Three romantic dystopian stories.
In a futuristic London, two people are drawn together in a desperate attempt to survive.
An ordinary girl is swept into a world of danger when she catches the attention of the deadliest man in Forgotten London - the military Captain. He says he wants to help her but can she believe him?
When he witnesses an attempted murder, one boy risks his life to save a total stranger.
Love In Forgotten Places is a prequel in the Lux Guardians series but the stories can stand alone.
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A NEW COMPANION (Novella)
The siren is shrill in the distance.
Blaring, blazing, booming.
It’s deafening even here, fifteen minutes from the speakers, huddled behind an old bin that’s left over from times before The Sixteen Strains. There’s a building behind me, rising tall in the ashes of the burning city, and one in front, squat against the smoke-filled air.
I don’t know why the sky is on fire. I thought for a confused moment that the solar flares had returned, but then I realised that it was just a fire in a few of the buildings in the zone’s centre. I can’t tell if it’s spreading outward, or if it’s just the twilight exaggerating the orange glow. I hope it will distract the Officials from looking for me.
I listen closely for any sign of the military but all I can hear is the siren. Alarms like this only go off for thefts, assaults, or Strains victims. I’m none of those, but I can’t be sure it isn’t for me.
After a few minutes, and after no Officials pass me, I venture out from my hiding place. I flatten myself against the wall, edge cautiously around the corner, and slam into a body moving at high velocity.
At first I think it’s an Official. I tense, intending to run for my life, but the shadow I had crashed into grips the sleeve of my medic jacket.
It’s a girl, a little younger than me, shaking, thin, and frightened looking. I watch realisation cross her face and her eyes zone in on my jacket, and I know what she’s thinking instantly.
“I’m not an Official,” I rush to assure her. “I’m not military.”
Not anymore, I add inside my head.
“But…” Her voice is raspy, barely loud enough to be heard over the siren.
I open my mouth to reply but my ears pick up on the rhythmic beat of boots on tarmac.
I take the girl’s arm.
I yank her into the shadow between the two buildings.
I pull her into a crouch behind the steel bin.
Her eyes are staring at me. Large, confused, scared.
She falls against me.
I can’t breathe.
I wait until the Officials have passed, and let out my breath all at once. Slowly, I realise that the girl is pressed fully against me, and that she’s shivering and wearing very little. Her arms are bare, her middle barely hidden by a drenched cotton vest. A pair of small shorts rest on her waist. Her legs are covered in goose bumps, her feet without shoes and stained with a thick layer of dirt. There are cuts all over her body, a perfectly symmetrical maze of indentations and injections. A map of suffering.
“Why?” she whispers into my ear and I go still all over. This girl is far too close to me. I had been careless. I’d let her close. She could attack me. She could swipe the knife from my jacket and slit my throat, and I’d be hopelessly bleeding to death on the ground. I wouldn’t be missed.
“Why?” she repeats with a sense of urgency.
I force out, “Why what?”
“Why did you save me? The Officials would have killed me. I’m wanted. I’ve done so many things. Why did you do that? Why?”
“I don’t know. It was just … instinct.”
She laughs bitterly. “Your instincts are fucked up.”
“Yes. Yes they are.” I sigh and think about three months ago when my instincts had really fucked up. I had jumped into the line of fire to save a comrade. I thought it was my duty; to save a friend, a brother, one of us. And then I got shot in the leg. And my comrade left me to die in the middle of battle. It was a rebel rally in Underground London Zone. Things have gotten out of hand there lately. People are beginning to see things for what they really are: biased, unfair, cruel, degrading. And the military can’t be having that.
I was discharged after my leg had healed enough for me to walk. For cowardice. I was a coward for not leaving a fellow Official to die. I was a coward for stepping into his place and saving his life. If that is cowardice then more people should be cowards. People should be proud to wear the label of cowardice.
Only, it turns out that when the military ‘discharge’ someone, they don’t really discharge them. They send them out, let them think they’ve been released back into real life, and shoot them in the back of the head.
