Mark Engels Comments to mark_engels@rocketmail.com or fire_drake@rocketmail.com or please post to rec.arts.anime.fandom. --------------------------------------------------------------------- Hello readers. This story is in the middle of the GUNNM (aka Battle Angel Alita) storyline in between Angel of Victory (Ars Magna) and Angel of Redemption (Lost Sheep), during the two years Alita spent on her own. Our story functions as both a bridge between these two trade paperbacks and ties in with the fan works "Angel On her Own", "Spreading Wings", and the upcoming fic "Kodoku no Angel." These stories and many more GUNNM-inspired works can be found at Seraphim of the Scrapyard.... http://death.berkeley.edu/~snydder/seraph Anyway, thanks for reading and we hope you enjoy 'Nikira'. This story is Copyright 1998 to Charles Drake and Mark Engels. Based upon characters and situations created by Yukito Kishiro. --------------------------------------------------------------------- Nikira, part 1. As the sun sank lower in the western sky, the shadows cast by the enormous buildings once again brought an early nightfall to the streets below. A chill was in the air, and most of the shopkeepers in the marketplace took to indoors to keep their wares from being damaged by the cold or stolen by thieves seemingly hiding behind every corner. They gathered up their goods, each into his or her own cart or pack. The market square was filled with the deafening clamor of various vendors laughing, joking, cursing, and yelling to one another, each according to how profitable their stand had been this day. Farther across the commons, the soup lines were coming down as well. This had not been a good day for them, as there, as always, had simply not been enough to go around. For once again the volunteers who gave their time to feed the Scrapyard's hungry had sent away dozens, each one leaving with an emptiness in their eyes to match the emptiness in their stomachs. Dejectedly, the volunteers set to putting away the empty pots and utensils, making ready for another tomorrow just as dismal as the one before it. But inasmuch as the day was drawing to a close for the shopkeepers and the soup line, it was just beginning for another class of surface-dweller. The streets became dangerous places indeed as the shadows grew and the sky grew dark, for the broken minions of the Factories began the second stage of the daily ritual many of them partook in. By day, they operated the sewing machines, the arc furnaces, the grist mills, the stamping forges, the bread ovens...all the machinery that allowed the Scrapyard to provide for the needs of Tiphares, the floating city. Just as they always had...and, as many believed, just as they always would. By night, however, factory workers by the hundreds took to the streets to seek relief from the noise, dust, and the constant threats from Deckmen and their supervisors of what fate would befall them should they fall short on their quotas. The streets became the domain of the many seeking refuge in the pleasures of the flesh that would help them forget, if just for tonight, that there would ever be another tomorrow. At night, the Scrapyard belonged to the predators and those preyed upon. Hunter-warriors and the criminals they hunted. At the top of the food chain existed the Hunter-Warriors. They were the undisputed rulers of the night, and business had been good for many lately. But then again, not many could remember when it hadn't. Their role in this contorted ecosystem the Scrapyard knew was a simple one--prey upon those who prey upon. Someone was always out there doing something to get themselves onto the bounty list. Anything that could somehow adversely affect production of goods for Tiphares--burglary, arson, even murder: anything that could be translated into a slippage in production--was enough reason to place a bounty on one's head. It was a common understanding that to have a bounty on your head was reason enough to go hang yourself, for those of the Hunter-Warrior caste knew neither mercy nor leniency. Such was the nature of the business. To them, it was a way of life. There are, however, exceptions to every rule. One of their number had turned away from hunting to chase dreams closer to her heart. Rather than search for the answer to life's questions through battle, she now continued her pursuit through music and literature. She strode casually through the marketplace, deftly making her way across the crowded square, humming softly yet another tune she had yet to scribe lyrics for. She sported a black, knee-length skirt and a simple white blouse. Her black leather jacket hung mostly open save for the very bottom, where she had joined the two halves of the zipper should a sudden gust make the cool evening uncomfortable. Black hose and black boots finished her outfit, although many still remembered her black leather body suit and long yellow trench coat. Few holdovers remained from her days