Tales from Stratosphere - First Blood

September 2057. Nadia Nagase, a kid convicted for the murder of a diplomat, is given a new chance at life on one condition: that she wins the Rapture and slays a Chaingear. Her future hinges on surviving the dangers of the arena, as pictures from her unfortunate past in Johannesburg form vivid memories in her mind.

Blazing flashes, stroboscopic lights, loud dubstep music. The cheers, the chants of the crowd, three rings filled to the brim with excited people, pumping their fists, waving their hands. Mechanical bats flying low on the ground, twin-headed vultures roosting on shiny, metallic pipes, craving for their share of rotten meat. Down there, on the sand, on that blood-soaked soil enclosed in an hexagonal cage. Down there, alone, stood a child. Surrounded by nineteen corpses.

Some died fighting, some never stood a chance, one was unceremoniously offed right as the gong rang, caught in the middle of a three-way Mexican standoff – and riddled with bullets, in a fast, almost painless, death. The last six, however, were not as lucky. They didn't think a little girl could be an issue. They completely ignored her. Until it was too late. Until she started cutting their tendons, with surgical precision, a knife gripped by her tiny hand. First, right above the heels, then behind the knees, the elbows. All, all of them, incapacitated, one by one. Right before the mercy kill.

And there she stood, wrapped in a blood-soaked, ripped orange prison uniform, surrounded by nineteen corpses, six of which due to her alone. The audience was left breathless, stared puzzled at the small figure, unable to process the information. She couldn't have been older than twelve. Maybe she was even younger. Pale as a ghost, platinum blond short hair, ice-blue eyes. Expressionless, like a doll. Even after seeing six grown men and women draw their last breath, because of her knife. She stared at them shortly, looked at their empty eyes, eyes still frozen in fear.

A voice boomed from the speakers.

“... ladies and gentlemen, we have! Our! Survivor! Please, APPLAUSE!”

Hands clapping, a storm of clacking sounds and cheers. Most of the audience still shocked, incapable of processing the situation. A small, cute kid. Killing six adults. In cold blood. Without breaking a sweat.

“Our candidate for the Rapture iiiiiiis... NADIA NAGASE, from Soooooouth Africa!”

The child raised her head. A name. Her name. Nadia Nagase. She didn't care much about it – it was but a collection of vowels and consonants, after all.

“She's quite the rascal – as you all! Have! Seen! Why was this cutie in prison, you might ask? She! Murdered! A Japanese diplomat! Iiiiiiiiin... Johannesburg!”

Nadia sighed. That voice was annoying. An high-pitched ear rape.

“Now, please! Another applause for our candidate! NADIA-CHAN!”

Part of the crowd cheered, chanted her name. Most people, however, didn't follow suit. Watching a grown man being brutally dissected by a Chaingear was already quite unsettling – but a child? There was a line to be drawn somewhere and – for many of them – that was the place to draw it.

Nadia turned around, looking at those mangled carcasses that once had been human beings. Six of them died because of her. Six bodies more. She raised her right arm, pulled up her sleeve. Seven small, star-like scars, like a constellation, scattered on her skin, right below her wrist. She wielded her knife with her left hand, the point delicately pressed against the forearm. Then, she slashed it, in a cross pattern, with surgical precision. Blood poured out of the torn flesh. The audience stopped breathing. Nadia watched the wound, the eighth star in the firmament. She took the knife again, carved another cross. And another. And another. Until six new stars were added to that disturbing galaxy of gashes.

Nadia pulled the knife away, ripped the sleeve of the uniform, rolled it around her forearm, as an improvised bandage. Her blood was soaking the orange cloth, red spots at the position of each new cross. She closed her eyes, words spoken softly, words nobody could hear. The audience fell in a deep silence. Some seemed to understand. Many didn't want to interrupt the mysticism of that moment. Yet, the announcer's voice broke the spell, boomed with full power in the now almost empty arena.

“Aaaaaand now... the moment you were ALL waiting fooooooor...”

Nadia gazed at the entrance, that mock-up circular gate with strange inscriptions and alien motives. She knew what was coming. Her heart skipped a beat.

“The ONE!”

A loud, thunderous roar, the floor shaking.

“The ONLY!”

Gigantic, heavy steps, echoing through the hall. A primal screech, a mechanical tail dragged on the floor, the ticking of innumerable cogs and gears.

“The last GATEKEEPER OF HEAVEN!”

Diesel engines booting up, clouds of black exhaust, pistons pumping.

“Here coooooomes...”

Rows of shark teeth, an open mouth with a long, snake-like tongue. Powerful, armored legs, the body structure of a tyrannosaurus. No eyes, just a plain metal helmet with a single, refined blade pointing forward. And two chainsaws per side, where one would have expected arms.

“The CHAINGEAR!”

