#005. The Man Who Drifted Down the River (2)
“We were talking about rainbows.”
Viola.
She was the most time-worn figure in Sector 50, her face and body bearing the marks of decades.
Rumors claimed she was over a century old.
Though likely not that ancient, none disputed her status as the slum’s eldest resident.
This longevity earned her universal respect—in a place where life expectancy hovered around forty, survival itself became proof of wisdom.
Even gang members neither collected protection money nor harassed her.
“They asked for the rainbow tale again?”
“Yes. That child never tires of it.”
Viola chuckled, the sound like rustling parchment.
Her livelihood depended on spinning mysteries for passersby, accepting coins weighted by their satisfaction.
Children formed her primary audience.
A single 1-shilling coin glinted in the tin—undoubtedly Josephine’s doing.
The smallest denomination, yet maximum effort from tiny hands.
“Rainbows? Those sky ribbons?”
“Heh. The very same. How many retellings does this make?”
Ray remembered Josephine’s starry-eyed account:
“Bro! There’s colored bands in the sky after rains!”
“What’s a rainbow?”
Her arms had windmilled through the description—vivid arcs visible only during fleeting clear spells.
“Never seen one.”
“Clouds come too fast! We just miss it!”
To Ray, the concept remained as tangible as a half-eaten donut’s sprinkles.
“Wouldn’t it be beautiful? They say finding a rainbow’s end grants any wish!”
“Cruter gang eyed my donut today. Gotta smash them tomorrow.”
“Listen properly!”
Ray emerged from the memory, his voice flat.
“Stop filling our kids’ heads with fantasies. Daydreaming weakens street survival.”
Daydreaming.
The act of envisioning impossibilities.
An indulgence Ray’s emotionless existence barred him from.
Yet he understood the equation: more imagination = shorter lifespan.
No exceptions.
Balloon-children who floated from reality popped before adulthood.
Viola’s sightless eyes crinkled.
“If not children, who should dream?”
“Adults don’t. Children mustn’t.”
“I disagree. Youth holds the privilege to imagine.”
Ray’s gaze dropped to her sealed eyelids.
Blindness spawned countless legends—crows plucking eyes during adventures, hidden mechanical optics.
Her chest glowed with unique purple mana, a hue never settling in others’ vessels.
‘Outsider.’
While common mana colors revealed emotions through years of study, Viola’s violet essence defied categorization.
“Relocate your stall,” Ray said abruptly.
“War’s coming.”
He walked away as sunlight glanced off the donation tin.
His coins never rested there.
Grim afternoon on 17th Street.
Squeak—squeak—
Ray pushed a clattering cart through vacant lanes.
Temporary work—Hector’s warehouse remained inaccessible, the scrapyard already picked clean.
No labor meant starvation.
Slum law.
“H-hyek!”
A Ron gang member fled upon locking eyes.
Their junkyard brawl days prior had established clear hierarchies.
Had Ray lost, today’s script would flip—no job, lost bridge hideout, exile from his turf.
Squeak—squeak—
Cart wheels sang through abandoned shops.
“Closed” signs proliferated as merchants fled impending conflict.
The cart halted before a dilapidated café.
“Delivery. Four milk, six beer.”
“You? Ron bragged he’d handle future drops.”
“Ron’s legs are...indisposed.”
Ray eyed the proprietor.
“Not evacuating?”
“My life’s here. Besides—” The man jerked his chin inside. “—patrons still come.”
Ray’s hood snapped up as scarred figures emerged.
Hector—co-ruler of Sector 50, owner of Ray’s pilfered food source.
“Hm?” The ganglord’s gaze dissected him.
“Admiring your pluck, kid.” A 1000-shilling coin pressed into Ray’s palm. “Buy sweets.”
As Hector’s crew departed, his lieutenant Humphrey paused.
190cm of muscle focused on Ray’s earlobe—the scar from their rainy warehouse clash.
Recognition flashed.
Ray’s fingers found his switchblade.
“Humphrey.”
“Coming, boss.”
The bald giant withdrew, leaving unanswered questions.
“Negotiations?” Ray asked the café owner.
“Failed.” Niles emerged, cigarette bitter on his tongue.
Hector’s demands—absorption disguised as partnership.
War became inevitable.
“Shouldn’t you rest?” Niles eyed Ray’s cart.
“War’s certain?”
“Yes. Stay underground.”
Black rain sheeted down, imprisoning 17th Street.
Inside their tarp shelter, Ray and Pale monitored the stalemate.
Two days since Niles and Hector’s factions faced off across 17th-18th Street.
“Who’ll win?” Pale whispered.
“Unknown.”
Morally, Niles stood above—no child trafficking, no casual murders.
But survival cared little for ethics.
A guttural vibration cut through rain’s white noise.
Not gunfire.
Not screams.
The sound of hollow machinery...or some unearthly throat.
