Between space

All he could see, all he could think and do was run. He wasn't sure how many were chasing him or where they were chasing him from, in fact there wasn't much he did know. That's what the man didn't understand, why did they want him and what would they do if he ever fell into their twisted hands? He forced himself to slam the oncoming scenes of his over active imagination to the background of his mind, allowing them to sizzle out like the lives of so many before him. Without hesitation he slid under a mound of dirt as he heard two of them approaching from the same direction he was running, he knew he had to move quickly and this seemed too perfect. He lay in wait for them to pass so he could retreat back to one of the shacks and just cry until he woke only to play the same sick game tomorrow. He had always hidden here, which confused him because they had never found him, he looked again at the underneath of the mound, silently thanking his inanimate guardian. He pressed his face against the familiar and almost friendly mixture of mud and gravel, the only seemingly constant thing in the compound. Gripping the little black notebook in his jacket, the man prayed that it made it back to people who need if, while it could still help. The thought brought his mind back to the chase, he heard dragging and hissing, then he thought he saw torch light. This was new and confused him intensely, light was not permitted in the hunt. It was the only merciful rule, and the only advantage the man had on his followers. Being almost blind they had no reason for light anyway but his oppressors thought that it made the runners feel more confident, more risky. Suddenly he felt a burning behind his sternum, a cough rising to his throat. He clamped his mouth and nose shut in disbelief, his brain attempting to starve his body for betraying him to his followers. He started to feel light, in his brain's attempt to save him it was torturing itself. A noble proposition in such a desperate situation. No Oxygen meant he would not survive much longer in the hunt, he had to breath, even at risk of coughing, he needed the air.

A figure floated down to the man sized hole which held him, he knew if he let out the breath now they would drag him away and who knows what next, he knew only that it involved a type of death no one but runners experienced. The biggest problem with having a blind hunter in pursuit, was that their smell and hearing was at a level far higher than their sight would ever have been capable of reaching. He continued to hold his breath, slipping in and out of consciousness, the figure allowed a single tendril search the burrow for signs of its prey, one long, sharp piece of itself. When it found nothing and started to recoil. The man may now have a chance, it was then that everything he had known faded into the darkness.

Chapter one.

Names.

Uuni woke with a start, sweating and panting as if he'd been holding his breath for longer than his body should allow. He scanned the room, panicked that he was being watched. He grew silent, he knew there was not another living thing within 100 miles and never would be. He was glad, others made mistakes that cost too much, tearing holes in their lives which could never truly be repaired. He watched the clocks arm slide over to the next minute, Uuni wished time was not so cruel as to taunt him with ticks, always reminding him that it was the only thing killing him. A poison without form. A killer without identity. Uuni thought that time was akin to a serial killer, taking countless lives, some mercifully, some without a thought of the pain it would cause. A serial killer that would never be caught, not through lack of trying but simply because it was always a second ahead, because it made you a second older than you were.

Uuni has never cared for money or power, living off what he found whilst moving from place to place. He was happy to lead his routine without interruption from anything. His goal only to find peace. Peace for himself and whoever remained.

He did not know his age, he did not know where he was or if anyone was left. He did not know if he had a name or what it was if he did. Uuni was just a word he had found countless time on paper that was strewn across one of the rooms in the building that had come to be his home. He had liked the simplicity of it and the lack of thinking it needed if you were to write it.

Whilst he climbed out of bed he noticed something he hadn't before, streams of sunlight filtering through the holes in the curtains like long soft fingers searching for a surface to leave paler spots of colour upon. Uni's eyes followed the body of light to the floor where minute yellow marks where appearing, like crop circles of peace made by tiny, innocent beings. Beings not yet violated by this place, he thought. Walking to where he kept food, Uni was making movements in his usually subconscious way, unaware of everything else.

Zaphira slowly opened her eyes, attempting to stop the blanket of sunlight from straining them. She could smell the dust and sat up to watch each particle try to settle back to a comfortable position, swaying almost defiantly because she was so rude to have woken them. As she pulled the sheets from her body, the bed groaned in complaint at the sudden shift in her weight, she grappled and directed her body to the edge of the bed, tilting her self to the right position before she dumped her self into the wheelchair. She used to hate this, relying on compensation from things in her life for her to get through it, stronger muscles in her arms, better strength in her body, friends carrying her down stair cases and strangers holding doors with a look of sympathy.

