Who is this mystery child, and why doesn't she have on clothes?
I awaken to find myself in a small cot. The sun is coming in through the windows, and all I can do is smile at the familiar warmth it brings. My body feels cold and weak, and I don't even know how long I've been out. I'm pretty sure I passed out in the car, but I don't even know where I am now. I look around and I realize I DO, actually. It was a long time ago now, but I remember it so well. This where I used to come with my grandmother every Saturday. The paint on the walls is chipped and aged, and the drywall is crumbling. What happened?
"Oh! You're awake." It's Fro dude. I instinctively go for my gun, but its not on my right hip. I realize then that I'm undressed. The only thing covering my fat ass is my underwear and this thin, white sheet of cotton. I'm freaked out.
"Don't worry", says he, noticing the distress written on my face. "I'm not gonna hurt you. My name is Jet Star." He extends his hand forward, holding it out to me. I'm not exactly sure what he expects me to do with it, so I just stare at him hatefully. The awkward feeling of my rejection finally gets the better of him and his arm drops to his side. Now that his dark jacket is off, I can see a few tattoos that form on his upper arm.
"How long have I been out?" He seems shocked by the fact that I spoke, but he's hiding it pretty well.
"Not very long, really. A little over a day almost, but it could have been worse." I highly doubt that, but I stay quiet.
The man in the red jacket walks in through the empty door frame and gives a nod to Jet Star, silently telling him to leave. Jet gets up quietly and starts to walk out, promising to bring me food and water.
"My name is Kobra Kid. Do you have a name", the man asks, hatred slickly coating his voice. I'm obviously not telling him my real name. That would be stupid. I'm not stupid.
"Molly", I answer curtly.
"Well then, Molly, you don't seem old enough to be having a kid. What are you- fourteen, fifteen?"
"Twenty-two. What are you- seventy, eighty? I can see some grey hairs, so you must not be too young. Then again, maybe that's too bold of a whippersnapper like me to say", I retort, batting my eyelashes and giving the most sickeningly sweet smile I can conjure. He just glares at me and I can feel the loathing in his expression. It feels like heaven. He walks over to me and grabs me by the neck.
"Look, bitch. It was generous of us to take pity on you and let you stay here. If you think I won't ghost you faster that you can spread your legs, you thought wrong. If you do anything to fuck with us, I'll put a bullet in your head before you can even think of getting away. Got that?" His words startled me, but I didn't feel like he was talking to me. I know his angle too well.
"What's her name?" His face floods with horror and anger, and he tosses me to the side by my throat and lets me spill out onto the concrete floor of the old diner. I smirk, knowing that as he walks away, he feels slightly defeated. As I climb back in bed, I find great satisfaction in being the one to make him feel that way.
I hear someone approaching the small room of the diner that I now recognize as the back room, what used to be used as a pantry. Only all the food is gone. As he approaches the doorway, I see that Jet is holding a can of dog food and bottle of murky water that doesn't look too healthy. I kinda had to hold back vomit, knowing that I would have to subject myself to that. Then again, maybe that was just the progesterone talking. He handed me the can and I realized I would have to eat it with my fingers, as he offered me no utensils. If there was ever a "fuck my life" moment, this was it. My hands weren't even clean. Oh God, why?
I scooped up a chunk of beef with my fingers, and the smell alone nauseated me. The slimy texture of the brown meat gravy caked grease on my fingers and got underneath my nails. The salty, dirty smell of the processed beef twisted my stomach in knots, so I hurriedly stuffed the lot in my mouth, chewing the soft mush. The taste was awful, and I knew it wouldn't go away for quite some time, so I just hopelessly shoveled more into my mouth. It was the most disgusting thing I've ever tasted, but it didn't matter anymore. I was hungry.
The redhead walked in and pulled a chair over from the corner, then sat down at my side.
"I'm Party Poison. I just wanted to apologize for my brother's behavior." I hear a great sympathy in his voice. Brothers. That figures.
"Are you all brothers?"
"No. Jet here isn't related me. Neither is Fun Ghoul; the one you tried to kill. We're just good friends."
"So how do you know Blasta Violence", he asks. I'll be perfectly honest. I know that's the only reason they've let me stay here. I don't really give a shit, though. They're helping me. I'm not stupid enough to turn away from food, water, shelter, and what little medical attention they can offer.
"She was my friend back in the city." This isn't a lie. Only, I knew her before the days of Violence, back when she was just Leanna. We were inseparable for years, but everything changed when the fire nation attacked. We had a happy life. We both were in our sophomore year of high school when things started to get bad. Wall Street had undergone a tragedy; an arson known as "The Great Fire of 2012". It burned for three days and four nights, smoke polluting the air above the east coast. The country was already in a recession, but now even more jobs were lost and the country was sinking further in debt. The presidential election that year ended with Mitt Romney taking office, winning by a landslide after he promised to make more jobs for the nation with a new company called Better Living Industries. The nation seemed back on its feet soon.
By my junior year, the country was strong. We were facing less debt than we had in a century. Better Living was being celebrated so thoroughly that some of the people in charge of the corporation started getting government jobs and passing new laws that gradually suspended our Bill of Rights. We couldn't worship what we wanted, own guns, or even assemble peacefully. By the time they passed a law that kept citizens from voting, the union was in an uproar.
With the American dream shot to Hell, people began fleeing to Canada. In June of 2015, a month after my graduation, Romney was assassinated by a rebel alliance called the ARS, or American Republic Society. That September, I started work at a local pharmacy. That was also the month that Better Living dispatched a team of police to execute all the government officials. Riots began in the streets of all major cities, an anarchist revolt forming. BL/i took charge and brought those to an end, finally restoring peace to the crumbling society