The vocal, violent part of the audience roared. The chants surpassed the noise of the chainsaws, reached the heavens. Slowly, other voices joined the choir, until their collective cheers eclipsed every other sound. Only to be utterly obliterated by the roar of the beast.

Nadia gulped, her eyes widened, her hand instinctively going for the knife. The announcer's voice screeched again.

“Two tonnes of metal, flesh, and vicious cruelty! The last guardian of the Holy Rapture! Those who sinned shall fear its presence! Twenty damned souls, twenty pitch-black devils! And one, one alone can ascend to Paradise! Shall the sinner be forgiven? THE JUDGEMENT! IS! ON!”

The Chaingear roared, a deathly, ghastly howl silencing the crowd. Stroboscopic lights, flashes, dusts of smoke. Nadia stared blankly at the beast. The road to salvation was right there, in front of her. And that monster was the last obstacle left in the way.

**

She couldn't forget the first time she heard those words. Emotional deficiency. That was what the doctor said. She was just four, but she couldn't forget it. Emotional deficiency. Inability to feel. Inability to understand other human beings. Lack of empathy. Lack of connection to the world around. That was why she had thrown that puppy from the balcony. She couldn't see the issue. And the puppy was breaking her focus. The expression on her father's face changed all of a sudden, his eyebrows bending, his teeth grinning. She couldn't understand why. She was too young.

Her mother was crying. This sounded strange to her. Why crying, if she suffered no physical pain? Were those words so harmful?

Emotional deficiency.

Inability to love, inability to hate.

Inability to connect.

She was just four. Yet, her future was clouded with sadness.

A sadness she would have never been able to understand or to experience.

**

The Chaingear pointed at her, his sharp blade tracking her slow, circling motions. It was bigger than expected, covering a consistent portion of the arena alone. Flanking it wasn't an option, not yet. A frontal assault would have been useless too. She thought about the weapons she could have chosen from before the battle royale. Guns, plasma rifles, even a chainsaw blade. All impractical. If she went for something more evident than a knife, the other contestants would have targeted her sooner. Especially if she would have loaded it properly in front of them. Not exactly the most logical choice. She thought about picking up a grenade, but, before she could fasten it to her belt, a huge, muscular guy ripped it off from her hand. The same guy who died as soon as the gong rang. Nadia kept on moving, circling the hexagonal border at a constant, regular pace. The Chaingear stepped forward. One step. Two steps. Its huge body reached the center, its tail raising waves of sand, each roar dwarfing the voices of the crowd. Then, it stopped, flexed its legs. Nadia's breath accelerated. She jumped on the left, right as the Chaingear released his explosive force, his full weight thrown at maximum speed. The front blade teared through the metal barrier, broke the first safety net, the chainsaws buzzing, slashing the ground, hot sparks projected everywhere around. A cloud of smoke and dust, pieces of concrete falling around. Nadia recovered her stance, started running. The corpse of the huge man. Riddled with bullets. Still there. She kept one eye on the Chaingear, backing out of the wrecks of the arena wall. The beast started chasing her, its feet smashing the floor with each movement, the chainsaws low on the ground. Two corpses in its way, only for a second. Giant paws squashing the flesh, the saws dissecting the dead meat. The Chaingear winced, one of his saw stuck in the mangled rests of the body. It turned around, the second set of saws piercing, slashing the remains, to free the stuck weapon. Nadia didn't lose a second, accelerated, reached the hug guy's body. The grenade. The grenade was still there. She ripped it off from the giant's belt, kept it in her right hand, the knife in her left. The Chaingear got rid of the impediment, roared furiously, his bladed tail glowing. A plasma injector, yellow sparks flowing, the tail arced. A sharp noise, the tail like a whip, cutting through concrete. Two pillars crashed down, broke into smithereens. Nadia ducked behind the rubble, her heart pounding. No way she could survive without tactics. That was no army commando, no regular human. That... thing was death incarnate, a walking weapon of mass destruction. She swallowed, closed her eyes. Making it eat the bomb was out of question: the moment she would have been in range to throw it inside his mouth, she would have been dead and sliced in several parts. The Chaingear roared, his tail glowing again. The glow propagated through the metal plaques, up, up on its back, up to its neck, a network of yellow, artificial veins lighting up. Then, it opened its mouth. Nadia left cover, jumped out with all the strength accumulated in her tiny body, bracing for the impact.

And the moment came.

A column of incandescent plasma, a fiery, glowing beam burning through the rubble, vaporizing the sand. A blast of fire, carbonizing the huge guy's corpse, burning it to a crisp. The shock wave sent the girl flying. She fell to the ground, rolled two, three times, the gravel scratching her skin, ripping her clothes. Nadia felt something. It was a strange sensation, like her body functions being altered. She retched, almost puked, her eyes widened. Having evaded death at the last second. Nausea, sickness. She shook her head, tried to focus. The Chaingear closed its mouth, stopped for a second, smoke coming out of its vents, the exhaust pipes sending out black vapors. The tail started glowing again, with less intensity. It stood in silence, its mouth gaping. The people in the audience held their breath.