Zaph grabbed the handles on the wheels and the muscles in her arms rippled as she carefully propelled herself up the room, she wasn't sure which idiot had done it but being placed in the only room that was on a tilt was not the best idea they had ever had, however she had forgiven them a long time ago. The tilt in the room had become a sort of morning conditioning for her body due the the "two steps forward, one step back" motion she would make. It always made her laugh to think that. She wondered sometimes what someone's reaction would be if they were to watch her morning routine, probably a contorted look of confusion and humour she thought to herself, the same face they'd make if they were to watch someone drunk try to master the art of cycling. Zaphira had grown to love humanity, it had gotten over race, gender and sexuality and had focused on the more important aspect of respecting life. However it had come to be. There were no closed doors any more. People were no longer violent and when they felt like they needed to be they could let it out on their own without being judged. Everyone had finally realised we were all family, no longer representing the broken pieces of land mass that bordered our thoughts and presence.

There was a steady knock on the door which was about right at this time in the morning, most probably someone just coming to give a good morning, so she made her way toward the unlocked slab of oak in her normal "two steps forward, one step back" way, catching a thought about how big the tree the door was cut from must have been. The next thought was one of simple confusion, suddenly wondering why her polite guest had not just sauntered in as usual. She leant forward and gripped the handle with her left hand, preventing the predictable roll back with her right.

The door had opened merely an inch when the thin, sharp arm forced its way in, knocking Zaphira from her chair and tearing the oak from its hinges, firing it across the room as if the movement where nothing more than brushing away a piece of kindling. It could sense the fear rising in intensity, it was beautiful. It didn't need sight to bathe in the new atmosphere. It made the air feel as thick as treacle and would often force the omitter against the floor, clamping them into chains of shock and disbelief. It often savoured this moment, especially if it's prey did not bolt. The biggest reason it loved this hunt, the prey had no way to escape, both through lack of physical capacity and space to do so. The arm darted back and forth, alternating in direction as though not to allow its prey to predict where it would move next, then it stopped at her skin. The hot, sticky flesh throbbing with adrenaline only increments below.

Uuni would often quote his own thoughts out loud so that he might feel as if there were someone else in the room with him, thinking of the questions and replies someone may ask. He would also think of how different people would talk. Some one who may have known him for a long time may just tell him what they had done since they'd last seen him or just be honest and tell him how messy his hovel was. A stranger or new neighbour may just make light, comfortable conversation, talking about the sun and the odd changes in length of nights every now and then or about themselves. Because strangers rarely talked about what they had done the day before. Or at least that's what he had imagined. Uuni had never spoken to another person, or at least he couldn't remember that he had, he knew he had read that the brain uses the faces of people you've seen whilst you're awake to make the people in your dreams and imagination. Maybe he really had never met anyone else, as the people in his dreams had no faces or were his own...

He spoke aloud this time, turning his head as if to look at a some one gripped by what he had to say.

"You do make me laugh"

Haha, why did you say that? The thought flowered in his head as if the question had been a seed them he grinned.

"Well, you talk like you know you're the only one left. How do you know that Uuni? How are you talking? You couldn't have taught your self English now could you? Idiot."

The smile slid from his face as he tried to let the insult glance off his skin but it stung him like hot water in a light graze.

“You were left or hidden and you know it. Clothed, Tins and the little black notebook.”

‘It felt heavy today, the only thing I didn’t need to survive but that I think kept me alive the most’ thought Uuni ‘although the pages look blank, when the light is just right, there are 400 little faces repeated. Hidden in each page, with a small 50 on it. But the English? I could have picked it up from the black boxes’

glancing toward the small pile of black plastic rectangles that littered one corner of the room, knowing from experience how the fragile tape inside should be left to do its job.

"So who powers the picture box then Uni? You know it's not portable.... That's the only reason you've never left the room, you don't want to leave the box behind. You prefer being alone don't you. You hate the thought of someone changing what we do every day, you're 'routine'"

his suddenly unwanted guest spat the last word, emitting the feeling of hatred and tiredness. The conversations always ended badly, he wondered if this is why humans cut the voice strings now, because one can hurt so many. There were a lucky few, who had left for other lands when the silence had begun. The decision was that because it was the words people spoke that caused so many problems, they would cut the voice strings of the population. And sure it works, there is a close to silence over this world now, except for the barely audible noise of pencil scratching paper, for some were allowed to keep writing as they were trusted not to bring about harm and war with their words.

Uuni always wondered if the peace would have come sooner if writing had been left too, but he supposed that paper can be burned, carvings can be broken and you could always bring a statue to the ground against its will. The problem with a spoken word is that it cannot be destroyed or forgotten until the people who spoke and allowed it, fell to the same fate. But he supposed his 'guest' was right, he had never had another to share with and the thought frightened him...making him feel like a small child.