

ANGELOS ODYSSEY

VOLUME ONE

BY

J. B. M. PATRICK

SHINGEN BLUE PUBLISHING

INDIANA

Copyright © 2017 by Joshua Brian McCabe Patrick

Cover Art © 2019 by Shingen Blue Publishing

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Edited in part by Michelle Marie Robles Wallace

Published in the United States of America

Second Edition

Shingen Blue Publishing

Indiana

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

ISBN 978-0-578-46117-5

To

K. & D.

PAUL

JASON

REGINALD

"There is scarcely any passion without struggle."

-Albert Camus
CONTENTS

-

PART ONE: Death

-

1 – Pharaoh's Dance

2 – The Golden Generals

3 – First Light

4 – Body And Soul

5 – What Happened To The Sunshine

6 – Zone D

7 – The Kijivu Tribe

8 – Goodbye Isaac

9 – The Fall Of The Ogba

10 – Never Catch Me

11 – Distant Land

12 – Inside Out

13 – The Chains Of Hell

14 – All Night Long

15 – The Dawn Bureau

16 – Truth

17 – River Niger
18 – The Artist

19 – Saint Kizoba

20 – The Elephant

21 – Avva's Mercy

22 – Inner City Blues

23 – Cause I Love You

24 – You're Lying

\--

PART TWO: Origins

\--

1 – The Irregular

2 – Alone

3 – Eze

4 – Mystery

5 – You're Gonna Need Me

6 – Put Our Heads Together

7 – Everyday Struggle

8 – Graidol

9 – Footsteps In The Dark

10 – Surviving The Times

11 – Move On Up
12 – A Lonely Man

13 – Simply Falling

14 – Pain

15 – The Sky Is Crying

16 – Street Struck

17 – Dfari

18 – Shook Ones

19 – Running Away

20 – Number Twelve

21 – Hop, Skip, And Jump

22 – 6 Feet Deep

23 – Blue In Green

24 – Midnight And You

25 – Heartbreak

26 – My Philosophy

27 – Gimme The Loot

28 – Mysteries Of The World

\---

PART THREE: The Nagao

\---

1 – Change This Game Around
2 – Tell Me What You Want Me To Do

3 – Please Stay

4 – You Won't Fail

5 – Pac Blood

6 – It's Your World

7 – Purple

8 – The Nature Of Daylight

9 – Flowers

10 – Lovely Day

11 – Mystic Bounce

12 – Two Can Win

13 – Montara

14 – The Duel

15 – Home Is Where The Hatred Is

16 – Water No Get Enemy

17 – Untitled

18 – Outro
-

PART ONE

Death

-
My name is Janelle.

I am Death, and I will tell the story of the one who rebelled against It.
1

Pharaoh's Dance

-

Tavon

-

MY HUMANITY'S ALMOST GONE, BUT I'LL BE UP FOR PROMOTION SOON.

Whatever compassion I once had must've faded some time ago into a hollow place, but the exact moment's unclear when I finally gave in to this change. I've become indifferent. I'm indifferent to the whole world; after all, it only favors the strongest.

My name is Tavon, and I can't remember anything about the first twelve years of my life. There's no evidence of my existence. No past and no relatives. It's the reality that I'll never know who I belonged to or where that has set me free.

I've been conscripted by the Angelos Association in my home, the Citadel, and I'm holding on to the top railing of a subway car on my way to carry out their wishes. There's no one inside the car, and that's because it belongs to my Enemy.

I'm hanging from the side, bracing against the wind, and more than prepared to eliminate target number nine. My identity belongs solely to my ambition, my profession.

I'll become the best.

The lone form of someone I don't yet recognize looms ahead in the middle of my stop: Station Black. The car's moving too fast to possibly come to a halt, and I realize that I've got to act now—he's noticed me! I need to move before it's too late.

My legs expand to the size of tree trunks, pushing out thick veins all around, while my feet slightly press on the hard metal. I clench my teeth real tight, and then... that's it.

I launch myself at him, my first victim.

I pierce his eye sockets with two fingers and then smash the stranger's head into the ground. His skull breaks apart and collapses in on itself from the pressure; blood oozes across the concrete.

-

I stride purposefully through only a small portion of a much greater city, a district blanketed with waste and discarded cruisers. The sky unleashes a long assault of rain on the withered, grey suit I've been saving for a more discrete occasion. As drops fall across my wandering figure in rapid succession, it appears as though they're burning away and giving off steam. These missions suit me. The adrenaline, the power to which I'm host. I've become unbeatable.

I've gotta believe that.

A gangbanger's enjoying his last day on Earth, and I've gotta make him believe it, too.

I cross abandoned streets drenched to such an extent that they glimmer on an unusually bright night that's caught in a worsening storm. Moving stealthily and avoiding the open, I veer into an alleyway where I'm flanked by two imposing and narrow walls; they're part of a longer series of condemned apartments. I know this path isn't supposed to be taken by just anyone. It's a trail belonging to what's hiding in the darkness. The weather appears to dissipate overhead but only due a loose grouping of old, makeshift roofs and tarps as I journey deeper into my surroundings.

Encircling are the images of small homes—or, more accurately, corroded shelters abandoned long ago to decay. Ruin is all that stands out from this threatening, private world. On the corner of a turn, I nearly fall when coming close to stepping on someone who appears to be sleeping. He ignores my presence. I continue down another alley replete with numerous scratched or broken windows—the majority of which are positioned at the height of my shoulders.

I stay alert as silhouettes quietly stalk me from a number of these places, some commonly-used drug dens whereas others are convenient safehouses. They exist as temporary lodgings for those on the run or those whose own poverty dictates that they wander from place to place. The alleyway ends in an opening that eventually forms a steep decline which then levels out before ending in the entrance of an old hotel.

I've allowed myself to be followed here. The guilty always know when they're being watched.

Reaching the end of the alley and turning sharply to the right, I angle my way to the adjacent wall and reach inside my blazer for my handgun; it saves me a lot of extra effort. I quickly load a full, extended magazine and proceed to attach a suppressor while keeping my eyes fixed on the passage behind me. It remains clear for the time being—silent, but they're coming, and I've got more in store for them just in case.

My Target's associates all dress as if they were genuine businessmen. Infiltration could go a little smoother with the right touch. Then again, I'm wearing the suit for a reas—!

I crouch and evade an iron bar flying overhead; it collides against the wall above my skull...

As I expected, the attacker is a banger dressed in a suit similar to mine, except he's got a badge and rank that I clearly don't possess. He's trained, and his reflexes are sharp enough that he recovers fast and swings at me using the back of his fist. At the same time, I notice his other hand subtly raising his weapon again to strike. I almost fall for his feint, and I narrowly manage to escape to the side as he lunges forward with an overhead swing in an attempt to finish me off!

I take advantage of this window—

I anchor my body on the earth and pivot, delivering a kick to my opponent's side. He groans and recoils backward while clutching his ribs.

"F-fucking punk," he manages to wheeze. He abruptly strengthens his resolve and charges at me again.

The attacker prepares to swing as he sprints; he scowls, tensing his body for the attack as he moves.

Just as he's upon me, I keep myself composed and shoot him in the chest. Simple. Efficient.

-

I've forsaken all values in order to cater to the highest bidder. I grew up a nameless boy with nothing and, in the end, I've become one of the Citadel's mercenaries: an Association Core-Man.

I'm the last face people often see when they get caught up in a dangerous game. I maintain only a fragment of something like a normal existence. What memories I do have coming up in the city are all reminders of why I keep going: I'll become stronger.

I'll become that way for myself.

-

The guy I've shot tries to utter some other obscenity as he tumbles weakly to the earth, and a loud clang resounds as the pipe clatters to the ground. That gunshot reveals my presence to everyone in the immediate area, but—even though I know better—I decide to waste time checking to see if my ammo really dissolved the way I was told it would.

The front of the attacker's body has been blown open with no trace left of the round I've fired, but his rank and badge remain untouched and affixed to his sleeve. I reach down to take them for myself but reel back as a newcomer with a darker suit and greased hair thrusts a wide, serrated blade toward my throat.

The weapon slices a shallow, bloody cut near to my jugular before ripping through the shoulder of the suit. Feeling restricted, I quickly back away and throw off the blazer while rolling up the sleeves to a white shirt stained with crimson and relax into stance.

I tuck my gun into my belt behind me and ready my fists with a smirk.

"Okay." I announce, "If this is what you want, let's go."

He rushes me instantly, screaming, "Fuck you!"

My new opponent shields his neck with one hand and, in a very controlled manner, he steps in and thrusts the blade at my abdomen. I move to grab his arm, but he redirects his knife upward to slash open the side of my bicep. He then re-positions the blade before thrusting it downward toward my thigh.

Simultaneously, and before the strike can land, I launch a jab into his exposed head.

I'm almost shocked as he dramatically staggers back and speaks gibberish for a moment. Within a few seconds, his consciousness returns, and he exclaims: "Just a lucky hit!" He shudders before collecting himself. "T-there's no way anyone can be that strong—I-I must be gettin' soft."

Each one of these bangers is part of an organization that considers itself above a gang. They're not just low-level thugs; though they rock suits, they're trained to withstand blows. In a way, they're all just a different breed of mercenary.

My enemy drops his knife and removes his blazer, truly believing that he can handle me on his own.

I admire his sense of honor.

He cautiously guards in his own defensive stance, circling me and searching for the best opening. An arrogant smile creeps across his face; he throws a few weak jabs in my direction just for good measure. He then uppercuts from the right side while following by repeatedly jabbing toward my head. I deflect or block most of his punches, which causes him to become even more enraged as he speeds up his strikes.

Finally, he stops showing off and distracts me with a blow to the side before closing in with a decisive haymaker. In response, I move my arm inside of his and push my opponent backward before crashing my fist into his skull hard enough to drop the fighter on the spot.

From behind, another enemy swings a bat toward the back of my head. I quickly rotate to catch the wooden bat with my hand, pull the opponent forward, and smash his cheekbone with a punch possessing enough impact to slam his body into the ground subsequent to the hit.

I feel something suddenly grasp for and remove the weapon tucked into my waist!

I lean forward and grab the bat, pirouetting as I strike the final enemy across his head before he can pull the trigger. Blood sprays from multiple orifices, and it's accompanied by the crunching noise of facial bones collapsing inward.

The truth is that I'm not like other humans. What I can do shouldn't be possible, but the world we live in has never made sense... It's the year 3200. To some it's 880 P.R. (Post Rift), meaning, everything after a terrible catastrophe that resulted in a distortion of whatever reality used to be. Most humans don't have the strength to do what I can do—not to mention a few other features that have gotten me through some tight spots in the past.

To my irritation, there's yet another suited gangster who arrives on the scene. This one has a crowd with him in the previous passageway, and he hasn't even noticed my presence. He's carrying an assault rifle and gesturing demandingly at a large group of shackled individuals of all ages who appear oddly stiff, as if they can't move naturally on their own. The armed banger glares at one of the more elderly prisoners while retrieving what appears to be a cell phone. Most of them still haven't ventured far enough to notice the mess I've made and remain frozen in terror at the associate guiding them.

"Ya'll might as well forget whatever you were told about on coming to old Genod & Portis! We don't keep interpreters here, so you can save your bullshit for each oth—"

"Aza' al-vadan. Kada'soz!" Whatever they're saying resounds across the group in unison. One of the captives steps out and acts as the spokesperson for the group: "Sir-sir! P-please don't hurt us! Whatever we've done wrong, w-we're very sorry. We were, uh, misinformed—terribly sorry to trouble you, sir."

The gangbanger chuckles.

"I see you still don't understand."

His sides shake with laughter before he exclaims to his colleague: "You shove a barrel in their faces, put them in chains, and they still think they're entitled to rights."

"Dumbasses..." his partner sighs.

The armed man focuses intensely on a small, cellular phone before looking back up at the foreign speaker in anticipation:

And, before all of them, the one who'd tried to reason with their kidnappers is forced to watch as his own body betrays him.

He balls both fists tightly; his arms remain flexed and trembling as blood coalesces and drips from the pressure built up inside his palms. The shackled prisoner brings the irons around his wrists together before striking his forehead with as much force as he can!

"Ansi!" one of the prisoners exclaims in despair.

The banger laughs again before he inputs something else on the mobile device. Ansi reacts to his next command by attempting to break the chain linking his cuffs; he brutally forces his wrists apart from each other, and the pain gets to be much more than he can bear as he falls to his knees and begins screaming in his native language.

The other slaver, donning a tan vest that overlays a white button-up, approaches from behind the group. The only real difference between him and his partner is a pair of spectacles, which make him appear slightly more intelligent than the other goons. He grins wickedly before he says, "It's the wave of the future, eh? Human implants controlled by new tech..." he sighs, "It's no good to have merchandise that won't obey, don't you think—wait... what the—?"

They notice as I make my approach.

The man with the assault rifle transitions from a demeanor of shock to pure aggression while he prepares to take a calm, focused shot—but I quickly respond: I fire a round that burrows its way through the center of his forehead.

Painless, though he probably deserved much worse.

Ansi freezes in position. Convulsing, he succumbs to an agony I can't imagine. I ignore everyone else and grab the device controlling Ansi so that I can inspect it for a moment. The deceased slaver's colleague is still terrified and cowers in place.

Each time one of the prisoners murmurs to one another, a sound resonates that seems close despite manifesting itself, initially, as an echo. The member I've just gunned down has an earpiece sounding as if it's synchronized with only the voices of the ones being trafficked by the syndicate.

The other banger is still quivering in fear. A newbie, maybe?

All of them are looking at me with dreadful expectations. They watched me kill, and so I've become a new, more dangerous type of threat.

Also, this idiot is unarmed.

Regardless, he decides to speak up in a shaken tone of voice:

"W-what's goin' on, guy?" He's nervous and twitches slightly as he shouts, "You got an issue with the big bosses or something? Sure we can't work something out, b-because there'd be a lotta money involved—I can guarantee that!"

I glance at him before gesturing to the device controlling the victims, "Tell me what this is."

Sometimes guns are better at gathering confessions, so I keep the barrel aimed at his face for good measure.

He turns pale and manages to utter: "T-there's more to this than what it seems, man. If you knew the truth—"

"How about this." I'm losing patience. "I'm going to kill you if you don't tell me what I want to know. Do you get it now?"

Oddly enough, saying this seems to work; he calms down and comes close to appearing sincere. He stares at the ground as he speaks: "They weren't... Nevermind—that's a cell phone the ones upstairs had made specially for the cattle. You know, most people these days go with hands-free kinda gear, but this shit feels just as advanced, man!"

"And?" I've become solemn, a foreboding hollowness waiting to consume him.

"That phone..." he starts, "shows all of their info—it-it's connected to something that got installed in them, I think! I swear, it's like an implant that reacts to that fuckin' phone!"

A bright screen flickers and emanates from the device before displaying what, at first glance, appears to be a complex menu pertaining to Ansi specifically. I notice a digital outline of the man's form and a highlighted interface labeled: Actions. After moving on to that section, I'm taken to a notification screen asking if I desire to "exit singular manual control?" I respond "Yes" and watch with some relief as Ansi regains control of his body and nearly falls to the ground only to be helped to his feet by collective members of his group.

"H-hey, guy!" the mobster remarks, "I'm not sure you want to keep fuckin' with that thing—I-I mean, if they get loose..."

I smirk and manage to discover another menu that takes me to direct control of...

Their shackles?

I power down their metallic bonds, which—to my surprise—immediately causes them all to spring open, leaving them all dumbfounded as well.

"HEY!" The banger screams in desperation. "What the hell are you doing? You can't just let them go!"

I'm still ignoring him and looking through the device when I notice Ansi charging at me!

I prepare to knock him back but promptly realize something...

Ansi grasps my weapon with one hand and shoves me with his other while utilizing all the might he can despite his own limitations. He's not very strong, but I'm too curious to stop him.

"Hey! Don't let him—!".

Ansi turns and immediately fires a succession of rounds into the slaver without hesitation.

He continues shooting until he's blown through all the ammo, shredding the body of a nameless, wannabe thug. A younger girl hurries over to comfort him as Ansi continues gazing at the fragmented corpse.

Another man, possibly the same age as Ansi, retrieves a device from the other dead banger's ear and hands it to me with urgency. He then indicates that he's been issued one as well and gestures for me to hurry. I humor him just to hear whatever information I can gather, though I'm not sure that I want to be involved any more than I already am.

The earpiece he's handed me operates as a translator and renders everyone's voice in the same monotone vibration:

"Sir, sir!" He grabs my arm and seems to be pleading with me: "I am..." He stutters and appears lost for a brief moment, then he breathes in abruptly, as if he's been deprived of oxygen, and continues, "My name is Desondre." He gestures to the rest of the group. "We're in danger, sir! W-we don't understand what's happening—why are they doing this to us?"

I try to maintain my patience; I'm not here to play hero.

"What?"

Desondre freezes once again and then recovers before becoming emotionally despondent. He's sobbing now, running his hands through his hair and experiencing a prior grief.

Ansi recollects himself enough to walk over to me without making eye contact. His fury radiates out from him in something like an aura I can feel.

"Get the police."

He tries to give me orders. It's not a good start.

"These men—they're not as they seem! You've got to get out of here—or-or..." Ansi shudders. "They'll do it to you, too."

He clenches his fists and laments bitterly, "I don't know what's real anymore. I'm trapped in this hell!"

I back away from him and sneer. "I'm here for a reason. You're the ones who should go to the police—otherwise, stay out of my way."

The man prods me a second time and causes me to notice something else about the group. Many of them display either brutal scarring or significant disfigurement in various areas across their bodies. I notice battered forms, missing limbs—an odor... they haven't been allowed to shower.

"What are we to do then, sir! Where should we go?"

I put a hand on his shoulder. "You're free now. Keep these people safe and go to the police; I'll handle the hard part."

Shutting them out of my thoughts, I resume focus on my original task and retrieve my handgun from a distraught Ansi. I move to enter the hotel lobby without looking back at them.

-

I don't know what I expect to find here, but the hotel reveals itself to be an unsanitary place; a ruined dining area complete with dirty, broken tiles and worn carpet occupying the main lobby stands out the most to me. I hurry past a front desk that hasn't been serviced for some time and down a hallway to walk by an open, steel door on the right. Beyond it, I view a laundry room emitting the smell of mold and decay, a room teeming with flies and other insects.

I notice a pile of discarded and bloodied sheets in a large bin next to shards of what looks like bone left on the ground. Despite their super-groomed appearances, the mobsters working for Genod & Portis are a messy bunch. Even if I fail on this contract, it'll be no time before they're exposed due to their own recklessness.

First, I try using the elevator but quickly change my mind as its panels slide open and reveal reinforcements on their way to inspect the prior carnage. I evade them by sliding into a room with a series of stairs that span the upper floors of the building. For once, I'm opting for a stealthier approach instead of fighting them so I can save myself some time; there won't be much opportunity to escape if I wait until we're surrounded by the Zone police.

I can feel someone following me up the stairs to the second floor, where I'm suddenly greeted by another man at the door to the subsequent hallway. He doesn't seem to care or notice that I'm bloodied or that I recently finished killing some of his colleagues. The banger is sporting a pair of opaque spectacles that appear to light up with miniaturized, digital numbers and words I can't quite make out from where I'm standing.

"What's happenin' out there, g?" He asks in a causal voice, "You take care of the fools roughin' up our guys or what?" He stares at me for a moment before inquiring further, "Sorry. What's your name again? Looks like you're missing your pins there, pal."

"Pins?"

He raises one eyebrow and gestures to his rank and name plate.

Dammit.

"It was some bastards we found sleeping in the street." I try to fake frustration. "We woke up the bunch of them. Turns out they could fight."

I shrug.

He shakes his head in response. "Sheesh. All you punks look the same to me."

"Huh?"

"Don't take it personally, kid." The mobster smirks. "But guys like you are too arrogant—in over your heads." He tries to put his hand on my shoulder, but I back off quickly; he grins now. "Easy. Just don't want you feelin' too cocky, all right? But, besides that, I caught some shit you might be interested in hearing.

"General Genod says we're all about to be getting these glasses." He fixes them so that they sit straightly across the bridge of his nose. General Genod?

"What for? Style change?"

He offers me a condescending look before elaborating, "They're supposed to pick up energy from our lapdogs. They've got an algorithm that calculates a slave's overall potential and lets us know where we can use them—oh, and I tried scanning myself, kid! Heh. I gave myself a few punches." The mobster looks embarrassed but continues smiling. "You want to test it out before you get your own?"

"I'm curious, but first I need to know something."

"Yeah?"

"I'm looking for Boa; any chance you've seen him?"

He still seems more than slightly suspicious of me, but the banger keeps going because he clearly enjoys hearing himself talk above anything else.

"Boa?" The mobster scratches his beard thoughtfully. "Name rings a bell, but I can't say I know who it is for sure. Sounds like one of Genod's people. Why's that important to you?" He eyes me. "I know they've been bringing in some new guys because of the war, but I don't know about some of these fools. We sent out some pretty boy weakling who'd never held a gun in his life to lead an op. He was part of an extraction from Gaspul country, but I don't believe a chump like him had the gall to survive."

"He didn't."

The man looks at me earnestly now.

"Do you believe it takes a certain type of Strength to survive in this world, Mr...

"Say, guy... what do you call yourself?"

"Tavon."

"I'm scanning you now."

He takes on a more aggressive demeanor; he understands.

Our eyes meet again.

"Are you strong enough to kill me?" he asks.

"Why?"

"If you aren't..." He ponders deeply. He says, "I won't hesitate to murder everyone, Tavon. Everyone close to you. Everyone who knows about what I just told you."

"Deal."

His next move is swift.

He swings his fist wide and around to connect with my chest, but I absorb it without much of a problem and then strike his exposed jaw. A snapping sound pierces the air as the banger's body collapses to the ground. I'm unsure if he's unconscious or dead, but I don't have the time to waste.

Before I leave, I try to check the scanner he was using to see the results:

It's broken. Shame.

-

I continue up successive flights of stairs and end up passing by more bangers who are hurrying toward the lobby and ignore my presence altogether. I manage to remain discrete and pass them by while furthering my own ascent. Following numerous steps, I make it to the top floor, near the peak of the hotel tower, where an immense form guards the way. It's not human—no. I-it doesn't—it shouldn't—belong here.

A hideous face hovers over a body obscured in a dark cloth. This thing is at least three times the size of me. A worthy challenge, but I'm nervous... it's too dangerous, and there's no way any human could tame a creature never intended to be physically perceived or understood. If I look at him directly, my mind starts to dissolve.

It's clear they're wealthy, but regular thugs having this kind of power close at hand is... absurd.

I don't recognize you.

A sensation burns its way painfully across the side of my head and produces words uttered from the demon:

But you are not ill-mannered. Much unlike the others of this place.

Despite my resolve, my vision shifts to black and returns in unpleasant bursts. I feel my body become plagued and overwhelmed with exhaustion; I have to fight through this.

Don't mind me, the being announces calmly.

I'm simply a wanderer; I desire to view the condition of human nature. Don't fret. I believe that you'll meet tonight's goal, vagrant, but only if you overcome your Cowardice.

Although I suppose it matters not.

It cackles in mild amusement. Your failure arrives in the same manner as it did for those who chose to claim lives for profit.

There's a flash.

My vision fades, and I almost fall over before kneeling to allow myself the time to recover.

It's then that I realize I've other stab wounds I didn't notice while fighting—two semi-deep, horizontal cuts across my lower abdomen. I've lost blood, and the creature's gone. Must have imagined whatever it was that once stood there. There's still an entry point standing between me and, hopefully, my target. I hope I wasn't out for that long... if I really was out...

I open an old, wooden door and head through into a large hallway that's populated with side rooms and ends in a grandiose staircase. It splits into two symmetrically curved paths that lead into a private chamber. The chamber's sealed off by an expensive-look doorway; it's adorned all over with lavender jewelry.

From here on.... I continue to think:

"Grey suit. Notch in upper left ear. Glasses."

I pass an open room to my immediate right and see a man wearing body armor over a dark grey suit. He's yelling in another language that I don't immediately pick up and has strapped an older, naked man with an octagonal, plated implant on his chest down into a steel chair.

He hovers around his victim in what seems like the middle of an eccentric interrogation; the guy's carrying one of those devices I saw used to control those kidnapping victims. Every time his victim utters any kind of response, the poor bastard's met with an induced seizure generated from the effects of the implant. The torturer's device appears to flicker with a faint light as the victim's brutally incapacitated against his own will.

I stay focused. Grey suit.

On the left, I pass a room barred only by a glass door giving view of a gathering of children from various age groups. They stand completely still, dressed in little other than basic pieces of cloth that's withered over time. While hovering meekly over counters gleaming against the overhead, long fluorescent light, the younger victims are made to sew outfits resembling those worn by members of the agency. I see a bitter woman supervising them and brandishing a rather large blackjack tainted in splotches of crimson.

Left. Notch. Ear.

In another chamber, I see a group of females standing in line while being inspected by two men—one's dressed as another of the mobsters while the other appears to be... visiting?

Tears flow down the face of each woman, who all keep their eyes fixed on the ground. Their breaths are rapid in anticipation of something dreadful. I see them quiver as the enthusiastic gangster tries to 'advertise' them. He's treating them like products to appease an old geezer who grins while baring real twisted intent.

Disgust. I only feel disgust.

Glasses...

-

I couldn't find any information on Boa's real name.

The contract had been delivered via the Network as usual, but its details were lacking; there was nothing to make of this hit, and now I was realizing just how much of a challenge my evasive target might be. Someone's orchestrating this ongoing terror.

Boa, a target I know only by his crimes. The order on his life includes an extensive list of charges: "Intent to Cause Damage to Government Property," "Battery," "Aggravated Assault with a Deadly Weapon," and other deeds that make him out to most likely be an unstable person and the perfect hit for a lower ranking assassin.

Most of my past hits have been weak guys, guys depraved in some way or another. All this time, I've wanted to go after someone who'll make me afraid, a target who can finally test out my potential. Maybe this is it, what I've been training for all this time.
2

The Golden Generals

-

Tavon

-

THE FINAL AND LARGEST ROOM IN THE HALLWAY DISPLAYS ANOTHER DISTURBING SCENE.

There's a surgeon calmly attempting to suture a deep puncture wound in the stomach of an unconscious man. Upon more than just a glance, I notice that one of the patient's arms has been severed at the elbow. Beyond that observation, I see fine, steel wiring jutting out slightly from the amputated area.

On a side table, there rests a bionic arm next to a very realistic eyeball. And, as I look further into the room while keeping silent, I see them:

Rows of hospital beds occupied with bodies—"bodies," because I'm not sure if any of them survived what appears to be brutal injuries sustained from some type of... blast, maybe. They're the remnants from a violent attack.

I must keep reminding myself that I'm here for Boa; I can't let myself get distracted.

As I progress through the hallway, the door to the chamber above the stairs swings open. Out walks a middle-aged woman adorned in a yellow dress of golden alloy plates that are linked together by loose chainmail, but they don't seem to weigh heavy on her as she heads for the stairs. She dons a set of pearled earrings as well as a medallion probably worth its own small fortune. When she sees me, she stops in the middle of a conversation with a man who continues to speak to her from behind.

The woman rushes toward me from the steps, and I smile for a moment, thinking I might at last learn something.

"Is there a man named Boa around, miss?" I start first, causing her to flinch and stop in place for a second. "I have business with him."

"You're bold for asking me the questions." She scowls and raises her voice: "Just who the hell are you? You can't be one of the newbies we hired..." The woman glares at me as she keeps voicing her thoughts. "And you're covered in blood. Hmph. Do you know who I am?" She comes toward me again.

I aim the barrel of another pistol I've brought at her temple; there's no time for this.

"Easy." I say, "I've got a quota to meet. Just take me to Boa."

"BOA." She snarls. "Who gives a damn—I am Genod."

"Who?"

"Manume GENOD, fool! The Golden General."

"Sounds familiar. 'Golden General,' huh? Not from Gaspul, otherwise you wouldn't be here—"

"Moron." Genod clenches both fists. "That's my home, and we fought back against your country's efforts to dominate us!"

"I think I get it now. You're part of that terrorist group."

Genod suddenly looks poised to attack; from behind, I hear a gunshot.

I turn to see—

Ansi! The group of victims from before begins to pour into the room, all of them equipped with what they'd retrieved from the fallen bangers—assault rifles, shotguns, spiked bats... They've taken fate into their own hands and appear to have let the younger members flee.

Ansi, burning with a grim determination, opens fire in the room containing the interrogation victim before regrouping with the others as they hastily spread out and wreak their own vengeance upon the syndicate. I'm impressed by their resolve.

So impressed, in fact, that I don't notice when Genod draws her own pistol and uses it.

I move down and away from the shot! The explosive sound of gunpowder resounds, and I feel pain, sharp pain, as a bullet grazes my right shoulder.

"Shit!" she curses and lunges to stab me with a tantō that she's withdrawn from a dark sheathe attached to the back of her lower thigh. I react quickly enough to grab her flailing arm and twist it out to the side while forcing it behind her. Subsequently, I strike her neck with the side of my palm—

Too much. I did it again.

The Golden General's neck bends inward as my hand sinks deeper; there's a loud snap, and she's killed on the spot.

I've got to be getting close now. Nearer to the source of the corruption. This is where I'll get the answers I need. If Genod is one of the Generals, then Portis might be another—maybe Boa's supposed to be the third, but why didn't she...

The door above the stairwell swings open again.

I turn and shoot an oncoming attacker in the chest before moving toward the left set of ascending stairs as a bald man in a black suit tumbles over the railing.

Another banger emerges and charges at me with spiked, brass-knuckled fists raised and ready. I throw my gun and strike him hard enough in the skull that the barrel of the weapon itself receives a small dent from the impact; it simultaneously knocks him backward. I catch it in midair and proceed to kick my staggered opponent back into the path of the next enemy before I jump onto the railing and leap forward to deliver another, more powerful kick to the following fighter's head.

Again, I use too much force and recognize the fatal snapping sound produced by his neck as his body is forced back to collapse onto the staircase.

When reaching the entrance to the master suite ahead, I grab the rifle carried by one of the reinforcements before I drive my heel through his knee! He staggers forward, and I strike him with a right hook to the side of his face that incapacitates him just as the doors to the following chamber are taken up by a much larger foe.

This one seems different from the others. More immense, bulky. More beast than human.

He's wearing a helmet that completely conceals his features, however disfigured they may be. The big guy rushes to choke me with two outstretched, colossal hands, and, sensing his movements to be too slow and predictable, I meet him head on to hold his advance in place!

"Y-YOU CAN'T..." he manages to utter. I push back against his own strength in a draw, and we try to overpower one another.

"T-the General has other plans!" he declares proudly. "We serve a greater PURPOSE! One that you can't stop!"

"Oh yeah? You haven't seen anything yet."

Energy engulfs my form. Black energy that emanates across me and floods, specifically, into my extremities. Every limb. They quickly expand into a considerable size that's twice their normal appearance. Both arms and legs display an array of enlarged, pulsing veins that manifest as my will—my need to fight. It's a part of what I can do.

But there's more.

I smile briefly at my opponent before rotating behind his right arm. I heave him over my shoulder with ease, and I follow by forcefully smashing the railing in using his body. Before the bastard can get up again, I fire a bullet into his helmet, but it simply ricochets off and away into a wall away from us.

Fuck. I'm not the smartest assassin.

Recovering from a moment of hesitation, I shoot several more rounds into the exposed side of his body armor until the giant ceases moving.

Much better.

With the path cleared, I'm finally able to continue into the master suite; the sound of survivors attacking the remaining bangers resonates throughout the corridor behind me. I sprint into an immense room that's covered by a leopard-patterned carpet, and I see a group of hazel, leather couches that bend at their respective centers and join while curving into half circles before a flat-screen television monitor and sound system. Both occupy a sizable portion of the room. The spacious quarters briefly remind me of my own place, and I consider taking some of the smaller furniture with me before I bring myself to refocus.

I ascend a series of carpeted steps and am confronted with another door made of glass. It's the entrance leading to a private room followed by balcony, which overlooks a broad section of what is known as the Mid-City of the massive Citadel: my home and the only history I have.

To think that an entire city could be designed and engineered to hover above the Earth, away from all that happens below us. The Citadel, stretching hundreds of miles as the territory of the Dawn Federation government, is massive in everything that it encompasses. It's a city that formed its own nation during a time of constant warfare.

A city that pushed its darkness down, hoping that people would forget about it.

I pass through the glass door, and I'm accosted by a butler who blocks my view of a man in gold armor that covers his entire body; he wears a gold, horned crown and stares forlornly across the city-nation at something in the distance.

"Excuse me, sir," his butler conveys significant irritation, "but the Master has no interest in entertaining guests. We ask that you leave this place—that you leave and never return!"

I stare back at him and nonchalantly inquire, "Are you another one of them?"

The butler fails to respond. His features remain rigid. I look him over for an implant but can't find anything noticeable.

"I actually have a lot of business being here." I speak as the butler remains transfixed, "Boa and I need a short face-to-face. It's not going to take very long."

The enraged servant surprises me by aiming a type of miniature, platinum shotgun I've never seen at the center of my chest.

"No sir," he speaks as eloquently as he can, "instead, you will vacate this area speedily; my employer deserves only the highest of praise—"

He stiffens.

The butler reaches for his lower back as he falls to his knees wordlessly. His body sinks to the floor while he writhes around in agony. His 'employer' fires a final, fatal round into the butler's head. I look up from the man's corpse in time to see the other individual holding a gun at his side and displaying a demeanor of both disgust and resignation. He's shaken from his own actions.

The man in golden armor laments, "He wasn't meant for a life like this."

The magnate refuses to make any eye contact but continues, "Looks like I've arranged my getaway plans a little too late. A pity..." His lips curve into a wrinkled smile. "Heh. I didn't expect your arrival. Who, might I ask, are you?"

"Tavon. I didn't expect you to expect it, and now I'd like to see the one in charge."

"Hah," he snorts, "straight to the point. Admirable. I... am Portis. Between Genod and myself, I'm the one who's more out of practice; still, I am her twin—the other Golden General, and I was always prepared for an attack."

I wait impatiently.

"Instead of trying to kill me on sight, you actually speak and respond like a normal human... I-I watched." There's something close to sorrow contained within his gaze.

"Watched what?"

"The cameras... i-it must be some sort of joke. You took them on.

"You took out all of them."

"It didn't take much." I shrug while feeling my anxiety subtly increase. He's wasting my time—Boa has to be here.

"I've done a horrible, horrible thing, Tavon."

I'm a little taken aback by his confession and pause for a moment before I can decide when to interrupt.

"What was it that made you come here?" he asks, aggression building in his tone. Oddly enough, a measure of strength has returned to his troubled psyche; my silence empowers him. "Was it revenge? Did I take someone you love?"

His tone changes to desperation, "Maybe you can still see them again."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

His eyes light up and hover eerily over a faint smile. "You don't know yet, do you? You're just a tool, someone hired to strongarm this business! Are my assumptions correct?"

"Genod & Portis just happens to be related to my objective; I didn't choose this route because I wanted to. It doesn't have anything to do with you, personally, but I would like to know why you're doing this to people."

Portis looks puzzled for a second but speaks with even more determination. I can feel him growing bolder than before; his heart rate is increasing with every word: "In the beginning, the resistance fought back because the greedy Federation refused to stop bombing our lands and killing our people. I was younger then, back when General Genod and I were made to protect one of our cities, Gushemel, from a Federation invasion. Yes, we fought back against you; we won a true victory in that time.

"But I'm afraid I'm much older now. My, my... and you're an assassin, aren't you, Mr. Tavon? An assassin caught up in a nasty situation."

"That should be obvi—"

Portis grumbles. "I thought we had all the security we needed," he cuts me off, his mind absent from the conversation, "but, considering the rest of our associates won't get here on time—if they're even coming—I guess I've no other choice."

Portis gazes at the floor.

"But what I do here... it's saving lives, Tavon."

"By enslaving people?"

He shakes his head before assuming a condescending tone, "Do you know very much about the war in Gaspul? It's not what some would call a real 'war,' but a situation we decided to use to our benefit."

Gaspul is an immense territory below and to the west of the Citadel; it consists of factions belonging to the World Below, and the Citadel government has occupied its central area for decades without making much of an effort to spread or reach out to the natives. The Federation's maintained a presence there but not without conflict.

Portis quickly backs away from me and reaches over to obtain a cylindrical-shaped, metallic object with its center encased in glass that shows a dark, red liquid. At its bottom, there extends a sharp needle.

I'm interested.

"Genod & Portis devised a new kind of implant.

"We developed it from our studies of human enhancement... It'll enable us transform humanity itself," Portis grins, "because we know about people like you. People 'gifted'—or cursed, you could say—with It."

"This isn't needed, Portis. Just tell me where I can find your friend Boa.

"...But, if you are going to actually use that stuff,"—I point to the syringe—"you'd better hope it can save you."

He laughs at me.

"None of this matters anyways." Portis pauses for moment, looking thoughtful. "The Citadel repeatedly bombarded so many precious settlements in Gaspul. People suffered from these bombings—there were those who would've died had we not intervened sooner.

"And so, we found a way to keep them from dying!"

Portis looks to me, his expression revealing a distinct madness I've witnessed from only the most delusional of my encounters. "The price for their ensured survival is high; we integrate them all into our company."

"You can't mean—"

"It's not something you'd understand right away, but Tavon," he addresses me sternly, "all those people out there are linked to a system we designed. If that system dies, they will as well—and the implant, that was a new idea."

"How so?"

"If they try to contaminate or remove it, the core of what keeps our people alive is programmed to detonate. This is a very cutthroat profession, as you've already seen, and yet we've made so many advan—"

Annoyed at his constant lecturing, I shoot Portis in his left thigh.

He screams, and I confront him again. "Where's the one I've been asking for all this time, Portis!"

"I-I don't know—!" He cries out after having fallen onto his side.

Portis stuns me by having enough willpower to stab himself near the gunshot wound and injects himself with the serum. He growls, "Very well, Mr. Tavon. I'll show you the full potential of our work."

"Still not impressed."

I cross my arms, anxious to see the results.

Portis looks away from me and succumbs to rising tension across the musculature in his figure. His guttural tone transitions into a throaty roar that precedes the outward fracturing of every bone in his body as he's forced to lie supine. His spinal column ruptures in an attempt to extend its own length; Portis' size pushes against and cracks his armor as it tries to continue growing. The long hair draped across his back begins to multiply and also grows at an alarming rate. Portis' left arm increases in size several times the proportion of his right until the limb finishes swelling into a massive, tumorlike growth which twitches infrequently.

The digits on each of his hands have extended into short claws of bone; his legs are now immense planes of expanded tissue, enlarged arteries, and veins so prominent that they shine with a horrific light.

Portis is at last able to meet my gaze confidently, and he does so as he exposes a set of teeth broken and divided because of the broadening of his facial bones in order to make room for a horned protrusion that descends downward from the middle of his throat. His entire body transfigures its makeup into a pale mass of muscle, and Portis struggles to stand before me initially. He resembles a monstrous, gigantic perversion of his original form. He makes me feel much punier all at once, and Portis snarls in a bellowing voice: "No matter the sacrifice, I won't let you stop our research. Think of all the lives. They were given to SAVE humanity!"

Portis, while I have my guard down, sends a hook from his bloodied left mass of a hand that connects with my ribcage and knocks me off my feet as I lose my balance.

I evade another strike as his second fist soars into the ground.

"This is bigger than you! Why can't you understand that I'm saving them?"

I regain my composure and land in a crouch before returning to stand.

That last hit...

It felt pretty good.

I dust myself off and reply, "Not a bad start. Weak, maybe, but not bad."

He roars and leaps back toward the center of the room, then he's up the side of the wall, using it as leverage to launch himself so he can tackle me onto the floor. I charge between his outstretched arms and stand firm while using the power of my stance to stop his assault with a drive to the chest—

The force of his attack overwhelms me. I'm forced down and roll away in time just as he swipes one of his paws in my direction. His claws rip through my shirt, creating four shallow cuts in my midsection.

Time to get serious.

—I tap into the depths of my ability—

It's a power intrinsic to my survival. Dark energy manifests before engulfing me. As my body expands even further, I crouch into a squat before bounding upward and toward my target with enormous force.

I use all that force to drive my knee into Portis' skull.

Portis collapses for a moment but hurriedly uses one hand to hoist himself up and swipes at me with the other. I duck under his claw's embrace and lunge in while rotating; I thrust my elbow into the center of his disfigured midsection.

The impact is enough to push him off balance, and Portis utters a weak groan before desperately slashing at me, rending the air as his eyes seek my throat! I deftly force my heel into his left ankle and crush it in place. The monster screams and sends a closed fist my way, but I deflect it; I follow by jabbing him in the face until he retreats.

My strength is building now.

"Amazing," he says to me, "How were you blessed... with It?" He pants as blood comes down his body in streams.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Portis expression is one of shock. "How can you have the Gift and not know? The Gift... it's the final step for humanity."

I notice that Portis' wounds have already ceased bleeding, almost as if they're regenerating on their own.

Luckily, they won't recover fast enough to stop me.

Portis charges while using his claws as multiple spears which pierce and shred through any chance of escape. I successfully dodge several of his attacks but suffer a gash wound across my chest.

Portis' eyes get wider when he realizes that I don't react to the injury, and I take advantage of this by concentrating my strength into my upper body. I strike him in the head three times—enough for him to fall and come once again to his feet, where he remains dazed.

Portis regains focus and then delivers a hook, which I block and direct into the ground while I launch a heavy kick into his abdomen!

He spits blood and backs toward the edge of the balcony, closer to where he retrieves a shotgun he's hidden behind a black, leather recliner. I drop to the floor as he decimates a large portion of the walls and furniture behind me.

Through the ringing in my ears, I hear the faint sound of...

—Zone police sirens—

I'm running out of time.

Before he can shift his fire, I take a defensive stance and position my palms out in front of me. Another trick—one I'd been taught some time ago.

I use a combination of my own strength and the strength of the aura that flows through me to generate a greater deal of force than ever and flex at the same moment Portis fires! He sprays the area, and bullets connect before they deflect off my toughened skin. One of the redirected bullets ricochets and hits Portis' stomach.

He almost drops his weapon as his firing hand moves to guard the wound.

In an instant, I'm there.

I strike Portis in his throat. I take his shotgun from him and force the barrel below his chin despite his constant efforts to overpower me. His grotesque body shakes against the cumulative might I've gathered.

"T-there's no life for them anymore." He growls.

"Their bodies will always be slaves to the network we built! We reprogrammed everything, including their free will."

Ansi arrives with the mob of survivors.

The man heard Portis and bravely demands: "What do you mean: 'no life?' You've already taken everything!"

Luck for me, my translator's still working.

Portis no longer holds me back. He's accepted his fate.

"Our people have no life expectancy. They can't reproduce; they're the bodies we salvaged in the wreckage that was the result of war. None of them were programmed to survive."

I blast his skull into pieces. Portis' ravaged corpse crashes onto the floor and produces a pool of blood that grows steadily at our feet.

The authorities are on their way, and now I'm in dire need of an escape plan. I can hear frantic commotion behind me and suddenly realize that Ansi—the one who managed to band his group together—is beginning to lose his sanity as he sinks to the ground and begins ranting. The people around him are screaming and pleading with him while completely ignoring what's just happened. While I listen in, I notice Ansi reach behind himself and tear away any remaining cloth as he exposes an open wound.

Ansi has been digging into his back to expose the implant.

He clasps a hand around a disc-shaped object that has been burrowed into his tissue and connected to a network that powers his life support. If he destroys that, then this is all for nothing.

"Hear that, everyone? Our lives aren't REAL anymore—none of it's REAL! None of it's worth anything." he cries furiously while cringing at the damage he's done to himself. "I won't be a 'computer.' I won't. I refuse!"

Another of the group pleads with him, "Ansi—Ansi! You must stop; you'll kill us all, Ansi!"

He gives us all a solemn look.

"We were never supposed to survive in the first place. The gods decided that we don't deserve this! This-this is punishment."

His resolution unshakable, Ansi reaches for the implant and—

I blast him, too, using my pistol for better accuracy and to the collective gasps of the group.

Hastily, I dash toward the balcony and this time concentrate strength primarily into my legs. It'll be a little risky.

I jump from the edge, positioning my body to land near the elongated surface of a subsequent wooden balcony on the third floor. I plunge heavily through a tan tarp and relax just a little as my legs meet the ground, causing the pain of the impact to flood across my body evenly. I'm able to absorb it even though I'm shaken for a moment, and then I continue by climbing down to the second floor. I jump again to the earth below and am met with an alley not yet touched by responding Zone Police.

I imagine I've done some good by stopping Ansi and breaking up a trafficking ring. That's what this was for, after all. There's pride in disposing of the corrupted.

An explosion follows overhead, however. Chunks of debris scatter across the area. The top of the hotel is abruptly surrounded in a raging tempest of fire; the sounds of desperate, shrill screams can be heard echoing into the skies.

Portis' victims... one of them must've chosen a different fate. One of them triggered Ansi's implant!

My intervention meant nothing.

Another banger approaches me as I skulk away from the scene.

"Dude, what the fuck happened to your clothes?" he exclaims while appearing deeply concerned. "What's up, man? W-why is HQ burning—and you're-you're bloody!"

I look to him and reply calmly:

"You might want to look for new employment. This place is a bust." I walk away to try to keep from killing anyone else tonight.

"Ha! 'New employment...'" I hear him cock a handgun behind me. "You better find me 'new employment' quick, moron, because this is all I got right now. Who's gonna pay for my family, huh?—you're responsible for this shit, aren't you? What, you some fuckin' cop or something?"

I turn to look at the man again, except that I realize he's not a man but, more likely, some seventeen-year-old punk talking solely out of fear. Who else would believe that one person eliminated their entire crew? I recognize a familiar disorientation in his eyes as he aims his gun at me with a trembling grip.

"Do it then," I say. "Shit." I shake my head and then make eye contact with him again. "I wouldn't blame you."

When he doesn't respond for some time, I make my exit. There isn't any reason for him to go like the rest.

I progress into an entrance that leads back to a wide street and proceed through an alleyway to yet another open street on which a limousine cruiser appears to be waiting. The driver, who's wearing a brown, corduroy suit, nervously steps out while speaking to someone on his headset. He sounds like he's lost, with no idea of what's coming for him.

When he spots me in the distance, the banger mistakes me for one of his own and rushes over immediately. His eyes are wrought with worry.

"You're hurt!" he says.

I back away from him as he tries to touch me. "You hear that explosion just now—is HQ under attack?"

I think for a moment and then decide to act this one out for my own benefit:

"I need you to follow the directives you're given! Right now, there's no time to explain. We've got to get going."

The guy stares at me with a mix of fear and confusion, and so I order loudly: "NOW!"

-

Janelle

-

The gang member rushed to his limousine, and Tavon ignored the backseat area altogether as he made his way to the passenger side. After getting in next to the driver, he demanded to be taken to a specific avenue not too far from his own apartment in the Citadel. This is the conversation that followed before the driver was subsequently found much later:

"What made you come work for these fools anyways? You another newbie?"

Tavon was beginning to succumb to his own post-battle exhaustion.

"S-sorry, but I don't know the bosses very well–what happened to you, man?"

"Don't worry about it." Tavon brushed him off. "Why would you work for people who do what they do?"

The driver chuckled. "You must not have heard about me. Tch. I'm a little bit of a legend around these parts, buddy!"

"Yeah?"

His laugh conveyed a foul mind. "Let's just say I made something of... uh, a 'pet' out of these mutated lizards from the World Below." The driver's focus broke as he began to laugh even more. "So, there was this chump who snitched on one of our guys. My task for initiation was to just kill him, but I didn't just kill him!" His face reddened as he tried to contain himself.

"..."

He continued to stare at Tavon while nervously cackling. "I got the snake thing to EAT him, dude!

"So, G&P ended up naming me 'Boa!' It's really sat well with me. Do you like it?"

Tavon directed him down a very different path than what he'd planned prior to speaking with Boa, and he remained silent for the rest of the drive.

By the time they'd arrived in another forsaken section of the massive Citadel, Boa realized far too late who it was that he'd taken on as a passenger.
3

First Light

-

Janelle

-

MY NAME IS JANELLE. I was real once, like you.

Year 2320.

Before the end of the world, one of the last things I remember doing was watching the news.

There were multiple broadcasts trying to warn us. Anchors spoke of world militaries closing in around GAIA Headquarters, located deep in the mountains—only a few hour's drive from where I'd lived. I'd always wondered what they were up to; GAIA had been mandated as an off-limits facility to the public, and they'd always been extremely evasive to the public about the nature of their work.

I guess you could say I was happy with life the way it was—I mean, I was stubborn enough to stay behind in my part of town after everyone began escaping in droves. All major cities were experiencing the same mass evacuation while under the impression that the government would protect them. That is, once they'd escaped their respective, often smaller settlements. But, as all humans would eventually come to know...

There wasn't a way out.

The Chairman of GAIA, known as Doctor Hideyoshi Keung, had played a tragic joke on us. People were forced to spectate as some hideous animal took up every possible media outlet in the area; the creature was screeching incomprehensibly and kept glaring at the public, expecting us to understand. I felt like he was staring at me—like he was hungry, for me and my family. When the broadcast stopped, I knew there was something terrible happening, but I couldn't foresee it in time.

Not long after, people began talking about leaving the city; they wanted to find shelter from what they feared would be global conflict. GAIA was the primary reason, and they'd been surrounded by military forces from two different governments: The Isolationists and the Globalists. Despite this, nothing was being done. To me, it felt like unfounded superstition.

Demons.

People claimed that demons were in this world. They claimed that they'd come from somewhere else.

And so, I'd put off travel plans for months despite my husband's insistence otherwise. He bought into the superstition; he said we needed to get away from the city in case it was hit. My husband was paranoid of mad, reactionary governments that might fail in locating a solution to an unsolvable problem. Whatever choices they made would affect all of us.

Every day, we held some measure of fear. Our peaceful future no longer felt granted to us. How much time did we really have before the war broke out?

It was in the evening when I'd gotten back from my interview from one of the only local businesses brave enough to remain open despite the threat. The company I'd applied at owned a high-class cafe which profited enough to pay out a decent salary. I was so focused on this position, on doing my part to support my family, because I'd felt so out of touch after having had our son, and I'd forgotten what it felt like to earn something on my own.

While I was feeling blissful about this new opportunity, my husband—a man constantly on his guard—kept shouting at me to come with him as he took our son and the family dog to flee town. He was too kind to really force me to do anything.

I wanted to drown out his voice because I wasn't going to leave our home, no matter what anyone said. I tried to stop him and convince our family to stick together—I begged, but I couldn't remove an obvious terror inherent in the looks they both gave me. Both my husband and son had seen something I hadn't.

And they wouldn't tell me.

Instead, my husband declared me insane for wanting to stay behind. But where would we go, I thought. If the world had truly fallen apart, then I wanted to enjoy the time we had left; I wanted to try to make life the way it was before dread permeated our society. It felt like our last days together, but I stayed hopeful about the future.

I was foolish.

My husband always said that he didn't trust "media bullshit," and he delivered constant reminders of why he thought our society was fundamentally corrupt. Now, he was prepared beg those in charge for his safety; he was going to place our child's life into the hands of people he once treated like our enemies. Odd how quickly people expose their true natures when confronted with disaster, isn't it?

I tried to hold on to my son, but the man I'd married easily took him away from me. My feelings, my concerns didn't matter to him, and he rushed to get in his truck with my son. After he'd left me there, I retreated onto the back porch alone to watch what I, at first, believed was some sort of show put on by neighbors nearby—maybe a group wanting to "celebrate" the End.

I felt my curiosity begin a rapid transition into a feeling that clawed at my stomach. I could barely breathe as my heart rate began to triple in speed and the realization set in that I was in danger. I was the most scared I'd ever been in my life.

I recall that I couldn't stop shaking; my knees had locked and weakened. I was compelled to get on the ground as the Earth itself quaked around me.

—The power went out in our home.

A large section of the skies looked as if it were the pane of an opaque window having been very subtly cracked. Between the many crevices of this astral mirror, a bright and blinding light radiated before pulsating in a constant rhythm. It preceded a great storm; a storm that submerged and isolated the flow of Time in its immensity.

I was pelted, not with rain, but with fragments of hail of varying sizes—some sharp enough that my skin was almost pierced on contact. Although I noticed that I'd begun to bleed from a cut on my forearm, I couldn't stop watching as the clouds froze in position and then expanded to saturate the skies completely. Once they'd spread for hundreds of miles across the distance, I beared witness to the glass shattering and giving way to brilliant illumination. The First Rift.

I couldn't look away in time, and the vision faded in my left eye; I screamed. Tears streamed down my face.

Suddenly, the earth trembled with such violence that I was thrown off balance and fell onto our porch railing. From there, I slipped and hit the ground before being knocked out from the fall.

-

Once I'd regained consciousness, I instantly suffered a rather severe headache. I'd thought it all a bad dream for a fleeting moment—and then I was tormented by the following vision, made to see what my world had become:

Smaller panes like the one before had appeared in numerous quantities throughout the universe and filled my sight with the image of looming panes hovering in the atmosphere and shattering to uncover a force I didn't understand. A force echoing forlornly into our world.

I looked toward where the GAIA facility had once stood. In its place, I saw only an immense, dark form in likeness to a great twister. I heard a diverse array of sounds, from vehicle alarms to bloodcurdling screams that came from the center of my home city. I shuddered to think what could have produced those desperate cries, and I quickly gathered my belongings before hurrying to find the only place in which I could take real comfort: The chapel.

It was in the Eastern District, and I'd believed that it would be the safest place to hide as I endured this nightmare. My family and I'd made a habit of going to the chapel every Sunday; it was the only place that ever gave me a sense of lasting peace. Regardless of what was going on in my life, and more so when my son was diagnosed with a terminal illness, I'd take off work early to go and pray. I prayed that he would find happiness in this world no matter what.

He didn't get enough time...

I wanted, more than anything, to be with my family. I was scared... scared for all of us.

I knew we had another car in the garage, one that my husband had kept maintained only for special occasions. I hurried to its location to find that the vehicle had been forced against the wall due to the strength of more than one earthquake, and its right side had been crushed inward. I eased myself into the driver's seat and tried to start it anyways, realizing that I'd very few options now. Miraculously, I twisted my keys in the ignition to the ambience of a working engine. I drove onto the streets of the town—

But when I saw It, I broke out into a frigid sweat that chilled my skin. It's a sensation I can't forget, even now.

I saw the image of an enlarged, malformed, and bat-like head.

Below its snout was set a broad jaw lined with massive, yellowed teeth and atop which beamed two immense, pitch black eyes that shone with feral rage. Its head was attached to a tall and emaciated grey body close to humanoid in appearance. This creature used one of its long pairs of bony fingers to pierce the leg of a man who'd failed to get away!

His scream was sickeningly shrill as the beast hefted him in the air and fed the man's upper torso into its mouth. The abomination bit down on the flailing body, then it tore through its prey's spine ravenously. The lower trunk of the corpse fell to the ground as it spouted torrents of blood.

I pressed harder on the gas pedal to cruise over a sidewalk preceding a road. I then witnessed as a faceless giant brought a colossal portion of its body onto the hood of a car speeding in front of me. I watched as tentacled appendages coated in a black fur emerged from its body, and they broke through the driver's window, tightened two victims within their grasp, and slung the passengers into the walls of concrete buildings next to me!

Panicked yelling was among the last sounds they uttered. Their cries were cut short by the sounds of bones crunching and all but bursting open as each figure became a scarlet stain upon blocks of concrete.

I proceeded to speed around the thing's body, a being that had sprung from a widened manhole that led to the sewer passages below us. I narrowly escaped just as I'd accidentally drawn its attention and accelerated just as one of the thing's appendages reached out for me.

Even after I'd gotten away and driven up the street ahead, I was stunned once more hen forced to avoid a series of what looked like overgrown rodents... They were, in fact, horned rats feasting on dozens of corpses strewn across a road marred by potholes and broken concrete. Fallen street lamps, park forest oaks, and debris had taken their toll on the victims following the storm, and the resulting demons took advantage of the weak; they devoured and demolished everything daring to stand in their paths.

One man crawled on the ground and cried out as a rodent closed in around his neck with its teeth; his pleading became quickly muffled, and I was helpless to do anything about it. I had to get out of there.

There was a sharp, piercing squeal produced from one of my vehicle's tires crushing a smaller rat creature. This caused all remaining rubber on the wheel to begin tearing away from the steel it surrounded. My vehicle slowed and shook with the loss of a tire, and I was prevented from going forward when the street ahead exploded skyward—!

A colossal, slug-like figure emerged. It bore the grotesque, contorted face of a humanoid male; I noticed pale white pupils and small antennae jutting from its skull. I froze and watched as the monster opened its jaws to devour both a woman falling from her motorcycle as well as the entirety of small car—both of which slid down its throat as the slug moved onward. It demonstrated incredible agility while it left a trail of blood and slime in its wake.

I responded by grabbing a bat I'd always kept in the car, and I got out after distancing myself from the rats in order to find safety wherever I could. With the town in this shape, the chapel might've already been destroyed. I fled down a narrow street and found myself surrounded by both burning homes and the sounds of others calling out in the distance. In the background, there resounded the echoes of explosions coupled with gunfire. Military forces responded to the present threat; still, they experienced little success. Their bullets couldn't touch them, couldn't hurt them.

Ahead of me loomed hundreds of corpses, and I saw a face that belonged to someone with half his skin removed, and this exposed a skull that'd been caved in before its contents within were ravaged and consumed by another rodent. I sprinted past severed arms still spasming on the concrete and carcasses torn of every limb.

A woman with a broken ankle had begun shooting at small, two-headed animals with scales for hides. The herd of them contained tails that were equipped with stingers which repeatedly stabbed into her calves until she succumbed to a paralysis. Afterwards, a wave of them covered her form and voraciously devoured their prey.

I ran, hoping that I would find another vehicle that hadn't been destroyed—hoping that there was still some semblance of order left in the world. News stations, which were broadcasted every day and simultaneously on both radio as well as monitors littered throughout the area, had gone completely silent. It appeared that all outside contact had been cut off from the local population.

Finally, I located the chapel, now crushed and desecrated, and stopped in place when witnessing a black cloud spreading from the ruins.

In the eye of the gathering storm, I saw a tall, faceless woman garbed in all black and sporting dark hair that resembled tendrils which writhed and shuddered in the air. Exposed was a pale, featureless plane overlaying a broad skull; she uttered a gut-wrenching scream when she spotted me approaching. I dropped my bat and had to force myself to function as the cloud surrounding the woman crept toward me.

She promised an inviting cold. She promised an endless night.

I turned and sprinted deeper into a valley on the very outskirts of the town—toward the hills, where I might be able to obtain a view of a place not besieged by these spawns borne from another world. I'd never imagined something like this could invade our reality, that creatures only foretold and described in legends were suddenly real. The truth: humanity's own nature had turned upon itself; our reckoning was near.

The woman's shriek followed me along the path, and so I pressed my palms against my eardrums and moved with the most speed I could gather up. I couldn't breathe; I was exhausted, actually, but I needed to live. I needed to find my family and make sure they were safe.

As I traveled up a steep road, I noticed more bodies strewn over damaged vehicles. There were shards of glass scattered upon the blood and sweat-drenched streets before me. Some had leaped to their deaths to avoid an unpleasant end and still others had gone out fighting. I was fortunate enough to discover a combat shotgun left by a police officer. His body revealed a stump once connected to a decapitated head. Behind me, the dark storm had grown and lurked ever closer. It ebbed and flowed around construction uprooted from the earth and along with the cadavers of both humans and animals being tossed around limply.

They were defenseless. Seeing them suffer didn't feel real, but it was. Their bodies so tense. Expressions distressed to the extent that they were all that was visible amongst features dwarfed by their own fear. To see them so freely thrown through the air...

—I-I couldn't bear it.

It's difficult even now.

My heart pounded rapidly, and my hands struggled to hold onto my newfound weapon as the trigger well had been made damp by my own nervous sweat. Without paying attention, a car suddenly swerved around me only to plunge into a crowd of refugees who'd also been fleeing in the same direction! After crashing through the large gathering, the driver spun out of control, and he was hurtled, screaming lethally into the side of a residential house.

I pressed onward despite the sorrow in my heart and thought only of Them; I was doing this for Them.

I followed a larger man in front of me who'd slowed from exhaustion after having sprinted for a lengthy period of time. He abruptly started cursing and pulled out a revolver that he hurried to aim at a massive shadow hanging eerily in the air. It expanded into a fearsome raven that swiftly grasped the man's head in its immense, razor-edged claws and twisted to break his neck. His lifeless body was carried off into the skies above without further sound or resistance.

After pressing forward, I discovered another abandoned car with an elderly man as its driver. It seemed he'd gone into cardiac arrest probably thinking he was going insane, and I clasped my hands underneath his arms and moved his body onto the road before shifting the car's automatic transmission and accelerating up into the hills.

Eventually, the screaming behind me became fainter; however, gunfire grew ever more frequent outside of town. I was slowly but surely venturing into open plains which ended in an area overlooking an ocean. I grew even more fearful despite no longer bearing witness to the endless death toll and creatures roaming within my old city. Following a brief reprieve while on the road, I observed similar abnormal events occurring across the rest of the world. The number of black storms had tripled next to lightning that arced down to spread fire across the land. I felt terror within when viewing towering silhouettes dotting the landscape: giants of incredible stature heralding from another reality far from this one.

Dr. Keung destroyed the world.

And I was due to come across the most curious sight yet.

Within the hills, there sprawled a tundra upon which a struggle currently raged, and I witnessed soldiers wearing the uniforms of the Globalist Army as they assaulted a legion twice their size in numbers. Upon further inspection, I noticed the enemy legion dressed in gleaming armor that I'd never seen before—armor worn by a species bulkier and significantly taller than a normal human. It seemed to be another animal or, quite possibly, a horde of demons marching across the horizon. A horde threatening to establish dominion. They wanted to slaughter us.

Some of them carried conventional firearms whereas others wielded weapons from a time when melee was the traditional style of combat. They began sustaining both bullets and surviving the impact of mortar blasts from the Globalist battalion...

They then commenced their own advance.

Their progression was slow; in spite of this, they were covering ground in what seemed to be a death march that would end in the annihilation of the human race. I watched as several demons finally succumbed to brutal wounds, but their persistence as a force was earning them increasingly more territory. This allowed them to begin what soon became a full melee assault upon the mobilized unit, and Globalist soldiers were suddenly confronted with an overwhelmingly powerful new threat. Something that none of them could handle in close combat. They were mauled, ravaged, and eaten.

The horde subjugated the battalion as it continued a destructive path through their ranks and began ripping ferociously through anything remotely hostile. I'd thought it was a form of warfare—creatures sent by the Isolationists, who'd always vehemently opposed the Globalists, but no faction possessed the capabilities to bring such monstrosities into this universe.

A stray bullet smashed through the front window shield and buried itself into the middle of the backseat!

I was stunned momentarily but ultimately shocked back into reality, and I drove away from the desolate scene. Now I knew why no one could come to help us... GAIA had condemned all humans.

Once outside of the area, I attempted to tune into local radio stations to check if there was anyone genuinely safe. I browsed for an active channel, but there remained only a static silence that penetrated any sense of composure I had left. I continued driving for a short time and avoided the regions that had been the most tainted by the First Rift.

And then, I remember seeing it in the distance:

A truck. Our truck.

I slammed on the brakes and stopped behind my husband before rushing to get out of the car. I had to control my breathing in order to brace myself, but I also felt like I had to see them for myself—they had to be safe. He wouldn't let anything happen to my son; besides, he'd made it so far! I still believed in him. Although we'd had our differences, I'd always loved my husband—and thinking about our history together quickly gave me the confidence I needed to go to him. Maybe I couldn't forgive him for everything, but, with only a little time left in this world, I'd wake that idiot up and let him know I was coming along for the ride after all.

With bold and renewed energy, I hurried to the driver's side and peered through the slightly fogged window to see...
4

Body And Soul

-

Tavon

-

I SEE A FIERY PIT...

Whispering and screeching that comes from a vortex which generates a series of powerful gusts. I look toward the skies for an escape and instead see the symbol of a blood-stained eye etched into the heavens. My fear overcomes me, but I urge myself to move forward—forward into a wall of dark winds that threaten to sweep me into them. They become a shroud over me, and all I can feel is a frigid sensation quickly washing over my nerves.

I drown in the void.

I'm shivering violently as I proceed onto a rugged path that winds its way to the edge of a tall cliff. My body becomes heavy; still, I press on through the oppressive climate before coming to a halt.

There's a figure garbed in an old cloak that's withered against the constant, cold breeze. I try to call out to him, but I can't find the words to speak. I try to move, but my legs collapse; my strength fails me, and I ache. It's as if the weight of a hundred boulders has fallen upon my back, and I barely possess the willpower to look up again.

But, when I do, the stranger is suddenly closer.

He's an elderly man—perhaps older than Time in its entirety. All that's apparent is that tears run in a steady, unending stream down from his eyes, and he gazes at me as though his inner demeanor is far removed from his outward expression. I notice short, greying hair along with folds and wrinkles in his skin, probably produced from the effects of decades filled with overwhelming anxiety.

"You can't save her," he says. "You can't save anyone; your heart's far too empty." The old man's voice strengthens into a bellow. He looks at me accusingly, as if he were God deciding my fate. "You've become hollow. You've already forsaken love!" the elder sneers before he chuckles bitterly through his tears. His expression changes into a fixed, abnormal grin. His teeth have all but worn away.

The old man's voice returns to its normal pitch: "You will meet Judgment soon, and you will be punished. You are bound to your iniquities, and you will be made to answer for them."

His image fades away, and, right after his disappearance, I'm confronted with...

Myself.

Millions of silhouettes that look like me arrive, and they charge in my direction! A rage builds inside, but the fiercer the rage the less I'm able to stand.

The horde washes over me in a fury, and I—!

-

"Tavon!"

A voice shocks me awake. My eyes peer around drearily before I hear it once more:

"Tavon! Shut the fuck up, dude!"

It's Brock. Again.

-

Janelle

-

Tavon awoke in the condo assigned to him, drenched in sweat and unable to move.

His best friend, Brock, entered the room in tight long johns that showed a faded stain from last night's dinner. He appeared quite irritated.

"Fuck." he sighed, almost apologetically, and then he forcefully spoke up:

"I told you to quit that shit! I TOLD you that killing just isn't your game, T. You've got too much compassion in you...

"So now I gotta deal with you waking me the fuck up every night. You rant, bro; you ask questions out loud that I can hear a room over!"

