V M Frame Thy Fearful Symmetry

[Edward Elric]

Old ruins are crazy. I’ve seen hundreds of ‘em at this point, and it never stops being cool. And why should it? There’s something neat about running your fingers over some stone, looking at the vines growing over it, and knowing that some dude might’ve nailed his wife against that wall ten thousand years ago or something. Then, and I mean this, she might’ve stabbed him in that very same spot a year after that! Seems pretty cool to me. That’s the kinda stuff I like to think about when I’m poking around in the really old places. Maybe not that specifically, but then again, maybe that. Depends on my mood.

You can tell the really old places from the places that are just old, too. The last place was really old. I’d known it when I saw the place, that way that you know something all the way through your body even when your mind isn’t sure yet, and I was excited to skulk around in there.

You know what really pisses me off, though? When you spot a cool ass place like that from up on a cliff or something, and there’s half a hundred stupid obstacles between you and the place you wanna go so you have to slide down an embankment, climb down a stone face, stop for lunch, make sure you’re keeping hydrated, and blah blah blah until half the goddamn day is over before you even get to where you’re trying to go.

That’s how it was this time, and I had to set up camp outside the ruin before I even got to take a look around. The sun was already setting, and I don’t fuck around with that shit.

Some of us like to go inside first and get a look around for a minute or two then set up camp in the stone walls, because stone walls mean safety for amateurs.

I’m no amateur, though. I’d rather set up some safety measures, establish a perimeter, and bivouac up against the outside wall. I’ve seen the kind of stuff that can hide out in the really old ruins, and I’d rather take my chances with a wolf or something. Couple good stabs or a bullet to the head and the problem is solved, and that’s the way I like it. No hunter’s gonna find Ellie Williams in the belly of some beast, no Sir, I play it carefully, and that’s why I’m still around when a lot of other scavengers aren’t.

This one time I set up a tripwire, rigged it right up to a Bouncing Betty half a hundred yards from camp, and this motherfucking bear tripped right over it and KABLOOEEY! You ever scraped a bear steak off a rock and cooked that shit up for breakfast? That’s A-1, top tier stuff.

That night passed by pretty quickly. Those of us in the business keep the right tools on us to start a cozy fire, cook up a can of something, and steal a couple hours’ shut eye before the next day’s plunder.

When you get far enough out from the big settlements and get out into the real rough and tumble you don’t worry quite as much about starting a fire for the night. If you’re too close to a town, though, you’re begging for rustlers…or at least mooches. Nothing worse than opening up your last can of beans and some rib-skinny good-for-nothing comes stumbling out of the brush and tugs at your heartstrings until you’re going to bed hungry and half a can of beans further into the poor house. Those motherfuckers are like cats, they can hear the sound of a can opener from mile out, and I’m not even kidding.

Out in the woods you’ve gotta worry about the beasts, and most beasts don’t love fire, at least in my experience. The ones that do, well, that’s what you establish your perimeter for, right?

Anyway…out in the boonies you don’t have to worry about that, and I’ve never minded being by myself. Some people can’t take that, they go nuts out here, or they keep their scavenging close to the settlements. I’ll tell you this for free: that’s a one way ticket to nowhere, population everybody.

The outer wilds have a way of weeding out the amateurs, so that the people like me get first right of refusal on the good stuff. You hoof it out a few days or a week or two, rough it hard, muscle your way through some impregnable ruin, and come away with some rare-as-fuck artifact and you’re made in the shade for weeks or sometimes months.

That’s the way I do it, and that’s the way real professionals do it. The legends like Indy, or Newt Scamander - guys like that.

People in the business can go one of two ways if they want to be lucrative: Kraw or Cevanti. I chose Kraw, because you can eat animals even if they’re predators. Folks who choose Cevanti are another breed…you can’t eat machines.

So, I woke up early that morning and I was lucky enough to wake up intact with none of my traps tripped. My circadian rhythm is spot on, man, as reliable as those watches the guys who obsess over the time wear; the sun had just peaked up over the trees, and that’s the best time of day because even man-eating beasts need to sleep. I like to rise with ‘em, that way we’re on equal footing and either of us could get the jump on the other depending on whose luck is better.

I busted up camp, slung my pack over my shoulder, tied back my hair, and grimaced. When you spend long enough out there in the heat and the humidity and you don’t take a bath your hair starts feeling like a grease slick. Easy enough not to feel like a scumbag with nobody around, but even I’ve got my limits. I made a mental note to take the plunge the next time I found a stream or something, and that was that. Easy enough, right?

I keep my life in my pack when I’m out in the jungle, and even when I’m at home because you never know when you’re gonna have to get out of Dodge. That means I’ve got a loaded bolt-action ride-along - safety on (I’m not a lunatic, okay?), a pistol on the other side of the pack, a full water skin, and a mini-mart of other tools for a wide variety of other situations. You never know what you’re going to run into! Most importantly, I keep a shake-charge flashlight in the front pocket of my jacket. I call it a pocket-rocket, which is funny to me, but doesn’t get many laughs from the other scavengers.