past save the streaks beneath her eyes where her artificial flesh had been removed, revealing the dark blue gray metal beneath. Extending from either side of her pug nose to plummet sharply downward over her cheekbones, they served as her unmistakable trademark. Despite her change of vocation, shopkeepers and soup line workers alike paid her deference. Many bid her good day, and to each she smiled and waved. She gave them some reason to believe that their honest labor and service would not be taken advantage of by some street punk or some drug-crazed Factory simp looking for any way to get a few chips for another fix. These were her streets too, and, so the word got around that to mess around with anyone on this neighborhood was asking to be hurt. Such was how the community regarded their native daughter, Alita. She heard someone calling to her, and paused to look around. Tymon, the book vendor, was hailing her from across the square. A vendor of rare and valuable books for as long as anyone could remember, Tymon pulled his cart just as fast as his rickety old legs could carry him. Alita paused and waited patiently, for she was always glad to see him, this learned old man with whom she traded knives and darts for books for the library. His dark wrinkled face broke into a mostly toothless grin as he approached her, pausing from his burden long enough to produce a small leather bound book from his cloak. "I finally got this in, Miz Alita...I knew you were eager to add this to the collection", he said in a voice that made one think he would cough up a lung at any moment. He hacked softly as she took it from him and carefully leafed through its yellowed pages. She looked at him warmly, honey brown eyes hardly able to betray her gratitude as she closed the book and clasped it firmly to her chest. "Tymon...it's BEAUTIFUL!! I would have never guessed you'd be able to find a complete volume...and in such good shape! I could kiss you!" Tymon chuckled softly, declining her offer. "You're too pretty to waste your time on a withered old weed like me, Miz Alita." She laughed out loud, setting the book down on top of the pile on his cart. "Don't be so sure about that, my friend", she said cattily, leaning over the cart at him. "I judge my men based on much more than their looks." "Well, however you choose your men, I made damn sure this book outlive them, Miz Alita!" She winced. Tymon reached over and tapped the closed book with one finger. "It's got pages made from linen instead of paper. Yeah, the pages have yellowed, but, trust me, that book is centuries old already. It should last a few more provided you take care of it." "Oh!", she exclaimed, her moment's pensiveness broken. "I have something for you, too", she said, placing the book under her arm and reaching inside her jacket's vest pocket. She drew forth her hand, placing into Tymon's. He held up his hand to his face, squinting so as to get a good look at the three brightly colored fletchings she had given him. "Try those on those titanium darts I gave you last month. I made them myself", she beamed. "I put a set of flights just like these on my competition set three weeks ago...and I've been kickin' almighty ass in cricket since." Tymon thanked her and shuffled off towards home, each step accented with a low grunt as he pulled his cart behind him. Alita left the square shortly after, with intentions of heading home herself. But she paused momentarily, her brow knit, deep in thought. Tonight was Wednesday, she recalled, which meant John would be at the library late cataloguing the latest additions to their collection. "Yeah! I'll just march on over there right now and drop the book off. I can't wait to see the look on John's face when he lays eyes on this", she said, suddenly pleased with herself. Knowing it would be not a short walk there, Alita opened the book and began to read. The street lamps gave just enough of a pale yellow glow for her cybernetically enhanced eyes to read the small print on the finely woven pages. --------------------------------------------------------------------- "... my necklace was paste. It was only worth, at most, 500 francs.", Alita said, reading the story's closing lines out loud. She glanced up from the book, closing it gently as she paused to collect her thoughts. She chuckled, shaking her head slightly. Whoever this "Norton" guy was, he certainly had a penchant for the depressing... "What the...this isn't the way to the library!" she said, loud enough for a few passers-by to glance in her direction. Where is my brain today?, Alita chided herself after having been so engrossed in the anthology she had missed a turn several blocks ago. Now, having just realized she was but a few blocks from her apartment, she walked hurriedly toward the corner, hoping she still had time to make it to the library before John closed up for the night. Alita halted abruptly as she passed an alley entrance, hearing noises whose source