Brock scowled and folded his arms. "I don't know the answers, bro—s-so stop asking me! Go back to sleep or stay up or whatever..." He waved him away. "Just stop being so fucking loud." Brock slammed the door and was heard stomping grumpily back to his own room.

Brock was generally a good person, but he also happened to be very temperamental.

The feeling having returned to his body at last, Tavon stood and felt disgusted that he'd have to wash his sheets yet again due to how much he'd sweated from another one of his nightmares. Tavon then decided that he would take a long shower and gather his thoughts, though it was only four-thirty in the morning and several hours before he'd scheduled anything important.

The old man, the vortex, and—most of all—the cold... they were reoccurring images in every dream he'd had for the past month. Tavon hated the cold; when he felt reminded of it, he increased the shower's heat and reflected on what everything had meant up to this point. Typically, he couldn't sleep, more or so out of habit, for he'd been raised in the Lower-City and had spent his youth avoiding the possibility of being robbed or murdered; his life still abounded with chaos.

He thought he'd adjusted to his new line of work; however, 'their' faces persisted in his memory, and the only reason Tavon could sleep now was that he knew a vision was stalking him, and he wanted to understand it.

Tavon inspected his arm, noticing some of Boa's blood. Boa, who'd turned out to be Genod's personal driver.

He ruminated and stood for a moment as the water rushed over him. To Tavon, it was a cathartic sensation, as if his transgressions were suddenly forgiven while he washed away his impurities. There'd been countless dead left at the scene and more within Tavon's history ever since he'd moved up in the criminal underworld; he'd become a killer enlisted by a private company referred to as the Angelos Association.

Tavon also noticed next to no soreness in his body from his prior skirmish with Portis despite having received multiple heavy blows. He hadn't given himself time to train since having been entirely focusing on increasing his overall kill count, and so his quick recovery took him by surprise: each claw mark began healing into scars that would eventually fade from searing pain to mild discomfort. Tavon stepped out of the shower, yawned, and stretched, and then he limped over to a large mirror, taking time to peer at his relatively emotionless reflection.

He'd kept his facial hair trimmed and tight to his face; it looked more like a darker outline than a field of stubble. His barber had done very right by him and had given Tavon the best high fade he'd sported in months. It was a cut that complemented dense, dark curls. His eyes exuded a grey hue known for the ability to instill feelings of both fear and trust into those he'd just met, and they often changed into a darker shade whenever he indulged in his anger. Tavon stood at five feet and seven inches and possessed a slender but athletic frame; on the right side of his rib cage, there was tattooed the silhouette of a Bengal tiger. This image was the only affiliation Tavon still shared with the now nonexistent Meiziki Clan, an influential syndicate that was once considered capable of dominating the Lower-City's if they'd so desired.

He glanced to his right and noticed a half-empty bottle of cognac on the corner of the counter surrounding the sink.

Brock went through phases wherein he couldn't seem to stop drinking and left bottles of alcohol everywhere; afterwards, he'd be clean for a few months before going down the same road once more.

"Why is this grown man still leaving a mess everywhere he goes?"

Though plenty would've happily given him the title, Tavon was not a monster; rather, he possessed an unnatural potential that drove him into dangerous situations. At this point in his life, he'd met few like himself, and so Tavon believed he wasn't normal despite looking as much like a normal human would.

He took a moment to care for his teeth and then proceeded to his wardrobe to choose from a small selection of outfits having survived his growing number of completed contracts.

Tavon groaned, "I'll need more clothes soon; Portis tore through the last jacket I had and my last decent shirt—wait..." He noticed a black thermal that was hung with a pair of grey joggers. He checked the weather forecast for the Citadel on the massive monitor in his room and noted that it'd be sixty-two degrees and sunny later on.

"This'll do for today."

Tavon got dressed, slipping on a pair of durable running shoes, and he checked his appearance again to ensure that he'd be capable of blending in with everyone else in the Mid-City. Fashion often varied heavily between Zones, not to mention the three main sections of the city. Tavon used to care more about being recognized or even suspected and once took care with what clothes he chose; lately, his attitude had changed, and being noticed no longer mattered to him.

In general, most of his recent targets had been some of the easiest he'd encountered in his life. Tavon had expected Boa to be a figure of importance considering his previous victim was merely a vehicle mechanic. His employer, Angelos, existed as a profitable entity whose use had long ago been sanctioned by the Dawn Federation. Despite the occasional weakling, Angelos was reputable for providing high profile opponents; they offered opportunities for assassins to grow if they didn't perish on the job.

Tavon headed into the kitchen, where he began prepping a breakfast big enough for both himself and Brock. On the news, he viewed various authorities, including dozens of Zone police, huddled around charred corpses at an abandoned hotel.

The hotel had been discovered by the police in Zone B of the Mid-City not long after they'd received several calls from those who'd witnessed the chaos. The trafficked youth, who'd been separated from the other deceased victims, were found and taken into custody.

Maybe the Federation can do more for them than it did for me.

He heard Brock slam his foot on the ground to let him know he was being too loud, but Tavon only turned the volume up and even began humming as he lit a pipe packed with hashish. Brock wasn't a part of Angelos, but the organization had provided the assassin with living quarters spacious enough to house two. Over a year ago, Tavon had sneaked his longtime friend in and continued providing him with a place to stay since then.

Brock stumbled out of his room and bellowed: "What did I tell you about smokin' in the house, T? What did I say, huh? Huh, fool?"

"Sheesh." Tavon brushed him off. "If it's my turn to cook breakfast, then I'll get it done how I want. We're not married, Brock."

Brock shook his head. "The sun hasn't even come up and you already want to try me today..." he exhaled in disappointment. "How can you even smoke that garbage? It's got to affect your health or something, right?"

"Eh, I'm not worried," Tavon said nonchalantly. "It's kept me sane through all the nagging. At least I don't leave bottles all over the pl—"

"Fuck you."

Brock sneered. "Wake me up in an hour." He turned back toward his room. "I can't see how Aaliyah puts up with your ass."

"She's not my keeper!" Tavon shouted, "I don't claim her, do I?"

"Psh! You don't mess with nobody else, so lock that shit down. You know she'll beat the hell out of you if there's anyone else..."

Brock shut the door behind him.

Tavon shook his head and thought: He's trifling for such a big dude. Never stops running his mouth. Always Complaining.

He finished seasoning a breakfast of egg whites, sausage, bacon, potatoes, and spinach that he blended in a wide skillet. Tavon watched the news while he scarfed down nearly everything he'd cooked.

On Channel A, there was a news anchor who belonged to an entirely different, humanoid species that had arrived from another world some time ago. They were labeled by human citizens as the Hayashi. Hayashi were mostly accepted in the Citadel, as they resembled humans enough to often be mistaken for them; though, in truth, they were often taller, grey complected, and the majority were as bald as Brock.

The local anchor, Samiyushi Mos, stated that human trafficking had become a growing problem across the country. People were demanding that all Zone police assemble an effort, in collaboration with the Dawn Bureau, to completely eradicate what was termed "modern slavery." The anchor cut to a clip of local press posing questions pertaining to the rights of "non-humans," and a Dawn Bureau representative, Lieutenant Shraeu, spoke for the entire Bureau. He declared that the Bureau would support the legitimacy of other species as long as no sentient species tried to break the law. It was a controversial stance; some of the city's human population still believed in the Hayashi Genocide that dated many years in the Federation's past.

Tavon wasn't one of them.

"Good move."

Another story covered Dar-Tech, the first company to pioneer wholly synthetic agriculture in the Citadel. At this time in history, major corporations in this city-nation, as well as its occupied countries, had made it possible for humanity to derive its own crops, possible to filter a substance commonly used as a replacement for water, and possible to generate key resources for themselves using technology that had been perfected after decades of research.

Dar-Tech's board committee announced their intent to, "Lead the Federation in diet and nutrition." They planned to 'manufacture a greater state of health in the country.'

A commercial followed the initial report, one advertising automated "butlers" that ran purely via solar energy, this "solar energy" being a man-made source that the Citadel designed in order to replicate the effects of solar power while lessening the risks inherent in ultraviolet radiation.

The commercial then cut to an advertisement speaking in support of the legal right for a human to marry a similar sentient species. Tavon changed the channel to a live broadcast that displayed detained war refugees from the Citadel's ongoing conflict with its occupied country, Gaspul. It was reiterated through an unseen speaker that Gaspul was a massive, rural, and ultimately divided country that Enrec, the Federation's military, had invaded long ago.

Boring.

Tavon flipped to a sitcom that depicted a human, an alienoid, and someone in a fake beast suit all living together in a long-running reality television series.

Citadel TV is a joke.

Growing annoyed with his choices, Tavon used his remote to switch over to the Angelos Network Interface, where he was directed to access a series of panels inquiring into his personal identity. The A.N.I. checked his location and quickly recognized that he was dwelling in one of the main branches of the Angelos organization, which itself sprawled across several developed countries.

The program redirected him to log onto what was known as the "Core-Man Board."

A.N.I. requested he submit his Angelos Identification Card, a small chip that he inserted into the console before pulling up his Personnel Record:

• Unit: Tavon

• Rank: Core-Man

• Promotion Status: Not Eligible

• Confirmed Kills: 7

• Kills Pending for Confirmation: 2

• Core-Man Ranking: 93

• Outstanding Warrants/Legal Complications: None.

• Remarks: Associate has no public identity or known criminal record.

The "Core-Man Ranking" compared associates to the rest of those within the ranking system. Based on discrete kills within a limited time frame, it constantly updated itself to reflect the new rankings of various operators within the organization. The next rank to be obtained above Core-Man was the highly lucrative "Death Officer 1," a position offering notoriety as well as a more significant source of income outside of the basic resources offered by Angelos.

The Angelos Association began as a military group that transitioned from a rustic contracting agency, originally used by small governments in times of war, to a professional hit association.

Over time, they became an invaluable tool for despots and democratic councils alike. After drafting the P.A. (Private Authority) 120.1-5: Contract of the Deed, the Citadel government allowed Angelos to: "... have their own discretion in dealing with those wrought with incorrigible malice and bearing intent to harm the public."

Often, low level police investigations into particular Angelos assassins were known to be halted if a reputable associate invoked the Contract of the Deed. However, were a member of the Association to become too reckless, they'd be surrendered to the authorities as punishment for marring the image of Angelos. In utilizing this approach, the Association claimed no responsibility for its assassins, who were encouraged to compete for their own success against all odds.

Tavon had spent at least a year garnering attention from Angelos while working for another syndicate, and he'd only been initiated at his current rank through demonstrating remarkable talent. He knew of four established ranks within Angelos—

Foot Soldiers: members who carried out the most mundane, odd jobs in order to help with the support needs of the organization.

Students: aspiring assassins who were assigned to lower-ranking Death Officers for instruction and who were then forced, through hard, extensive training, to prove their loyalty to the association.

Core-Men: assassins who carried out lesser contracts to fulfill a quota-based system.

And, of course, Death Officers: the strongest members of Angelos who abided by a ranking system ranging from "D.O. 1" to "D.O. 5."

As a Core-Man, Tavon was assigned a living area owned by Angelos and, instead of much in terms of money, was mostly compensated in food, amenities, and hashish. For many Core-Men, it was a career worth pursuing as long as they kept up a required quota of one kill per six months with no extensive legal intervention, and, to preserve the Association's image, no one positively identifying them as an assassin for each contract.

All contracts assigned to Core-Men were generally within a certain radius of each particular branch, but all contracts assigned to Death Officers typically required travel to foreign lands in order to find the chosen target. Death Officers were rumored to live in well-kept, isolated areas constructed around the world, had no quotas required of them, and they also received a regular hefty stipend—a sum about which Tavon was very curious to discover. He'd already asked to schedule a meeting with his branch's Grandmaster but was told that he would need a total of ten, "confirmed" kills in order to prove himself worthy enough for a short interview between the two of them. Tavon needed to show them that he was capable of more; if he ranked up, he imagined that he'd be able to leave the city and evolve into a stronger fighter through greater challenges.

And so, Tavon switched over to a program set up by Angelos that displayed a list of approved contracts. Every contract was a directive approved by an "Angel": an unknown messenger who collected necessary information before making a final decision on whether an individual needed to be eliminated. The order was then processed by the agency through its own esoteric methods.

Tavon's eyes lit up when he discovered a golden opportunity in one of the postings; his heart raced at the thought of this being his tenth, definitive mark, and he set about earnestly writing down the details of his next target. He then began mentally prepping himself and considered retrieving something better to wear from his quarters before rejecting the idea altogether.

He accepted the new contract.

Tavon took the small revolver from his room and concealed it by tucking it into his waist. One he'd finished getting ready, he banged on Brock's door and chuckled as he rushed out into the world at five-forty in the morning.
5

What Happened To The Sunshine

-

Janelle

-

DR. HIDEYOSHI KEUNG DESTROYED EVERYTHING...

Year 2320.

Documents dating before this time period are scarce. History was mostly erased, and ancient cultures were removed from human memory. During this time, Earth was divided into two major political factions after a long reign of collective peace, a result of the remaining nations of the world forming their own respective coalitions.

It began with those who declared themselves to be "Globalists": civil leaders who desired a unified government and a world with only one powerful presence established across all borders. Several governing bodies had become a collective whole after years of territorial disputes that followed the collapse of long-forgotten empires from the past. After decades of seemingly endless conflict, the forces which emerged from the fog of war declared sovereignty. In time, they professed their shared belief that humanity could prosper with one ruling body and sought equal justice that could be enforced to its fullest extent.

The Isolationists were their opposition, made up of a smaller group of nations that consisted of a sizable percentage of the world's population who adamantly disagreed with this path. They felt the Globalist were too conquest-oriented and pursued values they believed to be imperialistic.

The Isolationists feared that this type of unification could lead to a potential totalitarian regime and thus insisted that they remain independent for their own benefit, that their sovereignty was their right. They retained their national identities while forming an alliance that stood as the only real obstacle to the Globalist movement. While clear animosity grew between them, there existed a few remaining neutral countries that had little to no interest in supporting either side as well as lacked any type of capable army.

As both rivals equipped themselves with devastatingly powerful weaponry at the peak of their developments, the Globalists and Isolationists found themselves moving toward potential capable of all but destroying the Earth, and it became obvious to them that a direct war would assist neither side in their individual goals. To avoid disaster, they transitioned to a technological race which they believed could help them establish enough control; each side desired to hack and take command of the rival coalition's essential facilities in order to gain supremacy.

While the Globalists and Isolationists remained locked in a cyber cold war with the very real threat of a nuclear apocalypse looming, scientific and medical communities demanded the right to perform joint research despite the international conflict. To them, it was all in the interest of a better world. This resulted in a temporary partnership between both factions, and thus they would oversee the construction of new operation centers across the globe dedicated to humanity's progress.

They pioneered something which would eventually lead to the fall of humanity; the world would come to know greater suffering than ever before because of this partnership...

And GAIA was responsible.

Dr. Keung was responsible.

-

GAIA was developed to be the first official operation center. Scientists and medical professionals chosen for the project were people committed to the idea of innovating new modes of human transportation as well as preventing future viral epidemics. They believed that this was their chance to prove the power of shared knowledge and cooperation over selfish conflict. Although airborne personal vehicles had been invented and implemented, a man known as Doctor Hideyoshi Keung sought to push the boundaries of mankind's abilities by attempting to make teleportation a reality.

Despite spending more time in his career as a successful physician, at a later age, Keung turned to the world of Physics to become the Chairman of an organization primed to bring the world to ruin. His ambitions were shared by the Globalists, who believed perfecting teleportation would allow them the opportunity to perform a rapid ambush on Isolationists worldwide. The Globalists decided to hire a private security company to remain on standby and raid the laboratory of GAIA should a new, "mission-essential breakthrough" ever be discovered.

After receiving generous funding from both factions, the Chairman was ordered by them to appoint a Board of Directors: a legislative body with the power to override him if proved necessary. It was their way of keeping Hideyoshi in check were he to pursue something outside the governments' interests.

During the conflict, there was a reoccurring moment known as "Crisis Hour": cyclical periods of time when the public of both sides became anxious and hysterical enough to voice their fears concerning what could be a rapidly approaching war. Any further acts of aggression meant a final confrontation that could end everything. In Isolationist nations, a common anthem used to signal Crisis Hour was Ronnie Foster's "What Happened To The Sunshine." Following a Crisis Hour, GAIA would be ordered to cease all research; all employees were forced to observe what had become a universal period of dread.

Research was often ceased for months, derailing a significant amount of GAIA's original planning. This infuriated Hideyoshi, who, several years after its founding, refused an order to once again commence an indeterminate halt on all ongoing research until the unrest had begun to fade, as it always did. The Chairman violated their agreement and began private research involving furniture he'd taken from his home. Doctor Keung had developed a method to remove portions of matter from one space but was never able to transfer particles where he wanted; usually, he'd only be able to affect half of the original object. Furthermore, whatever he would try to move using GAIA's prototype of his "Particle Transfiguration System" would always mysteriously disappear.

Hideyoshi's obsession persisted past legal or reasonable limits, and what he eventually discovered was something abominable.

Doctor Keung experienced a paranoia that had him convinced that mass destruction was imminent if he didn't cooperate with the Globalists' efforts. It was their final attempt to unify Earth; selling out the secrets of teleportation to the right side meant that the future could be secured for every living being. Genuine peace seemed on the horizon at last. Humans could put an end to war once and for all.

Nevertheless, it had also become evident to the Board that Hideyoshi was no longer capable of fulfilling his responsibilities impartially. The Board was a group composed of brilliant minds including Hideyoshi's lover, Camila, a woman already married to someone she often couldn't see due to the Chairman's irregularly long working hours and her spouse's own busy schedule. Regardless of her relationship with Hideyoshi, the Board of Directors unanimously agreed to petition both factions for the removal of Doctor Keung as Chairman. They sought full authority for the Board, and nearly everyone involved had become suspicious of Hideyoshi's political leanings; after all, he'd been known to rant vehemently against the Isolationists, discouraging a large majority of those who originally supported him.

But to Hideyoshi, his research had to be completed in spite of the consequences. Were the Isolationists to discover he'd conspired with the other side, it could ignite tension damaging enough for the world to fall into disarray.

-

Out of desperation, the doctor decided to use the Particle Transfiguration System on himself in what could be seen as a suicidal attempt at bolstering his own fame.

He had convinced himself that it was possible to transfer particles—that particles could be altered and, in effect, teleported into other realities, other planes of existence. And thus, Hideyoshi attempted a venture to another world.

The doctor did arrive somewhere, but it's not an easy place to understand.

Doctor Keung performed a full transfiguration; however, a phantom not from our world had been seeking him out for some time. Rather than allow Hideyoshi to perish in an abyss of madness, It grasped the doctor and placed him in a dark, unlit room which hovered in a vast and unknown expanse outside of reality.

It is here that he met with an entity never intended to make contact with our own plane of existence—much less humans themselves. This being exuded a terrible intent and possessed a form Hideyoshi nor any human in that time could possibly comprehend. Doctor Keung realized that he was unable to gaze upon It without experiencing what he felt was the loss of his sanity, but the Chairman knew that he'd stumbled into the realm of a demon, something capable of doing whatever It pleased.

There are many of these entities, all varied and manifesting in different forms and species. Thus, humans categorized them under a simplified term, as many of our first interactions with these sentient creatures were often disastrous.

The demon possessed vast knowledge as well as memory transcendent. He recognized Hideyoshi and became increasingly interested in his situation. Because Keung had transfigured himself, a conscious human entity, the barrier between two realities subtly weakened and just enough for this demon to foresee an opportunity that would shatter the divide between our worlds.

The first step to the catastrophe that followed consisted of what the demon proclaimed to be "Covenant" between Hideyoshi and the entity.

The Chairman, his spirit broken by what he felt was a betrayal by Camila, was promised the power and knowledge normally granted to a demon in exchange for transfiguring himself once more. The demon was able to open a passage back to our plane of existence, but it was one It was incapable of passing through Itself until the Covenant was honored.

Hideyoshi had expected this new Gift to make him into something magnanimous, a more powerful, charismatic being. However, the newly-formed deal saw him undergo a transformation which horrified any who happened to look upon him...

The Chairman was wedged between two realities, and the resulting image was the broken perversion of a human body that wailed eerily rather than spoke. Although he'd been tragically morphed and could no longer form any words, Hideyoshi retained his cognition and was competent enough to begin preparations for the second transfiguration.

It was at this time that Camila had also arrived to apologize for siding against Keung and had considered offering him a position on the Board of Directors after his resignation was finalized. For support, she'd brought two other members of the staff along with her, but they immediately attempted to flee in terror upon viewing the creature he'd become. His new ability allowed him to create an invisible barrier capable of trapping inhabitants within its influence. Therefore, when Camila called for backup, she created an even larger trap for the members of GAIA. Inevitably, there was a public response to cries for help.

Hideyoshi not only entrapped everyone within his sphere, but he possessed the capacity to manipulate the thoughts of others and began psychologically assaulting his associates. In an act of sadistic revenge, Hideyoshi created false memories of experienced traumas, traumas disturbing enough to drive the majority of them into an impenetrable insanity beyond the defenses of their psyches. The ones who actually attempted to confront him directly fell victim to even more distressing visions that were never intended for the human mind.

Because Doctor Keung lost himself in his reign of terror, he prolonged his completion of the Covenant, and his psyche was thus rendered unstable by the workings of the demon, a short-tempered Being who'd grown impatient. Within hours of the hostage situation, Hideyoshi's rational mind degenerated and was reduced to something child-like and incoherent. His lack of self-control caused several of his victims to succumb to their despair.

Many of them ended their own lives while not in possession of their own mental faculties. For the authorities, it was an impossible challenge: stopping a monster who dominated minds.

-

Camila remained as one of the few who could still offer what she thought would be a final stand against Hideyoshi's tyranny. She planned to use the Transfiguration System to divide Keung's body instead of teleporting it as a whole.

Camila's scheme would focus on removing his head, and she used Hideyoshi's remaining memories of her as his lover to lure him into the testing chamber, where he could be destroyed for the common good. The Chairman, although mostly mentally devastated, caught on to the ploy and responded by simply ordering Camila not to breathe; however, while she suffocated and struggled for life, one of her siblings arrived in time to accomplish the original plan.

Hideyoshi was not only transfigured, but the absence created from dividing his form allowed an initial rift to open between dimensions.

And it wasn't long before the First Rift gave way to several more, each delivered on a much larger scale. They became passages to be used by the denizens of other worlds, and many of the tears in the fabric of reality forcibly brought other non-human civilizations into Earth. If there's power in belief, it would explain creatures formed with the sole intention of destruction and appearing to possess no other thoughts or feelings outside of their hatred of humanity.

Beings normally only imagined in myths came to occupy our world permanently.

Surviving accounts exist of civilization attacked as consecutive rifts quickly spread to become more than a worldwide catastrophe; it was the transmutation of the universe itself into a vivid hell. Foreign entities were seen as something dreamlike; it was a surreal experience to be faced with a creature often far deadlier than any human. As a result, widespread panic led to complete chaos within both rival nations and prevented them from continuing any further contact.

Lives were lost at an almost incalculable rate, most of the victims having been defenseless civilians.

There were some organized resistances and little to no success against the new enemy; nothing could overcome widespread paranoia about what people believed would be the true apocalypse.

Not every creature that entered the world after the rifts began to dissipate was necessarily hostile or thoughtless, but the sheer amount of distortion produced within reality itself was enough to divide world powers into individual territories trying to survive the onslaught. Several of the invaders were no more than savage killers—cannibals, even, proving old tales about monsters and demons true.

No one was safe.

-

The Globalists, before the First Rift, had been divided into four Ministers, each of whom was given dominion over a section of land devoted to its respective cardinal direction. Ministers were elected democratically as a step toward building a new government that would eventually come to encompass the Earth. After the First Rift, the Eastern Minister was specifically targeted by a force, a force capable of making him imagine that he was trapped within a bleak nightmare. He had once been the owner of a cyber security company before selling the rights to his moderately profitable business to campaign for his current position and help affect what could be true change.

After tormenting the Eastern Minister, known in history only as "Minister Antony," the demon showed unto Antony a delusional vision of peace restored after quelling the demon invasion. The spirit insisted that the Isolationists had mostly broken up into small clans after the invasion and offered him his own version of a Covenant. Minister Antony was promised a position of power in the future Kingdom to come but only if he used his connections and his granted gifts to compel others into devastating the enemy with a missile program devised to prime and guide KI warheads. The Globalists' nuclear arsenal included KI: explosives which, with their combined potential, were capable of decimating entire continents.

Minister Antony was able to control his transformation into a horrendous spawn before he mercilessly killed most of his known associates. After attempting to shift between his human and monstrous form too many times, Antony became completely confined within the mind of the abomination as it performed the rest of his work for him. It was his punishment for losing focus of the agreement he had made.

Antony is known as the first one who pushed the button.

He was made to believe that he would purge the world of both the Isolationists as well as the incoming threat; he, along with Hideyoshi, inevitably drove all of human civilization beyond the brink of collapse. The world had finally gone to war with itself; after the bombs hit, there were no political factions remaining...

-

After the bombing and residual fallout, Earth's invaders did what they could to survive and thus so did humans in retaliation. The "First Rift" is often called such by religious sects due to the popular belief that another Rift will one day be upon us.

Except this time, they believe it will contain a god's Final Judgment.

Without GAIA and Dr. Hideyoshi Keung, perhaps this world may have gone on to avoid the horrors that followed in the wake of the First Rift...
6

Zone D

-

Janelle

-

YEAR 3200.

Sky-bound vehicles cruised by on a web of several interconnected highways; the sun ascended, peaking its head above the horizon, and the winds settled into a stiff, calm breeze. On a nearby street, a group of young men lounged on a wooden bench while staring sullenly at the ground and focusing on the amount, on how much the next re-up would leave them short.

At one time, this place might have hosted a completely different scene: families taking a stroll through the area to see a movie, pets, performers, street vendors. The truth is that time had not been overly kind to the city; the remaining animals in the Citadel already faced a rather rapid extinction. Furthermore, the streets of the Mid-City and below were considered uninhabitable because of how dangerous they were.

A stranger sauntered up to the group and asked an unheard question; one of the men extended his palm before offering him nothing but an expectant glance. The stranger handed him a wad of cash, and the man on the bench pointed to a distant spot around the corner of the street where the newcomer could pick up the product, where he could satisfy his need for a fix...

-

Poverty was a common reality for those in certain parts of the Mid-City and even more common within the Lower-City—as both sections were, by nature, designed to house a large percentage of the population without utilizing every resource the country had. Despite falling behind economically some years later, the Citadel had become famous after it focused heavily on the development of better motor vehicles that could take to the skies. The Federation's goal was to achieve peak performance in the safest manner possible.

Transportation had changed greatly in the New World. In what's known as the Age of Reconstruction, a conglomerate of vehicle manufacturers from various territories had put into public consciousness the idea that new modes of travel could be implemented within a short time period to adapt to the needs of working populations. All branches of the Federations agreed that power for future vehicles would be derived from fusion of the properties of solar and nuclear energy, as attempting to continue the worldwide search for increasingly scarce resources had become unsafe due to the threat presented by the World Below, a place forsaken by most modernized countries.

The Citadel, as well as other major cities, had been built with the intentions of making it a City in the Sky. The Citadel's structure was an immense, spherical shape divided into its respective Lower-City Quadrants, Mid-City Zones, and two Upper-City Sectors (Blue and White) in order to accommodate for extremely thorough city planning. With the dawn of a new era, vehicle manufacturers felt obligated to synthesize the idea of an aerodynamic "car" with a modern vehicle that could be used for traveling each area. Additionally, many of the locations in the city were often built hovering over expanses that contained sections from other districts.

The Dawn Federation sanctioned the use of airborne cars—or, vehicles commonly referred to as "cruisers," with the stipulation that there would be no more "independent drivers" as long as one was within border limits. One of the major cruiser manufacturers, Prime Michizen, merged artificial intelligence and vehicle mechanics in order to automate cruisers with their own sense of control and direction. When the Dawn Federation realized that this was possible, it seemed implausible to continue allowing drivers to operate their own cruisers, and, in addition, insurance companies across the board began discriminating against those who rejected the system altogether. After all, insurers were capable of profiting greatly if there were less accidents caused by human error.

In order to force the Citadel's population to conform, the Dawn Federation eventually implemented regulations that would dictate the proper and legal use of all cruisers within city limits. Highways constructed from a powerful but flexible metal—known as "hyper rails"—were built in order to facilitate swift travel within the Citadel. To even exit the city, it was necessary to take a specific and heavily-monitored hyper rail known as E.P. (Exit Point) Deltan, and it led into a police checkpoint responsible for inspecting a person's mental status before allowing them to fly freely in the outside world.

The most inconvenient part about the Dawn Federation's new regulations was that anyone with their own vehicle was expected to receive testing and certification granting them permission to operate a cruiser... a vessel they would most likely never even drive themselves considering there were few reasons to leave the Citadel.

With the change in the way citizens viewed traveling, the modern taxi reached a whole new level of unprecedented popularity. It was now less expensive to pay a licensed "driver," someone who sat in the passenger seat and who conversed with the actual passenger the entire journey to their destination while listening to their problems, free of charge.

Traffic violations as well as wrecks experienced a significant drop, and Citadel law enforcement as a whole was able to refocus their efforts more directly on crimes other than vehicle incidents that often ranged from petty to major.

At one time in the far past, cruiser drivers were given permission to freely roam, which eventually led to the highest mortality rates ever experienced by the world of vehicle owners. Citizens had been exposed to a higher level of risk, and this resulted in the people of various districts driving recklessly and frequently wrecking into buildings, highways, and all but exploding when colliding with other cruisers. Although this might've been good for population control, human drivers finally being replaced by humorless robots with a focus on traffic etiquette was a necessary evil.

Legislation was also rushed by the Dawn Federation not long after the government realized that they'd become increasingly vulnerable to domestic terrorist attacks, which were incessant before drivers were told to stick to being "Certified Passengers."

Citizens complied, and gas stations progressively became obsolete. In their place, governments across the world instead designed power stations which enabled cruisers to recharge. Recharging was a process which took a shorter amount of time than the refueling of traditional automobiles. Thousands of stations were built across the Citadel and doubled as modern "rest stops" for civilians everywhere; they were hubs where a hunter like Tavon could blend in while plotting his next move.

-

On his way to target number ten, Tavon chose to ride in what was known as a B-Cruiser: an elongated taxi meant to carry upwards of fifty passengers.

Resembling any other upstanding citizen, he wore a "Kom Cell," which was a Citadel communication device in the form of an expandable headset. A steel band locked in around the user's ears and produced a holographic screen and keyboard that could call, message, and access the Federation's online network, Fi-O, as well as any personal files in the Kom Cell's digital library. Most utilized this library for music.

Tavon admired much of the tracks that had been recovered from the ruins of the Old World. On his way to his next hit, he listened to a single titled "Goodbye Isaac" and gazed from his window out into Zone D of the Mid-City.

Aaliyah had texted him this morning on her way to work, but he chose not to respond. Tavon checked a message from Brock which read: "Cleaned up the kitchen for your bum ass. Still hitting the gym later?"

Tavon replied: "No. Was thinking of making time for drinks, but that's a big maybe."

The B-Cruiser stopped at an energy hub where Tavon stepped off amidst a group of other passengers and disappeared into a synthetic field, one riddled with stone paths that were rooted around a Zone D park.

This section of the Mid-City was populated by a significant portion of the middle class of the country, along with those stricken with extreme poverty. At the center of the park resided the power station itself: a slender, triangular pillar that reached beyond the heights of the Upper-City and far into the skies. Attached to the power station was a rather large food court flooded with a diversity of distinct types of restaurants, ranging from Gaspulan delicacies of fish and rice to more localized dishes of unleavened, cherry bread and fried ezemul.

Pharma-Next was located not so far from the station; it was a quick stop for those who needed unique supplements or vitamins and frequented often by members of Angelos for multiple purposes. Against the advice of Brock, who didn't like "food drugs," Tavon stopped by Pharma-Next to begin gathering anything he thought he'd need. The contract failed to dictate any duration period, and Tavon's methods had become more careless due to him obsessing over his numbers.

He couldn't truly rest until he'd proven himself.

"Yo," Tavon addressed a cashier standing before a series of locked containers that were sealed off by a glass barrier, "I just need to grab some RD, if you don't mind."

The unassuming vendor responded with an irritated grumble before handing him a package marked "RD." The pills were composed of B-12, soma-ka root, and a mixture of other compounds intended to keep the consumer full and feeling well-rested for one four-hour period per pill taken.

Tavon linked the Kom Cell to his account in order to pay for the supplement and picked up a bottle of water at a vending machine before quickly downing two pills and logging online via his Kom Cell to view local reports for Zone D.

While looking through top headlines, he passed a series of sculptures that each depicted well-known television personalities, and Tavon sat down on a bench next to others also checking their Kom Cells, obviously for very different reasons than his own.

Someone's pet ambled up to him as he was reading and eagerly sniffed his shoes. Despite most traditional forms of wildlife having become virtually nonexistent, humans simply couldn't give up the idea of domesticating something.

Subsequent to the First Rift, breeds of canines, albeit mostly deformed, survived to lead a legacy of the first mammals subjected to extensive genetic alteration. Societies collectively engineered their own pets, for better or worse. The dog that approached Tavon was missing a part of its skull, but its owner had shelled out quite a bit of money to replace the absent portion with an artificial substitute. Its voice box had been completely removed in favor of a quiet sound system; in contrast, its vision and sense of smell were both significantly enhanced.

A woman tugged at the canine's leash and apologized to the lone assassin. He glanced away from his Kom Cell for a brief moment to offer her a quick nod.

She's hot, he thought.

"It's fine." he said and continued investigating activities in Zone D as she smiled and kept going.

Tavon read an opinion piece by a reporter lamenting the state of the area:

Zone D's cost of living was relatively cheap but only due to the scarcity of jobs that could meet the real price of survival. The Zone's political representative and administrator, defined as an Executive, had pushed controversial legislation for his section of the city as part of a misguided attempt to realize his own vision of government.

And so, all occupations were integrated within a hiring system used by only Zone D. Any career, including freelance writing or odd jobs pending a short duration, were to be legally processed and approved through a specific agency, The Future Corps, and the Corps had its own type of screening which automatically linked to government records of any particular citizen.

First, if one was not a registered citizen to begin with, then Zone D rejected their application immediately. After passing the initial phase, a doctor examined the individual for any known or potential indicators of future disease. Any detection of the most minor issue would also lead to rejection. If a potential employee had fractured a bone or severely torn a muscle or ligament at any time in the past, they were asked to wait an undeterminable period of time and were given a pithy monthly compensation check for whatever injury they claimed. Furthermore, the process went beyond a physical examination to include a mental screening and financial background check as well. This type of hiring was orchestrated so that the population of Zone D "evolved" to fit a specific mold the Executive had in mind.

He believed that he could engineer the dawn of a new generation out of his assigned Zone.

Unfortunately, unemployment had risen beyond the expectations of everyone involved. The Executive of Zone D justified this outcome by stating that those who could not "make the cut" should simply move to another Zone of the Mid-City altogether—and thus only a small portion of Zone D remained actively employed.

Instead of leaving the area as anticipated, many stayed and resorted to either criminal activity or sank into hopelessness and accepted losing everything they had. Because of this, the article described new coalitions forming around Zone D's abandoned housing that demanded the local government give them some form of regular stipend.

The "D Projects" were built due to the collective and rather extreme poverty of the Zone. And, out of the D Projects, sprang citizens who orchestrated a "job sector" separate from their government, and they ran it very well. As such, there was no longer enough of a police presence to combat the resistance offered by those they claimed to protect, and so crime had become a common mode of life for several.

The opinion piece went on to decry a recent string of robberies that had escalated over into richer neighborhoods and marketplaces. The reporter described the living conditions of those existing in the D Projects; the only available food usually consisted of moldy, bread-based products, contaminated water, and powdered rations that were made into solid food instantly by adding this contaminated water.

She argued adamantly that those who could not make it as "real citizens" move to another Zone of the Mid-City—

And that was when Tavon gave up trying to understand her point of view, and he sighed.

"What a fucking moron."

"Excuse me?" exclaimed a man sitting next to him.

"I wasn't talking to you." Tavon nonchalantly pointed off into the distance. "There are other places to sit, I guarantee it. I'm reading right now."

The man looked him over closely, huffed, and gathered up his belongings to move somewhere else.

Weak. Just like I thought.

The assassin continued reading and inspected the obituary section to study recent deaths, noticing that several of the recently deceased had overdosed on kiine. Kiine was a popular drug typically manufactured from components removed from stolen pharmaceuticals.

Kiine offered the consumer a long period of extreme ecstasy and pronounced concentration that was followed by a peaceful crash. It caused the user to almost instantaneously fall asleep. Moreover, kiine produced the same "full" sensation one would experience from having just finished a three-course meal and so became popular for obvious reasons. There wasn't a surefire way to tell how much of the drug was too much, and numerous users accidentally overdosed while others did it intentionally since it was preferable to starving to death. A large concentration of overdoses happened to be clustered near specific streets close to dwellings of the sprawling D Projects.

Tavon looked up recent Pharma-Next robberies and correlated them to the overdoses. Using this method, he could seek out the biggest area of operations for producing and distributing the product. He compared the deaths between Dee Street and Yunce Avenue and noticed that Dee Street's fatalities appeared to be mostly gun violence-related whereas Yunce had endured a recent surge of overdoses in the past week. Dee Street had also come under the scrutiny of the Dawn Bureau itself and was currently under an investigation composed of more than just the average detectives snooping around.

Based on the information available to him, Tavon decided that he would begin his search in the Projects around Yunce Street and browsed through the notes on his Kom Cell to clarify the details given in his rather vague contract:

"Target has been observed wearing a leather cap with the letter 'D' emblazoned on the front. Nicknamed "High Rise" by known associates. Spends majority of time in D Projects wearing blue windbreaker. Wears clean pair of basketball shoes. Dark goatee. Walks with unusual gait. Target related to a series of murders within the area. Potentially very dangerous."

-

Tavon promptly got up from his seat and headed through the human traffic of Zone D's wealthier neighborhood, past an immense sports dome and alongside buildings which ever so slightly modeled skyscrapers. Walkways were relatively clean and polished around Joeson & Kafk Law Firm as well as a local outdoors aquarium dedicated completely to robotic fish. The aquarium was on the way to another hyper rail that led up to Yunce and served as a manner of art exhibit displaying the talents of local marine biologists, parents whose kids were likely granted entry to the most prestigious schools of Zone D.

These institutions, separated from Virtual Schooling, were known for breeding the next generation of "automatic successes" in Zone D, no matter the obstacle.

The electronics-based aquarium encircled a large section of the district, which was replete with a myriad of transparent globes. These spheres were filled with a solvent of gel and water that allowed for the survival of sensitive technology as well as aquatic life. Tavon passed the leader of a group of tourists who delivered a speech on their living habits and the history of the aquarium itself. He claimed that human intervention had guided certain oceanic life forms to evolve and live longer than anyone ever anticipated they would.

As he continued walking, Tavon passed what had once been an octopus now revived into a partly mechanical organism. Its tentacles had been removed and replaced with metallic coils which resonated with vibrantly-hued electrical currents. He stopped to watch as a woman in scuba gear carried a fogged glass jar filled with crabs to the tank, where she released several of them into the water. They were electrocuted within moments upon entering and all but cooked by the intensity of the creature's ability of conduction.

"Holy shit!" gasped one of the onlooking tourists. "Thing's pretty ravenous for a bot."

The modified octopus devoured its midday meal in a matter of seconds, briefly reminding Tavon of how quickly he could eat when his schedule was getting tight; however, this creature mostly disgusted him.

He moved by yet another series of globes labeled "Zoraster Eggs;" their inner lighting highlighted gigantic, pallid orbs—some cracked while others appeared perfectly fine, almost as if they were ready to hatch at any moment.

Tavon overheard the announcement regarding them:

"All right, folks, listen up:

"About ten years ago, Zone D funded an archaeology group who used the money to make an expedition into the World Below. It was an executive order made by the gents upstairs to try to piece together Earth's aquatic history.

"It's said that we lost landmass—that the World Below's ocean levels have risen by quite a lot!"

He paused before continuing to speak, "Unfortunately, these eggs never hatched in their time, you see."

"Why not?" inquired a younger member of the audience.

The tour guide shrugged in response.

"Could be a lot of different reasons. My guess is that the pH sucked for the environment they were born into. Biologists here are working on reconstructing what a real zoraster would actually look like! –And-and studies show them to be a species that only lived for a few decades, but they were known to be very hostile and turned into a hunted animal after they'd already incurred dramatic loss of life."

I've seen one before. Don't want to again.

Tavon had journeyed outside of the Citadel once before settling in as an everyday citizen. Encountering a beast of that magnitude had changed his life permanently; he shivered when thinking back to that moment.

He strolled by a stuffed animal vendor and then, arbitrarily placed, a machine which distributed an assortment of pipes and rolling papers. He stopped to grab one of the variously-branded wraps and hoped that he'd be coming to the end of the outdoor exhibit...

—But he did not, and instead the globe collection transitioned to steel frames surrounding clear glass containing more bio-synthetic fish. In some, he noticed that the engineered life forms had become distressed and had broken through their confines. Perhaps this was a regular occurrence, as some of the aquarium's creations now suffocated on the ground without any proper attendance. This was a known problem inherent in "enhancing" anything other than humans.

Tavon carefully stepped over what appeared to be a malfunctioning sea bass and was baffled as his next step brought him to a bionic piranha snapping around furiously on the stone path as it leaked a substance resembling blood.

In an act of what Tavon believed was mercy, he discretely stomped on the suffering creature, and that's when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye:

A leather cap with the letter "D" emblazoned on its front.

Tavon became alert. He proceeded past another tank and onto a connecting road in pursuit!

He watched as the stranger increased his distance from the exhibit and rapidly started to fade in the distance. Tavon sped up his pace, convinced this could be his best shot, and nearly broke into a run while trying to make out any further details. He made it to an archway decorated in golden, aquatic animals and leading out and down a flight of stairs to—

A woman.

A woman who stepped in front of him with her hands firmly resting on her hips as she tapped her foot on the ground impatiently.

"Boy... where the hell have you been?"
7

The Kijivu Tribe

-

Janelle

-

AALIYAH...

She gently shoved him and smirked.

"So, you just ghost on people like that—without a word, huh?" She was soft-spoken and calm but still stern in her manner of speech.

Tavon smiled sheepishly. "I just thought you were busy, you know?"

"Don't play games with me," she scolded him before her demeanor darkened. "I know you got my text this morning, so why are you suddenly acting so afraid of me?"

"Aww, babe—I-I mean, Aaliy—"

"'Babe,' huh? Right. Don't 'babe' me until you're ready to talk about what this is supposed to be."

She stared at him seriously. "I don't appreciate having my time wasted."

She's blunt, but she should know better than to keep messing with someone like me.

Tavon scratched his head, searching for a good reply, and said, "Yeah, but do we gotta have this conversation here—like in front of all these people? Right here? I mean, damn, you got the tour guide's attention, too, Aaliyah—look," he drew attention to the group of tourists staring in their direction.

They quickly began looking around awkwardly, and the tour guide stuttered before continuing whatever monologue he was about to give.

"Okay then," Tavon breathed in, "Aaliyah, we should g—"

"Fuck no. We're not going anywhere."

Her tone increased in intensity. "You're gonna man up and deal with this, Tavon; I don't give a damn about who's watching!"

"Language, they got kids here."

"You—... oh." Aaliyah bit her tongue and scowled. "So, now you want to act like you're considerate all of the sudden?"

Aaliyah absolutely refused to take what she believed was nonsense from anybody—including Tavon. She was regarded as beautiful but also carried a personality strong enough that she appeared intimidating and closed off to most people despite being generally liked. Her curled, dark hair had grown out into a well-kept crown that haloed around her face. She wore a sleeveless, denim jacket over a white undershirt as well as a pair of black yoga pants that were complete with a stripe down each leg, each one half white, half navy. Aaliyah also sported running shoes which were toned in a strong shade of sepia and had applied scarlet lipstick that morning, cut her nails short, and put on earrings resembling the "Scales of Justice"—a symbol having survived the ravages of time.

Emblazoned on her right leg was a tattoo of a baby elephant that gazed into a pond at a reflection of its future, older self. As a person overall, Aaliyah was known for her collected attitude and was admired by many. Tavon couldn't help but feel turned on when looking her over, but this only irritated her further once she realized what he was doing.

When Aaliyah was pushed...

One of the managers of the exhibit walked over while displaying the fakest of smiles.

"Hello!" He spoke nervously. "Sorry to ask, but do you guys think you could maybe be a little quieter or move this—"

Aaliyah glanced at him, her eyes becoming daggers.

"This is none of your business, unless you wanna to make it your business—is that what you want, sir?

"I'll happily slap the hell out of you."

"Okay-okay! Aaliyah, that's enough." Tavon quickly reached behind her knees with his right arm and around her shoulders with his left as he picked her up and hurriedly moved their reunion down a flight of stone steps.

"Put me down, stupid ass! I didn't say you could carry me—he has no right speaking to us like that..." She started in on a series of purposefully weak slaps to his face. "You just ignore my text this morning and act like everything's all good then? That's how you do people?"

"Yeah."

Tavon's text from her had read: "Hey, I just got a new case yesterday. Could use your help. Do you think we can meet up?"

Aaliyah was, for all intents and purposes, one of the biggest bad asses he'd ever met in his life. In comparison to the drug lords he'd done jobs for in the past, she was still scarier simply because Aaliyah worked harder than anyone else and didn't understand what giving up meant; in this way, she was just like Tavon. Aaliyah was once a Zone cop who'd quickly climbed in rank before she applied at the Bureau Academy and became an official agent. Tavon had only known her for a brief time, but there was some manner of connection between the two of them that he didn't yet understand but easily felt.

"Geesh... you didn't need to do all that." Tavon said meekly after setting her back on her feet.

Aaliyah was nonchalant. "It wasn't any of their business; I dislike nosy-ass creeps."

"Your entire career involves being nosy..."

"Pssh." She shook her head and continued, her voice tinged with irritation, "Whatever; I'm still mad at you for never responding, motherfucker."

She gave him an inquisitive look. "What? We finish a case together, we get together..." Aaliyah rolled her eyes. "And you're out. Just like that? Didn't even take me to dinner or nothing."

Tavon touched her elbow: "Look, Aaliyah, I'm-I'm sorry, but I don't exactly think we have the same type of career... path—"

"What do you even do? Come to think of it, you've barely told me anything. My girls would've done told me to start thinking you were on some weak bullshit by now!"

"I'm not. Furthest thing from it, to be honest." He offered her an unconvincing smile. "I don't really like to talk about my work. Besides, I doubt you'd want to bother with me anymore if you knew."

"Don't give me that 'I don't want to lose you' shit! What is it, dude?" Aaliyah crossed her arms and sneered. "You hang out on street corners dropping off 'packages' or flippin' some stuff you shouldn't be or something? It's okay, Tavon, you can tell me about yourself—I'm not a beat cop anymore...

"I figured you was just a thug anyways." She smirked. Something about him made her happy, but she couldn't place it.

And something about her made him feel...

Human.

Tavon shrugged. "I'm not about to tell you all about it right now. I'm... in the middle of something."

"Oh." Her eyebrows raised as she became slightly annoyed "You working? That's why you're strolling around an aquarium like some bum, right?"

"No." Tavon huffed and shoved his hands into his pockets. "I'm on the clock right now—I'm serious! Let's just say I'm an independent contractor, and I might be planning on moving up real soon if I keep getting good. You understand?"

"Uh huh." She remained skeptical as she continued to stare at him. "Well, you must be doing something to get by and still look so fresh."

Tavon laughed. Sometimes, she had a kinder spirit that she kept buried deep down. "Trust me, Aaliyah. What I do is legit, but it's not something I can just talk about in the open. In fact, I'll have to prove it to you if you really want to stick around."

"And how are you gonna prove it to me?" Aaliyah seemed unimpressed.

For whatever reason, Tavon decided to take a leap of faith: "I'll buy you dinner—a-and you can't just say 'no' since you decided to stalk me here this morning—you should've just assumed I was busy anyways!"

"Ha." She scoffed. "I ain't stalkin' nobody, fool. I really wanted to check this place out again..."

Aaliyah looked down for a moment.

"My mom used to take us to aquariums when me and my sister were kids. She'd tell us that we'd get our asses beat if we kept tapping on the fish tanks like we did. We were some ignorant kids."

"Well, look...

"I've been thinking about taking you to Deaux Tut's, but—"

"No way!" Aaliyah's eyes shone with excitement. "I love—"

"Shh, wait!" Tavon put his hands up defensively. "Just let me talk for a few seconds.

"I'm going to get a table reserved for tonight at eight. I'll pay since I didn't message you back, and I promise I'll explain everything. It's just that you might not like what you hear when it comes time."

"Why don't you tell me now?"

"I can't, Aaliyah. Relax. Now's a bad time—I'm not joking with you, and I think you should leave Zone D."

"Why?" Aaliyah stomped and clenched her fists. "Tell me what's going on if it's bad enough that I need to leave."

"Just get ready for Deaux Tut tonight." He expressed a weak half smile. "I promise I'll be on my best behavior."

"—And you better be." Aaliyah gave up the chase. "I'm about to hold you to that, Tavon."

"I expect you to..."

She groaned, "I've got to head back to the Bureau to do a bunch of paperwork anyways. I've been putting off setting up witness interviews because these fools want me to get the forensics department's closing statements on our last case."

"That sounds... boring."

She smirked. "It is. I've got to interview some fool who's only going to give us more of the same info we already got to confirm a foster home fraud, and the next people we have to interview are a bunch of kids."

"I give you props for your efforts at least."

She shoved Tavon again. Harder, this time.

"Shit. You act just like the government sometimes. You're lucky I'm a patient person."

"That's how you see yourself?"

"Tavon, are you trying to see my fists? I can get them ready for you if you wanna act that way."

Tavon chuckled for a second before offering Aaliyah a hug that she was initially reluctant to take. "I kinda missed you."

"What did you just—"

"I mean, I can't wait for tonight." Tavon replied.

She pushed him away. "Well, it looks like you're going to have to since you're 'working.'

"Later, Tavon; I'll message you."

Aaliyah looked disappointed as she walked up the steps, and Tavon said to her, "I'll respond as soon as I get it this time, all right?"

"Yeah. Whatever."

He watched her leave and had to keep himself from thinking about the last night they were together, almost a week ago:

I still feel her. Smooth, thick legs wrapped tightly around my waist. I picked her up. I picked her up and held the back of her neck while we did it then. Brushed lips across hers...

Tavon noticed that he'd completely lost the stranger he'd suspected of being his target and became frustrated at himself.

Fuck. I spent too much time chitchatting. I need to get my focus back. A kill and then... dinner?

Tavon accessed his Kom Cell and utilized a specific program in order to contact an available taxi, as the B-Cruiser was merely a public bus confined to a very limited route. Further travel was left up to the individual and made available via a program connected to a system of local cruiser drivers within the area. Tavon set up a meeting point with a private operator and made his way to the nearest rest stop before the hyper rail on the intersection of Denmark Street and Blutt-Teit Avenue.

-

Not long afterward, a driver arrived in a dark vessel that had been equipped with miniature jets of burning energy, energy radiating out from five points around the vehicle and encircled by metallic exhaust pipes that directed the emissions toward the ground. The cruiser administrator rolled his window away to the side and inquired: "Where to?"

"Yorkton Boulevard"—a street only a few blocks away from his destination—"Next to Gam's Cantina, if you don't mind?"

The driver offered a cheeky smile. "No problem at all, friend! Have a craving for salsa or just spicy food?"

"Both."

Tavon handed the man cash he'd withdrawn in order to avoid leaving a heavier paper trail than intended. He took a spot in the cruiser to relax in plush, leather seating and was confronted with a digital console offering its own menu of snacks and drinks—a console he completely ignored to once again utilized his Kom Cell. He looked up "Deaux Tut" and felt he had to check out their offerings considering the last time he'd gone was to interview for his current position as a Core-Man.

The interviewer had asked him on the spot to identify a target in the elegant diner who was related to an ongoing current contract and imposed on him a time limit to take out that individual.

Tavon had finished a second before the expiration of the timer and made it in time for his food to arrive so as not to be a "Rude Guest," as described by his interviewer. Deaux Tut then descended into a state of panic after discovering a dead waiter seemingly killed by a cruiser on the outside streets. Tavon's new employer courteously covered the full cost of the meal as well as the tip. The interviewer considered himself a gentleman, after all.

Tavon reminisced on his first official job and felt pride due to the fact that it was the single contract he'd taken on where no one other than the target had been hurt. The issue with Angelos was that the bulk of contracts centered around those who frequently happened to exist deep within the ugliest parts of the country, and so many extraneous casualties were often sustained due to the nature and location of the work. Additionally, it didn't help that Tavon was the most reckless fighter in the Citadel—Brock coming in at a close second.

The taxi raced toward their destination, making sharp turns at upwards of two hundred miles an hour without losing any noticeable traction. Modern vehicles were recognized for their ease of control as well as being able to fly at mileage ranging from five—at the lowest—to just over two hundred. However, powered flight higher than two hundred was considered lethal to anyone close to the outside of the vehicle; in short, anything nearby would be set aflame.

Tavon's ride was smooth, and all that could be heard from the cruiser was a low-pitched hum that escaped from the exhausts. In the driver's seat, there sat a humanoid construction composed of a metallic exoskeleton that had been fused to both the chair and the internal engine. On the dashboard, a giant screen displaying a map of Zone D appeared and focused in on the taken route. The taxi operator tried to use the sound system to play music, but it quickly malfunctioned before generating a static noise preceding silence. He cursed but remained composed as he looked back with a superficial grin.

"Are you a local here?"

"Huh?" Tavon was distracted. "Oh. Hold on a sec."

Tavon finished setting up his reservation for two at Deaux Tut. "I'm just getting together some dinner plans for later."

"Hot date tonight?"

"Yeah," he replied somewhat indifferently, "you could say that. Just wish Deaux Tut didn't charge so damn much."

"That's in, uh... Zone E, right? –Heh," he scoffed, "I stopped going after getting a bill I reckon was worth half my paycheck. This job doesn't fetch as much as you'd think."

"I wouldn't know."

Just shut up.

"Yes, my friend; they got me into the Operators' Program here after spending a whole year on a bloody wait-list, and then they finally needed some drivers... I ended up with this joke. If it wasn't for my wife, I'd be living on the streets—by the way, you know that Executive bastard makes money off the poor here?"

"Can't say I know much about this place."

"Yeah!" The administrator remained enthusiastic despite Tavon's disinterest and continued trying to steal some eye contact. "I reckon they want Zone D's poor communities to stay that way. It gives Zone cops the opportunity to stay occupied putting people away on minor drug busts and shit, then it makes our Executive look good to the higher-ups because he's just promoting how good his Zone's cops are!

"The more they put behind bars or fine, the more money goes around and gets invested in a higher class here; doesn't that sound crazy?"

"Sounds crappy, but it doesn't surprise me in the Citadel. I grew up here."

"Well—"

Tavon cut him off, "—Sir, I'm sorry, but I don't feel like talking. I'm not much of a morning person."

The driver-passenger seemed offended for a second but shrugged off the curt reply. "It's fine, my friend. I'll let you handle your business—what in the hell...?"

They passed by the emaciated corpse of a woman who'd starved to death in the streets, eyes glazed over and aimed toward the skies; perhaps hope shimmered faintly for her at one point in time.

"Guess no one's picked her up yet." The operator appeared much more morose after having borne witness to what was a common issue in that area.

It was now seven in the morning, and Tavon sat almost half-asleep waiting for the RD to kick in and give him the usual adrenaline boost; he could take care of the rest. The taxi hovered past a large crowd of police vehicles focused around what seemed to be a riot in one of the D Projects. His window was cracked, and so he was able to clearly hear a bottle break against one of the Zone cops' cruisers. This noise was followed by the sound of static from a ranged, taser-like weapon.

Further on, a group of wealthier-looking individuals strolled down the street with drinks in hand and yelled unheard obscenities at Tavon's taxi. The drive continued into a tunnel overcast with graffiti that had been covered time and time again before being resprayed in retaliation. Surrounding him, appeared a bitter mantra; he read "Freedom," "Dignity," "No love here; no love anywhere," "Fuck the Dawn Fed," and "Educate yourself. Save the future."

The cruiser traversed a bridge constructed from a collection of silver interlocking beams, with its surface encased in glass; its minimalist design style revealed a small portion of the Lower-City: a section of the Citadel containing shipping yards, direct transportation to the World Below, four Quadrants, and the descending, spiral path into the Citadel Prison.

Tavon could see just past the Lower-City and thought he caught a glimpse of blue. Of the ocean in the World Below.

He contemplated the World Below while moving through a more populated area that showcased bustling businesses and street corner vendors, music that emanated from every open bar and restaurant. The City in the Sky was a country meant to support a population that never slept, and so there were always millions awake at any time trying to finish up one last project or simply grind to get by in their society. No matter the conflict, the Citadel stayed alive —arguably even more so in spots such as the D Projects.

-

Finally, after a long ride, they arrived at Gam's Cantina. There, Tavon ordered two shots of Itzchemil, a local 90-proof specialty alcohol that was tart in flavor, in order to blend in with the regular customers.

A short while after his taxi had disappeared, he waited at the bar and watched a game broadcasted on a giant, holographic screen that curved around the interior of the room. It was complemented by smaller televisions which hovered around on small jets on both the interior and exterior of the Cantina.

Every monitor showed the latest basketball rivalry between Zone D's "Demons" and the Upper-City Blue Sector's "Wolves." Zone D was losing by a wide margin, which promoted a feeling of familiar disappointment and unrest at the bar.

While one of the players for the Demons was about take a big risk to score, Tavon paid his tab and disappeared just as quickly as he'd arrived amid the tension. Zone D at last possessed a real shot at the Citadel Finals, but their dream was being crushed by a team from one of the two higher prefectures. The Upper-City was notorious for rigging competitions against them; thus, this generated more collective hatred from the Mid-City as a whole.

While those around him remained distracted, Tavon was able to fade down Yorktown Boulevard with ease and began concentrating on future clues that would lead him to his target's whereabouts.

-

Sky-bound vehicles cruised by on a web of several interconnected highways; the sun ascended, peaking its head above the horizon, and the winds settled into a stiff, calm breeze. On a nearby street, a group of young men lounged on a wooden bench while staring sullenly at the ground and focusing on the amount, on how much the next re-up would leave them short.

A stranger sauntered up to the group and asked an unheard question; one of the men extended his palm before offering him nothing but an expectant glance. The stranger handed him a wad of cash, and the man on the bench pointed to a distant spot around the corner of the street where the newcomer could pick up the product, where he could satisfy his need for a fix...

And in a room, on the top floor of one of the surrounding buildings, lurked Tavon, who crouched by a window, fogged with condensation, and watched with an uncommon vigilance not normally displayed by the carefree assassin.

Angelos had issued him a digital patch applied to his Kom Cell that would allow enhancement of his vision and was equipped to deal with lighting in any type of weather condition. He focused its sights on a large figure with a black headband and who was wearing a white tank top which exposed a muscular, mostly tattooed body. The stranger wore a pair of ripped skinny jeans, and the sight of his bulky thighs being aggressively choked by his own pants caused Tavon to feel something close to embarrassment for his sake. He also wore a pair of brown sandals and an old chain that had become gradually discolored over time.

The customer from before had approached him, and, from behind the man, a door opened. A much shorter individual, wearing a navy, ripped wife beater and bleeding from a large gash on his arm, staggered out while displaying a pained expression. He limped up to his colleague and handed him a small, wrapped package. The product was then transferred to the customer, who was told to take an alternate path through the neighborhood so that he would avoid being noticed.

The one with the bandana quickly closed in on the other soldier after the buyer's departure and appeared to threaten him, which caused the newcomer to quickly run back inside from where he'd emerged.

The entire operation belonged to a group who were all branded or tattooed with the symbol of a sideways "KU" underscored by an "I" split in two. Both symbols were engulfed by a geometrically correct square shaded in with red or black depending on whether they were branded or tattooed.

Mobsters sat on a bench that was surrounded by an apartment complex that extended across several buildings expanding over into other districts. At one time, the area had been a playground fully equipped with merry-go-rounds and jungle gyms as well as other equipment. It'd been long abandoned after each generation using it had undergone the consequences of bureaucratic decisions they didn't understand.

These were the Yunce Street Projects, and they were populated with families intertwined with numerous gangs having competed for territorial supremacy over almost a decade now. The buildings around the syndicate's operation were inhabited by mothers, fathers—people who either worked a low-paying, odd jobs or hustled on the streets—and sons and daughters who were far from sheltered and determined to get out of that lifestyle.

Unfortunately, the torch was continually passed down in Zone D. The wealthy upper class of the Citadel had all but tried to forget about their neighbors: humans suffering perpetually under unstable Executive governance.

In the few remaining fields dispersed throughout the Yunce Street Projects, the youth mostly stuck to playing soccer or basketball; some dreamed of being the future athletes of the Citadel. Tavon had come from a similar upbringing that was far harsher but still remembered every child's dream of wanting to play for the Zone D's Demons or at least Zone C's Space Trotters. It was an easy ride to comfortable living in the Upper-City, and those who were selected as players took on the roles of celebrities.

Tavon remembered wanting that dream for himself, but now he played the role of Death in an absurd world...

The assassin continued observing them and spectated as customer after customer approached the seated men and received what seemed to be the same product. Kiine.

As far as Tavon knew, kiine was easy to manufacture and even simpler to distribute; it possessed incredible potential for growth as a product. There were always new, safer, and more powerful strains of it becoming available, and so the underground market had begun maximizing profit for all dealers with connections to kiine.

Tavon retrieved the plain tobacco leaf wrap he'd purchased earlier and wetted it before he emptied ground-up herb from a cylindrical container onto the leaf. While barely keeping an eye on the scene unfolding before him, he rolled the hashish and closed the leaf tightly around it as he sealed the wrap together at its edge. He generated scorching heat from his fingertips, a power he'd been given years ago, and ensured the final result was crisp before lighting up the papers and unleashing a pungent, earthy aroma upon exhalation.

One of the men on the bench was repeatedly referred to as "L."

L sported a black and white letter-man jacket and a black baseball cap with a light blue visor. His top remained open to reveal a white t-shirt underneath that displayed the number "65." He had on a pair of black and azure high tops, somewhat matching his hat, and he played with a pair of brand-name sunglasses which looked as though they'd costed him quite a bit.

An older man next to him wore a similar jacket of the same shade but with no undershirt and instead exposed a cross tattooed across his bare chest. One of his teeth appeared severely chipped and, additionally, another had been replaced with a replica which shimmered underneath a silver sheen. He had a lazy eye and a distinct patchy, grey beard. They called him "Nathan;" he possessed a much more passive demeanor and could have been considered humble upon first impression.

The third and final member was clothed in a jacket like the others, only he'd had its sleeves removed. Underneath the jacket, he carried the weight of a bulletproof vest coupled with side plates and a groin protector. He complemented his garish style with a pair of camouflaged cargo pants secured by a hazel, leather belt. He sheltered his feet within a pair of steel-toed, fur boots; on both hands, he loosely gripped pairs of brass knuckles that extended into a flexible mechanism wrapping around his back and torso while doubling as further protection. On his head was a black beanie positioned above a set of circular glasses he must have thought would accentuate his wardrobe in some way.

The third man was their shepherd.

They called him "Magellan." He beat the rest of his crew in overall size, and—though he didn't speak as much as the others—whatever he did happen to say was listened to with complete interest; absolutely no one ignored Magellan.

Impressively, the three of them took command of the business from that one location. Without being forced to relocate, they'd worked out a relatively efficient system of their own and developed a method for turning away those they believed were suspicious. Tavon witnessed as dozens of addicts approached the gathering in succession. Some would creep out silently and make haste to pick up; some pretended like they were going through withdrawals for pity—and often they'd be turned down within a few seconds. Others arrived and engaged in overly lengthy conversations with the mobsters, who'd eventually start yelling and threatening them if they didn't leave. And still others approached and were inexplicably allowed to go ahead and pay for the product they wanted without much prior conversation.

This was psychological profiling at its finest and all in an effort to detect snitches, cops, and to deride their attempts to bring down a business borne from the shadows. And, even if an encounter turned violent, there were enough members Tavon noticed hiding in the darkness who could spring into action at any moment, provided the situation suddenly turned dangerous.

I'll give it to them: gunmen hiding in buildings, gunmen hiding behind walls, gunmen hiding in every corner...

This place is held down. Tavon smiled. But I like a little bit of a challenge.

-

"Yo.

"Yo, Nathan."

"What's up, kid?"

"Ay, I'm thinking we gonna be able to go far beyond just a re-up this time 'round. Business been good for the boys lately, know what I mean?" said L as he changed the setting on his Kom Cell to Radio and tuned into the Zone D game.

"You need to get off that 'beyond re-up' shit, boy."

Nathan's demeanor was patronizing.

"Ain't nothing ever changed in this neighborhood for us. Shit gonna always be shit."

Wolves were in lead 43 to 32.

"See," L paused for a moment before sneering as he continued, "that's the type thinking that keeps us back, old man. I'm talking 'bout finally branching out—different products, more soldiers on the streets, protection for this op—shit—and we can even get in on some other scores, too. Soon, man, there ain't gonna be nobody out here who's got the resources to stop us anymore!"

Nathan shook his head. "You're missing the point—wait," he turned to see a new arrival on the scene. "The hell do you want? Damn, you's a raggedy ho, too—heh!"

A woman had come up to them displaying a pale appearance and shuddering uncontrollably. In her arms, she held an infant.

"Y-you got... any of it?" Shame crossed her features as she listlessly looked toward the grass at their feet.

"Depends on what you askin' for?" said Magellan, glaring at her with an emptiness in his eyes familiar to Tavon.

He gestured to the buildings behind him. "You lookin' for housing? There's places for your family to stay close by, lady."

"N-no, I mean..." She gave him a guilty smile. "I-I... wanna get 'lifted,' you know—know what I mean? Can you help me?—Please. I'll let you do whatever you want! Just let me get there—please!"

"Get off me!" Magellan pushed her before she could step closer.

"Tch. We're not about to go servin' mothers out here; this place already fucked up as it is—Nah... if I ever see you again, lady,"—he edged near and glared at her—"I'll kill you. I swear—even if I have to raise that kid myself." Magellan puffed out his chest. "Get the fuck out this place before you start pissin' me off, bitch! I don't got the fuckin' patience for tweakers like you."

She gasped before scrambling to get away from them as quickly as she could.