Nadia's legs trembled. She stood up. She fell again. Her forehead drenched in sweat. Tears flowing on her cheeks, her pupils dilated.

“W... what's happening to me?! Is this... fear?!”

She turned around. The beast was still reloading, slowly, but surely. The tail's glow was faint, the breathing accelerated.

Nadia slapped herself, got back on her feet, wiped her tears.

That.

That was the opening.

She started running, bit the fuze of the grenade, ripped it off, stopped eight, nine meters far from the beast, waved her right arm. A thunderous roar, a whipping sound, the Chaingear turning on itself. A yellow glowing trail, in a frozen instant, the burning end of an extensible tail, the blade shining.

Nadia felt pain. An intense, burning pain. She fell on the ground, her body thrown as a ragdoll, rolling in the dirt. She bit her lips, tears flowing. Her shoulder. Her right shoulder. A piercing pain, never experienced before. She screamed, her voice overcoming the chants of the crowd, screamed all the air in her lungs. Her shoulder. Her shoulder was aching. Was burning. She slowly opened her eyes, trying to keep strong, not to faint. Then, she saw something. An arm. A severed arm. The top part, the missing connection was burned to a crisp, completely cauterized. No blood, no gore. Then, she noticed. The scars. Thirteen small scars, like stars, on the forearm, six of them still fresh, still red. She blinked, incredulous. She turned her head, slowly, to the right shoulder, to her right arm. To what was left of it.

The Chaingear roared, his tail fully glowing, the saws whirling at maximum speed.

Then, the grenade exploded.

Right between his feet.

**

Nobody had seen the war coming. Sure, there was rationing for certain goods and a curfew after eight o'clock in the night, but nobody seemed to believe in an escalation. No clear evidence about who started – historians are still divided on the topic – but most say that the Chinese Army made the first move, deploying tanks and bombers on the outskirts of Soweto. The US considered it as a declaration of war and stationed Navy SEAL units in Johannesburg and Pretoria. Not one missile was fired, however. Diplomacy went down its way, South Africa trying to negotiate with both parties at once, trying to strike a balance. Both wanted a piece of the cake, the huge, recently discovered reserves of egazidite. The only deposit in the known world of a mineral capable of replacing germanium and silica in semi-conductor applications, if properly refined. The world split in two, over that quarrel between the two nations – those who supported the stars&stripes and those who supported the former Heavenly Kingdom. Some stood neutral, but most took a stance, with both parties deploying nuclear weapons at the border with the African nation, to show off their power. Someone called this conflict the first Sino-American war, later. At the beginning, things didn't seem to escalate – something resembling a cold war balance taking place instead. Yet, fights and skirmishes between rogue soldiers from both formations were frequent, especially in Johannesburg. Nadia was just eight, as the conflict began. Her parents had reluctantly hidden her away, in the black quarters of the city, as they were actively trying to fuel a peace movement, something which put a moving target on their heads and, by extension, on that of their only daughter. Father Onyango, an old priest and family friend, had been not so pleased by the idea of bringing her up, when her mother asked him, but he had a favor to repay. So, she took her with him.

A peculiar man, Father Onyango. Huge, black, with receding white hair. Always chomping his cigar and talking about Jesus. In a country of protestant majority, he stubbornly kept his small catholic church open, even if his faith in Heaven was less than that in money. A former drug dealer turned priest, with still plenty of contacts with the underground of the city. Nadia could never forget his wide smile, his smell of cigar, nor his booming voice.

She could never forget the day he showed her the truth.

“Soooo, Nadia, yes? 'ow are you doin' today?”

“I killed a cat.”

It wasn't rare for Nadia to hurt some animals. She just couldn't understand their reasons for existing. The excuses given her by her parents didn't make sense.

“Again? Nadia, w'at will you say to the Almighty w'en you reach Paradise, sweet'eart?”

Father Onyango was almost always sitting on his armchair, while talking to her. He was letting her rest on his fat legs, looking at her empty eyes.

“I don't believe. There is no Almighty. Like Santa. It's illogical.”

The old man used to laugh at those remarks. They had so many conversations like that with the kid. Her intelligence was great, albeit very premature. But she lacked emotions. Sometimes it was like talking with a wall. Except the wall could be more passionate.

“An' w'at if you are wrong? Can't you feel pity for the poor soul of that pussycat?”

She shook her head, like several times before.

“I can't feel anything. How can I understand if something is wrong?”

Father Onyango had a sudden revelation. Questionable if divine or not, but still a revelation.

“Listen kid. W'at woul' you do if somebody, anybody, tried to kill you?”

