**A/N: Please read prologue first. This is still in quite rough stages, but I've decided to post it to get a bit of feedback. Hope you enjoy!





I open my eyes. I'm standing outside the dive of a bar where I work, a row of slummy regulars slumped against the wall behind me. Their soot-caked skin clings desperately to their starving bodies as cigarette smoke lurks from their dry, cracked lips. Their eyes are barely open as they mutter about broads and drink; they have given up hope, just like everyone else unfortunate enough to live in the slums.

A cool, eerie breeze slithers by, chilling frail ankles barely protected by my wind-ruffled dress. Dragged in with it is the stench of urban crumble and decay, a nasal blueprint for men made catatonic by drink and gamble, and for shabby women clinging desperately to their final memories of the past, before the Suburbs were installed.

I can't help but glance toward the far-away faint glow of the tall white wall that separates us from our families, and clean water and food. The Suburbs, A government program built during the war with internal housing and jobs and transportation. A paradise really, for the worthy human, but what I keep asking myself; what we all keep asking ourselves is what about the rest of us?

The rest of us are rotting away in post-nuclear sludge. But we have our reasons to fight, and the slums are the only place where anything good is still legal. Bars, crack alleys, whores or cigarettes, you won't find them in the 'Burbs, so we drink up and light up and hold a toast to Sonny's, the little bar with a flashing neon sign where you can still find anything you want.

Sonny is like a father to me. After my mom died, he was all that I had. At least that's what he told me at her funeral when he collected me and brought me to the bar to start working as one of his girls. The job is fairly simple. Night after night, I fix up my hair and slip into one of many low-cut, leg-baring slinky dresses, then I circle a room crammed full with sweaty, hairy men, their beady eyes focussed on their roulettes and craps. My job is to find the high-rollers, the men with large bets on the table, and whisper enticingly in their ears, cheer with every win, and maybe let them have a feel or two. It is degrading, but what kind of work isn't?

Then, there is the big moment. The bets are sky-high and the pulses are racing. My beet-red, reeking charge lets loose the dice clenched in his fist and they tumble in slow motion, like time is jelly. He wraps an arm tight around me as the dice settle into their final position. Snake Eyes, the house wins. The house always wins. His chips are pulled away and he's left gaping at the table as I wriggle out of his grasp.

"See you later, baby," I say breathily, offering a sympathetic smile. He spits out a loud swear and grabs me by the arm tightly, pinching the skin underneath like an Indian sunburn.

"You fucking bitch!" he shouts, but before he has time to lay another hand on me, Sonny steps in, dark, angry and unimpressed.

"Go get some air, Kate," he says sharply. My arm is released and I shuffle away as my assaulter is confronted by the kind of man you do not want to piss off.

Now, where am I? Right, I'm outside Sonny's and the rain has cleared, leaving everything soggy and the air pungent and misty. There is the mill of men standing outside under the awning, some deep in conversation, others looking close to death. To my right there is a dishevelled looking man with unkempt hair and to my left a clean cut 'Burby arguing on his cell-phone. I seat myself on the steps in front of the door and pull out a cigarette.

"You got a light?" I decide to ask the guy to my right. He turns toward me. He's cute in those ripped up pants and rugged outerwear, like he planned to look a little bit shabby. He reaches his lighter out to me and I take a small puff to ignite my smoke.

"Well, thank you," I say, blowing the wispy smoke near his face. He grimaces and leans against the wall before lighting his own.

"So, you work here?" he asks casually.

"Yeah, I guess you could say that," I answer. I cross one leg over the other and look away. I'm used to speaking to men on business, I can coo in their ears and tell them what they want to hear, but as a person, as Kate, well, no one really knows who Kate really is, maybe not even myself. I decide to change this.

"What's your name, kid? I purr at him. This is ridiculous and we both know it. I'm barely seventeen.

"Dan, he says, chuckling lightly. He has a nice smile, all of his teeth and everything.

"I'm Kate," I offer.

"So, Kate," he says, sitting down beside me, "you make enough money at a place like this?"

"Yeah, I make enough," I answer, shifting awkwardly to accommodate his presence, "But Sonny, sometimes he isn't so nice." I say this in the faintest of whispers, as it's just one of the things that I am not allowed to say.

"Well, not everyone is nice all the time," Dan says, stamping out the butt of his cigarette. A series of gunshots ring out, echoing against the sallow street brick.

"I guess not," I say, frowning.

"Of course," he continues, "there are two types of nice people. There are those who give you what you want, and those who give you what you need."

"And which are you?" I ask.

"Depends on the situation," he answers with a shrug. He stretches out his legs to get comfortable; his shoes tattered and filled with holes. "You're not from around here, are you?" he asks. He is looking at me now like he is judging me, like I am constantly being judged.

"I grew up in the Suburbs," I state simply. This is the truth, I was young when the walls were built, and it wasn't long after that my mother and I were transferred outside.

"So you're a 'Burby, then, are you? Now, tell me, what's a delicate thing like you doing in a shit-hole like this?"

"That's a long story, and one I'd prefer not to share," I say.

"That's a shame," he replies. He seems sincere, but you can never tell with these slummy types.

"So, what do you do?" I ask in return.

"Hmm?"

"What do you do?" I repeat. He pauses for a moment, thinking, maybe making something up in his head.

"I don't really do anything right now," he says, "I'm 'in between' jobs, you could say."

"Doesn't that bother you?" I ask.

"Not really," he says, shrugging once more, "I'm still alive, right?"

"Sure," I say quietly. But I'm not sure, really. I have worked every day of my life, excluding when I was a young child. What else could my short life have held for me? Without occupation, without distraction, what is there? "What's it like, doing nothing?" I inquire. My hands begin to fidget against my will.

"It's just like any other job," he answers, "it gets old. I keep trying to find that real profession that'll make living a little easier, but if you're not in the 'Burbs, then there isn't really anything out there for you, so here I am, still slumming."

I never think about other work. I am still not aware that life outside of my bubble exists, and besides, what could I possibly be? What do I know besides money and drugs? And in the Suburbs, there is no gambling or smoking or drinking. My life as I know it would not exist.

"You know," I say, leaning in toward him, "I keep having these dreams lately. Ones where I'm flying, and the sky is blue all around me and the clouds are fluffy balls, and when I'm there, all there is, is-"

"-Peace?" he interrupts.

"That," I agree, "but also this feeling of nothingness. It's like a wave of complete relief. Do you think that's what freedom is?" I wonder aloud, "nothing?"

"Maybe," he answers, "but you know, I think I've been having that same dream. I could never remember it completely, but now that I hear it from you, I can't get it out of my head. What do you think it means?"

"Does it have to mean anything?" I say. How strange, I think, that we could share the same vision. Or, perhaps, it is just a dream.

"Kate!" a voice calls from inside the bar. There is shouting and crashing from within. "Get back in here, will you?" It's Sonny, and he doesn't sound pleased.

"I've got to go, work time" I say apologetically, offering Dan a simple smile.

"Think of me the next time you fly," he answers. Then he is gone.

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