Jackson skidded to a halt, the rough ground under his cycle’s tires crunching and kicking up dust. He was at least three miles further down the wall than anyone else had ever been. There wasn’t a tag in sight.

He hopped from the cycle and opened up the right pannier. Two rows of spray paint cans looked up at him. Excitement and fear bubbled together inside him. He wondered if Da Vinci had felt this way, looking down at his palette before making that first mark on a virgin canvas.

Of course, Da Vinci hadn’t been a refugee, or an outlaw.  Da Vinci didn’t spend every minute looking over his shoulder, watching out for Scalpers and Skinners. Da Vinci didn’t sleep under an old bridge, taking turns on watch on a three hour rotation, and foraging for food in the abandoned malls and warehouses on this side of the wall.

Yeah, Da Vinci didn’t have The Wall.

Jackson pulled out a black and a red and began shaking the cans, the familiar clatter from inside them quickening his heart. He’d been tagging for six months now, his tiny contribution to the resistance movement, and every time still felt like the first time. He didn’t know what difference it made to the resistance, but he knew that the Scalpers and Skinners hunted taggers, and that was enough indication that it was worth doing. Anything that took their time and their attention away from the wall, anything that stopped its inexorable climb skywards, the endless building and fortification.

He knew he was painting a target on his back, but that was the point. Come on, you bastards, here I am. Come on, come down and get me.

Three miles further than anyone else, and still the wall stretched over the horizon. Perhaps it didn’t have an end. Jackson knew that was impossible, but a lot of impossible things happened these days.

Jackson popped the plastic lids off the scans and began to spray the outline of this tag onto the wall.

Three miles further than anyone else.

Come on, you bastards. Beat that.