“Illogical. Nobody would try to kill me.”

The man laughed.

“Is t'at so?”

He grabbed her arm, opened a box on his desk, pulled out a shining, semiautomatic gun. He cocked it, his finger on the trigger.

“W'at if I point'd t'is baby at your lil'ead, and pull'd the trigger, sweet'eart?”

Nadia was speechless. Her eyes widening, her heart beating faster. Faster.

“It's... it's...”

“W'at if I told you t'at I 'ate your fat'er and t'at murderin' you woul' be a sweet revenge? Is it still illogical?”

Nadia shook her head, tears flooding on her cheeks.

“... I would... I just...”

The barrel touched her forehead, cold metal on the pale skin. Nadia screamed, maybe for the first time in her life.

“I... I don't want to die, Father. I don't!”

“Too late.”

He pulled the trigger.

But nothing happened. Just a single, metallic click.

Nadia fell down like a doll. She lost her strength, her muscles relaxing all of a sudden. It was then, that she realized it. She didn't want to die. And, like her, probably, every other living being.

Father Onyango placed the gun back on his desk, chomped his cigar.

“You see, kid? T'at pussycat. T'at one felt the same. She didn't wanna die too.”

Nadia kept on crying, sobbing. The cat felt that way. And all the cats before her. All of them. Nadia hugged the black man, gripped his long robe.

“I didn't! I didn't understand it! And now... and now...”

She looked at the gun, then at the man, then at the gun again.

“Father, please! I don't want to die! I don't! I DON'T!”

Father Onyango patted her head, exhaled a thick cloud of smoke.

“Calm down, sweet'eart. Calm down. It's all good, but first...”

His fat hand browsed inside the same box, pulled out a short knife.

“... you 'ave to pay a price. You 'ave to remember the sins you committed. Raise the arm t'at killed t'at cat.”

Nadia nodded, did what she was asked to, moving like a robot, eyes still wet. The priest reached for her forearm, kept her hand tight, the blade shining in the light of the afternoon.

“You 'ave taken one life. You must remember it. Forever.”

She slashed her skin, in a cross-shaped pattern – a small, blood star flourishing right below her wrist. Nadia gulped, froze for a long second, closed her eyes, moaned in pain. Father Onyango took a bandage, wrapped it around the wound, wrapped it tight. Then, he cleaned the knife, gave it to the small, eight year old child standing in front of him.

“One life. One scar. Never forget the deat's you caused. Keep t'em always wit' you. So, when you face t'e Lord, you will be able to explain every single one of t'em. Alrig't, sweet'eart?”

Nadia nodded, her body in the warm grip of the old man.

“I promise.”

Father Onyango hugged her small body.

“Good girl. Now, come wit' me! I've got some chocolate left somew'ere...”

One life. One scar.

She would have never forgotten it. She would have never broken her oath.

**

A thunderous roar, a sorrowful wail. The Chaingear howled, fell on its knees. Metal plates scattered around, burnt skin, carbonized scales. The shock wave blasted away most of the leg armor, leaving wires and cables exposed, almost cutting its tail away. It stumbled, stood up, stumbled again. The tail was glowing, glowing like a thousand suns, yellow blazes shining on the huge mechanical body. Then, they switched off. Switched on. Off. On. Off. A painful moan, its back flickering like off-season Christmas decorations. Nadia was breathing heavily, her pupils completely dilated. She tried to focus, her mind racing. Her arm. She lost her right arm. Cut below her shoulder. The wound cauterized by the heat. No blood loss, no immediate danger. She could still survive. She could still be free. She got to her knees, her remaining hand firm on the sand, tears still flowing. The pain was almost bearable. She called in all her remaining adrenaline, forced her body to react. She stood up, took her knife. One step in the charred sand. Another step. Another. Another. Nadia started to run, run towards the wounded beast. The chainsaws stuck in the sand, only the tail mobile enough to stop her. The Chaingear managed to stood up, one foot almost detached from the ankle, the other still connected via a multitude of thin wires. A ferocious roar, the lights on the back switching on again, its neck extended, its mouth glowing. Nadia swerved from her trajectory, out of the line of fire. A beam of plasma erupted from the creature, black, thick smoke bursting away from its exhausts. Metal melted, sand turned to glass, concrete splitting for the pressure. A huge explosion, rubble and gravel flying around. Nadia fell to the ground, rolled on her only arm, kept running, reached for its gigantic leg. The beast was reloading, its senses dulled, its reactions slowed down. Then, she stroke. Her knife went through, severed the tendons, slashed away the connections. The Chaingear fell forward, his muscles not keeping it up anymore. It fell on the ground, its belly impacting with a loud boom, clouds of sands raised up, the saws breaking under its weight, the ghastly wail of a wounded beast. Nadia caught her breath. One strike. One strike more. She had to do that. To finish that creature's life, so that her own could be saved. She climbed its back, metal plates used as steps, the knife between her teeth, her remaining hand moving her forward. The Chaingear was struggling, trying to recover, wiggling, fidgeting wildly. Nadia reached its head, her legs tightened around the armor plates, the knife still in her mouth. She raised her arm, went for the handle. But she never reached it.

