identify.

It hadn't been easy acquiring such a prize, of course, and showing it off never earned him any friends. But who needed friends? Everyone always made fun of his blond hair, as if he had chosen it for himself. Luckily, the insults didn't bother him much, as he was faster, smarter, and stronger than all the bullies. In fact, there was no better proof of this than these very shoes in question, as the process of acquiring them had involved an intense melee among half a dozen orphans older than himself.

Such wonderful footwear. Northerners have all the fancy tools, he thought while his hands subconsciously fondled the shoes.

As much as Moklo despised Northern technology, it was hard to deny the effectiveness of the so-called "Machines." Based on the textbooks he had managed to salvage, those devices possessed the strength of a hundred men, and could perform the most dangerous of tasks and emerge without a scratch. Maybe one day he would get the chance to look at one of them up close. That would undoubtedly allow him to create something better—something that didn't run on Otot, the gas that powered the Imperial way of life.

Personally, Moklo couldn't imagine having weird chemicals floating around the air; he enjoyed the blue skies and clean air. And if rumors could be trusted, the North was a sunless wasteland where plants were stunted, poisoned by Otot.

Impressed by his own reasoning, Moklo turned around and admired the tunnel he had dug to gain entrance to this beautiful, uninhabited area. Fortunately, Moklo didn't have to go too deep underground to bypass the hulking wall that the Northern Legion erected around the area. "Forbidden District" they had named this place, and if anyone was caught trespassing, Imperial agents would supposedly come and execute their whole family. Not that this threat meant anything to Moklo, of course. He didn't really have a family, not anymore.

"Oh no! I'm trespassing!" he bellowed at the top of his lungs, certain that no one would be around to hear him. According to the elders, the wall used to be guarded by fearsome mask-wearing Alchemists. Legend had it that those men commanded the elements and could manipulate temperature, even summon lightning. But over time, the garrison grew smaller, and eventually, the wall stood unguarded. Even so, people with any thread of wisdom suppressed their curiosity and stayed away. But to Moklo, it all translated to this being a large plot of land where he could do whatever he wanted without interruption.

"PEW, PEW." He waved his arms wildly in the air, imitating how he imagined alchemy was performed. He thrust a finger at a hapless shrub, giggling with glee. "Burn! Fire! Explode!" Whipping around, he punched the air in the direction of an innocent-looking white flower. "ZZZZZZ," he hissed, pushing air out between clenched teeth. "I'm Moklo, the first Southern alchemist!"

Gleefully, he ran forth, taking in large breaths of air and reveling in the sensation of vegetation brushing against his skin. Despite his speed, his feet missed every flower as he weaved across the grassy patches. All the orphans in the zone learned to move with cat-like dexterity... for good reason, of course. Anyone slow and clumsy quickly died off.

Sometimes, Moklo wished he felt bad for the orphans who didn't survive. They were people too, people very much like himself. But at the same time, if the weak ones were still around, there'd be too much competition for loot in the dumpyards. It was just too bad that … Moklo paused, then shook his head as if to shake off the thought. There was no reason to mull over what he couldn't change.

A rustle nearby made him freeze up with alarm. The boy quickly slowed his breathing and backed into the foliage, concealing his presence. Moklo had taken pains to make sure he wasn't followed; it didn't make sense for anyone to be able to slip by him undetected. Moklo's mind raced as he felt himself slowly falling into a state of panic.

Maybe it was just wind, he tried to comfort himself, but to no avail. He had done too much sneaking around outdoors to succumb to such foolish thoughts. The wind never disturbed just one single spot.

Moklo searched around for anything he could use as a weapon, but all he found were useless, soft plants. There weren't even any rocks in sight. At this point, anything would do., he thought to himself. He began reaching for a flower, intending to use the petals as distraction when the nearby foliage parted, and reflexively, Moklo crouched down. This is it, he thought, and psyched himself up like he would before any physical confrontation.

A face poked out. Before his mind could even register the image, Moklo launched himself forward in a full-body tackle. Fully expecting to encounter a dangerous enemy, he was surprised by how little resistance his body met. His shoulders only connected briefly with something solid before he landed on the ground, face first. Despite how ridiculous he must have looked, there was no time to waste on appearances. More importantly, he wasn't going to be caught lying prone, so Moklo quickly leapt to his feet and raised a fist to strike.

"Ah!" cried a voice softly, freezing Moklo in his tracks. His fist stopped inches away from a face covered with tears. Staring back at him was a little girl, who was possibly even younger than himself. For a brief moment, he relaxed in relief, but years surviving on the streets had taught him to never let his guard down. Cautiously, he stood up, looming over the newcomer.