"Damn, Magellan, you didn't have to treat her like that!" L exclaimed while seeming to express a measure of guilt.

"Look, I only do this to make sure my kids can afford one of those home school gear things—so they can study for the Exams like they supposed to be."

Magellan sat and folded his arms. "My son deserves what I didn't have. Zone D fucked us all over from the start, man! And the Kijivu don't need to serve anybody, you hear? We gonna raise this place from the ground up and keep our families fed, right?"

Nathan remained silent.

"I understand, bro, but what we do isn't the type of noble work a man can stand behind. I mean, my kids won't be able to look up to—fuck!" L looked away. "Here's another one. We gotta start delegatin' this shit better, man..."

L sprinted up to the next customer.

"Don't you remember me?"

"Fuck no I don't remember you, dumbass! What you want?" demanded L, his voice tinged with aggression.

"I just need a solid bump of whatever you got, sir. Please..." He wheezed. "I'm old—I-I don't know how much time I got left in this world, to be honest."

The three of them considered it for a second, then Nathan spoke: "I'm sorry, but no—"

"Naw. It's all good." Magellan decided for all of them. "You got the money, guy?"

"Sure do!" The giddy old man handed over a moderately heavy sack of coins to L, who swiftly counted it out in his head.

"Go to that man over there." He pointed. "The only thing you're gonna say is 'bag,' and don't you let us catch you sayin' ANYTHING else, got me?"

"No problem, sirs... b-bless you!" He hurried away to pick up the product.

The three of them took their seats and relaxed.

"Look, my man, I've got other ambitions in life right now. I gotta get out there and make my own music—start a legit business so I'm not constantly looking behind my back." L was earnest. "How we supposed to keep doing this? Honestly, fellas?"

"Because it's all we got, fuckhead—all we know to do." Nathan retorted and possessed a slight note of despair in his voice. "Face it: this city can't use us for anything. We don't got any real estate to them—"

"Bullshit," said L. "Magellan don't fuck around when it comes to mathematics, I know this! He taught me, and best believe he could go on to be a fuckin' professor somewhere—oh shit, it's him..." L lowered his voice. "Boss man's finally come outside."

From the corner, where the kiine was being distributed, there appeared a barely distinguishable shape at the doorstep who eased down the small flight of steps with hands bloodied from a previous struggle.

He was much shorter than his subordinates but maintained an intimidating presence to those around him. The newcomer carried the same body armor worn by Magellan but with the addition of a black beret as well as a pair of dark cargo jeans and brown combat boots. He also wielded his own brass knuckles contraption... and a blue windbreaker engulfed his gear.

The stranger's beard covered most of his face below haunting, golden eyes which bore into the distributor.

The man reeked of weed so pungent that the scent diffused all the way into other Projects whenever he showed himself. Their boss could be heard saying something quietly to his subordinate, who stiffened as he was spoken to by him.

"Check it out, boss got our boy to start going back to 'yes sirs' and 'no sirs.' Guess everybody else thinks that dude's scary as hell, too."

"Shh! Shut the fuck up, L. We work for that motherfucker now—he owns our crew." Nathan said.

"Ugh, you always treatin' me like I'm your kid, man." L retorted, "We colleagues now; I'm not just some foot soldier anymore—"

"Well, to him you'll always just be a pawn. A disposable piece of meat. That's a man who doesn't understand one simple principle."

L's interest was piqued. "Yeah? And what's that, pops?"

"That Family is what paves the way for success—for survival."

"Hey boo," spoke a distant voice, "maybe you should listen to your 'pops' more often."

A woman dressed in a grey jumpsuit approached. Attached to her hip was a magnum too large for its holster. "If I can't keep you in line, at least I know he can."

She winked at Nathan before sitting down with her arm around L. L's girl had been with him for two years and was addressed by all members of the crew as Kay, even if that wasn't necessarily her real name.

A barefooted man suddenly made his way up to the gathering and limped closer to speak with them.

The group abruptly felt more distraught than they had all morning upon noticing this particular "customer." He'd made himself appear humble before beginning meekly: "Good to see you fellas around... still on the same old gig as always, I see."

"What you want, fam?" Magellan said, his tone expressing indifference. "You come around to get fucked up? Huh?" He stood up and strode closer to the man.

"You think you gonna keep getting' discounts just because you wanna stay cool with us? After everything... –" Magellan scowled. "And you just keep comin' back..."

"Magellan. Stop." Kay spoke out. "He's our friend, remember? He started us on this game!"

"Naw," Magellan shook his head and spoke much louder, "this fucking junkie played us." He leaned in closer to him. "You just can't stop fiendin', can you? You'll do anything—including sell out your own people!" Magellan grabbed his collar.

The stranger smiled and remained docile. "Listen, M... I shaped up, brother. I crawled out of it finally... no more of that kiine trash—going from hit to hit; it took everything I had."

Magellan backed away before responding cynically, "Oh really? So it's like that for you now? You on the whole 'changed man' path, huh?"

He sighed. "I'm sorry I left. You all still my family, and I'm always going to be keeping it real with you—don't gotta worry about that. I just came here today to tell you that I'm going to get my life together, man. I don't need a hit or nothin', got me?"

"Naw, fam, I don't. You abandoned us, used us, and I just can't accept that..." Magellan turned his back to him and went to take his seat.

"Magellan's right," Nathan added, "you were a leader before, but we just can't trust a guy who's turned himself into a fuckin' tweaker. You're one of Them now."

"Get out of here, fool." Magellan exclaimed without even a glance directed his way. "You were the worst thing to ever happen to our crew."

Their former friend shook his head then shrugged his shoulders in defeat. He tried to make eye contact with Magellan, who absolutely refused to match his gaze. "Okay," he said, "... well, ya'll should know that I'll always have love for ya. I hope that one day you move from the Projects onto something so much better; ya'll deserve it."

He started to walk away but stopped when he heard Magellan hoarsely yell: "Wait!"

The man turned his head to acknowledge him.

"Don't ever come back."

"I got you." He winked. "Stay hopeful; I know it'll get better."

The stranger then disappeared into the alleys of Zone D.

"Probably just gonna get his fix from somewhere else." Nathan grumbled.

"Hmm. Magellan, maybe he really meant what he said." L chimed in thoughtfully.

"I'm sure he did, but people rarely change—I ain't gotta tell you that; the game stays the same, and there's still money out here to be earned—oh, wait, Demons just made a comeback, guys! They at a straight 44 to 46 right now!"

"Hell no! There's no way!" Nathan focused in on the broadcast.

"Demons finally showing out for Zone D!"

"What an emotional bunch," said someone new in their midst.

The Kijivu Tribe turned to confront whoever it was, and—

Tavon stood in front of them all, forcing himself to keep from balling up both fists. He was hungry for his next fight.
8

Goodbye Isaac

-

Janelle

-

MAGELLAN, FEELING VERY MUCH DISRESPECTED, QUICKLY GOT UP. The rest of the group followed him.

"Who the fuck are you?" He sized up the assassin and felt confused. This wasn't some ordinary fiend or rival thug...

"You don't even look like a user; are you like... a fucking cop? Some yuppie trying to get a habit going?"

"Tch." Tavon sneered. "Like I have time for that sort of thing—"

"Yo!" Kay curiously raised an eyebrow. "You look high as hell! You sure you know if you're in the right place, pretty boy? Smoke a little too much or something?"

"Well," Nathan chuckled condescendingly, "he definitely walked into the wrong neighborhood. Why don't you move along on out of this place; we don't need people like you snooping around—besides, you smell real suspicious, fool."

"Naw, Nate," L laughed. "This fool smells like weed!"

"You two shut the hell up. Let me take care of this." Magellan moved to a distance within an inch of Tavon's face; he seemed to make a habit of asserting himself in conversation.

"Don't get it twisted, stranger," Tavon replied, "I don't care how far you lean in to get a kiss; what, you the master pimp here or something?"

Magellan gave Tavon the hardest shove he'd given anyone all day before grabbing a metal bat he'd stashed underneath the bench. Tavon stumbled back several steps back and recovered to see that L had drawn a bowie knife, Kay had readied her magnum, and Nathan wielded a glock that he'd loaded in an instant and directed at him.

"Listen up, punk!" Magellan boomed. "You really got no idea who you fuckin' with—and right now I'm just gonna need you, right quick, motherfucker, to give me one reason why I shouldn't bash your skull open! Ain't nobody gonna come lookin' for your ass in the D Projects. I've been holding this place down long before you got your first official fuckin' diaper change."

"Easy, brother."

Tavon put his hands up in a gesture seeming to convey his surrender.

"You don't always have to let steroids get the best of you."

"If you don't—" Magellan turned a crimson shade; his blood boiled.

"My apologies..." Tavon sighed. "I guess I didn't make the best first impression, after all. I'm looking for someone." he said earnestly despite being surrounded. "I figured you guys could help me out."

Magellan was astounded, but he relaxed along with the rest of the Tribe. "Where'd your goofy ass come from anyways? Who the fuck you even supposed to be!"

"I'm from the Mid-City, like you. I'm searching for a man who calls himself High Rise. I was going to be discreet, but I'm afraid I've gotta hurry and make up a mistake I made with this woman."

"You've got to be joking..." Kay put away her gun and exhaled in utter disappointment.

Despite the rising emergence of the Kijivu Tribe, they happened to be one of the tamer mobs within the Citadel. Tavon hadn't expected very much in the way of a significant resistance as long as he didn't attack.

"I don't think you'd want to find him." Nathan said. "Someone's filled your head with nonsense. 'Fraid you got bullshitted, brother."

"Excuse me, sir, but can I help you?"

All of them froze.

Tavon aptly noticed the sheer terror in the look given to him by Magellan. He turned to face the short man in the beret and responded, "You actually might be able to."

The assassin offered him his hand. "Tavon."

"Ekwueme." Their ringleader replied. "It seems as though my people are very angry with you, Tavon. I wonder what could have caused them to be so upset?"

L rapidly spoke up, his reasoning blinded with rage, "Yo, this cat was—"

In a flash, Ekwueme appeared next to L.

He punched and struck the young man's mouth with so much power that it knocked him on his back.

"Ugh!"

Blood trickled out from between his lips. Ekwueme placed his palm on the Tribe soldier's forehead and slammed him onto the earth hard enough to knock L unconscious.

Kay became rigid where she stood.

Ekwueme turned to the onlookers and shouted curtly and with authority: "You will SPEAK only when SPOKEN TO! Do we have an understanding?"

Magellan slowly nodded his head, his eyes betraying entirely different feelings toward his leader.

Ekwueme reacted by dashing closer before screaming in his face, "I said, 'DO YOU FUCKING UNDERSTAND,' subordinate?"

"Y-yes... yes, boss. We will speak to you only when spoken to." Nathan expressed loudly.

And just as quickly, the ringleader of the Kijivu Tribe regained composure to once again politely address the newcomer.

"Tell me: why are my men upset with you? I require answers in order to rectify the transgressions made against my name."

"Hmm." Tavon looked him over with curiosity. What a fiery little man, he thought to himself.

"I was only asking them if they knew of a guy named High Rise... but it seems you might be the one I'm looking for."

Magellan's eyes grew wide; the rest of the group became eerily quiet, and Ekwueme was taken aback for a moment.

He tensed his body and steadily raised his fist...

—And brought it to his mouth to stifle a weirdly giddy laugh. "Heh. Of all people! You want to see High Rise? And here I thought you were going to start a war!

"You, sir, are very comical to me—funny man! Much funnier than that fool who couldn't keep his mouth shut!" Ekwueme was the only one overtaken with hearty laughter. "What a joke!" he remarked.

"I don't see what's so 'comical?' Did High Rise come through here or not? Are you him or not?"

"High Rise..." Ekwueme's face became far more serious. "Normally, I would take this as an insult but am aware now that you suffer a plague of ignorance.

"You see, Tavon, there was a High Rise who once worked these corners and owned the people of the Tribe for some time. He was the most successful thug in Zone D—that is,"—he unleashed a wicked smiled—"until he could no longer keep his hands off the product. It is quite addictive, after all."

"So, he is or was one of you." Tavon smiled. "Good. I was right on the mark this time."

"Indeed, sir." Ekwueme nodded. "Though the High Rise we know lost his wife during one of the riots; she suffered a stroke. The, eh, paramedics weren't able to make it to her on time because of the masses of fools. Regrettably," he feigned sorrow, "Rise lost himself to addiction, and I loaned him a great deal of money to help. In spite of my actions..." Ekwueme shrugged nonchalantly.

Magellan clenched his fists upon hearing Ekwueme's words.

"Because he was unable to make on-time payments and meet my requirements, he settled by giving up his share of the territory. Thus, the High Risers were no more. I fashioned the Kijivu Tribe, a personal army beyond the ambition of that man. He no longer goes by that name, but he retains great notoriety to my people."

"Thank you, Ekwueme." Tavon showed their boss respect. "It's genuine that you would tell me all that up front—unlike some people."

He glared at the others with mild contempt. "Do you know where I can find this man?"

Ekwueme offered him a sly grin, as if he was trying to hide his own amusement.

"I do, sir," he managed to utter while stifling a laugh. "He left only a few moments ago, the weakling my Lieutenant Magellan rejected."

"What? You mean these guys wasted my time and could've been telling me this all along—what the hell, Magellan?"

"I'm afraid so." Ekwueme's mad grin became deeper. "High Rise completed his fall from power by frequenting his old stomping grounds. Here, right in the Yunce Street Projects. My soldiers share a hatred for Rise; he was like a father to them.

"Now, Rise has visited over and over again, always asking for discounts and getting lost in debts which he's failed to pay back on multiple occasions." He looked to Magellan. "I cannot depend on weak leaders. With Rise's failure, it goes to show that my people have always been the superior force within the Projects. One day, we will take Zone D and prove ourselves above all others."

Ekwueme's conviction held firm. "But first, my soldiers must focus on debts owed. Debts handed down from that mistake of a human—isn't that right, Magellan?"

"I didn't know who he really was until it was too late, I suppose." He sighed. "That asshole fooled us all. Everything's all good, though; we'll stay loyal and keep on until the day we die. Fuck High Rise AND his family! They did nothin' for us—"

"That's enough. Our visitor gets the point." Ekwueme glared at his subordinate before turning back to Tavon. "High Rise is probably about to visit this coffee shop, eh... 'Kosho Cappuccino.' It's his favourite place, I believe."

And how do you know that?

"Ekwueme..."

Tavon paused and then said, "You've been helpful."

"Before you leave, Tavon, might I ask what business you have with a drug addict? I'm afraid that he can be of no use to anyone."

He winked. "I've got a personal deal going on with him. Let's just say I'm on my way to do him a favor."

"Fair enough." Ekwueme nodded his head as if he were dismissing him but did not remove his intense gaze.

Tavon took his leave and sped up his walking pace toward where he thought he'd seen the barefooted man disappear while checking for the shop's location on his Kom Cell. He briefly glanced back to see if Ekwueme's attention was still focused on himself, and there the leader of the Tribe remained, glaring with a set of eyes that resembled two bolts of lightning ready to strike down at any given time.

Everything about him's withdrawn except for his eyes. He's got the look of someone who's spilled blood.

-

It was eight in the morning, and the Demons were tied with the Wolves.

Contrary to local weather updates, the skies had begun to cloud over and appeared to signify a storm which might or might not arrive. With a sense of urgency, Tavon continued to walk and pause several times in order to pretend he was using his Kom Cell while he subtly stalked the addict known as High Rise.

Tavon felt annoyed that he'd been assigned yet another weak target but also took comfort in knowing that this was his last mission before he could graduate beyond the rank of Core-Man. Brock would be both proud and disappointed: proud that Tavon was making something of himself after all this time but disappointed that his best friend was about to be a top-tier killer.

Just as High Rise stopped to stretch, Tavon received another message from his roommate: "Everything good? I'm about to grab some food for the place."

Tavon replied and kept an eye on his target at the same time: "I'm busy. Pick up a lot of meat. Not just that pescatarian shit."

"It's good for you. I'm trying to save your life, T; fish and veggies are the way to go."

"Just do it. I'm in the middle of something."

Tavon disabled the application for receiving messages on his Kom Cell and proceeded once High Rise began walking again.

From the back, Tavon recognized the blue windbreaker but noticed that the man wasn't even wearing the hat mentioned in his contract. Instead, he'd only a head full of dark hair just barely starting to recede. Rise's body was torn and bruised from excessive falls that were due to an overall loss of balance produced from Kiine's notorious side-effects. Half of his goatee looked as though it had been ripped from his face, which had slightly broken out and suffered inflammation as a result. He also did not smell of weed at all; however, his body odor was rather foul.

Rise walked with a confident gait and seemed vaguely resolute, but his appearance in the streets led to disgusted looks granted from all around. He passed by several who had sized him up before refusing to greet him and sneering in judgment. High Rise's footsteps were shockingly quick for a man who seemed as though he'd skipped through decades of his lifetime because of religiously consistent drug abuse.

A coffee shop came into view: a small building which contained an outside sitting area that was crowded by oak trees, each towering over a beautiful garden.

High Rise took a seat and clasped his hands together over an iron, circular glass table. He stared off into the distance for a long time and didn't appear to possess the means to afford anything to drink. This forced Tavon to spend money on a cup of coffee he didn't want as he sat down at a table a few feet away from his target. He gazed into the dark liquid, which transitioned to a shade of chestnut as the sun attempted to shine through the heavy onset of clouds. Tavon sighed and decided to meditate on his own plans while waiting for High Rise.

It's not like I can just kill him here. I don't really need that kind of attention after my string of hits.

Wait a second—i-is he...

Tavon heard faint sobbing from the other table. He turned his head to watch a tear roll down the face of the once influential crime lord. The man reclined in his seat and pressed his palms against his eyes to prevent himself from completely breaking down at the scene.

He caught his breath and said, to no one in particular, "Ah... I do this every time. It's the coffee here. I kept telling her it was a waste of money..." He peered toward the sky. "It's still funny, the way her face changed when she knew she had no business drinking iced mocha in the winter. It's been too long, baby."

High Rise took a series of deep, meaningful breaths before hanging his head in grief.

When a target sat a certain way or made a particular gesture, Tavon would imitate it so as not to stand out as much. In his own way, he mimicked High Rise's movements and absentmindedly sipped his coffee.

I almost feel bad for the gu—What the? How could he even drink this trash; it's-it's not even good coffee!

Tavon came to attention once he noticed his target get up and begin to briskly move back onto the street.

It'd be so much easier if he would just, like, turn down an alley or someplace quiet.

Tavon fidgeted on the inside and continued checking the time, though it was a meaningless gesture. He eventually slowed his pace and accessed his Kom Cell as High Rise stopped at a local store that sold sports gear. From inside, he heard the cashier yell, "Hey dude, haven't you heard? Without shoes, I'm not supposed to help you!"

"Please! I just need one thing, and I'll be out your all's way. One thing and that's it, sister."

"Ugh..." The clerk groaned. "Fine—but make it quick; we can't have customers coming in and seeing you freely wandering around the place. Geez, dude, how about bathing the next time you think about going out in public."

"I apologize." High Rise replied meekly. "I promise it'll only take a moment, ma'am."

High Rise stepped through the glass-paneled doors. Tavon quietly followed in behind him.

While his target headed straight for the counter clerk, Tavon perused the magazine section and watched a soccer game on an old television monitor.

It's been over a year since I played a match with Silo and his boys. That's the only sport he'll play.

Silo was another of Tavon's closest friends and was off enjoying enormous success as an entrepreneur in the Blue Sector of the Upper-City.

"Do ya'll still do the inscribin' thing on basketballs?"

The cashier stared at High Rise as though she'd been insulted in some way. "'Inscribing?' You mean where we take letters and names and get the balls labeled with them and that stuff?"

"Yes..." High Rise was vexed. "That's exactly what I said, ma'am."

"It's been a long day, sir," the clerk exhaled before immediately displaying an expression of disgust, "... and now I've got to get rid of that smell—w-where's my air freshener?" She reached for a canister and sprayed generously around the store. "What do you need put on a basketball?"

High Rise chuckled. "I know it's, uh, silly, but could you just put 'I love you to the hoop and back,' uh—signed, 'I.R.?' Yeah, that sounds good, right? Can you do that?"

"I sure can. I—"

"Sorry, but how much would that end up running me?" High Rise interrupted.

"Standard pricing is about forty-eight, but, since it's over the letter limit, it might be a little bit more."

"Heh. Well, that's about all I got, so it's gonna have to do." He smiled at the cashier.

She didn't smile back and retrieved a new basketball that she then put through a machine which carefully inscribed the lettering she typed into it.

Tavon busied himself reading the newest issue of Bangin' Beach Babes and nearly lost his focus on the target after finding an article that detailed a celebrity's laments over nude photos of her having been leaked online.

"Okay! The total comes to fifty ninety-two. Will that be in cash or—"

"Is it okay if I'm a bit short, miss?" High Rise looked ashamed of himself. "You said it'd be forty-eight—"

"—About forty-eight."

"I-I may have sold some of my belongings to afford this, miss."

"Would some of that stuff include your shoes, sir?" The cashier chuckled sarcastically.

"Actually..."

He scratched his head, embarrassed. "... Yeah. You guessed it."

Her expression changed, and she sighed.

"Yes. It's fine. Just pay what you can and go."

High Rise placed a damp, wrinkled wad of Federation dollars in her hands.

"Thank you so much, ma'am."

He headed for the exit, and Tavon came close to dropping his reading material when he realized how long he'd been ignoring his objective. He rushed toward the door.

"Did you find everything o—"

"Shut up." Tavon replied and with a dark look.

Just another person born into a stable position. Complacent with knowing nothing else. She has no idea about the other side of this world. Maybe she'll find out one day. Everyone discovers it eventually.

-

High Rise trudged down a street lined with a significant quantity of abandoned apartments, and he arrived at basketball court centered at the side of an old chapel. The only aspects of the church even resembling windows were stained glass depictions of "The Last Supper."

The skies remained overcast, and the Demons were down by only two points. The game was approaching its conclusion after a drawn-out struggle between the Upper-City and the Mid-City, as was Tavon's contract.

The R Drop had activated some time ago; Tavon was more than ready to pounce on his victim. To him, he was inches away from meeting with the Grand Master of Angelos and finally obtaining his goal.

High Rise began dribbling his new basketball down the court and rushed in for a layup. He missed on his initial drive but caught the rebound and sprinted to the other side in an effort to score once again.

The ball passed through the net with ease.

"I still got it."

He chuckled before checking his watch and tapping his foot impatiently. He started dribbling again and tried to make a shot at half court, a shot which rebounded hard enough off the backboard to bounce right back to his position. He put the ball up and bounded forward after realizing that he was about to miss—

High Rise caught it and jumped high enough to deliver a solid dunk into the basket.

He checked the time on his watch, and Tavon appeared behind him.

It'll be a close kill. I'll sit him next to the goal post and walk away just as fast as I take him out!

Tavon readied his fists and closed in just as High Rise raised his head and turned to react—

High Rise shrieked in agony as a lethal strike pierced and shattered the side of his abdomen! Tavon then followed with another, fatal attack, burying his fist deep into his prey's sternum.

The target looked up from his attacker's blood-drenched knuckles and uttered incredulously:

"You...? —T-Tavon. Why..."

His trembling body tumbled forward into the assassin, and his hands desperately clutched at the shoulders of an old friend.

And then, Tavon recognized him.

"Isaac!" He gasped as his eyes grew wide. "It-it can't be possib—No! Isaac!"

-

Tavon

-

I'm learning how to play for the first time at fifteen years old.

A bigger kid races by, shoving me and sweeping the basketball from my hand. I'm angry, but being angered strengthens my determination. I go after him and hurry before he can score on me. But, instead of reaching him on time, another kid runs up and tackles my rival!

He takes the ball, passes it to me, and I make a clean, three-pointer shot.

That kid's name, my teammate, was Isaac Reaver; he was the boy who'd grow up to become High Rise.

That day, Isaac and I left the court in the slums of the Lower-City and found out that we went to the same vendor for leftover food. He helped teach me about the Citadel, about how it didn't matter what age you were—people here would still beat you, sell you, and kill you if your guard was ever dropped. Isaac told me that I needed to always be prepared to fight for my life, and so we started sparred and used to grab lunch together at the end of the week.

The two of us realized that, while I was skilled at fighting, I couldn't exactly figure out why. He believed I was joking when I told him I couldn't remember how it'd all started, but he accepted me.

After some weeks together, we got on doing work for a local mob. I didn't like doing slave tasks for random bangers I didn't know; Isaac, however, seemed to love it. He saw it as a way forward in this life. He used to tell me that one day he'd play for the Demons—he was going to be just like Tony Fragal, a famous player who carried his team to victory in the Federation Finals. The guy was known both for his drive on the court and his desperation to rank up so badly that other kids gave him the nickname, 'Rise.'

We worked for an idiot who couldn't care less about us, and he'd trained Isaac to push his crappy products on the streets. Police weren't going to mess with a kid as much as they would an adult, and so Isaac's sorry ass was used for the longest.

I remember when our boss cut me lose, and he told Isaac that it was because I had a "big mouth," that I was "disrespectful." Isaac took his side, but he was still my friend and would throw me money whenever I needed it.

And so, there came a time when the boss ordered him to take someone else's life. He promised he'd return the favor by making him a "Bodyguard," which was just a damn joke.

Isaac believed in him and would follow his people to the end of the world and back. I would've reasoned with him, but, of course, he'd keep responding by telling me that I was just a kid—that I didn't understand the bigger picture: he was going to be just as rich as Tony Fragal. No more eating scraps from the streets because the Citadel didn't give a shit about us.

Isaac was smart, though. Without a doubt. He could read, he wrote poetry, he understood subjects like calculus better than all of us—so ambitious but so naive.

High Rise was asked to kill a man, and so he did. And when he met up with me after the fact... nothing was the same.

I'd never seen so much remorse, as if his soul would be trapped forever, emotionally atoning for what he'd done. He tried to talk to me about it, but Isaac would end up stuttering and sweating. He'd shake, too. I told him to relax—not because I didn't give a damn but because I couldn't bear to see my closest friend go through that kind of pain.

Not long after the murder, the cops went looking for Isaac. He was my first friend, and he had to leave everyone behind because of stupid recklessness.

I don't know if I can... process all this.

Dammit! Why didn't I recognize him? Isaac helped me... he-he deserved so much better.

-

Janelle

-

Tavon embraced a companion he'd forgotten.

He felt a familiar pain deep inside of him that he had not experienced for some time and said:

"Isaac, I'm so sorry! I didn't know it was you—th-they hired me..."

Tavon felt warm blood flow across his arms.

"It's all good, my man."

Isaac twitched while growing rapidly weaker. "You probably d-did me a service anyways." He expressed a faint half-smile. "I could never forget her, man... it's one of those things you can't—" Isaac coughed.

"Fuck! This isn't right! Why didn't I recognize you before—how could I forget?"

"You didn't..." Isaac placed his hand on Tavon's shoulder "You didn't forget. I-I'm just not the person I used to be." Isaac grew heavier in his arms as he lost feeling across his body.

The basketball began to roll toward the nearest street until it was stopped by a foot much smaller than the likes of Tavon's or Isaac's.

"Dad," uttered a frightened voice, "what's happening?"

Tavon became very still. He looked over to see a small boy who'd picked up the ball and gazed at them in terror.

Isaac tightened his grip on Tavon's shoulder. "It's for him, T! The last thing that I could give. Church takes care of him now, so, please... make sure he's okay."

Isaac lost the will to live despite his old companion's protests.

"Dad—Dad!" The child came running toward them and discarded his gift.

Tavon gently ran his hand down and across his friend's eyes, closing them while quietly whispering: "Goodbye, Isaac."

A gunshot rang out.

It was ten in the morning, the clouds parted, and the Demons had won...

9

The Fall Of The Ogba

-

Janelle

-

EKWUEME WAS A CHILD OF WAR.

When Ekwueme was just a boy, he inhabited the World Below in a quaint little village that had been recently colonized by the Ogba people. They spoke a language and dialect very different than humans from other regions.

Theirs was a relatively difficult way of life; the Ogba were often reduced to drawing unclean water from rivers and lakes that had only recently lost most of the radiation resulting from the subsequent bombardment post Rift. They thrived in a more tropical climate that was cast over a dominion which had been of the first sections of the world to transition to a less toxic atmosphere centuries ago. However, the heat as well as humidity remained intense and drained the Ogba tribe's efforts at sustaining themselves daily.

They resorted to traditional hunting and farming and grew skilled at fending off the weaker of the supernatural terrors prowling the land. The Ogba were reputed for their nearly invincible immune systems and advanced resiliency to unfavorable conditions. In time, they flourished into a successful tribe; that is, until they were embroiled in an ongoing war for control of their homeland.

Ekwueme was born to a strong-willed mother and a stoic father who'd been assigned the role of a hunter within the community. His father, being a reasonable specimen of good health, was also one of the men tasked with helping produce as many children possible in order to allow the Ogba to grow and become a sizable nation. Therefore, he was given a number of consorts and proceeded to sire several more children with whom Ekwueme hunted and trained as he aged.

Ekwueme speedily distinguished himself as a family member who would grow to surpass even the strongest of the tribe. Despite being of small stature, he lived up to his name, one which meant: "He says, He does."

Ekwueme was known for spending extended periods of time in a jungle nearby the Ogba in order to catch offerings he'd then give in contribution to his village's food supply. He demonstrated stubbornness and courage that led to him being well-respected by his people.

He still fondly reminisced over his childhood, but it was brought to a swift end when They came...

When he was only a boy, the Komutkan Army arrived in Ekwueme's village and demanded the Ogba tribe pay regular tribute; they asked that the Ogba provide all able-bodied males from the age of seven to thirty to serve their cause. Additionally, they brashly requested that all females with the ability to bear children be lined up and ushered through a selection process so as to determine who would carry the future generations of the Komutkan Army.

The village elder angrily refused their demands and ordered them to leave. This, in effect, caused the army to retaliate by raiding the village with abandon. The Komutkan soldiers began their brutal pillage of the Ogba, slaughtering those who resisted, razing communities, and ravaging whoever they pleased as the tribe provided little in terms of defense against an organized military effort.

Ekwueme, at the age of eleven, watched in horror as his mother had her clothes torn from her and was violated by a gathering of wretched savages. They finished by burning her alive in front of him.

Almost simultaneously, his father was slain in battle; his head was severed and placed upon the spear of one of the Komutkan Section Leaders.

In a furious struggle, Ekwueme grabbed the pike of one of the fallen Ogba and killed his first man that day by forcing the weapon through the throat of one of the more clueless and weary soldiers. The Komutkan Army abruptly turned its attention to a berserk boy who shoved poorly-crafted weapons of his own making through the backs of soldiers too preoccupied with defiling defenseless villagers. Some Komutkans had focused on torturing their victims to death, allowing Ekwueme the perfect opportunity to subtly move while eliminating as many of the enemy as he could, right before he was overtaken by a mob of them who'd taken notice of his killing spree.

The boy was subdued, viciously beaten, and stabbed by men he despised, and so he gritted his teeth in rage when the Section Leader who'd killed his father approached and spat in his face. He was to be executed by the ruthless infantry, yet his fate was circumvented when one of the Komutkan commanders, who was curious as to how a child could have slain so many of his own, reigned in his men.

Ekwueme was released and fell to the ground weeping as the commander approached him. Disturbed and greatly angered, the boy leapt to try to kill the Komutkan with a shiv!

The commander stopped his advance with a hard kick to the face.

As he collapsed to the ground again, the commander declared that Ekwueme would swear loyalty to new masters in the war effort. While enlisted in the Komutkan Army, he would assist in uniting surrounding territories. The commander insisted that the young man be groomed to replace his own position and that he would later be poised to become the most powerful leader for the sake of the cause.

Ekwueme was told that his new father was "conquest" and that his new mother took the form of "faith" in the Komutkan Army.

That day transformed an eleven-year-old boy into a man full of hatred and contempt for the world because of what had been done to him.

So that they could mold him into the perfect "war hero," the army began feeding him large quantities of the drug Safowei: a privately sold substance which completely numbed all emotion and memories linked to emotions. Ekwueme grew accustomed to slaughtering other child soldiers from rival tribes and soon graduated to slaying untold numbers of grown officers. He would eventually be incorporated into the Komutkan Army's new project...

After several successful raids across the region, the cause had uncovered technology as well as schematics describing the implementation of cybernetic implantation in extensive detail. Thus, the Komutkan began engineering microchips that acted to shut down specific areas of the brain linked to an individual's emotional processing.

This was offered to Ekwueme, who refused it after claiming that he was already "removed from my own body." And so, the army proceeded to work with Ekwueme as he led his own troops into multiple skirmishes and repeatedly sustained grievous injuries.

As he lost extremities, digits, and entire muscle groups, Ekwueme felt he no longer had a choice and accepted both cybernetic replacements and a microchip that completely shut off his reception to pain while enhancing his stamina. He'd advanced from child soldier to a chief proponent of the cause, and, one day, he avenged his family at last by personally executing the Section Leader as well as the commander who'd ordered the raid which altered the course of his destiny.

In the end, Ekwueme discovered that he could pursue a more rewarding venture by journeying to more established civilizations far removed from tribal squabbles; he progressed onward in life to create a private "business" of his own.

Ekwueme accomplished this by choosing his best warriors from amongst those of the Komutkan who'd pledged full allegiance to him and, in turn, planned the ambush and sacking of a Citadel merchant cruiser which often visited one of the major towns in the dominion for trade reasons.

He managed to successfully claim the vessel and began constructing his legacy in the Lower-City before upgrading his operation to meet the needs of the Mid-City population. The Komutkan Army was later annihilated by another, more formidable opposing legion which had formed in response to their lessening power—completely erasing all past ties Ekwueme had possessed to his old homestead.

Ekwueme swiftly rose to be the most dangerous kingpin in Zone D, as no one had expected his sudden arrival nor his remarkable strength. The small collective known as the High Risers found themselves at his mercy after he'd forced out other competition and plotted a complete monopoly of the Zone's underground market, a strategy he trusted would make him nearly impervious to ruin.

There was one more milestone for him to reach and overcome in order to propel his organization beyond simple notoriety and into a position of power within the Citadel. He desired a seat beyond the influence of the Law itself.

But first, Ekwueme planned to live up to his name.

If he wanted someone dead, it was dishonorable to order someone else to do the dirty work. He'd found himself falling into the habit of delegating his henchman to complete all tasks for him, and so, for once, and after a prolonged period of staying out of the action, the Kijivu Tribe's warlord took to the front lines.
10

Never Catch Me

-

Janelle

-

EKWUEME PATIENTLY COMPOSED HIMSELF ON the highest floor of a building overlooking the church, peering through the lens of a Blazer R93 Tactical Sniper Rifle at Tavon, Isaac, and the boy.

He fired his first round.

Isaac's son collapsed to the ground, limp and fading fast from the world. Ekwueme merely adjusted his sights to rest on the stunned figure of Tavon and prepared to take the next shot:

Focus. Take your time...

His body shook somewhat as he attempted to steady his aim once more.

Fir—!

Tavon was gone. It was as if the wind had carried him away in less than a second's time.

"My god." Ekwueme exclaimed. "Am I losing my mind or did this man—did he jus—"

A thunderous crash resounded on the lowest floor of the building, and it was followed by swift, heavy footsteps!

"Whoever you are—oh, man. I'm on my way!" Tavon's shouting echoed up the stairwell leading to the room.

"An easy problem to solve." Ekwueme disassembled his rifle and carefully placed its components into a large, black suitcase that he'd brought along. He drew out the parts of another weapon: a Masamune ML-4 grenade launcher he'd recently acquired. Demonstrating incredible dexterity, Ekwueme assembled the weapon system and backed toward an exit to his right; he eased it open by pressing on the wooden body of the door with the back of his heel and slung the suitcase to hang off his back. Following that, he loaded a round before taking the time to concentrate as the footsteps grew ever closer.

Just as Tavon seemed to have arrived at the door, he stopped moving, and not another sound was heard. Ekwueme raised an eyebrow and thought, what is he doing? Idiot!

He watched the door closely, awaiting any further movement, but it began to feel too prolonged; he grew impatient with his new prey.

"What are you waiting for?" he shouted. "I think I understand: Yes. You're too much of a coward to face another man whose back's not turned to you, eh? Don't be afraid, Mr. Tavon. I'll make things very quick, for my aim is always precise."

Tavon lay crouched by the door with the small shard of a mirror in his hand. The opening was cracked enough for him to view the reflection of Ekwueme aiming the weapon in his direction.

Reckless. Kind of simple—gets the job done, but it's still reckless. This guy's insane, Tavon patiently thought to himself.

Ekwueme shouted: "HURRY UP, MR—"

The door creaked, and Ekwueme pulled the trigger while he pivoted on his right foot to rotate toward a path leading into scaffolding that had been structured around several incomplete brick buildings.

He sprinted up a flight of metallic stairs just as a large explosion erupted behind him and managed to draw the attention of those passing by on the lower streets.

Ekwueme flinched as a chunk of debris barely missed his ear and crashed into the ground nearby. He traveled up another set of stairs to the east and then turned left onto a narrow walkway bearing rusted guard rails as well as several holes dotted throughout the flooring.

He hurried forward and tried to quiet his movements while avoiding the interest of an increasing number of spectators.

I've made a risky move this time... but it cannot be trusted that one like him would die when they should. Too stubborn. He's the type to haunt.

The walkway brought him to an open entrance which revealed a spacious room that consisted only of a slab of concrete flooring; it was covered in dust that he dispersed through the air as Ekwueme continued to distance himself from the scene.

After an explosion like that, they'll send the authorities to survey from above.

Ekwueme moved toward the northeast and forced open a rusted, metallic door to proceed up another flight of stairs leading to a rooftop. He reached its heights to find two non-functioning cruisers that had been left to rot there some time ago. Ekwueme sprinted to the edge of the open area and leapt down and onto the top of the next complex. He completed a combat roll before hurtling over a ventilation duct only to clumsily fall through a patch in the ceiling!

Ekwueme gasped and crashed into another floor that was so weakened by the impact it also collapsed. He fell into a room that had been made livable by one of the squatters in the D Projects. The machinery in his right knee issued a static noise, but he ignored it and used the muscles in his abdomen to spring onto his feet.

An unkempt and half-naked man confronted Ekwueme; the inhabitant had put on a record that played the song, "Never Catch Me." Ekwueme aimed his brass-knuckled hand at the squatter and exposed a small barrel protruding from the contraption!

The barrel fumed with barely much of a sound as a bullet soared into the man's skull! Ekwueme quickly gained his bearings and charged through the open doorway in the room. He pressed his back against the adjacent wall and then peered to his left to see a short, empty hallway that wound into a dead end. Feeling his concentration come to its peak, he rapidly rolled his body to the right and in a one-eighty that brought his firearm to face down the path he hadn't inspected.

An addict looked up from her needle and didn't have time to react as she was quickly disposed of in a flurry of bullets.

Ahead of him lurked an old elevator, which Ekwueme lunged toward with ferocious speed as he heard more visitors congregating in the stairwell outside of the area. Once inside, he scanned a barrage of broken numbers and buttons to find one that would take him down to the first floor. From there, he could escape into the depths of the Citadel and set up a rendezvous point with his soldiers that wouldn't appear too suspicious.

Ekwueme tightened his clothing in a manner that would better conceal the brass contraption engulfing his upper body. Whereas Magellan's device was an external invention he could take on and off, Ekwueme possessed a prototype which had been fused to his body.

While peering at the elevator panel from the inside, he activated a button that appeared to be a downward arrow and waited while pondering his next move.

An old cellular phone in his pocket rang. He rejected the call and began typing in the pass code to his device to see who'd tried to contact him...

The elevator doors suddenly opened.

It took me up instead!

Tavon was leaning against a cement wall adjacent to the metallic door panels; he smiled and walked closer to stand confidently before his target.

Ekwueme didn't skip a beat and raised his arm to fire.

Tavon reacted by darting under his sights. He forced his open palm upward into the underside of his opponent's bicep as a bullet thundered out. He felt a blunt resistance but continued to sweep under Ekwueme's right leg with his other arm to grasp behind the bend of his knee! Tavon alternated his grip, moving his left arm to secure a hold around the man's back before stepping forward first and subsequently leaning back on his heels as he threw his enemy over him!

Ekwueme collided with the roof, causing a dent where he'd landed. He scurried to his knees in shock and was taken by surprise even more so once he came to his feet.

Tavon stepped around him just as Ekwueme recovered and took hold of the suitcase affixed to the crime lord's back. He flexed and uttered a loud grunt as he spun, using the suitcase as leverage, and threw his target against a series of air ducts. Three broke open as Ekwueme's chest smashed into cold, brittle material.

In a sudden fury, Ekwueme leapt to his feet and used both hands to fire round after round at Tavon in a rapid succession!

Tavon sidestepped and dashed before tucking into a roll that brought him nearer to his target. He rushed forward in a half crouch, then he came up and used his body's momentum to focus a forward uppercut into the chest-plate of Ekwueme's body armor.

With his energy entirely focused on that one strike, contact broke the once sturdy plate, and Ekwueme staggered back, spitting in contempt: "Disrespectful scum!"

The hatred expressed by his glare bore into Tavon.

"Don't tell me that you've already reached your limit?" Tavon scratched his head and scoffed. "As much as I'd like to get back at you, you're making this way too easy."

Ekwueme snorted. "I knew you weren't normal the moment we met!–I've seen that look before!" He appeared solemn. "But it doesn't matter; I'll finish this contract."

Ekwueme began removing his broken body armor, which collapsed to the ground with a heavy thud.

"High Rise was my problem to begin with. No need to waste time putting one of my soldiers in danger of being arrested for a fool like that!

"Where I was born, disagreements meant bloodshed. It proved difficult to catch him alone... Besides..." He untied and removed his beret to reveal a short haircut partially divided by a wide scar that dominated his scalp. "When it comes to mosquitoes like that, it's much simple for Angelos to send a lackey to handle it."

Ekwueme removed his top, exposing a gash across his abdomen made by the chest-plate having broken inward from Tavon's previous attack.

"The High Risers were still fond of the bug. Involvement in his death couldn't be made too obvious. Either way, sir,"—he smiled cheekily at Tavon, "I've always been true to the words I speak." His eyes glowed with the fire fueled by his spirit. "Angelos took too much time, and I would ensure the job was done at the risk of losing the High Risers' loyalty, but you arrived at the perfect time. So convenient."

"What are you talking about?"

"I have a scapegoat now! A treacherous 'Angelos Henchman' killing their old leader! It's reasonable, don't you think?"

Tavon sneered. "All that money but no time for a dentist... it's a shame."

His opponent scowled, but Tavon continued taunting him, "Maybe you wouldn't be so angry if you brushed your teet—"

Ekwueme sprinted toward the assassin and assaulted with a wide hook!

Demonstrating incredible reflexes, Tavon ducked and moved his forearm under and inside of the attack to speedily push his opponent's fist back out and to the right. At the same time, a bullet fired off from the deflected arm, and Tavon stepped in to launch a strong punch into Ekwueme's solar plexus.

He felt his extremity virtually rebound back against his enemy's toughened skin and quickly lost his balance. Tavon's surprise had taken him off guard completely, and Ekwueme pulled off his next move because of it. He turned and shot Tavon in his shoulder!

Tavon cried out in agony and tried to cover what were now large puncture wounds made from both the entry and exit of the round's trajectory. He then managed to recover enough to step into the battle once more and stubbornly launched a more powerful strike at the same area—

But Ekwueme deflected it. He followed up rapidly by bringing his other balled fist down onto his opponent's injured shoulder. Tavon cringed from the pain and spotted another strike coming his way in the same instant!

Too slow! Fuck—

Tavon endured a heavy hit to the side of his head that sent his body sliding across the floor. He reacted promptly by stopping himself with his right hand and used the right side of his body to pivot and effect a hard kick into Ekwueme's right knee as the mob boss attempted to charge at him.

Tavon gasped and backed away as sparks burst from his opponent's damaged meniscus. He watched as Ekwueme narrowly avoided falling to the side and merely inquired:

"Trouble?"

"Synthetic kneecap." Ekwueme replied angrily. "The result of far too much running."

Ekwueme tried to sprint again but suddenly felt his right leg collapse underneath him. He allowed himself to fall forward but lifted his body to fire at Tavon, who'd been astonished upon witnessing the malfunction.

One of the bullets grazed Tavon's outer thigh as he rolled his body to the side and then rotated to compose himself. He rushed his opponent with an attack he believed would decide the final outcome.

Ekwueme fired at him once, but Tavon had already jumped and grasped both of his arms as he swung his torso back and brought his heel up to strike the man's chin!

The mob boss reeled back but swiftly turned to the side as Tavon's foot soared downward, just missing Ekwueme's forehead, and broke through the roof's infrastructure. This, in effect, caused the assassin to remain stuck in place. Instead of freeing himself, Tavon drew a pistol without hesitation and began firing at the crime lord, who yelled incomprehensibly with little time to act.

Bullets hit and barely pierced the modified body of Ekwueme, who laughed before Tavon became frustrated and unexpectedly tossed his gun, striking Ekwueme's chin.

Tavon forced his foot through the roof and retrieved a piece of debris that he then hurled at his target. The chunk collided with his enemy; it temporarily buried its way partly into Ekwueme's chest before falling, and he found himself stunned as Tavon continued with his relentless assault.

Tavon summoned his energy and channeled a dark river that flowed through him. He slightly expanded his arms as he began punching his opponent with greater speed while overtaken by blind rage.

This time, every strike forced Ekwueme backward as Tavon's fists rained down. Realizing that further attacks might damage the hardware embedded in his makeup, Ekwueme tried blocking Tavon's blows with increasing accuracy. Upon noticing openings of his own and exploiting the assassin's growing exhaustion, he raised his left knee to strike at Tavon's abdomen, which put a hard stop to his fury.

Ekwueme used this remaining moment to mightily jab his opponent's face, twice.

Tavon struggled to keep himself from falling forward, blood streaming from his bottom lip, and raised his head only to view one of Ekwueme's barrels pointed at the bridge of his nose.

"Got you." Ekwueme said with a sly grin.

*Click*

His eyes grew wide in disbelief, and he attempted to fire again!

*Click*

Tavon sighed in relief.

I thought that was it for me.

Tavon's right arm expanded to three times its ordinary size and pulsated with renewed power. He swung up and straight into the jaw of Ekwueme, shattering teeth as his opponent's mouth partially cracked inward.

Ekwueme fell onto his ass and tried desperately to wipe the oozing blood from his mouth.

"D-devil!" He groaned. "I'll make you feel every injury twice over—I promise you this! Not even your family will be spared from my wrath!" Ekwueme struggled to return to his feet and stood again with crooked posture.

Tavon, however, closed the distance and sent a strong hook his way.

It was caught in place by his opponent! Tavon launched another strike with his opposing fist, which was caught as well—consecutively leading to Ekwueme using all his remaining strength so that he could toss the assassin off the edge of the building! Tavon battled against his opponent's incredible power and fought to maintain his stance before suddenly losing his own balance—but, in a last-ditch attempt to keep himself from being hurled to his death, he forced his knee toward his target's exposed stomach.

Despite his agile reaction, Tavon's attack was blocked as Ekwueme raised his right leg to shield himself. Seeing a new opportunity, Tavon forced his strength into his lower body and issued a series of kicks into Ekwueme's damaged knee joint. An electrical spark was abruptly released through his torn skin, and Ekwueme let go of his enemy as he tripped and fell onto the ground!

"You're finished." Tavon said in a more serious tone. "By interfering in your own contract, you've exposed yourself as prey. You showed me where the real evil exists."

Tavon approached and glared contemptuously at his wounded target, fists clenched. He despised Ekwueme.

"Let's get this over with."

Just as Tavon took another step, Ekwueme hefted his arm to reveal a half-severed hand—

It exploded outward with energy that had been concentrated and localized! Tavon focused his residual power into a defensive posture, feeling for what was left of his black aura, and was struck square in the chest. He gasped desperately as he fell over and succumbed to wounds far graver than he'd anticipated...

His target brought himself to stand on his one functioning leg and began laughing hysterically.

"As I told you before, Tavon: it was wrong to shift responsibility to a lesser man. Some men were born into this world with the objective to conquer, to let people know their names." Ekwueme stood over the assassin. "I was meant to face a mighty challenger, and I'll admit that you had me going for a second. I haven't had to focus so hard in so many years!"

He grinned. "But I'm afraid you weren't ready. On this day, the strong has overcome the—"

Tavon grabbed the pistol he'd previously thrown and shot a round through Ekwueme's jugular.

The crime lord clutched at his throat, and the sound of scraping metal screeched through the skies as Ekwueme's complex circuitry began to fail him. He choked as a profuse amount of blood spurted from his hand while he applied as much pressure as he could to the wound. Pain flooded his body, and arcs of electricity protruded and flickered out as whip-like appendages that escaped his twitching body.

Ekwueme came to his senses, feeling keenly that his blood had become acidic, and noticed far too late that Tavon had placed his palm against the flat plane of his chest.

Surrounding Tavon was a faint, dark outline. It glowed over an embered radiance somewhat diminished by eyes which shone as two blackened spheres that pierced Ekwueme and rendered personal judgment.

The ground around them shook violently; an unstoppable projection sprung from Tavon's hand that abruptly sheared its way through most of the skin on the right side of Ekwueme's torso, blasting him back as he soared toward the ground.

Enveloped in the darkness, Tavon smiled at his target.

"You shouldn't have stopped so soon. You might've won."

Ekwueme began retching. When he reached for his chest, the realization dawned on him that a wide fissure had been blasted through his upper abdomen...

Tavon's smile disappeared, and a dark fog, summoned anew, obscured his eyes; he grabbed Ekwueme by his bleeding neck and, with impressive strength, held him aloft over the edge of the Zone D Projects.

"Ask me for forgiveness. ASK me!" Tavon trembled as black flames erupted in his wake. He felt enraged at the demise of both Isaac and his son.

Ekwueme couldn't breathe; in fact, he could hardly speak. It had been such a long time since he'd felt...

Weak.

"What's wrong, huh? You can't man up to what you did?" Tavon refused to accept his silence. "You killed a kid! You shot someone just because you could—not because you had to! This shit... you deserve this."

-

Ekwueme remembered the Komutkan Section Leader strangling him; he could still see his mother's body burning behind the older man's wicked grin, with his rotted teeth bared shamelessly...

He remembered his ascension, tying the Section Leader upside down and alongside his family. He made the Section Leader watch as he decapitated his daughter and lover and fed them to a group of ravenous boars.

He remembered capturing the commander who'd taken him in and removing his eyes, ears, teeth, tongue, and limbs individually and on select occasions. Ekwueme then left the man to bleed out in his own bed.

He remembered that his wrath was all-consuming...

-

In Ekwueme's eyes, Tavon could see a grimy, dreadful ocean.

Ekwueme forced himself to speak through an outpouring of blood:

"I... d-don't... apologize..."

His eyes became hardened, fierce. With the last of his available effort, Ekwueme choked out:

"BITCH!"

Tavon sighed, and then he simply let go.

He didn't bother watching him fall; Ekwueme's body crashed into a parked cruiser before emitting what could've been considered a death knell made from the broken hardware that held him together.

"Forgive me, Isaac..." Tavon said under his breath and hurried to escape the scene.

-

Sky-bound vehicles cruised by on a web of several interconnected highways; the sun hung suspended above the world, and the wind clustered into an intensified, rhythmic breeze. On a nearby street, a group of Kijivu Tribe members lounged on a wooden bench while staring sullenly at the ground and focusing on the amount, on how much the next re-up would leave them short.

A stranger sauntered up to the group and asked an unheard question; one of the men extended his palm before offering him nothing but an expectant glance. The stranger handed him a wad of cash, and the man on the bench pointed to a distant spot around the corner of the street where the newcomer could pick up the product, where he could satisfy his need for a fix...

The cycle perpetuated itself, but an outside influence decided to change things. Forever.

In the distance, the group watched as a severely battered figure steadily made its way over to them. Magellan scrambled to get to his feet; the rest of his crew became just as alert and stared at the stranger in bewilderment.

"Is that...?"

Tavon approached, covered in a multitude of wounds he'd poorly hid from the prior bout. His clothes were stained with both blood as well as faint gunpowder residue, and he moved carefully, as if walking caused him a tremendous amount of effort.

He looked at Magellan with an unblinking, thousand-yard stare as he drew ever closer...

Magellan felt a sense of uncertainty overwhelm him. He retrieved his bat while signaling for the rest of the Tribe to prepare for combat. And, from where he stood, he felt an abnormal increase in the surrounding temperature.

I can't be nervous right now, can I? We outnumber this fool.

"Well, he's got some nerve. I'mma give him that." L exclaimed, "Notice how he's eyeing you? We should lay his ass out, right?"

Magellan brushed him off. "Not yet." He turned to address Tavon:

"The fuck you want this time, dumbass? Come back to start stalkin' other fiends now?"

Tavon extended his arm.

He slapped Magellan, and the Lieutenant collapsed against the bench; it caved in under the pressure of his weight.

"Get him!" L exclaimed and rushed the assassin. He awkwardly thrusted his bowie knife at Tavon's gut.

They fight like amateurs. No wonder Ekwueme had the upper hand.

Tavon smoothly but swiftly forced the knife away from L's grasp by twisting the gang member's wrist. Once he had control of the knife, Tavon pushed off from his left foot and knocked L unconscious with his right fist.

Tavon, resisting the severity of his wounds as they started to heal, tucked in the fingertips of his hand to rest against their lowest corresponding knuckles and extended his palm to replicate the Long-Fist Style taught to him by a past mentor.

Before Kay could obtain a clear shot that wouldn't wound L, Tavon struck her in the temple. Kay hadn't hit the ground yet, and he was already lunging toward Nathan. With two hands, Tavon pivoted Nathan's handgun in the exact moment in which he'd fired it—which accidentally led to Nathan grazing his own shoulder.

As the older Tribe member cursed from the pain, Tavon stole the glock and quickly struck him with the butt of the firearm, shattering his septum and muffling Nathan's groans as blood welled from fractured bone that was barely exposed through gashed skin.

"Get down!" Tavon ordered and cycled his aim between each combatant.

Nathan surrendered and began to rest on his knees, shielding his face from further injury and appearing frightened.

Tavon was aware of the numerous eyes fixed on him; there were more gunners prepared to end his life if he tried to go through with actually killing any of them. Small squabbles were common, but murder was considered an act of war.

Regardless, he decided that he didn't care.

Tavon moved to Magellan's position and lifted him by the collar of his shirt, as he'd done their former boss, and shoved the barrel of the glock into his cheekbone.

"Listen," Tavon spoke nonchalantly, his mind taking a backseat to an unstoppable surge of adrenaline. "High Rise didn't betray you."

Black flames outlined his body, and the Kijivu were left speechless in the presence of them.

Tavon shook his head. "No. That's just not how it is. There was a third party, Ekwueme. He manipulated you. He convinced you to abandon High Rise—"

"I didn't aba—"

"Shut up!" Tavon exclaimed and whipped the firearm across Magellan's jaw, bringing the man to his knees.

"When he needed you—no... When your leader needed you, you let him down. Why? He made you, and you let him down. Tch."

Magellan slouched over in resignation. "Yeah, man... I got it."

"I don't think you do." Tavon glared at him with eyes turned completely black. "Maybe I need to do more to make you understand—"

"No!" Magellan pleaded. "Not again, I'm good—I'm good! We know you ain't fuckin' around!" Magellan quickly perked up while nodding.

"Your brothers and sisters are all you've got. The way you treated someone who'd lost everything was... disrespectful. Isaac could've been saved with your help." A vindictive rage burned inside of Tavon. "You could've stopped it..."

I'm blaming them. It's my fault, but I'm blaming them.

"You were too busy dreaming about the next big deal, the next person you had to suck up to. You punished others who weren't as strong as you; you'll turn into Rise if you keep going this way."

"What do you mean?"

I'm wasting my time...

"Alone." Tavon patiently explained: "Ekwueme exploited your weaknesses to suit his own needs. Get it now?"

"I do..." Magellan's eyes peered off into the distance, "... I—"

L stalked Tavon from behind, knife in hand.

"L!" Magellan halted the other gang member with a desperate gaze. "Enough! He's not gonna kill anybody."

Tavon glanced at the younger member for a moment before turning back to their leader. "Ekwueme's dead, by the way."

Magellan looked to him in astonishment. "That's impossible; he was built to be a motherfuckin' war machine! Nothing could kill him."

"Magellan," L sneered, "this dude's bullshittin', yo. Bet he won't get so lucky in a second round!"

"No!" Magellan barked at him. "Don't even think about it; brother,"—his eyes widened—"this one's different."

Tavon retrieved Ekwueme's folded up beret from his pocket and threw it on the ground next to Magellan.

"He's not coming back. And now, I nominate you as the de facto leader of the Kijivu Tribe... someone has to carry on Isaac's legacy. Understand?"

Tavon backed away from Magellan, who responded: "I hear what you're saying, brother, but... really? Ekwueme? Damn." He exhaled hard.

"Forget my face. I did you a favor today, Kijivu. Remember what I told you," Tavon said firmly, "or I'll change up your leadership again."

Tavon turned his back to the crew and proceeded on his way without another word.

Kay and Nathan had recovered slightly and stood to aim their weapons at his back, but Magellan stepped in to calm them. "He killed Ekwueme," he said, "for us."

I'm in a bad way, but Brock can help. I'm not sure I can make this date—but...

Aaliyah.

11

Distant Land

-

Janelle

-

AFTER THE FIRST RIFT, THOSE TENDING TO mass grave sites struggled against an overflow of fatalities, fatalities that resulted from chaos which would persist for centuries. The ensuing struggle for survival against the invasion produced untold quantities of corpses outnumbering death tolls from any prior conflict or major epidemic in human history. There remained little in the way of resources for properly housing multitudes of human carcasses—the ones which hadn't been eaten, of course.

Civilization had fallen, or, I should say, the Old World had fallen. Those handling the deceased experienced a more significant level of dread, an intangible sorrow that permeated fields having been tilled to form immense cemeteries; each great field stood as a testament to the apocalypse.

It is said that the awful smell kept those who tended to the dead from being detected by malicious, otherworldly beings, and, in a sense, their duties protected them from the madness of the New World. Despite this, the chagrin they endured from working with lifeless forms day and night attracted a strange god.

Perhaps it was a faceless entity who traveled wherever it desired, a wandering god whose attention was suddenly drawn to these individuals in particular. The god's nature was kept elusive while It orchestrated a system to transport the souls of the dead, who emerged as lost spirits scattered throughout the universe and crying for an ethereal guide to bring them peace.

Not long after, those chosen shifted into strange beings not unlike the invading demons. The unknown god transfigured a large majority of them into a sentient species known as the Solace: sentinels that drifted through this world to embrace the dead...

Considered a legend by some and divine truth by others, the Solace are the closest in resemblance to classic depictions of angels. They fulfill two roles: patrolling the flow of time and carrying lost souls through time's dimensions. In their latter position, they manifest as reapers in popular imagination.

Despite the above description, the Solace, mostly sharing a singular mind, do not reveal themselves as one would think; rather, they take on the guise of humble humans often garbed in conventional clothing relevant to the chosen time period. They walk among us with few seeing what they truly are simply because few humans possess the knowledge necessary to comprehend their Forms. Many believed that in order to view a Solace for what it was, a deeper secret was required, and obtaining this treasure was an arduous and often suicidal task.

If anyone were to witness the genuine appearance of a Solace, the sight of such a thing could harm them permanently.

-

When I approached the truck driven by my husband, I witnessed something of similar nature to the harvesters of the lost.

The top half of the window on his side had been shattered, and glass shards had impaled my husband's thigh. What I witnessed changed me forever in a way that couldn't be reverted... it blackened my vision of the universe.

Something was eating him.

He kept screaming for help, struggling for his life—but I couldn't move my body; I couldn't do anything.

"Janelle!" His eyes bore into me with desperation.

We were both trapped inside our own terror. I didn't understand how this could be real.

"Please! Help me, Janelle! —HELP ME!"

I remained there, shaking and watching helplessly. I heard a raspy growl; something actively tore through the driver's seat. I was so afraid, and the worst part of it all was that I couldn't see what It was.

I couldn't tear my eyes away, and I believed I'd submitted to the Insanity. Then, I saw a pair of smaller legs laying lifeless against a backseat drenched in bright blood, surrounded by pieces of... organs.

Those legs connected to a maimed, headless body that had attempted to bury itself underneath the front passenger seat in defense. Next to them, I saw my son's face; I saw emptied sockets directed toward the ceiling with a horrified gasp still clear and written across it.

An unseeable creature was devouring my family, and I could only watch as bits of flesh disappeared into its invisible maul. It suddenly stopped and was silent for a moment; my body tensed... then I heard it utter a piercing scream.

I ran madly back to my vehicle and revved the engine once inside. Almost just as rapidly, the thing leapt onto the front windshield and shrieked loudly enough to all but stun me in place!

Panicking, I reacted by driving into the truck in hopes of possibly smashing the abomination against its rear.

My body lurched forward following the impact, and the monster responded by traveling to the roof of my car and beating on it with a series of ferocious and destructive blows. Above me, a series of deep dents created by its strikes formed in a halo around my head. It screeched one more time before loudly climbing its way down the rear windshield and stepping off altogether.

I waited there for what felt like ages. The tears hit me, and then I couldn't stop sobbing. Dr. Keung had destroyed my life, but I wasn't aware of this yet. All I could understand was that either I'd been hallucinating, or God had decided to purge the Earth.

I remembered reading in an old tome about a great Flood that destroyed everything, and all I could think was that we were experiencing a much more vicious repeat. I believed that witnessing my family's death was the worst event that could've happened that day, but the apocalypse of everything I'd ever known wasn't yet finished...

-

An hour later, I'd used what was left of my resolve to ascend the landscape and continued to climb a small but, nonetheless, unforgivingly steep mountain that offered a breathtaking view of the horizon over the ocean. What happened to the sunshine? I remember wondering this as I peered up at skies painted a shade of grey.

The universe was indifferent to my problems, my hopes... my dreams; the human race had been left to fend for itself against threats it didn't know how to cope with or even engage in battle. I watched as an ivory ship crossed the Pacific, possibly completely unaware of what had happened to the rest of society. Those on board were better off never reaching land if the rest of Earth was composed of the same dangers.

The yacht coursed through shimmering waters and echoed "Distant Land" from a bellowing sound system.

It ceased raining hail, and those strange twisters I'd viewed before had reduced in number. There were still colossal giants in the distance, appearing to carelessly demolish the ground below them and simply move without aim or purpose.

Some time after I'd finished sobbing over my husband and my beautiful, brilliant boy... I was granted the unexpected privilege of watching the End for myself:

A massive aerial craft flew directly over my head and toward the yacht. I watched helplessly as its shutter doors opened outward, and a large, oval object with a rectangular tail descended while still attached to the end of a slender, metallic beam.

In the time it took for me to realize what it was, that thing dropped from the aircraft, which altered its course and accelerated into the skies above to escape. The released warhead plummeted through what remained of my world before connecting with the yacht.

As soon as it made contact, my vision flashed white as a fiery cloud erupted from the ship; a powerful emanation tore through my eardrums. The quake that followed pushed me to the ground, and, as I struggled to stand, I witnessed as more of the same nuclear warheads were dropped from incoming forces around me. Vile explosives were released across the Earth and followed by enormous emissions, some manifesting in the image of mushroom clouds while nearly all produced a horrifically powerful sonance.

It was an event precipitated by a universal crisis: mankind's desperate and devastating response to the First Rift. The War of Reunification had come to a conclusion as major powers were divided; they panicked, deploying their vast arsenals against any force they perceived as hostile.

Everything humans had built was obliterated.

I continued gazing far into depths of the first huge mass as increasingly dense fallout hundreds of miles ahead began to form. It was already too late; I was damned.

Memories of making love to the man of my dreams filled my head. I thought about the day we were told we'd be having our first kid. It was after I'd fainted at my old job; I was so embarrassed that I'd let myself succumb to weakness. I thought more recently about our son just starting preschool for the first time...

And then, a scene burned into my mind of them in the truck. Faces. Casualties of GAIA.

I was able to do it now.

While standing over the edge of the cliff, I pressed the barrel of the gun I'd found earlier against my temple. I imagined my family beckoning me to come with them.

I decided my fate with a bullet that very day in the same way that others had before me. As I was momentarily granted a view from outside of my own body, I watched as it tumbled off the cliff and into the tide and was swept deep into the ocean amidst the destruction.

-

Fate has a peculiar way of arranging our lives.

Some look to a god or even pantheons to aid them in building individual paths, but often we're faced with so many obstacles to our goals that the journey to them can warp us and our own plans in various ways. The frustrations of the journey become one's destination.

I wasn't allowed to pass over like most.

Even though my physical body was gone, I continued my existence between worlds. Whatever god had afflicted those who worked with the dead had taken an interest in me, quite possibly because my misery was so great during that time that I managed to attract its attention.

This being gave me a new body as well as a new purpose:

I became one of the Solace.

In the past, I was known as Janelle. Now, I bear the same appearance as others like me. After the First Rift, I was sent to find and retrieve souls overly attached to their mundane existences. Souls with no identifiable corpses seeking remnants of their former lives. I tried desperately to find the souls belonging to my own family; I wanted to speak to them one last time, to apologize for not being the mother I had always believed I was.

However, after centuries passed me by, I'd accepted that they'd been taken long before I'd been made into a member of the Solace. I nurtured the frightened souls of sons and daughters who would never know the joys of driving their first cars or meeting their first loves or even earning their first paychecks; it was over before it had ever begun for them.

I met with the souls of the elderly, who'd accepted their fates or hadn't even realized that they'd passed away considering most days had become the same for them. Everyone I retrieved, no matter the age, I would try to reassure as much as I could, but for some it was too difficult to process my resemblance to other demons. Many of them couldn't recover from shock, becoming speechless and unable to move on their own. I resigned myself to silence in most of my later encounters and only answered what was asked of me by the stronger-willed souls; there were no secrets to keep once they'd crossed over.

I know of these blessings that were given unto me: extensive knowledge and the power to restrain anyone who would corrupt the path of a soul once gone from its physical body.

Several centuries passed, and I watched as the New World adjusted to decreasing levels of fallout. The Sun slowly expanded, and the solar system itself progressively aged with the Earth still intact, just as it had been in the past. Amazingly, humanity demonstrated impressive resiliency and thrived in small colonies while compelling themselves to grow against the odds. Although the number of souls I collected lessened by several million, I was able to watch civilization form itself once more while I visited Earth time and time again.

The world would never be the same, but humans seemed to find a way to survive no matter what occurred—even with foreign species evolving and developing their own cultures alongside them.

