Iron and Flesh

An imaginative composed by Teesha (Year 10, St Peter’s Catholic College for the Writer’s Collective Cross Campus Elective)

Old names were special. Special as in reserved for the important members of
society, the ones that were actually going to contribute to the ever-growing world.
The oldest were ones found in ancient texts and scriptures like the bible, the book of
the dead, and various mythological texts and records. Many religious records were
lost without a trace, like the Tanakh and the Qur’an. Without the symbol and guide of
the religious teachings, all religions perished thousands of years ago, except for
Christianity and paganism.

Nobody believed in religion anymore, it was considered barbaric. Nevertheless,
words were sacred, and if you wanted to claim one for yourself—you needed to have
a good reason. You needed to be important.

Old names were given to important members of society, yes, but they were given as
a reflection, an identifier, a medal, a badge of honour, or even a stain. Never to be
changed, removed, or scrubbed off. They were given by the government.
The human population only rose as time went by, and by the year 7042 there were
over 37 billion humans in the galaxy Luaxnova, spanning over 13 different planets.
Identifiers were needed, and so the government would assign each person a unique
number tattooed on the back of their neck after birth, and a name reflective of their
legacy. Hey, if your mother had a habit of sleeping in and missing work, she could be
charged with work negligence, and you could’ve ended up named after Belphegor,
the demon of sloth. Treated like a lazy, useless sack of potatoes for the rest of your
life, and your child’s life too if the charge was serious enough to be declared as a 2
or more-generation federal offence.

At a certain point it gets hard to punish people and keep track of said punishments,
so they’ll just ruin your child’s life instead.

Exploring every topic in this much detail would take days at the very least. Simplest
is best.

For now, just know that Michael sits at the very centre of this mess of a world,
literally, he resides in a penthouse in the heart of planet 7. From a prestigious, nearly
royal family, and named after a Christian archangel, he has everything and nothing
all at once.

Now he sits in his bedroom—the workshop sector which he tinkers with all his
projects in, and nearly throws his hoverboard on the floor.
“Have you tried turning it off and on again?” Raphael sits uselessly on the edge of
his friend’s bed, watching Michael at work. Michael huffs, pulling his eye-protection
off and letting it hang around his neck. He wipes at the sweat on his brow and
slouches.

“That might have worked in—what, 3000? —But it definitely doesn’t anymore.” He
turns to his friend. “The question isn’t what can I do, it’s what haven’t I done. I’ve
turned it on and off, taken it apart, put it back together, taken it apart again when it didn’t work, put it back together correctly, asked Marco, asked father, tried again just
to make sure, and the list goes on.”
Raphael nods to the beat blasting through his headphones—a vintage device that he
particularly liked due to the comfortable pads that sat on both ears. “I always
wondered why you called your assistant Marco of all names.”
“Is that all you have to say? What about my hoverboard?” Michael sighs wearily at
the splotchy paintjob. No matter what he did, the stupid thing never worked properly.
Every time he put his board in the box-like machine, it always came out looking very
far off the designed that was inserted.
“Why did you name him Marco?”
The response came from the small speakers stationed around the room, giving the
allusion that the audio went 360 degrees around the room. “The only records that
exist of my name come from a book published many years ago about a world similar
to our own—but less advanced—called Earth. A singular inhabited planet with very
little countries, one of which sported many popular names like; Marco, Diego,
Carlos—”
Marco’s voice died out as Michael spoke once more. There was a no-interruption
policy for voice assistant models like Marco when it came to their owners speaking.
“I’ll just get a new one,” he said, getting up to browse along his shelves of antique
items. He was a collector of sorts. “I’ll have to get some more batteries for this old
clock too, so I may as well just buy a new spray machine while I’m there.”
“That’s a clock?” Raphael sat up. “How does it go on your wrist?”
“It doesn’t. Back in old times they used to keep things called clocks, which basically
told the time, except they just sat down on a desk or something.”
“Sounds pointless.”
“I dunno,” Michael hummed, “I think it’s cool.” He tossed the clock to Raphael, which
he caught with one hand and brought closer to his face to have a better look at the
ticking hands. “I’ll get going now. If you’re gonna stay in my room when I’m gone
then don’t break anything.”