I don’t know how I knew. I just did. And I ducked. I ducked at the exact moment the bullet would have passed through my skull. I fell to the floor and I laid there until I was sure nobody was watching me. And then I ran. And I haven’t stopped running since.
I’m sure they now know that I’m not dead, that they’re out there looking for me, but I’m not enough of a criminal, a danger, a threat, to warrant the siren. Which makes me wonder what this girl did. And why there’s such a big search party out for a girl who is cowering and shaking against me.
I ask her, “Are they looking for you?”
She nods and braces for some kind of impact.
“You should leave this zone,” I say. “I’m headed towards one of the far west zones. You can come with me if you want.”
She’s silent for a while, and I almost jump out of myself when her hand splays over my chest and her fingers curl around my lapel. “Why do you wear this coat?”
I cough to hide the panic I’m feeling. “It’s a long story.”
“I don’t have anywhere to be,” she says and when I look at her, her green eyes are sparkling with amusement.
“I was in the military.” She flinches and my lips turn into a frown. “I was discharged.”
After a while, she whispers, “Why?”
“For doing something I shouldn’t have done,” I answer curtly and she flinches again. I take a deep breath and speak more softly. “I’m not going to hurt you. You don’t have to be so … scared of me.”
“You’re an Official …”
“Not anymore. They tried to execute me. I mean nothing to them, and they mean nothing to me. I’m not an Official.”
“You’re angry.”
“Yes.”
“So—how are we going to get out of here?”
I laugh at the abrupt change of topic. I think about it for several minutes, and surprisingly it helps to calm me down, to take my mind off of things, to think about something methodically.
“I’ll use this uniform. And hope that there isn’t an alert out for my face yet. They’ll let us through the checkpoint at the edge of the zone, and from there we can get into any of the other zones.”
“Will that work?”
I nod. “I’m 85% sure it will. But first … we’ll have to find you some clothes from somewhere. I’m afraid that you’ll catch an illness.”
“I don’t have a Strain,” she says quickly. Her eyes are large, round.
“I know. That’s not what I meant. Before the Strains and everything here, there used to be other illnesses. Things like hypothermia and pneumonia.”
“I don’t know what those are.”
“Bad, basically. You don’t want to catch either of them. So you’ll need to be dressed for the drop in temperature later in the night. You can wear my jacket as soon as we’re through the checkpoint, but you’ll need some clothes that cover you from your neck to your ankles. Your … injuries are indicative of someone who has been tortured.”
“H-how—”
“I’ve seen it happen,” I say as quietly as I can while still being audible over the noise. “As an Official, I was forced to watch, to learn from a demonstration.”
She tilts her head, dark hair spilling across her neck. “You say everything like you hate them. But why were you one of them?”
“I didn’t have a choice.” I shake my head, disentangle my limbs from her, and push myself up. I offer her a hand to help her stand, but she refuses it and uses the wall instead.
“Just so we’re clear,” she says as she brushes dirt from her legs. Her eyes have turned sharp as they look at me, and her voice has an edge of suspicion and coldness. “I don’t trust you. I don’t need you. And I don’t want to go anywhere with you.”
I look at her through wide eyes and then shake my head to clear it. “I know. You’re just using me to get out of Underground London.”
“Yes.” She nods. “And you can stop staring at me.”
“What?” I blink and my mouth drops open.
Where had this sharp girl come from? Where had the shivering, scared girl gone?
“I’m not … I’m not staring.”
She rolls her eyes. “You can’t keep your eyes off of me.”
I straighten my shoulders, suddenly defensive. “You’re fairly hard to miss.”
She laughs then. It’s a bright, loud laugh so much unlike the shy, quiet laugh of before.
I realise that I’m seeing this girl as she really is, without the fear of being caught, or of me hurting her. I realise that, however temporary or fragile, she has the smallest amount of trust in me.
Trust not to hurt her.
She trusts me.
“What’s your name?” she asks.
Dread washes over me. It must be obvious because she changes her question to “What should I call you.”
I debate that for a minute, trying to think of names I like, names that I think fit my personality, but eventually I just decide on my middle name. “Yosiah,” I answer. “And who are you?”