It was a new Earth with no prior history to draw from other than ancient artifacts left behind by previous civilizations. One particular set of artifacts happened to be records, CD's, and other formats containing music which existed from before the conflict between the Globalists and Isolationists. Among the popular music from that time period, mostly hip hop, soul, and jazz had survived as three major genres and as testaments to what those genres represented. While humans struggled to discover their place in an altered reality, they consistently relied on ancient artists to comfort them in their own personal endeavors.

During what's now considered the Reconstruction Period, human conflict was shared equally in the face of annihilation—and all contributed their efforts in surviving the times.

Hip hop was a muse to those raised from birth to understand how to defend their homesteads; it inspired strength in communities on the brink of war with monsters.

Soul music was a testament for those who longed for a time when food was no longer scarce and when people could finally come together without having to fight for their lives. Humanity had felt abandoned and despaired at the possibility of a bleak future. Only their faith in themselves could lead them.

Finally, Jazz was a calm mediator for those enduring the daily grind while supporting families and dreams waiting to be built in a new society that was contingent purely on hope and innovation.

It was music that spread across new History being written by those who evolved to survive all over the world, by those who no longer adhered to traditional governments but who'd had to fight and overcome every threat presented by the First Rift.

My name is Janelle, a Solace who walks among humans and other beings, wherever Death looms closest. This is the chronicling of the trials of Tavon, the one who inspired hope in me again.

This is the account of a man who defied the natural law in order to protect the ones he loved. He struggled against Death at the cost of everything, and he restored the faith I once had in people when I was still a human... a wife... a mother.

This is a story about determination, fortitude, and about a professional assassin who became known as the legendary Fist of Tau.

12

Inside Out

-

Janelle

-

AND THE NIGHT CONTINUED FOR TAVON, WHO returned to his home to receive medical treatment from his roommate, Brock, before he showered and changed into a suit. He'd strolled by a rather quiet Brock after getting dressed and felt zoned out as he did his best to prepare for his date with Aaliyah.

I have no idea what I'm doing.

"You good?" Brock looked over with concern.

Tavon didn't return his glance right away.

"Dead kid today." He shook his head.

"No shit?"

"Yeah. People do the same things to each other wherever they go."

"Is that why you can't hit the gym tonight?"

"Ha," Tavon scoffed in an attempt to appear less nervous. "I'm actually living up to my commitments for once."

"Aaliyah?" Brock raised an eyebrow.

Tavon checked his tie in the mirror and chuckled. "Who else?"

"You guys will be married faster than you can leave this damn city. Your dreams of making Officer are over once she starts taking up your time."

"You'd know better than anyone, wouldn't you?"

Tavon walked over to the television monitor for a closer look. Brock wasn't smiling anymore, however. "That's not funny," he said.

On the news, Executive Joel Petrus from Zone B was under indictment after attempting to pin the Zone's most recent trafficking incident on his own Vice Executive, which turned out to be a shortsighted effort to shift blame for general negligence. The Vice Executive had stepped down as a result; notwithstanding, the Dawn Federation demanded a trial of Executive Petrus that could see him incarcerated in the Citadel Prison for decades as punishment for ignoring his civil responsibilities.

He turned to Brock. "You sure you'll be okay here all alone?"

Brock sneered.

"Shut the fuck up. I'm as good as I can be."

Tavon already knew what the problem was, but he didn't press it.

"How's work?"

Brock moved into the kitchen and began cutting up various fruits to make a smoothie. "The Department's laying off its fucking manpower again, said it wasn't in the budget to have a bunch of staff without more advanced credentials."

Tavon turned off the television and went over to him. "They laid you off—you?"

"Don't act so surprised!" Brock laughed somewhat bitterly. "Zone A's going through cutbacks. If I wanted to keep the job, I'd need a mark from at least another year in a Zone Trade School... looks like being a veteran doesn't count for anything in this city."

"They think you'll be better qualified to work for them after... more classes? A few thousand dollars later or something like that, right?"

"Ha. Close enough," Brock responded, a hint of disappointment in his voice. "It doesn't help when everyone I work with is terrified of me."

Brock loomed over most men and was twice as wide as Tavon.

"The Citadel finally gets its shit kind of together after years and suddenly decides we need to take tips from old governments—you know, the ones that failed."

Brock had worked for several months as an entry-level paramedic for Zone A. The next highest position, known as Advanced Emergency Operative, was only available through a selection process following many hours of additional, federally-mandated training.

"I don't know what else you expect." Tavon put a comforting hand on his shoulder. Brock was one of the few companions he had left. "You've always been a mercenary, man. I think you should stick with what you know," he said and grinned deviously.

His friend sighed, despondent. "I can't spend my whole life behind a gun, Tavon... going into the field for months takes away any chance I could have of a normal life."

Brock's resolve strengthened; he said, "It ruined me once; I want to find something I can just... settle into, you know?"

Tavon grabbed his jacket and headed toward the door to the hallway. "You've got too much skill. Don't stop putting yourself out there; someone's going to need your abilities one day—just keep your head up."

-

Tavon departed from his condo and traveled down a hallway that belonged to the Angelos Association embassy in the Citadel. He entered an elevator and stopped at the third floor. Tavon exited to emerge in a dim, narrow passage. It echoed a collage of moans coupled with the ambience of several people speaking and laughing in the presence of one another.

Tavon knocked on a plain door to his right, which subsequently cracked open to reveal an older female who recognized him immediately.

"Good evening."

She smiled and allowed him to enter into a dark, quiet chamber that was lined with several private alcoves offering the resources to imbibe or inhale "company-approved" products. One section of the abode provided an escort service many lower agents made frequent use of once starting out in the business.

Tavon approached a masked clerk who was dressed in a silver skirt and bra and asked for "Tu'Zul," a substance widely distributed in a nameless country across a large river that divided Gaspul from neighboring territories. After receiving what appeared to be a golden, clumped substance presented in a bronze goblet, he took his seat in a private, inner room and layered the Tu'Zul inside the bowl of an aqua-hued water pipe. Tavon lit it with a spark generated from his unique ability to produce heat.

The assassins' club, known as Lake De Angelos, issued a seemingly nonstop marathon of acid jazz in the background. Tavon attempted to relax himself following the completion of his contract. "Inside Out" by Odyssey sounded from the speakers...

He'd lied to Brock to avoid being lectured about his drug use. Deaux Tut was a date only a few hours away, leaving him some time to get high and decompress.

He felt a fog come over him and creep through corners of his mind. The tension in his body slowly subsided but, in turn, withered into a softer, chilled sensation. Tavon sank low in a love seat the club provided for its many customers.

There were those in the Embassy who could be experiencing their last hours alive, depending on whether they were "working" tonight, and so Angelos decided to implement their assortment of benefits for all associates as generously as possible.

A scantily clad, attractive woman peeked in to check on him.

"Hi there! Is there anything else you'd like tonight?"

She winked. "Maybe someone's company, handsome...?"

Tavon considered it for a moment but brushed her away and barely managed to form the words, "No thank you."

Isaac's face refused to exit his conscious thought. He couldn't prevent himself from experiencing grief; feeling helpless, he allowed the Tu'Zul to commandeer his body.

None of it matters.

Tavon's thoughts became synchronized and changed to focus on the Executive soon to undergo trial: that someone could be so removed from a situation like that... how much does he know? Perhaps Aaliyah has a better understanding of it, but human trafficking as far up as the Mid-City? I wonder if anyone else knows I was involved...

Crime in the Citadel was always to be funneled, to be concentrated mostly at its lowest, most impoverished levels. The Lower-City's deepest slums were generally considered a population either in and out of the prison system or "irregulars" in the government nomenclature, meaning those unregistered officially as citizens.

Tavon reclined in his seat, feeling reminded that he was an irregular himself and realized that he'd never disclosed his story to anyone.

Everything I know... is it dangerous?

Before he was an ambitious assassin, he was a lost orphan. He'd earned a small reputation as just "T" when he was younger, but now he was unknown. Rising to the top of the ranks in Angelos meant less and less anonymity.

No one was supposed to know who Tavon was, but they would soon. He was just another soldier trained and hardened by the city and led the kind of lifestyle most couldn't cope with other than those who resided within his inner circle.

Tavon looked up a suitable taxi on his Kom Cell and decided to plan for the night.

-

Eventually, after lazily pulling himself together, Tavon arrived outside of Deaux Tut on time.

He'd cleaned up with more effort than ever as far as he could remember, and he'd gotten there early to grab a table for two. Deaux Tut contained a large escalator designed to carry passengers high into the atmosphere and halt before a set of grand glass doors that were complemented by gigantic braziers, each set in a large, perfectly symmetrical square in the following antechamber. From the ceiling, there hung orbs shining square baubles of blue and white reflected onto everyone present as it rotated in a disco-inspired fashion.

Tavon met with the hostess and was escorted into a section containing an elongated glass balcony which overlooked all of Zone A—widely considered the wealthiest Zone in the Mid-City. He was seated in a chair that was a combination of a couch and bar stool before positioning his elbows over an opaque table crafted from mirror fragments formed in the shape of an apple.

"Could you grab us both a water? —And lemme get a bottle of whatever your best wine is."

"Do you mean best as far as food critics' go or consumers' choice?"

He shrugged.

"You can surprise me." Tavon followed with a noncommittal smile, and the waitress turned to leave after placing a lit candle at the center of the table.

On the speakers above, he heard the sound of a xylophone being played lightly over a collage of steady, repetitive percussion beats. He then gazed out over Zone A for a while before receiving a text that simply read:

"Groovy job, brother."

Tavon searched through his recent logs and checked his contacts but couldn't find anyone whose information matched the anonymous sender. After a kill like that, someone had identified him.

He suddenly felt nervous, peered up, and—

There she was.

Aaliyah arrived in uniform: a dark blazer fitted over a dark button-up shirt complete with black pants.

Professional as ever.

Tavon stood up and, to her surprise, pulled out her seat.

"What?" She smiled and spoke calmly, "So, you know how to play gentleman?"

Tavon grinned abashedly, not quite sure of himself. "I'm just trying to do the right thing."

She's in a good mood at least. He sighed inwardly.

Tavon sat down just as the waitress returned and said to Aaliyah, "I-I didn't know what you wanted, so I ordered us both water and something extra."

The server was carrying two different bottles of wine. "So, again: there's the consumers' choice and the—"

"I told you that it doesn't matter." Tavon gave her an irritated look before pointing to the one she started to hold up on the right. "There, I guess. Maucleau-Siou."

Aaliyah frowned at Tavon but quickly recognized the same attitude she was known to give people after a long day.

The waitress looked slightly taken aback but continued as she poured them both a tall glass. "Have you all decided what you'd like?"

"We'll probably need a little more time." Tavon brushed her away. This time he decided he'd probably go with a seafood dish, considering what he'd ordered on his previous visit had mostly gone to waste following the loss of his appetite after the assassination.

I'm glad they don't remember me.

"Tell me something, T?" Aaliyah interrupted his train of thought.

"I'm sorry—what's wrong?"

"Nothing. It's just, yo, you feel like telling me where all this money's coming from?" Aaliyah asked with a smirk. "You're snazzy and cleaned up—for once! And you actually put time into choosing a place." Her smirk turned to a sly grin. "Maybe you're a better guy than I thought."

I've gotta go with something suitable for a training diet. Maybe.

"Let's just say that I've got my situation under control." He responded with a sense of pride.

"Game plan?" She raised an eyebrow. "Explain."

Tavon looked down for a second, took a drink, and cleared his throat before returning her gaze.

"I'm a contractor. I handle a lot of... 'private' problems for people."

Aaliyah laughed. "That's what you call it?" She rolled her eyes while taking a drink herself. "That's all you had to say, fool. No more detail than that—as long as you're not totally crazy and staying paid, then you're at least making the cut."

-

Aaliyah

-

Why is he hiding from me? Is he afraid? We're alike, but I don't think he sees it. Maybe he's stupid.

-

Janelle

-

"I'll take it as a compliment."

Tavon's consciousness faded out for brief period; an emptiness had begun to cloud his mind again and erased his present thoughts.

The waitress returned to take their orders.

Tavon leaned forward a little, feeling a sheen of sweat build along his back.

Isaac.

"How's work been for you?"

Aaliyah didn't skip a beat, as if she was expecting him to ask: "Same as it ever was, boy. They change everything around so much that one case ends up having damn near three to four different points of contact."

"What do you mean?"

Aaliyah's expression was grim. "I mean that these assholes had me assigned as the Lead Investigator on this trafficking shit right when it blew up all over the news in the Citadel. They were having me scout the location before they switched me over to another case without further notice—I mean, I can't fucking tell if it's because they don't want a newbie on this or I'm just not good enough at my damn job."

Tavon took her hands in his before saying warmly, confidently, "I think you're good enough. I don't know anyone like you."

An appetizer in the form of several portions of spiced, unleavened bread was brought to them, and Tavon changed his mind before ordering something new for himself. As Aaliyah thanked the server for copying down their requests, she continued her rant as if she'd known Tavon her entire life:

"They decided that I would do better partnered with a 'more responsible' senior officer—some dude who never shows up to work anyways! He thinks he can do whatever he wants since grabbing a little fame at the Bureau, and I can't make my boss work a case he won't choose to fucking work!"

She sighed. "I'm sorry for being so angry earlier... It's just that if things continue like for this for very much longer, I'll look even worse as a rookie—but if it gets handled and put away quietly, then that lazy punk takes the credit all for himself. It's some bureaucratic bullshit is what it is."

"Sounds rough." Tavon shook his head. "Overseeing and using all your work while doing nothing himself? Tch. What a loser."

"Uh huh—right." Aaliyah nodded firmly. "Sergeant Kaust, one of the big leagues at the Bureau."

"He can't be shit." Tavon replied indifferently.

She stared at him, manifesting invigorated interest. "Heh. I'm glad you didn't stand up for him and lecture me like everyone else has been..."

Her gaze returned to the spot on the wall she'd fixate on whenever she needed to remember a fact.

"I have to listen to him, but I don't have to like him. Kaust has the nerve to come in, show his face off to everybody, and then disappear to go do his own thing. You see, I pride myself on work that's complete. Consistent work."

"Like?"

Aaliyah groaned. "Like, give me a challenge—say, you want an intel summary finished before the day is over and accomplished in a specific way, then best believe I'll already be taking notes on how I'll get it done!

"I'm relentless, man, and that's how I've always played things—from beginning to end; it's real labor for real pay."

"I wouldn't know anything about making that kind of cash." Tavon winked at her.

Aaliyah shook her head in disappointment but continued, "I've always had trouble with people in charge. I'm too stubborn, you know... everything's gotta be set in just the right way."

"Your way?"

"Mhmm."

"I'm not one for bosses either."

"And yet you still make enough to take me out." Aaliyah rolled her eyes again and laughed. "Maybe I should get on your level, you know, stop caring like you do."

"No." Tavon replied sincerely. "You're okay where you're at," he paused, thinking of a good response, "—that's one thing I can say about you with confidence."

"Oh?"

I've gotta be careful with what I say next.

"I respect that you've worked hard, Aaliyah; you're not just a detective, you're pretty much the government's personal detective with drive like that."

Their food arrived within a couple of minutes after Tavon and Aaliyah had finished their drinks. Tavon's dish consisted of a blackened sea bass marinated in a tangy sauce and sprinkled generously with parmesan cheese. Aaliyah had ordered a traditional salad alongside a plate of chicken alfredo.

"Is there anything else I can help you with this evening?" The waitress inquired.

Tavon held up his empty glass. "Another bottle when you can."

After she'd left, Tavon decided to inquire further: "Tell me about this new case you're not getting any credit for—I mean, is it at least interesting?"

Aaliyah shrugged. "They've had us cleaning up corruption in the foster care system for a long time now. Just recently they found out about woman they suspect is selling and smuggling orphans but they needed someone to take charge and crack open an investigation."

"Sounds like you've got it made then." Tavon said, "Just throw on a detail of a few grunts to do the stalking work. Catch her in the act."

"If it were that easy, don't you think I would've done all of that by now?" Aaliyah looked irked. "No. We need a more personal approach, and that's why I need you for this one, Tavon."

"And here I thought we were just having dinner... What do I have to do with it? I'm not much when it comes to negotiations."

"Tavon, you came up in this city—"

"—So did you."

"But you know where to go and where not to go. That marks the difference between you and any other yuppie punk in this restaurant. Not only that—and I regret admitting this—but..." Aaliyah struggled to form her next sentence, "you're smart in your own stupid way; plus, I don't have to worry about anybody fucking with you."

"Perfect thug, right?"

"Tch. Thug or gentleman, I haven't decided yet. Oh!" Her eyes lit up. "And you don't talk about your life at all! I've been laying it all out for you and still nothin'."

Tavon chuckled before he responded, "It was rough, Aaliyah."

"No parents?"

"How could you tell?"

She rested her chin in her hands as she gazed into his eyes.

"Before I worked at the Dawn Bureau, I was assigned to helping orphans get processed through the Citadel childcare system. The Federation didn't used to care the way they do now—currently, documentation is everything, and those kids all have similar mannerisms to your own, like you carry a different wisdom than most people." Aaliyah said, smiling at him.

"I think most people would say I have the least amount of wisdom." He smiled back.

"I'd agree if I didn't know you better."

Her demeanor changed.

"But it's not true; after what we went through together, I can see why people would stay away from you."

"That's a little harsh." Tavon scratched at the back of his head.

She smirked. "I didn't mean that in a bad way, necessarily. You're just... a dangerous person." Her voice lowered. "But I like it."

"Yea—wait, what?"

"Nothing," Aaliyah blushed. "Never mind. We should get out of here; screw desert."

"And go where?"

There was that serious look in her eyes again.

"My place."

"Oh, really? That quick?"

"I told you," Aaliyah grabbed her purse. "I don't play games." She rapidly got up and walked away, stopping once to wave her keys up in the air in a gesture for him to follow.

Tavon paid the bill and left their server a large tip as his way of saying "thank you" to the universe.

13

The Chains Of Hell

-

Janelle

-

EXECUTIVE JOEL PETRUS OF ZONE B FELT HIS throat being crushed between the confines of a thick, slightly frayed rope. He struggled pathetically and then resigned himself to finally hang above the desk in his office while waiting to pass away from this world.

Suicide was his escape from professional disaster. He believed that his death was necessary, that the most honorable action he could take was to end his own life.

—And he would have, if not for the fact that the ceiling was only capable of supporting his body's weight were he but one pound lighter.

The rope holding Petrus tore away from the ceiling, and the Executive fell to the floor as the man issued a loud groan upon recovering his ability to speak.

"Y-you've... g-got to be kidding me." Petrus stuttered between coughs.

He vigorously rubbed his inflamed neck as he got to his feet and walked around the desk he'd stood on prior when preparing the noose. Executive Petrus unlocked a drawer where he kept a glass pipe with a round, enclosed circle at its end. His hands shook as he filled the bulb with crystalline matter before lighting it under a burner and inhaling deeply for a long time...

Petrus broke into a cough and dropped the pipe onto the carpet below before resting his head on his desk in misery.

It's over, he thought. My career is finished. A scandal this big making Citadel news...

Petrus was facing several charges, some of which he believed were most likely conjured as an attempt by his competitors to bring him to ruin. Zone A and C had rivaled B for years in terms of overall popularity and quality of life, but the trafficking incident had tipped the scales so heavily that officials, prior members of his house, were stripped of rank and scheduled to stand trial as accomplices to the crime.

The Vice Executive had been forced to resign, and his personal accountant was taken in for interrogation several days ago. It seemed as though everyone—Executive and below—was to be replaced in some manner or another. Petrus was already in the hands of the people, and the biggest question had to do with the indeterminable hold he'd placed on the remodeling project for the area surrounding the old hotel.

The Dawn Federation now wondered why, for so long, had an entire district of Zone B been vacated and placed out of commission. His secrets were being leaked much faster than he could respond.

The operation. Outside contributions. Foreign criminals acting on Federation soil... there's far too much in this. Petrus swore profusely, his anxiety building.

Genod & Portis had been the offspring of a syndicate originating in Gaspul that evolved into a terrorist cell. The Golden Generals were partners who'd created a fake business front in their home country while gathering the support of its constituents. Zone B was to be one of the first Zones to begin accepting immigrants from Gaspul, which had become something of a vassal to the Dawn Federation.

An investigation ordered by the Dawn Bureau could reveal a series of even more questionable connections, connections that, if found out, would ultimately lead to Petrus being incarcerated near the lowest level of the Citadel Prison.

His body began to convulse as the kiine's effects became more and more pronounced. He avoided closing his eyes, for it made him far too nauseous to focus on his own speculations.

The Executive of Zone B returned to a stand and recklessly stumbled over toward the trashcan on the far side of the room. He then tripped when experiencing a jolt that ran up his spine and vomited. Petrus fell back against the nearest wall and ran his hands through his hair while beginning to sob helplessly.

S-shit!

Maybe dad was right: I'm a junkie playing a politician. When I made Major, all he could say was: "You're lucky they never gave you a fuckin' drug test, kid. If they had, you'd be down here with the rest of us, like you were always supposed to be."

He erred by closing his eyes for a brief moment and suffered as his neck trembled violently in response. Once Petrus had peered to see what was in front of him, he gasped after noticing that the walls were slowly transforming into a series of undulating, pale canvases.

Before the Executive, two legs suddenly emerged from the moving panels and were followed by a familiar face baring an agonized, pitiable expression. The rest of the figure appeared adorned in a wedding dress that was torn down the middle.

Petrus froze in dread upon recognizing her.

"One more year!" she cried while glaring at him with a scowl of disbelief. "You said, 'one more year!'" The outline of her head weakened and wavered.

Without warning, there was a thunderous noise that came from the door to the Executive's office.

The woman screamed: "Another year as Major, and then we'd start our life. We'd be happy—no more stress, no more campaigning, just one more year, Joel!"

"What? Elizabeth!" The Executive's eyes opened wide in panic.

The walls to the right of the ghoul suddenly grew distorted as another woman made her appearance. This one just so happened to be wearing black lingerie, and she quickly wrapped her arms around her lithe body and gazed at Petrus seductively.

"What's wrong, Joel?" She taunted him as she lowered her eyes to view her legs, brought them back up to meet his own, and winked. "Don't you want me? Don't you want to..." she casually began unbuckling her bra, "have me all over again?"

Someone was knocking on his door but with even more force, more determination!

The new woman looked at her counterpart and then stared at him with a smile of contempt.

"Don't worry."

Her haunted figure glided toward him; her skull lost form and bulged out into...

A vast, sinister abyss.

The entity bellowed: "This time I want her to watch."

The first woman fell to her knees and uttered a piercing wail. "Why would you do this to us?" She lamented. "I'm leaving you, Joel; I have to!"

Her sobbing lowered into a forlorn moan. "Was it worth it after everything we went through? Was she good—did she make you forget about me, about the family and life we planned together? —Was the whore worth it, Joel? Answer me, JOEL!"

Executive Petrus leveraged himself against the wall as if he were trying to escape through it. His whole body shook, and he screamed defensively: "Get the fuck away from me! Get the FUCK away from me—go away! Please!"

He dug his fingers deeply into his scalp and wept bitterly. "Please..." He cried amidst bouts of sobbing. "Please..."

"I'm so sorry, Liz..." Only his voice resonated throughout the room.

As if nothing had transpired, his private office returned to a deep, comforting silence. Petrus breathed heavily and curled tighter into himself as he sat propped against the wall.

It's over.

A few minutes passed. He noticed that the voices as well as the knocking had disappeared completely; he was safe now. With his head hanging heavy in his arms, Executive Petrus let his legs slide back out in front of him, and his body relaxed ever so slightly. He could feel himself coming down from his initial high, but the anxiety remained.

Oh, Avva, my goddess, I've got to stop. I can't keep doing this anymore—Liz... please forgive me. I'm so very sorry.

Petrus let out a great sigh and, with his eyes closed, released his head and allowed his neck to straighten against the wall. He then rubbed his face wearily and looked ahead once more—

—to see a black mask inches away from him. Plastic, beady eyes bored into him from behind a backing adorned with...

Charred flesh.

"Feel better?"

The Executive yelped and quickly leapt to his feet—

He keeled over once he felt a blunt object being rammed into his stomach.

Petrus fell to his knees and clutched his abdomen in agony.

"What," chuckled the trespasser. "you didn't hear me knocking? Too much kiine? —I smell the aroma, Executive."

Petrus looked into the barrel of a plaid, lavender and mauve pump-action shotgun owned by the cloaked stranger, too stunned to say a word. The intruder sighed in disappointment before casually strolling over to take his seat in the Executive's chair. He relaxed his mud-clad boots on the desk and placed his hands behind his head, exclaiming: "I broke your door."

"What?" He looked at the gaping depression where the knob had once been.

The stranger continued, "Now it's not really my style, but it's comfortable, Petrus; you've got some... interesting tastes on display here, pal!" From behind the mask, the folds of his skin creased into a half-smile.

Petrus clumsily rushed over to slam his hand down on the desk with authority, demanding: "Who are you? W-what are you doing here?"

In response, the stranger simply laughed and aimed the barrel at Petrus as the Executive backed away, turning immediately pale. The stranger's attitude changed. He was disgusted.

"Though I don't really need it, a gun can be just as persuasive as a nice suit and impeccable hygiene—OR finely-manicured hands. Let's just say I..." he paused then said, "believe in a better world."

He laid his weapon across the Executive's desk and clasped his hands together thoughtfully.

"By the way, who's 'Liz?'"

Petrus looked away bitterly. "No one... not anymore, at least."

"Is that so, Petrus? That's all you can give me after such a long trip?" The stranger pumped the firearm before forcefully setting it back down and clasping his hands together again.

"Well..." The Executive shook in terror as he struggled to speak.

"Right now, Petrus,"—the stranger leaned in closer and lowered his voice—"She's SOMEBODY, isn't she?" He nodded vigorously and ignored the Executive's attempts to respond. "I'll ask you again—but more slowly this time so you can comprehend what's about to happen to you: Who.

"Is." The trespasser's body was still, prepared to silence any resistance.

"Liz?"

Petrus exhaled heavily as his face was flooded crimson amidst pronounced stuttering. "She was my wife. She's gone—left after we were having some issues."

"Well shit, buddy." The stranger reclined back for a moment. "We've all been there, haven't we?"

Joel's tone became slightly more confident. "I wanted to campaign for Zone Executive; she wanted me to step down after being Major and help her build a day care using everything we'd saved. I was supposed to run it with her—a family business." He stared at the floor dejectedly.

"Adorable."

"..."

"What happened, Executive Petrus? Let me guess: you don't really like kids, do you? Didn't feel up to the task of taking care of toddlers at home and in the office?"

"No!" he yelled, feeling disoriented. "I don't have a problem with kids. I—I..."

"You what?" The stranger raised his head up, issuing a dominant look.

"I wasn't faithful."

He laughed.

"Why is it that all people in the Citadel are so like each other? I figured the government types would be more refined..." He glanced at Petrus again and said in dismay and more to himself, "You lack real Beauty.

"The way I understand it, the ambitious citizen is pushed onto a public pedestal, right, and he's supposed to chase delusions, grand strategies to be everyone's champion. It's a façade—but why won't you admit it, even now? A man like you, Petrus, you're in the same competition as the rest of them."

"I'm a public servant."

"But do you really think you can save them?"

He relaxed the weapon back and against his shoulder. "In the end, you weren't able to save your own family—much less yourself. I mean, Avva's fuckin' goodness, buddy!" He edged in closer. "Did you even try? Was it all just handed to you in the way it always goes—huh?" The intruder didn't skip a beat. "And what's this?"

He picked up the pipe Petrus had carelessly left out in the open.

"Don't tou—"

"Your piece" The stranger interrupted coyly. He turned toward the Executive while pocketing it. "We all have our vices, don't we. I knew you weren't exactly a righteous type of fellow, but a fiend as well? Tsk."

He stood up and paced around.

"Executive, what brought you so low in life? Some people become shells of themselves—and it's sometimes for the better. Others..." He shrugged.

"Look, j-just tell me what you want," pleaded Petrus.

The stranger didn't reply.

"What is it that you want from me?" Petrus strode closer. "Money, drugs, land—my job? You can have that, too, you freak bastard! You can be Major, Vice Executive—whatever gets you off. I'm done." He moved to get behind his desk, for he remembered having locked away a handgun in one of the lower drawers, but then he stopped for a moment to finish his rant.

"This career's destroyed my life. There's so much that goes on, and, once you've seen the shit we're in—once you know about what it means to live in the New World, it just eats you up inside. Ordinary citizens are blessed in not being aware of it, like I am."

Still nothing. The two of them stared at each other for a long time...

"What do you want?" Petrus brought his hands down on the table as his face turned a hue of bright scarlet. "Who the hell are you—a-am I fucking dead? Is that what this is?"

Without a moment's notice, the stranger leapt across the table and closed his hands around the Executive's neck. The two of them crashed to the ground with the trespasser positioned on top and screaming at Petrus as he forced the Executive to fight for his life:

"Who am I?" he exclaimed, "I'm your salvation, Petrus.

"I'm the only one standing between you and a brutal execution. If they knew what you were a part of—"

Petrus barely managed to choke out: "I-I'm... sorry—please..." He was losing his will to fight, to breathe.

Just as swiftly as he'd begun, the stranger ceased strangling Petrus and retired back to his seat in a calm, almost polite silence.

Petrus shuddered while attempting to recover and gazed at the intruder, who responded by cackling. The laugh relieved some hidden tension stored within the trespasser, as he was quite unstable.

"You made that so easy!"

He rested his masked face in his palm for a moment. "You really thought I was going to finish you off here."

Petrus was in disbelief. "You choked me, basta—!" He broke off into a cough.

The stranger suddenly leaned in and became serious. "You see, Petrus, buddy, right now, you belong to me and my quaint organization. I decide when you succeed, where you succeed, and even the day of your demise."

He breathed in and out for a second and placed his elbows on the table before interlocking his fingers. "I think it's time for us to discuss what's in our best interests here, Joel. Just hear me out."

"But you still haven't answered my question..." Joel was out of breath. "W-who are you?"

The masked man hesitated for a moment and began again, "You see, Big P, before new age religions started switching things up, adjusting to the average person's needs in life, mind you, there were mythologies back in the day—except to those people they weren't mythologies. They were what you and I think of as real truths about the world. Do you think you know what the Truth is?

"The serial killer, Strokai, always played the same role wherever he traveled, no matter what. I find that beautiful. He was known as one who pervaded—one who schemed by looking deep into the hearts of humans to draw out what was always there to begin with... right before he bit off vital parts of his victims."

The masked stranger sighed. "I think that's the only truth, Joel. Everything else... eh."

"I still don't know what you're fucking talking about, sir." Petrus offered him a blank expression.

"Executive," the stranger spoke more deliberately, "I am the one who reaches inside all; I bring out every subject's true nature, and that is part of the reason why I believe we were chosen to bring about a new age together.

"It's my calling in life to build a legacy that can effect change in the Citadel. I have a much more glorious vision of the Dawn Federation, Petrus. You should see me as a visionary, but, for professional reasons, you will refer to me only as 'Amour.' I'm an artist."

"But why would you help me?" Petrus scratched at a spot below his wrist.

"I'm not here to answer all of your questions, Executive. I'm here to tell you that, from now on, you will report to me—that you have a new master now. With my help, you can change the world."

"You're some sort of demon."

"Not at all." Amour sneered. "I'm who demons aspire to be! The man they tell their kids stories about, Petrus—"

"I don't understand..."

Amour was silent for a long time.

"This is not something you need to understand—that will come in time. Just know that your life belongs to me now, that you're getting a choice!" He pointed at Petrus. "You can comply, or you can refuse. But if you refuse, I think you know what has to happen next.

"You'll make the right choice—even if some of your past decisions were a little...." Amour took out the pipe to examine it. "You know... —Oh! And that reminds me!

"No more kiine. In fact, you won't be doing any drugs at all. Hell of a deal!"

"You can't be serious?"

"Oh, but I am." Amour stood up from the desk and folded his arms. "We have far too much work to do, and I'm going to need you to be in top shape! Which means..." He slammed his fist down on the pipe and shattered it across the desk surface.

Amour walked to stand before Petrus and said to him, "The Citadel, like everything else, is temporary, but your standing..." Amour nodded favorably. "We can change that. Make you into your most Perfect Self." He stood proudly. "But there is one more condition that must be met for you to become worthy, Petrus—and I mean really worthy, best buddy."

The Executive turned despondent; his eyes wandered off as he replied, "I've only regret. If you can take that away, I'm all ears."

"Why the fuck did you even need to say that? —You'll be courteously allowed the opportunity to escape the people's wrath if you follow through with the first task I'm giving you. It'll help you out a lot, I'm sure."

"What do you want someone like me to do, Amour? I'm being prosecuted! It's over for me."

From the inside of his cloak, Amour retrieved a dark, leather tome which had aged significantly. He handed it to Petrus but, before releasing his grasp of it completely, said to him, "Page seventy-eight, Joel.

"Don't you think you deserve a second chance?"

The Executive opened to the instructed portion of the text and noticed a small, rectangular object that had been sealed within a group of blank pages and covered with brown wrapping paper.

"What's this? Written gossip? Blackmail?" Joel appeared excited at the thought.

"A mirror."

Petrus looked at him quizzically as he carelessly tore away at the wrapping.

"Mirror?" He raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Why would this help anyone?"

"Joel," Amour responded patiently, "I want you to see what's in the mirror for yourself. What I'm about to tell you is quite serious, after all; it could easily mark the difference between success and failure." He paused. "I want you to look into the glass pane and tell me what you see—but, whatever you do, don't look into that place for too long..."

Executive Petrus felt nervous as he carefully took out a miniature mirror from its wrapping. Its black backside was facing up, and so he turned it over.

He screamed.

14

All Night Long

-

Tavon

-

MY TONGUE REVOLVES IN A SLOW, CONSTANT whirl inside of her. As she involuntarily bites down on her lower lip and tries to muffle her own moans, I speed up just a little, intensifying the movement.

My eyes stay closed. I move my lips upward in a light kiss and suck part of her in and allow the folds of skin to gently slide between my teeth. I hold her in a perpetual rhythm, pausing every now and then to allow my mouth to run itself across and appreciate every inch of what's become one of my favourite parts of Aaliyah.

She stops holding back and cries out as I take a break to appreciate her smooth thighs and then move back and begin all over again.

She's climaxing.

I lift her legs over my shoulders and anchor my hands behind her neck as she takes me inside her. We unite, this being our third time in this position; before I know it, my breathing's faster, and I feel myself start to come—a sensation that seems to last for an eternity and with a bright flame that sears through every painful memory.

The two of us gaze into each other's eyes for a moment, and then I kiss her, grateful for the release, before I let my body clumsily collapse on top of her. She doesn't mind and wraps her arms around me in a tight hug and chuckles like she's satisfied.

I can feel her lips press against my neck over and over again as I rest against her, feeling safe for the first time in ages. In one instant, any tension drains from my spirit; I didn't know I had one.

-

I don't know how much time has passed.

"You felt so good." Aaliyah whispers while running her hands through my hair.

I laugh a little but feel too exhausted to really communicate. "How many times did you—?"

"Enough." She kisses my head and says, jokingly, "But don't let that go to your head, lover boy." She looks thoughtful for a moment before she continues, "I think this is the first time I've seen you genuinely happy."

"This is the first time I've seen you not whine about something—"

"Shut the fuck up, boy; don't you ruin a good moment! I'll throw your ass out!"

-

Janelle

-

Tavon sat at the edge of Aaliyah's bed and stared forlornly out of the window in her bedroom as it commenced raining in Zone C. His body, drenched in sweat from the two of them, speedily dried thanks to the central air she had in her apartment, which was a rare amenity in the Mid-City. Some of his wounds from that day had reopened.

I'm bleeding. Did she just ignore it?

He turned to see Aaliyah looking at him with a desiring grin and squinted his eyes. "What?"

"Nothing." She snickered. "Am I not supposed to look at you?"

"I was thinking you had something important to say..."

Aaliyah shook her head in response but maintained her gaze. "Tch. My mouth ain't always running; it's just that you've got the darkest eyes—and, uh, you're all cut up, too."

Fuck.

"Sorry."

Although he usually healed within hours to a few days, his wounds had made themselves very apparent in that moment.

"Are 'dark eyes' a good thing?"

"They can be." She pressed her lips together. "I mean, there must be some reason you look so... so dismal. Like, all the time."

Tavon analyzed her without any emotion.

"Heh." Aaliyah stood up and said, "Here, let me get you a towel. Might as well get some bandages while I'm at it."

"I wouldn't want to get my blood on yo—"

"You already have." She glanced at him seriously and wandered off before she returned with gauze and a plush, white towel.

It astounded him that she could meet his gaze for so long without being afraid, that she didn't question what happened to him, but he felt comforted at the same time. After she'd finished dressing his injuries, Tavon sighed and moved his body over to prop himself against the headboard as he laid next to her.

Aaliyah appeared shocked and folded her arms, exclaiming: "Well, this is a change. I thought you'd just get up and leave like last time."

Tavon stared ahead emptily. "Do you want me to go?"

She looked down before glancing at him and answering confidently: "No. You'll stay this time."

A period of silence followed before Aaliyah spoke again to end it.

"Last time we were together... you threw me for a loop. After that night, I thought: man, I'll be damned if I ever let that raggedy scrub back into my place." She scoffed and crossed her ankles. "You walked back into my life like you'd always been there. To this day, I'll never forget that night:

"You hit me up to see if you could grab your stuff, and I told you that was fine. You came to me, and I guess I thought it might be a rude not to let you stay for a while and have a drink. One thing led to another and..." Her voice shook, and she fought back her own trembling.

Being close to anyone makes me vulnerable as an agent. I promised myself that I wouldn't be weak anymore.

"Look where we are now. You go at it like you haven't gotten any in a long time—I mean, shit." A guilty smile spread but disappeared just as rapidly as she went over the memory.

"You got dressed and barely said a thing. Wouldn't hardly speak to me until you were at the door, and I wanted to be pissed, but there was this... look on your face. Same look you've got now. It was like you'd just found out you'd lost something. You're such a—hey, are you okay?"

Aaliyah had turned her head in time to see a lone tear fall down Tavon's right cheek.

His expression remained as empty as ever, however, and he responded by saying to her, "Yeah. It's nothing."

Aaliyah pulled Tavon into her and held him tightly.

"Rough day, huh?"

Another tear accompanied the one before it as his eyes met hers. "I guess you could say that."

She kissed Tavon and hugged him again.

-

Tavon sat at a circular glass table in her living room and waited patiently as Aaliyah brought him a steaming cup of chamomile tea. She took a seat across from him with a cup of her own and continued to mostly carry the conversation.

"Growing up, I wanted to be a veterinarian.

"That's why I still tour the city. I try seekin' out different species and visiting any shelters they have left. I love animals, and I'd keep a pet around, but I'm always doing something for work or having to travel somewhere and ugh..." She sighed. "Sometimes it's nice to take a break."

Tavon finally spoke: "But if it wasn't for the Bureau, we would've never met."

"I still remember it... I still remember what you did on that day."

Aaliyah told their story, a tragic and violent first encounter.
15

The Dawn Bureau

-

Aaliyah

-

I WAS BEING SENT TO THE FIELD ON A CASE I thought was finally worthy of my talents, and I'll admit that I was pretty nervous, more nervous than I'd ever been in my life.

I spent three years at a Mid-City virtual university, then, after getting my Honorary in General Studies (HGS), I decided to get involved with Zone C's police. I still didn't know exactly what the best fit for somebody like me would be, but I wanted to be able to take action, to work my way through mad difficult situations. Zone C enlisted me at a higher rank, Public Enforcer-Bravo, because of my HGS.

Growing up had pitted me against rougher folk, people who never reflected on the consequences of their actions, moral or not.

And I suffered because of those bastards, so I decided to do something to fight back.

I wanted to be directly involved in the Citadel's War on Deviance because I'd felt like a victim my entire life until the day I put on that uniform and until the day I could shoot back.

It's because I didn't care about what everyone else thought that I rose through the ranks quickly, though I came in with a big mouth—which is exactly what you're not supposed to do. Afterwards, I interviewed to join the Bureau Academy's next class and royally pissed off all my colleagues at the Zone C police station. To them, it was a betrayal although they'd constantly tried to undermine me the entire time I served. I was a threat... but I enjoyed that status.

The Citadel, as you know, is divided into multiple jurisdictions and contains a branch for every section of government, but the Dawn Bureau is an entity that's outside of conventional law enforcement.

They're another of the old regime's unique spins on civilization. Bureau agents have near unlimited freedom to seek prosecution—to kick ass—and this has always created a rivalry between regular Zone police and Bureau agents who end up stigmatized as people who do whatever they want.

Within the Dawn Bureau, there are a reported twenty divisions—I'm not going to go over all of them, but I requested to be placed in either the Behavioral Management Division or Homicide. I was trying to explore a field I thought would be more unique, something to keep me from getting bored, you know? There was a shortage of agents at the time, and so they chose to train me so that I could learn the roles of both.

Behavioral Management focuses on whatever subtle psychological trends in the Citadel are harming the population, and they utilize specific agents in covert operations to conduct surveillance on government workers in the public sector. They track the workers' performance records and sometimes even step in where they shouldn't to censor new music or to close clubs that attract too many drug traffickers for good. We're overwhelmed with work right now, and, with President Derek entering retirement soon, our entire infrastructure's about to be changed to reflect "new leadership."

The Homicide Division is primarily issued cases that have either gone unsolved for too long by the efforts of local police, cases with high profile murders demanding extra attention, or cases that are simply too complex and require advanced tech that can't be legally used by ordinary police.

I was warned that working two different divisions would make my job a living hell and more than double the expectations of my performance; despite all the bullshit, though, the room for professional growth was worth it to me—not to mention I would go from my rank now, Corporal, to Sergeant in a shorter amount of time if my work for those departments was solid.

And so, against the advice of friends and what family I had left, I took on the challenge—

And then I found myself buried in mountains of paperwork, often spending lonely nights in the company of a cheap bottle of wine. I was officially a detective, but it felt like my life was over... until a Sergeant in Homicide broke a case way the hell open for us all and reminded us of why we served.

I remember a gathering of detectives huddled around what was supposed to be my new workspace and having some childish pissing contest to see who could come up with the best plan of action.

This next part stays with me:

The lead man, who'd done all the leg work and gotten the case approved by Lieutenant Shraeu, was ordered to stop everything he'd been working on and to prepare for a Review Board; if he rocked it, he'd make Sergeant within a month's time.

This guy was the point of contact behind a murder mystery that had invited the attention of the "Administrator" of the Bureau, someone we'd never met but who breathed down our necks using his messengers for a year.

In short, a Vice Executive in the Mid-City had been killed; someone hanged the body by its hands and left him tied to a bridge in Zone E.

His tongue had been removed along with his ears postmortem, and there was a bullet hole in his head as well as multiple stab wounds across his abdomen. It was a nasty sight, a scene that took up most media outlets around, but the Citadel government intervened and prevented any further spread of information following the incident.

The initial investigation turned out to be a total mess. We ended up with no real intelligence to go on, and the public made us look like a complete joke. I couldn't stand the thought of being incompetent and neither could anyone else in the Bureau, and so we decided to work with Zone E's police department to apply pressure on all known gangs in that sector.

Lieutenant Shraeu generally approved of nearly any method that would get someone—anyone, really, to talk about what had gone down. After all, the V.E.'s death had been surreal. A brutal murder on public display.

And, sure enough, a seventeen-year-old boy barged into the police station to confess to the murder, sending everybody into a frenzy. He was charged with manslaughter and put through a psych evaluation to determine if the attack had been deliberate or was the result of a mental illness.

What the Bureau did... what Shraeu allowed...

I'm still trying to understand his intentions, and, in my mind, I can't justify his actions.

We knew there was no evidence physically linking him, but stories emerged from Shraeu's office describing real bad myths about this kid. It's like they were all playing into some kind of fantasy about a disturbed youth-turned-killer, and it benefited agents to punish the culprit as quickly as possible.

Because of upper management's push to move on to other issues and their resulting impatience, the judge presiding over the case responded—after a little pressure from Zone E's Executive, of course—by sentencing the boy with the maximum allowable punishment: Death.

In a month's time, he was to be processed into the Citadel Prison and later executed by a firing squad with the possibility of appealing for lethal injection instead if he resided there on his best behavior. But the detective manning the case wasn't cool with how it'd turned out, and I honestly wouldn't have been either because the Bureau didn't do its job.

On his own time, this guy decided to visit the seventeen-year-old in prison and interviewed him.

To no surprise at all, he ended up learning that the boy had been ordered to help cover up the murder by confessing to the act himself. In return, his baby-mama and daughter would be taken care of for life; he could die knowing he'd done his part in providing for his family. Fool was trying to act noble...

With this information, the detective took down the names of some possible leads—and, while he didn't get information on the actual murderer, he found out the identities of several lieutenants in a gang vying for control of Zone E.

And get this: that same crew ended up having a few connections within the local police department, connections having kept its existence safe so that it could increase its manpower for over a decade.

By interviewing a kid who'd gotten cold feet when thinking too much about impending death, the investigator was informed of key provinces run by each lieutenant—areas, it turns out, that were intentionally ignored by cops who received an outside bump to their paychecks in return.

The detective divided his time between working his own cases and staking out those spots in a race to reopen a high-profile case and save an innocent kid's life. Not but a week after he'd done all that work, he managed to finally discover enough evidence that would make all the higher-ups lose their shit... while also acknowledging that the job hadn't been finished.

Meanwhile, the people we were chasing were more than ready to do in one of their own to survive the heat.

An older prostitute, who went by "Lulu," didn't exactly appreciate the way her handler paid her for her services. She'd suffered some hellish abuse at the hands of creeps and members of the mob, also, who thought it'd be smart for her to raise her prices for outsiders while making herself free to anyone happening to swing by her corner who was a part of their crew.

Lulu made the mistake of confiding in one of her girlfriends, and that girlfriend was the loyal lady of a lieutenant who'd started to feel paranoid at the notion that Lulu might try to snitch on their whole op.

As a result of info gathered from his previous interview, the detective trailed Lulu.

He didn't catch the perpetrator, but he did find her body strung up in the same way as the Vice Executive—but, instead of being hung, they just put her in a vacant building, her tongue and ears taken. Same cause of death with similar laceration wounds.

For a final move that would ensure his victory, the investigator tracked the other woman with whom Lulu had spoken. Though she'd reported Lulu's feelings to her boyfriend, the woman was stricken with guilt and was suddenly having second thoughts about her man and his associates. The investigator managed to obtain a testimony and even got her to agree to come in to speak to other agents; in turn, Lieutenant Shraeu was pissed. Dude spent hours screaming at his subordinate before bitterly congratulating him on a job well done.

That's when I entered the scene, a fresh face to put the final nail in the coffin.

-

Janelle

-

"Hold up one moment." Tavon said suddenly, looking up from his tea.

"What's the matter? It tastes off, doesn't it?"

"No." He shook his head. "If you don't mind me asking, who was the detective who put in all that extra time? Sounds like a decent guy."

Aaliyah rolled her eyes and sighed.

"Agent—or, my bad—Sergeant Kaust."

"I see. He got the promotion he deserved."

"Psh, whatever. When they took Kaust off the case and started the whole grooming process for his next rank, it seemed like every detective in the office was scrambling to get in on the action.

"For once, we had the opportunity to target a major crime op in the Citadel, and it was a case that would look good on our guys; it might've even made an agent's career. If it worked for Kaust, maybe one of us had a shot, too."

"What happened?"

Aaliyah frowned. "You should already know about this part."

"But I want to hear the way you tell it."

-

Aaliyah

-

It seemed like the very minute I'd made it to my desk, everyone had stopped talking and turned to stare at me. And then, just like that, Lieutenant Shraeu opened the door to his office and shouted my name as well as the name of Sergeant Odwal.

It was real puzzling to me, because the huddle of detectives started cursing and looking at the two of us with envy even though I thought being called in to Shraeu's office was supposed to be a bad thing. Everyone knew I was freshly green, too, so you can guess how bitter the other agents were that they were getting passed over for some newbie.

I hurried into that office so eagerly that I nearly tripped and knocked Odwal down. I then barely managed to get into the right position to render a decent salute to the boss.

"That was cute." Lieutenant Shraeu snickered but overall maintained a blank, boring face.

-

Shraeu's a pretty ambitious guy—sometimes it seems as though it outweighs his good conscience—but, just so you can get a good idea of what he looks like, Shraeu's the tallest person in the office and stands at around six feet and five inches. Skinny, somewhat lanky, and rocks long, dark hair that's always caked in gel, and I'm pretty sure my grandfather's grandfather used the same stuff. Whenever he speaks, you can smell his breath from three offices over; he always wears small spectacles that make his eyes look huge in comparison.

-

Sergeant Odwal was a few inches shorter than him but much stockier; he kept his hair cropped in a greying, unsightly high and tight. I'm pretty sure he was going blind in one eye 'cause it always appeared as though it was fading more than its counterpart. Odwal had a short mustache he seemed to take pride in and was constantly trying to front like some hard-ass with a chip on his shoulder.

He'd come out of a divorce a few months ago and was rumored to be taking out his frustration on people around—but I wasn't having any of that mess regardless of what the government said his rank was.

I remember the Sergeant giving me the shittiest look after I'd almost stumbled into him, and it was then that I knew I was going to end up cursing the dude out before the day was over.

Lieutenant Shraeu clasped his hands together and took a deep breath before addressing us:

"Sergeant Odwal," he began in an exasperated tone, "it's my understanding that you've spent a lot of time running the streets making group busts in the past. You always wait until you've got the ammo before going after a whole ring, and you've one hell of a record, which means you're in better shape than a lot of the dirt bags here. Sergeant," Shraeu looked to Odwal earnestly, "this notifies me of one thing: you're old school about things, and, right now, you fit the profile to head a case that doesn't want to fucking die."

"I'm honored for the opportunity, Sir!" Odwal quickly nodded his head.

"Not so fast."

Shraeu held up his hand and pursed his lips. "That being said, you are the recipient of a significant number of write-ups for 'misconduct' in your file, and I'm honestly shocked that you're allowed to work in this department considering your multiple lapses in judgment when it comes to handling the more... delicate issues." Shraeu sighed defeatedly. "That, Sergeant, makes you seem dirty, and thus my first impression of you isn't necessarily a good one."

He closed his eyes and continued. "But what we're about to do here isn't a job for just anybody in the office.

"For the first and only time in my position as an officer, I need you. I need someone who can suck it up and stand firm for a task that might prove to be a little more than you can handle. So," the Lieutenant smirked and said, "do you think you're up to it, Odwal?"

"Whatever you need, Sir. Leave it to me." Odwal stated resolutely.

"Good." Lieutenant Shraeu replied curtly before opening a vanilla folder and quickly rummaging through the files. He peered up and examined me like I was some scrub to him. A brainless grunt to be ordered around...

"Corporal," he said, "you're new to this department, but I'm well aware of your past 'merits' and your history in law enforcement.

"You graduated at the top of your Academy class and don't seem to have any outstanding negative marks on your record—and most do... so, either you've been kissing the right asses or don't have near the amount of field experience as anyone else here, which poses a major issue for the Bureau if that's the case.

"It bothers me that you're a new recruit because I was informed that Homicide is only intended for Bureau veterans—or, at least, people who've served a similar function in the Federation's military. But whether or not you lack the appropriate experience, I still need someone who can temper Sergeant Odwal's stupidity. We're in the middle of a shitstorm with Alandra..." Shraeu stated bitterly.

He glanced over at Odwal before looking back at me.

"Because the President can't make up his mind about waging a real war, we're shorthanded in trying to keep updated on our usual suspects. Though you look like you're fresh out of high school, I need someone with enough of a brain to ensure we do a clean run. We need to file this case away as neatly as possible; the boss has been up my ass since we keep having to revisit one of the biggest fuck ups we've ever presided over. With all that out of the way, let me tell you what needs to be done.

"Now, do I have your full attention?"

"Yes, Sir." we both said in unison.

"Damn right."

Shraeu sloppily tossed us both folders that contained details for the upcoming mission.

"Fortunately, the media hasn't yet caught wind of the whole story. We believe—thanks to a presumptuous asshole who likes to do his own detective work—that a teenager was framed for the murder of Vice Executive Patz in Zone E, that the court has demanded a retrial as well as a release of all pertinent information regarding the status of the real murderer.

"As of now, the Bureau needs a body, preferably alive, and either a full confession or enough evidence to support putting the real perpetrator behind bars where he belongs, pending execution. This is to be a discrete hunt, you two. I've made the case easier for the both of you by giving the clearest fucking intent possible: making use of any resources you need from the Homicide Division of the Dawn Bureau, you will immediately draw all equipment listed in the paperwork that you've been assigned. Following that, you will report to a series of locations in order to track a criminal who we currently only know as 'Kip.' The description of 'Kip' has also been stated within the given documents.

"At this time, we suspect that this man either committed the murder himself or regularly meets with individuals who could become potential suspects."

Shraeu reclined back in his seat and picked up a news magazine.

"Either way, depending on the way you handle this case, you can either bring in just the murderer or perhaps bust him and several others at one time. It'll look good on you guys."

"How do you suggest we bring him in?" Odwal asked.

Shraeu raised an eyebrow. "You have a brain, don't you, Sergeant?" He then snickered while throwing his hands up in defeat. "What? You want me to do all the leg work for you, too?" The Lieutenant then declared kind of angrily: "It's a sham case, man."

He stood up but abruptly ceased speaking to glare at the two of us, as if his gaze carried the weight of some hidden punishment...

I swear that man drinks sometimes.

Sergeant Odwal kept pressing for specifics; he was good at what he did.

"I mean, should we get him for something small and bring him in to expose a larger op, or—"

"Odwal, I don't give a damn. Whatever you do, we need a confirmed murderer and substantial evidence to support the confirmation—something good, Sergeant; don't fuck it up. And if you fail on a case that I'm ready to stop hearing about..."

The Lieutenant gave the two of us a significant look and said, "Sergeant Odwal will be demoted to Corporal upon the next review cycle, and you, Corporal, will probably be sent to another Division temporarily, along with a review from me that should all but end your career in the Bureau. Do you understand the objectives I've given to you?"

"Got it, Sir." Sergeant Odwal was quick to reply.

"Seems easy enough."

Needless to say, I was put off by Shraeu's approach, but we had real work to do. The Lieutenant looked me over again and gave me this intense, almost childish glare.

"From here on out, you'll take all directions from Sergeant Odwal. Just let me hear about you talking back, disrespecting rank, or disobeying the slightest command and I will fuck up your whole world, Corporal.

"Don't try my patience on this; it's the big leagues, and I can't make that clear enough. I've heard that you can be a handful when it comes to authority, and, although I respect and allow room for creative thinking, I'm not gonna allow you to fuck over any of my people—you understand?"

"Yes, Sir. There won't be any problems." I said confidently and met his glare head-on.

He's not a very intimidating guy, but everyone in the office has the same, stupid reverence for him. Dawn Bureau brainwashing, I suppose.

"Good." Shraeu finally appeared content. "Both of you need to get going. Time's already running out."

"No problem, Sir!"

There were problems...
16

Truth

-

Aaliyah

-

I RESTED IN THE PASSENGER SEAT WITH SERGEANT Odwal to my left while in a police cruiser disguised as a regular vehicle, albeit a sorta beat-up one for appearance sake. After all, what gang lord would suspect a trashy ride. Every Sergeant in the Bureau was assigned their own, unautomated personal cruiser, and anyone with a lower rank was forced to sit shotgun for every case unless the Sergeant had another preference.

Sunset approached when we parked a few meters down from the entrance to a small club in Zone F, a Zone you know is commonly used as a travel point from the Mid-City to the Lower-City Quadrants.

Much to my annoyance, we'd been watching the soap opera of Kip unfold for the past three weeks without anything to show for it. Normally we'd have a certain set of hours where we worked, which was times when we knew we could track him consistently. After I'd bitched at Odwal, he finally agreed to put us in for overtime in order to spend a total of five days constantly following the banger's movements...

This turned out to be the biggest pain in the ass.

For us, that meant no showers, wearing the same clothes unless we'd brought spares, and sneaking around to try to use the bathroom in the city. As far as food, we'd stocked up on rations that we thought would hold us over for the entire five days—but Sergeant Odwal's fat-ass had already blown through most of it.

Furthermore, it didn't help that he'd started to smell like fresh garbage before we'd even reached the end of the first night. I literally lived in a cruiser and slept in some of the hottest temperatures I'd ever felt, and we could only use the vehicle's air conditioning between certain times to avoid drawing any suspicion, as it only worked when the cruiser was active.

I think the most idiotic thing the department had done was give us these "tactical" rides that didn't even have tinted windows—so, not only did we have to stalk the same person for four days, but we had to keep finding ways to make it look like we weren't stalking him!

Tracking was especially agonizing when Kip suddenly began going through what seemed like twenty prostitutes a day—I mean, that boy was some other kind of nasty criminal, but, thankfully, we made a breakthrough on the third day of surveillance.

Kip finally slipped up, after all this time, and I was going to take him down myself.

-

I peeked over at Sergeant Odwal, who'd buried his face into a bag of chips. Typical.

"So, what do you do when you're not on the job?" I asked him. "Hit up dinky-ass clubs like this?"

He scoffed at me and looked agitated at the idea that I'd even tried to make conversation, like I was in the wrong for wanting to make the best out of a bad situation.

"No. That shit's not for me."

"What is for you then?"

"Nothing you need to worry about."

He kept looking forward at the club smugly. I shook my head but kept trying to relate to him; we had to have something in common.

"It's been hot as hell all day; tch, I can't wait until I can get a shower in—gotta be sinful to be this dirty."

"It's part of the job." He shrugged. "If you can't deal with it, try another Division." Odwal uttered a condescending laugh. "You think this is hard? I was just a fucking grunt back in Enrec—I spent years in much worse shit than this here, miss. There weren't no motherfuckin' showers or down time or whatever you've grown up with on the fancy side of the Citadel."

"You think I'm a softy, huh?" I crossed my arms, exhaled deep, and smiled at him. I wouldn't let Odwal get to me.

"Lady, I'm just saying you should stop bitching."

He groaned. "You're still police, so act like it. This job isn't for some princess; this stuff is the shit—I don't care if you used to be a regular on the streets. It's this right here,"—he attempted to come off authoritatively but just looked awkward as he pointed down—"this is where every you do has gotta count!"

"So, I'm a princess?"

Odwal responded by grunting and slouching back in his seat. I didn't have time for his bullshit after I'd been through the same hell for the past few days. I wasn't going to let him off that easily.

"Excuse me, I'm talking to you, fool." I said, demanding some kind of acknowledgment.

"Is that how they taught you to address Sergeants, sister? Keep goin' and I'm writing you up after this is over." He winked at me.

I'm not normally a violent person, but I wanted to punch his ass out in that moment for being so disrespectful.

"Boy, I'm pretty sure you don't know how to even spell 'Sergeant!'"

He finally turned to me and stared hard. It was almost as if he smelled worse the angrier he got.

"You wanna be disrespectful now 'cuz your panties are all in a bunch." Odwal seemed to relax for a moment as he sighed in exhaustion.

"Get over it, lady; I'm not your friend, and it's not really like they're gonna keep you in Homicide anyways. Work's too heavy for some people..."

"Like who?"

"You."

"Wait. What?"

His smile nearly sent me over the edge. "You ain't cut for the work." Odwal looked away and said, "I can see it. I was hopin' the Lieutenant would put me with one of the guys who's been in the field before, especially for something like this."

"You mean you was hoping he'd put you with a dude, right?"

That damned smile wouldn't disappear off his face. I'd barely any sense left.

-

Janelle

-

Tavon started laughing.

Aaliyah tilted her head in curiosity. "What? What is it, dumbass?"

"Nothing," he replied, "it's just that this guy sounds like a jerk. I'm lucky I'm not forced to deal with people like that."

Aaliyah stared down into her cup and sighed. "Yeah. That's what I thought... at first. I was convinced I was going to end up hating him, but sometimes people surprise you, you know? The city dishes out unique problems to everyone..."

-

Aaliyah

-

An hour passed, and the two of us hadn't spoken to each other since he'd made it clear, in his own way, how he felt about women in general. I watched him take out an older model of what looked like a cell phone attached to his hand by a flexible band and paid attention as its home screen flashed to a picture of him posing with another man.

It was then that I realized something...

Odwal didn't necessarily prefer females.

I chuckled. "You're gay! That's what it is!"

It was the first time I'd ever seen Sergeant Odwal blush, and it was the sweetest, human thing. He put his phone away and replied curtly, "That's none of your fucking business."

"It's not like I care." I shrugged. "I've worked with a lot of good people like that... You guys make a cute couple."

I'm getting too old to stay petty in a bad situation.

Odwal didn't say anything. I looked at his left hand and noticed a black, rubber band on his ring finger. "You two just get married? I'm guessing you're the 'guy?'"

"Engaged."

"What?" I think I was more shocked that he'd actually taken one of my questions seriously.

"I said, 'engaged!' We decided to wear our bands anyways because we wanted people to know how committed we are to each other..."

He waved me off with his hand nonchalantly. "Loyalty's important to him, I reckon."

"I see." I waited a moment before asking my next question. "So, does that mean you aren't religious or—"

"We go to church. Bow before Avva like the rest."

"How does your fam—"

"Why do you ask so many fuckin' questions, lady?" Odwal looked at me like I'd just slept with his lover. "I'm not the fuckin' suspect."

"I'm just making small talk—damn!

"I've never really believed in marriage because, from my experience, most men ain't really shit at the end of the day. But seeing someone like you being so... faithful is a little moving honestly."

I smiled at him.

The Sergeant turned his gaze back to the club building, which had been shaped and sculpted to represent an artfully-decorated maze with four stories—four different levels for four different types of paying guests. It seemed like he was trying to focus on something that wasn't there. He was concentrating too hard.

"Your last marriage... was it a dude, too?"

A long period of time passed, and then he finally answered me, "Yeah. The bastard cheated on me with a fucking woman."

And then it all made sense, and I had to fight back the laughter rising within me. I patted him on the back—which caused his shoulders to tense—and said: "What a bitch. My dad, Avva help his soul, used to run around on my mom and never stuck around to live up to his own role.

"It was hard on my mom since it was just her and us after she'd worked up the strength to throw the deadbeat out on his ass." I continued, "He tried to use us to get to her; he used to say, 'Tell moms to let daddy back in the house. Tell moms that daddy loves his family.' Shit. I thought my mother was about to start whipping him with a frying pan on the spot the first time she caught him."

Finally... finally, the bastard laughed, and my mood changed for the better.

Sometimes it just takes a whole lot of force to crack someone's shell—you know that—and Sergeant Odwal had a bigger heart than the two of us, only he smelled a lot worse. I think Avva must have heard my prayers from the previous two nights; we were about to catch a break...

Kip suddenly came running out the club and down the road from us a little ways to get in the passenger side of a cruiser that had just rolled up.

First of all, the cruiser's autopilot system had been turned off—which was already illegal and sent up red flags—and the driver was shaking, either coming down from something or... on the run?

The Sergeant and I retrieved binoculars and searched to see a bearded man, partially disfigured and with a scar running deeply across his left eye. He was throwing a strange fit.

As Kip tried to calm him down, we watched as the bearded stranger held up a knife still freshly coated with red.

"Holy shit!" Odwal exclaimed.

Upon seeing the bloodied knife, Kip's eyes grew wide, and he quickly grabbed a cloth that he used to wipe the weapon down before he crouched and hid it somewhere in the interior. The newcomer then had what seemed to be a frantic conversation with Kip, but Kip held up his finger to shush him. It looked as though he was telling him to leave the scene.

Sergeant Odwal and I made eye contact, grinning. This was our ticket to peace of mind, something so carelessly placed right before us...

"We got 'em." I said smugly.

"Hell yeah." Odwal pressed a button on his phone to trigger the cruiser's ignition.

"Call it up on the radio; I'll put on the siren to let those fuckers know they're done for! Let's get them exposed in the public eye." He did that wink thing again, something I'd grown to despise, but it was somewhat appropriate for this scenario.

We peeled out of our parking space just as the cruiser began to turn around to leave, and the siren blared throughout the area. Right as I used my call sign to let a dispatcher know where to redirect me over the radio, Kip and his accomplice came to a loud, screeching halt.

So easy, I thought.

That's when the first bullet rang out.

Before I'd even had time to turn around, a piece of shrapnel pierced the stereo system of the police cruiser and was followed by a flurry of metal that came at us from another side!

We ducked the best we could, and Sergeant Odwal shouted fiercely: "Get out!"

He parked us sideways and pushed me with great force out the passenger door before shutting off the cruiser's engine. I hit the ground in a roll then recovered to see that a second cruiser had pulled up behind us...

"Hurry!" Odwal ordered. "And call it up on the portable!"

While we'd been busy stalking Kip, his crew had been just as preoccupied with stalking us. They'd been at a standstill, waiting for us to make the first move. Before I'd even drawn my pistol, Odwal had gotten into cover behind one of the doors of the cruiser near me into a kneel and wielded an assault rifle he'd retrieved from the backseat—all in a matter of seconds; he'd been well-trained.

The two shooters who'd pulled up remained in their cruiser while they fired desperately in our direction using pistols like ours. But, taking advantage of their lack of accuracy, Sergeant Odwal delivered a barrage of fire that sprayed across the front of their cruiser—and, simultaneously, he yelled to me: "Cover the fucking rear!"

Despite the fact that I was trembling, nearly paralyzed by the rapid change of events, I put myself together and pivoted to rest my back against his while peering to see Kip and his accomplice taking cover behind their cruiser.

They could now confidently deliver their own suppressive fire, which could prove to be the end of our duo.

Seeing the only available opening when the bearded fool from before took a knee to reload, I sprang up resiliently and fired at Kip once, twice, and pierced the joint of his elbow with my third shot, all but blasting open the surrounding structures!

From behind, Sergeant Odwal quickly dispatched an enemy driver after shooting several rounds into his chest and head; blood splashed across and covered their front windshield in a thick film. The second shooter who'd arrived left the cruiser and inadvertently revealed that he'd taken two hits—one to the shoulder and one to the abdomen. He attempted to lunge but could only limp forward as he raised his weapon.

Odwal was quick to react and fired another round that found a home in the man's larynx. The shooter instantly collapsed to the ground, and that left the two of us free to completely focus on Kip and his companion, not to mention two other men who'd emerged from the club. In their wake, a series of screaming civilians also poured out from the entrance. The newcomers sprinted to take cover behind construction near the scene.