Something lashing the air, the cracking noise of a whip, a yellow flash on her left side. And her hand was suddenly gone.

**

They called it the one day war, some years later. In twenty four hours, American armored divisions invaded the eastern half of South Africa. At the same time, China deployed occupation troops to contrast them. The president was detained, the defense force – having no chance of fighting the two superpowers – simply surrendered. The two opposing forces stopped at the first sight of each other, didn't shoot a single bullet. Both had atomic weapons. None wanted to use them. Johannesburg was taken by US troops, a garrison stationed inside Constitution Hill. Peace movements squashed, protesters arrested, huge purging operations from both sides. After one month of mild international uproar, a divided South Africa became the new status quo. The European Union formally condemned the occupation, but, as too many times in the last fifty years, those were but the barking of a yapping puppy in front of a pitbull.

Nadia's parents were arrested too, taken to prison, sentenced to five years due to their protests, leaving her to the care of Father Onyango, once more. War had taken its toll on the old priest, awakened something that was better left untouched. His nation was suffering. His people were suffering. God wasn't doing anything to relieve their pain. One evening, two months after the invasion, the huge black man went to the church and broke the crucifix in half, kicking the wooden body of Jesus repeatedly, screaming like a wounded beast, swearing against the foreigners. Nadia was watching him, in secret, from afar. She couldn't understand his rage, his regret, so she remained there, silent.

A couple days later, Father Onyango put something in motion. Men in dark suits, crooks with guns stepping by, presenting themselves at the front door of the small house where he was living with Nadia. The men were in good terms with Onyango, as if they were old friends. They were never leaving without gifting him something, and he was always smiling at the end of the bargaining. Nadia was not very fond of changes, but she kept quiet for a while. Until, one day, she couldn't resist anymore.

“Father... what are you doing? What is happening?”

The huge man patted her head.

“I'm tired, kid. Tired of t'is nation bending. In the hands of t'ose filt'y capitalist foreigners. I want freedom, kid. I want to give 'em a signal, loud and clear.”

Then, he looked at her, their eyes meeting.

“You'll be a part of it, kid. It's your future at stake. You must do somet'ing for uncle Onyango, yes?”

Nadia's feeling could be defective, but her mind would have never turned down an offer from the man who was protecting her, whatever it was. She nodded.

“Good kid. You know, t'ose people were ol' friends of mine. Old times, you know, w'en I was still a boy delivering drugs and cocking guns. And guess w'at? I'm gonna cock my guns again.”

Father Onyango hugged the small girl, his huge arms around her body.

“We gotta giv'em a signal. We gotta show'em t'at t'ey are NOT safe 'ere. T'at t'ey can't rest quiet. And I need your 'elp, yes?”

Make them fear South Africa. Show them they were not the jailers but the jailed. Father Onyango knew what to do. Knew what had to be done. He gathered kids, all the orphaned kids he could find in Soweto and the neighboring districts. He was helping the poor, those children that had no family anymore or whose parents were seized by the puppet government in Pretoria. He was giving them another chance at life, so nobody thought about messing with him. Beating up an old catholic priest and a bunch of children, after all, was not something that the public opinion would have accepted easily. Moreover, he was doing something harmless. No point in being worried about that crazy black man.

At least, on the surface.

In reality, that was no orphanage. That was a clandestine military training camp for child soldiers.

His connections with the underworld allowed his endeavor to fly under the American radar. Onyango needed money. He got money. Onyango needed weapons. He got weapons. Onyango needed trainers and instructors. He got those too, renegade military men and former soldiers. All together, with a common dream. Two years went by. Two years of hellish training.

Nadia did what she was asked to. Learned how to use a knife, how to dismount a gun, to clean it and load it. How to use grenades. How to cut a man's carotid. How to sever tendons. Where to aim to secure a kill.

At times, Onyango managed to get his dirty hands on some minor convicts, some who tried to serve the new leaders but to no avail. Onyango had no pity for those. Thus, they became training puppets. The trial of fire for his hidden army.

Nadia's forearm got new scars, slowly but surely. One, two, three, until she had a constellation of six, knife-marked stars on her skin. Killing had become second nature, but she kept her promise.

One life, one scar. Never to forget the dead ones. To make amends in front of God, the moment her life had ended.

