Clone Seeker

The slums of District 11 were in a sorry state, that fact had yet to receive a remodeling from what Ciel’s past memories allowed. The moment he entered the dilapidated maze of clustered buildings, his nostrils were assaulted by the scent of feces and rotten flesh. The sources of the foul scents made no attempts of concealment, dead animals and human shit spread out within random corners in what felt like every turn. Occasionally a human corpse would join, or even a sleeping human which bore an eerie resemblance to the dead.

The cause of that was also clear, these people were all weak and beyond frail. Some wore ragged clothes while others merely a torn cloth. Those with skin laid bare exposed their almost skeletal states. Ciel recalled a previous habit which he held when he too called this desolate place his home.

He would stare at his fellow rats and count the ribs which had protruded on their chests, taking a guess as to how well off they were by such a number. To the old him, he thought that had been a feat of mathematical achievement, one worthy of praise.

After all, he had often guessed how much longer they would last using such a statistic as well, winning his self-made bet more often than not. That Ciel would feel glee when finding a familiar corpse, and a sudden surge of pride would catapult forth within him without fail.

‘Pathetic, couldn’t even outlast a kid!’

Such were his thoughts then, never devoid of mockery.

Ciel failed to gain anything within his time in these vast slums, perhaps only regressing further as a human with each day that passed. He showed little respect for others then, and that had not changed even now. The current Ciel was marching in random directions, vaguely heading east. Only vaguely however, once one entered the clustered mess of buildings, it was impossible to ignore the lack of any light sources within the areas.

Furthermore, the city lights which once bathed it in its entirety could no longer reach its touch deep within the chaotic arrangement of buildings. No streets existed either, paths merely appeared and disappeared, sometimes traveling forward, sometimes curving into many directions and irritation spawning spins. Those which did neither were a combination of both or simply ended abruptly.

Ciel spent three hours trying to follow the path forward, using the Central Elevator as his beacon. Yet the dark paths had begun to spark a faded emotion, that which his mind deduced as annoyance due to obstruction.

Regardless of that recognition however, no scowl appeared on his face, no emotion at all did. His cold eyes merely began scanning its surroundings. Nothing was recognizable. That made Ciel conclude that he had not explored this part of the slums in his past life. Once more his past experiences, another boon at his arsenal, proved its incompetence when the application time came.

Ciel sighed, then his cold inspection finally halted.

This will not do, I need tools. The longer I take to acquire them, the more wasted time passes. Remember your purpose, it is all you have left.

He thought, as if reprimanding himself, albeit without the tone which any reprimand typically carried. Tilting his head upwards, Ciel finally spotted it, a faint orange glow. The dim light was situated on the second floor of a building which was a fusion of rusted steel alloy and rigid wood. Its glow hid behind a wooden window with only some of its radiance escaping through the window’s cracks.

A candle? A stolen battery bulb is an option as well. Whatever the case, so long as it is portable then it will do.

Making his decision, Ciel took four steps towards his new target.

STOMP

Stomp

Stomp

Stomp

By the time he completed his fourth step, his footsteps had become light. With an indifferent expression he then took hold of a protruding plank of steel. Only ten seconds later, he had already reached the window with the warm orange glow. He did not take action immediately, haste was the talent of a fool after all. Instead, he calmly pressed his ear against the window and listened for the noises inside.

“Ram control your eating! One fourths each damn it! Do not let your father’s diligent work be for nothing!”

Inside, the voice of a woman reverberated, coated in fumes. With the angry voice came the rustling of wood, perhaps furniture of some sorts. Whatever the specifics were, Ciel could not discern for obvious reasons. Soon a stifled and bitter voice dared to rise and meet the heights of the woman’s own.

This time it was the sound of a boy, clearly still a pubescent.

“But I’m so hungry mom! We never can eat properly at this place! I hate it, I hate it!”

“Brat, learn to be grateful that you have anything to eat at all! I grew up in an even harsher time, where the best I could hope for was to eat a fleshly dead rat! Your father saved me from that, and even now he does his best for us!”

After her tangent, a sudden loud slam eclipsed the woman’s furious voice. The room grew silent for a moment, then a raspy voice spoke.

“Rebecca enough, those around us will get riled up if we cause a scene.”

The woman, Rebecca, made a swift sheepish apology before growing silent. Only then did the raspy voice continue.

“And you Ram, one day you will truly understand how much we have shielded you. Even managing to secure a room here is beyond what those slum rats here have…”

Hearing such a claim, it sparked a recollection about the slums within Ciel’s mind. The slum rats came in three types; The homeless, the builders, and the gifted. Those which lacked the ability, strength, or materials to build their own makeshift homes were homeless. They simply walked around in search of food, water, or mist powder.

They were the first to die, and the most commonly refreshed as hundreds of new people entered each month. Perhaps their lives had gone south by conventional means, after all beyond the slums was the distinct outskirts. There the people were still a part of society, albeit barely. They live each day with their head just above the water.

Due to such a fragile standing, many would eventually drown, unable to salvage the lives they possessed. That was when the slums would welcome its new residents. There were a multitude of reasons which could cause the destruction of a person’s old reality, however more often than not, those who entered empty handed and were doomed to be homeless rats had done so after becoming hooked on mist powder. They failed to combat the addiction away before it tore their lives apart.

Those who managed to see their downfall beforehand were the ones which rushed to acquire whatever means they could and obtain the capability to carve out their own little corner within the slums. One with a rooftop at the bare minimum. That was what the builder rats were, rarely entering alone, often accompanied by a family of varying sizes.

That left the gifted rats, those who lived in corporate boxes within the outskirts but failed to even earn enough to remain there. Instead of losing everything, they would occasionally be offered deals by housing corporations in which they paid a fraction of the cost; a gift from them, but one which came with a caveat. These new homes were built inside the slums.

The corporate apartments found there were hideous examples of architecture, primarily being a simple square room with thin wooden walls and a single source of light with no water supply. The doors had locks at least, yet that was all the protection the corporations cared to implement.

In fact, only when such corporations needed to remove someone who had forcibly taken hold of their rooms, or when an individual had failed to meet their payment agreement, did the police ever enter the slums. They marched forth like a tide of indomitable authority, never failing to carry large enough guns which kept rats from swarming them. The gifted, as a result, were seen as outsiders themselves, never welcomed by the rats of the slums. That indignation was mutual however, with a gifted refusing to associate themselves as a ‘Slum Rat’. No, they were far better, merely pigeons which happen to have their nest within such a rat infested place.

When the rest of the slums discovered that they could not take what the gifted had by force, they instead expressed their irritation by building all around and above the corporate manufactured cages. Now whether the gifted cared to accept it or not, they were surrounded by their supposed lessers.

“Yes dad.”

The response of the boy refocused Ciel’s straying thoughts and his evaluation began.

Three people. Two which could be of any threat. Environment unknown until entry, but it is safe to guess that nothing dangerous enough to trigger a caution is present. Furthermore, since these are gifted then this building is a manufactured one.

He had not recognized it as such at first glance, a testament to how well the rats had covered it behind a layer of architectural chaos. More importantly, depending on which corporation claims credit for its construction then it would determine which type of lighting tool had been built in.

No. He was certain that the light bringer wasn’t plastered onto the building itself. Through observation, Ciel saw a lack of electrical batteries and their exposed or concealed cords anywhere around the building.

That insight was the final check he needed. His time for caution was over, now it was time to act.