"Hold up!" Sergeant Odwal ordered. "Don't shoot until you know you can get a clear shot, all right? Don't risk exposing any part of yourself for too long!"

The both of us crouched down in response to Kip and his buddy returning fire, and I cringed when I heard the screams of a woman who'd caught a stray bullet in her side.

She, along with many others, lost their lives in that struggle.

When I'd returned to stand, I struggled to gain adequate focus but stayed capable enough to fire a bullet into Kip's collarbone—incapacitating him for the remainder of the fight. Odwal followed my strong lead by delivering a shot that buried itself into the bearded accomplice's right side and sent him to the ground.

"He's down!" Sergeant Odwal stood completely erect and displayed a genuine smile of relief...

A bullet burst through his skull.

Odwal fell forward as his punctured head slammed onto the hood of the cruiser; he slid off and thudded onto the concrete. Odwal's body continued to twitch for several seconds after catching the round, and I watched whatever was left of the Sergeant rapidly fade from his eyes as a red rivulet oozed out over pale skin. He was my Sergeant, my friend.

I froze in place and felt a cold sweat overcome my body.

I couldn't move. Terror overtook everything, and I couldn't react in time as another round coursed straight into the center of my firing hand—!

My bloodied weapon dropped onto the cruiser with a loud clank. I heard a subsequent blast while in shock and felt an intense burning that caused me to look over at my right arm... it was now decorated with a massive gash, one streaming scarlet atop my bicep.

I wasn't able to feel it all at once, but, as I realized what had happened, some of the pain flared; I fell to my knees while tucking my bloodied hand tightly under my left arm. I remember it pulsating, and I cried out, enduring unbearable agony.

I'd never experienced so much pain before... and in such an amount, both mentally and physically.

In a short time, Sergeant Odwal had been killed, and I'd been taken out of the fight completely; no known backup was on the way. I was supposed to call in the skirmish but had gotten so caught up that now no one was coming to help. I'm sure it'd been reported, but I'd no idea of what the response time might be if there was one.

"Oh god," I groaned, "please... please don't let it happen like this..."

I gazed toward the sky through small openings in between tall city towers and noticed the first few stars appearing to signal the coming night. Then I simply sat down, and I looked ahead to see who'd shot the both of us...

It was a stranger adorned with the tattoo of a snake scrawled hideously across his face and who approached wielding an M9, nodding to the other bangers as a way of telling them the area was clear. His lightweight body armor was modeled after a snake's skin. Dude's obsession with the animal was on a totally different level.

"Well, well, looks like we got a motherfuckin' hero."

He stood before me, a malicious smile spread 'cross his face, and pressed the cold barrel of his weapon against my head. He then briefly looked at Odwal's corpse before scowling and giving it a hard kick.

"You must not be from around here, baby—don't you realize what the fuckin' Citadel is—what it used to be? —Aw, shut the fuck up. Just like back then, it'll always be a battleground." He spat in my face. "Cops have no authority in some places, don't you know?

"It's all because there's kings like us vying for power, and, one day, we'll take it back from you bastards!"

"Ay, Sikes. You got one of them still alive over there?" Another voice resounded from the opposite side of the cruiser.

"Hell yeah, my man," Sikes responded, "we been given a present! This one's fine as hell—can't wait to see what she got underneath all that."

"Fuck you, punk!" I spat on his shoes and glared at him in true defiance. I wouldn't submit.

Sikes scowled again and slammed the butt of his pistol against the side of my face.

He took his other hand and grabbed my head so that he could press it hard against the concrete; Sikes forced his mouth against my ear.

"Oh yeah," he whispered like a fuckin' creep, "this is MY territory, bitch!

"I like it when they fight; I wish they were all like this one. Sexy legs, sexy face... sexy everything!"

I shuddered violently and prepared to strike; I could smell a putrid odor coming from his mouth. It seemed like he just kept pushing my head in with more force as he put down his weapon and started unbuckling his belt. That's it. I had enough state of mind to figure out what I would have to do.

"Ay boys, cover me real quick while I do some business here." Sikes chuckled in a repugnant manner.

I saw glass shards on the ground near me.

"Don't worry; ya'll will get your turns later—I'll make it quick, promise."

I picked up the largest one, clutching it, holding back rage as scarlet flowed from my functioning hand.

The pain was gone now.

I heard shrieking behind me, and Sikes eased up for a moment—

And so, I turned. I turned and sprung upward with all my strength, staring him in his eyes, which widened in fear as I shoved him back and simultaneously slashed open his cheek!

I stepped forward; he raised his arms to defend himself, but I plunged the glass shard into his jugular with aggression that couldn't be matched! Over and over, I wouldn't stop. Blood sprayed across my face and clothes as Sikes stuttered and choked and hopelessly grasped at his neck.

Pussy.

I looked to my left, knowing my life was over.

A pistol was inches away from my face and held in the shaking hands of a stunned henchman. I thought I'd been checkmated, but then I saw...

You.

Tavon. With those same dark eyes, seeming to glow in that moment, you appeared behind the shooter. Time stopped. The surrounding area grew silent, like it was encapsulated by a peculiar darkness.

You calmly snapped his neck.

Like he was just some doll. You killed him and pushed his body away from you without any effort.

My adrenaline took over and dominated my conscious thought. Although you'd killed Sikes' other allies before claiming the shooter, two who'd arrived from the club were still aiming your way.

I reacted by jumping on you, pushing you down, and grabbing the weapon of the man you'd killed as I quickly staggered to my feet. I sidestepped them as they fired, and then I shot—once, twice.

I killed them both, one taking a bullet to the chest while the other was downed with a round delivered through his forehead. I saved you, because I'm a damn good markswoman.

-

Janelle

-

"I'll always remember that. You killed him without hesitation—the look in your eyes was so... wild, Tavon."

Tavon scratched his head out of embarrassment. "I'm surprised you even remembered that guy's name. 'Sikes.' And I thought the look in your eyes was much scarier, if we're being honest."

"It wasn't right." Aaliyah looked down. "I took his life in a brutal way. It affected me, but you were able to kill so calmly—like you didn't care."

He took a sip from his cup and shrugged. Tavon looked to her hand that had been previously wounded, noticing now only a mass of scar tissue having been partially regenerated through modern medicine.

Biological specialists regrew tissue in isolated cultures before implanting them to fill the spaces left by particular injuries. He studied her hand, feeling welling up within him, as imagining the ones we care for enduring significant pain can often remind us of our more protective natures.

"I didn't care." he said. "They wanted to rape you, Aaliyah. Why would people who do what they do be good to keep around in the world? They were literal 'snakes' who chose to play a stupid game."

"But it's not about that!"

She leaned forward. "From the first day as a regular Zone cop, they train you to only incapacitate; they don't train you to make that kind of call."

Tavon winked at her. "Well then, I guess it's a good thing I'm not a cop. Besides, do you really think that someone like Sikes could ever be 'rehabilitated?' Are you really about to tell me that you think you were the first person he tried to violate?"

"I'm damn sure I wasn't, but still... I didn't sign up to kill everyone who commits a sin. That's against everything I believe in—I mean, only the bad guys are usually desperate enough to lodge a bullet in someone's brain. I've got to think higher than that, Tavon."

"So, the only difference between you and Sikes was your levels of desperation?"

"Hell naw—that's not the only difference, Tavon. You know there's more to it than that; don't play games right now when the story's almost finished!"

Aaliyah reached across the table and grabbed his hand to hold it in hers. "I like the way you listen. At least, when you do listen."

Tavon sighed. "You don't believe any murder can be justified, do you—even though you ended some of those guys yourself?"

"I didn't say that. I meant that a person's life has got to add up to more purpose than being put down in the streets like an animal... I mean, something had to have made people survive this long for a reason."

"You're saying this because of the Sergeant. Odwal's death still bothers you; I can understand that. Probably better than anyone else can."

Aaliyah didn't say anything and merely looked down.

"Ah well," Tavon continued, somewhat cheerfully, "I'm sure he was a remarkable person, and he went out doing what he had to do. If only the rest of Sikes' crew would've just surrendered...

-

Tavon

-

You turned really pale after watching Sikes become a cold and lifeless shell of his former self. He was trying to hold on but kept gagging on his own blood, looking to us like his eyes were pleading for help.

I looked him over, analyzing:

Damn. Wrong target again. (That's what I was thinking, but I can't say everything out loud.)

"Who the hell are you?" you demanded, and it was kind of annoying.

I grunted something I don't remember while tearing away some fabric from Sikes' clothes. I turned to you and remember getting slapped in the face because the first response I had was to grab your arm to inspect the bullet wounds.

"Sheesh! I'm trying to help. You're in shock—relax!"

"I'm not some toy you can just move around! Get the hell off me!"

You slapped me again, but I kept checking your arm and hand to make sure any rounds weren't stuck in your body. You tried to jerk away from me, and I felt your palm collide against my cheek once more as I wrapped your wounds and ensured they were compressed as tightly as possible to prevent continuous blood flow.

In the distance, I heard an engine rev...

-

The bearded man you were speaking about just so happened to be someone I was looking for. My target, Clyde Powell, who coincidentally looked a lot like Sikes, was placed into the vehicle by Kip. Kip shifted into the driver's seat.

Powell. Real name: Clyde Oliviet.

He was target number four—after the last two had been almost laughably easy. So far, I'd been thinking about quitting Angelos altogether, but Oliviet... he reminded me why I do what I do.

Oliviet had been small time robber; an amateur thief eventually turned killer once he started believing that murdering homeowners made it easier to steal from them. He targeted a few wealthier members of the Mid-City and managed to make some decent scores before he was forced to change his identity due to drawing attention from the authorities.

Powell became Oliviet and moved to an obscure set of projects somewhere in the Lower-City, making small kills for profit. Not surprisingly, in some districts of the Quadrants lives people with minds twisted enough to order hits on others for very little reason other than petty disagreements or community bias. Oliviet found his niche in individuals like this, exploiting the deluded desires of evil people.

As a result, his victims ranged from elderly women to young adults who were coming up in the world. He'd started killing indiscriminately and was, easily, becoming rich by acting on others' vices in the Citadel.

Though he'd taken steps to protect himself, Oliviet had exposed himself once again. I was making sure that this would be the last time he made that mistake, even if he wasn't necessarily strong.

Oliviet was an evil worth removing from the world.

-

"Shit!"

I got to my feet in time to secure a seat in the police cruiser and tried to start the engine, but the damn cruiser had all but been destroyed and didn't respond to any of my efforts.

In the background, I could hear sirens and knew I was running out of time to finish off Oliviet.

-

Janelle

-

"But why were you even there?" Aaliyah exclaimed.

Tavon thought for a moment before putting together his answer. He couldn't tell her; it was too soon, and she was with the Bureau.

"Eh... Clyde owed my manager some money that he'd come short on in the last month."

"Uh huh. Right." She glared at him.

-

Tavon

-

I made a quick decision to hop into one of the shooters' cruisers, which was already running and ready to go. On the radio, they'd been listening to some song by the Mary Jane Girls, a group of singers from some time ages past—I think it was, "All Night Long." It'd gotten a remixed version that every club was playing, so best believe I somewhat recognized it.

In the center console, there remained a semi-automatic pistol that hadn't yet been used and with "Sikes" inscribed on its left side, close to the safety switch affixed to 'off.' Before I was even able to drive after Clyde, your crazy ass got in the passenger side. You were still clutching your bleeding hand!

"What the hell are you doing, girl?"

"Don't look at me—drive! I'm not about to let them make me look like a buster, and I just saved your life, idiot!"

I hesitated for a second, and then, faster than I could react, you were pointing the barrel of your pistol at my head.

You said, "I'm not fuckin' with you!

"Drive, or I'mma bust you like the rest of his crew. What, you wanna sit behind bars with them?"

I shook my head and cursed as I accelerated to catch up with those bangers. Almost just as quickly, you put the gun down and stared straight ahead.

At that point, I knew I'd somehow ended up meeting someone with the same issues I had.

It didn't take long before we closed some of the distance. We followed them during every frantic turn, shifting through narrow openings between tall structures and soaring under a bridge to slowly connect onto the nearest hyper rail.

Hyper rails conduct some kind of magnetic force that makes air travel smoother in the Citadel; it's also what allowed us to stay on Clyde's tail so well.

Our chase thus led us to a dense onslaught of Mid-City traffic, and I reduced the cruiser's speed as I struggled to avoid crashing into the vessels of other passengers and proceeded to weave in and out just to maintain our very limited line of sight.

Oliviet was more careless.

The shooter failed to pass up a vehicle next to him and so abruptly smashed into the driver's side, causing the passengers to veer off and violently collide with someone else. Both cruisers quickly plummeted downward but then rebounded upward after colliding with the hyper rail and crashed into several other travelers upon being pulled back toward the rail.

"Fucking disaster..." You shook you head.

I floored our way to the left and flew off the hyper rail in order to circumvent everyone else and gain some ground on Clyde. In response, Oliviet inspected his rear-view mirror and simply accelerated skyward to move over the flat roof of a talk, steel hotel, which itself was suspended in the air by a group of powered jets.

"Do you even have a license to pilot one of these?" you asked after bumping my shoulder to get my attention. I'd been quiet for some time, attempting to find a way to "safely" wreck into my target.

"Yeah!"

I didn't have a license.

"Who the fuck you s'pposed to be? You just-just killed..."

And I didn't need everybody I met knowing who I was.

I kept my focus and replied, "Don't worry about it."

I drove to make an arc around the side of the hotel and then flew up to bring us slightly closer to Clyde.

The bangers passed a billboard that depicted a celebrity known as Captain Solar drinking a martini before they careened onto another, less crowded hyper rail. It was amazing to me that you were able to grind your teeth and push through the pain of your injuries; I'm guessing that you must've been feeling a rush, like the kind I get, and I thought it was cool.

Not long after we'd been in pursuit, you realized something.

"Hey, get in closer so I can read their license tags," you said. "I still have a personal radio that I can use to call it in. They'll be tracked even if they manage to lose us!"

"But they won't lose us."

You looked at me like I was the biggest ass you'd ever met. "How do you know that?"

"I'm good—that's how, so stop asking so many questions."

I increased in speed in order to close the distance, but Clyde's cruiser seemed to be faster. He was able to keep quite a bit of ground between us as we sped our approach.

Kip revved the engine and determinedly veered to the far right, clipping the front of another cruiser and narrowly avoiding what could've been a fatal crash with a larger cruiser that was carrying cargo.

He shifted fast onto an exit from the rail before flying off totally and dove down again, bolstering his speed even more across a sparser field! I had to play catch up once again, and I worked the cruiser's automatic stick shift to soar above everyone else and hover over and behind our target's silhouette below.

"Get ready to make a mental note!"

I flew downward at maximum velocity in order to obtain a brief view of their license plates. As we picked up speed, the air around us turned into a heavy barrage that constantly pressed against our cruiser until I slowly brought us to a position level with Clyde.

"I got it!" you shouted in relief. "25-H:N09. Stay on them while I send it up!"

"Hmm. You're acting like you run this show..."

Kip and Clyde—which is interesting to say when paired together—were taking us into the depths of the Lower-City's Third Quadrant.

We followed them onto a hyper rail that had been left to degrade on its own and contained barely any traffic other than a bunch of older model cruisers and bus cruisers.

In the background, I could hear you reporting in to your chain of command:

"HQ. Do you read me, over? This is Corporal Aaliyah; I'm in pursuit of a suspect involved in a code 2016-A (Citadel code name for 'Shooting') in Zone F..."

Someone was uttering responses on the other end that I couldn't make out, but they seemed to understand and prompted you for the license number. You finished reading it off from memory, but, just as they asked you to repeat it again, I noticed a dark shape emerge from the driver's side window of Clyde's cruiser. Without aiming at all, Oliviet began firing at us with an assault rifle—

Bullets grazed the roof of our cruiser while others diverged and shattered nearby building windows. At the same moment, two other vehicles pulled up alongside us.

I looked to the left to see a figure in a mask staring back at me with a double barrel shotgun tucked between his arms.

"Since we've entered the Lower-City, we're in somebody else's territory!" I shouted as I drew an advanced revolver I'd brought along for the ride.

Before the shooter to my left was able to bring up the sights on his weapon, I reacted by driving us into him and attempting to push the new arrival into an apartment complex that was coming up. In response, the enemy careened to the left and ascended skyward to avoid us—but I soared in pursuit.

I thought the best tactic would be to act before they could.

I moved forward and crashed the topmost part of our cruiser into the bottom of theirs and sent them staggering back as part of a malfunction of their internal engine.

Before I could do anything else, what seemed like a volt of energy collided with the passenger side of our cruiser and pushed us through the window of a large casino. We flew on and broke through another glass panel to the outside, and the right-side door suddenly broke off. You were thrown from your seat!

—But I reached out and caught you.

I grabbed your left elbow and slammed you against my side before aiming down the sights of my revolver at the newcomers to our right.

They tried to drive ahead, but I readjusted my aim so that the ensuing round would move a few meters ahead and was timed just right.

I buried a bullet into the driver's shoulder.

I heard a scream as the enemy covered his injury and lurched the cruiser downward—

And then I flinched as you recovered and fired a deafening shot of your own that struck the man again. Almost as abruptly, we watched as the passenger opened the driver's side door and pushed the wounded shooter to his death before recovering his weapon and correcting the trajectory of the cruiser.

From behind, the bangers we'd slowed down by bumping into them were making their way back into position to fire on us.

Up ahead, both Kip and Clyde were preparing to deliver their own rain of metal.

It was at this point that I realized we might be fucked.

"We're fucked!" You shouted.

The engine of our cruiser started to fail. We were both trapped, and I wasn't sure if I could avoid a direct hit. As shrapnel rang out above me, a ringing deafened my hearing even more, and I said to you—probably more loudly than I needed to: "When I tap your wrist, we both start shooting! Got it? Aim good!"

"Yeah!" you said earnestly.

"Let's lay on the grief."

I felt three more pieces of hot metal fall across my neck, and then I tapped your wrist...

Within moments, we both sat up and began firing outside of our respective sides with as much accuracy as we could hope.

The first two rounds from my revolver missed completely, but I managed to lodge the third between the eyes of the left cruiser's passenger.

The masked man's head slumped out of the window as his weapon flew from his grasp. On the right side of us, the enemy driver had been hit; he chose to back out of the chase by slowing down and bringing his vehicle to a halt on the hyper rail.

After the masked shooter to my left was thrown from his seat, I saw an opportunity open up. Kip and Oliviet finished reloading and were readying their weapons once again, and our cruiser was finally shutting down as intense smoke came from the hood; the controls completely went on lock down.

I looked over to see you staring back with a weirdly calm expression.

Your mouth barely moved when you said it: "This is it."

But you hadn't been paying any attention: the cruiser on the left still had its passenger door wide open.

Now was my chance.

I unlatched my side door and hovered closer to the driver. Then, channeling my strength into my thighs so that they thickened, developing dense muscular tissue and large webs of veins, I wrapped my right arm around your waist and jumped forward, out of our ride.

I grabbed onto the roof of the banger's cruiser and used it as leverage to swing my body into its interior, and then I launched my lower half into the other driver! The force from both of my legs pushed him through the side of the cruiser, and his body smashed through the window of an abandoned factory.

You were able to land with your head on the driver's seat and your body across most of the front, but there I was, hanging on the very edge of the floor board, trying to pull myself back to sit in front of the wheel. Before I could, you turned the wheel to the right and just in time for us to avoid crashing into an old tower.

I flew upward and plummeted back down, then I was able to stabilize—at which point you extended your working hand for me to grab onto and recover. Once I was back in the driver's seat, I saw that we'd accidentally moved far ahead of our original targets.

They'd slowed to a stop on a lower set of streets, looked like they were preparing to escape on foot; I revved the engine of our newly-owned cruiser—which reeked of cologne and weed that came from the air conditioning vents—and turned around to catch them.

"Thanks." I said without really looking at you.

By now, you were breathing pretty hard; you barely managed to get out, "Y-you're welcome. I just want to know how the hell you did that—t-that was gross!"

"We don't have the time—

I changed gears and brought the cruiser to hover behind the two gunmen. I peered to see that the driver's side door was already wide open.

Without waiting for you, I dashed up and, noticing a trail of blood, realized that Oliviet had started making his way to the plaza next to us. Kip's head rested on the dashboard. I reached inside to check his pulse.

Kip had succumbed to his wounds after fighting for so long to escape (which meant there was only one target left to go). I looked over as you stumbled out to see what was going on for yourself.

I remember now; I said to you, "His buddy's dead, but he's probably still close. This area's not safe, so let me—"

"No, fool. Absolutely not! I already know what bullshit you on, and I'm coming with you—this is my mission!

"I don't know who the hell you are, and I don't care if you can go around makin' your legs all big and gross, but I'm not letting down the Bureau on my first major task! You got me all the way fucked up."

"Tch." I shrugged. "All right... just know I warned you. He fled here for a reason, so watch your back."

I studied a trail of drying crimson but then turned to say something else: "Oh, you did me a good turn back there by the way. Name's Tavon."

It was the first time we'd ever made genuine eye contact after I'd killed that shooter...

You gazed at me for a while. You relaxed despite your wounds—or maybe it was looking at me that calmed you, I don't know. What I do know is that:

I saw something in you I hadn't seen in anyone else for a very long time, and it was that something that made me stop to think. You smirked.

"Yeah, whatever—I'm Detective Aaliyah. Let's hurry up and get this guy in handcuffs."

We followed the blood trail left behind and running in between two oak trees that were separated by a narrow margin of grass enclosed by a series of small, polished stones. It continued beyond that onto an old sidewalk that was cracked and tarnished by the passing of time.

Another splotch of scarlet along the path brought us before a small, medieval well before continuing onto several meters of ground padded and filled with synthetic soil. We continued to move down a road that winded between a series of plain, wooden huts. One of the huts toward the end of the road was occupied by a family of three who'd finished cooking a dinner outside over a fire pit while looking on curiously.

We crossed a street ahead, progressing to see a large field adorned with individual gardens overgrown with weeds and a stone bridge. The bridge rounded over a dark blue creek with Koi fish inhabiting its confines. Past the creek and through a valley, there was a dirt pathway leading into a more industrialized kind of environment.

Earth transitioned to concrete, brick, and steel as the two of us chased the thinning trail to a corresponding avenue, and you shouted: "There!"

In the far distance, I spotted the shadow of a man who rested his hand against the side of a building; his body heaved up and down, as if he'd been worn out. You continued: "That's gotta be him!"

Oliviet had traveled quite a distance for someone who'd taken a bullet.

We started to walk faster and held our handguns to the side as we approached as swiftly and as stealthily as we could. Maybe we rushed because Clyde caught sight of us and, at first, reacted by tripping and falling on his knees. He then struggled to get to his feet and began running, disappearing down a corridor formed by a sequence of numerous brick establishments.

Even though we'd pinned down his location and taken away his security, Clyde wouldn't give up. I guess he was a decent challenge but still a pain in the ass.

So, the two of us decided to split.

I took the left side while you covered the right alley in order to flank him.

I dashed ahead, sensing his presence close long before you were able to, and I was upon him within a few moments.

If she caught up to him before I did, I wouldn't have been able to complete the contract without killing them both. Aaliyah wouldn't let me slay a man in cold blood if she could help it.

Oliviet tripped again and cursed as he hit the ground. He took cover against a wall far from and adjacent to me.

He'd assumed that we'd come down the center alley and thought he could just turn and take us both out in one shot.

Oliviet heard a noise, but, before he could react—

I was there.

His head turned ever so slightly to make eye contact with me.

"Hello." I said to him.

Clyde screamed and raised his weapon, which I promptly kicked out of his shaky grip. I fired a round between his eyes. His body slid against the wall before me, and I relaxed after taking a deep breath and exhaling while staring at the ground, feeling somber.

Not long after, I could hear your footsteps following the sound of the gunshot.

"A... Allaha!" I shouted. "I got him!"

"It's Aaliyah, ass!" Your voice grew louder as you approached and finally emerged at the end of the alley opposite me.

You put your pistol away in its holster and walked up as it started to rain.

"And you weren't supposed to kill him, idiot. I needed to bring him in for a confession—I needed him alive!"

I threw my hands up in defeat.

"Damn; I mean, he practically brought everything to you on a platter! I feel like you're asking for too much..."

You came up and shoved me. You had the pissiest look on your face.

"My job isn't to kill people, asshole! Is that what you think I do?"

You were so furious...

"I don't know what you do, and I don't care, Aali! You chose to come with me in the first place!"

"It's AALIYAH!" You tried to slap me, but I anticipated it and blocked your open hand.

"Listen." I said while exhaling deep for a moment...

"Just call your people and have them come clean up this mess." While I was speaking, your eyes became wide. "They should understand, right?"

You remained frozen in place and kept looking through me for some reason.

"Hey," I put my hand on your shoulder, "are you all right?"

I remember you drew your weapon and got into position to fire, but you also kept shaking and stayed in place; sweat covered your forehead.

I felt something incredible pierce me in the back!

It sent me to the ground, though I didn't understand why at first. I stopped my head from striking the solid surface with one hand and pivoted to see who—or what—had suddenly hit me...

It was a kid.

A boy, could've been eight or nine, standing several feet in front of me and holding a glock. His expression evoked an overwhelming sense of duty; he was resolute in what he'd intended to do. And then there was you: a statue stuck in time.

You couldn't do anything, and it was almost as if you'd become a kid again, like you'd forgotten why you were even there. I watched you lower your gun and stand there in terror. How could anyone expect you to gun down a kid? No. I'm the assassin.

I pushed myself onto a knee and anchored my heels to fire a round that soared clean into his chest.

From my point of view, I saw as the boy dropped the glock and reached for the center of his chest as if he was trying to hold his own heart in his hands. The kid fell to his knees as an onslaught of tears rolled out from his eyes. He looked up at me and compelled us to sit by as his will to live steadily escaped his body. The young soldier tried to whimper but choked as blood caught in his throat and poured from his mouth. Forgetting about what had happened previously, I saw you scream "No!" in desperation and sprint toward him with open arms.

He went for the small Swiss Army Knife attached to his belt, in the beginning, but then he lost control of his hands and fell lifelessly into your embrace. You'd started weeping and repeating "no" so many times I couldn't count.

I moved closer to see you cradle the boy in your arms and hug him tightly; you closed his eyes and let his head collapse to rest on your chest.

I placed my hand on your shoulder, which tensed but eased when you looked up at me with glassy eyes. I got down, slightly flinching from the pain, and hugged you and the boy. You moved us back toward the wall to rest and so that you could utilize the cover from the incoming rain.

"I'm sorry." I said, taking off my coat and wrapping it around you. At the time, I didn't realize that I'd written my new number on the tag of it. My short-term memory's not so good, and I'd never used a Kom Cell seriously before work provided me with one.

-

Janelle

-

"I remember us sleeping there." Aaliyah appeared solemn. She'd finished her tea and began to play with her hair.

"When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed. Zola, my only real friend from work, had sat close by and was watching over me. She perked up when we made eye contact and ran out of the room to grab one of the nurses."

"I bet they thought you were a hero, right? Going through all that shit?" Tavon smiled.

"It's not that simple... but, for my first job, I'd definitely made an impression." Aaliyah rolled her eyes. "That case shook up the whole department:

"Lieutenant Shraeu's transfer was put on halt, Kaust HAD to be promoted, and I probably went through a dozen meetings with somebody way more important than me who wanted to know the whole story.

"Now, I meet with a therapist twice a week."

"Definitely affected you then."

"I mean—just think about it, Tavon." She gave him a meaningful look. "We changed the lives of a lot of people only because we were at the right place at the right time. We took down a small part of the crime scene in the Citadel, stopped a major player in his own territory, and made the other Dawn Bureau agents look like a bunch of jackasses pushing around paperwork."

"Hold up: what happened to the kid?"

"What kid?"

"The one who was framed for the whole thing?"

Aaliyah looked away for a second and shrugged nonchalantly. "You know, he got shuffled through the system like everybody else. They're always quick to charge someone and get them in a cell; let someone file an appeal or be found innocent later, and they'll stuck waiting for months so that the government will process them back out into the real world and register them again as normal citizens.

"The boy's family reached out to their Zone news station about what had happened—and that sped the process a little bit—but the Prison wasn't able to release him for another two months. Not long after that, the fool was back behind bars again."

"For what?" Tavon couldn't help but feel somewhat astounded.

"Boy tried to rob the liquor store that confiscated his fake I.D." Aaliyah chuckled. "It just goes to show how trifling people can be. He survived extreme charges and dove straight into his next misdemeanor. Most of those who go through the system the first time usually end up coming back, unfortunately. This shit works in a cycle..."

"That's a shame."

"It really is." Her face sharpened into a sobering look. "But now that we've gone over that... fond memory, Tavon, there's something else we need to talk about. It's somethin' I've been letting you ignore for a while now."

"Huh?"

Aaliyah stood up from her seat and, with her hands resting at her sides, glared at Tavon with a sudden intensity.

He was curious. "What's wrong?"

"I've gotta admit that I'm ashamed of myself. All this time I've been so ignorant." Aaliyah scowled.

"I let you play me and didn't even think to ask the right questions—and I'm a motherfucking detective!"

Tavon rested back in his seat and folded his arms. "What the hell are you talking about?"

She knows.

"I'm talking about what you do for a living." Aaliyah continued, "At first, I thought you were just some low-level enforcer for a lame-ass kingpin—that maybe you were a guy squandering his potential, some buster who'd eventually trade in that shit for a real job.

"But I've been dead wrong about all of that." Aaliyah sighed. "I'm such a fool."

"You're not. Why do you say that?"

"Because you have been living up to your potential, just in a way that would make the rest of society a little fearful. I know what you are, Tavon—it didn't cross my mind seriously until I looked back on that whole story, but now it's just so damn obvious! I-I feel like an idiot..."

Tavon's face remained solemn.

"And what am I then? A great listener? A reckless driver... —Good in bed?"

"You kill people," she said, "for money."

17

River Niger

-

Janelle

-

THOUGH EKWUEME'S STORY HAS BEEN DELIVERED through and through, the world was learning the details of it for the very first time.

There laid his corpse in the streets of Zone D: broken, bloodied, and in the public eye as a local beat cop made the discovery and stopped his routine patrol to force back the crowds of people that had progressively amassed around the fallen drug lord.

L stood in that crowd, still reeling from the loss of his leader, Magellan.

Not long after Ekwueme's fall, Magellan had been taken into custody following an investigation into Isaac Reaver and his son's unexpected and mostly inexplicable assassination. To L, it was ironic that a homeless man or woman could die on the streets with thousands looking the other way, but, let that overdose or starvation become a murder, and their lives suddenly began to mean something. In the Citadel, extreme cases merited more attention, more popularity.

Two more lower-ranking officers had arrived to begin closing off the area and parked their cruisers so as to block the center of the scene of the crime. For whatever reason, higher resources in the law enforcement department weren't readily available; thus, all three officers were forced to endure and babysit waves of reporters who asked all sorts of unanswerable questions by themselves.

Inquiries abounded, such as: "Officer Lorrie, can you remark on the recent surge in crime following this year's election results in Zone D?"

"There is no information that can be given at this time."

Lorrie wasn't very good when it came to working with civilians, but he was mostly effective and fit his role well.

"Can you positively identify the victim?" One woman asked, somewhat anxiously. "Is it true that he was a... 'half-robot' thing? Are there really cyborg gangbangers in our city?" Her eyes lit up with a curiosity intense enough to irritate the officer.

"Like I said: I can't comment on anything until we know more, Miss."

While Officer Lorrie circled the area to maintain what confidentiality the scene still had left, Officer Hughes and Officer Cainhurn struggled to form their own explanations of what had occurred.

"Did you see the guy's stomach?"

Cainhurn scowled in disgust. "Nah. What makes you think I wanna look at that shit, Hughes?"

"I'm just sayin' it looks like someone really fucked him up in a fight—but who would get into a fight with that thing?" Hughes asked and waved around his baton to hold back the coming crowd.

"Fuckin' gang crime is what this shit is; Zone D's become just like one of the Quadrants, man. No funding, no order..." He turned to look at his friend and displayed a more serious expression. "Less cops and less patrols—they even cut my hours back again." He breathed heavily. "Like I work some kind of part time college job."

Officer Hughes sneered. "Ain't that some shit. But..." He smiled and winked, "the only way to go from here is up. Hey, we've been sticking it out for this long, haven't we?"

Instead of offering a response, Officer Cainhurn moved closer to Ekwueme's corpse and kneeled in order to inspect it further.

"Since when did we start getting cyborgs in the city?" he murmured. "Is this from the military?"

Officer Hughes tried to stop him: "Ay, you can't get that close! We already called it in—and we're not supposed to touch evidence!"

"Not my fault they can't find time to check out a real crime scene. What, with all the computer games and the coffee breaks they take. Shit."

Officer Hughes slouched in defeat; he wasn't known for having a strong personality and seemed to go along with whatever arguments were presented before him.

"You've got a point. Detectives should've been here an hour ago! Ugh." Hughes smoked out of a small, metallic device shaped in the likeness of a pipe and looked away from his partner as he ruminated. "I mean, what do they expect us to tell these people... there's no way we could be this shorthanded."

While the officers' attentions were focused elsewhere, L had steadily waded through the crowd and into the scene. He greatly desired to view his old boss for himself.

He wanted to see that it was real.

I didn't think a monster could be killed, L thought to himself upon viewing Ekwueme's form exposed as what it truly was: a horrid synthesis of blood, bone, and steel.

The same day some dick knocks us around, the boss turns up dead... no—he couldn't! Ekwueme didn't let nobody fuck with him; he's the only boss I know who could make Magellan nervous. Dude was cold as hell—plus he was like... half robot.

"Hey! Stop right there!"

Officer Lorrie noticed L stepping in far too close and confronted him. He got in the boy's face and raised his voice in an overly fierce attempt to intimidate him. Lorrie was already flustered by dealing with such a large mob of people.

"Who the fuck do you think you are? You think you're special? Comin' in past everybody else—that means you just fuckin' disobeyed an officer, kid!"

"Shit! I didn't disobey nobody!" L stared back at him, expressing disgust. "What secrets ya'll got that we can't look at one of our one? I already know you think we're fuckin' lower than you anyways!"

Officer Lorrie grunted and pushed him.

"I don't have time for some little street shit's attitude."

L didn't react but simply stood his ground. "Wait, what makes you think I'm 'street,' Officer? You discriminatin' based on my clothes—on how I look?" L gazed at him in shock and shook his head in disbelief before going on, "I'm too poor for your tastes, huh? It's because I don't dress like some yuppie."

I'm sick of these fools thinking I'm some thug because I don't come from the lifestyle they used to. Fuck.

"Why'd you assume I was some criminal when I walked up just now?"

"That's it." Lorrie growled angrily while glaring downward. "Go stand against the fucking wall."

"What! Why?"

Officer Lorrie grabbed L by his collar. He slammed him against the outside of a closed antique shop.

L wasn't known for being a good fighter. Lorrie positioned his face only a few inches from L's and bared his teeth in an aggressive grin.

"Looks like we're gonna need some 'possible suspects' for this one, and right now, punk, you're the perfect candidate to take back to the office. Not just that, but you're also a good excuse to get the hell out of this goddamn place!"

Officer Lorrie spun him around while in the view of multiple cameras and began checking L for anything he could confiscate as further evidence.

"Oh, what's this?" He retrieved L's bowie knife from a sheath strapped to his left leg.

"So,"—his smile echoed ill intent—"you didn't know that carrying a blade over .1016 meters in Zone D is enough for me to really fuck up your world? What did you need this for, anyways—you just another mobster running the streets?"

"Fuck you, pig," L responded with his head turned.

Officer Lorrie reached into the young man's pocket to uncover a bag containing a little less than a gram of kiine.

Lorrie smiled.

"You just made my day, buddy; what's your name?"

"They," L barely managed to utter, "they call me..."

"What, you stupid punk? Spit it out."

"Your wife's favourite Zone D."

The Officer snorted. "Oh yeah, and why they call you that, huh?" Lorrie slapped cuffs tightly around the teenager's wrists.

"Cuz she ain't been having yours!" L snickered.

"G-get in the fucking car, punk!"

The beat cop reacted by asking his colleagues to shield the public's view as he knocked L's head against the wall before pushing him toward his patrol cruiser.

"Hey Lorrie, what's up with this guy?" Officer Cainhurn shouted.

Lorrie opened the door to the back seat, hit L's head against the roof of the cruiser, and shoved him in while he said: "Punk wanted to mouth-off, so I searched him—had a little bag of kiine and a knife that's outta regs. I'm gonna book him for the night, fellas."

"What? Hell no!" Hughes piped up. "You can't just leave off like that! –Let me take him in; I'm not finna stay here all night!"

Officer Lorrie laughed. "Find another potential suspect and maybe you can go home, too. As for now, one of you fools gets to cover crowd control while I'll get to jerk off and take credit for a solid bust."

"It's not gonna be solid if one of those reporters writes down that you assaulted that motherfuckin' kid. Shit, Lorrie, he looks like he's barely outta grade school!" Cainhurn replied.

"What the fuck ever. Does it look like I give a damn, Cainhurn? Does it look like my wife isn't a raging thunderstorm who's only stayed if she gets regular, on-time booty rubs?" Officer Lorrie gave the two of them a brief, blank stare.

He winked at them as he took to the driver's seat of the cruiser and hastily exited the scene.

Hughes groaned. "Dick. That just leaves us then—and we gotta get a handle on fifty motherfuckers tryna force their way through us just to get a peep." He put his hands on his hips and frowned. "I swear, the day I work for a real department is the day Executive Tomas Gostra starts strippin' clothes for cash."

"Ay, partner." Cainhurn put his hand on his shoulder. "Remember, buddy,"—he smiled and winked—"I still love you. You can work for me any time you like." Cainhurn broke out into laughter.

"Shut the hell up!" Hughes brushed him off and took Lorrie's prior place as designated crowd control.

A reporter started in on a question, and he responded with: "Just go home, sir. We got this. Stuff's gonna be on the news regardless, so let us do our jobs here. I really can't take any more questions at the moment—thank you." He smiled fakely.

And, while Officer Cainhurn stood looking through a series of texts on his Kom Cell from a random woman he'd met off a dating site and Hughes continued hopelessly stonewalling the crowd, a stranger emerged from the darkness outside of the scene.

Wrapped in an eerie silence, he strolled quietly into the area while wearing the familiar, dark uniform worn by someone belonging to the Zone Police Department.

An unknown entity but shouldering a power unlike any other, he made his way through the crowds, and something about his presence immediately caused the onlookers around him to immediately cease speaking and gaze at the stranger in perplexity.

He sported the rank of Major on his uniform, and his gait conveyed the walk of someone with incredibly swaggering confidence, someone with a type of strength untouched by time; he bore an unparalleled exuberance.

Officer Hughes spotted him smoothly shouldering a reporter out of his way. Almost instantly, the Officer's demeanor changed to that of an obedient subordinate.

Hughes put his heels together, placed his open left palm at the small of his back, and rendered a salute with his other palm facing outward and tucked in close to his waist. He bowed.

It was a mandated gesture of respect handed down from the traditions established by President Derek when he was a mercenary warlord; as such, its origins were rooted in a long-forgotten war god once heavily worshiped by the President himself before the beginning of the Dawn Federation.

"Sir!" Hughes invested too much effort in trying to appear obedient. "We've secured the area as regulations dictate! There was some commotion but nothing our small team couldn't handle—right, Officer Cainhurn?"

"Roger!" Cainhurn saluted and bowed as well.

The Major returned the gesture to them, his offered palm facing inward, and breathed rather spoke, "Relax, brothers."

It felt as if a sense of serenity engulfed the two, striking their collective consciousness in a wave. The stranger's hypnotic voice swam throughout their thoughts; he binded their minds and said: "Looks like you cats got this covered. I'm much appreciative—but, real quickly now, give me a picture of what's going on. Give me the rundown, ya dig?"

Hughes, surprised at the Major's mellow method of speaking and easy way of carrying himself, began with what he knew.

"Uh..." he stuttered for a moment. "Major. Sir, we got multiple witnesses saying they saw a man fall to his death! From what we've gathered, he was already battered, possibly thrown from the site—and we've got information that points to a violent pursuit that took place that's definitely gotta be linked to the murder of Isaac Reaver and his boy!" Hughes nervous excitement caused him to be quite short of breath.

"We've questioned several of the witnesses." He smirked unconvincingly. "And we've already booked a possible suspect who we believe was involved, b-but, as of now, we're on standby for the big boss over at headquarters. He's gonna decide whether we'll get the case or whether it'll go to the Bureau from here."

They done made this gig too easy for me.

The Major—whom the officer wasn't aware was only under the guise of a Major—simply smiled at Officer Hughes.

"All right, my man, you done good. You mind if I go ahead and take a look at the victim myself?"

"Of course, Sir! You don't even have to ask me!"

"Groovy."

Very righteous.

The Major strode by both Zone officers and began an investigation of his own.

This is one ambitious mo'fucker. The death toll this cat's incurred in such a short time...

Mild fear broke his train of thought.

A demon perhaps?

Ekwueme's corpse was, and this is putting it lightly, a grotesque conjunction of human organs with some odd, rusted steel. The bullet he'd sustained to his throat remained lodged mostly within in the thick upper roof of his mouth; his decimated extremities were mere electronic fragments.

Ekwueme's lifeless eyes were directed toward the clouds. Patches of skin had been burned away and revealed charred, blood-soaked metal as well as enlarged muscle tissue that folded around sections of his combat-focused enhancements. The crime lord's other leg and nearly obliterated midsection were broken open to showcase mechanical wiring connected to organs that had amassed swarming families of flies over a period of hours.

The lifelong soldier was a mere shell of his former self, a dark story that would remain untold as his name faded into the pages of history. To the Citadel, Ekwueme was just another dealer on the streets who'd become too ambitious for his own good.

It's possible that he might have built a more memorable legacy had it not been for the intervention of Tavon. The assassin, although dimwitted, had proven strong, enough of a challenge that Ekwueme felt driven to appear before Tavon himself.

Cat got sloppy.

Hmm... The stranger pondered, an aura of levelheadedness about him.

Isaac's death looked a little smoother—

After stabbing him, the assassin generated heat intense enough to... burn the evidence? Evidence he was even there, I reckon, and he gave himself time to chase down Ekwueme, too. He stroked his thick beard thoughtfully.

Ten straights kills almost back-to-back. This fella's committed, and I can dig it—but, this time, he left his DNA. I already swept up the remnants from the chase; the cops will follow a different route and get mixed up, but Ekwueme still has blood, skin, and hair fragments all over him. Damn, damn...

Were it anybody else I'd have to leave 'em to deal, but this one's different; he shows potential I've seen before. I'll cover him. I need to satisfy some mild curiosity.

While the two officers struggled to appear busy before someone they believed to outrank them, the "Major" knelt down to attach a controlled explosive device on the inside of Ekwueme's abdominal cavity.

He waited for a period lasting only for a brief few seconds and then sprinted up to Officer Cainhurn and ordered, in a much sterner manner of speaking, "Hurry and establish a cordon. Push these people back."

"Yes Sir! Might I ask why?"

"I fear we've gotta unexploded ordnance on our hands, officer."

Cainhurn's eyes grew wide as he fought to comprehend what he'd heard.

"W-what? What do you mean, Sir?"

"Motherfucker, DID I st—" he relaxed... "now, did I stutter? We need a team down here to disarm a bomb I found inside of the damn victim! MOVE!"

"Roger." Cainhurn dashed to spread the information to Officer Hughes, who quickly freaked out in a similar fashion before turning to the crowd to scream: "Everybody get back!"

Cainhurn and Hughes took to directly opposite sides of the crime scene to begin removing barriers in order to push out the cordon radius further; they simultaneously called up the discovery of a bomb on their communication systems.

In response, the crowds began to disperse in a mostly reckless panic and all but trampled each other as they escaped as from the scene. After the area markers had been removed, the two officers moved their cruisers far away from Ekwueme's body and set up a larger surrounding area while the stranger—who'd acted according to procedure—put down his own marker to identify the location of the bomb.

The Major then walked ahead to stand by Hughes and instructed him as followed:

"Make sure no one comes within less than two hundred feet of the victim, do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir!" Hughes replied without skipping a beat.

"I'm parked a few blocks down the street." He smirked. "Happened to be grabbing some coffee before I overheard what was going on. I'm about to drive back to headquarters to ensure Zone D's department is doing their part to fix this bloody mess—and you'd better believe some motherfuckin' heads are gonna roll when I'm done with whoever overlooked this!

"Sending a few cops to deal with a situation of this scale is some scandalous shit, my brothers, and I vow to fix this the only way I can!"

"Roger, Sir! We've got this covered! Godspeed, Sir!"

As the "Major" briskly left the scene, he thought: The poor fools will get the biggest scare of their lives.

Once he'd finally reached his private cruiser, he changed from the disguise into a simple sweater and pair of trousers, then he retrieved a remote he'd designed and built for the occasion.

"Shame I won't be around for the fireworks."

He pressed his thumb to the detonator.

In the background, a large explosion could be heard erupting and caused quaking in the streets. Ekwueme's corpse would be reduced to literal scrap metal; police attention towards Tavon's antics would lessen slightly, but not nearly enough to stop Tavon from walking the path Fate had already chosen for him.

Hopefully, he doesn't fuck himself over like this again.

He sighed and drove far from the explosion.

Might as well reward the boy for being so persistent. If he wants an interview, I'll give it to him.

18

The Artist

-

Janelle

-

WITHIN THE CITADEL, THERE WAS ONE WHO wished to guide the Federation into a different kind of future, a future that would entail terrible misfortune for all...

-

Executive Tomas Gostra of Zone D awoke in a cold, sparse room by himself. There was something not quite right about this room; for one, it was mostly empty, a spacious chamber with walls painted pale.

Hours earlier, he recalled sleeping next to his mistress after fleeing a long fight with his wife that very night. Dressed only in his maroon robe and a pair of black briefs, Tomas rubbed his eyes and slowly rose to prop himself against a bare, white wall.

From out of nowhere, the sound of a saxophone intermingled with gentle drum beating, and those coalesced with the soft beats produced by a xylophone playing farther in the distance. Music echoed at a volume high enough to thoroughly pierce the Executive's ears and compelled upon him the realization that there was something horrendously wrong about this place. He also remembered drinking heavily, but—

As the Executive searched nearby and fought back a rending headache, he noticed no visible door or exit, and confusion overtook him. This confusion turned to a sudden fear, and he jumped to his feet so fast that he nearly tripped over himself as blood surged toward his head.

Not so far away, he was surprised to view a barred window revealing a dimly-lit exterior.

What the hell? Where am I right now?

Gostra's body ached as he heaved himself closer to figure out where his kidnappers might have brought him. He became steadfast, believing that he could negotiate his way out of this strange abode, and then he took his first look out of the nearby window...

"No... —no.

"N-NO!" He screamed, viewing something which made his blood run cold.

"No. It-it can't be real! Avva dammit!"

Fear caused his body to shake uncontrollably while he tried to comprehend what he couldn't understand, what was out there... what It was.

"This isn't rea—oh god..."

-

A pillar ascended in the distance, colossal to the extent that it could be seen from any corner of the Earth. It was an intangible object that radiated in a dark, ethereal luminescence.

Particles, shades blacker than midnight, hovered around the immense structure, a structure encircled by the walls of a deep canyon... something far sunken within the depths of an almost bottomless pit.

The skies—what's happened to them!

Half of the world above had been shaded a hue of dark velvet; the Sun was replaced with a shadowed spiral which emitted an aura that stood in stark contrast to its counterpart, making this place appear to be another world.

He could see a towering silhouette, one whose upper half reached into the heavens. He saw the obscured figure of a creature capable of demolishing the world due to its sheer size. Something monstrous, a Being that wasn't supposed to exist in the Executive's reality.

Furthermore...

Something much more dangerous lurked steadily in the hidden places of this realm, a presence acutely felt by Gostra—as if a pair of celestial eyes had affixed themselves to his existence as a prisoner.

A hulking shadow slowly descended over the land in sight of the Executive. The demented beast had arisen as a horrible plague, one bearing nothing but destruction in mind of everything in its sight. It was a monstrous figure which spanned the breadth of the atmosphere, passing through as a dark cloud, concealing the world above in its entirety.

-

I have to hide. Whatever that Thing is—I-I think it's coming for me!

He pivoted around to view only more of the bare wall behind him and pressed his hands against it to check if it was truly real. Tomas felt its cold surface and stepped away before searching the pockets of his robe for his cell phone; they were empty. His kidnappers had taken everything.

He ran his hands over his face and the rest of his body while searching for any wounds but found nothing noticeable or significant. Upon inspecting the room once again, he noticed only a wooden table, atop which was set what appeared to be a short pipe.

Within the pipe, someone had already prepared a substance; they'd deliberately placed it in the room.

I don't understand...

Jazz and reggae music continued playing in the background, a more soothing constant in an inexplicable situation.

"Welcome, Executive."

Swift and unexpected, the composition of the wall before Tomas Gostra started to falter and then diminished entirely within rivulets that shuddered in opposition to the structure of space around them.

An opaque monitor appeared in its stead, refining itself to focus on a well-dressed individual wearing a mask and one that was quite human-like, perhaps signifying its authenticity and devoted craftsmanship. The visage of the object had been perfected to the extent that the stranger could've genuinely looked like someone else had he the want to do so.

"I hope you're well."

He smiled briefly and didn't wait for a response from the Executive. Sweat beaded on the speaker's forehead above the outline of the mask as he became serious.

"It appears that you've finally come to. Hopefully, to a song you'll enjoy because I know I always have. To be quite frank with you, Saint Kizoba is a classic artist deserving of any serious connoisseur's collection, don't you think?"

"Please..." Gostra decided to go with the most human approach in this situation. "Let's just talk about this, sir; I do—"

"For a variety of reasons, honestly." Amour interrupted him while waving him off as he continued, "His voice, his words, and his music have always held a significant place in my heart, and, by the end of this journey, Gostra—if you survive it, that is..." He creased a smile almost sincerely. "I hope to teach you much about him."

Amour folded his arms while resting his chin between thumb and index finger as he assumed a more ponderous stance.

"By now, you're probably wondering how you ended up here... in this beautiful place.

"Unfortunately, buddy, I can't really get to telling you any info until you've made just a little more progress.

"What's more, esteemed Citadel actor and writer, Masomi Kegan, says that one should pursue experience as a 'mentor.'" Amour chuckled, retaining a somewhat cheery but ultimately deadly demeanor.

"Namuel East also said, 'If I were to eat a face, I'd start with the nose.' He was convicted and executed for cutting up twenty people—but, moving along, we may as well get to know each other. Gostra, my man! You should be excited that we get to take the first step together. Right here, right now!"

The dead eyes of the mask bore into Tomas. He was near speechless.

Tomas screamed, "What is this?"

Amour sighed and struggled to contain his fury at the outburst. What insolence, he thought.

"You just don't have the Beauty, Gostra. That's why you feel you have to compensate—and now we're off topic because it's always about your shortcomings isn't it, Tomas?"

The Executive remained silent, unsure of what might provoke the man who'd kidnapped him.

He's insane. Did he do all this himself?

"Continuing on from our prior conversation—that you FUCKED UP!" Amour started angrily before hastily regaining his composure and exhaling:

"Saint Kizoba, the Lower-City's greatest music star, had a harder life than most.

"You see, G, he went through a series of difficult relationships with people, unfair setbacks in his personal career, and urges that drove him to a familiar addiction many of us can often fall into—to what I shall not say." His twisted smiled returned. "I can relate a lot to someone of that kind of caliber, Gostra; can you say the same? Do you experience anything that doesn't have to do with some valueless political game?"

"I just want—"

"I didn't ask you to speak just now, Tomas." Amour glared at him for a moment before talking again, albeit much more reticently. "We aren't in the Citadel anymore, so there's no reason for all the bullshit. Go ahead, Tomas buddy, enjoy yourself here..."

Amour stared at Gostra as a quiet darkness enveloped him.

"Or, you can die of starvation in this room."

He snickered. "It's happened before, and that is the first challenge I'll present to you.

"My name is Amour; my work is everything to me."

And, in an instant, the screen turned stark white; it then transfigured itself to form the wall that had been there previously.

"Was all of that..." The Executive was overwhelmed. "Can this really be happening?"

Tomas Gostra tensed. He continued looking around for an exit but found no possible way out of the room. As a last resort, he began feeling along each wall for a long period of time and for the duration of the music being played... yet it never ceased.

It's so cold here, he thought and shivered while vigorously rubbing his hands together.

Tomas decided that he couldn't stay confined to this room, that he wouldn't give up regardless of what his circumstances turned out to be.

-

Several hours after the appearance of Amour, the Executive crouched in a corner, feeling defeated.

His stomach rumbled, and so he refocused on Amour's instructions and picked up the pipe after staring at it for some time. The last drug he'd consumed had been some low-grade marijuana that he'd rolled into a joint when he was just a teenager. Gostra was now in disbelief at the fact that he'd have to stoop to this level after having publicly condemned drug usage for so long in his own career.

With trembling hands, the Executive lit up and slowly inhaled for a few passing moments before abruptly beginning to cough—

He dropped the pipe, which shattered upon contact with the floor. Tomas dry heaved for a few more seconds before feeling a euphoric rush that came after the sudden dissipation of his previous hunger.

His thoughts altered; his anxiety-ridden contemplating grew to abnormally large proportions.

This monster puts people in cells and gets them hooked? Is this all a sick joke to him?

He peered at the ceiling and shouted belligerently: "What's the next step, Amour? What do you want me to do—just tell me already!"

The Executive sat very childlike and started laughing while attempting to enjoy the high.

"This shit is... —it's ridiculous! Does the bastard think he's some kind of vigilante?"

His vision blurred momentarily, and a narrow section of the wall beside the table resonated with a high-pitched noise as it ascended to reveal what seemed to be an exit.

There has to be a way to win this. He can't hurt me—I'm a Citadel Executive!

Tomas, barely retaining a grasp of both his sanity and consciousness, stood and moved toward the opening with haste. He peered down the following hallway and gasped upon seeing a narrow corridor drenched in dried blood.

A scarlet river had expanded to drown everything before him, and the hallway darkened as he slowly inched his way through the area. As he progressed, cringing as his feet treaded through the carnage, the scene turned pitch black around him. The Executive stumbled back in pain after accidentally kicking over a bucket filled with some kind of liquid. As it quickly flowed over his feet, he looked down to see a pool of red next to an organ.

A heart coated in a golden paint... an unfinished project. Two radial bones had been sharpened, refined, and thrust through the heart to symbolize something obscure to Gostra.

He gulped. "I-it's... a joke. Ha! Just a joke, that's all."

Tomas felt ill but decided against pausing, for stopping in a place such as this could break him for good if he let it. Tomas Gostra trudged through the thick tide of blood and came to a plain, wooden door that displayed a note. It read as follows:

"I know about you, Tomas.

"I know about what you did to Zone D, and it's actually very brilliant. You created your own homes for the wealthy, areas to concentrate those in poverty. Out of all the Executives in the Citadel, you have the best overall stats for your designated Zone. The rate of growth is exceptional, and D isn't privy to riots and crime at the same intensity as other Zones. They've even begun to worship you in the streets; not only that, but your voice in the government is certainly one to be heard.

"But I know about your secrets, Tomas. In fact, I know about every deal you've made in the back room. That's right, you and Ekwueme were good chums; by using one psychotic kingpin, you would have had all criminal activities under your watchful eye—after he relocated to you, of course.

"You forced the poorest of the population into dirty shacks you had built, and, using Ekwueme as a shepherd to concentrate all major players into one general area, you'd have complete dominion over your Zone's underground revenue. That was smart, Tomas.

"Additionally, whenever you wanted, D's police department could boost their stats by looking for busts at the same reliable spots. You've owned it all, and, so far, you've had it too easy, buddy.

"The good news is that I think you'll be very useful to me, Tomas.

"Just don't piss me off. It's more for your sake than mine."
19

Saint Kizoba

-

Janelle

-

TOMAS GOSTRA OPENED THE DOOR TO THE IMMEDIATE blaring of Saint Kizoba's "Midnight Love" and peered to see a conveyor belt running several feet past circular, whirring steel saw blades that swung back and forth at varying intervals. They'd been bloodied and strewn with the gore from previous victims of this nightmare.

Below the conveyor, there was a seven-foot drop to a series of yellow tiles; beyond those tiles, down a flight of steps, there stood a large and transparent glass wall. Directly in front of the wall—on Tomas's side—there was an electronic screen contained within a panel which showcased two different buttons that resembled human fists. Only a few feet in front of that sat a wooden device shaped in the likeness of an arm cast but separated into two parts by two steel, beveled rods on its left and right sides; its setup was complete with a turn-able, horizontal knob on top.

Behind the glass wall, the Tomas noticed a sectioned-off portion of a dead forest. Furthermore, a light shone from above a glass ceiling window to highlight a very familiar woman.

She'd been strapped and secured to an open iron maiden, bound and gagged as well. Upon recognizing her, the Executive sprinted forward and stepped on a particular tile right before the belt:

It acted as the trigger that consequently led to the door of the iron maiden slowly closing on the woman. As a result, Tomas moved toward her but stopped immediately before the first whirring blade; he hesitated briefly and then dashed past it.

Easier than it looks.

He halted before three more that had been positioned together in much more narrow intervals. Gostra strutted closer to his objective at a steady pace and waited a minute in order to time his next move perfectly...

Recognizing that he was short on time, the middle-aged Executive lunged forward and tried to bypass all three in one go!

He barely managed to avoid the final saw as it severed the back portion of his robe and slightly clipped his shoulder. However, and without further notice, another blade unexpectedly emerged from the west end and whirled in his direction!

Gostra ducked with all the speed he could muster and, in turn, received a deep gash in his back that caused him to yelp in pain.

He quickly ran to the glass and punched at the barrier! Skin tore away from his bleeding knuckles as the Executive despondently sank to his knees. The drug was starting to override his sense of feeling.

The doors to the iron maiden were only inches away from making contact with the woman's skin, and Tomas cried out in despair: "Just tell me what you want! Please! Please put a stop to this!"

"Hold up..." a voice echoed from deep within the room.

Tomas searched around desperately before he noticed a speaker that had been placed in the top right ceiling corner. The voice appeared to be that of a woman's.

"You will have to make a choice here.

"The selected victim is a local 'Madam' with whom you've worked very closely with in the past. The profits she netted you were used to purchase a series of new vineyards from Exquisite Fine Dining Incorporated, which you later used to manufacture a new line of wine products mixed with semi-illegal substances leading to killer sales in the market.

"After your success, you diversified and invested in the same company's shares, and that's where you struck your biggest profit for Zone D...

"The pimp's name is Loretta Vanity, who you've protected for some time now. It's also a lesser known truth that you've made use of her services personally—in fact, you did so last night. An Executive, the standard for righteousness in the Citadel. How pathetic."

"How do I save her? Hurry!"

The iron maiden door stayed frozen in place.

"Patience. Executive Gostra, this process was designed to push you in the right direction. Amour says this is good for you."

"Just tell me what the fuck I have to do to stop this madness!" Tomas was already covered in sweat and grew red as his anxiety soared to new heights; his psyche had corroded.

"The instrument behind you contains three small, sharp spikes within it. If you believe her life has any value, that it is worth saving, then all you have to do is put one of your forearms inside and trust that everything will work out for the best.

"Once the knob connects, and I see that you have done as asked, the iron maiden will be completely disarmed."

Gostra looked to the device and then at Loretta before gazing back toward it once more.

If I'd known that going into politics would've led to this...

As he kneeled and reluctantly slipped his arm into the cast, the intercom began to sound with Amour's voice this time:

"Saint Kizoba was born as Kizindra Gay Locke. It turns out that he added an 'e' onto the end of his middle name because people used to make the joke: 'Is Kiz gay?' Funny, right? Hilarious.

"Kizoba's father was a callous man who regularly beat him as he was growing up! Very harsh."

The device clamped down across his arm.

Needles dug themselves through his skin; they pierced bone as the device tightened itself against his resistance.

Breathing heavily, his vision blurring even more, and screaming in agony, Tomas attempted to turn the knob in the opposite direction. He trembled as blood seeped from the tight crevices of the torture instrument. The thought of the spikes being brought into a more significant portion of his bone marrow intensified Gostra's nerves, and he tried to focus on the song itself; he felt truly helpless, his condition worsened as partial shock triggered across his body in conjunction with the opiate-like drug he'd been given.

Although this world felt imaginary, like a dream easily forgotten within the vastness of time, the pain he experienced was more real and compelling than all that he'd suffered throughout his life.

This blunt, savage torture...

A voice came from somewhere on the other side of the glass:

"I've always been an avid listener of music I find to be much more... soulful. 'Midnight Love' was originally conceived by a man called Miu'ike Jonathan, someone from the Old World."

A fog gathered before thickening into a small vortex in the fabric of reality. From this portal, pieces of a figure began to assemble themselves into Amour and his familiar blue blazer which overlaid a vanilla undershirt complemented by a navy, white-spotted tie.

Amour smiled at Tomas from behind the glass, and he appeared to think he was being charming—perhaps even generous.

"The story goes that Miu'ike met a woman he found so top-notch, so refined, that he just had to speak to her!

"The two of them were both in committed relationships, and, once they'd gotten close, the woman pleaded for Miu'ike to cut her off. She said she didn't want the two of them to create happiness out of grief, that she didn't want them to hurt their respective lovers.

"At the end of their conversation, Townsend said to her, 'The love we have is one that sleeps under the Sun. When you're not around, I only think of you. I think of the love that could've shined bright one midnight."

The device impaling his arm had finally ceased functioning. Gostra's left arm pulsated heavily as he struggled to compose himself.

How much blood have I lost? Can I keep going?... The pain fades in and out in bursts.

"It's a moving song. It really is..." Amour paced back and forth, indifferent to his victims. He was completely absorbed in his own analysis.

"Every note is sophisticatedly tinged with the longing to be with the person of one's dreams, but it also takes the time and consideration to make the point that many people have never met someone or experienced something that would take them to such lofty heights of subtle emotion.

"Saint Kizoba's ballad evokes feelings that give a person the sudden ambition to find that special one who can, by all means, Tommy G, complete them."

It was as if Amour was delivering an abstract sermon; his words were carefully chosen and deliberate.

"Kizoba laments that so many will never know what it's like to have true love grace their existences, and that used to resonate very strongly with me..."

Gostra screamed as another wave of agony rushed over him, spilling an increasing amount of blood from the torture instrument.

Loretta had caught his eyes, which caused the two of them to feel a brief period of genuine sympathy for one another. Gostra, to his own incredulity, found that he could still move his arm, even if he couldn't quite feel any further sensation from it.

"Just picture someone with exquisite beauty, G man!" Absurdly enough, Amour was actually expecting him to focus his attention on his rant. "Someone who normally only exists as an idea, but they come to life before your eyes—it takes your breath away! I'm sorry, but Loretta here," he scoffed and gestured to her with a thumb, "would most likely pale in comparison.

"After all, she gets the very same treatment as your wife, doesn't she?"

Tomas tried to move the knob in the opposite direction, enduring the sickening noise of fractured bone meshed with ravaged flesh. He tried to imagine that it wasn't his arm but continued howling, his pain resurging anew, as the speaker elevated his pitch to an almost eloquent shout over his cries:

"I'll admit it, Tomas, I thought all government types were completely self-serving, but maybe someone like you can prove me wrong..." Amour feigned nonchalance. "It'll make things a little more interesting for me."

"You refuse to answer anything I ask of you!" Gostra exclaimed after finally having freed himself from the device, clutching tenderly his bloodied arm.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Why not?" Amour threw his hands up in a careless gesture while staring blankly at his prey.

"Human nature is so fun, Tom—especially in the higher echelons of a man-made power structure. Prostitutes, bangers, junkies... those are all what I like to think of as people with chump mentalities, but when you enter the mind of someone who's been granted a great responsibility...

"Well, that's where you find what's in every human," he said, "you'll see the truth, too."

Gostra collapsed to the ground and succumbed to the full pain of the incurred injury.

"It's too bad you left behind the pipe I offered you. Tsk, maybe you could've smoked your way through this experience—most do. I mean, it makes sense and creates a very..." Amour breathed deeply, "surreal aesthetic—but you're too good for that, right? Or maybe the dope was just shit; regardless, the trial proceeds!"

Amour stepped so that he was positioned immediately in front of the glass, posturing himself in an elitist manner before his victim.

"No time to waste!" he shouted confidently. "I still have work for you to do. I knew a basic interrogation would prove too boring..." Amour paused and smiled.

"I guess you could say I enjoy the minimalistic things in this turbulent world. You should just kick back, Tomas, because I added in a little Kizoba here and there for some finishing touches on this particular piece." He cocked an eyebrow. "But you wouldn't understand something like that would you? C'mon, don't be so upset when we're just getting to know each other."

Tomas slammed his fist against the glass!

"You'll pay for this, Amour! I'll make sure they give you the maximum fucking punishment!"

"Oh?" The man put a hand over what would've been his mouth if not for the mask. "That sounds exciting, Executive! Oh yes, I'm rather aroused...

"If you would, look to your right."

The Executive sighed dejectedly before he reluctantly turned his head to see the panel adorned with human hands he'd previously ignored to listen to the madman's rant.

"After capturing you, it was a rather trivial matter to gain access to all the accounts you'd frequented the most. Of course, Vitality Logger was your most used site—and that didn't really surprise me because it's one of the more popular platforms available across hemispheres—but the second and third most visited?" Amour frowned at him and expressed scorn.

"How shameful. Deals engineered as a result of the ongoing exploitation of weaker countries around the world, eh? Mhmm. You know it's true."

"You..." Gostra hadn't anticipated this. "There's no way—"

Amour declared condescendingly, "You can't hide ALL of your history, Tomas. What would be the fun in that? Oh,"—he shook his head—"and a profile on a site for husbands and wives to have extramarital affairs? Why... who would've thought Executive Tomas Gostra had such an appetite—for so many different women—and under the pseudonym 'Darry Felds!' What kind of pimp name is that, Tomas?

"—Nevermind.

"I activated that panel while your arm was being broken; as of now, it's displaying your profile page on Vitality Logger with a status already written for you and prepared to be submitted for everyone in the known world to see!" Amour was unusually cheeky; his plans were coming to fruition.

"Go ahead!" he exclaimed. "It's time for you to make another choice."

With reserve, Gostra made his way over to the panel to view a screen depicting his complete cyber blueprint on the social media site. He peered closely to see a short paragraph written for him and read:

"This is your Executive, Tomas Gostra.

"I've been having an affair with multiple women across the Citadel who I've paid not to disclose my infidelity. Below are two links: the first is a link to my profile on a site designed for extramarital affairs, and the second is an exclusive video of me cheating on my wife."