Two years had been a long time, the American and Chinese grip loosening a bit – but not enough, with an apathetic international community which had no interest in an African state on the other side of the world, even if it used to be rich in both resources and history. Most citizens adapted, some rebellions were cut short, Navy SEALS storming and gunning down men who thought they were safe and that the government was not keeping tabs on them. Then, the day came. The day Father Onyango was waiting for. The day where no filthy foreigner would have felt safe anymore.

**

Pain.

Pain.

PAIN.

She screamed, the knife falling between her legs, the grip kept with all her residual strength. Tears. Fear. The same burning sensation as before, her skin on fire. That yellow flash, that hot plasma blade. She closed her eyes, emptied her lungs.

“NO! NOOOO!”

Her lids opened, her pupils moving erratically. Her hand. Where was her hand? Where? Her colors fading, as pale as a ghost. Her hand. Down there, on the sand. With the rest of her left forearm. She froze, in place. Her energy drained, her grip on reality fading. Her legs lost her grip

Noise. Chatter. The audience. The audience was mumbling, men crying, women raising their voices. All asking for something, in unison. She didn't understand. She couldn't understand. Her senses were shutting down. Her brain was shutting down. Her hope. Her life. All. Lost.

She fell on the ground, her knife just centimeters from her. So near. So far. And no more fingers to use it.

“... why?”

The Chaingear raised its head, roared once more. A waning roar, its energies drained, the body not glowing, not anymore, its tail crumpling, damaged in a last ditch effort to survive. The connectors broke, causing the blade to fall. Right on the side of its neck, cutting down its vessels. Blood sprinkling from the severed carotid, raining down on the gravel. One last, long, wail, no eyes to shed tears from. The beast moaned, its head crashing near Nadia's small body, the mouth gaping, wide open. Nadia blinked, her pupils focused on that majestic corpse, on what was a living creature up to a couple minutes before. Its blood raining down, soaking her uniform, her pale skin.

The beast was dead.

Nadia realized it only in that moment.

The Chaingear, the guardian of Heaven, was dead... while she was still alive.

And the audience was chanting her name. Everyone, every single one of them.

“Nadia-chan! Nadia-chan! Nadia-chaaaaaaaan!”

She could see two men, two men in white, walking towards her, a stretcher among them. They were coming for her. But it wasn't over. Not yet. Not at all. She forced herself to react, to roll around, to reach the knife. She opened her mouth, bit the handle, tightened her grip of her teeth around it. Then, she started crawling, crawling on the gravel, her uniform ripping, her whole body as a macabre worm. The men in white stopped, not understanding what was happening. They stopped far away, just watched. The audience still crazy.

“Nadia-chan! Nadia-chan! Nadia-chaaaaaaaan!”

But Nadia was not listening. She was slowly reaching it, slowly but surely. Ten, nine, eight meters. Seven, six, five. Almost there. Almost... Four, three, two. One. Zero.

Her arm. Her severed right arm. The thirteen scars as stars in a constellation. She bent on the forearm, the knife still between her lips.

“One life...”

She pressed the blade against the dead skin, tried to keep it straight. The first slash, the second, her mouth keeping the grip as steady as possible.

“... one... scar.”

A fourteenth, red star started shining up in the firmament. Nadia opened her mouth, let the knife fall. She fell down too, her senses slipping away, in a stream of unconsciousness, her mind racing.

“... I kept the promise, see Father...?”

Then, she finally passed out, with a smile.

The first smile since a long time.

**

Yotoshi Muritaka, was the name of the man.

A Japanese ambassador, sided with the US, stationed in Johannesburg. With a thing for underage girls. He was notorious for this – it was an open secret which never went fully public and was covered up one too many times. In this man, Onyango saw his golden opportunity.

He took Nadia aside, alone.

“Kid, come 'ere.”

He showed her a picture of the diplomat.

“You go and kill him, okay, kid? And you won't escape, 'kay? You 'ave to be caught for t'is to work. You 'ave to be seen. T'is is our message to t'ose pigs: we will fight for Sout' Africa down to t'e last child. Everyone is your enemy.”

Nadia shivered.

“If they catch me... will they... kill me?”

Onyango laughed.

“T'ey wouldn't dare. You safe, kid. I will force the pigs to get you under my tutelage, to 'elp you startin' a normal life. You aren't officially livin' wit' me, kid. We 'ave no connection, on paper. Everyt'ing will be fine. I promise.”

Nadia agreed, the plan went in motion. She was dressed in lace and frills, delivered to Muritaka as a gift from a local drug lord, to let him close an eye on an illegal load of cocaine directed to Japan that was intercepted by the Americans one week earlier. It was a bribe, to guarantee his cooperation. The drug lord didn't know about Onyango's intent, when he received the kid from him, that ten-something year old child with pale blond hair and expressionless, ice blue eyes.

He couldn't imagine what was going to happen.