Instead of putting up a fight, the girl put a hand on her wounded shoulder and began sobbing in pain. Her face clenched up as tears streamed freely down her cheeks. There were times to not underestimate his enemies, but the only words he could find to describe this girl were variants of "harmless." Moklo let out a heavy sigh after a few moments, his pose relaxing. "Who are you?"

The girl chewed on her lips nervously and stared wide-eyed at the boy who had just tackled her. Slowly, she pushed with her legs and tried to scoot herself away from him.

Now that the sense of danger had begun to fade, Moklo started to feel bad for his overreaction. It didn't help that the person he perceived as dangerous was, in reality, pitifully thin and looked like she could be blown away by anything stronger than a breeze. "Hey," he said softly, reaching out his hands, with his palms spread wide to show he was unarmed, "it's okay."

The girl didn't seem to trust him, as she continued her slow progress away from him. With each inch she traveled, her tiny body crushed dozens of leaves and flowers. Moklo couldn't help but wince at such needless destruction of plant life. Eager to put an end to this massacre, he threw up his hands in exasperation. "I'm sorry, okay? You don't have to run! See?" Moklo pointed at his feet. "I'm not moving toward you at all."

After a moment of awkward silence, the girl resumed her snail's pace. Tears continued streaming down her face, staining her skirt.

Uncertain what to do about all this, the sheer gracelessness of the situation caused a snicker to creep up on Moklo and quickly had him doubling over in laughter. Knowing that anyone else who was around would have shown themselves by this time, he did nothing to restrain himself, and laughed to his heart's content. When he finally looked down, the girl had stopped moving away. Letting out a short breath, the boy sat down where he stood, and took his time to examine this strange child who lay barely three feet away. She definitely wasn't from around here, he noted to himself.

"You're strange," he declared, after much thought.

"No. You are," the girl retorted, wiping a mixture of tears and snot away with her bare hands. Rubbing her shoulder gently, she let out a slight whimper. "Why did you do that?"

Moklo was surprised by the girl's audacity. She was the one who had sneaked up on him, so how could she feel justified in being outraged? "Because you were being a sneaky bastard; you're lucky I didn't fight you seriously." He rolled up his right sleeve and brandished his hardly impressive bicep muscles. "It could've been really bad."

A few moments of silence followed. "Who are you?" the girl asked, finally.

"I asked you that first," Moklo protested. But it was clear that whoever this girl was, this wasn't going to be a reasonable conversation. "I'm Moklo. Skilled scavenger and future technomancer," he declared proudly, then added as an afterthought, "Maybe even an alchemist! No matter what other people might tell you."

"Your clothes are dirty," she replied after mulling over what he said. Unlike the boy, she was wearing an outfit of pure white. Well, at least it had been, before the tussle in the mud. Despite most of it being caked in dirt and grass stains, there were still spots so bright under the sunlight that Moklo found himself averting his direct gaze.

Moklo was at a loss as to how he should react. There was nothing wrong with his clothes; they were simply gray. If anything, he took better care of his wardrobe than most other orphans. Based on his observations, he was clearly talking to a foreigner, likely a castaway from the Imperial capital. Who else in their right mind would wear pure white? But what was she doing thousands of miles away, in a restricted zone of all places?

"Who are you?" he repeated once again.

Two perfectly blue eyes stared back at him innocently, and she forced a smile. "Barandat."

"Where are you from?"

The smile faded from Barandat's face as quickly as it appeared, and she frowned in concentration as the answer to his question eluded her. "I don't know."

"You don't know, or just won't tell me?" Moklo pressed her. But the fresh stream of tears rolling from Barandat's eyes moved him more than any words would. Watching her crying in confusion and pain triggered something deep inside, a side of him he long thought destroyed by the rough life on the streets. "Barandat."

Their eyes met, two kids worlds apart. Yet, at that moment, something had drawn them together in the most unlikely of places.

Every one of his survival instincts cried out against it, but Moklo had made up his mind.

"Since you don't remember where home is, come with me."

***

Anjat flicked her fingers across Botyoc's forehead. No matter how many times she told this fool to stop being a hero, it just never registered. Life was hard enough in the Northern Kingdoms without anyone going out and looking for trouble.

It was understood in the slums that anyone who couldn't fend for themselves didn't deserve to survive, but apparently, not everyone shared that understanding.

"Oww!" Botyoc protested, rubbing the spot she had freshly struck. The little boy's exposed upper body was covered in bruises; a sizable gash near his belly was caked in dried blood. "I'm sorry."