"Y-you... videotaped me?"

The man in the mask slowly uncovered his shotgun to point it in the direction of Loretta Vanity, who stared at the ground in defeat.

"Click on the links, Tomas. I'd say that's sufficient proof, wouldn't you?

"Personally, I'd taken you for the choker type, but I've concluded that you were just a child, a baby wearing the title of Executive. Normally, I kill people like you..."

He slouched his shoulders.

"I can't really seem to help it at times, but I'll need you to work with me on this one. You have a role in this world."

Gostra ignored his kidnapper as he tapped his index finger against the screen and was transferred to another viewable website on the system. It began playing a video of him and Loretta Vanity locked in the missionary position as he kissed her breasts.

"You..." Gostra said under his breath. "How dare you."

He rested his head against the wall.

"I'm giving you a choice, Tom—not necessarily because I care about your pitiful existence but because I'm interested in what you'll ultimately end up doing when pushed to your maximum potential."

"What is it, you bastard? What do you want me to do?"

"As of now, you've little time to decide whether to submit or delete what's been written there.

"The button on the left side of the panel will provide an instant submission, and the button on the right side will delete it. In front of me, there is a screen which displays the same view you have, so I'll know if you lie to me. The choice is as follows: delete the submission, save your reputation... and Loretta Vanity dies."

"You can't be serious."

"Approve it to be delivered to the world as public information, and she lives... but your wife will probably leave you. You'll most likely no longer have a career in government, but, who knows, stranger things have happened, right?"

"But you can't do this! You can't just decide how to run someone else's life."

Amour paused for a moment before slowly treading closer to Gostra.

He removed his mask.

Amour revealed a reddened face drenched in a sheen of sweat. The man's dark hair was thick and curly, extending past his shoulders and the same shade as his facial hair. Other than that, he'd kept after his own hygiene conscientiously and neatened his edges in a look almost contrived to make him appear as a modern, wealthy prince. Someone handsome but with features sharp enough to intimidate. Amour's eyes were both a bright hue of red, a sight that was disturbing to Gostra.

As Amour stared him down coldly, the kidnapper spoke with both rage and authority:

"I've decided the fate of a lot of people, Tomas..." He appeared slightly nauseated. "Knowing that won't keep me from doing the same things. I'm a little sick, Tom, and I plan to keep going until my appetite runs out. Runs out entirely."

"..."

"I want you to look real close—you hear me, you stupid bitch!"

"Just don't hurt her. Please don't hurt her."

"Oh." His face relaxed into a more brooding state. "Tomas, Tomas...

"Buddy, listen to me: at the end of this sentence, Loretta will be dead. I wanna know how that makes you feel. Any words? If not, allow me to begin—"

"What? I..."

Amour maintained quite an intense focus.

"The..." he said.

"Wait!" Tomas cried.

"Stop! I can't just incriminate myself like this!"

Amour smirked and cocked the barrel.

"... ultimate result of shielding men from the effects of folly..."

I can't tell her like this. She'd never forgive me.

The Executive stared down at the written statement, and his mind fell into a frenzied state; his thoughts became clouded, irrational, and then they disappeared.

"... is to fill..."

Tomas gazed up at Loretta, who was desperately pleading for him to help her. As a taunt, the kidnapper strolled up to her and removed the cloth preventing her from speaking.

"Please, Tomas!" she cried. "You can move past a small setback! Don't let him do this to me—please!"

"... the world with..."

"Tomas! Post it, Tomas—post it now! Don't let him do this to me!"

Gostra looked at her, tears forming and building into a continuous stream. "I-I can't...

"She's my wife." he admitted in defeat.

"Tomas!"

"I love her..." he said, feeling utterly despondent, "and my career is everything."

"Fools."

The man in the mask seemed to have become even more excited.

He fired a devastating round through Loretta Vanity's chest, forcing blood and fragments of bone to protrude from the newly created cavity, protrude and scatter across the ground in a mound composed of crimson gore.

Loretta weakly battled to grasp whatever sliver of life she had remaining before the woman's head sank as well as her spirit, signaling her final departure from the world of the living.

"A quote by Herbert Spencer." The murderer turned to face him, exposing a bloodstained, wicked grin.
20

The Elephant

-

Janelle

-

EXECUTIVE TOMAS GOSTRA PRESSED THE BUTTON TO HIS RIGHT.

He collapsed to his knees in response to Loretta's death and wept bitterly.

"You fucking bastard!" Gostra glared at his kidnapper in a moment of cathartic rage, a moment in which he also felt defenseless.

"Ah..." Amour appeared genuinely shocked. "You can express sympathy, Tom? I'd thought people like you were incapable...

"Cheer up," said the killer nonchalantly, "you said you loved your wife. You made your choice, and, besides, Loretta didn't have the needed Beauty to survive in my new world—it's the same defect you have—so don't make this into a big deal. It was merely a test of what you'd sacrifice for the truth.

"Blech. Government types. But tell me something, Tom..."

Gostra remained silent.

"Was it your love of your wife or your love of power? Both? Are they equal, or is one greater than the other?"

No response.

"Really that stricken by grief, huh? —Well," Amour spoke impatiently, "while I've got your full attention, allow me to show a politer side of myself.

"I've suffered, too... much more than you know." Amour possessed an aura about himself, something that couldn't be seen by the likes of Gostra and a power that slumbered deep within the way he talked. He exerted strength and confidence despite his obvious instability.

"For instance, my friend, I was born among chaos. I suffered at the hands of someone claiming to be my guardian.

"He was a bitter old man and resented me for tragic events. He blamed me for what I was unable to prevent when I was younger... when I was weak." Amour's demeanor turned to one of shame.

Gostra looked down in disbelief. She's dead because of me.

Ignoring Tomas Gostra's distress, the killer clapped his hands before clasping them earnestly in an effort to restore his previously jolly demeanor and exclaimed, as if he'd read Gostra's mind, "But all of that's in the past, isn't it?

"Come, Tom." He smirked coldly and retrieved a remote from his pocket. Amour pressed it against his palm to trigger the opening of a section of the wall on Tom's side of the glass.

"There are more people for you to meet."

Gostra felt despair take the place of any possible pain. His drugged state gave way to the last of his energy.

"Perhaps you'll actually save someone this time."

And, with that, Amour disappeared from where he'd originally emerged, leaving Tomas behind to deal with the wreckage.

Gathering what resolve he had remaining, Gostra sluggishly got to his feet, wiped his eyes, and moved toward the new opening to follow a hallway that rounded and curved the taken path to the right. He couldn't feel anymore.

-

Gostra discovered a staircase and made his way up its steps to enter a long, rectangular room containing a painting from the artist Salvador Dali: The Metamorphosis of Narcissus.

A voice resonated from somewhere unknown in that world, the madman's voice:

"Fitting, isn't it? Narcissism is a common trait held by people who've resided in positions of power for far too long. I once knew a man so narcissistic that his sickness resulted in the ruin of his whole family; it's a very nasty condition."

Gostra tried to maintain his composure and thought to himself: He's so removed from reality. What could've happened to him?

He continued and found a dead end marked by a bare wall. To his right, he noticed a small, rusted cylinder of plastic buried in the wall next to him. Another button.

"Go ahead. Push it. Do you want to live or not? Do you still believe there's hope?"

Gostra pushed it and was suddenly surrounded with the beginnings of, "Hanumashi Valley." It could be heard playing in another room ahead as the wall in front of him began to slide away to the right.

Tomas Gostra entered a large chamber containing a metallic elephant twice the size of an average adult human and standing on its hindlegs. Before the tall idol, there was a golden panel on the floor that shimmered against a group of fluorescent lights hanging overhead.

"I've gotta say, 'Hanumashi Valley' is probably my favourite song out of Saint Kizoba's vast collection."

Gostra couldn't tell where it was coming from, but it sounded as if Amour was still in the room with him.

"Obviously, I'm not a very spiritual person, but I find 'Hanumashi Valley' to be a very soulful observation on the condition of the world we live in today.

"Though you may very well hate me by this point, Tommy, you cannot argue that we've lived in the same Citadel, unchanging for all this time—and I know you've endured similar struggles: inflation of common consumer goods, the degradation of general moral values across the board, lack of citizens participating in a dying democracy, and universally existent famine in lands beset by savage monsters.

"Executive Tomas Gostra, I would like for you to step on the patch of yellow you see in front of you."

"But why?" he screamed while throwing his hands up in frustration. "Why won't you just kill me? I can't keep going like this—I can't."

"Oh, don't be silly, Gostra." Amour laughed to himself. "There is work that can't be done without you—work that requires your full cooperation; besides, you're still an Executive, aren't you?"

Tomas sighed in defeat and complied by moving to stand on the golden patch. Almost at the same time, something abominable and partially masked in iron dropped with impressive speed before stopping an inch away from the Executive's head and glowed with a lavender aura.

To his left and right, there were what appeared to be circular machinations resembling handcuffs that extended from extrapolations in the unidentifiable thing.

"At this time, you will put your hands through the restraints you see before you—well, c'mon, don't be shy now!"

Gostra did as instructed and suddenly had to move his head forward and out of the way as the full weight of the strange object was applied to his back and shoulders. Simultaneously, a circular section of the floor below the large idol gave way to reveal a wide pit and one which immediately ignited and produced an enormous flame. The flame surrounded and flicked fiery embers at the metallic figurine.

Tomas glanced to see that it had been suspended with an iron chain, and he struggled in pain as the weight pressed itself down upon his shoulders. He fell into a deep squat and wobbled involuntarily under the immense pressure. The object seemed to be a living organism and avoided placing its full weight upon his injured arm, slightly throwing the Executive off balance but ultimately benefiting his well-being.

"The former manager for your previous election campaign to be Executive is currently trapped within that quaint, decorative elephant. Do you like the design?

"It's supposed to be one of the last ceremonial pieces of Dharmanic Lord Isolakandi's legacy. That is the Indaeu'ma Demons' God of Great Darkness, Hanumashi, and their counterpart to Ganesha. Metal figurines of Hanumashi were... artfully used to enclose their victims while they burned to death under the heat of an open flame.

"That Thing attached to you is the only method that will reduce the overall strength of the fire pit. It could possibly even put out the flames for a short amount of time if you're in top shape, buddy!

"In order to produce this result, you must continually squat the weight you're currently struggling against," Amour snickered as if he'd just told a good joke to himself, "... it's-it's a good workout but not intended for the fainthearted—if you know what I mean, Tom."

"You conniving son of a—"

"Better get to it if you want to save the man who became the reason for your success!"

As if on cue, the Executive began pressing the weight up and down as forcefully and as quickly as possible. He exerted all of his available endurance and battled fiercely through his own fatigue.

This is defiance. Defiance against an absurd punishment. He'll pay for all of this!

Tomas felt a sense of slight relief as the fire pit below the black elephant steadily began to fade in intensity.

Sweat broke around the crown of his head; every muscle in his body twitched in wearied response; his forearm began bleeding even more profusely under the weight, but the Executive—a self-proclaimed "fitness specialist" and drugged to dull his senses—remained resistant, grunting as he endured an unrelenting ache.

"When Kizoba's brother, Saidomi, returned from a two-year tour of Gaspul in the World Below, he began speaking about all the things he'd witnessed as a soldier; see, he had eyes on the gruesome nature of war.

"Saidomi had come back from what he believed was the true manifestation of Hell. The song, 'Hanumashi Valley,' was intended to be about his experience: a soldier returning from a long war and coming home to a new world, a world he no longer recognized. And so, Tom, Saidomi and Kizoba collaborated to produce a song unrivaled in its exquisitely forlorn meaning.

"As I might have mentioned before, I'm a collector of all art forms. I'm glad you can listen while finding your place in this world..."

"W-world?"

The fire pit had all but been extinguished for moment before being revved up once more once Tomas Gostra felt his muscles begin to fail him. Sure enough, they were cramping and yielding to the burdensome demands of Amour.

Gostra cursed under his breath and attempted to spark again his own adrenaline... but the Executive noticed he was starting to produce returns that were progressively worse each time. His exhaustion was triumphing over the same spirit that had gotten him elected.

"Your campaign manager, a charismatic fellow who used to go by 'The Elephant,' was a soldier himself in days past...

"I had a little time to do some research on him. Found out that he was some fellow in the Dawn Federation's infantry. Served four years. Supposedly would've climbed up in rank faster if not for his tendency to have a rather big mouth.

"Big mouths, as you already know, Tom, can be costly... devastating—and as fate would have it, that big mouth is what garnered a large majority of votes cast in your favor amongst the public."

"What exactly are you saying?" Gostra buckled as he spoke.

"You really are a moron." Amour sighed. "Amidst quite a large amount of police brutality scandals coming almost solely from your own Quadrant as Major, your estranged friend was able to mitigate the political damage done to you; he bribed ministers to let everyone in Zone D know that Major Gostra was for them!" He smiled.

"Those fools didn't know what they were getting themselves into when they voted; I'll admit that I feel a little sorry for them, don't you?"

Before his eyes, the flames rose again as Gostra's entire body shook. I have to keep going. I've gotta save him!

"The Elephant," aptly named because he was once able to squat press more than anyone in his platoon, had been woken and began beating on the inner walls of the idol after realizing the gravity of his situation. His screams for help were nearly drowned by a combination of Saint Kizoba's voice in the background and the masked man's booming rant.

"My, it looks like he finally woke up! I'm guessing it got a little toasty for Zone D's favourite veteran. Did you know this same man spent his time going door to door for you, Executive? Would you let him down now?"

Next to his foot, a patch of the floor shifted and revealed a small microphone that rose from the ground and raised to be at eye level with Gostra.

Attached to the microphone, there was both a yellow note and a small device armed with a timer. Gostra stopped squatting the staggering weight for a short time to take notice of the object but quickly resumed after watching the fire pit suddenly rage with renewed fury.

The song had already ended, and all that remained was the echoing of Amour's maliciously jovial voice.

"In front of you, you have your very own microphone! You should be used to delivering bullshit speeches," he said humorlessly, "so don't get stage fright this far in. I'd figured you'd eventually get tired of struggling against the inevitable—even though it's always good to have your beach body prepared for any occasion. I'm giving you an out for the second time, Tom!

"–You can thank me later, but all you've gotta do," he said in an exuberantly manic state, "is repeat what's been written on that convenient little note. The device you see there—yes, right there!—attached to the microphone is small recorder I've conveniently set up for you. After you repeat the words you've been given, like a good boy, clearly I'll need to go in and edit what's necessary and release it through the proper channels."

"This is all about blackmail to you?"

"Nothing so frivolous! However, I'm sorry to say that you won't be telling the truth this time. But, if you follow my instructions, Elephant there will be released. You can save his life."

"Blackmail. I should've expected this."

The Executive gazed at what was written on the note...

"My name is Executive Tomas Gostra of Zone D, and I have a confession to make.

"Following some personal soul searching and a lengthy discussion with my staff, I shamefully regret to inform the public of a series of treasonous acts I've committed against the Dawn Federation.

"As an opening, I'd like to state—for the record—that Executive Joel Petrus of Zone B has been the victim of an attempt to frame a morally sound man; he has been convicted in the public mind of crimes for which he is not responsible.

"Concerning the human trafficking incident involving the criminal organization, Genod & Portis, I find it necessary to admit to my personal involvement in this situation...

"Pause here.

"Several months ago, I contacted Vice Executive Kasski of Zone B in an attempt to outsource Genod & Portis' business to the district governed by Petrus. It was safer. Smarter.

"Pause.

"At the time, Executive Petrus was in the process of having a large section of his city undergo mass remodeling in order to improve housing for both local agencies and consumers. This new initiative involved building superior energy sources available only to those with the adequate means.

"After speaking to Vice Executive Kasski without the Zone Executive's knowledge, we conspired to postpone Petrus' vision for an extended period of time; all the while, we misinformed Petrus on the progress of the construction. While Executive Petrus remained unaware of our activities, we executed a plan to have Genod & Portis begin manufacturing and distributing a recreational drug known as "Kiine" throughout the area without interference from the police.

"We encouraged them to create a slave labor market, a cost-effective approach that would focus on those possessing disabilities; those who had incurred exorbitant debts; or, those originating from a foreign province without adequate linguistic capabilities. Foreigners were often chosen more arbitrarily.

"After some time, we proceeded to scheme on moving the "company" to an area outside of the country to continue our operations using the revenue generated from exploiting Executive Petrus' ignorance.

"I, Executive Gostra, take full responsibility for my part in the entire operation. All further punishment...

"Pause." Next to that, Gostra read to himself, "Appear remorseful or I will kill you.

He said, "All hate should be directed toward me."

It finally began to make sense to Tomas Gostra.

This isn't just about some deranged serial killer living out his personal fantasies—no. This is Executive Petrus' last ditch effort to save his career!

By coercing Gostra to take the fall for crimes committed against the public, Petrus would be able to find his own redemption, leaving Gostra would face trial.

But where did Joel find someone so psychotic to help him?

The killer was an anomaly and certainly not someone who would normally be courted by a Federation government official. Though Petrus' situation was bleak, Gostra believed that there was no possible way his political rival could seek out and find someone capable of building a death trap.

He planned this from start to finish. H-he knew I would let him kill Loretta.

The weight of the organism was beginning to crush Gostra.

His panic faded, giving rise instead to an indomitable anger borne from the ridiculousness of his own situation.

"I won't say any of this! Why would I sabotage my own career?" He shouted and began aggressively pressing against the weight, trying to free himself. He was entangled, however, and unable to break away from the contraption.

"You can't do this to me!" Gostra said, "I'm not going to go down for that scumbag's goddamn mistakes!"

Amour could be heard laughing maniacally from all around him.

"Your free will...

"It doesn't exist. You're a servant of some Failure, like the rest of this country! Do you still not understand what this place is, Tom? I'm asking you if you understand exactly where you are right now?"

Tomas's energy was draining rapidly. He saved his breath as much as his anger would allow.

The killer laughed prior to speaking once more: "Oh boy, you're about to be awfully weary before this is all over! I'll admit that I'm amused; you've absolutely nowhere to run, but you've got full permission to keep running anyways."

"Damn you!"

Gostra couldn't contain himself. "When I get free—when I find you, and I WILL find you—I'll make sure you feel all of this ten times over! You fuckin' hear me?"

Gostra had entered a state of extreme heat exhaustion.

"It's ironic that one such as you would believe you own the moral high ground—you, of all people!

"Did you not authorize your own police department to take liberties with the criminal population? Do you know how many innocent people died because your cops overextended their own boundaries—beat on good people? —There's been a lack of regulations, a lack of needed procedures to stimulate the wheels of justice. And what about all the lies you've told your wife, Tom. Do you remember them?"

"Stop speaking! You can't know!"

Tomas pushed with even more force against the oppressive presence. "I've been—I've been stressed! Y-you wouldn't know what it's like to be in my position, b-because you can't! And even if you convinced me to admit to all those lies..." Gostra gasped for air. "What makes you think Vice Executive Kasski would go for it, huh? –And what about the people who were really involved with that shit? Are you one of them?"

"Kasski broke before she'd even made it past the first room.

"She was rather easy to convince. Kasski did as I instructed, so she's safe now. Petrus' personal accountant was killed after resisting an oh-so-tragic 'mugging.'"

"You're saying she's already... She fell for this."

Tomas Gostra was unable to move.

"That's exactly what I'm saying.

"You're the last piece of the puzzle. It took some time, and a lot of plotting, but Petrus is finally beginning to look like an innocent fellow—can you believe it? And the jury for his trial is going to be its own walk in the park, thanks to some kind associates."

Gostra collapsed under the full weight of the object.

"I'll be increasing the pressure now. It's okay; I'm here for you, Tom." Amour taunted him.

Tomas pressed upward with all his might but couldn't produce the adequate resistance to such a challenge.

The former campaign manager's frantic beating on the sphere had increased in frequency; he was burning, and only the Gostra could prevent his death. He gritted his teeth and used all the willpower stored within his being to shift the weight up once more—!

—Gostra crashed to the ground and groaned in torment as his arm began to throb. He'd suffered significant blood loss, felt dehydrated, and searched around for some way out of this prison in his disorientation. Once more, the Executive felt completely helpless as the fire pit returned to its former intensity, and The Elephant's knocking progressively died down. Gostra felt as if he could no longer move his body, and so he cursed and closed his eyes in the depths of futility.

"Ah, Tom... this could all be over if you simply went along with everything. Soon, though, you shall know everything."

Gostra was locked in paralysis upon the floor, still broken even when the weight was finally lifted from his shoulders and hefted back through a black hole in the ceiling.

I'm finished.

"It's quite a simple matter to trade one corrupt politician for another; the Dawn Federation does it all the time—it's just usually a more... discrete process, you know?

"You were the perfect candidate: a child of privilege, someone who only cared about moving up in the system. And the major difference between you and Petrus is that you can afford to pay off an entire jury and any judge presiding over the case, but Petrus cannot on his own."

Gostra's campaign manager was burning alive, his life force diminishing as he embraced his defeat.

"Politicians often resemble criminal enterprisers if you think about it. Instead of a stash, they're burdened with a cabinet consisting of toxic garbage—scandalous gossip smushed with armies of sponsors, and, instead of a central product, they sell whatever marketers and the people who endorse them tell them to sell. The only real difference is that bangers sell drugs and small-time services, but politicians sell ideas and promises to those reckless enough to believe in them."

Amour stopped for a second before continuing:

"That's enough moralizing for one day. I think you've at least earned the right to know where you are. To not know... that must be quite an awful feeling."

Gostra groaned. "Petrus owns this prison, I'd gather."

Amour neglected to respond; to the far right of the room, another panel of the wall gave way to reveal yet another passage. As Gostra exerted pressure down his lower back and legs, he felt an overwhelming weakness and fell over as he was forced to stop his head from colliding with the ground.

Tomas Gostra allowed himself to catch his breath, resting for a time before trying to stand again and took several minutes to position himself on his knees. He struggled to his feet and limped forth to progress through the newly-opened route.

I'm playing a game rigged to create a set outcome, he thought. I've been trying to fight this maniac the whole time, but there's no real way to do things differently. If I'd just obeyed, it might've been better. He might've spared them, but maybe this is what the creep wanted all along.

He made it to the entrance and collapsed against the wall to rest.

I need water. Can't last like this.

He then looked up and screamed when spotting one enormous eye that stared back at him through a tear in the wall ahead. As quickly as he could blink, the eye vanished, revealing an opening to the outside.

An escape?

Gostra rushed to what he believed to be the exit, a way to finally flee from this madness. He stepped from the suffocating walls of the labyrinth to view only miles of dense, dark forest numbered with several more dark pillars that resembled the one he'd seen earlier. In the distance, a colossal storm raged and produced a tornado the scale of which dwarfed the land for hundreds of miles.

"Do you now understand what this is?" The voice of Amour bellowed from the heavens.

To his own horror, Gostra viewed a gigantic set of eyes beaming down at him and partially obscured behind thick cloud clusters.

"I..."

"You should feel honored, Gostra. After all, you are the centerpiece of this Painting. The one to hold it all together."

21

Avva's Mercy

-

Amour

-

THIS IS MY BLESSING.

My blessing and the manner in which I will engineer myself into godhood...

"You are far from home, Tom. Far from your own reality as you know it."

"Meaning?"

"This is my work of art. I painted everything you see before you, and you're merely a moving piece. Through your struggle, I will see if perhaps Beauty can arise from adversity; but you must understand, Tom, that there is no escape—not when the artist is in motion."

-

Janelle

-

Gostra noticed a long path down a subsequent hall that ended in what he hoped would be the final door in this maze.

I'm safer following the same trail, because what's out there... I can't take it. They're aberrations I won't let myself see directly again. No. I won't dare!

The hallway was decorated with a lengthy, maroon carpet with golden embroidery that formed outlines of unknown humanoid figures appearing distressed. Gostra limped toward the door, exhausted well beyond minor disorientation. He looked to his right to view another painting by Salvador Dali: The Burning Giraffe.

Gostra hesitated as he realized that the same painting had been hung up in his office by his assistant several days earlier; he knew because a small portion of the frame was discolored, and he'd purchased the piece itself at an art festival.

He realized that Amour had been conducting surveillance on him for longer than he'd originally thought.

Continuing onward, Tomas grasped the knob to the doorway prior to arriving in a much smaller den; it possessed what looked like an elaborate throne intended for a king.

Overhead, "Avva's Mercy" played and resonated vibrantly throughout the area, adding a dimension of inanity to an already disturbing universe. Gostra proceeded and turned, noticing that the throne faced a wide but slim television screen that took up most of the opposing wall.

"The only thing left to do now is to take the seat of authority, Tom. You've been rather insistent on it, haven't you?"

"If I say no, who will you hurt?"

"I think you'll find it within your best interests to do as I tell you."

Tomas shook his head. "I don't think I can keep this up..."

There was silence until Amour spoke once more.

"Your son is only seventeen, correct?"

Gostra tensed in response as Amour continued, "Wouldn't you like to see what the little guy is up to? Have a seat. We can begin proper."

He hastily complied and sat on a plush, dark pillow adorning the throne.

There resounded a soft click; two metal braces appeared from crevices positioned next to each of his arms and secured themselves around his wrists.

From below, two more braces followed suit to lock in his ankles. One final, larger brace was abruptly triggered and wrapped itself around his midsection. The left armrest emitted a strange sound following the last brace, and a small, square panel containing a lime green button appeared next to his hand.

"Allow me to give you my final recommendation. Things will be different from here on out—better."

"..."

"Saint Kizoba was a very talented musician, as you should know by now if you've been listening. If only I had a voice like him, I would've chosen a totally different career path.

"He wrote and produced songs that had these sensual melodies. It's like they depicted a physical connection to spiritual hymns that represented his unflinching faith.

"'Avva's Mercy' is a shining example of his skill with music, a lamentation about humanity's toxic influence upon the environment.

"I find it hilarious, because the jokes on humans—we're all responsible for what happened in the Old World, Tom. This song suits us better than any other. In 'Avva's Mercy,' Kizoba discusses how things have changed because of the damage sustained by the world from constant abuse. He very gently evokes images of radiation polluting our ecology, and he mourns the deaths of animals as a result of mankind's often selfish actions.

"This ballad is a grim reflection on what we've done to alter the Earth for the worse, on how our presence and increasing need to have advanced technology to satisfy our personal wants has led to a more perverse incarnation of existence. Though it's not my favourite, and I might not completely agree, it's a close second and deserves its own level of recognition for subject matter ahead of its time!

"You, on the other hand, probably listen to all that electronic bullshit they play at nightclubs these days, and so I thought it necessary to provide you with a little musical education as reward for providing inspiration."

The television screen flickered on to show different cameras displaying a series of rooms all connected to each other. In the first chamber, Gostra's son, known widely for his "tough" demeanor, huddled in the corner afraid and buried his head in his lap.

"No!" Gostra cried.

"What have you done—why would you bring him into this!" He became restless against the restraints of the throne.

"Your son, Tomas Gostra Junior, has been wandering around this section for a solid twelve hours. As you can see, there is an exit, but it stayed locked until you took a seat just now and activated it.

"I assumed it would be funnier to watch his confusion. Eh, it's closer to a lighthearted mixture of sad and boring for me."

"You're a monster."

"—Do you know how Saint Kizoba died? It's a rather tragic tale and stays in my mind to this day...

"There happened to be a night when Kizoba's father, Kizindra Locke Senior, embroiled himself in an argument with his dear wife, Wensa Locke.

"He spoke to Wensa in a way that sorely angered his musicially-talented son. Kizoba decried his actions and warned his father not to come into his room, but the aging man took it as a challenge and decided to see what would happen if he pressed his luck against his own kid.

"In the end, Kizoba had to defend himself when committing to get his father away from Wensa. Kizindra Locke Sr. returned later that night and shot him in the chest and using the gun Kizoba had bought him for his birthday.

"Imagine that, Gostra..." The killer paused briefly. "Filicide. The murder of one's offspring—perhaps one of the greatest sins someone can commit.

"Tom, you sit in the position of..." Amour breathed deeply and emphatically, "a monarch. This title is obviously still relevant within many human territories left in the world. The Federation, on the contrary, has done everything it can to dismantle it. As such, 'Supreme Ruler' Derek was made to become President. Here, we will find out how much your career is worth to you; that is, if you're willing to ascend."

"What do you mean? What do you want from my son?"

"The television in front of you displays four connecting rooms. I've already informed Tomas Jr. that the first door has been unlocked..."

"Wait! –Wait, let me talk to him—just let me talk to him before you put him through this!"

"Shut the fuck up!"

Gostra spectated anxiously as his son rose to his feet and walked toward the door to the first chamber, which contained nothing beyond but another metal entrance. Tomas Jr. fearfully pulled open what he hoped might be an exit—

—And a needle erupted from the base of the throne to pierce Tomas Gostra through the bottom portion of his left leg!

He screamed in anguish and slammed the back of his head against the throne.

"A nice touch I added in recently; I hope you like it! The next two doors will produce a similar result as the first one he opened—but don't fret, pal! It'll only hurt for a moment. Trust me, you've been through worse!"

Tomas Jr. continued through the passage and halted at the end.

"It's the final door that I'd be worried about."

"W-why is that?"

Gostra's son opened the second portal and triggered another needle—it promptly sprung from the side of the throne to cut a deep gash across Gostra's ribcage.

"If he gets his hands on the final door, a larger needle has been adjusted to aim directly for your heart! Doesn't that sound exciting to you!"

I hate him. I hate him more than anything.

"But don't be too stressed out, Tom. The button you see before you is linked to a series of pressure plates below and right before each of the doors. If you happen to press it, the button will activate them all and your son will perish... but you will live! And, once this is over, you're free to go!"

"That's... you can't. There has to be another way! I'll do anything!"

The boy slowly inched toward the next door after stopping to view a piece of paper that had been nailed to the wall that showed off a drawing in crayon. A drawing he'd once given his dad at the age of four, one Gostra kept displayed at his office.

"And there is another way, would you believe it!"

Tomas stiffened.

"Tell me," he said. "Hurry and tell me now!"

"If you look below the television screen, you'll see a note with the same written speech as the one I attached to the microphone, and I hope you can read it! You're actually being recorded on camera via the screen as we speak—" The television quickly switched over to a close-up view of Tomas Gostra's tortured features.

"As mentioned previously, I can go back and edit the video, but it is up to you to say the words I've written."

"And if I do this?"

Another spike thrust itself through Gostra's mangled forearm, causing him to shriek and beg for his life.

His son was approaching the last door...

"If you comply, the two of you can go home and forget about this whole incident altogether! The video will be published to every social platform used by citizens of the Dawn Federation, naturally, and you will stand trial for Executive Petrus' transgressions. It's perfect—probably not what you wanted... at least your son will be safe, though.

"All the money you made from sowing your own brand of corruption in Zone D will end up going to your family if the people decide to execute you. Or, hey, maybe you'll have enough time to flee the country; the options are endless when you're a fugitive, Tom!"

"Okay, okay!" Tomas shouted. "I'll do it!"

"You'd better fucking hurry."

Gostra peered over at the television monitor, which now divided into the recording of him and a camera view of his son, who was looking at a series of more pictures drawn in crayon and placed along the wall in a series.

He then stared at the note and subsequently repeated all that was written on it without thinking clearly about what he was being asked to confess:

-

"My name is Executive Tomas Gostra of Zone D, and I have a confession to make.

"Following some personal soul searching and a lengthy discussion with my staff, I've decided to inform the public of a series of treasonous acts I have committed against the country.

"... Executive Joel Petrus of Zone B has been the victim of an attempt to frame him for actions of which he is not decidedly guilty. Concerning the human trafficking incident involving Genod & Portis, I find it necessary to admit to my personal involvement in the situation. Several months ago, I contacted Vice Executive Kasski of Zone B and asked her to outsource Genod and Portis' business to a Zone other than my own.

"At the time, Executive Petrus was in the process of having a large section of his city be remodeled in order to improve housing for both local agencies and consumers. After speaking to Vice Executive Kasski without the Zone Executive's knowledge, we decided to work together to postpone construction for an extended period of time while misinforming Petrus on the progress of it. While Executive Joel Petrus remained unaware of our activities, we executed a plan to have Genod & Portis begin manufacturing and distributing a recreational drug known as "Kiine" throughout the area without interference from the police.

"We also encouraged them to create a slave labor market that would focus on those possessing disabilities, those who had incurred exorbitant debts, or those originating from a foreign province without adequate linguistic capabilities. After some time, we planned on moving the 'staffing company' to an area outside of the country to continue our operations using the revenue generated from our taking advantage of Executive Petrus. I take full responsibility for my part in the entire operation."

Gostra visibly scowled upon realizing that more had been added and followed with a heavy sigh before reluctantly repeating that portion as well:

"My attempts to frame Executive Joel Petrus should be considered dishonorable by all accounts, and I'll admit that my credibility as a government representative is all... but diminished. I've been unfaithful to the people closest to me and have courted the interests of prostitutes, drug manufacturers, and influential mob bosses in order to generate revenue for Zone D.

"Thank you for your time, and please consider my words carefully..."

The recording of Tomas Gostra cut off after a few more seconds, and the restraints around him removed themselves automatically. He quickly leapt to his feet and tumbled forward just in time as the final spike forced itself through the back of his chair.

Gostra fell to his knees while keeping his eyes on the screen ahead. Tomas Jr. had entered the final room and noticed nothing other than a comic book lying on the ground. The boy picked it up and sat against the wall to begin reading, and Gostra sighed in relief. Gostra began to cry again and fell back against the base of the throne.

"It appears as though you've finally come to your senses, Tom. I have to admit that I'm proud—and, honestly, if you would've blown up your son, you'd have been killed anyways. I knew you weren't exactly a saint, but you had enough of a moral compass to do the right thing."

"Don't talk to me about doing the right thing! Fuck you!"

"Hey, no hard feelings here! It's all business, Mr. Executive. And with that, I feel it's time to add the finishing touches to this scene."

Lacking any further notice, a section of one of the surrounding walls slid open to reveal that father and son had been in adjacent rooms.

My son... in this unspeakable place...

"Dad?" Tomas Jr. exclaimed in bewilderment. "Are you a part of this? –Wait, what the hell happened to you—dad!"

Executive Tomas Gostra felt his consciousness begin to weaken; his body failed and consequently caused him to stumble moments before he fell.

His son sprinted in to catch him, attempting to stand his father upright as the man's life slipped away.

"No!" he cried. "You can't go like this—what did they do to you?"

"... I couldn't make it. I-I love you."

-

"What do you think, honey?" Amour's tone expressed his excitement.

She's just standing there, looking enchanted.

"I think... I didn't expect it to be so..."

"So...?"

"Beautiful."

She's smiling. Something about her just—just puts my soul at ease. A great canvas on display before the two of us: my latest project. I was in such a hurry I couldn't even think of a title for something so ambitious!

A father succumbing to his sacrifice while mourned and embraced by his son, enclosed by... not a maze of rooms. What a childish idea.

No! The forest engulfs them! Their forms are trapped in a moment capturing...

Grief. Genuine Grief.

True representation. An artist's dream.

"Are they..."

"Dead?" Amour chuckled thoughtfully. "No. Just trapped in time, in a moment... transcendent. Tomas will always border on death but never truly die; his life culminated in something real."

"They'll never die? They've been made immortal then, Amour! That's incredible!"

She understands it all so easily.

Amour sighed with relief when witnessing his wife's sanguine spirit.

I'm just getting warmed up.

22

Inner City Blues

-

Janelle

-

ZONE D'S CENTRAL POLICE BRANCH WAS PERHAPS THE MOST benevolent in all of the Citadel. It was also considered the ideal opportunity for any personnel within the Federation's lower tiers of law enforcement.

For one, the Zone D Police Headquarters was twice the size of its rivals, was complete with buffed, hardwood floors in almost every room of the three-story building, and it came equipped with a set of moderately clean private showers available to anyone working overnight—and almost everyone worked overnight.

The Dawn Federation had only retained its independence as a country for a few decades, remaining in an almost constant process of internal change; they'd exceptionally high expectations of all government employees. The hours required of officers in Zone D were considered the least brutal, however, even to the freshest out of initial training. As an additional perk, overtime was paid out consistently, and this critical bonus to the job had kept employees almost completely satisfied.

Of course, higher-ranking officers were privy to exclusive privileges which included personal televisions, occasionally wine coolers, and patented leather "command seats."

Nearly all top-tier personnel worked from sizable offices that took up the majority of the third floor. On the second floor, the department possessed its own cafeteria only existing thanks to the local government's partnership with a thriving food delivery company within the Citadel. Close to the dining hall, there were the offices and numerous cubicles that belonged to variously-ranked members on the force as well as three rooms intended for suspects typically placed under more intensive questioning.

On the first floor, the building maintained a series of cells intended for high profile, wealthier offenders expected to only stay for a night before being bailed out by their own extravagant means.

The cells were overseen by a secretary who sat on an elevated platform behind a desk which towered over newcomers. The day and night shift secretaries were typically accompanied by two low-ranking officers who happened to be selected from a constantly rotating guard detail. Just next door to the HQ, there was built a more formal jail intended for visitors who were expected to stay for a longer period before either their initial date with the court or further processing into the Citadel Prison.

It was past midnight when L was brought in by Officer Lorrie and exactly four hours before Executive Tomas Gostra's "confession" aired on every news broadcasting station in the Dawn Federation.

After typing L's information into his work Kom Cell—it happened to also secretively house what could be considered an embarrassing amount of pornography taking up the majority of his interface—Lorrie was surprised to find that the "suspect" he'd taken in had no prior criminal record other than a short stint in a juvenile detention center for tagging a local bridge in graffiti.

Lorrie discovered that he'd turned eighteen only a few weeks ago and was more than a little frustrated after realizing that the self-proclaimed "G" had connections he would've never expected...

-

After removing L's handcuffs and seating him in Interrogation Room A ("Alphé"), Officer Lorrie's conversation with him turned out to be very short and proved overly irritating to the officer rather than helpful in his investigation:

"Okay, kid..." Lorrie sighed, wearily rubbing his eyes before he refocused them to stare L dead in the face with exhaustion having taken over his demeanor.

"Give your nickname again. What is it, 'K' or 'Little T Bitch' or somethin'?"

"It's 'L,' motherfucker! You arrested me, so you should know!"

"Right. 'Little L,' then."

"Ain't no 'little' in here other than whatever you packin', pussy-ass Corporal! Where my attorney at, dumbass? Huh?"

Officer Lorrie banged his fist on the table and started to raise his voice—

But then he recalled what L had said.

"Corporal? How and why does a street brat care enough to know fucking rank structure? That shit doesn't even apply to you, kid."

L looked away out of shame. "Ain't nothing you need to know about it."

"See, you're wrong there, little dick; there's a helluva a lot I need to know, like, now unless you plan on sitting in a cell tonight."

Lorrie was bluffing.

"I know you've never been in before—that record of yours is solid... you don't want that to change, do you? Trust me, I can make it change; jail food isn't worth it, kid."

There was something almost sincere in the look he gave to L. L laughed at him.

"You think I'll start snitchin' because I'm afraid of some stale fuckin' bread?"

"If only you got that." Lorrie sneered. "More like water soup and some moldy yeast you can snack on if that's what you're into." He shrugged, issuing a long sigh.

"Look, just cut the bullshit and tell me what I need to know so I can help you out, okay? C'mon, let's not fuck up your chances of getting a real job later on—you don't wanna be like these other clowns in here who got booked for being jackasses, all right?"

"Shit, man... a 'real job,' huh?" L replied in a facetious tone. "You're scheming to get me to sell out my own family so I can get a 'real job'—THAT'S all you got for me? No money, protection, benefits? Ya'll got me fucked up, you know that, right?"

Officer Lorrie ignored the response altogether and took a different approach:

"Hey, you know we got our own tiny restaurant here? Tell me what you want, and I'll grab you something from one of the guys we got workin' in the kitchen. It's funny, because some of them sat where you are right now... they didn't wanna help themselves; now, the only careers they can hold onto are positions serving people like me; that, or dudes in the military at the worst kind of pay. Most places discriminate pretty heavily against backgrounds that give off bad vibes, know what I mean?"

"You act like we made the system." L snorted. "I was just mindin' my own business when you decided to take me in and fuck up my whole night! Now my girl's gonna be mad she ain't get no action tonight—I mean, how you expect me to deal with all that mess whenever I get back? She's probably already mad as hell; you Zone cops be makin' every working man's life stressful as fuck, dude!"

"Look, do you want something or not?"

L went limp in his seat and then crossed his arms. "Yeah, grab me a double hamburger with everything on that shit, officer. Extra salty fries—and I mean extra, man, don't short me—and lemme get some booze with that."

"Water's gonna have to do, boss." Lorrie winked. "But I got you... just remember to get me back." Lorrie stood up and walked out of the interrogation room.

L yelled after him, "Ay! Get me that attorney while you're at it! —And lemme get some phone time with my girl 'fore the night's out! C'mon man!"

As soon as Corporal Lorrie had shut the door behind him, he muttered "punk" under his breath and was almost immediately confronted with a female officer.

"Hey Lor—"

"What's up, Sergeant?" He responded nervously. "I didn't know you were scheduled tonight..."

"Tonight? The sun is on the way up, Lorrie—how much you had to drink?" She chuckled and continued without awaiting a response, "I should be the one asking questions. You were supposed to sign out long ago, so what's keeping you here?"

Lorrie pointed his thumb back toward the room. "I got a kid with info on one of the major players in town. Some kingpin dropped dead—"

"I'd heard about that."

"Yeah, and this little shit was there at the scene trying to give me attitude the whole time, Sergeant!"

"Wait, that's..." She gazed with more focus on a wide monitor displaying L, who appeared more than disgruntled.

"I'd watch your back on this one, Lorrie." The Sergeant suddenly appeared more concerned.

"What do you mean?" He smirked, surprised at her changed outlook.

She rested her hands on her hips and said, "I recognize that boy; it's not the first time he's passed through here... but he's not someone you want to be interrogating or even talking to at all."

The Sergeant paused and laughed.

"I get it. Kid's a dumbass for sure, but you won't believe who his keeper is. We don't need him in here stirring up more problems for us than we already got to deal with."

"Huh? Who could he know that would cause 'problems' for us?"

"Don't worry about it, Lorrie." Her disposition was stern. "Just know that you're better off getting his ass out of here before word gets around."

"Nah. Can't do that." Lorrie shook his head defiantly. "The kid knows too much for me to budge on this one. The work's there, so I'm gonna move on it. Especially since I've been at it for this long!"

She stared at him. "Don't you ever go home? I've met your wife, Lorrie, and I know she's not the type to let her man stay out late." Her expression changed to that of a pitying half-smile.

"What can I say, you caught me." He smiled back. "We've been arguing over getting the new virtual reality gig they sell now and install in the house. She's obsessed with watching and being in some show—I think it's something to do with a bunch of old broads who don't do anything and have all this money, see. They throw it all away on their hair and fake tans and pets... I think one of them bought a dog, and it died the same day—"

"I love that show!"

"Oh god..." he groaned, "I don't get it. They just sit around a table and talk shit to each other all day. Like, if they don't like each other, then why don't they just find some better company to keep around? It doesn't make any sense!"

The Sergeant felt annoyed. "You're obviously sleep-deprived—ugh!—It's deeper than that, Lorrie; you've got to watch the whole show to understand.

"Wait, you're always on overtime. You should be getting' paid fat."

"Sometimes." He frowned. "I always fold and get her the news things. It's better than going back and forth about it; she talks so much that she could probably do the whole show by herself."

"C'mon now, you've got to have more faith in her than that. Tell you what: stop what you're doing and let me take this one. You deserve some time with your family—aren't you guys trying for a kid?"

"Ha! We've been working on that one for a year now—but I can't let you take this one, Sergeant. I brought him in, so I should be the one to deal with his bullshit."

"Ugh! Fine, Lorrie! But you're gonna let me help you on this one way or another. Let me make a phone call that might speed things up for you."

"Phone call?" Lorrie seemed taken aback. "Who are you gonna call about this? He's just some stupid kid."

The Sergeant brushed off his question as she began to head toward her own desk. "Like I said: you're not going to believe what you've got on your hands. What'd he say his first name was again?"

Officer Lorrie quickly glanced at his file and looked puzzled. "It says 'Lance,' but the punk demands to be called 'L.'"

He was surprised when the Sergeant laughed hysterically as she dialed a number on her cell phone.

"Oh, I know him! Goodness, wait until you meet his father..."

-

"I'm going to ask you one more time: who raised you?"

Sergeant Aden Kaust of the Dawn Bureau glared at his son, whose hands slightly shook as they grasped the cold exterior of a cup from the cafeteria.

Lance stared back at him in a feeble attempt to appear as if he was a stronger man than his own father.

"Who the hell raised you, punk?"

Aden jumped from his seat and flipped over the desk separating the two of them as his voice boomed in one singular, blaring direction:

"Because I sure as hell didn't raise you to be fuckin' around with some dumbass goons, chasing trouble, and disrespecting the people I work with like a MOTHERFUCKIN' BUM!

"You already know your mamma wouldn't be having none of that shit, either, Lance! —Don't you remember who whipped you into shape when I was busy at work? Huh, stupid-ass?" The detective's rage emerged, utterly unquenchable in its aim.

"I know she taught you discipline, so what makes you think you can start callin' yourself a member of the fuckin' 'Kijivu Tribe?'"

Lance, who'd started visibly trembling all over, struggled to keep what he sincerely hoped was his calm, confident composure. His voice cracked as he retaliated with: "I ain't some kid you can just boss around like a damn slav—"

Aden smacked his son, putting Lance on his back. As a Dawn Bureau Agent, he retained the authority to treat all suspects however he pleased in accordance with the few tenets upheld by the Bureau.

"Son, I don't give a DAMN about how old you are! Understand that I will humiliate your ass in front of this whole station if you want! I can show you what it means to really be tough in this world, the same way my father showed me." Aden forced his son to back away with his intimidating presence.

"And don't you dare cuss at me again, you feel me?" Aden smirked ever so slightly. "We raised you to use better language than that, so you best stop acting like a simple-ass fool and speak the way you were taught!"

Finally, Lance Kaust mentally gave in after finding his mind going through flashback after flashback of his own upbringing under the harsh, unforgiving detective.

"I understand, dad. Chill out..."

The door to the interrogation room swung ajar as an officer peaked her head in and failed to conceal a look of wild curiosity clearly on her face.

"Is everything all right in here? I heard a noise..."

Sergeant Kaust looked around in bewilderment before calming himself. "Damn." He acknowledged her. "This getup isn't soundproof? They've really been skimping ya'll, haven't they?"

"Well, Sergeant," she giggled anxiously, "the rooms aren't made to block every noise you can come up with." Aden picked up a hint of irritation in her voice.

Aden sighed before returning the table on the ground to its original position in a controlled, deliberate manner. He stretched and yawned before taking a seat while unbuttoning his jacket.

"We're all good in here, ma'am." Aden spoke nonchalantly. "I just felt the need to go over some... family values with my son."

The officer ignored the response and simply closed the door without pressing the matter further.

Sergeant Aden Kaust was a rather large, stocky man who kept his curly, dark hair short to hide the extent to which it had greyed over time. His face was slightly roundish, and he sported a chinstrap beard that was somewhat complemented by a thin mustache which barely connected and thinned out almost completely before reaching his prominent chin.

He'd also a broad jawline that looked as if it contained the potential to knock someone unconscious if used in the right manner. Although he hated them, Aden had recently gotten adjusted to wearing a set of brown, horn-rimmed spectacles that made his nose and ears appear much smaller due to their own thickness in comparison. The Sergeant was known for his charcoal pinstripe suits complete with a black tie and pocket squares that never quite matched anything he was wearing but displayed eccentric patterns nonetheless. Before coming to berate his son, Aden Kaust had worn his favourite alligator shoes but spilled coffee on them earlier and thus had kept himself from losing control until this encounter.

Having prior military experience as well as considerable time on the force, Aden suffered from a body which—while it remained mostly sturdy—was broken down in several areas. Having refused any kind of advanced biosynthetic enhancements, his body had been subjected to numerous surgeries over the years due to the rigorous stress it had been put under for such a long time. But Aden didn't care about any of that; in his eyes, he was "perfectly healthy."

"Your mother and I spent years trying to keep you away from this sort of mess, Lance. We know about what it's like to struggle, to barely be able to carry your own when things get heavy—so we for damn sure weren't about to let you want for anything when you were growing up.

"After all the work we've put in—work that tore apart our own marriage—neither of us are about to let you get yourself locked up. We've already invested too much in your stupid ass, and I know she's not here right now, but I made sure to call her while I was on my way over."

"No! Why would you do that?" Lance quickly turned defensive. "She didn't need to know about all this!"

"She's your mom, fool! It's her motherfuckin' right, Lance, as it is mine as your motherfuckin' father. Now look..." He held up the same file Officer Lorrie had been using earlier. "I know there's gotta be some of your momma in you yet, boy—use ya head, hear me? You don't have to go to jail, and you don't gotta be stuck with some petty charge, son. Tell me the truth: did you know Ekwueme? Do you have any info on that man?"

While Lance remained silent, his father opened the folder and began spreading out a series of graphic photos, scene portraits depicting several deceased individuals who'd been the victims of brutal violence. One of the photographs to the far left of Lance contained the body of a woman decapitated as the result of an explosion, and a picture at the center of the display revealed a young boy who'd fallen to a bullet wound which traveled through his heart.

To the boy's right, there laid a man, High Rise, who'd passed away due to physical wounds incapable of being inflicted by normal means.

There were several, some even more horrifying to look upon and ultimately compelled Lance to rise up from the table and move toward the wall behind him. He was trying to escape from it all in his mind. Aden's demeanor remained somber as he simply watched...

"This wasn't no ordinary banger, dad...

"That guy, he was like some sorta super person. Part robo or something!" Lance rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes in deep thought.

Saving him from further reflection, Kaust said, "He's been on and off my radar for some time now, but I would've gotten to him much faster if I knew he was trying to own you like he owned everyone else in Zone D! Might as well stop pretending you don't know anything, 'cause your boy, Nathan, definitely ain't nobody to be trusted; he gave you and Magellan up in a heartbeat." The detective looked at his son smugly.

"What?" Lance perked up. "There's no way—That old fuck snitched on us?"

"What did I tell you about that mouth!" Aden hammered his fist authoritatively on the table.

"I-I'm sorry, it's just... Nathan? Really? He really did us like that?"

"Sure did, Lance. Tch. The 'Kijivu Tribe.''" Aden rolled his eyes. "Motherfucker was ready to spill everything to the Bureau—Ekwueme was a big fucking deal, Lance. We brought up some drug charges Nathan couldn't handle hearing about, and, damn, was he ready to get everything off his chest. The drugs, extortions, dead people—I mean, did you know that Ekwueme had a thing for killing prostitutes?"

"Nah, I—"

"That's the right answer." The detective cut him off. "He'd set them on fire or use explosives. Guy was sick, angry... a big player who was the perfect target for my people. And the political ties he had... oooh yeah, the Bureau's gonna be following that money trail for the next four months." He sneered. "As my luck would have it, I'm not on that case, but I can at least make sure that my family isn't anywhere near this mess."

He's always trying to do so much more than he's got to. He really wants to rank up on everyone...

Huh, my dad's dreaming big.

"What do you need me for?"

Aden gave him a sly smile. "I mostly don't, if we're being real, son. When I walk out of here, Lance becomes the guy who gave us the intel, not Nathan."

"I don't know if I'm comforta—"

"Boy—S-Shut your mouth! Damn!

"Now, Nathan might get some help from out of his own troubles, but I'm about to make sure that no son of mine ends up shaming what this family has fought so hard for. Even if nobody believes me, I think you can still make something of yourself." Aden's face burned crimson for a moment.

"Okay, pops. I get it..." Lance nodded.

"Tch. You don't." Aden paused. "I'm gonna see that you land okay after this incident; you'll return the favour by staying the hell away from those damn corners.

"This is Zone D, Lance: a revenue trap purposefully set up by the government to breed and exploit enterprisers like Ekwueme. You aren't trying to be the next Ekwueme, are you? Beaten to death and left in the streets?"

"Hell n—I mean... no. I'm not trying to end the way he did."

Aden chuckled. "Maybe one day you'll learn to listen to your parents." He thought to himself for a moment while scratching his chin and inspected one of the photos...

"Although I do have one question..."

"Yeah? What's up?" Lance once again sat at the table. His genuine personality had broken through in spite of the deaths around him.

His father pushed the photo of Isaac Reaver toward him. "Did you know this guy?"

"Psh,"—Lance looked away for a brief second—"would you believe that fool used to run things in the projects? Last time I saw 'em, that tweaker was trying to tell Magellan that he'd changed and stuff and wasn't no junkie anymore."

"Hmm..." Aden's mind paced erratically over a multitude of cases. He had a bad habit of attempting to link everything together when often such connections weren't necessarily present. Kaust was obsessed with his work, though he was often misguided in his assumptions.

"We pulled his records. Isaac Reaver, the father to David Reaver." Aden tore his gaze away and seemed to fight back a surge of embittered emotion.

"David was killed by a sniper. What I don't understand is this, Lance: did Ekwueme have a partner? As in someone close, someone who helped him 'eliminate' rivals?"

Lance raised an eyebrow, puzzled. "Uh, not that I know of... why?"

"Because Isaac was killed in an up-close-and-personal-manner; someone was able to deliver enough impact—maybe with a bat or something heavy—to do him in.

"His son... well, like I said, he was shot, but the scene analysts say the murderer was someone hiding in a building that was blown to hell right after. It seemed like either a planned attack to take out the whole Reaver family or some kind of competition between thugs."

"Look..." Lance didn't exactly feel confident in his answer. "Everybody was low-key scared of the boss; you couldn't stare at that creep without him giving you this... evil look. It was some haunted sh—stuff." Lance pondered on his father's question and then suddenly remembered what had happened earlier that day.

"Oh right, I almost forgot about Him..."

"Who?" Aden leaned forward.

"Some dude told us he killed Ekwome—I mean, Ekwueme; anyways, he said he killed the boss, then he beat Magellan down in front of us. That cat made him look like a straight bit—fool... I didn't believe him, but, after seeing the boss's body just lying there, I don't know..."

Aden pulled out a piece of paper with what seemed like lightning speed and slid a pen out from inside of his blazer. "What was his name?"

"Hmm. Let me think... was it Tevin? Trayvin—something with a 'T.' I'mma go with Travon."

"What else can you give me? Like, description-wise. Anything helps, son."

"He had a fade, I think... some dark hair. Curly. Not really tall. Kind of weird eyes."

"Weird how?"

"I can't describe it, to be honest. It was like they had darkness in them—like I was looking at death, you know?"

"Death, huh? We talkin' about a damn celebrity or is this a real guy? Don't fuck around on this one, Lance."

"I'm not." Lance Kaust stared through his father with a thousand-yard gaze. "He was definitely real. To be honest, he was a freakish. Like, he could've killed all of us without breaking a sweat—leagues more dangerous than the boss."

Aden ignored his son momentarily as he thought to himself...

-

It's not a coincidence.

The string of murders across the Citadel these past two months.

Similar impact wounds found the several victims.

He's a monster.

I'll find him.

23

Cause I Love You

-

Tavon

-

I'M FACING THE MIRROR ONCE AGAIN.

This time, I can't make out what's looking back at me; I can't see myself.

I have no real identity in this world...

I can't remember anything else. There's an outline reflected in the glass, but that's it. I keep staring, trying to something that will affirm my existence.

I'm real, aren't I? There's nothing in the clear expanse.

I can carry it. Their lives. They were people set out to hurt others, deserving of punishment, but Isaac...

Sometimes it's different. Sometimes I can see... me—smiling, frowning, and even crying, but today it's vacant. This always happens after I've killed someone.

I'm afraid.

The light in the bathroom won't stop flickering. It changes color seemingly every passing moment and sometimes appears to faint completely before flashing back on to once more display emptiness. It's as if I'm hovering behind myself and observing as the real me stands locked in time. That shadow sits inside of me like a writhing desire to be more than what it is. If I wasn't a sellout—a killer for hire, maybe I could find a way to discover a real person beneath the illusion I've halfheartedly built.

But, if I followed that path, I don't think I'd feel the call. The rush that follows a challenge, the rush that brings me close to death yet makes me grow. Angelos thrives off people like me: the lost, those who seek out the strongest opponents. I'm convinced that hunting down others like me will help in discovering my own purpose.

I'm at the center of the chaos in the Citadel, a city where crime could one day be extinguished. I'm a symptom of a much larger problem. My heart pounds, and I'm able to bring myself away from the mirror as I try to fight my anxiety. Enough of all that.

It's been a rough week for me after everything that's happened. Despite a few setbacks, I hit my goal.

Brock's just finished prepping a dish in the dining area; he always cooks a ton whenever the poor guy's feeling flustered. He acts like he has no feelings, but he's got a big heart underneath all the tough posturing.

In the background, I can hear Lenny Williams' "Cause I Love You" playing at a low volume. Whereas I'm more of a hip hop type of guy, Brock has always been heavy into music with slower rhythm; he plays a lot of soul—especially when he's trying to kill in the kitchen. A good guy, overall, but damn arrogant thinking he's the master chef of the place.

Most of the leftover food gets thrown away, or he works up the motivation to take it down to one of Zone A's homeless shelters and plays hero for the day. As anyone can tell, we're complete opposites, at least as far as our morals and motives are concerned. Whereas Brock is the perfect picture of altruism, I'm the one who profits from misfortunes. Brock tries to stop me from changing the channel whenever animal abuse commercials come on.

I generally ignore everyone. After all, too much contact with just anybody wouldn't be smart. I'm way more concerned about what strain of kush I'll be picking up at the end of the week and when I'll be called for the interview I earned. Speaking of which, when do I get promoted for all the work I just put in?

To take my mind off my own impatience, I acknowledge my roommate; I can tell he's been bothered by something lately.

"Whatever you're battling, man... I can see it's eating at you. Maybe you should pick up a new hobby?"

Brock doesn't look up as he begins sorting his painstaking results into a series of containers that I already know won't be able to fit right in our already overstocked fridge, a dilemma you must deal with when two barbarians live under the same roof.

"I didn't ask for your help, did I?" he says, feigning an indifferent attitude.

I grin. "You're right, B, but we still live together. You haven't gotten comfortable?"

"Just because we lived together doesn't mean we sleep in the same bed."

He opens both doors to our stainless-steel refrigerator and forcefully crams in what looks—and smells—like pounds of freshly-cooked jerk chicken coupled with plantains. The jackass doesn't even ask if I want any. No eye contact, either. Tool.

I make my way over to a black, leather chaise longue I'd recently picked up for myself, a seat that I put down in front of our television and a series of glass panels overlooking the hyper rails outside of the Angelos Embassy Tower.

I grab the remote, a small tablet displaying a variety of options, and finally reply with: "Touché. Any plans?"

He still isn't trying to look in my direction as he gathers up his wallet and Kom Cell. "Going to the gym again on my own since you're choosing to be weak..."

"I've been busy enough. You think you'll finally catch up with me?" I access a large database including all movies and seasonal television commercialized within the Citadel.

I scroll from an unknown broadcasted program to a channel showing a sitcom about a group of couples who ended up stuck on a space shuttle on their way to their respective honeymoons on distant planets. From a hidden compartment in the side of my seat, I retrieve a half-finished blunt I'd rolled a few days ago. To my surprise, it's still intact.

I try to get a good ember started via generating a slight but focused heat from the center of the palm of my hand, but Brock grabs what I've got to smoke and throws it toward the garbage can!

He misses, thankfully, and takes the time to acknowledge what I said, "We'll fight again. Soon."

Brock crosses his arms, and a familiar, cocky smile appears. Brock's happier when he's competitive.

"And this time," he says, "I'll win."

"You know wha—"

My Kom Cell vibrates to let me know I received a message, but I ignore it and get up to retrieve the discarded blunt.

"I hope you do just so you'll stop talking about it. You know Angelos has its own dojo, so we can have our rematch whenever you feel up to it..."

I light up and quickly inhale to blow smoke in his annoyingly stoic face a few seconds later. Brock shakes his head at me; he's too nice sometimes despite being a living, breathing war machine.

"Let's do it now the—"

"But not tonight." I cut him off and begin coughing simultaneously before I can even finish my sentence. "Not tonight, man. I need rest."

My roommate brushes me off while heading for the door, but he subtly flinches after opening it to see a familiar face passing by down the hall. A face that belongs to a guy who identifies himself as "Cub."

The most ignorant assassin I've ever met.

"Ay! B boy! What's goin' on, man?" He spoke in a cringingly stupid manner. "You on ah contract againin'? On that there shit hustlin' it, yeah?"

"What did I tell you the last time we talked, Cub? Huh? Do you remember anything that gets said to you?"

"Ah, ya said ladies always come first and to get it done!"

Brock clenched both fists tightly.

"No! No, Cub. I told you that we're not cool like that—our jobs are not the same. I don't have 'contracts' like you fuckin' people—I don't fuck with you, you don't fuck with me—maybe you fuck with Tavon, but I'm not trying to fuck with you like that."

"I don't fuck with him, either!" I say. "Leave me out of this fling you two got going on." I check my messages to see something sent from Aaliyah; it reads:

"Come over. Now."

"What you mean, 'fling?'" Brock stares back in a mixture of rage and bewilderment. "Tavon, I told you that I don't want anything to do with ANY of the friends you make in this business—this gig is not mine, I just live here!"

"Settle down, man... I gotta do something."

"Ya'll fight like yah been married fer some time there now." Cub laughs heartily while never breaking his awkward stare at Brock. "Ya might as well be like the rest of us, Brock! Ya got the frame fer it, ya know. Ya sturdy!"

"Oh, so now you want to check out my 'frame?'" Brock turns to Cub, who remains aloof to whatever's being implied.

-

Janelle

-

'Cub' was an anomaly among hired assassins. Not only was he in possession of an accent no one had ever heard before—and everyone was convinced was made up solely by him—but he was a short, chubby man with thinning, cropped ginger hair and an incredibly rosy face. Moreover, he looked two decades older than his age of thirty-five.

Cub was rumored to have had four kids between four women and was hiding himself from the fourth woman with whom he'd somehow managed to hook up. He was a very crudely-spoken man and possessed limited to no interest in social mannerisms. Cub happened to be quite uncoordinated and didn't rank very high in terms of strength.

Despite his imperfections, he was perhaps the most effective Core-Man in Angelos, though he'd been denied professional progress for almost a decade. Therefore, the little assassin kept fulfilling his quotas and generated a body count well over Tavon's; in so many words, he was a legend among those in the business although he was, in essence, a simpleminded and often perverted individual.

-

Tavon

-

"Ya know what they say: one's always gotta be checkin' frames to know who's sturdy and who's not." Cub poses like he's in combat with the most oblivious look on his face but tries his damndest to seem sincere.

"Nobody says that!" Brock's overly serious side dominates; guy can barely keep himself from roaring in the poor sap's face.

"Ya sure?" Cub is unaffected. "Could've sworn I done heard it a lotta times, Tavon—"

"I'm not Tavon, you idiot!" He points back at me, but I'm busy thinking about what to say back to Aaliyah. I mean, is she just trying to get laid or talk about what happened?

"That's Tavon, the kid who thinks he's a pretty boy over there!"

"Aw shucks, I apologize, man." Cub blushes but stays jolly. "Sometimes my age rears its old head; ya'll will be knowin' what that's like ah one day, too—say, why you wear a ring, Tavon?"

"I told you I'm not Tav—wait, oh..." Brock shyly conceals his left hand as he heads out into the hallway and slams the door behind him. While he's on his way, I can still hear Cub following him.

It's always great to see Brock get pissed, even if he's been through much, if not more, than what I have.

I take a hit, expand my lungs to their fullest, and halt at my peak. After some time, I exhale and text my response almost at once:

"On my way. Tea or wine this time?" I'm hoping it's wine.

-

I luck out.

Aaliyah pours me a full glass from an old wine bottle before serving herself. She's dimmed the lights in her flat and set up a display of burning candles atop a mahogany table that's positioned in front of a plush, vanilla couch.

I recall our previous conversation, when she finally made me for what I am, what I was born to be. Not long after I'd confirmed what she'd thought all along, I was thrown out into the streets while it was still raining. She'd had a hard time accepting what she thought was a "lie," but I've never really lied to her. Not yet, at least.

"Don't think I already forgot about how you lied, asshat."

Damn. Aaliyah's bold...

I try to break the tension. "Oh, so the wine isn't your way of apologizing for tossin' me?"

"Hell nah," she's glaring at me... she's been crying.

"... You broke my trust." She sips from her glass—which I've noticed has significantly more—then snorts. "You been picking off whoever you want under my nose this whole fucking time!" Aaliyah sighs loudly. "I feel like an idiot."

"All I can say is that they're not good people, Aaliyah—"

"So you do it because you think you're providing a service?" She interrupts me in a huff. Her rage is building despite my efforts. "You do it because your version of justice is better?"

Fuck.

There is no justice in what I do.

"No."

"You're not exactly honest, either, so it might as well all be the same to me at this point."

Aaliyah seems to relax into a much gloomier kind of anger; she's a detective, after all, and understands thoroughly how to capture her prey.

I let her comment sink in, force down most of what's left in the glass, and rest my right ankle on my knee while sitting across from her on the couch.

"Where did you buy this thing?" Maybe I can steer her attention away...

"I didn't."

"You stole it?" I wink at her.

She doesn't feel like joking.

"I'm not you, Tavon." Aaliyah rolls her eyes in disappointment before indicating the wine bottle. "Zola—this girl I work with—got me the hook up; her husband owns a vineyard and, as a matter of fact," she edges closer, "has a REAL job!"

"I see you've got some new paintings hanging up." I have to diffuse her rage before it starts again. That's how these things go... I think.

"Yuh." She replies curtly.

"Whose work is it?"

"Mine. Who else would I be putting on my walls?"

"I don't know. You never told me you were an artist?"

"Sure did. You just weren't listening."

"And when have I ever not listened to something you said?"

"Oh, I don't know, Tavon." She finishes the next round of drinks before I do but is patient enough to wait on me. "I think I was real with you, so it's expected that you'd be real with me."

"But that doesn't have anything to do with what you just said—that doesn't even answer my question!"

"Boy, finish that cup!"

"You don't plan on arresting me?" I finish the cup anyways because just now I'm realizing how good it tastes, and I'm not about to fall behind.

Aaliyah rips the cup from my grasp, refills it again, and slams it on the table in front of me before replenishing hers. "You're in my fucking house, right?"

"Yeah, and so what?"

"You'd already be in a cell if I'd wanted that outcome." She smirks.

Before I respond, I look her over. I've gotta stop and ponder for a moment...