Once in his private quarters, she stabbed the ambassador, severed his carotid, right as he started to undress her. She stabbed him two, three times. She let him scream once, to alert the guards, to be found. Then, she executed him for good. As he was unquestionably dead, she finally marked the seventh star on her forearm, the seventh star on her macabre constellation.

“One life. One scar.”

When the bodyguards opened the door, they couldn't believe their own eyes. The corpse of Muritaka, blood sprinkling from his cut vessels, lying on a bed. And a small, half-undressed, girl, stained by red spots, sitting on his chest, with a knife in her hand. Looking at them, with empty, lifeless eyes. Saying one, single sentence, with her monotone, eerily calm voice.

“This is for South Africa.”

The picture of the child standing on the Japanese ambassador's dead body spread like a virus around the world. No network lost the occasion to show it, to comment it. News outlets covered the story almost live, journalists being dispatched to Constitution Hill to get glimpses of her. Nadia had become a symbol, a symbol of something greater than her.

You won't be safe. Be wary of the children. They too can kill you. Everyone is an enemy.

Paranoia grew exponentially. And disorders began to show up.

Navy SEALS killed by kids begging for a slice of bread, in broad daylight.

A paralytic woman shooting an American diplomat with a rifle camouflaged as a cane.

Bodies of soldiers found dissected in brown bags at the side of the road.

South Africa was rising, as Onyango had dreamed. No invader would have felt safe in Johannesburg. Not anymore.

With his goal accomplished, he tried to get Nadia back as promised, tried to have her assigned to him for re-education, as originally planned. Bribes, support from the most radical nationalist fringes, corruption. Everything seemed to work fine. It was just a matter of pushing it a bit more.

But USA and Japan had none of it.

They decided to curb the rebellion, to cut its head at the beginning, by any means possible. The drug dealer spoke, under torture, pointed the finger towards Father Onyango. The old man was killed in his sleep, his church burned down to ashes, all the kids either gravely injured or murdered, only a couple of them escaping safely to the Chinese part of South Africa. The movement was squashed like a bug, leaving only empty silence and the charred rests of what once was a place of prayer and hope. Nadia was extradited to Japan and sentenced to death, with a very short trial without the possibility to appeal. She would have been executed to make an example out of her, an example for all those who were fool enough to try and change the world.

Then, one man – one peculiar man - came to visit her.

And made her an offer she could not refuse.

He offered her a chance of salvation.

**

White. All she could see was white. The walls. White. The ceiling. White. The floor. White. The woman. White. The bed. White. She blinked two, three times. She turned her head, slowly. She was alive. She had survived the Rapture? Her mind raced at her limbs, her shoulders still aching. Her eyes moved from left to right, her mind ready for the shock of having lost both arms. She winced.

“... what...?”

Her right hand. Her left hand. Both still there. Both following her will. The fingers closing, opening again, the wrists turning without effort. Scars on her forearm, the blood cleaned. Thirteen stars in the constellation, one for every life. Nadia touched them all, her left index following the contours. Her arms. Still there. But how?

“Oh-oh-oh! Finally awake, Nadia-chan!”

An unpleasant voice, a tad too high-pitched. Annoying. Familiar. The announcer? Nadia looked at the door, at the man crossing it. Tall, slender, long blond hair, red shirt, black suit. An asymmetric cross-shaped scar on his forehead, red sunglasses resting on a sharp nose, purple lipstick. He looked goofy. Unfit. Someone that would have lasted no more than one second on the battlefield. The man trotted to her bed, snapped his velvet-gloved fingers. A nurse brought him a chair, let him sit there. The man clapped his hands two times. The nurse bowed, went away, leaving him alone with Nadia.

“Poor thing! You must have sooooo many questions! So! Many!”

Nadia didn't know what to say. The whole situation was confusing. That was the man who took her out of prison, without a doubt. The owner of Stratosphere. The inventor of the Rapture. The designer of the Chaingear. In front of her, was standing none other than Reiner Greschnik.

The man crossed his hands.

“You see, I should be mad at you, Nadia-chan. You destroyed my toy, killed my puppy. Do you have any idea on how much time will we need to equip a new Chaingear? No, obviously you haven't! And that's fine, Nadia-chan. Your task was to survive and you did it won-der-ful-ly!”

He adjusted his glasses, his pupils hidden by the colored lenses.

“Your performance was truly MAGNIFICO! Since the beginning of the Rapture, nobody – and I say nobody ever survived the last round! The FIRST! TIME! In FIVE YEARS! Sure, someone almost made it, but you... oh, please, you have been perfect! One! Of! A kind! Seriously, the highest peak in share since...”

“... my arms.”

Nadia cut his words short. The density of information in his speech pattern was so low that she couldn't help interrupting him. Greschnik coughed.

“... oh, yes, I, huh, took the liberty of asking the doctors to reattach them to your body. I hope you are not displeased! To be frank, we can also remove those U G L Y scars on the right forearm if you...”