She smiles and closes her eyes. “Miya,” she says finally. “But you do know that’s not my real name, right?”
I shrug. “It’s who you are to me.”
A weird look crosses her face and she gestures a hand to the opening, to the road beyond it.
“Lead the way, Yosiah.”
The siren is shrill in the distance.
Blaring, blazing, booming.
It’s deafening even here, fifteen minutes from the speakers, huddled behind an old bin that’s left over from times before The Sixteen Strains. There’s a building behind me, rising tall in the ashes of the burning city, and one in front, squat against the smoke-filled air.
I don’t know why the sky is on fire. I thought for a confused moment that the solar flares had returned, but then I realised that it was just a fire in a few of the buildings in the zone’s centre. I can’t tell if it’s spreading outward, or if it’s just the twilight exaggerating the orange glow. I hope it will distract the Officials from looking for me.
I listen closely for any sign of the military but all I can hear is the siren. Alarms like this only go off for thefts, assaults, or Strains victims. I’m none of those, but I can’t be sure it isn’t for me.
After a few minutes, and after no Officials pass me, I venture out from my hiding place. I flatten myself against the wall, edge cautiously around the corner, and slam into a body moving at high velocity.
At first I think it’s an Official. I tense, intending to run for my life, but the shadow I had crashed into grips the sleeve of my medic jacket.
It’s a girl, a little younger than me, shaking, thin, and frightened looking. I watch realisation cross her face and her eyes zone in on my jacket, and I know what she’s thinking instantly.
“I’m not an Official,” I rush to assure her. “I’m not military.”
Not anymore, I add inside my head.
“But…” Her voice is raspy, barely loud enough to be heard over the siren.
I open my mouth to reply but my ears pick up on the rhythmic beat of boots on tarmac.
I take the girl’s arm.
I yank her into the shadow between the two buildings.
I pull her into a crouch behind the steel bin.
Her eyes are staring at me. Large, confused, scared.
She falls against me.
I can’t breathe.
I wait until the Officials have passed, and let out my breath all at once. Slowly, I realise that the girl is pressed fully against me, and that she’s shivering and wearing very little. Her arms are bare, her middle barely hidden by a drenched cotton vest. A pair of small shorts rest on her waist. Her legs are covered in goose bumps, her feet without shoes and stained with a thick layer of dirt. There are cuts all over her body, a perfectly symmetrical maze of indentations and injections. A map of suffering.
“Why?” she whispers into my ear and I go still all over. This girl is far too close to me. I had been careless. I’d let her close. She could attack me. She could swipe the knife from my jacket and slit my throat, and I’d be hopelessly bleeding to death on the ground. I wouldn’t be missed.
“Why?” she repeats with a sense of urgency.
I force out, “Why what?”
“Why did you save me? The Officials would have killed me. I’m wanted. I’ve done so many things. Why did you do that? Why?”
“I don’t know. It was just … instinct.”
She laughs bitterly. “Your instincts are fucked up.”
“Yes. Yes they are.” I sigh and think about three months ago when my instincts had really fucked up. I had jumped into the line of fire to save a comrade. I thought it was my duty; to save a friend, a brother, one of us. And then I got shot in the leg. And my comrade left me to die in the middle of battle. It was a rebel rally in Underground London Zone. Things have gotten out of hand there lately. People are beginning to see things for what they really are: biased, unfair, cruel, degrading. And the military can’t be having that.
I was discharged after my leg had healed enough for me to walk. For cowardice. I was a coward for not leaving a fellow Official to die. I was a coward for stepping into his place and saving his life. If that is cowardice then more people should be cowards. People should be proud to wear the label of cowardice.
Only, it turns out that when the military ‘discharge’ someone, they don’t really discharge them. They send them out, let them think they’ve been released back into real life, and shoot them in the back of the head.
I don’t know how I knew. I just did. And I ducked. I ducked at the exact moment the bullet would have passed through my skull. I fell to the floor and I laid there until I was sure nobody was watching me. And then I ran. And I haven’t stopped running since.
