M.I.A - Phan - Chapter 3

Title: M.I.A - Phan - Chapter 3
Author: AngelsxMadeFromNeon
Genre: Fantasy/Romance
Rating: 12
Warnings: One use of strong language
Author's Note: In the description

Noon strikes before they set me free. The weather in the North West in famed for the putrid, murderous heat – and, boy does it live up to its expectations. The white hospital sheets stick to my body as I climb out of bed – under the watchful eye of my nurse. The heat rays beat down from the cornflower blue sky and sweat stains begin to appear instantaneously down the back of my freshly laundered shirt.

It's a relief, to be finally able to leave the clinical white of my single room. I tie my shoes and cross the checked linoleum floor, giving my room a final, surveying look. The open Venetian Blinds fruitlessly attempting to coax in a non existent breeze, the suspended light bulb, now stationary and desolate against the washed out white of the ceiling and the wilted bunch of scallop pink Begonia, now tinted with shrivelled brown, perched sadistically on my bedside, teasing me with a false sense of happiness.

I sigh and turn my back on the room, gripping the flaked, plastic door handle and breathing heavily, twice. I pull the door open; it shrieks and kills the so peaceful silence. I shush the offending thing quietly; I'm insane – talking to inanimate objects now. I pad along the corridor, I can hear my fellow patients groaning under the searing heat and the countless doctors mill about with pails of ice water. I reach the front desk, another young, white-blonde woman sits behind a row of computers, tapping the holographic screens expertly.

'Name?' she asks me, not bothering to look up.

'Daniel Howell.' I answer, trying to come off as arrogant, to knock her down a peg or two. 'The doctors say I can leave – fucking finally. I just need to book out.'

She nods once, tossing her perfectly engineered curls, and passes me a square of paper, pointing to a dotted line where my signature is required. I pen a fake name, I don't need the authorities having my consent down – god knows what they'd do with it. She takes back the biro and adds hers to the line below. 'Now get out of my waiting room.' She says, giving me a dangerously sweet smile. I snarl, tight-lipped and unyielding. Everywhere I go, I'm treated the same – like dirt on the shoe of the Eye, like a contagious disease. I'm worthless to the system, but this worthlessness is what I crave, this being different and unpredictable, I live off it. Citizens don't like the look me, so they melt away, handing me the sceptical fear I feed on.

The doors vanish as I walk through them, rematerializing after I cross the threshold. Technology is so depressing these days – what if one was to get stuck halfway between outside and in? Would they become some sort of door mutant? I ponder through my thoughts as I continue to meander down the road. I've walked long distances before, but there's no way anyone would classify the distance between North West Hospital and NW Bunker D 'short'. Or even 'slightly manageable.' 23 miles in 32°C, and that's disregarding the fact that night will fall in seven hours, nobody wants to be out that late.

You know the feeling when it's so hot, so awfully hot, you feel your insides bubbling and your skin is blistering? When sweat falls thick and fast from your brow, snaking past your eyes like silent, crystalline tears? When the burnt umber of the ground is scorching beneath your shoes, so unbearable you feel it to your bone? That's what the walk home is like. Every step I take induces furious face-wiping and glugging from my water flask. Every time the ice liquid hits the back of my throat, sliding down my gullet and wetting my stomach, I feel revitalized – but, all too soon, the heatstroke begins yet again.

Darkness begins to set in as I near my destination. The unruly heat drops dramatically – hot days and cold nights, always the way in the North West. I shiver to myself, wrapping my thin arms tighter around my body, keeping in as much body heat as is possible. I pass a road sign, half a mile left to walk. Night wolves and insects are beginning to make their way to the surface, just far enough behind me that I can hear their frantic calls. I cringe as I imagine what these creatures look like; the genetically modified wolves with their dripping fangs and wretched breath. The mosquitoes as big as a man's hand, proboscises sharp and waiting to infect their next victim.

But the camp draws around the corner and I breathe a sigh of relief. I summon up my remaining strength and jog the last few meters, wanting to seem radiant and full of life when I return home. I tumble down the jagged track, hopping over boulders and darting around trees, making my way downwards to Bunker D. Reaching the thick plated, metal door, I tap the entrance code into the pad on the wall: 75274. It beeps once, and I crank round the large, circular mechanism. Its old fashioned and melancholy, a remnant from one of the first civil wars in the thirties, I adore how primitive it is, beautiful. It slides noiselessly open, and I enter to a deafening silence.

'Anybody home?' I call into the dark. And then, many things happen at once. Rows upon rows of electric lights flicker into existence, dousing the long, iron building in white light. A roar goes up from the many people, all suddenly standing about me, and several bodies slam into me, knocking me forcefully to the ground. I stagger up, Chris and PJ climb off my upper body, looks of utter ecstasy marking their faces.

'It's so good to have you back Dan.'

'It's fabulous to see you back in civilization, Danny Boy.'

I grin and muss their hair. These boys are sweet, 13 year olds who seem to think I'm some sort of  Messiah. 'Hey guys.' I smile indulgently down at them, watching their boyish features contort into looks of wonder. It's adorable, really.

'Baby, I've been so lonely!' Mum flings herself into my arms. I try not to wine as her bulky body draws me close to collapse.

'How are you?' I mumble into her wiry hair, my tough guy exterior crumbling down in a matter of seconds. She sniffs and wipes her eyes, pulling me tighter. I stroke her hair and smile into her shoulder – it's great to be home. Suddenly, I notice what's missing. 'Mum,' I ask cautiously, 'where's Dad? '

Everyone around me hisses and recoils, Mum sobs harder against me and Chris whispers 'Oh crap.' Across the room, all seem to be daring each other to speak first, to tell me what's been going on. I hate this – I'm ignorantly the punch line to their joke.

'Where's my Dad?' I ask louder, voice cracking slightly under the combined weight of the bawling woman, my exhaustion and the piercing stares from all sides.

From my left, a tall man steps forward. I size him up – skinny, gangling, pallid skin and sweeping black fringe. I don't recognise him. 'He's one of the M.I.A.' His voice is high and peculiar, dipping low in some places, laced with mystery. 'I'm Phil. And you've missed a lot.'