DystopiaNZ

Volume 1: Flint and Tinder

Chapter 0

Cruel Antarctic winds cut across the grimy streets, lanes and alleys of Neo Zealand's second largest city. Halfway up the South Island's east coast, Aparangi City stood firm against the southerly onslaught of mid-winter. Sleet pierced the haze of smog and light pollution, which gave the one million-strong settlement an eerie glow in the otherwise dark, dismal night.

The unrelenting icy rain pounded the rooftops of Aparangi's New Industrial District. Here, deep inside a disused side street, stood a small, recently abandoned appliance factory. Graffiti-ravaged walls held strong, supporting the leaky tin roofing against the meteorological onslaught. Rainwater pooled and overflowed from a rooftop terrace, cascading past the dimly-lit entrance way below.

Within the once-productive workshop - now just a hollow shell via the whim of a global conglomerate - four young men were reluctantly gathered. A cornucopia of class, colour, creed and culture, they were an unusual a band of allies – as unusual as the events that threw them together.

David Ward glanced to the assembled group. All in their late teens, the youths shivered in their saturated attires of choice. With the cold biting through his own hooded charcoal jacket and scuffed jeans, he shuffled across the dusty concrete floor to a metal drum of cardboard, paper and other scraps, which the previous tenants had neglected to recycle.

David withdrew his metallic cigarette lighter from his right pocket, flicking the lid open in a motion that was second-nature to a man who had smoked for half a decade. He produced a flame of butane, which in turn produced a rush of affinity in his diagnosed pyromaniac heart. Raising his left hand over the flame, he reached out with his spirit to the fire he kindled.

With a sweeping motion, he directed the flame to the metallic drum, watching in satisfaction and awe as the fires obeyed his commands and leapt to the shredded documents and collapsed boxes. The spark had become a flame, the flame became a fire, and the fire illuminated its master in an infernal orange glow. David was no ordinary man – the last week had cemented that fact - but neither were the others.

The fire grew as the men gathered to bask in its warmth, illuminated by incandescent tendrils of orange incineration. David observed his mismatched crew and sensed their mutual distrust of one another. It seemed that the only thing that bound them together was the unlikely trait that had manifested in all of them. The reluctance of the typically passive David gave way to the realization that there was no-one else in the group that was trusted by the rest. He gathered his courage and began to speak.

"My name is David, and I can control fire." The words were heavy - like the concrete he stood upon as he delivered them. Never had he expected that his love for flames hinted at a deeper connection to the phenomena of combustion, smoldering beneath the surface of his persona. Nor had he thought that this unlikely ability would place him in the cross-hairs of a sinister conspiracy.

"I've brought us here for a reason. Over the last week, we have all discovered within ourselves and each other a set of... characteristics... abilities... traits that set us apart from the general populace." He looked around the fire, noticing the skepticism the youths had expressed about another had given way to a cautious receptiveness. David's meek nature was now bolstered by the trust he had earned from his companions, and driven forward by the need for leadership.

"But as we learned this, we encountered growing evidence about a covert group called The Quid Pro Quo." He let the name sink in, like the slushy rain leaking into the factory. "What we do know about them is they operate outside the law and government, using any means necessary and at their disposal to force people like ourselves into servitude, taking what we can do and turning it into a resource to fuel their own activities and ambitions."

"The evidence we have is vague, but it seems likely they have covered up crimes, manipulated governments and other organizations, and even killed people." He looked to the man to his right during the final part of this sentence. He offered a consolatory pause, as the red-headed 18 year old was the son of one possible victim. Keith Stenmoore nodded solemnly and indicated for David to continue.

"I know we have our differences, but I think we need all the help we can get - this means we need each other, and we need everything that we are capable of as individuals." David's unremarkable brown eyes moved to another of the group. The two-meter maori teen shifted slightly in his tough guy stance, arms folded across the chest of his XXL hoodie. The large chain that Tamati Ikaroa wore like a necklace clinked slightly with his motion. He projected an image of displeasure at apparently being singled out, though beneath the gangsta exterior he agreed with David - at least on a pragmatic level.

Sealing his fate as the de facto leader of this group of misfits, David finished his address. "We can't let our city, our country, become a dystopia where people are hunted and oppressed, where people are used and thrown away, where people evade justice and bury the truth."

This comment sparked a sarcastic, yet strangely hopeful quip from the final member that rounded out the quartet. "If this is a dystopia, what does that make us? Dystopians?". Akira Kinomoto was a 19 year old with Japanese parents and a digital obsession. The improvised heat source threw ripples of orange light across his black trenchcoat as he awaited a response.

David rubbed the stubble on his chin as a wry smile crept across his face. "Dystopians - with an NZ." he announced. "We hide in plain sight from our enigmatic enemies, gathering information, gaining strength and abilities, recruiting others in our plight, and collecting the resources we need to fight back." Fire ran through Davids veins as he forged the foundations of an association of his peers. Together, they had a chance to change their own lives and save the lives and freedoms of others.

David raised his hands to the left and right - to Akira and Keith. "DystopiaNZ?" he asked of them, offering them both a handshake to seal the deal.

"Indeed" came the low-key response from Keith, the "southern man", as he casually grasped David's hand with his own. Nuance and understatement were the unofficial philosophies of Scottish-descended kiwis like him.

"Sticking it to the man? You know I'm in, Dave." Akira reached his right hand out to David, sealing the deal with him. Meanwhile, the phosphorescent anarchist logo on the back of Akira's left hand glowed dimly in the grimy factory as he offered it to Tamati. Keith also offered his free hand, adorned with his heirloom analogue watch, to the remaining member of the rag-tag party.

"DystopiaNZ, huh?" The youngest of them asked derisively, as the group awaited his reply. He unfolded his muscular arms and unexpectedly dropped his enormous fists into the palms of his new comrades. "Fuckin' A!"