I mean, she's only covered in a silk, black robe. It's draped around thighs I've gotten used to having curled around me. I can't be upset... I feel like I need to close the distance between us quickly, before she has second thoughts about turning me in.

And then, I recognize a song she seems to have on repeat: "Cause I Love You" by Lenny Williams. Why is this song following me around?

"Good choice in music."

"What?" She looks surprised.

"An undercover artist and good tastes? Huh."

"Nobody said anything about being undercover, I just don't feel the need to show out. I'm not all about trying to get someone's attention. Is that all you care about?" Her cold facade is starting to wear away despite the inquiries.

"You've got my attention."

"When do you plan on apologizing, Tavon?"

I'm not good with things like this.

"Look, you couldn't ever understand."

I chug down the rest of my glass and hold up a hand to stop her from pouring me another.

"I'm not a good guy, Aaliyah, and I never have been. I grew up... different. Honestly, you deserve someone in a safer line of work—"

"Fuck safety and all that. I'm a detective, remember?"

"Yeah, I do... and that's why someone like me isn't a good choice for you. A detective sleeping with an assassin isn't something that's meant to work out for the best. I mean, uh, a rich company takes care of me in exchange for what I do..."

"Murdering people?"

"Contracts. Obligations."

"Murders, Tavon."

"If that's how you want to see it...

"I've taken people out, and that's not something that would fit with your agenda; you're supposed serve another cause, Aaliyah."

"Why would you straight out tell me that?" She isn't able to keep drinking after hearing my response.

"Most dudes would be coming through and sayin' whatever just to sleep with me. I figured you'd either run away like a coward because I'm an Agent, or you'd keep lying to get in my pants..."

Affection defies reason, especially my own at times.

"Because I don't need to be a liar and a killer. Think about how much you have to despise someone to order a hit on them—and through a professional group of guys who do it for a living at that. There's a need. I meet it."

"What are you getting at?" Now she's staring at me with big, beautiful eyes. It's killing me, but I press on. She already fucking knows what I'm talking about, but... it's as if she's holding out hope for something else. Aaliyah's determined.

"The people I go after aren't exactly your pure, holy types." I continue, "Most of these guys have been junkies or mobsters or just psychos who've poisoned their communities. When I come at them, they're usually ready to go. They expect it."

"What do you think gives you the right to take someone's life, Tavon?"

Before I can speak, she interrupts—"I'm not saying that I'm against you, but I want to know."

"I don't think..." I sigh, losing my train of thought. "They hand me challenges, and I fight. That's all I know."

"Ugh. Th-that's bullshit!" She throws her glass against the wall and walks over to shove me.

I quickly stand up and freeze as she wraps her arms in a tight hug around my body and can barely conceal a smile. "There's more to you than that, Tavon. I know it."

I return the embrace.

"I live for finding someone really messed up... and someone really strong."

She stares down at the ground dejectedly. "You're still just bullshitting, though. I know you have some compassion..."

"Who are you trying to convince?"

"I KNOW that there's more to you. Don't play around, I've seen you, the real you!"

"What did you see?" I stare at her and, for a moment, feel nothing.

"Not some simple-minded thug."

"Look... what do you want from me?"

I can't stop hugging her.

If I can't change what I am, maybe I can at least try to provide comfort to someone else. She looks at me with empathy I haven't been offered from anyone in some time. It hurts. I don't want to be reminded of old faces.

"I have to know what happened..." She whispers to me.

"I'm not sure I understand?"

"I want to know what made you like... this!" Aaliyah moves me back but keeps her gaze affixed to my eyes in sincerity. "I want to know everything."

"Everything?"

Why would...?

She doesn't say anything.

"No. You don't."

"I do!"

"Why can't we just have se—"

"Tavon,"—she hits me lightly on the shoulder. "I want to know what happened to you! I need to know—for my own sanity.

"I want you to tell me the story of how you got to be here... how you're able to do everything you've shown me." Aaliyah looks away and seems to not comprehend something.

Resolve gathers, and she demands, "Those gross-ass powers! Tell me how you got that kind of strength–or... I—I'll place you under arrest!"

Not even Brock has ever asked me about what it was like growing up.

"I'm not joking with you!" She says, "We're going to talk about this for as long as it takes; I have to understand!"

"But why?"

What the hell is happening right now? Is sex still an option at this point? "I told you: I'm no one special."

"Fuck what you said. Either you tell me, or you'll be telling your story to the Bureau!"

It's not like I can just kill her... or can I?

No.

Not her. I wouldn't be able to forgive myself, and what she's asking makes sense on a certain level. Anyone else would've reported me, but Aaliyah... she's not anyone.

I'm turned on for some reason. But intimacy like this is a lot for me to handle. One of those moments takes over: the candles go out and relight themselves in a constant cycle; dark struggles against light as I feel my consciousness bring itself out from my mind of its own volition.

I'm watching myself give in to madness; I'm a passive observer as my flesh and bones cooperate to give her the response for which she's searching. She wants to know me, but I barely know myself. Part of me came here tonight expecting her to be waiting with a gun pointed at my head, but now I'm watching myself compromise because of the emotions and needs of another.

Maybe it's the guilt; Isaac's face before he died is still imprinted in my memory as if it were a fossil burrowed eternally into my subconscious. And his son...

What about all the others I'd killed—how much blood was it? I remember soft heartbeats that faded into slow, dying rhythms struggling beneath cavernous expanses of muscle and bone. I'm unforgiving.

I'll give this story to her because she deserves to feel comfort more than I deserve to feel forgiveness.

"Tavon! What's wrong? Tavon!"

I've returned to a body soaked in lonely torment, and the constant shaking causes me to fall on my knees as a series of flashbacks flow through my mind.

Why is this happening to me? I have to stop acting like an idiot...

"I'm sorry." I return to my feet, feeling ashamed for emotionally setting someone up like this. If anything came from this, it couldn't last; I'm addicted to a vice. It's not the killing itself but the chance to scale the next mountain that's in my way. If I have to kill her...

I kiss Aaliyah on her cheek, then her nose, then her forehead, and finally on her mouth. Before long, our passionate hug turns int a deeper, more physical kind of interaction.

I wake in between extended bouts of taking her in different positions during a long, sensual night. Words previously deliberate and thought out specifically for this occasion fall in broken parts from her lips like longing moans as I pick her up, her body curving around me while I give her everything. She's warming up, getting softer; I spread her across the bed. I don't notice until we're fucking again, but her legs won't stop shaking.

Though we stay interlocked for some time, it feels as if the movements we make together follow a rhythm that's only familiar to the two of us. Soon after her body becomes tight against mine and I feel her nails cut deep along my back, I climax for the first time. A part of myself disappears—i-it's consumed in a brief unity.

I'm not used to this type of passion.

I'll admit: I'm grateful. She could've had me thrown in a cell; instead, she wants to know... me.

And suddenly, I can feel myself start to slip away from reality as Aaliyah rests her head on my chest—but I won't let myself go—not this time; I can't keep disassociating.

I lean my head in to whisper in her ear and say: "Okay, I'll tell you."

She looks up at me.

"Tell me what?"

"Everything."

24

You're Lying

-

Amour

-

HELLO THERE.

I make art, and maybe you've heard my name in the news lately; it always broadcasts reliably after Fusan Weekly or Inspiration From Maya—two original shows I particularly enjoy.

My name is Amour, and I own something I like to think of as a blossoming empire: The Shikomongo Corporation. I built this dream, because the truest moments are reflected in times of desperation. I envision entire worlds which capture a person's Beauty; it's remarkable.

And yet, there are still others... what I do with them...

Would you really like to know?

-

I'd released Executive Tomas Gostra's confession approximately three hours prior to removing my sports jacket and tossing it on the kitchen counter in my home. I picked it up one evening after having shopped at Gharocon for over seven hours, to the mild disturbance of some of the employees there.

I'd purchased this homestead after reading rave reviews regarding it as a quaint but chic structure. The first floor consists mostly of a glass exterior designed to highlight several rooms that are adorned only in black and white furniture. My wonderful furniture happens to be complemented by a series of paintings which mirror a more minimalistic theme. There are simplistic sculptures I've strategically and deliberately placed around the manor against the numerous protests of my wife; she moves them back sometimes. I hate it.

The second floor is taken up mostly by a rounded chamber blessed with both a vanilla-shaded ceiling and flooring made opaque by glass panels. The rest of the upper portion of the manor is concealed by a plastered exterior adorned in shades of white, behind which is placed a master bedroom next door to my personal gallery... one accessible via a door resembling what could be the major entrance to a bank vault due to the sophistication of the locking mechanism I've installed.

My wife bought me a new Kom Cell after I'd panicked one night and destroyed my older model.

I'd been using a Frega Kom Cell 1st Edition, and Danny from the Accounting Division of Shikomongo owned a 2nd Edition! It was unacceptable, to say the least. I despise Danny from Accounting, but it's probably not his fault. After I destroyed the piece of shit 1st Edition, I awoke in an alley somewhere—blissful, but I'd been covered in blood. The carcass of an animal, unrecognizable, decaying nearby. Well, it's good thing I made it through that!

I use my new Kom Cell to prepare a video message I plan to send to a special contact in the Proxy Country of Morons: Gaspul.

The Dawn Federation Military has occupied it for the last two years—a pretty impressive feat despite poor resource allotment and low public opinion on war in such unpredictable times! Ah... but this government is the incarnation of what it means to become a Failure.

It's because of Him. It's always because of Him.

I access an independent program through the Cell that provides me with an identity from the composition of entries across the network, meaning that I've become nearly inculpable, anonymous.

A screen pops up to reveal my own, scowling reflection peering back at me. My irises are bright red; I think it makes people tend to like me. Or hate me. I think it's a nice quality.

The bottom of the screen displays an opaque circle which acts as a button that initiates the video call. There's a plan. An organized approach for all of this.

I place one of my special masks over my face. I make art of all forms. So many are freaked out by this one mask specifically, but I make the call anyways.

I need to have a talk with the last Golden General.

"Hello, General Kozas!" I say, "It's nice to—"

"Shh!" The video on the other end displays a man concealing most of himself in the shadows of a dark room. This rather unkempt specimen is Kozas, Golden General and spokesman for the Gaspul Native Party, and someone I like to sell weapons to on the side because he doesn't understand how the new currency works and frequently overpays me. He means good business.

"Don't FUCKING shush me!" I raise my voice while glaring intently at the party spokesman. It's silly, though, because he can't see all of my anger behind the mask.

"This is a very important conversation, General Kozas. One more step before I expose what the Dawn Federation's been hiding from you."

"You say many things, sir, but how am I to know that you'll keep your promise? If a follower is compromised—"

"Kozas!" I insist, "Shut the fuck up! Just shut up! Did I not tell you that they'd be granted access—did I not already say this?"

"Sir, you don—"

"Kozas!" I'm starting to sweat. There's conniptions involved. Too fucking many of them. "T-this isn't something I would have doubts on! This next event will shape Gaspul in the days to come!"

He grows silent and somberly gazes at the ground before him.

"Listen to me..." I speak more calmly.

"This attack will give you the most influence you could hope to attain in this world; what you choose to do from there is up to you, but I suspect you already know the right answer."

"This 'right answer,' you say..." Kozas stutters before continuing. "We'll become an independent nation again."

Is he feeling hopeful?

"We'll become united at last. Thank you, Mr. A; your tribute to the Party will not go unnoted."

I sever the connection and begin a lengthy process of saving it as a recorded file under a different format and encrypting it. I've accomplished everything I needed to do, and so I resort once again to my passion...

-

Near the entrance to the gallery I designed and built on my own, there's an unusual object that functions as a sort of table. But here's where the inspiration kicked in! Yes, right here!

At its base, there protrudes two human legs covered in a black coat of paint. I've anchored them on the woodwork and attached to those legs four, pale forearms which connect at the center and extend with palms and feet outward to caress a record player—and an expensive one, at that. Most guests think it's only an eccentric sculpture, but my excellent tastes take my existence beyond mundane and commonly reproduced, recycled "Art."

In fact, my Art consists of something much truer. It reflects my own, often gruesome obsessions, of course, but also the reality of human nature.

I retrieve an older record off the shelf of a nearby cabinet and gently set it on the turntable before skipping to Steve Arrington's "Feel So Real." Afterwards, I open a fake portion of the wall to expose a panel accessing the entrance to the pinnacle of my work. I input a series of numbers triggering the mechanism to swing the metallic door open, and it exposes another one much like it but thinner. I enter another code and am quickly let into a new world, a Beautiful one.

-

Janelle

-

A row of varying sculptures made of human parts stood before him. But preceding them, there was a wooden xylophone supported with the help of deceased, skinless femurs and was equipped with makeshift mallets formed from ulnar and radial bones Amour had shaped himself.

He giggled while hitting one of the bars which resonated softly throughout the large gallery. Amour progressed farther and turned to look upon a torso that had been stripped of its extremities.

Stubs, once arms, legs, and neck, were now worn and refined to create smooth prominences seeming to correspond with the body's new purpose. The corpse had been coated heavily with shades of scarlet, violet, and emerald to shine with a collection of unique patterns. Amour reflected thoughtfully on the result produced from one of his past victims.

I don't remember his name, but he provided a beautiful canvas with which to work. How breathtaking...

He proceeded to a wooden stand with a glass case around what appeared to be a person's preserved intestinal tract armored in a decorated clay shell. The organs had been molded and warped so as to form a miniature giraffe that had then been covered in a paper mâché from news articles concerning some of his prior kidnappings.

Next to that, there was another stand and case that displayed several withered hearts connected by a wooden wreathe. At this point, he'd begun both sweating profusely and feeling inspired by his own creations; Amour imagined himself wandering through dozens of old memories. More of his exploration brought him to a duo of human brains that had been dressed to look as if they were opposing faces expressing a contrast between happiness and sadness.

The artist continued down short hallways possessing his "Lesser Paintings"—or, bronze frames that surrounded the varying final looks many of his weaker prey had given him before they'd been sealed within their respective Moments.

The last portrait in the final hallway displayed only the skin and hair of a woman who'd expressed no feelings upon her own death. This angered Amour, and this one painting compelled him to stop briefly to consider who all had died by his hands...

But the recollection escaped him.

Soon, he bore witness to a densely muscular and complete human body that had been stood up, preserved, and completely stripped of its own skin to reveal only muscles, veins, and tendons underneath. Amour scratched his chin and found himself recalling a rather burly man who'd discovered what he was and attempted to take justice into his own hands.

Amour admired that sort of bravery, and so the man's body was given the most respect in his private exhibit. Behind the figure, there stood a grouping of skulls that had been re-purposed into candles continuing in opposing rows and leading to a small garden below two large, fluorescent lights.

If one were to look closely at the garden, they would notice two human corpses that had become the hosts to a multitude of rare flowers found throughout it.

And finally—past the garden—there lurked the psychopath's magnum opus: a massive wall occupied by a mural of colossal proportions...

It had begun some time ago: a dream involving the deaths of many. Executive Tomas Gostra and his son took their place in a collage blending and converging tragic moments captured in petrified nightmares.

A masterpiece built on human sorrow.

Amour smugly gazed over to see the burned remnants of The Elephant and considered making a mask from the campaign manager's residue.

"For you," he said, "I'll have to use more bone than skin—not that it'll make you look any uglier than you already were. For that... you may blame your government. In fact," he looked upon the entirety of another wall containing masks stitched from the carcasses of other poor souls, "you should accuse the one in charge of the whole show. He's failed to appreciate you, but it's okay. I always will. You will be made Whole!"

His happiness quickly faded once he noticed a gap in the very center of his mural.

"It's growing... a Beauty that will swallow everything."

\--

PART TWO

Origins

\--

1

The Irregular

\--

Tavon

\--

WHEN I WAS TWELVE, I AWOKE ON A LARGE cruiser normally intended for carrying cargo. The only reason I knew my own age was a card I still had from my most recent birthday. It was next to me, containing faded writing and signed by "Dad." Below the signature was written:

"Item No. 87900. No known deficiencies. Deceased."

I was naked, cold, and incredibly confused. I didn't know who or where I was in that moment. My body had been shoved into a cramped, metallic compartment on board a vessel that was due to arrive in the Citadel in the next fifteen minutes.

Viewing only darkness around me, I pushed on the wall above and used it as leverage to press open a shelf big enough to house a human cadaver. I was immediately hit by a bright ray of fluorescent light, coming from two slender bars hanging from the ceiling, and entranced by the smell of food nearby. I remember being hungry once I caught the faint whiff of meat and struggled to move in the tight area to assess my surroundings.

I reached my weak, thin legs over the side to catch the ground below and quickly tumbled over, banging my head against the plated floors. To my left, there were other closed compartments like mine. To my right, I noticed an entrance to sleeping quarters concealed by a vanilla curtain; ahead of me was a short, metal door with the ability to slide open and was only accessible via a special identification card.

The cruiser lurched, resulting in my loss of balance before I collapsed into roll against the wall with a hard thud.

"What the hell?" There was a brief pause punctuated afterwards with a vexed tone. "Chill on the driving before we end up with a fuckin' mess back there!" The voice echoed from behind the metal entryway. "We're not getting through customs if they spot a whole bunch of bodies flyin' out the shelves."

"Hey, my bad! You're too quick to snap on me, man. Don't worry so much."

"How can I not worry? Tch. I don't I know about you sometimes."

"Let's just say I know the guys doing the inspections, okay? They're some of my people, so I've been getting right on through with no problems—see the dude standing at the entrance over there?"

"Yeah. What about 'em?"

"We go way back. It's Jarem; I started sliding him a little extra so I could get in with fewer hang-ups, know what I mean?"

The cargo cruiser came to a resting stop, and I used this time to try to gain my bearings. My whole body ached with a soreness the memory of which still makes me cringe. I saw my distorted reflection in each metal drawer.

I looked as though I hadn't seen sunshine in years, and, although my hair had continued growing, it now felt dry and brittle to the touch. The nails on my hands and feet resembled miniature, chipped claws more than anything else, and a terrible odor seeped from my pores.

As I tried to at least get to my knees, my arms and upper body shook with the needed effort; I hadn't moved on my own in some time.

From the driver's cockpit, I heard DJ Quik's "Safe + Sound" blasting on the cruiser's stereo system. Out of curiosity, I moved on to see what the other compartments like mine held. I had to use all my strength to pull open the nearest shelf and grunted as it steadily rolled out to create a painful memory imprinted on my mind for all time:

The pale carcass of a middle-aged human male was exposed. I felt sick, but I fought it back to fully examine who he was. I didn't recognize him but noticed that his throat had been expertly slashed; he retained a look of shock, most likely not anticipating that his life would end so abruptly.

He smelled much worse than I did, but I'll never forget that subtle peace that had come over his eyes in death. His chest remained covered in dried, bright red blood from an abdominal wound. A note lay across his stomach, but it wasn't a birthday card like mine; rather, it was a plain sheet of paper with only a few words scrawled across it:

"Item No. 87901. Missing Kidney. Some organs not to standard. Discard deficiencies and recover any surviving organs."

I gained what felt like a small portion of more physical strength and thus was able to inch over to another shelf in order to pull out someone else. I wanted to know if there were any others like me...

The next one was a young girl who bore deep marks around her neck. She'd been throttled to death from what I could tell. There were a multitude of red marks and bruises across the rest of her corpse, and she appeared just as frightened as the man I'd seen prior. To satisfy my curiosity, I felt at my own neck for any marks but noticed that it was perfectly fine... so how did I end up here? There was a small index card next to her head that read: "Item No. 87902. Tumors noticed upon scanning inside of body. Check for recoverable organs and discard anything having been subjected to metastasized growths."

I vomited.

Shortly after, I fell unconscious on the floor...

\--

I was woken once again by the sound of the door sliding open with a low hum. One of the men in the cockpit, garbed in a brown trench coat and wearing a tan newsboy cap, stepped into the room and, on spotting me, gasped, "What the...? Hey!"

"What's wrong?" A balding man with grey hair and dressed in a white lab coat followed behind him and froze in astonishment.

"He's... alive." The man in the newsboy cap looked over at his companion for answers. "Did they make a mistake? Was this one yours?"

The other shook his head vigorously and gulped while maintaining eye contact with me. "No. I-I don't recognize him... how is he alive?"

"He must've slipped through somehow; looks healthy for the most part—do you think we can still use him?"

"We have to!" the man in the lab coat pleaded, "The order called for fifteen specimens ranging from 87899 to 87914—it HAS to be a complete shipment signed off on or there won't be any payment!"

"What? No payment?" The first guy looked at me with contempt burning in his eyes—as if it were my fault that I was still living when they stuffed me in a drawer.

"Fuck that, I've got a family to feed! Are you sure we wouldn't get anything?"

"Yeah. These guys want everything done perfectly; they don't give a shit about the foot soldiers. As far as we're concerned, we're just escorting the goods for them."

The man in the newsboy cap reached inside his coat and fumbled around to draw a short knife that was blunt in appearance. He gave his companion a solemn glance before looking back at me with hatred.

"So, not only do we gotta drive the product around, but they also expect us to do all the work for them..." He began to walk toward me but was briefly stopped by the man in the lab coat.

"Is there really no other way...?"

"Will they accept a live body?"

He sighed, said "No," and tore his gaze away from us.

"Fuck it. Don't worry—I'll cut his throat right quick, put him back in, and we'll pretend they did a sloppy job. I need that money."

He edged closer to me with the knife aimed in my direction and spoke:

"Relax, kid; I'll make it quick. You'll thank me in the afterlife, because this ain't no world you wanna be a part of, ya hear, and I got a bunch of hungry mouths to feed. I've got to do this for them."

An intense and uncontrollable fear spread through me, and then—

It all went black, like a lapse in conscious thought. I don't remember the rest.
2

Alone

\--

Tavon

\--

I CAME TO FOR THE SECOND TIME, AND I DISCOVERED that I'd been wrapped in an old, musty towel, underneath which was a vastly over-sized and bloodied tan shirt. It was complete with a pair of ripped, faded jeans. A rather intense migraine had caused me to regain consciousness as I opened my eyes and caught a glimpse of a dark alley before me. I propped myself against a concrete wall near a puddle of vomit I'm assuming was my own and a dumpster that hadn't been made use of in several years.

The first thing that came to my attention was how cold it was. My body began shivering constantly as I tightened the towel around me. Snow fell in increasingly heavier amounts in what I later would come to know as the Lower-City of the Citadel.

\--

The Lower-City is divided into its respective "Quadrants." Before President Derek's role in the government was limited following the emergence of the Federation government "Wings," he divided the Lower-City into four districts. The Quadrants became part of his initiative to create a system that would fit the needs of the people of the Citadel by combating growing poverty in the country.

And so, the Lower-City was designed as a method to provide mostly free housing projects on a much larger scale and for individuals who met a certain set of government-mandated conditions currently under heavy regulation. As one of the last decisions he was able to freely make without the consent of the other Wings, President Derek decided that each Quadrant would be overseen by Majors; like Zone Executive, it's a position that's meant to be campaigned for, but Majors are usually picked from out of the Dawn Bureau.

Four Majors govern the Quadrants in their own unique styles. I would later find out that the cruiser that had brought me into the Citadel had tried to "deliver" me—along with the rest of those bodies—to the Third Quadrant, then ruled by Major Sofie.

\--

I'll admit, I was curious as to how long I could possibly sleep in that little dark corridor hidden away in the city. I lacked any genuine motivation to move in those freezing temperatures, and, at the time, it seemed more reasonable to pass away of starvation instead of struggling to survive on my own in an unknown country with no power left to fight.

I'd assumed that the men who'd originally wanted to kill me so that my organs could be sold off had suddenly had a change of heart and tossed me into the Third Quadrant. Maybe they were the reason I'd woken up in this forsaken place, and I thought having my throat slit would've been preferable to enduring what was ahead: a lonely demise.

Although the snowfall worsened and dampened my clothes, I still slept in hope of never waking.

That was wishful thinking.

I continued to fade in and out of consciousness while entertaining short dreams of a warm, comforting fire... only to open my eyes to the same dreary view.

I couldn't tell you how long I stayed curled in that place, but it seemed like several days had passed before a lone dog came wandering down my way and pressed its muzzle against my shoulder until I was restored to consciousness. Imagine my surprise when I came face-to-face with an old mastiff who promptly licked my head before resting his body against my withered form. To me, he was a giant with a dark coat and black, beady eyes. I was surprised he didn't decide to eat me. Rather than doing that, he seemed interested in my survival, and my new friend kept me warm all through that bitter night.

He disappeared the morning after.

Again, I didn't want to stay alive and still believed that I could pass in my sleep, but my death wish was interrupted when the mastiff returned several hours later with an open can of dog food hanging from his mouth.

The friendly beast strolled up to me, set the can down, and offered me something resembling an expectant look. He'd already eaten half of what was there, though his body retained its emaciated appearance. Somehow this animal knew I wouldn't have the energy to make it if he didn't share, and, to this day, I'm grateful to him.

My hunger overcame me. I felt compelled to devour every bit of it, ensuring that nothing was left behind. It was only after I'd finished that I checked the date on the can to see that the food had expired some time ago. The mastiff scavenged with his best efforts but, as far as I knew, was just like me: no home, no master, and no method of survival that didn't include scrounging for what you could get.

I petted him. He's the only one who showed me any genuine kindness out of everyone I'd come to meet in the consecutive days afterward.

As the sun began peeking over the horizon, I draped the partially wet towel across my shoulders and found the will to return to my feet. Acting as a personal assistant, the old mastiff forced its torso against my legs to offer support as I stumbled against the wall.

God... I still remember how stiff I felt and how much effort it required to simply inch in any direction. Although my head had stopped hurting, my eyes burned at the sensation of light; I spent some time trying to get them adjusted to the new world around me.

It was my first time in a giant city with more than one level and full of cruisers mostly concentrated along fewer hyper rails than we have compared to today's Citadel. Traffic laws were much laxer in those days, with driver automation just rearing its head for the first time.

This wasn't home; then again... I didn't remember what home was to begin with. I couldn't recall anything; it felt almost as if I'd just been assembled and thrown into a reality I barely understood. It's hard to imagine coming from absolutely nothing, and it didn't help that I had no title with which to call myself.

All that was left of me was... "Dad."

I anchored my left wrist against the unforgiving brick wall as I inched along it steadily, the mastiff loyally following me every step of the way. There were a few times when I had to stop and get down on one knee in order to rest, as it had felt like several years since I'd had to move on my own.

What a weird sensation, fatigue coursing through my legs and causing me to wobble without coordination across the concrete. Despite taking considerable time to adjust, I eventually crossed an intersection of alleys and moved forward toward a bustling street full of the first humans I'd seen in some time. My coordination started to improve, but it didn't really help my appearance at all as I stepped into the full view of hundreds of busy, lower-income citizens. To the West, the wide path arced upward and leveled out at a local bus station that had been constructed next to a hyper rail.

North of me, there was a group of vendors selling their wares behind poorly-built stands. They were easily dwarfed by the insane amount of small-time shops and restaurants placed alongside the walls of immense dwellings. East of me, a path diverged into three different streets made narrow by old, towering buildings adjacent of each other. One of them stood out by containing a grandiose screen that broadcasted the Third Quadrant's Channel 7-LC News, but its reception appeared weak, and I failed to make out anything on the display looming above me.

Even worse was the fact that the accents surrounding me were strange and completely foreign—even if I didn't know from where I'd arrived initially. It took me weeks to fully comprehend the dialect, but, luckily, I found that it wasn't a completely different language from what I knew altogether.

The mastiff, his attention abruptly caught by something else in the distance, darted off toward the eastern area. I didn't see him again until much later and so was officially on my own again in the Citadel and with only enough motivation to seek out more food and possibly some water if I was fortunate.

At first, I was a little too hopeful and went straight to the restaurants. I don't remember the name of the first place I "solicited," but it was a cramped barbecue joint full of customers who all stopped what they were doing to stare at me almost as soon as I'd entered.

I briefly enjoyed how warm it was before a female clerk at the counter ran to fetch a larger guy who strutted up to me and demanded that I leave.

The second place I tried was a tiny establishment that had been recently thrown together and was later known for having given people food poisoning due to its terrible food quality. A younger male and female duo of greeters both panicked upon seeing me and awkwardly kept me out by blocking the doors. After attempting to get into three more restaurants and getting a similar reception, I had to turn to the independent vendors of the Citadel.

Vendors are probably the easiest people to piss off, but I didn't know any better back then.

I went up to men and women working behind stands, not because they wanted to, but because it was their only source of income. Most of them had barely been capable of getting approvals for their licenses to sell goods while remaining in a decent tax bracket.

The first vendor I bothered was a short, older woman who wouldn't acknowledge my presence. Obviously, I was a little shy but forced myself to stand directly in front of her while simply saying "Hey" until I got the hint. She decided to talk to everyone else—including her own competitors—but me. In the end, someone with money brushed me out of the way, and that vendor swiftly turned into the biggest chatterbox in town.

My only option was to merely move a few feet down to the next vendor: an old, bearded man who looked upon me with fierce indignation.

"S-sir..." I said meekly.

"What the hell do you want?" There was a fire brimming in his eyes.

"Um... do y-you have any food? Please?" I was amazed that I could even speak.

"Paying customers only, kid! Get away from this place or I'll call police—it's illegal to harass hardworking citizens, don't you know! Go on!"

I scurried away from him and skipped the following three people before trying a new vendor, but the response was largely the same down the line. I wasn't quite sure what felt worse: being completely ignored or being acknowledged and told that you smelled something awful, told to get away before you contaminated someone's product. After being shooed a few more times, one salesman was kind enough to offer me water from the same bowl his pet feline used—perhaps more for his own amusement than as a charitable gesture.

I drank from it without hesitation, and the man proceeded to slap the bowl out of my hands.

"You little freak!" He stepped in close to heft me in the air by the collar of my dirt-stained shirt. "We don't need any more fucking junkies coming around here! Didn't the others make it clear to you? We don't give handouts, so find somewhere else to be a goddamn parasite!'

The vendor threw my fragile body against the ground and to the applause of a group of spectators who'd started laughing as they watched me struggle to get to my feet.

When I stood up, feeling a spark of rage flutter through me, my anger was quickly quieted after taking in my surroundings. Everyone was just... looking at me, like I was a stray animal and now posed a legitimate danger to them. They were all so disgusted to be associated with anything reminding them of a more "unwashed" kinda lifestyle than they'd already endured. After all, the Citadel has been known for emphasizing status climbs—especially from the Lower-City to the Mid-City, which itself guarantees a huge increase in social prestige.

The vendors, their attention unanimously drawn to a homeless orphan, watched me carefully with the suspicion that I would attempt to rob or attack them.

Happy couples strolling by found that the sight of me suddenly made their day bleaker.

Regular citizens and small-time business partners alike pretended that I didn't exist.

The very space I occupied could be defined in one word: offensive. I think that was the first time I'd ever had to deal with such a fusion of alienation and anxiety, both of which were compounded by the overwhelming urge to find some form of sustenance before the day was out.

Something told me that making it through the night wasn't a vague possibility without finding a solution to being so damn hungry.

So, I guess that's when I officially became a beggar: my first job.

\--

The impoverished are exiled from modern living standards and social life, so I accepted my position in life and turned to strangers for everything I needed to survive. It was my last known resource: ordinary people.

But, by now, it was obvious that I'd have to migrate from the marketplace; I wandered toward the eastern area.

I'd forgotten how to formulate most sentences and needed to be reminded of what words to use, and I was reduced to limping around in my ragged clothes and mouthing "Help" to those who passed me.

I couldn't garner any sympathetic responses.

My despair got to be too much. I became bolder, and I grabbed on the coat of an older man who happened to be walking the opposite way.

He turned sharply and raised his hand in preparation to strike—!

But stopped short after looking me over.

"What is it? You need money, boy?"

I nodded vigorously.

The man chuckled; his cheerful grin transformed into a condescending sneer. "What for? Tell me then, are you going to use it to get high, son?"

"N-no..."

"You're probably going to use it to get high, aren't you? Why can't you just busy yourself with work like everyone else, eh? You can't look away from the needle long enough to fill out an application—or are you not able to write?"

He started laughing to himself before reaching into his pant pocket and tossing a bronze coin up in the air, letting it land on the ground in front of me. He walked away with a magnanimous attitude. It amazed me that someone could feel so proud of himself for contributing so little, but I took what I was given and stopped at the next vendor to see how much it was worth...

The vendor laughed at me.

The man had given me the equivalent of almost nothing in terms of money, and so I was told to leave while also simultaneously being accused of bringing fake currency. On my way down the sidewalk, someone walking their pet poodle rapidly pulled it away from me—like she thought my homelessness was contagious and didn't want her pet to catch it.

To these people, I was a twelve-year-old bogeyman with no place in their society. But, eventually, I noticed someone who happened to be in a similar state of affairs.

An elderly man sat against the locked door of a vacant and condemned apartment complex. His face was covered in acne scars; his skin severely blotchy. The man's clothes matched the raggedness of my own, and he had set a sign next to him that read: Homeless. Please help me.

That's the first thing I ever stole for myself.

When he saw me walk up, the beggar suddenly sprang to life and grabbed my clothes while pleading, "Please, son, help an old man out, wouldya! Anything you have to offer, man—I-I served your country, I did. I fought in the Invasion—got the wounds to prove it, too!" He held up a stub that was once the seat of his right hand. I reacted out of fear and pushed the man, grabbing his sign and running with him calling after me.

"God sees you, young man!" he screamed at the top of his lungs, "God is looking at you!"

I ran maybe a mile before a younger kid tripped me at nearly the exact moment my fatigue began to set in.

I heard snickering behind me and watched bitterly as he and two girls continued on their way. I pressed forward and then backtracked when I'd decided to use that very spot to set up the stolen sign. I'd camp there while watching the people of the Lower-City go about their days. To my thinking, this would be a humbler approach, and maybe I might learn how to be more like them.

In some areas of the world, the homeless are known to congregate in larger groups and pursue sometimes brutish tactics to feed themselves. I mean, it's easier to continue pleading to the same people for help if you're surrounded by others working for the same cause. Be that as it may, the spiritual condition of the Dawn Federation was so rotten that citizens segregated themselves from each other at the lowest levels.

My begging was the purest form of survival in an indifferent city. And so, I concluded that people would appreciate my passive approach to asking for scraps. I thought I was a fast learner. For the reasons I just mentioned, I was able to witness someone express compassion at my destitution.

A girl around my age was walking in between her parents, who held her hands aloft as she clumsily skipped down the sidewalk. Her family seemed picturesque: a mother and father who'd come to visit from one of the wealthier sections of the Citadel. They were dressed conservatively and walked with an apprehension that always came with venturing into one of the Quadrants.

When she spotted me looking ahead grimly, my mind searching for a way to escape the hand I'd been dealt, the girl used all the strength she had just to stop her parents from hurrying past. Both were forced to look me over reluctantly, and her mom instantly set about convincing her to leave me alone:

"Come on, honey. No need to bother a stranger."

The girl's concern remained, and she stared at me, appearing more mature than either of her parents.

"But he looks so sad." The girl said, "Where's his parents, mommy? Hey you, don't you have a mom and dad?"

I tried to meet her gaze but forgot my words again, so I shook my head.

She frowned and looked to her father worriedly. "We should help him, daddy!"

Her dad, who was likely a good guy, rubbed her head gently and bent down to speak in her ear.

I could hear him say: "Listen, Tierra, not everybody is special like you."

"You're our daughter. If we spoiled everybody, then we wouldn't be able to give you the best, now would we?"

"I... I guess not." The girl replied, obviously torn.

"Come on, don't you want to get ice cream?"

He'd gotten her attention. "Yes," she said, "let's go, daddy!"

There was no formal guardianship system for orphans in the Citadel like there is now despite its reputation for having always proclaimed itself to be a "first world country."

Instead, each governed district was expected to fund its own programs and facilities intended for public service. Statistics were low on the success of government homes established for people like me, and so some of the Majors abandoned the concept altogether to save on expenditures while occasionally paying out a small check to volunteers.

Just as I'd lost hope, the father went completely serious as he turned to me and reached into his back-pant pocket to get his wallet. He'd an empty, foam cup in his hand that he used to insert a small wad of cash into before setting it down in front of me.

He said to me, "This is a bad part of town, little one. If I were you, I'd close up shop and move somewhere else. You understand?"

I nodded and remembered what to say back, "Thank you, s-sir."

The family briskly walked away, and I considered his statement...

My train of thought was interrupted after watching an older man, dressed in a slightly better fashion than me, casually stroll by while he rocked a coat full of random items and moved down the adjacent sidewalk.

He was completely bald. Had multiple cuts and gashes across not only his scalp but also his arms that were exposed by an old, ripped button-up shirt. From a distance, I couldn't quite make out his features but did notice a full, black beard and, once a little closer, what seemed like a set of empty eyes resting within a face that had become unnaturally discolored for reasons I would later come to understand.

He owned a portable shop filled with everything from carpenter tools to old fruits to a bunch of plain clothes. In his hand, he carried a sign which read: EZE'S GOODS! AFFORDABLE PRICES!

Not long after he'd come into view, a vagrant wandered up to him and grabbed his sleeve. He was pleading for something I couldn't make out, repeating the same words, but Eze grew aggravated and pushed him off before cursing the man and continuing on his route.

The tweaker shrugged off the whole encounter and suddenly was aware of me sitting where I was. Some level of excitement crossed his features as he stumbled over with his shoulders tensed.

"Ay—uh, ya got it? Ya got any of the good stuff?" He'd a hollowed-out expression.

I didn't know what he wanted, so I just stared back.

"It? Ya know? Makes the world all right—makes it good!" He laughed nervously.

Even though he was no one to worry about, I couldn't help feeling anxious due to my own inability to get used to speaking like a normal person. I didn't know what to say to him or what he was talking about, and then my situation—already discouraging in itself—quickly made a turn for the worse...

A kid my age dashed by and grabbed the sign I'd stolen.

\--

I chased after the thief down a sidewalk and into a small cul-de-sac. He scurried in between two condemned houses and through a grassy lane that thinned out around the perimeter of a small basketball court with blue weeds puncturing the blacktop in parts. It also happened to be the home of a group of boys all decked out in whatever they could find that they thought was stylish.

Their shared fashion senses were inspired by idols in an era of an abandoned generation, a time where the only people in the Lower-City worthy of looking up to were dealers who'd gone beyond lives on the corner to run their own ops, market their own labels after making it big in the industry.

I was met with the scene of chains upon rings upon piercings upon luxurious watches only affordable—typically—to the highest class of citizen. Whereas one of the kids wore a tank top with the words "K'I—IN'E" across it and sported gold rings on fingers connected to scarred and bloody knuckles, another wore a white t-shirt doused in dirt and oil, trying to pull off a style by wearing baggy jeans and a pair of well-kept brand-name shoes.

Three others were dressed in their own interpretations of a super follower type of trend, and all of them seemed to answer to a much older teenager who wore a shirt with "Yolando" emblazoned across the back of it.

I later learned that Yolando was a reggae singer who'd renounced his citizenship and moved to the country of Alandra as his way of protesting against the Dawn Federation government. Yolando left behind what legacy he could, releasing tons of politically-themed albums, mixtapes.

The group of kids had made a fire pit and tossed a deflated basketball into its center. It must've been busted recently; regardless, they weren't done being pissed about it.

The punk who'd stolen my sign raced toward them and stopped to hurl it into the flames.

"Yo!" he cried, "Some tweaker tryna chase me down! Help!"

I froze before the lot of them.

Though I could've probably related to most of those in the group, I was still a foreigner who everyone thought was either a beggar, fiend, or, more likely, both.

One of them inspected me, looked back at the thief, and started laughing with his hands pressed against his chest.

"Hey ya'll, check this out..." he said, struggling to catch his breath, "Dash let some poor boy down the street scare him off! Ain't nobody but Junkie Jr., but Dash came runnin' shook as hell! Boy's all bones, no muscle to back hisself up!"

The group erupted in laughter—all except for the older boy, who simply stared at me without betraying any emotion.

"Psh. I told ya'll Dash ain't got hands. He might rob nice, but don't dare put his silly ass in a ring with the dude he done robbed!"

Dash took offense and scowled. "It's not like that, man. Ay," he pointed at me like I was an animal, "motherfucker could'a been holdin'! I ain't about to get shot! I'm being smart, yo!"

"Shut up, Dash, he ain't fuckin' holdin'! Dude's a straight BUM. Wait—you took his sign?" The kids thought that made it funnier. "How's he supposed to get by without his sign, bro? That's low, but it shows Dash be grabbin' anything he can get his hands on."

"Forget you, man. I just thought it'd be funny to see it burn."

"All ya'll shut the fuck up!" The ringleader demanded.

The older kid in the Yolando t-shirt stepped closer to me and glanced back at the gathering.

"Dash, you gone let some little-ass punk step to you like this?"

"I-I, uh, I wasn't going to keep runnin'—"

"You damn sure were, though! You ran from a fuckin' punk like this, and, not only did you make the crew look stupid, but you made ME look stupid!"

"My bad—I'm sorry..." Dash replied meekly.

Rapidly, their ringleader spun and haymakered my face so hard that my legs failed me before I'd even realized it'd connected. As I hit the ground, he continued yelling at his cohorts.

"You know what happens when anyone comes through and tries to step to us, right? We can't just let that shit go, right?"

He brought his leg back and buried a kick deep into my abdomen, forcing me to cough involuntarily.

"Yo. Ya'll got that pussy mentality. If you gonna run with the big dogs—the higher-ups in town-, then you gotta live and breathe this life.

"Ain't nobody gonna be chasin' you next time, Dash. They prolly just gone shoot you..." The teenager playing pretend gangster shrugged nonchalantly and kicked me again.

The group of kids suddenly grew quiet around the glowing fire pit.

"What the hell ya'll staring at? Come help me beat this fool!"

As if on cue, they surrounded me like a swarm of crows. Fists and feet beat me senseless in a series of strikes. I thought I'd lose consciousness before long, but someone grabbed my neck and started jabbing me, breaking my nose and bursting my lip wide open.

Blood spread across my mouth and jaw, and I came close to passing out as the tip of someone's foot rang harshly against my side. I doubled over after being subsequently hit in the stomach, and my legs flailed as two of them stomped down on my ankles. This lasted for several minutes, then I watched as their ringleader walked away to pick up a small rock near the edge of the court.

He called out: "That's enough!"

Just like that, I felt the pressure lift off me to leave only the breeze which rushed over my bruised, bloodied skin.

"This shit was just to prove a point. No need to keep kickin' a bitch once they get it in their head to stop fuckin' with you!" he spoke with emphasis, "Now don't let ANYBODY else punk you again—and I'm saying this to all of you, not just Lil Dash. If anybody feels they gotta step to you, then don't make yourselves out to be their bitches. Everybody in agreement?"

"Yeah, we got you."

The others agreed in unison. In response, the older boy handed the rock to Dash and gave him more instructions:

"Ay, you fucked up, but you gone learn from the experience, right?"

"No doubt." The kid kept trying to avoid eye contact.

The older kid gave Dash a sinister look. "I need you to show me that you learned; show me that you're not lying, Dash: knock that bitch's ass out—and I mean all the way out!

"I could kill that prick with ease, so you should hurry on and finish what you done started, feel me?"

Dash looked at the rock, then at his boss, and finally at me with new resolve. He steadily walked up and crouched down slightly, as if he were going to aim though I was right in front of him. I was only able to see out of my left eye... and I used it to look back at Dash.

Something about my eyes scared him, and he glanced off in a different direction for a moment. Dash swallowed and focused his gaze at a spot on the ground next to me.

He hefted the rock high, then he brought it down. Dash sent me into nothingness...
3

Eze

\--

Tavon

\--

I WOKE UP AFTER FEELING MYSELF GET DROPPED by what I assumed was the group of wannabe thugs. My head was pounding, and my own perception of what was going on was too distorted. Hands roughly grabbed at the fringes of my clothes and lifted me into the air.

"Shit!" exclaimed one of them. "Kid fuckin' stinks! Didn't think a body weighed this heavy, man!"

I struggled to keep conscious but faded again only a few seconds later...

\--

When I opened my one working eye for the second time, it was dark out. I couldn't tell where I was.

I felt around for the towel I'd been using to cover myself at night, but someone had taken it, probably long ago. As I took in the area, I noticed that I'd been halfway submerged in what reeked of sewer water. They'd tossed me in a small canal—a gutter where I could die alone, like I'd never existed.

Dad.

Moving any part of my body triggered pain that traveled through my nerves. I'd already begun shivering once I realized how frigid it was. If I didn't move, it meant freezing to death...

But I couldn't.

It took everything for my own heart to continue beating, acting as the quiet denial of my fate. The rest of me—my limbs, really—felt detached. Unmovable.

White, aquatic spheres fell from above and melted into my corneas; I pressed my eyelids together. I let myself completely relax, shivered one last time before I surrendered to the cold's envelopment. I let destiny run its course—

A set of teeth bit through the collar of my shirt, and I felt something shake with effort as it dragged me from the shallow well of the canal. I recall trying to look once at whatever it was. I imagined that the black mastiff had come to my rescue.

Instead, what had at first appeared to be a canine was now a dark, shimmering mass that carried grey, vertical slits in place of its eyes. This thing was much larger. Seemed almost formless, or like a broken glimmer of silver light

The living, breathing nightmare happened to be the last vision I had before I fell into another dissociative state...

\--

I don't know exactly how much time I lost, but I remember brief moments in which I recovered to either sharp pains or incoherent voices competing to be louder than one another. I would fade in and out with a complete inability to see or comprehend anything. I thought I'd died.

In between the times I almost came fully awake, I was cursed with maybe hundreds of shitty dreams that disturbed me.

I remember a faceless man carrying what looked like a heavy cello up a lonely mountain that stood tall above the Earth. He staggered relentlessly toward an obscure peak which loomed eerily before someone I couldn't see.

What remained of the Sun, peeking behind edges of pure black, shined on a swelling fog that surrounded the weary musician. While he tried to keep his gaze fixed on his original purpose, a path emerged to the right and sloped downward into a pit echoing his name.

Drawn to the sound, the musician continued until he stood over the edge of the pit. The first step toward the center heightened all of his senses to their peak and caused him to feel a level of content and complacency he'd never felt before in his life. His legs moved on their own, and he was quickly confronted with a short, slender pillar that sprang from the ground.

Within seconds, it expanded to resemble a face... the twisted image of the muzzle belonging to the black mastiff. It bared its glowing teeth and growled, then it lunged in for the kill!

\--

I was in a hospital bed and wide awake following the last shitty dream.

I started convulsing violently before my body could settle in. My vision adjusted to a large room with blue lighting and filled with several flat beds, which were covered in grey sheets matching one another. A navy curtain was the only barrier separating each cot as men and women garbed in blue scrubs wandered from patient to patient. Directly to my right, a stranger obscured by one of the curtains ranted loudly to himself.

He mumbled phrases and broken sentences I didn't quite understand and persistently repeated: "Hey! Where'd he go? Where are you, you son of a bitch? I know it was you!"

To my left, someone fought to breathe out of an airway device. The constant rhythm of her respirations caused me to be more aware of my own situation.

An IV had been left in my arm, and a metallic cuff was clasped to my left bicep along with a thick, plastic clip clamped across my index finger. The cuff and clip were connected via two separate wires to a large monitor that displayed my vitals. In the background, I could hear my heart rate beating at a rapid speed. I looked over at the monitor to see a blood pressure reading of 180/130 and noticed that a red light to the left of the screen began blinking. I peered down to see a blue gown draped over my naked body while sweat fell from my neck and chest; the sheets underneath me were soaked.

From the corner of my right eye, I noticed a woman with a beautiful smile, a nurse who gasped in shock when seeing that I'd awakened. Before I could turn my head to make eye contact, she briskly moved away, and that was the last I ever saw of her.

I was in an urgent care center meant for the uninsured and less fortunate, and they'd been generous enough to supply televisions hung across the far wall. On the screen, I watched my first news broadcast aired by Citadel Entertainment—or, "C.E."

Protesters from the Mid-City had gathered in the mostly corporate Blue Sector of the Upper-City to demand improvements in a job market that had gotten worse; Captain Solar had just won an award for his acting in "Distant Samagoji;" a hip hop collective known as Hittin' Right put out a mixtape that was notorious because it exposed true stories of corruption in the Federation. Hittin' Right's mixtape led to riots, in four Zones, against the Citadel Executives.

It was all the typical rundown of what went on in a country totally new to me—all except for the very last story told by News Anchor James Desando.

Desando glanced down at his notes as the image of something burning flashed on the screen behind him. He looked up toward the camera and said:

"In closing tonight, as we celebrate President Derek's twentieth anniversary as the man who shaped this country, investigators from the Dawn Bureau still refuse to release info regarding a destroyed cruiser in the Third Quadrant of the Lower-City.

"Sources indicate that two adult males smuggled in a yet unknown number of human cadavers, and the culprits, now deceased, have been identified as Charles L. Mussel and Diedre Samo. Quadrant authorities report that the alleged smugglers perished after what is believed to be an abnormal technical malfunction that caused the cruiser's engine to fail.

"Dawn Bureau Investigators, however, remain unconvinced and await further guidance from Federation medical examiners. This is James Desando from Citadel Entertainment Nightly News wishing you all a safe night; thanks for watching!"

The program quickly switched over to a poorly-rated soap opera about a woman surviving alone in a country inhabited only by demons...

—And a doctor in a white coat suddenly blocked my view of the television screen.

Another, slightly less friendly nurse appeared at his side and walked over to take the IV out of my arm. As she set about pressing gauze to the IV's point of penetration and bandaged the area, my assigned doctor copied down my vitals on his clipboard and murmured some words to the nurse without even looking in my direction. After she'd unplugged the monitor, the nurse unstrapped the cuff on my arm and helped me to sit up in the bed.

The doctor continued to ignore me as he looked condescendingly at the nurse.

"Get him out of here," he said. "We've got twelve more inbound."

"He just became alert, and now we're—are you sure?"

"The patient has made a full recovery, hasn't he?" His indifference strengthened in proportion to her anxiety. "As far as we're concerned, our work here is complete."

The doctor walked away to disappear into another patient's room. Showing a little sympathy, the nurse took a stethoscope from a table next to me and quickly lifted the back of my gown to press the instrument below my right scapula.

"Breathe in."

I did as she asked.

"Good." She moved the stethoscope to the left and ordered, "Again."

I obeyed and felt an oddly comforting chill run up my spine. When was the last time I'd felt someone touch me without wanting to cause harm? She inspected my chest in a similar fashion and then carefully looked me over with more compassion than I'd experienced since being alive.

"What's your name, young man?"

I looked into her dark, hazel eyes as if the answer to that question was in them. She was the first person who allowed me to stare at her for so long without responding with sheer disgust.

But... what was my name?

I responded with, "I-I... don't know."

She frowned. "Figures. We pulled a records check, took DNA samples, and had our people look through any public registry from here to occupied countries hundreds of miles away...

"And we found nothing. If you're in the middle of a fugue state, kid, I'm afraid this would be the worst time for it."

"Where am I?"

She appeared as if she wanted to hug me but resisted the impulse. "Let's get you out of here. Can you stand?"

I slowly slid off the bed and allowed my feet to support me with what strength I had.

For whatever reason, it was easier to support my own weight; I felt more steadfast than ever. I stretched extensively and yawned pretty contentedly.

"You were on the brink of passing from starvation. We were ordered to pump you full of enisei fluid and nutrients 'til your body readjusted itself accordingly. How do you feel?"

I was still relearning a language I somehow already knew. "G-good..."

After I'd yawned, she patted me on the head, her expression changed to a smile, and I was gestured to follow her through the clinic.

We walked past a series of nameless patients of all ages, people the world had either rejected or failed to remember. The nurse was kind, someone who'd studied her entire life to pursue this line of work after feeling burdened by her own need to help those who suffered.

Even at twelve years old, I could tell that she was fighting against something within herself. She was struggling to combat a cycle that had the homeless and less fortunate shuffling in and out of the same clinic for the same, reoccurring shit: starvation, overdoses, and would-be murder victims. I belonged in two of those categories; regardless, I imagined that my nurse must've had a personal emptiness that she filled by struggling to combat suffering in the Citadel.

"There's a lot of others just like you, kid. They're lost, nameless, left alone.

"You must have parents who immigrated here, but, at your age, you should be able to tell me your name..." She shook her head. "When they brought you in, you were rushed to the ER... no one expected you to make it, and you were just barely holding on, poor thing. The doctor you just saw managed to stabilize you, though he was called in on his own vacation time at the very last minute."

I didn't say anything and kept my head down.

"Don't think too badly of him. He's an ass at times, but the man really is an exceptional doctor. It's just that the Federation has been making it harder and harder for us to keep helping people the way we do now.

"Major Sofie pulled off some legislation we never thought would gain any ground—uh, but I'm not sure if it would make any sense to you, dear."

She frowned. "These issues are so entrenched in our own history that it would take more than a story to make you understand, but I'd hate to live in a world gone to nothing because of the mistakes we ignored." The nurse rested a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "Don't feel bad about it, please. Any of us would take you in, but the people above us would have our jobs if we breached our professional obligations to any patient."

I was too disoriented to really process what she'd said.

We arrived at a set of glass doors which slowly parted to reveal a slouched figure garbed in an old, wool suit that was covered in animal hair.

The man wore a set of cheap, black shoes that'd been rigorously polished the morning of and reflected our images back at us. His sketchy smile betrayed missing teeth covered by cracked lips. They were encircled by an aging face, one which exposed blotchy skin and a small rash centered around his lower left jaw.

I recognized him as the wandering salesman from earlier.

"Tavon! You're okay!"

He started to move toward me but was abruptly blocked by the nurse.

"You never give up, do you, Eze?"

"Now ma'am,"—he bared a very yellow smile at us—"where do you reckon this boy will go next, eh?"

"I don't have time for the same arguments, Eze." She exhaled, "Do you have a birth certificate, proof of matching DNA—the ability to pass a background check, while we're at it—and a suitable shelter?"

"Now don't be askin' questions you already know the answer to like I'm some scrub, miss. I found this kid in the streets a battered old mess! I had to bring him to you, remember?"

"I remember. But the fact remains that there's a process to this that you have to go through first, and we both know you wouldn't make it past the first step."

They quickly moved the conversation to the outside streets. Eze started lamenting:

"And so what? You finna throw his ass back out here because he can't be integrated into your system? He'll end up in the same situation with no guidance and possibly dead the next time. You know how it is, Jillian!"

Jillian groaned and crossed her arms.

"Why do you keep trying to save everybody else? You can't get yourself together, Eze, a-and do you still live... there?"

Eze rested his hands on his hips and replied confidently, "I'm becoming a self-made man; I'm on a new road now." He indicated what he was wearing. "My business intuition is supreme—watch me, I'll change the world. C'mon, Jillian, don't let this kid suffer the same fate as the other lost boys wandering the Citadel.

"These kids think that, when they've got nobody, they've gotta become somebody by doing something stupid. There was an execution on 23rd and Lu. 16 the other day, a small group of kids who looked about his age and all packin' heat. They killed some fella who was probably two or three times their age! Slayed a grown man in outfits they mommas bought them. I—"

"Fine." Nurse Jillian looked down in defeat. "You've always been a good man, Eze. If you could just..."

Eze looked at her with a grim expression. "You know I can't. I'll be successful my own way, though."

He smiled again. "I can raise this boy to go beyond the Lower-City and live large at the very top with my support!" He put his hand on my head and ruffled my hair. "I owe it to the world to make sure he's not another casualty..."

4

Mystery

\--

Janelle

\--

TAVON AND AALIYAH STALKED A NEW OBJECTIVE. They traveled in a Bureau-issued cruiser while in surveillance of a woman known as Vendela Andrewa, the former operator of a private adoption center started out of Zone B.

After significant boosts in her reported income, Vendela began Andrewa Centers for Growth and expanded her label across the Mid-City. She went from ordinary caretaker to the president of a company which flourished successfully in the Citadel.

Tavon had concluded his first childhood memories during their third night of stalking Vendela Andrewa, with Aaliyah remaining relatively somber throughout.

"I didn't know it was like that for you..." she said, partially in disbelief.

Tavon stared at the night sky through the cruiser's windows, tinted this time.

"I figured you'd say that. But it wasn't 'like that' for me, because 'that' was all I knew. If a regular kid had gone from a good home to my situation, I think he would've been less likely to survive. Tell me more about this woman, though."

Aaliyah snorted. "After the Genod & Portis Incident, the Bureau found hella leads to traffickers we'd never heard of. The products? Everything from people to military equipment to narcotics.

"Vendela, or 'Suspect B,' has been the Bureau's biggest target in the last two years, but we couldn't do anything because she's related to Lieutenant Shraeu... However, Shraeu might be getting promoted to Major if his campaign pans out—tch. I know I'm not about to vote for him."

"What did Vendela do that makes her dirty?"

"The Andrewa Center left a fat trail of money behind, and it helped point us to an illegal operation that fucking sold people, Tavon. Genod's biggest investor turned out to be the owner of a clothing shop who was also a partner at Andrewa Centers for Growth.

"This investor disappeared after the incident. Now we got confidential informants talkin' about other groups similar to the Center selling off kids they deem 'unfit for society.'"

"And?"

"And I'm working overtime to break into her big-ass house." She scoffed, "It's obvious that we need to bust this woman; I'm ready to see her get sentenced."

Tavon laughed. "I couldn't do what you do, Aaliyah."

"Yeah. I know." She smirked.

"You planning on barging in yourself?"

"Not exactly..." She gave Tavon a hopeful and innocent look.

The assassin grinned. "I guess there's a price to everything."

"I was hoping you wouldn't think that. I didn't sleep with you for this favor, to be specific."

"Sure. Whatever..." Tavon's mood changed after receiving another anonymous text which read:

"Angelos Dojo on sixtieth floor. Monday. 10:00 AM."
5

You're Gonna Need Me

\--

Janelle

\--

"SO THAT'S HOW IT'S GOING TO BE? This is what you've chosen to do to me?"

"What are you talking about? We've planned this from the beginning, don't you remember?" he responded, struggling to catch his breath.

A warlord battled against his own cowardice.

"But I've changed my mind, Derek, and you've decided that you can't step up and be a man? After everything we've done for this country—for us!"

"That's not what this is about!"

"You act like I don't comprehend what you're saying, and I do: you aren't going to be there for us. That's what you're telling me."

"There wasn't supposed to be an 'us.' I'm married, Av—"

"And you said you'd leave her. So, what changed?"

He sighed, "Nothing. I still love you, but I can't leave my wife. I am this nation's ruler."

"I don't give a fuck, Derek! The President of the Dawn Federation can't publicly claim his own kid? She couldn't give you what you wanted, but I am: we're having a SON, Mr. President."

"No, Avva." Derek remained resolute. "You're having a son. We discussed this already, and you were supposed to go through with... It."

"What? The abortion? You really thought that's what I wanted? You took care of me for the whole pregnancy, and that's what you thought this whole time?"

The President shrugged his shoulders. "We had this conversation from the start. The leader of the Dawn Federation cannot just leave his wife because he knocked up one of his old war buddies—"

"We're more than 'war buddies,' asshole. We've been together from the beginning; the Citadel was meant to be OUR kingdom!"

"And I still want it to be!" he exclaimed. "But an illegitimate son would destroy my public credibility—the plan was for you to wait until after an official divorce and for us to proceed from there! What happened to your patience in conflict, Avva?"

"That's all you care about? Your reputation?" Avva looked away. "Changing human society was our goal, remember? So what if we come out as a family—our legacy is already sealed."

"No! I can't." President Derek grasped her shoulders. "I know you can keep this a secret, so don't tell people that he's mine. I'll provide for the two of you—I-I'll send you money—"

"Fuck you, Derek." Avva shoved him away. "I had to lie to the public after we found out. I told them I was going on a 'religious exodus,' because of you, and I had to make sure that they didn't find out..."

"And you kept putting it off."

"Because I thought you'd grow the balls to take responsibility."

"Avva! Wait!"

Derek's former mistress left him in his office.

\--

Years ago, the warlord Avva was offered an opportunity to undergo a surgery intended to induce labor earlier than normal, and so she admitted herself to a private hospital to have the procedure.

The President, on the other hand, was scheduled to fly with his wife to Gaspul after having overseen a successful invasion of the war-torn country. Derek had prepared a speech he'd tweaked since the beginning of the conflict and felt compelled to make his celebrated appearance, but, in departing, he would be leaving behind the mother of his first child.

\--

The history of the Dawn Federation and the Citadel itself is a complicated story that's centered around a time when private militaries vied for control of much of the known world. The amount of those alive in the Federation who remembered the legends of the power struggles that occurred in the past are relatively few, and modern media in the Mid and Upper-Cities had been instructed to erase any history believed to be outdated or irrelevant.

President Derek was one of the colloquially heralded "Four Warlords," a group of deserters from a special operations unit which belonged to the nation known as the Peoples' Republic of Oloranto.

Oloranto held control over a small portion of the Citadel when it was split between various powers. The Four Warlords were, respectively: Derek, Avva, Khalil, and Ishida; they founded what became known as Enrec: a private mercenary company which sought to gain territory by recruiting people under the banner of freedom. After gaining a sufficient fighting force, Enrec was contracted by Manandio (a nation that fell near the end of the Gaspul Rebellion) to wage a war against Oloranto.

The Four Warlords thus took command of individual units that, with their combined efforts, spearheaded the initial attack and eventually led them to take Oloranto captive as a military force.

Exploiting Oloranto's area of control and repurposing it as a mass supply base, the Warlords reclaimed the entirety of the Citadel before relinquishing some of their dominion to Gaspulan forces. Enrec subsequently navigated their way through the political world and formed a nation within the infrastructure of what was now known as the Federation's Citadel. After decades of constant warfare, The Dawn Federation emerged from Derek's own ideas of legislation and civil liberty, each of the Warlord having left their marks on history, and the rest of the Citadel was reclaimed for the cause of the Federation.

Khalil, of the Hayashi, departed from Earth not long after they'd taken the Citadel and, practically, out of human memory.

Ishida is infamous, albeit hated, for having founded Angelos, the assassination sect that had spread like a virus across this world.

Avva transformed into a celebrity idol for the public while enjoying wealth inherited from years of strategically dominating the enemy and pushing out the rest of the Gaspulan army from the City in the Sky. She also proposed and wrote legislature herself before removing herself from government because she found it too boring for her tastes.

And Derek became the President, establishing a system that had all but diminished his role in the Federation's government, a government intending to herald the future of Derek's vision of Democracy.

Yet, there came a day when President Derek decided that he no longer cared about his legacy...

\--

While Avva went into labor, Derek abandoned the party traveling with him to Gaspul and sneaked away to return to his lover. Somewhere along the way, he'd decided that she mattered to him far more than his own career. Even if it meant being forced out of his seat as the ruler of a major world power, he felt compelled to be there.

President Derek located the hospital that housed Avva and rushed in to find her while feeling an overwhelming sense of fear understood by soon-to-be fathers. Avva had been the first partner to help him create the dream conceived by Enrec. Without the two of them, it's possible that the Dawn Federation would not have existed. They were known for conspiring against their own units in Oloranto in order to break away and use their accumulated knowledge and experience to build a New World with Khalil and Ishida's lended expertise.

Therefore, Derek realized that he would choose her over anything or anyone else as he shouldered members of the hospital staff out of his way and exclaimed:

"Move. I'm your goddamn President."

Dionne Warwick's "You're Gonna Need Me" echoed down one of the hallways on the hospital's third floor.

Avva's favourite song, he thought and quickly found the door from which the music resounded.

He never made it in time.

... Almost an hour before he'd arrived, Avva, dying from a multisystem organ failure linked to an inherited condition, had a conversation with the doctor who'd struggled to revive her seemingly lifeless son.

\--

"Doctor Rustam..." Avva spoke weakly as the doctor affixed the infant's face and torso to a small, respiratory android that wrapped its cushioned arms around her son.

"Don't worry, Avv—ma'am, I apologize. You and the baby will make it through this! I assure you that I'm more than competent enough at my job!"

"You don't have to lie, Rustam. I know I'm not looking good, but, please... save him."

"Don't talk that way! C'mon, Avva, you're stronger than this! Avva!"

Two nurses swarmed the small child as it suddenly sprung to life, having been provided oxygen and a safe stimulant from the android; they waited for Rustam's orders, but the doctor sprinted to the side of Avva, who he'd grown attached to after having known her for more than a decade.

She smiled at him, and a slight grin came over her face.

"Do me a favor, would you?" Avva said.

"Anything."

Her gaze hardened. "Report him as deceased."

"What?" He was taken aback.

"You have money, don't you? Raise him as your own..."

"Wait! Wait! I don't thi—"

"His father left. Derek doesn't deserve him... so give my son the family I couldn't. He won't be famous, but he'll be comfortable. Safe."

Doctor Rustam was unable to bare an heir himself. It was because of this that his wife had left only a month before the incident in the hospital. Having felt enormous respect and affection for Avva, who was called the "Saint of the Citadel," Rustam jumped at the opportunity to adopt her son.

He'd fallen in love with her, a fan in adoration of his idol. While in a more delirious state, she'd promised him a future after the operation—perhaps mistaking him for Derek in her stupor—but the possibility of a perfect life passed him over when Avva died unexpectedly.

Reacting quickly, Doctor Rustam had the child taken away from the operating room and altered his birth records before President Derek arrived at the hospital to find his deceased lover.

\--

"I can't be too late! –I didn't know..." Derek was said to have collapsed to his knees and sobbed upon viewing Avva's lifeless body.

When finally regaining his composure, he accused Doctor Rustam of "Professional Negligence" and, initially, ordered the Dawn Federation to revoke Rustam's license to practice. Nevertheless, Rustam absorbed the attack on his esteem and reputation and believed that he would continue to survive with Avva's son by working low-income gigs until Derek's wrath subsided...

It did not.

6

Put Our Heads Together

\--

Tavon

\--

EZE WILL ALWAYS BE MY FATHER.

Even though he'd his own share of personal issues, he was still a bigger man than anyone I'd known up until that point in my life...

\--

I arrived on an unnamed street populated with linked, brick buildings and ending in a cul-de-sac of condemned houses, one of which was being squatted in by Eze himself. It had a small fireplace that I learned to keep huddled around during colder months. At the broken, wooden door to the house, the mastiff suddenly reappeared but took on what looked to me like a different form: a slender, pointed face and eyes faded completely black. Its body seemed to shimmer, similar to an image being projected onto a screen.

It barked at me, and I jumped back in shock.

"I'll be..." Eze said in response. "Boy, what spooked ya like that?"

For the first time since I'd awakened, I felt full knowledge of my language return to me.

"It's... it's just t-there's... a dog."

"Dog." How did I know what that meant?

