Mirror's Edge

Mirror’s Edge

The hollow light flickered above, swaying back and forth like a metronome. Left, right, left, right. Its clock-like cadence illuminated the tattered walls of one edge of the small room, then lost itself beyond the crumbling wall of the other.

The heat that poured in through the open space was unbearable. Alana felt the drips of sweat pooling within the fibers of her torn and frayed clothes. Her once white shirt now a mixture of yellow, brown and black from the sweat, dirt and blood that had caked onto it endlessly over the course of the past months. The journey had been long and more arduous than she had planned for. She had held on to a fleeting flicker of hope that had been left when the world fell into ruin, much like the light above held to the final remnants of its dying glow. Alana had acted on a rumor of a place called Mirror’s Edge: the last bastion of the old world.

Seeing what lay beyond the crippled wall had crushed the only hope that remained in her. She had been led to believe that the small town had been walled and fortified, as if its tenants had been given a premonition of what was to come, a sign to prepare for the end. Maybe it had once been true. Maybe they had prospered in the first days of the madness that gripped the world. Maybe…

It had now been wrought with ruin. Whatever hope had kept the vision alive, it had clearly abandoned the place now. Beyond the wall lay a waste of stone and ash. A yellow tint hung in the air alongside the taste of sulfur and dust. Black spots peppered the horizon, some still enveloped in roaring flames. It was as if the sun itself had pierced the ground with its solar flares, berating the earth in an indefensible torrent of fire and death.

Alana had seen no such sight in the many years since the fateful day it all began. This event had not been man-made. It was the result of nature itself, reminding whoever persisted among the Earth’s inhabitants that it was not yet finished with their punishment. Were there any emotions left within her, she would have cried; however, the fire before her was the least of her current problems.

Some time earlier, as she neared the lone tower, in which she now occupied, a ghostly figure approached swiftly and decisively. Before Alana had a moment to think, her vision went black, her body went numb, and the ground reached up to meet her.

She had not been struck with brute force, that much was certain. She had felt the caress of a sharp, focused pain a mere half second before she collapsed. She knew of no such thing that could drop a person with such speed. Perhaps the world had finally begun to evolve and adapt to the horrible circumstances in which it found itself. The figure clad in shadows may have simply taken advantage of these changes and bent them to his needs.

Alana was not mad at him, nor with herself. Everything had changed so rapidly that those who were willing to adapt had the right to do as they pleased. Those who were unwilling? Well, they did not survive for long.

Alana had done her fair share of looting, stealing, beating and, in moments where she was given no other choice, killing. She was not fond of such an outcome, but her days of wallowing in self-pity over such an act were long behind her. She had lost a finger worrying over such things.

For now, she sat tied in a rusted chair. It had likely been pulled from beneath the nearby rubble. Its frame was bent out of shape, leaning ever so slightly to the left. Since coming to her senses, she was struck with the ever-present feeling of falling, despite remaining perfectly still. Of course, the chair alone was not sufficient to keep her contained. However, the ropes had been tied too tightly and far too well. Were she to break the chair, it was more likely she would impale herself on the break point than it was for her to be free herself enough to slip away. The risk was too great, so she remained complacent for the time being.

Her attention peaked as the sound of squealing bolts reverberated behind her. Greeted by a burst of air and a foul smell, she knew her captor had returned.

She had yet to see his face. Was he whole, or was he like the others?

Alana had come across a fair few humans over the preceding years. She had come to call them wanderers, because not even one had set up a home for themselves, a place to rest, to begin again. What’s more, none of them had retained the full measure of consciousness as she had. Many could speak, but their will was torn asunder. They could not focus on one task for long before the anger set in. With the anger came something far worse: the blackouts.

When the wanderers blacked out, they lost all control. Where once they could perform menial tasks, they now could do nothing but rage about in search of something to take their unquenchable anguish out on. Alana had seen countless bodies along the roadside, without a doubt there due to the blackout of one of the wanderers. Each corpse lay in a different state of decay. Some had been fed upon, others left to fester, while others still had nothing left but brittle, pale bones.