I’m sure they now know that I’m not dead, that they’re out there looking for me, but I’m not enough of a criminal, a danger, a threat, to warrant the siren. Which makes me wonder what this girl did. And why there’s such a big search party out for a girl who is cowering and shaking against me.
I ask her, “Are they looking for you?”
She nods and braces for some kind of impact.
“You should leave this zone,” I say. “I’m headed towards one of the far west zones. You can come with me if you want.”
She’s silent for a while, and I almost jump out of myself when her hand splays over my chest and her fingers curl around my lapel. “Why do you wear this coat?”
I cough to hide the panic I’m feeling. “It’s a long story.”
“I don’t have anywhere to be,” she says and when I look at her, her green eyes are sparkling with amusement.
“I was in the military.” She flinches and my lips turn into a frown. “I was discharged.”
After a while, she whispers, “Why?”
“For doing something I shouldn’t have done,” I answer curtly and she flinches again. I take a deep breath and speak more softly. “I’m not going to hurt you. You don’t have to be so … scared of me.”
“You’re an Official …”
“Not anymore. They tried to execute me. I mean nothing to them, and they mean nothing to me. I’m not an Official.”
“You’re angry.”
“Yes.”
“So—how are we going to get out of here?”
I laugh at the abrupt change of topic. I think about it for several minutes, and surprisingly it helps to calm me down, to take my mind off of things, to think about something methodically.
“I’ll use this uniform. And hope that there isn’t an alert out for my face yet. They’ll let us through the checkpoint at the edge of the zone, and from there we can get into any of the other zones.”
“Will that work?”
I nod. “I’m 85% sure it will. But first … we’ll have to find you some clothes from somewhere. I’m afraid that you’ll catch an illness.”
“I don’t have a Strain,” she says quickly. Her eyes are large, round.
“I know. That’s not what I meant. Before the Strains and everything here, there used to be other illnesses. Things like hypothermia and pneumonia.”
“I don’t know what those are.”
“Bad, basically. You don’t want to catch either of them. So you’ll need to be dressed for the drop in temperature later in the night. You can wear my jacket as soon as we’re through the checkpoint, but you’ll need some clothes that cover you from your neck to your ankles. Your … injuries are indicative of someone who has been tortured.”
“H-how—”
“I’ve seen it happen,” I say as quietly as I can while still being audible over the noise. “As an Official, I was forced to watch, to learn from a demonstration.”
She tilts her head, dark hair spilling across her neck. “You say everything like you hate them. But why were you one of them?”
“I didn’t have a choice.” I shake my head, disentangle my limbs from her, and push myself up. I offer her a hand to help her stand, but she refuses it and uses the wall instead.
“Just so we’re clear,” she says as she brushes dirt from her legs. Her eyes have turned sharp as they look at me, and her voice has an edge of suspicion and coldness. “I don’t trust you. I don’t need you. And I don’t want to go anywhere with you.”
I look at her through wide eyes and then shake my head to clear it. “I know. You’re just using me to get out of Underground London.”
“Yes.” She nods. “And you can stop staring at me.”
“What?” I blink and my mouth drops open.
Where had this sharp girl come from? Where had the shivering, scared girl gone?
“I’m not … I’m not staring.”
She rolls her eyes. “You can’t keep your eyes off of me.”
I straighten my shoulders, suddenly defensive. “You’re fairly hard to miss.”
She laughs then. It’s a bright, loud laugh so much unlike the shy, quiet laugh of before.
I realise that I’m seeing this girl as she really is, without the fear of being caught, or of me hurting her. I realise that, however temporary or fragile, she has the smallest amount of trust in me.
Trust not to hurt her.
She trusts me.
“What’s your name?” she asks.
Dread washes over me. It must be obvious because she changes her question to “What should I call you.”
I debate that for a minute, trying to think of names I like, names that I think fit my personality, but eventually I just decide on my middle name. “Yosiah,” I answer. “And who are you?”
She smiles and closes her eyes. “Miya,” she says finally. “But you do know that’s not my real name, right?”
I shrug. “It’s who you are to me.”
A weird look crosses her face and she gestures a hand to the opening, to the road beyond it.
“Lead the way, Yosiah.”