It was particularly later in the night than most people were allowed out, but Michael
had a rich, important person permit that basically said he could do whatever he
wanted. The only other people who were allowed out at night were
the...impoverished. It’s not like you can abide by a curfew if you don’t have a home
to go back to. These types of people were referred to as ‘WOS’, short for wastes of
space. However Michael preferred less degrading terminology. In his eyes, said
people had never done anything bad to him.

“Of course I do. Too energetic for your own good. It’s a good thing you have those
amphetamine shots to keep the attention deficit away, hm?” He pinched Michael’s
cheek and pulled him inside the shop by the cuff of his sleeve. “It’s too cold to be
outside, boy. Have a seat by the fire.” Carlton was old—too old. His hand shook
harshly when he pointed.
Michael warmed his hands up by the fire and held his wrist out, presenting the chip
inside it. “I’ll need a hundred batteries to renew my supply.”
“Oh, don’t be silly.” Carlton pushed his hand down and hobbled over to the batteries
with his walking-stick in hand. “You don’t need to pay.”
“Oh I insist—”
“Michael, I’m going out of business whether you pay me or not. Nobody has use for
antiques these days.”
“But you need food and—”
“Don’t argue with me, boy. I’m much older than you and won’t be here for much
longer. I have plenty to last me until then.”
It greatly upset Michael to hear Mr Carlton talk about his death so casually, but he
did need to accept the fact he was going to lose his old friend soon enough. He was
a traditional man and used as little technology as possible. He wouldn’t even take up
prosthetic organs or limbs. “I understand.” He took the bag of batteries that Carlton
handed him and left with a warm smile.
“You be safe.”
“You too, old man.”
It must’ve started raining because Michael had to pull his hood over his head and
pull the heat string on his jacket. Since Carlton refused the payment, he also pulled
his gloves over the chip in his wrist to ward the cold air away.
“Must be nice,” a voice towards the left said. It came from a hooded figure slumped
against the wall of the neighbouring building, in the alley between it and Carlton’s
shop. It sounded like a male voice, and the figure didn’t look too old either.

’s

jacket, and Michael stepped close enough to let him feel the warmth that bloomed

through the jacket. His hand ran down the side of the jacket, and Michael’s eyes

finally adjusted enough to let him see his surroundings through the dim light. He was

treading on the stranger’s pants—more accurately, one leg. He lifted his foot. The

material laid flat on the ground, the limb in question; missing.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he stepped back and leant down to brush the dirt off the sopping

wet pants. Rain was beginning to soak the boy on the ground, and he didn’t seem to

care.

They made eye contact, and he reached out to push the hood of Michael’s jacket off.

“You have blue eyes?” Michael stopped, frozen as the boy leant in even closer. He

had dark skin and brown eyes, and he smelt like trees. He picked up a curl to the

side of Michael’s head and twisted it, pulling it gently. “And curly, blonde hair? You’re

a prince,” he exhaled like he was holding his breath.

“Well yeah,” Michael laughed awkwardly. “But I wouldn’t use those words to describe

myself. I’m not royalty—nobody is anymore,” he paused, hoping the boy would

understand, but it didn’t seem like he did. “It was a thing of the past, princes, kings,

queens, and princesses were royalty. They ruled countries.”

The boy still didn’t speak, he just stared up at Michael with curious brown eyes. He

probably didn’t have the education to understand the topic. Education was expensive

and the only ones who had a right to it were the rich. Michael felt bad, so he tried to

explain it the best he could. “There was no evidence of it, but people theorise that

humanity started on this single planet in another galaxy and that there was this super

bad event that killed everyone except for a few who were able to escape to our

galaxy and rebuild civilisation.... There’s a book about it called earth.”

“Sounds like a bunch of baloney to me.”

Michael laughed. “Hey uh, what can I call you?”

That was the point where the boy froze and looked down. “Peasant, probably. Or

WOS, depends on which you prefer.”

“You’re funny, but I’m serious. I wanna know your name.”