I followed the wall the way that kept the sun at my back because it’s easier to notice shit when it isn’t in your eyes, then I rounded the first corner and found myself a few paces from the a crumbling archway. That’s usually the way you want to go in when possible.

This time it wasn’t possible because the archway had done more than just crumble, it had folded like a lawn chair, and when I tested my footing against the rubble it shifted in a way that I wasn’t in love with.

In the business you have to weigh risk-reward, and you have to do it well unless you’re ready to be one of those good-for-nothing chumps whose skeletons decorate the ruins like so many storybooks.

You hate to see it, but you can learn a lot. A skeleton on the ground with a snapped off femur beneath a crumbled ceiling teaches you a cautionary lesson about testing the stability of rubble, no matter how sturdy it looks.

In situations like that, though, you can find another way in. There’s always another way in if you look around a little bit.

That time the other way in was up a couple loose stones in the wall, just an easy climb, and up over the wall where I wiggled through a hole about as wide as the gap you’d finder under your bed. I slipped right in easy as anything and lowered myself down onto the floor where I found it to be a lot darker inside than it had been outside, even by the morning light that filtered through the cracks.

No big deal, though, right? I hitched up my back and looked around: one door to my left, and one to my right.

I chose the door to my right. I moved quietly, which is a skill I’ve developed over the years. When you’ve been doing this as long as I have you can move across a stone floor in converse like they were bare feet in grass, and that’s just what I did.

I was ready to see what was behind door number one.

 

[Edward Elric]

I heard him when I came through the door and that’s when I knew I’d fucked up. I’d been quiet enough coming in, I was sure about that, but I was also sure he’d seen me when I was sleeping or spotted my fire or something. Even when you’re miles and miles from civilization sometimes you get the shit end of the stick and end up in the wrong ruin with some asshole pointing a gun at your back. Like I said, I felt him when I came through the door, that feeling like someone’s watching you and usually when you feel that somebody is.

“Up against the wall.”

That’s what he said to me, can you believe that? Nervy bastard. He’d kept his voice low, which told me he wasn’t sure that the ruin was empty, and that meant he hadn’t explored it corner to corner. Even then with some jackass shaking me down that’s what I was thinking about: whether or not he’d gotten it all, or if there was still some loot out there for good ol’ Ellie.

“You alone?” that hasty, nervous whisper again. If I looked back he’d be looking around in a panic, I knew it. “Come on. Quick.”

He knew I was, he’d seen me out there by myself or we wouldn’t be alone in a room participating in the world’s most isolated mugging. Still, he had the leverage and I didn’t. I bellied up against the wall, palms flat on the stone, and sighed.

“You know I am,” I answered, trying not to be a smartass and failing. “Come on, asshole. Reach into the backpack and take what you need or shoot me, but don’t drag this out. Neither of us want that.”

I heard his steps when he approached which told me he hadn’t been at this as long as I had. I knew his sort, too. Guys like him weren’t real scavengers, not like me. They were scavengers of a different kind, like a hyena, where they wait and watch then fuck up the weakest prey they can find. They take the spoils, cash in, find another poor mug, and do it again.

I felt a flush of embarrassment creep up my neck when I realized that that’s how he’d seen me: the weakest prey.

A lot of them saw me that way, though. Small girl, all alone, no man around. Fucking creeps, every last one of them. He’d probably shit his pants if he knew what I could do to him given the chance. I’ve cut down fuckers with twice his experience and half his hesitance, and I’d do it again here as soon as he slipped up. I knew it, and he would too before long.

I heard him get close, which meant he’d be up to his elbow in my pack any second. It wasn’t for sure that he’d drop his guard or lower his gun, but I figured most folks couldn’t do two things at once; if he was focusing on the backpack then he wasn’t focusing on his gun. That’s when I’d do it.

It was a handgun, I was sure of that. I knew it when I heard my backpack unzip, because he fumbled around at the zipper one handed the way a teenage boy would fumble around with a bra-clasp - not that I’d know. He wasn’t very smooth when he unzipped it - I don’t know how you would be one handed - so I chose that moment.

I dropped, heard a pop (I’d be insulted if he didn’t try) and the sound of a slug sinking into the wall, flipped out my switchblade, swung my arm back, and stabbed him in the thigh all in one quick motion. I’d done this before. When he dropped his gun I stood up, yanking my knife free in the process, and planted the back of my head right under his chin with a satisfying ‘clack’ as his teeth snapped together.

I lowered my shoulder and lurched back; all this time I still hadn’t turned around to see the guy, so when I whipped around after the shove I finally got my first look and I have to admit: I was surprised. He was young. Young young. It would’ve been hard for me to miss his inexperience, all the tells were there, but I hadn’t expected him to be a literal kid.

His pistol hit the floor while I drew and finished leveling mine at the spot between his eyebrows.

I’d shoved him far enough away that I could see the whites of his eyes watch his hands, which were up, though the look on his face told me I wasn’t dealing with a quick-thinker.