She flicked him on the cheek as if as an afterthought. A streak of pink now marked Botyoc's face, adding to the various shades of red and purple that colored his body. Her nails had dug hard enough to leave a trail, but didn't break the skin. Sighing, Anjat walked to an upside-down barrel that served as a chair in the tiny room the siblings occupied. Aside from a mattress made from straw, there was little in the way of furnishings, but between the two, there hadn't been any need for such luxury.

Pots and bowls were scattered all across the floor, along with a basket that contained all the sundries for Anjat and her fool of a brother. Picking up a jug, she took a hearty swig. The water tasted slightly bitter and metallic, but normal otherwise. She turned around to find Botyoc still clutching his forehead. "Quit being such a baby. I didn't even flick you that hard."

"But the emotional trauma is intense," Botyoc replied earnestly.

Despite her best efforts, a chuckle forced its way out past her angry frown. It was too difficult to stay angry at her little brother. Picking up a corner of her apron, she dipped it in the water, and beckoned for Botyoc to come closer.

The boy gingerly sat down on the barrel, and was promptly flicked across the forehead once again. Before he could protest, Anjat grabbed him by his arm, and started scrubbing the dried blood off of his shoulder. Luckily, the cut looked worse than it actually was, and despite the amount of blood, the wound wasn't very deep. She allowed herself a sigh of relief. When she looked back up, Botyoc had a stupid grin on his face . Without hesitation, she poked another bruise, and was rewarded with an indignant cry.

"It wasn't my fault," the boy protested, pushing out his bottom lip in a pitiful attempt at an innocent pout. "It was the Bacucang; you know how they are."

"Why would you ever fight two people by yourself?" Anjat sighed into her palm and shook her head. Little Botyoc was reliably skilled at getting himself in trouble, and if his past was any indicator, it was probably over a girl.

Botyoc put on an appeasing smile. "I think I heard them insulting your honor." Anticipating a violent response correctly, he ducked down just as Anjat chucked a pot at him, the projectile flying past where his head had been mere moments before. He stood back up and returned her look with a raised eyebrow.

"Maybe that was a bit excessive," Anjat admitted, already regretting the loss of the semi-functional pottery. "You could've been killed."

If her brother's account of the events could be trusted, what happened wasn't entirely his fault. Unfortunately, as it was, she couldn't simply let a violation of street code slide—certainly not for her little brother. Anjat secretly felt relief at the circumstances. Violence between the gangs was something everyone avoided at all cost, and luckily, none of the people involved in this incident had gotten killed except for the girl, who had happened to be a Homeless.

"Oh well, no harm done." Botyoc shrugged and reached toward the mattress for his worn shirt.

"Except you didn't pull your weight today, since you lost most of the metal. If the Bacucang retaliate, I expect you to take guard duty." The matriarch had made her decree, and no further protest came from Botyoc.

He got dressed, and began to leave. Before heading out of the door, Anjat saw that Botyoc lingered.

"It's not your fault, Brother," Anjat said, knowingly. Though she had dismissed the death of a Homeless earlier, the death of another child weighed on her as well.

"I don't need this right now." Botyoc turned with a stiff smile. But a sister knew that behind the façade was a heart burning with rage.

My brother the fool. "This is the way of the world; this is the life we're given. We just do our best to survive it. I had hoped the street taught you better than that. The strong survive, while the weak perish, and we must acknowledge our limits."

"But that is where you are wrong," Botyoc said and laughed bitterly. "We have the power to change the world." His voice trailed off, as if struck by a thought.

Anjat's expression remained impassive as she kept her eyes on her brother's face.

Botyoc continued, "With enough power, we can change the world to our desires. There'll be a day when people like us no longer have to fight for scraps in the street."

Anjat decided that she had to intervene. The last thing she needed was for her brother to do something stupid. "What power? You idiot. Can you survive the alchemical fire? Are you strong enough to take on the Elites?" Not to say that hearing Botyoc's words didn't make her picture such a world, for just a brief second.

"We are that very power." Botyoc jabbed his thumb at his own chest. "We can change the world. The orphans. We have one thing that they don't." Botyoc turned his gaze westward, out the door, toward the Imperial city. "We have the will, the conviction." Turning back, he looked his sister straight in the eyes. "Most of all, we have nothing to lose." Having made his point, he continued out the door.

What's wrong with him? Something about the fight had changed Botyoc, that much was clear. Even though his words had sounded foolish, Anjat found her fists clenched. She might not have believed the dream, but she believed in her brother.