After saying goodbye to old man Craffold, I made my way out of his home.
And as soon as I stepped out of the large metal door at the entrance of his house, I scrunched my nose; the smell of the backlands was a tad bit displeasing.
No, it was absolutely gut-wrenching. A bad, poignant smell that, if the backlands were in a bad smell ranking competition, it would come in second place, just behind the nose-damaging smell of the underground pipelines.
I let out a soft sigh, closing my eyes, and bracing my lungs for the ultimate, unavoidable act; enduring the disgusting air it was going to receive for the next few hours.
I opened my eyes, raising my head skyward — my gaze mapped the slightly dark and thick clouds that cascaded through the air, filtering the almost bedazzling brilliance of golden rays that pierced through the gaps of the dark sky canopies.
"The backlands, huh," I muttered with a low, cracking voice that drowned in the fading ambient sound of thick male voices that walked past the streets in front of me.
I stood there, in front of the metal door, hands in the deep pocket of my coat, toes wriggling inconveniently in my tight pair of leather shoes.
My gaze flickered forward. But it fell for a moment, quietly observing the countless moving shadows on the tarred ground of the streets, all of which were the result of the sunlight casting its golden glow on the sources of said shadows.
Then, slowly, my gaze ascended until it met and ultimately drank in the sight of countless men. All of which were walking to and fro the two opposite lanes of the tarred, slightly narrowed streets built for vehicles, which were rare and almost impossible to spot in the backlands.
If I were to count — not that I ever did — the number of men I saw probably numbered into…
I didn't count. Not even roughly. I just knew that there were a lot of men walking.
These men were all different, physically. Some were old — most actually — some were young, some looked underfed, while the others looked slightly healthier than the ridiculously skinny bunch.
But there was something similar about all of them, though. And I had never noticed that similarity before. Or maybe I had, and maybe my brain and consciousness decided not to think much of it.
Because it was a sight that I had seen ever since I could remember. And so, that gloomy sight had become the norm, to me at least.
I was actually more concerned, or surprised, about the fact that I could notice that similarity now. It suggested something, something that I didn't ever think about.
The countless men walking through the tarred streets of the backlands; their facial expressions were all the same.
Their faces lacked light. Not the shine that came from a light bulb, or from the sun. No, I mean the light one would find present in the face of a living, breathing human. The light one would find in the eyes. Honestly, I think it isn't, or wasn't, something that could be properly explained with words.
But their faces lacked it. They all had the same pale, gloomy, resigned expressions. Like they had already accepted their determined fate of working until they die in the backlands.
That scary but absolute fate of never doing anything worthwhile with their lives, of living every day, knowing deep within their hearts that they could always die for no reason the moment they step out of their houses.
That going to 'work' was a big risk, one that could leave their sons without fathers, and could leave their fathers 'sons-less.'
I placed my right palm on my cheek, touching it, and feeling the outlined wrinkles that ran over my cheek, and even the ones on my forehead. The texture of my face felt rough on my palm, and my skin was oily.
Never once checking the mirror, I thought that the fact of my face being riddled with acne was most likely possible. After all, I didn't take proper care of myself for two years straight. There was just no real reason to bother myself to do so. Even when the old man begged me to.
And that's another reason why I admired the old man. How the hell did he put up with someone like me?
I'm not exaggerating one bit when I say I would have killed myself if I were him.
I mean, I didn't even remember the last time I shaved my own beard. The damned black bush had grown wild, hanging over my jaw like a tidied-up, pathetic decoration.
My unshaven beard, my acne-riddled face, and my heavy eyes all pointed to that one unavoidable fact. That I was just like these lightless men who walked the streets of the backlands.
But I wondered, at that moment, with my hand on my cheek, did I have the exact same expression they did?
Once again, I let out a soft sigh. Then I turned, facing the old man's house. An unpainted, bi storey block house. Quite expensive here in the backlands. It means that the very building that I lay my eyes on could cost 100,000RI. And that was no exaggeration.
The old man never went out to work like the other men; he never bothered about money either. The only thing he went out to do on some days was to buy foodstuffs from the market.
I'd wager he got all that money from the years he spent as a Cyberscientist in the big cities, or maybe he also worked his ass off and saved after being cast into the backlands.
I blinked, looking straight at the building.
It radiated this warm, tender feeling. The feeling of a home amid the bleakness of a desolate world.
A faint, warm smile tugged at my lips as I turned my head.
"Well, let's go," I uttered.
I began to walk toward the fourth street in the male section of the backlands. The street where every sane man avoided.
Wall Street. The street where the base of the Cyclo Gang, one of the four major gangs, resided.
My friend, Mangé, was a low-ranking member of the gang. He had joined it to survive, as most other guys in my condition did. The nameless, connectionless ones like me.
Factually speaking, it was only common sense that I should have joined a gang. But the idea of joining one of the organizations that brought ruin to the already disastrous backlands just didn't stick right with me.
I had already done a lot of gang-like activities with Mangé and our dead friends — may their souls rest in peace — back when I was a young teenager. I convinced myself back then that I did those things to survive, to eat. But 'truth' was something that never hesitated to flash directly at one's face and dissolve every grim and dumb resolution they had built up within them.
'My life was miserable as it was; why should I make others' lives more miserable than mine just to eat? I'd rather work in the pipelines.' That was the exact thought that put the notion of joining a gang away from my mind.
But my friend, Mangé, was different. He had…
Oh, I had already arrived at Wall Street.
How long has it been since I last saw him?
I stood at the narrow entrance of the street. I strained my vision, peering straight at the street. But it was dark, like the light of day never shone on it.
It was also scanty; there was no fading, chattering noise of men around here. It was quiet. Eerily so.
I have a bad feeling about this. Going into the territory of one of the gangs I aim to bring down. And even trying to acquire information from one of its members.
But my relationship with Mangé should be stronger than his loyalty to his gang, right?
Yeah, no. I can't be sure about that. Humans aren't to be completely trusted. Even if he's a good friend, I'll play my cards smartly. Don't want to get killed before the 'rebellion' even has a chance of starting.
And the vibe I'm getting from this street… is there a sparrow in there? Could be. Or maybe I might be lucky, and it might just be ruffies below rank 8. I don't think I can deal with a sparrow if a fight should break out. But, I can handle those ruffies with Tils below rank 8. It's been a while since I flexed my muscles after all.
I let out a quick, tension-calming exhale.
"That's enough thinking. Let's go see what's in there." I voiced out, marching into the street with calm, measured steps.