“No.”

Nadia's voice raised. A firm negation, her head shaking wildly. Greschnik pursed his lips. Interrupted for the second time, in less than one minute. He rolled his eyes.

“... fine, Nadia-chan. Now...”

“Am I free? I won your game. You said I would be free.”

Greschnik laughed loudly.

“Oh, boy! You have some nerve, truly! Brash, straight to the point! I like you already, Nadia-chan!”

He jumped on feet, started circling around her.

“And, YES, now you are free... to work for me.”

Greschnik stood near her cushion, his eyes meeting her own.

“You see... no government would allow a murderer to be released out in the wild again! And that's where my stroke of genius is! I got this permission to hire everybody who won the Rapture, their criminal records wiped clean... but on one condition: they have to become part of my bodyguards. You! Will be! The first!”

Nadia stood silent for a long while. Then she nodded.

“Understood. Orders acknowledged. When are we going back to South Africa?”

Greschnik brushed his sleeve on his glasses, as if wiping nonexistent tears.

“It's saaaaaad, Nadia-chan, but I can't allow you to go back to Johannesburg. Not at all! You'll have to remain with me, wherever I go! Safe! From! Harm!”

Nadia nodded again.

“Acknowledged. I have nothing left there to care about. Father Onyango is dead. Everyone is dead.”

“Precisely. Everyone is dead. The old Nadia is dead. Long! Live! The NEW! Nadia! Long live my first Angel!”

“... Angel?”

Greschnik grinned.

“You entered the gates of Paradise. Now, you stand tall, above the rest of mankind. And soon you will become more powerful than you would have ever imagined.”

“But, if I'm your Angel... would you be....”

A chaotic burst of laughter.

“Above the clouds, we found no God. It's the motto of Stratosphere. Because, because it's exactly like this! We searched and searched, went to space and beyond, but that galactic, universal Prankster was nowhere, NOWHERE to be found! So, this means – this means that there is a vacant place to fill...”

The man took out his glasses, his eyes finally showing up. Nadia winced, her pupils widened. Greschnik licked his lips, a grimace drawn on his slender face.

“... and who am I to turn down such an alluring opportunity?”

**

“... why did you bring me here?”

Harsh sunlight, a warm summer breeze. A girl, around twenty years old, maybe slightly older. Pale blond hair, even paler complexion, ice blue eyes. A short pink dress with zippers, a multitude of pins on it, red sneakers, bracelets, a silk black necklace. Bandages around her right forearm, emoticons and crude pencil drawings on it, her left hand tapping on the gauze. The other person, a guy around her age, maybe older. African descent, probably. The one who asked the question. The girl nodded.

“The church where I grew up...”

“Yes?”

“It was here. Right here.”

She walked over, stepped forward, slowly. They were in an empty courtyard, near a freshly painted building. Election posters all around, interspersed with celebratory pictures of Constitution Hill, for the third anniversary of the new republic.

“Here was the chair he used to seat. And here... here he kept his cigar box. Freshly smuggled, huh – I mean, imported from Cuba. The old man had... good taste. Sometimes I smoke them too. They feel... great.”

The boy stared at her, looked around. He didn't know why he accepted to follow her, yet he did. The girl was keeping on jumping around, her voice in a continuous stream of consciousness.

“Here, here was my bed. And there, there stood the huge crucifix. We used to watch Tarantino movies right in front of it. Father was covering Jesus's eyes with a cloth, so that he could not see him enjoying a movie about gratuitous violence. There I have killed that cat. Father Onyango was so pissed that he pointed his gun at my head to try and teach me empathy...”

The guy stood in silence. The girl was keeping looking around, light steps, her hand moving through the air, outlining the borders of furniture and objects no longer there since years, driven only by her memories. The guy yawned. She could not forget a single thing in her life, while he had had no interest in finding about his missing past. That was probably the biggest difference between them.

“Nadia, listen... I know, I understand, but we have to go now.”

She shook her head.

“Just one moment.”

She unwrapped her bandages, unrolled it, turn after turn. A firmament of stars, her whole forearm pointed by crosses, slashes, cuts and bruises.

“One life...”

She left the bandage fall, joined her hands, knelt on the concrete. For a second, she was back there, her forearm still clean, the first wound freshly bleeding. Father Onyango chewing his cigar on his swinging chair, the wooden face of Jesus watching her from above. The smell of havana, the lights of the candles, the noise of the air conditioner.

“One scar.”

One, single tear, flowing down on her cheek, falling to the ground. She wiped it away, stood up again. Then, it was over, she was back to the present.

She looked back at the boy.

“Okay, ready to go. I'm done here...”

She turned once more towards the empty place, the place that used to be her house,

“... I kept my promise.”

The duo moved away, stepping in the sunlight. And the memories danced away, like sand in the wind.