and nature she couldn't discern. Her head cocked to one side, she stood motionless, straining her ears to listen. Alita heard voices, soft and muffled, coming from the end of the alley. She couldn't quite make out their forms; she could barley detect their movement. Three of the forms, it seemed, were jovial, almost...chuckling, but around the fourth one--much smaller than the others--she could see an irrepressible aura of fear. She could tell the latter was about to bolt. Just at that moment, the two closest to the would-be escapee went down into a crouch, pinning the other firmly to the pavement. Intently concentrating on listening, Alita began to pick out snippets of whatever exchange was occurring between the three of them. "What the hell do you---" A gasp. A female voice. Very young, very frightened. "Quiet bitch!" A slap. And another. This was a male voice. Very gruff, very stoned, and, Alita could imagine from the young woman's perspective, very frightening. Alita's brow sank as she marched off into the alley. Her honey brown eyes narrowed to within centimeters of being closed altogether. Reflexively, she balled her fists and spread her fingers in time with each step. A young woman was about to be raped, and Alita had designs on demonstrating just why this kind of thing didn't happen in her neighborhood. Buddy, you're gonna be gagging on your own dick when I'm through with you. --------------------------------------------------------------------- "Ya, hold her like that," Jondo half-chuckled to Arin and Sethrey. His partners held a young woman, her grey eyes wide with fright. Her short blond hair was dirty and ratted; it clung to the sides of her face no matter how hard she trashed her head from side to side. She struggled to break their grasp, but Jondo knew it was useless to try to wriggle out of the cybernetically-enhanced hold his partners had on her. Who would have thought that Factory-authorized limb replacements could be so useful?, he mulled, giddy with anticipation. He smiled greedily, never once taking his eyes off the girl as he mumbled to his cohorts. "You fellas can have her after me." All three of them were on meth, high enough to have lost all consideration for what few morals they had. Each wanted now to enhance his high with the sexual gratification they sought--forcibly--from her. Or such was the idea. "GET THE HELL OFF ME!" the girl yelled. With a considerable grunt, she ripped a hand free out of Arin's grip. It landed on the neck of a broken bottle from the refuse littering the alleyway, which, before anyone could see what happened, shattered across Arin's face. Jondo was speechless. No one could break free of their grip...no one! Arin bolted upright, howling. Sobbing hoarsely, he looked at the girl with bloodshot eyes from in between his fingers, dripping wet from blood pouring from his badly lacerated face. "Oh, you fucking BITCH!!", he screamed. "I'm gonna rip off your arms and---" He never got a chance to complete his threat. Arin's life ended with a final breathless gasp as his rib cage imploded, instantly destroying every one of his vital organs. His body slammed forcefully into the wall at the back of the alley, falling to the ground as a hideous bloody pulp. Tup! Jondo barley heard the sound of Arin's killer land next to the girl, still lying on the ground in Sethrey's grasp. Both men were mute with shock as they looked up into the coldest, hardest eyes each had ever seen. In the instant they saw the moon's pale silver glow glint off the gunmetal grey, both knew terror even their drug-induced euphoria could not quell. Both men knew what fury was about to be unleashed upon them. Alita growled. Jondo noticed the twitch in Alita's right thigh. He lurched himself backward, hoping to avoid her scissor kick. Is that the best this bitch can do?, he thought, attempting to laugh. Much to his consternation, no sound came out. Jondo barley had time to puzzle why this was so before realizing he was watching his own body fall backwards, headless, to the floor of the alley. Panic ripped sanity from his grasp. His mouth wide as a silent scream poured forth, his vision went black as his head glanced off the alley wall, landing neatly in an open trash can. The girl tried to pull away from the Sethrey, but he had a firm grip on her arm. He knew had to think fast if he was to survive. He jumped away from Alita, pulling the girl up with him. Sethrey twisted her arm, pinning her between himself and Alita. "Back off NOW, cunt!" he demanded of Alita, placing a knife against the girl's throat. Alita paused, quickly sizing up the situation. "Give me the girl and I'll let you go." "What the fuck? What kinda fool you take me for, bitch?", Sethrey shouted back. "I'll just take this one with me", he said, poking the girl deep enough to draw blood. Her eyes went wide as he continued to back away, looking for somewhere--anywhere--to run. Alita swore under her breath, knowing full well