[01] Arctic Sector

[Alexander Trafford]

“Well, this is some fucking bullshit,” Trafford thought to himself. Even if he had dared to speak aloud, Alexander did not think he had the physical capacity to form words; his teeth were too busy chattering against each other much too violently for speech. Had he been warned about the conditions of this competition, Trafford would have most definitely packed some more suitable attire. The golden haired youth was still adorned in his customary silver Armani suit, which, while being extremely fashionable in his normal environment, did not provide him with much warmth here, in the frozen, miserable tundra.

Reaching into his inner jacket pocket, Alex removed a single cigarette from the Marlboro box he kept close to his chest at all times, his Zippo lighter, and a silver flask that had been recently filled with fresh whiskey. It was far too cold outside to inject himself with his favorite recreational drug, or, as he liked to call it, his “little escape from reality.” These little pleasures, which he referred to as his “old faithful,” would have to do.

Trafford took a long swig of the cheap liquor before tucking the cigarette into the corner of his mouth formed by the convergence of his upper and lower lip. After ducking his head and creating a barrier around the top of his lighter with his free hand, he managed to shield the Zippo from the ferocious and freezing winds for a brief moment, which was all he needed to light the tip of his Marlboro Red smoke. He pursed his lips tightly around the thin cylinder of tobacco and white paper and inhaled deeply as he tucked the flask and the lighter back into his suit pocket. With whiskey in his stomach and a constant flow of cancerous smoke in his lungs, Alexander found enough warmth, however false it was in reality, to brave the frozen tundra. And, still shivering violently despite the newfound warmth in his torso, he made his first step into uncharted territory. His normal swagger faded and was replaced by a slow, drudging, determined march in response to the bone-chilling cold he now faced.

As he trudged along in no particular direction, letting his feet take him where they desired to go, Trafford could not help wondering how he had gotten here. Sure, he had accepted the invitation and agreed to partake in the competition without hesitation, but why? He had always been a simple man. His average day back home, in West City, generally consisted of waking up sometime in the early afternoon and immediately partaking in his alcoholic tendencies, then earning some money in the underground, smoking marijuana with Moe, picking up a prostitute and going back to his flat in the slums. But lately he had fought in a world martial arts tournament, fled to Mercy-Sei on some crapshoot job offer, and had now entered himself into some bizarre competition.

The answer was simple, although he could not bring himself to admit it. He was running. Alice’s death had cut him more deeply than he liked to concede. After all, not many people could mentally recover from watching a loved one die; and not just die, Trafford had watched the woman he adored take a slug from a Desert Eagle in the back of the skull; he had watched her beautiful face became a mangled, bloodied mass of smoking flesh and bone, and he had watched her limp, dead corpse fall helplessly onto that crimson-stained velvet carpet.

Part of him wanted to keep running, and part of him wanted to face the tragedy head on and realize that everyone had a burden to carry, and burying it inside would not help, only exacerbate the pain he felt. Alexander was not just running from reality, though, he was sprinting headlong away from the pain as well – seeking comfort in more intense drugs and pleasure in dirtier hookers. His life was on a downwards spiral, and he knew it, he understood it, and he just needed to act on it. Perhaps here, in this frozen tundra, he could find peace of mind, but maybe not, it was possible that misery was in his destiny.

”Only time will tell,” Trafford mentally reassured himself. Through chattering teeth, Alexander exhaled a plume of bluish grey smoke. He slowed his shivering march in order to watch the warm, distinguishably colored smoke dance chaotically with the colorless, howling wind that carried it away from him. And then he continued his trudge which, he hoped, would lead him to shelter, or, at the very least, a thick coat and a nice pair of snow pants.