He wasn’t ugly…not exactly, but he wasn’t a beauty either. He had blonde hair, which was to his credit, but it hung down in lank drapes and must’ve been even greasier than mine. A fresh crop of pimples speckled either side of his nose, and his nose boasted a wicked hump at the bridge like he’d busted it on the playground as a boy. If I had to pin the tail on his age I’d say he was fourteen, right around the age I’d been when I started, and twice as stupid as I’d ever been. I’d never worked up the balls to mug a scavenger at fourteen, but I didn’t have any actual balls and that might’ve been his problem. Poor fucker.

“Hands against the wall,” I said with a sigh, shaking my head. “What the fuck are you doing, kid? I should slit your throat for this!”

When I said it, it wasn’t a threat. I meant it. I’d slit anybody’s throat for that, and I wouldn’t feel bad about it, either. I’d done more for less.

…just a kid, though. That’s fucked up, right?

He backed up, turned around, put his hands against the wall, and pressed his forehead against the stone. I heard him whimper and felt the unpleasant swell of pity welling up in my guts - either pity or indigestion, hard to tell that early in the morning.

I kicked away his gun. I stood, thinking and watching.

The kid continued to whimper, and that wasn’t helping me, not one bit. What do you do with a kid like that? If it wasn’t me it would’ve been some other poor sap and every situation like that is just a second’s misstep away from some real violence. Even if he didn’t mean to hurt anybody, he had a gun, and accidents happen. On-purposes happen, too, and I didn’t know that he wouldn’t feed a lead bullet to some other woman out there in the jungle if he had the chance. Some other poor bitch could be eating a dirt sandwich right now if he’d picked his prey a little more carefully.

I stepped a little closer to the kid, relaxed a bit, and tried to find my sensitive side. I didn’t want to kill some dumbass teenager, but I didn’t want to let a scumbag out into the world to rob and plunder, either. Especially not my plunder.

“Give me something, kid,” I told him, and I hated the way my voice sounded. “Anything. One reason not to kill you. You have to have one reason why I shouldn’t blow your shit-ass to Kingdom Come, don’t you?”

He sucked in air and then it was quiet except for his whimpering. That’s the kind of shit I had to deal with - a pitiful kid bumbling around in my ruin, ruining my day.

 

[Edward Elric]

I had his gun, and after I’d patted him down enough to satisfy my suspicions I let him away from the wall. What else was I supposed to do? I could just let him stand there pointing a gun at his head while I paced the floors deciding what to do with him, but I don’t think that would’ve been fair to either of us. If I was going to kill him, best he spend his last hours with a little more dignity than that, and if I wasn’t going to kill him, well, then everyone’s a winner.

I pulled out a map and I made him point out the route he’d taken. I made him do this at gunpoint, because I think it brings out the best in people.

Now, I carry two maps with me when I go out. I use one to mark my own paths as well as any shortcuts I might find or points of interest. I carry a second one in case something happens that fucks up the first map. In this case I showed the kid the second map, the unmarked one, because I sure as shit didn’t want him seeing where I’d come from and all of the regular paths I take through the forest wonderlands of Kraw (har har).

I did this because, if he was honest, he’d know that I knew where he’d come from. It wouldn’t stop him from going back a different way, but if he’d left any family or friends back in his departure direction, then he’d know I could go back and feed them a dirt sandwich if he fucked with me any further. Even if he didn’t, that kind of shit really gets in someone’s head, and someone with this kid’s dipshit level could spend hours wondering what I was up to with a map of his movements.

If he wasn’t honest, I’d know. He didn’t know I’d know, but I’d know.

He was honest, though. More fool me, because it’s a little too easy to feel sympathy towards a scared boy who will tell you anything to stop you from putting one between his eyes.

In the end I let him go, but I made him leave his pants and his backpack behind. There’s a lot too that, you know, when you’re out in the jungle. Not much you can do without pants and a backpack - the best he could do for himself is beat feet over to the nearest settlement and hope he didn’t starve or die of thirst along the way…or get eaten. You might think that’s mighty cruel of me…

And I don’t give a fuck if you do.

I watched him do the walk of shame, waving him goodbye with his pants like a token of his favor…you know, like those dockside doxies watching their man sail off for war, or whatever. Not much of that on Kraw, but they have it on other planets, and it’s a romantic image. I thought I was funny, anyway.

When I was sure he’d gone, I made my way back into the ruins.

I still remember him walking out into the jungle like one of those obscurist paintings - just a human outline etched across a treeline, and all it was missing was a saggy clock draped across a thick branch.

I never did find what I was looking for in those ruins. That kid would have shaken me down or killed me, and I almost killed him, and neither of us had anything the other one had wanted. The ruins proved fruitless, and I didn’t find anything in any others on my way home either. It wasn’t my best trip, but all things considered, it wasn’t my worst either.

Just another one for the books…at least that’s what I told myself when I got to the next settlement empty handed.