she had to do something... and quickly. Think, Alita...THINK, DAMMIT! She had to get that knife away from him, but how without him killing her? She was fast, but he had cybernetic enhancements of his own, including the arm that held the knife at the girl's throat. Alita's concentration broke as she noticed the girl blinking and sniffling repeatedly. "I... I haveta sneeze!", she cried, Alita and Sethrey both gawking at her. Like a slow motion drama come to life, Alita and Sethrey watched as the girl closed her eyes and sniffed repeatedly, then sneezed--reflexively jerking her hand to her face. To avoid from cutting her prematurely, hence damaging his chances of using her to escape, Sethrey loosened his grip on her arm. The next few events happened so quickly that Alita had trouble following them. It appeared to her the girl's arm changed direction instantaneously, grabbing Sethrey's knife arm and jerking it free from its socket with a loud pop. The rest of Sethrey's body followed, sailing over the girl's shoulder and landing roughly on the ground, stunned. As he lie bloody and badly beaten on the alley floor, the girl stepped forward and kicked him in the ribs enough times to vent her fury at their attempted sexual assault. Sethrey moaned painfully as his consciousness slipped away. Satisfied at the thought of his thinking twice before doing this again--IF he lived, that is--the girl wiped her hands on her pant legs and looked at Alita. The girl looked older than Alita had first thought. Maybe seventeen, but short--not much taller than herself--and with very youthful facial features. Although, given what her shredded blouse exposed to plain view, Alita could tell her body had fully matured. The girl's dirty, spiky blond hair seemed to stick out at all angles, framing her young face and grey eyes. "Thank you, Alita." the girl said. Alita hmphed, knowing full well what the answer to her question would be. "You know my name, then?" "Of course I do", the girl replied. "I'm new here...you're all anyone in this neighborhood seems to talk about anymore." Alita sighed. It was no use. Her reputation as Hunter-Warrior and former Queen of Motorball followed her everywhere, despite her efforts to escape it. She sighed. "I'm not doing anything anyone else with my talents wouldn't do." Her melancholy passing quickly, Alita noticed the girl's torn blouse revealed much more of her cleavage than she herself would care to walk around with in plain sight. "Um, would you like to borrow my jacket?" The girl gasped as she glanced down at her ruined shirt. She nodded, reflexively clasping both her hands to the opposite shoulder. Alita took off her leather jacket and placed it carefully onto her shoulders. The girl quickly bunched the front of the jacket together in one hand, shivering as the cold night air began to register with her senses. "Again, t-t-thank you." she said through chattering teeth. "B-by the way, my n-n-name is N-N-Nikira." "I don't know how much you needed my help...you seemed to be doing alright by yourself" Alita chuckled, wrapping an arm around Nikira's shoulders. Nikira choked back a sob as she spoke. "I d-don't know how to thank you...f-f-for...helping me", she sniffled. "Would you m-m-mind if I b-b-bought you a drink?" she asked Alita. "I really want to t-t-thank you for your c-c-coming to my aid." "Later. That can wait", Alita replied, guiding Nikira to the street. "Right now we need to get you indoors. Besides, I want a friend of mine to give you the once over--" Alita cleared her throat, beginning again after seeing Nikira's eyes go wide. "I want my friend to take a look at you to see if you're OK. He's a doctor, you see. I want to make sure you don't have any internal injuries or anything like that." As Alita guided her to where Doctor Ido lived, both were unaware just how carefully monitored their every word was. Nearly a half mile above the Scrapyard floated Tiphares, the mid-air city, for ages kept alive by enslaving the Scrapyard and its inhabitants. Tiphares depended on the surface-dwellers for everything...food, water, clothing. In a dark room few Tiphereans knew of, fewer still knowing its purpose, their entire exchange had been heard by one man, though neither of them knew it. In a rare display of contentment with these latest developments, he smiled. He quietly concurred with Alita, knowing no one would hear him. "Yes, indeed. You do that." --- Perfect. Good work, A-Zero. --- Silence. The man stood, stretched, and left the room. Buckling up his black trenchcoat, he strode quickly toward home, knowing the automated monitors would keep close dibs the two of them. Tonight he would sleep well. After months of preparation, all was going according to plan. --------------------------------------------------------------------- End of Nikira's Story, Part 1. All for now...but there's more where that came from! Stay "Tuned". (^.^) .|/ Mark Engels Charles Drake aka Gonzu aka The Great Zapan