A beat of silence passed before he finally looked up. “Azrael. I’m named after the

fallen angel of death.”

“Why?”

“My dad killed people. Why else?”

Michael sat down next to the boy and propped his legs up to conserve body heat. It
was still raining, but it was polite to share in someone else’s suffering. If you visited
someone with no table, you sat with them on the floor. If you ate with someone who
couldn’t afford food, you didn’t eat. If you talked to someone sitting in a puddle in a
dark, dingy alleyway in the rain, you sat with them.
“How long’s your punishment?”
“Four generations. I’m the first to carry it out.”
“I see.” So his father must’ve been a dangerous killer. All the lights except
streetlamps shut off for curfew and doused the streets in darkness, leaving both boys
vulnerable and alone, aside from having each other as company. With no light
pollution, the galaxy above and all around was fully visible, dustings of purple, pink,
blue, and orange spread across the sky like watercolour. “So you have no family?”
“My dad was killed, but I still have my ma.”
“Your skin is beautiful, is it damaged from ultraviolet exposure?” Michael himself had
strong UV protection on all the time, he rubbed thick amounts of the cream in every
morning, but that wasn’t something most people like Azrael can afford, especially
with no hope of getting a job due to their names.
“No, it’s natural. I was born this dark.”
“Oh that’s awesome! The only other natural I’ve met is my friend Raphael. All the
girls at my school use those tanning beds that ruin their skin.” Dark skin was sought
after because it was rare. The book earth said it was because something called
racism in 2764 split a divide between different types of humans and led the more
populated whites to kill people that looked different. He didn’t know if that was true,
though. The thought was barbaric at the least. His eyes fell to Azrael’s leg again, and
he hesitantly asked the question that was on his mind. “What’s...uh...up with your
leg? Not to be rude.”
Azrael chuckled and moved his hand a small length down his leg. It was at that point
that his it stopped, cut off from the mid-thigh.
“Woah, are you a cyborg?” Michael’s eyes lit up.
“Huh? No, I can’t afford a new leg.”
“How did you lose it?”
“You sure ask a lot of questions, don’t you?” Azrael sighed and let his hood fall off.
He had dark curls that sprung lose and sat messily around his face. They suited him.
He brushed a frustrated hand through his hair. “I couldn’t get a job, and my mother
was too old to work, so I had to do this shady business with some back-alley goons. I
was selling drugs and such. I got caught one day with a full backpack and tried to make a run for it, the guy got me and ended up injuring me so bad in the brawl that I
had to get my leg amputated.”
“Oh my....”
“Nah,” he threw his head back against the wall and snorted. “I’m just messing with
ya, I actually fell on a rusty pipe about a week ago and severed an artery. My ma
had to try and treat it as best as she could. It got infected and my leg was turning
black, so she had to sever it.”
It sounded like a very morbid thing to joke about, but Azrael seemed to find it
hilarious, so Michael supposed he just had a strange sense of humour. “Isn’t that
really dangerous?”
“Yeah. But it’s the best we can do.”
Michael looked back down at the sad semi-leg sitting on the dirty floor. It was sad.
He never knew there were people out there that struggled this much. Azrael arose a
moral dilemma that he’d never thought about before. Was it really okay to curse a
family for generations because one person did something bad? What if the children
were good people?
“I’ll get you a leg.”
“What?” Azrael looked up in disbelief.
“I can afford it. I’ll get you one.”
“Why?”
Michael tapped his watch and smiled softly. “Because you’re my friend.”
Azrael stared at him with an open mouth as his hoverboard arrived next to him. “I’m
not like you, I don’t belong with that rich crap.”
“Trust me.” And then he got on the board and flew back home.
~~~
It took about an hour for Michael to convince his dad the next day to get him an iron
leg even though he didn’t need one. Money wasn’t the issue; it was the fact that
there was an age requirement of 21 to buy iron limbs because they’re considered
advanced technology. Also because quite a few parents were purposely damaging
their child’s bodies to turn them into cyborgs. Being a cyborg brought many positives