Alana could not help but wonder if her captor was less like the wanderers and more like herself. She had been knocked unconscious in the past, but never before had she been ferried to a different location, let alone tied down so meticulously. The manner of her capture, alone, set a precedent for her belief. If she was right, then they, whoever they were, could be reasoned with.

Suddenly, Alana’s thoughts abandoned her in favor of an unexpected, sharp pain.

“OW!” Alana yelped sharply. She could already feel a welt begin to form on the back of her neck. Instinctively, she tried to reach back to touch it, but her movement was instantly halted by her bindings.

“What sentiment guides one to carry such a thing,” the soft, yet gritty, voice of a man spoke from behind her, ignoring her cry of pain. He started to speak again as he made his way around to the front of the chair, hiding from view whatever it was he had just referred to, clutching it in the palm of his hand. “Is it love? Vanity? Hope…” his voice trailed off.

His face was oddly clean, characterizing a sharp jaw blended into a soft curve at his chin, hidden ever so slightly by the shadow of a beard. Loose tendrils of medium-length blonde hair curled out from underneath a black hood, which was similar in condition to Alana’s own clothing. His blue eyes observed her expectantly, waiting patiently, and, somehow, gently for her response.

Alana responded after a long pause, unsure of what he was referring to. “There is little left to hope for,” she finally replied, providing him room to elaborate.

He sighed tenderly. “Perhaps you are right. But, the very nature of little alludes to the fact that there is, at the very least, something.”

“Hrrumph,” came Alana’s short reply.

“So you disagree? Didn’t you come here,” he paused momentarily, gesturing beyond the broken wall, “to the remnants of Mirror’s Edge, for the exact same reason as me?” he asked.

“I guess that would depend completely on your own reason,” she said.

“You know the reason. I don’t need to say it aloud if you don’t want the words repeated.”

“I’m not sure I agree with your reasons given my current predicament,” Alana retorted, attempting to wriggle her arms to emphasize her point.

“Current predicaments, as you say, are just a precaution. You could just as easily have been one of the mindless ones that roam this way from time to time. I don’t have any need for them. I do, however, need you,” he explained.

“I don’t even know who you are.”

“Brenden,” he offered.

“Very…normal,” Alana approved, happy to know something about her captor.

“Much more so than the others in this hellscape. You won’t find them offering up that information as easily. In fact, I doubt most even remember their own names anymore. May I ask for your own?” Brenden asked.

“Alana,” she replied. “You are right to say I came here in search of Mirror’s Edge.” She sighed, looking back out the window. “Clearly it was a mistake.”

“Ah,” Brenden began with a light chuckle. “But was it?”

“Look around you. Of course it was. There is nothing left for us.”

“And there it is,” Brenden stated, a gentle glimmer of happiness flashing in his eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“You said us,” he replied.

Alana paused, recognizing his point immediately.

“Isn’t that reason enough?” Brenden asked. “How long have you been alone? How long have you wandered in search of a place like this…what it was rumored to be? Months? Years?”

“Years…” Alana uttered quietly, trailing off.

“That us is the fabric of what this world once was. A sense of togetherness that bound the living into communities that pursued the greater good for all,” he hesitated before continuing. “At least…it’s what we were meant to do.”

“If you believe that, why did you strike me when you entered?” Alana asked, a hint of frustration seeping into her voice.

“Had you reacted in any other way I would have turned around and walked away. I’ve been here for some time. Too long. I, too, have felt lost…alone.”

Alana could hear the hurt in his voice.

“I had nothing else to believe in. I was waiting for someone real to come along, someone whole. I think you were the last chance I was willing to give,” Brenden stated solemnly.

Alana believed it was a truth he didn’t know about himself until the moment he uttered the phrase.

Brenden stepped forward. He reached his hand down underneath the rusted chair and pulled sharply. At once, the entire binding unraveled, leaving Alana free to finally stand.

She brushed the back of her neck where Brenden had struck her before. It felt sore, but manageable. She had no worry about the perfection of her figure as she once did years ago. Many scrapes and bruises had taught her valuable lessons, this was just another.

Brenden reached out his closed hand to her and opened it, revealing a small, heart-shaped locket.

“What is this?” Alana asked, gently removing it from Brenden’s palm.

“Hope.”