Snatchers - Akira’s Story
District 2 is a haven of opulence, where sleek, towering structures slice through the skyline, their mirrored surfaces reflecting the timeless charm of historic boulevards and landmarks below. Streets are lined with flowering trees engineered to blossom all year round, their petals drift through the air like confetti at a never-ending celebration. The sidewalks glisten with micro-filaments that soak up the light and resend it back with a gentle glow, giving the night a surreal, dreamlike quality. Maintenance bots scour the streets, scanning pathways, cleaning the imperfections of the day away. Their sound a soothing soft hum, a mechanical lullaby, ensuring nothing disturbs the illusion of perfection this District is known for. For everything in District 2 is designed with perfection in mind. Even at 3am, the air is warm and scented with the faint, artificial sweetness of jasmine.
In New Hampstead, the capital city of D2, fear is an alien concept. Safety is woven into the fabric of life, a certainty so strong it lulls you into forgetting danger even exists. People wander the streets in the late hours, undisturbed and unafraid. Akira has always been one of those people. Tonight though her steps are unusually un-measured and messy. She’d been at her friends for a late night session of numbing drinks, designed to mask the ache of yesterday’s news, the one she loves married someone else. On autopilot, she maps her way home, mind distracted by the alcohol fuelled evening designed to drown out the knowledge she wished she didn’t know.
Law 4567 is District 1 & 2’s iron fist wrapped in velvet, a legal protocol that squeezes the life out of violent crime. It’s more than a deterrent, it’s an immediate death sentence. Murder someone, anyone, and you don’t just forfeit your life, you’ve doomed your family. Not just your parents, siblings, partner, and children, but even your cousins, aunts, uncles, and godparents, all are condemned to oblivion. The decree literally wipes out your entire bloodline. This law has been very effective, purging these Districts of almost every murder. But where law draws hard lines, there are always those who find a loophole. The ‘Snatchers’ are the filth in the cracks, a network that thrives on technicalities. They don’t kill their victims outright, they never need to. They just take what is valuable and leave what is legally “alive” behind. Victims like Akira are harvested with ruthless efficiency, each second tightly measured. Stripped of their bodies, they are reduced to nothing more than a severed head, still conscious, still painfully aware. This left over waste is connected to survival pods, grotesque machines designed to keep the brain active, eyes open, and senses horrifyingly intact.
Akira’s pulse suddenly thundered in her ears, she felt it, someone’s watching her. She was born with heightened senses, an inherited trait, a hallmark of her bloodline. Her instincts sharper, her awareness almost preternatural. It wasn’t just sight or sound, it was an acute sixth sense, an unexplainable ability to detect shifts in the air, subtle movements in the shadows, and even the intentions of those nearby. A prickling sensation flooded her body, there’s more than one person following her, she’s certain of it. Shadows ahead starting moving and shifting, the shapes solidifying into figures. Their faces hidden behind smooth, black, faceless masks that reflected the glistening sidewalk like dark mirrors. They moved with practiced silence, closing in from all directions. Her breath halted, air suddenly too thick to swallow. She knew, even before they reached her, that she had already lost.
Her heightened awareness picked up the faintest shift in the air pressure as one figure cut her off to the right, forcing her into a narrow alley. Her next step was met with a blur of movement to her side, another masked figure closing in, perfectly timed. A gloved hand clamped over her mouth, another securing her arms in a grip too strong to break. Her senses screamed, feeding her mind with flashes of their intent, they were going to inject her with something, keep her conscious but immobilised. The needle’s sting was quick. Panic flooded her mind, but it was drowned out by the medicinal high quickly taking effect. As her vision swam, her heightened senses betrayed her, offering a clear glimpse of what was happening, she was about to lose her body.
Akira’s vision blurred, turning the world into streaks of light and shadow, but her heightened senses sharpened unnaturally to compensate. She couldn’t see their faces through the masks, but she didn’t need to, she could hear the steady, controlled dance of professionals, feel the calm efficiency in their presence. Everything was happening fast, too fast. Every movement was purposeful, practiced. The Snatchers had perfected their art. The van’s sliding door closed.
The interior was a sensory overload. A sterile space, illuminated with red light where machinery hummed into life. A rush of cold air swept over her as they secured her to the table, straps binding her limbs. Her mind screamed to break free, but her body was betraying her, immobilised by whatever drugs were flushing her veins. Her heightened senses picked up every sound, the snap of latex gloves, the clink of metal instruments, the subtle whir of complex systems kicking into gear. They weren’t talking, they didn’t need to. Everyone knew their job, their place.
A sharp metallic scent hit her nose, a smell she instinctively knew as sterilising agents. Her skin tingled as the blade made the first cut. She couldn’t see it, but she could feel the pressure from the tool. An automated voice gave precise measurements as the pressure moved around her neck. Every detail feeding into her growing horror. Her mind couldn’t stop racing, a hundred thoughts a second, they were separating her from her body, reducing her to nothing more than a detached consciousness. The pull of skin, the burning smell of severed bone, it was all excruciatingly clear in her heightened awareness.
Then came the sudden, sickening suction, a chilling pull at the base of her neck. Her senses flared as she felt cold metal connect with the exposed nerves and spinal cord. It was as if the machine itself was feeding off her, syncing with her brain’s activity, forcing her consciousness to remain sharp, painfully tethered to reality. The low hum of this monstrosity vibrated through her skull. Her awareness zeroed in on the interface latched onto synapses, injecting a lukewarm flow of chemicals that kept her mind from slipping into the mercy of unconsciousness. She could feel the invasive grip of her cognitive functions, an unnatural presence sifting through her senses, amplifying them. Her vision was returning.
The van’s door slid open, and the warm night air rushed in with the scent of Jasmine. For a fleeting second, the familiar fragrance almost felt homely, comfortably safe, but reality snapped back as she watched everything in vivid detail through the vans window reflection. Two of the men gripped the pod handles. They tilted her just enough to slide the pod out of the vehicle, one handling her with an unusual amount of care. Her heightened senses registered the soft thuds of their boots on the pavement, and the subtle creaks of the pod as they carefully lifted her onto the sidewalk. The ground vibrated beneath her as they adjusted the positioning, ensuring the pod was perfectly stable.
As one of the men turned away from the pod, executing a measured and controlled exit, the other lingered, his hand brushing the pod controls as if to check something. He hesitated, his breath catching slightly. Then, in a voice almost too soft to catch, he murmured, “I’m sorry.” It was a whisper tinged with guilt, almost lost to the hum of the machine. Before she could fully process his words, he turned and walked away, heading back to the van, leaving her utterly alone, trapped, exposed, terrified, and painfully aware her life now depended on this barbaric life support machine.
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