and gave the person new abilities, new limits, strengths, and new weaknesses, but
the government figured children should at least wait until they mature to make a life-
changing decision.

Bringing the leg to Azrael would be an issue. Surely he’d attract a substantial amount
of attention walking down the street with such a thing, and his looks wouldn’t help,
considering they were genetically engineered and altered as a baby to be unique so that everyone would know of his ‘angelic’ status at first glance. He’d have to bring
Azrael to his workshop.
“Are you sure this is okay?” Azrael looked timider than he did when the boys first
met. He obviously wasn’t used to receiving favours or gifts.
“Yes, I’m sure. I’ve got you safe and sound and the board has anti-falling measures.
Just grab onto my arm and I’ll pull you out.” He held his hand out and Azrael took it
after a moment of contemplation. Michael pulled him onto the board, back to chest,
and wrapped an arm across his shoulders so he wouldn’t fall.
Azrael stumbled and Michael assured him one last time that everything would be
okay, and they flew all the way back to Michael’s room. When they arrived, Azrael
was trembling.
“Hey, Az? Are you afraid of heights.”
“No,” he shook his head defiantly. “But I’m pretty new to this whole one leg business
so everything’s different and scarier.”
“Have you... been in that alley since you lost your leg?”
“Yeah.”
“Woah, okay. I’ll get you something to eat then.” Raphael was nowhere to be seen,
which was good. It wouldn’t be great if he found Azrael.
Michael left his new friend in his room and headed down to the kitchen to get
something for him to eat. He didn’t know what he liked to eat so he picked a large
assortment for him to pick from.
“Aren’t you allergic to oranges?”
Michael wasn’t aware of his father sitting on the opposite couch until he said
something. He shrugged in response and ran the plate upstairs.
“Here.” He handed the plate to Azrael who was sitting propped up on Michael’s bed.
It was only in the bright lighting that he finally saw how dirty Azrael actually was. His
clothes were soaked and discoloured.
Azrael took the plate with a smile. “Thanks.” Then he picked at the mozzarella sticks
and happily ate them while Michael pushed off everything on his table. “Here. Just
lay on the bench and get comfortable. I’ll cut a small section from your left pant leg to
attach the metal, but don’t worry—I’ll get you fresh, clean clothes after.”
“Yeah.” Azrael let his head rest against the bench looking nervously between the
tools in Michael’s hand. “Are—are you sure everything’s going to be okay?” He was
getting more and more nervous by the second.
“Of course.” Michael reassured him. “I just apply this bonding gel, put the leg in place
and put this little lamp over the bonding spot and it’ll do all the work.

“You’re sure?”
“Yes.” Michael cut the section of Azrael’s pants where the stump of his leg sat.
“Holy...” The wound was infected and the surrounding blood; black.
“Yeah. That’s what I meant. Will it—”
“It’ll be fine. I told you; the machine will sort it out. I’ve never seen this go wrong.”
Michael slathered the gel across the stump and Azrael flinched. He put the lamp
above the joining point, fiddled with the buttons, and it flicked on. Blue light poured
out of the little bulbs at the top and Azrael looked down anxiously.
“Have you ever actually tried this on someone like me?”
“Do you mean... a WOS?”
Azrael didn’t get the chance to respond before he flinched hard, his head slamming
back against the wood table and the lamp sparking underneath. He let out a
bloodcurdling scream. “IT HURTS IT HURTS.”
“I—I’ve never seen it hurt before, is it supposed to?” Michael’s eyes flicked between
his writhing friend and the machine.
“TURN IT OFF!”
Warning signs flashed across the machine. It read, ‘BLOOD POISONING
DETECTED: FUSION DISRUPTED.’ Michael lunged for the machine and tried to
take it off but he was shot with a powerful jolt of electricity and thrown back.
Crackling energy burst through his veins, tingled in the back of his eye sockets, and
for a moment he thought his and Azrael’s screams had bled together.
Michael huffed, fighting with his shocked and clamped muscles as he tried to get up.
Azrael turned to the side, staring at Michael, eyes wide with fear. Then his eyes
rolled back, and he went limp.

Suddenly Michael felt like he didn’t deserve his name.