"Damn right, there is!" He exclaimed.

The shadowy canine walked over to sit down in front of me; he stared into my eyes with a vapid expression. Eze seemed way too excited and clapped.

"Finally! Someone else sees him—it's not just me! That means you have it, kid!"

"Have what?" I wasn't totally sure if I should pet the thing again after considering his comment.

"Somethin' special inside you that others don't. I knew I saw something in you that made us alike!" Eze walked over to the canine and coursed his palm through the creature's fur.

"His name's Anubis! One day, he appeared in my life and hasn't left me since, a real friend. The only thing is... no one else sees him.

"When I go to the streets to get my money game on, he always comes with, but nobody notices. He doesn't exist, Tavon—at least, not to most people..." His eyes were unusually wide. "I thought I'd finally lost all sense. This is amazing!"

Less than a second must've passed when the mastiff's head shifted and made him appear faceless before returning to its original form. This thing wasn't supposed to be here, not in the Citadel, which had sheltered itself from the reality of much bleaker land.

"He's quicker than any human or maybe a cruiser, I reckon. Anubis is a straight-up killer, son! I wouldn't sell him for the world."

"Why... why would you try to sell him at all?"

Eze issued a throaty chuckle. "You must be one of the slow ones... I sell everything I can find, kid. Honest work for honest pay, you feel me?" Eze put a hand on my shoulder. "We're gonna start tomorrow, you and me, but tonight you get to rest. I'll make sure you learn the ropes, and, if you follow me,"—he grinned—"we'll make it big."

I was a kid with no history, no prior attachments, and nothing to my name—I didn't even have a name. To me, Eze was what a normal salesman was supposed to look like for a long time. I didn't become aware of who he really was until it was too late to do anything about it...

\--

Janelle

\--

Tavon and Aaliyah waited outside Vendela Andrewa's door as Aaliyah called for backup in case the situation turned chaotic.

They'd uncovered enough evidence to act...

Earlier, against the wishes of Aaliyah, Tavon had unlocked a door in Vendela's house leading to her personal office while insisting that the two of them take a more "direct" approach.

The detective and her new accomplice searched Vendela's private quarters to discover a fake bottom beneath her office desk; it triggered a panel in the floor to uncover. Aaliyah used this panel to activate a side door that slid away to expose to them a room containing only a laptop.

To find the needed password for the device, they searched through the Vendela's bedroom and discovered a diary that naturally opened to a section out of which flew a piece of paper with a written code. The Center mastermind's downfall proved to be her own bad memory.

Tavon entered the code to access the laptop and was able to view a series of emails from Vendela to Genod and a conference session displaying a list of unknown participants he didn't immediately recognize. The two of them located additional information after looking through emails to both a lawyer and accountant who'd been advising her on how to hide revenue generated from increased trafficking efforts. Furthermore, a video was found of a kidnapping victim being interviewed by a woman who was, presumably, Vendela herself.

In the video, an older man—with his hands and feet tied down to a wooden chair—screamed at the camera: "Help! My name is Harlan Dulani; my family's looking for me—I've been taken!"

He was promptly gagged with a white cloth by an immense figure cloaked in black. The stranger then snapped his neck as a mildly disturbing giggle could be heard in the background. The killer reached his hand toward the camera, which quickly shut off and resulted in a dark screen.

All of what Tavon and Aaliyah had uncovered was sufficient to arrest Vendela, and so they returned and waited patiently for the President of the Andrewa Centers of Growth to finally make her appearance.

During the wait, he'd continued telling his story until Tavon realized something about the video he'd seen previously.

"Aaliyah... the guy who played executioner on the screen, he had a miniature totem hanging around his neck."

"So what?" Aaliyah said, "These fools love wearin' shit to show off—especially on video."

"No. It's not that." Tavon shook his head. "It's a symbol belonging to an older gang. I guess you could say more like a family."

"Family?"

"Have you heard of Noboros?"

"No. What the hell's that?"

"You're a Dawn Bureau agent and you've never heard of them?"

"Do I have to repeat myself?" she responded flatly.

"They're a group of people just as deadly as the ones I work with. Compared to a member of Noboros, the guys I've fought in the past are nothing."

"Wow." She smirked. "Something that actually makes you scared, huh?"

"Not scared. Cautious." Tavon replied.

"That's rare for you."

"I've only ever dealt with them once... but, after that mess, I knew to avoid those freaks at every turn."

Vendela Andrewa arrived on scene with a heavy detail of armed bodyguards. She hadn't noticed them and hurriedly proceeded into her own estate we'd cleared hours ago.

"I'm calling it in..."

They waited approximately twenty minutes after she reported to the Bureau via her Kom Cell.

Tavon, fidgeting his seat, looked over. "Should we go now?"

"We sh—"

"I'm going now." Tavon got out of the cruiser before stealthily but speedily approaching the manor.

"Tavon!" Aaliyah shouted while chasing after him. She herself absolutely refused to miss out on the action.

Tavon stalled by the door for a moment before nodding to Aaliyah. She rolled her eyes but nodded anyways, and he kicked it in as its hinges tore and loudly peeled off, clanging to the wooden floor. Tavon sprinted inside; Aaliyah hurried behind him with her gun raised!

\--

Vendela hung by her heels from a high ceiling and with tape wrapped tightly around her mouth to muffle her screams. The bodies of those who'd previously served her were now strewn about the lobby, baring grotesque laceration wounds.

Aaliyah darted toward the stairs close to Vendela but gasped as she felt her right foot catch in a tripwire.

Tavon bolted to her side, expanded his leg muscles, and tackled Aaliyah's body across a large distance. Right before the entire manor imploded, he used his body to shield her.

\--

Aaliyah sprang awake a few minutes after being knocked unconscious and heard several sirens resonating in the background. She looked up to see Tavon smiling at her in relief and was shocked after noticing that a small section of his back appeared as if it were... charred.

Tavon glanced at the spot and cringed. He returned his gaze to her and said, "I'll heal up as long as nothing's broken; I've got the Fire. It's you I'm more concerned about...

"This makes us even now, right?"

"Shut up. I'm fine—w-what the fuck is the 'Fire?' Is that a sex joke?" Aaliyah moved him off her gruffly and sat up to view flaming debris around them.

"It's another part to the same story."

Tavon quickly stumbled to his feet and supported her as the two of them slowly walked through a hole in the nearest wall to the outside.

He'd brought them far from the true center of the blast—which was, in reality, a poorly-set-up chain of explosives placed above Vendela and more or so intended to ensure her death than to harm first responders.

"Looks like we've got a story to tell them, at least."

Tavon nodded to indicate that he'd recovered Vendela's undamaged laptop from the scene.

7

Everyday Struggle

\--

Tavon

\--

I REMEMBER THE FIRST TIME I TOOK TO THE STREETS WITH EZE. He kept a portable stereo that he carried in his shopping cart when he was tired. The first morning we worked, he played Biggie's "Everyday Struggle" because he thought it would motivate me. I thought I'd heard music and knew what it was, but I'd never heard a song like that. Most music played in the Lower-City's public areas was instrumental; I didn't know that people could combine poetry with more complex instrumentals suited to whatever they said.

This was new to me, and I wanted to know more. Eze had a lot to show me.

Life changed. It started to be a little easier, for one, and it definitely beat getting thrown in the gutter. During the first week, Eze taught me different techniques to catch a person's interest and had me reading old books about human psychology that I didn't understand as we traveled the streets of the Third Quadrant.

He taught me how to approach those with whom I wasn't familiar, how to decipher moods—and thus be cognizant of knowing what to say depending on a person's mood. To begin with, the old man wouldn't let me talk to anyone unless I somehow convinced him to buy one of his own products.

It was a stupid idea.

It took maybe a hundred tries, but I eventually got a win after convincing him to purchase a bag of microwaveable noodles. From there, I graduated from convincing him to buy useless junk to convincing homeless people to pick up whatever trash we had to sell. And, from there, Eze had me walk up to average citizens and try to use lines like, "I think you're missing something to go with your style," or, "You could really use this for the rest of your life." He said it sounded cheesy but that it appealed to someone's "potential benefit" and that believing in the idea yourself went a long way.

I was Eze's top as well as only employee.

He told me that if I managed to make twenty-five a week, I could live with him for as long as I needed... but I don't think that man would've ever kicked me out on his own. He was trying to teach and hone skills in me what I'd need to survive.

I remember a time when we approached this gang that'd been running territory nearby us for a while, and all they gave us was a collective, dark stare...

But I was surprised when the group of them erupted in laughter and one of them shook Eze's hand vigorously.

"My man, Eze!" The older banger turned the handshake into a quick hug. The same guy saw me and got on one knee to say: "What, you just find out this fool your dad or somethin'?" He looked at Eze accusingly. "You gettin' a paycheck off keeping him, pops?"

"Naw..." he said, "It ain't like that." Eze shook his head in complete dismissal of the idea.

One of them, who looked to be only a few years older than me and with only a metal plate covering the area where his nose used to be, stepped toward Eze and handed him a package of something. Eze reacted by moving over to his cart and taking out a wad of cash that he handed to the banger.

"Yo. Let me get a look at him."

The guy who seemed to be their ringleader, some young adult wearing a camper with a blue visor, stared at me in curiosity.

"Short... but a stocky-lookin' motherfucker for a kid. He ain't got no leadership other than you, old man?"

"Ah, just you wait." Eze showed him a toothy smile. "He's going to be a champion one day, ya'll hear? The greatest of all time."

"I see him gettin' motivated watching me make that money. I started mixing some music—you know, some spittin' and singin' if ya'll wanna check it out?"

Before they could respond, Eze kept talking and seemed to shake strangely as he spoke, "Look, ya'll could be my signing partners—I c-could feature you on some good shit—And if-if you like my stuff on Vitality Log, I-I'll give ya a fifteen percent discount on anything I got—what do ya say! G-great deal, right!"

Their leader squinted at him and frowned. "Man, you real fucked up; you really think I want any of—"

"Aw shit!" another crew member uttered, "...he got Yolando shirts, man."

One of the bangers was browsing through Eze's cart with someone else. Though most people thought my caretaker was crazy, he sure knew how to strike a profit.

\--

Janelle

\--

Aaliyah drove Tavon back to her place to stay by himself before she'd then leave to review the incident with Lieutenant Shraeu and the Bureau.

Earlier, the two of them had been escorted to medics after the appropriate authorities had arrived on scene. By the time Tavon was seen by anyone, his back had begun to regenerate beneath a severely burned epidermis; however, he felt nauseated due to the shock from having withstood the explosion.

The higher the duo of Tavon and Aaliyah moved up in the criminal food chain, the more their lives would be threatened with increasing regularity.

The paramedic who assessed Tavon adamantly insisted that he be taken to the hospital for treatment.

"Sir," he started, "although it's perfectly within your rights to refuse treatment, I really think—"

"Go fuck yourself."

Tavon brushed the medic off and searched for Aaliyah. He soon spotted her speaking to a taller, large-framed man in a striped, grey and black suit. As Tavon walked over, now covered partially in a gown, he could hear him yelling at her.

"Detective Aaliyah, how many times have we talked about 'heroic interventions?' How many, really?"

"Enough." she replied without looking at him. "We obtained probable cause and acted on our intel. What's wrong with that?"

"Who's 'we?'"

"Us." Aaliyah pointed to Tavon and then herself.

The suited man paused...

He extended his hand to Tavon and said, "Detective Aden Kaust from the Dawn Bureau. Nice to meet you, Mr...?"

"Tavon. Just Tavon."

\--

Kaust

\--

"Hmm. Let me think... was it Tevin? Trayvin—something with a 'T.' I'mma go with Travon."

"What else can you give me? Like, description-wise. Anything helps, son."

"He had a fade, I think... some dark hair. Curly. Not really tall. Kind of weird eyes."

"Weird how?"

"I can't describe it, to be honest. It was like they had darkness in them—like I was looking at death, you know?"

Death...
8

Graidol

\--

Tavon

\--

EZE PLANNED ON GIVING ME A CART OF MY OWN that he'd stock with merchandise to push around on the streets of the Third Quadrant.

We utilized a grocery store in a local neighborhood, and Eze arrived there dressed as a store employee. After I'd helped him load a batch full of food, hygiene products, and dietary supplements, I brought my cart to his, and we shared the load, booking it back to the condemned shelter we'd come to know as our home.

Once Eze was ready, he would head back out into the world and sell the same products at lower prices. He had me take a different path through the Third Quadrant and told me to avoid anyone who "stared for too long."

I didn't understand how the currency worked in this city; all I knew is that I was helping Eze make a decent amount of fast cash while he explained that most all transactions were being moved online. That's when I'd first heard about regular currency being abandoned in favor of a new credit system confined to a secure Citadel network. That system is just now about to be used citywide. The concept of "cash" won't exist anymore.

Nevertheless, we had the means available to make our names known. Eze's Goods turned into a trusted, popular brand to the only customers we managed to acquire—people who were often just like us. My newfound reputation slightly changed the way Quadrant dwellers viewed me, as now I was at least of some use to them.

The only bad territories to operate in were areas near markets like the very first one I'd tried to scavenge food from when I was starving—that, and any Zone police station. Once Eze had established his routes after years of dodging muggers and cops, he'd continued to polish his strategies and maneuvered the Lower-City far better than I would've ever hoped to do so on my own.

And Anubis stayed around, although he seemed to appear less and less. I never saw that beast eat or drink anything, but his sheer speed and energy was unmatched by any animal. He could catch birds and mice effortlessly, but he'd let them go each time.

My opinion of Eze was never higher in those first few weeks, when we'd become something close to real merchants. In the little downtime we had, he'd tell me about what kids my age were into, what sports to play, and advised me to make everyone believe I'd always been his son to avoid too much scrutiny.

I later came to see a different side of him.

After a few successful raids on larger markets and vendors we'd deemed to be asses, the money we came up with gradually accumulated. Eze was spending most of our profits on something else, though. Something he wasn't planning on telling me about.

During one weekend, I came home from a "shift," wherein I'd sold a few different things to help us stay afloat. We'd been squatting successfully in the same area for months now. I strolled in while stating: "Hey Eze, we gonna be eatin' good ton—"

Eze was propped against the wall, out of his senses.

So far, the old man had made me too kind, too innocent. I moved closer to see a needle lying next to his arm—one that had been tied at the bicep, making his veins bulge and show more clearly.

Eze shook himself awake and wiped the drool from his face once he'd taken notice of my arrival. He looked at me lazily and said, with a sheepish grin, "S-sorry, kid... this stuff is worth everything to me."

His eyes were obscured by a sheen of red.

"But don't you try it, boy—d-don't you dare let yourself get hooked on something you don't understand!" Eze shook his head madly. "You d-don't know nothin' about it!" He started to rant:

"There are some things not worth knowing. It's the dusk, boy... another place hiding in our own. A deep dream, T—you can't wake up!" He scratched his neck nervously before he said, "Just know that God is looking at you."

I grabbed a small tub of a thick, yellowed substance next to Eze and took his needle as well. I then used one of my shoelaces in a lousy effort to reduce circulation to my forearm. He'd spent all our savings on this. The only profit remaining was the little I'd just managed to gather. I was angry that Eze had kept this secret from me, and so—being a stupid kid—I insisted that I'd have to take part in this ritual.

The vendor simply smiled at me and shook his head. "Well, I guess I can't blame you, son. We all got our vices for separate reasons..."

I filled up the syringe with a serum that belonged to a street drug called Graidolin—or, "Graidol." It completely relaxed a user, taking their senses hostage.

Everyone has a set way of interpreting reality, but substances like Graidol take people outside their normal ways of thinking; it makes them privy to different perceptions. To me, a kid with only Eze to depend on, it was the perfect escape from what I thought was a crappy situation. A vein popped in my arm. A broad, blue canal.

"M-make sure you aspirate it, kid."

Eze showed me how, and I shot up.

Afterwards... well, there's no way I could ever tell you all the things I imagined while I was high.

I used Graidol, and it was the very first time in my life that I'd ever felt safe. Content. All of what had happened to me seemed to evaporate as trivial memories and left behind the impression that my existence was great in that moment in time. It's a relief, you know? Like a burden's being lifted from your mind—if only temporarily. It felt worth it.

Eze continued talking and laughing, but I couldn't make out anything he said. As my high began to peak, I peered at distinct lines across his face and began understanding better who he was.

I viewed a man who'd lost everything.

Eze had chosen to ride a wave of optimism he'd created for himself, and the Graidol more than helped with this personal mission. After using it once, I could understand how someone would give up their dreams to keep pursuing that feeling. It was comforting... up until I started seizing and having repeated visions of:

A man who cried unendingly. He crudely melted away to expose a symbol I didn't recognize, and the image changed to form a door that I moved to open.

I proceeded down a long, ruby carpet encircled by nothing but darkness. I felt the room fade away and become a cliff, where I viewed a vast twister swallowing everything in its path while hovering toward me. My body stiffened; I became petrified as I was taken by the coming storm and was startled into a conscious state.

I became alert after realizing that I'd vomited behind the den, ruining my clothes. I gathered my strength and headed back inside, wondering if I'd sobered up. Eze and I now had something else in common; I could relate to another human for real. Being able to feel as another did, it gave me strength.

It wasn't long afterwards that I met my first Zone cop.

9

Footsteps In The Dark

\--

Janelle

\--

"I WON'T LET YOU DO THIS, KAUST!"

The Dawn Bureau Office was filled with stunned silence as everyone working on the night of Vendela Andrewa's assassination halted in their tracks to observe Aaliyah confronting her Sergeant. Her colleagues had noticed her agitation upon her return; shortly after, she was standing with her face mere inches away from Kaust as she yelled at the top of her lungs: "You're a fucking idiot!"

Aden Kaust initially tried to calm her by condescendingly placing a hand on her shoulder, but she responded by pushing his arm away and violently prodding his chest.

"He has nothing to do with this shit! I know you think you're a hotshot know-it-all on a glory mission, but my friends aren't about to be a part of another one of your conspiracy theories!"

At that moment, Zola Bali, a fellow operative and close friend of Aaliyah's, stepped in between the two.

"Enough!" She demanded with a surprising display of authority despite her lower rank.

"Aaliyah," she looked to her friend calmly and said, "he's your superior officer. Period. You can't talk to him like that—he'll write you up, and it'll be your whole damn career—do you really want that?!"

"That doesn't mean he can just interrogate the people in my life whenever he feels like it!"

Kaust, letting his blood pressure drop, spoke up: "I don't do paperwork on people. I'm not going to play 'Dad' to my subordinates; rude attitudes come with the job sometimes." Aden shrugged and then glared with accusation at Aaliyah.

"Although this Tavon cat... He sounds like more than just a 'friend.'"

"You shut the fu—" Aaliyah started toward him but was pushed back by Zola, who shushed her and pointed to Lieutenant Shraeu's office door; it briskly swung open as if on cue.

The scent of alcohol wafted from the room and preceded the tipsy but mostly serious Lieutenant as he eased himself out of his command suite. Shraeu wearily strolled over to stand before the three of the detectives, placed his hands on his hips, and sighed.

"I hope all that noise means that there's another update I need to hear concerning the Andrewa Case? I get called in over a charity worker's suicide and suddenly everyone's acting like this type of shit isn't a common gig here—"

"—Respectfully, Sir, it wasn't a suicide." Kaust interrupted.

"Right-right..." Shraeu rubbed his eyes and tried to shake off his exhaustion.

Aaliyah looked at her Sergeant incredulously. "How can you say that when our medical examiner hasn't even confirmed—"

"Aaliyah!" Kaust raised his voice. "We both know that wasn't a suicide. You saw the signs of struggle for yourself! Vendela wasn't trying to go!—besides, she was nettin' enough of a fortune to set her family up for life. Sir,"—Kaust turned to the Lieutenant—"all we need is express permission to examine the gold mine of info we've just uncovered, and Aaliyah's friend might be able to help us! C'mon, this same guy's been making cameo appearances all over the Citadel; any time things make a turn for the worse, your 'friend' always seems to be in the middle of it!"

"Tavon was just there to help me in case I needed backup! He didn't come so that you could bend him to your hero's agenda!"

"And why couldn't you take someone who actually works here?" Aden raised an eyebrow and maintained a facade of indifference false enough to anger Aaliyah even further.

"Do you even know what 'Tavon' does for a living? Where he sleeps? His favourite color?"

"That's his business and nobody else's," she replied defiantly.

Kaust approached her with concern. "But those are the kind of questions you should be asking, agent!"

"His favorite color? What the hell are you—"

"How do you know he wasn't concealing evidence at Vendela's place before all this happened?"

"Why the fuck would—"

"Stop!" Shraeu exclaimed loudly. "Everybody shut up for a second. Let's go with what we know, okay?" Shraeu folded one of his arms across his torso and rested his chin in the hand belonging to the other.

"Detectives, I want the two of you in my office. Even though Sergeant Kaust decided to throw away his professionalism by arguing with a subordinate about a confidential matter, let's try to model professionalism and focus on the essentials. Am I clear?"

"Yes, Sir!" Aden Kaust was too quick to rush into the Lieutenant's office, with Aaliyah bitterly trailing behind him.

Shraeu glared across the whole of the division and said, "Any word of this gets out and I'll have your fucking jobs! Get back to work. Now." He glanced over at Zola and softened his gaze.

"You got it, Sir." Detective Zola offered him a smile, betraying thoughts that she'd all but buried.

Shraeu smirked, whistled, and turned to close his office door behind him.

Kaust began, "Sir, I really think we're close to—"

"Calm down, Sergeant."

Shraeu casually strolled over to his seat, retrieved a bottle of cognac from a hidden compartment in his desk, and poured himself a drink. Prior to sipping from it, the Lieutenant offered each of them a glass. Kaust shook his head, but Aaliyah hurriedly grabbed the glass and chugged a portion before setting it back down on her superior officer's desk. Shraeu smiled.

"Look..." he exhaled as he spoke, "after the resilience the two of you have shown me in a very short amount of time, I already consider you guys my 'soldiers.'

"Shit, Sergeant Kaust worked extra hours to solve a mystery that could've had some kid killed by the people we work for, and, to me, that's damn good work fit for a member of the Dawn Bureau." Shraeu paused before continuing. "And Aaliyah here, although she's proven to be the most reckless member of the team, might as well be fulfilling tasks and taking on cases intended for Sergeants.

"The two of you are a fuckin' headache to work with, but you've done right by me. You guys make me look like I know what I'm doing when I'm on a review board. And for that... thanks." He seemed sincere.

Both detectives were immediately humbled.

"—But what the FUCK!" The Lieutenant's face flashed scarlet, and he slammed his fist on his desk.

He stood and moved to gaze out of a window overlooking the Citadel...

\--

Tavon wore only a robe as he rested across a couch in Aaliyah's apartment. After witnessing Vendela Andrewa's murder, he'd been allowed to depart, against the wishes of Aden Kaust.

Kaust had tried to pull him aside and garner information by acting overly friendly and using body language most would consider abrasive, but Tavon had remained deliberately oblivious to all of his advances.

Instead, the assassin was a shade blissful as he started to think about the shower he was soon to take with his new lover once she'd returned.

He discovered an old Isley Brothers vinyl that he placed on an antique record player and moved the needle onto the track: "Footsteps In The Dark." On her small, quaint television, the Demons were playing against Zone E's Saints in a very one-sided game, with the Demons taking part in one of Citadel history's greatest wins.

Ironically, the Demons were Tavon's most-hated basketball team, but that was also the sole reason he refused to miss any of their competitions. Due to intelligence gained during one of his Angelos contracts, he knew that most of the more talented players for the Demons were using, that they were on performance enhancers shipped from across the other end of the Earth, and thus far untestable, as they were unheard of in the majority of sports circles.

But still, Tavon held out hope for watching them fail this season and so frequently found himself viewing every single one of their games while rooting for the opposition.

As MVP Jaunse Busandro scored a goal from more than halfway across the court, Tavon exclaimed "Fuck!" and changed the channel as he accepted the Saints' inevitable defeat. He sighed and shrugged, turning his attention to a local news program which reported another ongoing riot occurring in Zone D.

The one Zone with absolutely no chill.

News Anchor Logan Wallish sat with other reporters from the Zone D News Network and asked no one in particular: "Why haven't we started establishing regular patrols in D's Projects—I mean, without the police department stepping up their game, we'll only have a bunch of criminals preying on people who actually want to do the right thing and make something out of their lives, don't you all agree?"

"That's the problem, Logan: start assigning a bunch of Zone police to one area and people will scream 'Police State,' 'profiling!'"

One of the reporters who hadn't yet spoken rolled her eyes and scoffed, "It's not just Zone D's problem—it's the entire Citadel suffering from an epidemic of people who don't care whether or not you work for a living or suffer to provide for a family. I think the issue here is that we need a police force capable of disregarding public opinion and simply doing what needs to be done!"

"And what needs to be done?" retorted another. "This is a classic speciest issue, if you ask me. When the Hayshi first showed up—"

"It's 'Hayashi.' They're identified properly as 'Hayashi.'" Logan interrupted.

"Well, when the 'Hayashi' first showed up people thought they were a different human race, but, as soon as we found out they weren't exactly like us, we suddenly needed doctors and medical professionals to ensure they were 'safe.'

"The Federation spent years putting the Hayashi under a national quarantine. In today's world, we still treat them like some kind of... disease." The reporter cringed. "A-and I'm sorry, but this shows in the workforce itself!"

"What are you getting at, Eddaki?" Wallish seemed genuinely curious.

Tavon noticed a rather thick binder underneath the table in front of him and reached for it as he continued listening...

"Look, all I'm saying is that, as a Hayashi, you face a great deal of discrimination within the hiring process. Just checking the 'H' box on a job application sets you up for a whole world of scrutiny, and, quite frankly, I think that they're tired of being viewed as something less than human."

"But who are you to speak for a species you're not even a part of?" The anchor said with a facetious grin.

Tavon opened to the first page of the binder to read: "I Love My Babies" in large print across the middle of the worn parchment. Above the wording, there was the picture of a larger woman, her hair tied into a bun and a wide, genuine smile revealing a few missing teeth and sitting below wise, brown eyes highlighted by blue eyeliner. She was decorated in lavish jewelry and a scarf made from the auburn fur of an unknown animal.

"Let's just look at the facts then: seventy-five percent of the people sent from Zone D into the Citadel Prison System are either Hayashi or of Hayashi descent—"

"So what? Maybe the population in D is mostly Hayashi," Wallish replied curtly.

"You're not understanding the bigger picture! Over the last few decades, the percentage of Hayashi being thrown in a cell has increased dramatically, and now we've come to expect constant riots throughout the Citadel from Hayashi who feel as though they've been slighted by the Dawn Federation."

"And who speaks for them? Who's to say they feel slighted? –You?"

Tavon flipped over a page to view a group of baby pictures under the heading: "Aaliyah (My Sun)." On the opposite page, there was a heading that read: "Tallah (My Moon)." The page after revealed a blank space next to a "My Earth" that showed several dried splotches in the paper, where he assumed additional pictures used to be.

"I don't have to speak for a whole race when you have tons of Hayashi celebrities making their stories of discrimination into a public issue that needs to be addressed!" said Eddaki, "It's all over Fi-O, and most of today's news is about what? Unrest across the Mid-City, right?—Zone D isn't an exception in this case."

Logan held up one finger to silence him. "To be fair, the riots at Yunce Street and on Fairlindle Avenue are said to be in response to events that happened a few days ago..." He returned his gaze to the camera.

"Four high school students of Hayashi descent were held up by authorities during the afternoon and questioned in regard to the robbery of a convenience store. And, only a few blocks away from the incident, a man known as Isaac Reaver was murdered along with his son outside of a church.

"It appears that an ordinary police stop escalated into a tragic moment for Zone D as one of the school janitors—also Hayashi—began a heated argument with an officer over the treatment of the kids..."

Tavon peered up for a moment before continuing to read through the diligently-crafted scrapbook. He viewed pictures of Aaliyah and her sister growing up with a mother who always seemed to be in the most fashionable clothing despite the appearance of their old, run-down apartment. He also noticed that she owned several of her own cruisers as well as high-end furniture usually in the possession of those inhabiting the Upper-City.

There were various themed headings that ranged from birthdays to holidays to family outings, but there also appeared to be several missing pictures centered around a male figure whom Tavon assumed to be the father. The vacancies became less apparent after Aaliyah's third birthday, suggesting that he'd eventually exited their lives completely.

"The confrontation, according to our sources, became physical after the officers believed they were being threatened and attempted to restrain the older man.

"One of the kids felt obligated to intervene and distracted the questioning officer long enough for the janitor to free himself; unfortunately, this led to the same law enforcement representative fatally shooting the janitor. All four kids were then taken into custody, expelled from the school, and are being currently taken care of as they await further questioning—oh! Correction: two of the kids have been released after they were ruled out as possible suspects in the robbery."

"And, more than likely," Eddaki chimed in, "this whole mess happened because Zone D's police were instructed by Executive Tomas Gostra to target a very vulnerable minority to jack up his ratings!"

"That's unfair—" Wallish exclaimed but was quickly cut off as Eddaki continued.

"You can't tell me that, after everything this man has done, Gostra isn't capable of speciesism, too? I mean, he managed to almost get away with framing another Executive for a trafficking scheme he created! If anything, the real criminals all along have been those with power they don't deserve—and, hopefully, the vacuum created by Gostra's resignation will be filled with someone who can relate to the struggles faced by this Zone."

"So, you want a Hayashi janitor as an Executive?" Logan chuckled.

"I don't think species makes a difference here, Logan. In light of everything he's been through, Executive Petrus actually handled his people's crisis well and is, in my opinion, a good example of the type of leader we need in Zone D.

"Too often we're faced with politicians elected via shady money transactions and lobbying instead of merit, and so they often fail to understand what it's like to go without and suffer the demands of a modern society—add on to that the fact that species persecution is another obstacle that's always present in our society."

Logan rolled his eyes. "Tomas Gostra was a scumbag. That we know, but it certainly doesn't make Petrus a saint..."

The scrapbook's last page ended with Aaliyah's fifteenth birthday, yet it only showcased a picture of her mother at a park with her and Tallah and with brief writing underneath which read: "No matter what happens, I will always love my Sun and my Moon. My beautiful babies." The binder contained a few empty pages left following dozens of self-portraits taken by their mother.

Logan abruptly stopped speaking and held a hand up to his earpiece. As the other reporters ignored his reaction and continued debating the trustworthiness of Executive Petrus, Logan's face paled; his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"Logan, what's wrong? It's not like you to be quiet." One of the reporters jeered.

The Logan lowered his hand and stared at the camera for a long time...

Noticing his solemn attitude, the other reporters went silent out of curiosity.

"We... We've just received something." Logan swallowed and looked down, pausing briefly.

"There's been an attack on the Citadel."

"What?" they exclaimed in unison.

"There-there's been a bombing. Just now."

And, in that very moment, Tavon felt a cord drop around his neck...

At the exact interval his attacker pulled back to apply tension, to strangle him from behind, Tavon—alert and ready—jumped and used his momentum to smash the back of his head in between his enemy's eyes.

He spun around just as his feet touched the ground and delivered an uppercut into the assailant's ribs, shattering multiple bones upon contact. Tavon followed up with a jab that was clumsily blocked by the stranger who was garbed in black pants and a dark hoodie. Instead of hitting him again, he grabbed his defending arm and gained control of it by applying pressure to his opponent's armpit with his other hand; he then hurled his attacker through the television monitor!

The assailant rummaged through the space under his belt as he laid in a field of broken glass, retrieving a small handgun that he attempted to load and aim at his target. Tavon responded by kicking the gun out of his enemy's hand and grabbed one of the panes of glass from the broken monitor. He used the palm of his left hand to force his opponent's face up and back, to expose his neck, and he prepared to thrust the shard through it, except—

I can't just kill this dude in her apartment. She'd whip my ass, and I'd still never hear the end of it...

Dammit.

Tavon dropped the glass chunk and stepped forward.

He launched a solid punch into the assailant's face, knocking him out cold...

\--

"Sir, I just want to say that I'm sorry for your loss..."

Lieutenant Shraeu waved away his comment. "She was my aunt and, technically, used to be my godmother, but if I would have known she was behind this..."

The two detectives remained silent.

"I mean, I'm the fucking head of a Dawn Bureau Division—a goddamn Lieutenant! And, this whole time, I didn't think anything about what Vendela was doing. To me, she was a trusted family member; I never expected her to be behind one of the worst criminal operations in the fucking city!"

"Maybe there was a bigger reason..." Aaliyah replied.

Kaust and Shraeu stared at her in disbelief.

"What reasons could you possibly have to run a foster care and sell kids at the same time? There are no good reasons for that shit, agent, and now my family has to deal with the fallout. We have to make this right, start learning and making arrests."

"What's our next objective, Sir?" Kaust glanced over at Aaliyah with slight contempt.

"I'm putting the two of you in for as much paid overtime as you need. That's what's next.

"I'll do my best to make sure that any resources you require are made immediately available."—he held up the bottle in his hand—"Hell, if this helps you with the next task, then be my guest, but you have to buy your own and keep it professional, of course.

"Your new task is to systematically break down both Genod & Portis Staffing and the Andrewa Centers for Growth. I want to know the hows and the whys of their schemes, their biggest investors, and every person of interest we've identified thus far. Start working on a link analysis that will provide a picture of every major player behind the recent incidents in the Citadel.

"This way, we can not only get the remaining operatives behind bars—where they need to be—but we can also find partners which might be a part of the same operation. Normally, I'd have someone with Aaliyah's rank out conducting field surveillance and interviews on suspects, but she's proven herself to be... invaluable to this Division—don't let that go to your head, agent."

"Got it, Sir."

Aaliyah smiled at Kaust and thought, for the first time: I've been doing your job better than you.

Lieutenant Shraeu continued, "You two will head all intelligence operations regarding these organizations and delegate tasks to anyone you might need under my authority. As of now, we must be the most competent and able Division in the Dawn Bureau, because this new case will either make or break our careers.

"The people want arrests and necessary information made public, so let's give the Dawn Federation what they want—fair enough?"

"Yes, Sir." They replied in unison.

"—While we're on the topic, Sir, I believe we might have a good lead to provide us more information on the Andrewa Centers for Growth." Kaust started.

"Go ahead."

"Detective Aaliyah's been making use of an outside source to track down and defend against a series of criminals lately, and he seems to know just as much as us—if not more—"

"No." Aaliyah said.

Shraeu looked at her quizzically. "Excuse me?"

"I told Sergeant Kaust NOT to bring him into this, so NO."

"What exactly are you hiding?" Kaust turned to her and folded his arms.

"I'm not hiding anything." Her expression turned blank.

"Bullshit! You've been fighting me so hard on this that it only makes me more suspicious of Tavon! What does he know that we aren't allowed to know, Aaliyah?"

"Like I said: nothing."

"Hold on a moment." Shraeu sat back in his chair. "Who's Tavon?"

Aaliyah's cellphone began to vibrate in her pocket.

"Nobody, Sir."

"The agent has a friend who appears to know a lot about the people we've been tracking for some time. During our investigation into the murder of Zone E's Vice Executive, Aaliyah mentioned a 'vigilante' who aided her in hunting known gang operatives after the shootout that led to Sergeant Odwal's murder.

"Also, when she was assigned with conducting surveillance on Vendela Andrewa, she was able to uncover incriminating evidence, once again with the help of an outside party—who I've recently met.

"His name is Tavon, and he was present at the discovery of Vendela's... her..." Kaust didn't feel comfortable stating the obvious in front of Vendela's relative.

"Bring him in then!" Shraeu's eyes widened, and he smiled. "He was a witness, wasn't he? Why isn't he already here?"

Aaliyah grew flustered. Her phone had started vibrating again. She interjected, "Because I sent him home to recover from tonight's events."

"Well, set up an interview. If he's uncooperative, we'll name him as a 'suspect' and force him to come in."

"But Sir!" Aaliyah hurried to think of a way around the inevitable.

In an instant, two very different women—one from their Division and one they'd never seen before—burst through the door to Lieutenant Shraeu's office.

They shouted "Sir!" at the same time.

"Who the fuck do you think you are interrupting a classified dis—"

One of the operatives exclaimed, "There's been a possible terrorist attack! The Bureau's requesting all Division Heads meet at the conference room right away!"

"W-w... what?" Shraeu muttered in a baffled state.

The other woman spoke immediately after:

"Sir, there's been a critical emergency in our Division!"

"Wait—something as serious as a terrorist attack?"

Aaliyah, feeling her own agitation peak and noticing an opportunity, decided to finally answer her phone under the suspicious gaze of Sergeant Kaust.

"What's the emergency?" Kaust demanded.

"We have a report of two fallen agents—both of them attacked and murdered in their own homes!"

"We've been hit directly?" Shraeu looked incredulous. "And there's a conference meeting, right?"

"Yes, Sir!"

The Lieutenant scrambled to conceal the bottle of cognac on his desk and desperately looked around the room until he discovered a newly bought container of cologne that had remained unopened for the past year. He quickly started to douse himself while straightening his suit.

"Who were the agents? –How did...?" Sergeant Kaust felt his pulse quicken. He turned to his subordinate.

"Aaliyah, who the hell could you be talking at this very moment?"

"Tavon," she replied, ignoring her superior.

"I'm a little bus—" Aaliyah hesitated.

"What? You broke it—how?

"Tavon... wait there. I'm on my way."
10

Surviving The Times

\--

Tavon

\--

I WOULD PREFER NOT TO HAVE TO TELL HER THIS PART OF THE STORY...

I didn't understand how Eze had come to start calling me Tavon, and I wondered why he'd given me that name for some time. Our confrontation with a regular beat cop would change how my caretaker saw me in the coming years. My name would start to mean something to me.

\--

It was the day before my thirteenth birthday, and, up until then, I'd felt safe—for the most part—when I was around the wandering salesman. We'd only had to move once, and that was because Major Sofie had begun renovating the condemned buildings that we were living in. Luckily, we'd managed to find another spot in the Third Quadrant within a few days during the peak of winter. After that, we started acquainting ourselves with new streets, potential customers, and the hustlers we needed to avoid.

On my own, I was a threat to local crews for reasons I didn't fully understand, but, with the name-brand of Eze, they labeled me to be like an overly loyal servant, a pet, and any hostility toward me vanished overnight. The irony was that there were times when it seemed as though we'd made a more than adequate income with the work we'd put in as a result of our combined efforts; despite that, it was always a much bigger priority for Eze to shoot up. To be happy, to feel stable, I had to keep using Graidol, when the two of us could have saved up to rent out a real place and work from an apartment that was less likely to get robbed.

I can look back on our situation and talk about what we should have done all I want, but the two of us did what we felt we had to, with Anubis often in tow.

And so, I stood with Eze on a corner with two street names I can't recall. That day, we'd caught wind of a football game soon to take place in the area, and we sold the jerseys and hats we'd scored from a sports store all the way in the Second Quadrant. I remember having a cart full of them and standing next to Eze as he started shouting at those passing by in the hopes of making just one sale.

Anubis had left us for another short period of time, though he usually followed us around on any other day as if he were watching over our schemes. I'd never seen Eze so blissful and excited, which was due, in part, to some speed he'd taken immediately after waking up; it was also a direct result of the sheer amount of profit we netted as our hard work gradually accumulated nearby interest.

Everything was going well, and we were planning to celebrate my birthday the following morning at one of the more affordable restaurants in the area... but, after several hours of watching the fruits of our labors come pouring in, we noticed that less people had taken to the streets and that our particular corner had become increasingly quiet.

At first, I'd thought that Eze was yelling too loudly and subsequently realized that almost everyone was suddenly avoiding us. The game was near to the central portion of the Third Quadrant, and the surrounding area was managed by Major Sofie's private police force.

We later found out that our chosen corner was a part of Officer Rowlo's daily beat and that he would hit that section of the Third Quadrant at the same exact time, every day, without fail. Eze and I happened to be unlucky; with no one to warn us of the man's overall temperament, we were unaware of how wrong things could turn out.

\--

Eze exhaled and put his hands on his hips while proudly beaming his crooked smile at me.

"Well, T, I'd say our fortune's just about run out."

"No way, gramps. We just gotta relocate, you know? Somewhere people haven't been seeing us yet! This game's supposed to be big; everybody's buggin' because the Lower-City's got a good line up this year!"

He scratched at sores hidden below his unkempt beard. "Good teams come and go. Citadel people tend to get caught up in some trife matters, and some forget how good they have it. They ain't got it like us, T; we were given a status in life meant only for those cut from the same cloth, ya know? And Fate has a way of making all of its pieces fit together..."

He started rambling like he always did, high off the same old shit and living up to his reputation as a babbling fool. I was about to cut him off when...

"Good morning, sirs! How's it going?"

The two of us turned to see a man garbed in an all-black uniform that was decorated with a variety of badges and symbols I didn't recognize. His thumbs were tucked into his belt, and he stood close to our carts while appearing to fidget around somewhat anxiously. Eze scrambled to compose himself and offered wide, fake smile.

"What's good, officer! You just in time for a special we got going on for public servants! You see, we doin' two jerseys for the price of one, two caps for the price of one, and—you already guessed it—a cap and jersey for the price of one of each! So, if you got some family you want to share with—"

"Easy, bud. I'm not looking to buy, just need to make sure everything here is on the up and up. I'm Officer Rowlo, by the way."

"Oh..." Eze appeared disconcerted. "What can we help you with, officer?"

Rowlo kept a straight face. "I'm going to need documentation showing that you're licensed to sell merchandise in the Third Quadrant. Otherwise, you could be participating in 'solicitation.' That's not something you want me to get you on, because I can and will."

I was confused, so I spoke up: "Why do we need... 'documents?'"

The officer stepped closer to me. "Because otherwise I can't verify that what you have here isn't stolen property or property belonging to the two of you—just show me your papers and we can clear this matter up quickly, okay?"

Eze tried to fake him out by rummaging through his pockets while knowing that he possessed no such credentials.

"I apologize, brother, but seems like I left it all at home..." He held up his hands in surrender and smiled meekly.

"Excuse me?" The officer's expression changed to one of repugnance.

"I said I forgot to bring 'em with me on my person, ya see—"

"I heard what you said, sir, but you'll forgive me if that sounds a little off..."

Eze became nervous. The cocktail of drugs he'd taken that morning didn't help his case either. "It's just an honest mistake, officer. I didn't remember."

"You didn't remember what? How to be a citizen like the rest of us? Tell me, sir, where do you live?"

"I don't understand..."

"I mean, where are you coming from today? Do you have a residence containing the paperwork I'm requesting? Is this your son with you right now?"

Eze grew red in the face and began to fidget as he struggled to form a good answer in his mind. "W-we're just humble people trying to make a living, officer, I swear.

"We sellin' jerseys and hats for a steal! who's your favourite team, eh? Are you going to the game, and are you bringing your family with you—do you need us to find you tic—"

"No. I'm trying to figure out why you're selling merchandise without a FUCKING license!" he spat. "If you want, I can cuff you right here—you're obstructing the law. It's people like you who try to screw over the system and then act like you're on the moral high ground!"

I decided to say what I could to help: "Sorry, b-but he's telling the truth! He just wants to help you the best he can!"

"Was I talking to you?" Officer Rowlo retrieved a worn baton from his waist and widened his stance.

"Solicitation as well as Obstruction of Federation Justice are both criminal offenses. Not only do I feel it necessary to book you today, Mr... 'Eze?'"

He peered at the sign hanging from the vendor's cart.

"But this kid needs a real family, sir. Better role models who won't teach him to disrespect officers of the law."

I'm not sure if you understand how a user's mind works. It's basically something that only makes sense to them, and so Eze did the only thing he knew how to do while under the influence of pills and a large hit of Graidol still coursing through his veins.

Eze hurriedly grabbed one of the jerseys from the cart and held it close to the officer, shaking and pleading for his forgiveness: "Here, take one! Take them all if you want—we don't mean any harm, officer! We'll give you whatever you need! It's for you—for your family and fr—"

Rowlo's black baton collided with Eze's head.

There was a resounding thud, and Eze's weak body fell to the concrete. Eze jerked up in fear and raised a frail arm to defend himself, but Officer Rowlo lunged toward him and sneered as he repeatedly started bashing the vendor!

My only friend in the world screamed.

He said, "Please, sir! Please! S-stop!" as the baton bashed his cheekbone from the side and broke it open, blood flowing from the wound.

Officer Rowlo prepared to deliver a more powerful strike and hefted his weapon in the air with both arms; he grunted as he swung it down and—!

His forearms were halted in the air by my own crossed in front of me.

The Zone cop's expression turned fiercer. He uttered, "Fucking nuisance! It's like the Citadel scum keep breeding more and more of themselves!"

He moved the baton away and made a half turn before sending a heavy kick toward my stomach!

And normally, that's all it would've taken to knock out a kid as young as I was.

We were both surprised when I'd deftly ducked my entire body under the attack—in fact, Rowlo was so staggered that he tripped on his other foot and clumsily fell on his ass.

"You brat! How did you—Nevermind," he grumbled, "I'll teach you not to assault public servants of the Federation!"

Rowlo was quick but uncoordinated as he rolled onto his knees and propped himself on one hand to get to his feet and move toward me again—

Right into my open palm that I extended and held firm as the space between the bridge of his nose and eye were bashed against it. This caused Rowlo to drop both his baton and cradle his face as he tumbled forward.

He took a few shaky steps before steadying himself and flying into a blind rage which turned red the sick pallor of his own skin. Officer Rowlo delivered a right hook so swiftly that I was only able to halfway stop the amount of force that struck my right cheek! I fell back but didn't seem to feel any pain and thus was able to collect myself as Rowlo leapt onto me and prepared to jab at me with everything he had!

I moved my head in time as one of his fists smashed against the ground beside me. I followed up myself with an uppercut to his jaw before I entangled his arm between my legs and jerked it out from under him with all the strength left in my body—enough to cause it to bend and then fracture within seconds as I applied further pressure. Rowlo cried out in pain, but I wasn't finished...

At this point, something else entirely had taken over my waking mind. I think witnessing what happened to Eze and knowing that I was about to be attacked triggered something from some time ago. I don't know how I knew what to do in this situation; my body moved by itself, as if it recalled something I'd long forgotten. I let go as power surged within me.

I became feral.

I extended Rowlo's broken arm and began to batter it with punches that caused the officer's face to erupt in tears while he struggled against me! I then hammered a reign of blows across his exposed face and remember making this animalistic noise, satisfied only by his suffering!

I felt Eze's arms cross themselves in front of my chest. With all his might, Eze grabbed me up and away from the officer and shouted in my ears: "Stop it, T! That's ENOUGH!"

He started to drag me away, my eyes affixed to my enemy. The job wasn't finished. Officer Rowlo couldn't speak anything comprehensible and was on the verge of fading out. But I couldn't bring myself to hurt Eze, even if all of this was in our defense.

"The hell's wrong with you, boy? What kind of devil taught you that—because it wasn't me, T! It certainly wasn't me!"

I was about to break loose—to simply shrug him off... but, as I glanced back, overtaken by anger, I saw the only person who cared for me full of tears. The sight made my heart soft. Eze didn't believe in hurting a soul, whatever their crime might be.

"Please, T! This isn't you! We've got to get out of here; we gotta leave this place—forget about the cart! I've got money to move us somewhere else, somewhere better."

He begged me with a sorry smile. "Don't you mind people like this. T-they don't understand what it's like for us."

Eze let go of me, and we started to run, to escape as far as we could.

11

Move On Up

\--

Janelle

\--

DOCTOR RUSTAM GREW UP A FARMHAND, AN orphan whose parents had given him up as the result of a broken marriage as well as their lack of means to adequately raise him during their time. He was alone for most of his youth, for his employers and peers had seen him as short-tempered and somewhat dimwitted. But Rustam, who was determined beyond anything to reach his goal, eventually became a renowned surgeon in the Citadel. In fact, he was the unofficial doctor used by most of what remained of Enrec in the face of a new government. This was thanks to Avva, one of the most popular freedom fighters in the Federation.

Over time, Avva convinced the doctor to establish his own practice, to begin treating Enrec retirees at lower rates than the rest of the public, and, even though he fought his feelings with everything he could, Rustam fell completely in love with his real-life hero. Unfortunately, he never worked up the courage to talk about his feelings, mostly out of the fear that he could lose Avva forever.

He did lose her in the end, after she'd passed away in labor under his care.

And the only one in the world who was more devastated than Derek, the father, was Rustam. Using discrete channels in his privately-owned hospital, Rustam managed to smuggle Derek's newborn son away from him in order to fabricate a lie the President would come to believe. After all, Avva's last words to Rustam after he accepted the responsibility of parenthood were as follows:

"If it's a boy, then name him Amour. If it's a girl, then Wendy—I always liked that name. But, if you're unable to do even that, Doctor, then assure me of one thing...

"Keep him from Derek. At all costs."

Rustam complied with her last demand, and Amour's death was faked; Derek was given the body of another infant who had been declared stillborn. Despite the doctor's attempts to calm him, Derek threatened to destroy Rustam and stopped at nothing to see everything he'd built demolished.

It was only a week later when Rustam's group of private practices were hit with both a class action lawsuit and a personal lawsuit issued by the President for malpractice. Subsequently, Rustam input Amour into the Federation's medical system under a series of false entries. Soon, however, he found his license to practice taken away from him and returned home one evening to discover that someone had stored a mass stockpile of firearms in his attic. Despite never contacting them, the authorities arrived not long after he had.

Rustam escaped with Amour and fled an official order from the Dawn Federation to apprehend and put him on trial as a suspected terrorist. Following a citywide manhunt, he fled the Citadel as well as all countries occupied by the Dawn Federation. In the beginning, he would try to establish himself as a traveling, independent doctor under a different name.

As Amour grew older, he realized that he and his "father" were greatly impoverished, living from sparse payment-to-payment. In spite of that, their unique situation only caused him to admire Rustam to a certain extent, and he eventually became part of the reason why the physician was able to establish himself as a popular healer.

Amour was a living ray of sunshine, frail by appearance, and with a meek heart. He was a fast learner who came to possess steadier hands than the aging Doctor Rustam as time progressed. The two of them put their minds together and focused on villages that were recovering from the aftermaths brought about by infantry units from the United Clans of Wanre.

Wanre was on a mission to claim territory recently lost after a civil war which divided the region, and so they sent a series of battalion-sized elements to conquer old lands. While Rustam and Amour were quite loved for their efforts, it was only a matter of time before the duo made a mistake that cost them everything.

\--

Amour pressed his face into the dirt. He wanted to escape deep within his mind, somewhere safer than where he was. Amour wanted to soar beyond the cruelty dealt to him.

\--

Doctor Rustam and Amour were treating a village they believed had been attacked and ravaged by roaming soldiers. But, for reasons they couldn't comprehend, they'd received more money offerings here than any other place they'd decided to help in their travels. Those native to the village seemed to be well-off and approached them with no concern for the prices of their services. Later, it became apparent why...

Rustam had been set up. A Wanre battalion previously stopped short of terrorizing this settlement, instead planning on returning after they'd been informed that a physician would be visiting to help those in need. The battalion wanted badly for field medics and thus resorted to recruiting prisoners and wandering doctors like Rustam.

Still, Wanre's army desired much more than just that, and they decided to conduct a complete raid of the village. Thus, all around Amour, soldiers butchered fathers in front of their families, raped men and women who'd tucked themselves away in hidden corners, and burned everything in sight.

\--

He wanted to fight back but didn't understand how, and he couldn't find Rustam anywhere amidst the chaos. Amour cried, "Father!" as he wandered trails littered with the dead.

His eyes lit up when he spotted an officer, a position with status he was unaware of and to him was a man dressed in a clean coat that was decorated with a great number of earned honors. The officer approached him initially, exclaiming, "Well, would you look what we got here... where's your parents, miss?"

The Wanre officer mistook Amour for a young female, and he grabbed his arm.

"How about we spend some time alone, eh? What's stopping us—I'm a handsome enough guy, right?"

Amour pulled away from him. Although people had mistaken the aspiring medic for a girl before due to his more feminine appearance, he never imagined that he'd be confronted with such a horrendous misunderstanding.

"I'm not going anywhere with you! –Where's Doctor Rustam—where's my dad?"

The officer stared at him...

Then he cocked his arm back. He sent his fist forward in a brusque jab to Amour's jaw.

Amour fell to the ground, clutching and shielding his head. He was picked up by the officer, who dragged him into a barn that had been significantly decimated by a fire which steadily diminished.

"You know it gets lonely out here sometimes, miss. A man gets sent by his country into the theater of war for more than just a few months... shit gets eerie.

"And it's not the 'eerie' you'd normally think about, lady—it's like you're constantly seein' this clock count down to your last day alive. I've been out here fighting for a long time. Haven't seen my wife and kids. The wife's so beautiful, you know."

—He slammed Amour's head into the only wooden wall left standing—

"I haven't heard from her for two months now; all communication back home's been cut off. Our radios went fucking missing, can you believe it?"

He grinned wickedly. "At least I've got you for the night! Permanence is never promised to soldiers. We must take when necessary."

"Wait! Please!" he cried, "Stop!"

"What? A... boy?" The officer muttered curiously before shrugging it off. "Tch. I suppose it's all the same anyhow."

Amour still remembered feeling scabbed and bloodied hands tearing through his clothing. The officer struck him multiple times, focusing on his head and neck when he resisted. Regardless, Amour fought back until knocked almost senseless by the older man. Pushing his head against the soil below, feeling pain caused by himself, was far better to him than having to suffer the monstrous desires of the Wanre official.

In only a day's time, Amour morphed into a different person. He'd earned a reputation for being kind, humble, and mostly harmless. On the night that he was brutally raped by a soldier, however, Amour decided what kind of man he wished to become with an anger unmatched in its intensity...

12

A Lonely Man

\--

Tavon

\--

EZE WAS IN THE CORNER OF OUR NEW DEN, which was an abandoned shed. The shed was outside of a condemned house that was to be purchased and redeveloped within a matter of weeks.

Eze figured that the process of obtaining the property would buy us some time before we'd have to move again, but, for now, the Third Quadrant was still home to us. Although Major Sofie acted oblivious to the lower class, it worked in our favor and enabled us to get away with every survival trick Eze could imagine.

I was sitting on an old, grey pad as long as my body. I searched his eyes for approval because I felt like... like I'd protected us. But I was too afraid to ask him, too afraid of his rejection, because he was the only one I had. Eze hadn't shot up yet, and something in me wanted him to just so he'd say something... anything.

"I tried to buy us some of that good people food, you know." Eze said as he stared blankly at the ground. "Went into a nice little restaurant. Everyone kept looking at me like I was crazy as hell. I don't know, T, maybe I need to get in another shower and wash up."

He stood and started pacing around the room.

"They kicked me out, then they sent a nice young lady out to take my order anyways. It's not all bad out there, kid. Even though life will put holes in you, you gotta keep trying to get what's yours, feel me?"

"Y-yeah... I got you, pops, but what does that have to do with that guy, Rowlo?"

"Patience, boy!" Eze's attitude changed. He moved closer to me with a wild look in his eyes.

"You've never asked why I call you 'Tavon,' have you? I've got a future in mind for you, T—a future I didn't get to have. I-I mean, I'm gonna to make it big, son. Oh yes, I'm gonna to end up wealthy and famous—but you gotta do it faster than me, Tavon!

"I want you to set yourself up for success early so you can retire and live somewhere nice—like the Upper-City. You know they got their own temperature control? It's not like the rest of the Citadel, the Upper-City has everything. It's always nice, you know?"

"Yeah, I got you. But what about it?"

"What about it?" Eze put his hands on my shoulders and stared into my eyes. His breath smelled rotten; every wrinkle creased next to Eze's dark irises. "I've been neglecting my promise to take care of you. I care, T, and you remember how the last few weeks been going, right?"

"Damn right, I do. We hit that store good!"

"Exactly! And you helped me plan it." He smiled. "I noticed they were closing down and selling everything at a discount. Setting off the fire alarms was your idea—and you grabbed more than me! The money we made...

"I'm using it to get you into school, where you need to be, Tavon."

I was shocked and felt a little intimidated. At the time, I didn't understand what a school was.

"What? No. I can't do that, Eze. I-I don't know how—"

"The hell you can't! You don't get a choice, 'cause I'm gonna figure out how to get you into a good school and get ya goin'. You're smart, kid!

"That cop back there... Rowlo. That shit wasn't natural. You keep lying and telling me that you don't know anything about yourself—"

"But it's not a lie—"

"Shut up! You keep lying, and I just let it go... but someone taught you something that you're hiding from me. You're not as dumb as the regular goons out here, and you belong in a place where you won't be waiting to start getting' high as soon as you can.

"It's time to drop all this shit, T. You WILL go to school, and I'll stay out here grindin' and gettin' the money this world owes me. So, while I'm becoming rich, you finna be getting smart and prepped to own your own empire someday. Do I make myself clear?"

I looked away, unsure. Nervous.

Eze slapped me.

"I told you, boy, it's not a choice! This is for you! School. No more getting high—got me?"

"Okay-okay, ow!" I rubbed at the side of my face.

And that was that: Eze used his few connections to introduce me to a private school outside of the Dawn Federation's public education system. It was the only school I ever went to: The Khalil Center for Independent Learners, where I took the first steps to becoming who I am today...

\--

Janelle

\--

"Mr... Tavon, is it? Is that how you say it?"

Detective Aden Kaust walked into a small, stark white room containing the rather prolific assassin.

Tavon smirked. There was hardly a scratch on him from the attack at Aaliyah's apartment. "Yeah," he replied, "you got it right."

Kaust continued absentmindedly, searching through a series of files as he walked over with an exhausted gait to sit down at a table and across from Tavon. He thumbed through a few more notes, let out a long sigh, and then he simply stared at the same spot for a few moments.

Kaust blinked, calmly moved his head up, and focused his gaze into the assassin, boring his eyes deep into the man sitting in front of him.

"That's how they teach you to say hello here?"

The detective gave him a brief smile, which returned to a pronounced look of disgust. "If you really think about it, Tavon—can I call you Tavon?"

"If it makes you happy, go ahead."

"If you really think about it, Tavon, why would someone try to kill by strangulation? I mean, today we have so many options to get that sort of job done. Frankly, I feel like a gun is just so much easier—what about you?"

"I've never really thought about it." Tavon crossed his arms and sat back in his seat.

"Well, all I'm saying is that, if this assassin would've taken my approach, your ass would've been another body in the investigation. Did you know that we had two agents fall tonight due to similar assassination attempts? And both of the killers somehow managed to pull it off without using guns, either!

"And yet, you're the only one who survived."

"Uh huh."

"So, Tavon goes to Detective Aaliyah's home, most likely leading the assailant there, makes himself comfortable, and then kills a man without a taking any injuries himself." Kaust put his hands in the air. "In an agency that extensively trains all its operatives in combat, two of our people are dead. But some fool finds you on a couch, tries to kill you, and suddenly you must display some kinds of super skills to take this guy out—wait..." Kaust suddenly looked embarrassed. "I forgot to ask if you wanted anything?" He leaned in with a falsified expression of concern. "Like food? Water?"

"Am I being detained?"

"Of course not! Volunteering helpful information ensures that we've got your back the next time you're in a situation that takes a bad turn."

"I'm good, detective."

Kaust stared at him blankly for a moment and glanced over his shoulder. He then smiled and knocked his knuckles on the table. "Hmm. Well, I'm famished. Give me a moment, Tavon; I'm going to grab myself some water to hold me over—trying to, uh, watch my diet, you know—and I wouldn't want to waste too much of your time."

As soon as Kaust opened the door to a hallway that led to the central Bureau office, Aaliyah was there to yell in his face. "Why don't you just ask him what you want already?"

"Why did you signal for me to come outside, agent? Was there something you could actually bring to the table, or are you just upset that your boyfriend might not be such a good guy?"

"Because he beat up a petty criminal trying to strangle him?"

Kaust snorted. "Let's just say that I've been doing some research on our mutual associate, but you'll find out. Oh, and don't they need your assistance in the recent attacks?"

"I—"

"Go ask Lieutenant Shraeu where you need to report. That's an order."

Aaliyah stomped away bitterly.

"Thank you, agent." Kaust nodded.

She flipped him off in response and continued to Shraeu's office. Only, she stopped short upon hearing two people in a hushed argument within the locked conference room next door to his abode. The room was obscured with blinds, but Aaliyah's hearing had always been exceptional. She was therefore able to make out one of the speakers:

Detective Zola.

The Bureau office was mostly empty, dispatched to the issue at hand, and so Aaliyah rested her head against the small crevice embedded within the door frame in order to listen closely.

"How long is this thing going to last for you?"

"Shraeu... I don't know what you're talking about."

"I mean, how long until you decide that you're bored of me? Am I just another one of your flings borne from a man who can't make you happy?"

"I never said he made me unhappy."

The shadow of the Lieutenant moved in close to Zola. "But how could someone like that possibly make you happy? Don't you understand the meaning of what he's done?"

"You don't need to bring up his past in front of me. It makes you seem like you're insecure, like you want to prove something, and he's definitely NOT insecure."

"That's bullshit!" Shraeu slammed his fist against the wall. He was drunk.

"We're talking about a monster, Zola! What he's doing to people has to affect the way you feel about him—I-I know what it is! He's taken you hostage—and you can't see it!"

"I'm not afraid of him, Shraeu. He's never made me afraid, and you can't see beyond what he's done like I can. My husband is a powerful man, and I can't abandon him right now..."

"Well, maybe I should take away the option altogether." Shraeu replied grimly.

\--

Kaust set his Kom Cell on the table and played a song from the Chi-Lites, "A Lonely Man." He clasped his hands together and asked, "You a fan of classic soul, Tavon?"

"You bet."

Might as well play along.

"It's all I can listen to these days." Kaust chuckled as if he felt embarrassed. "All the kids are out playing that future, beep-bop computer music. Going to clubs, gettin' fucked up one way or another, and dancing their way into a fast adulthood. See, that's why I got to keep my baby face.

"I never liked being messy, picking up every drug this city puts out there. I stopped drinking, too, which was one of my bigger steps in life—and... well now, I'm just a guy in his second prime who tags bad people for a living. I bet you're thinking 'the ladies must love you'—and you're right!—but I don't got time for all those unnecessary love games, you know.

"I've got a family, and, although they hate me, it's my duty to provide. So, I'm especially pissed that you put your hands on my son!"

"What?" Tavon's interest in the conversation returned.

Kaust was smiling but retained an intense gaze focused on the assassin. "Yeah, my man; you remember a kid about ye tall, scrawny—kind of a punk, you know, but overall a good kid?"

"Uh—"

"You probably don't, because that's not how you work, is it? Not too long ago—last year, actually, an employee goes missing at a, uh, power plant, I believe. Fhordly's Power Plant.

"His body turns up a year later in the World Below. Forensic analysis leads professionals to the conclusion that the employee's corpse has got burn marks intended to mask fatal impact wounds. Case picks up attention again but is eventually archived for a slow day, and the Bureau never has a slow day. On January the tenth of this year, a drug den is raided and every combatant slain. Each fallen combatant bares similar burn marks."

"Wow," retorts Tavon without any alarm, "seems like that's something you should look into."

"Oh, I have been. There's several other cases just like this—seemingly related in nature, in fact!"

"But the Bureau hasn't been able to establish a link between those cases, right? Establish the link, and you'd all be dealing with a matter that's more interesting."

"You're right, Tavon!" Kaust banged his hand on the table again but with more emphasis this time. "Absolutely right! So, Tavon, I want you to tell me why, only the other day, my son is minding himself and you decide to beat the living hell outta him? And why, not far from the scene, Isaac Reaver's body is discovered with—you guessed it—BURN MARKS!"

"I don't know why you're asking me, detective."

Kaust rapidly moved forward to position himself only a few inches from Tavon's face as he raised his voice, "You're telling me that my son lied to my face? That he didn't describe you correctly—that he didn't remember you BY NAME? Don't you fucking lie to me or I'll make sure that you never step foot outside a fucking cell!"

\--

Aaliyah continued listening to Shraeu and Zola's conversation.

"You think you're going to kill him? Like, don't you have another conference to get to?" Zola started laughing.

"I'm saying that I'm going to have him arrested and ensure that the law deals with him!"

"If you do that, the law will pick you up, too, Shraeu. Don't you understand how much I have on you? After all the time we've spent together, what did you think I was doing when you weren't looking?

"I own you, Shraeu."

"How dare..." The Lieutenant rested his hands on his hips and looked down.

"You. You're right. I've given you access to everything—but it was to set us up to have a future together!"

Zola kept laughing but slowly became more serious as she took a moment to think. She then said, "Tell you what, Shraeu." She drew herself close and allowed the Lieutenant to put his arms around her. "Put my husband out of his misery."

"If that's what I have to do, then I'll do it for you: the purest love I have in my life."

"It's the only way I'll be free from his terror. You have to kill him, Shraeu."

\--

Tavon could feel a small surge of adrenaline rising in his body. He looked at Kaust with a mocking expression.

"Your son probably followed some bad dudes too heavily, and so I'd say he got what was coming to him, you know what I mean? The question is: what are you going to do about it?"

"You ignorant motherf—!" Kaust grabbed Tavon's shirt.

"Detective Kaust!"

Aaliyah was standing at the door, her face scarlet red. "They've assigned you to lead the second team heading in to investigate the bombing. Lieutenant Shraeu wants to see you now. He's delegated this interview as my responsibility!"

She was bluffing.

Kaust brought his fists down on the table and walked away without looking back at Tavon. However, he did turn to Aaliyah and said: "I ran a background check on him! Guy has no records of birth, no medical history, debt, transcripts—nothing at all, Aaliyah! When I get back, I'll do a more thorough search. This isn't over." He bared his teeth.

"And, after the conclusion of this session, I'm ordering you to completely cut yourself off from communicating with a possible suspect!"

He headed for the door, but Aaliyah stopped him. "What do you mean 'possible suspect?' Suspect in what?"

"A series of unsolved murders, agent. Something bigger than you right now, so go ahead and do as you're told... or risk a write-up for your constant—and I mean CONSTANT—disrespect and insubordination."

"Copy that." Aaliyah refused to look at the detective anymore. As soon as he left the room, she sat down across from Tavon and exclaimed, "Fuck him. I'll 'communicate' with whoever I want—but also, what the hell was that, Tavon?"

Tavon smiled sheepishly and shrugged his shoulders. "He thinks I hit his kid."

"Did you?"

"Even if I did, dude was grown enough to work a knife and was posing as a gang member; what do you expect?"

Aaliyah sighed. "I can't believe they came to my apartment... are you hurt?"

Tavon took her hands in his and smiled. "I'm fine. At least they won't ever think about coming after you again. Next time, they'll pick somebody weaker."

"You know, they found a symbol in the other agents' houses."

"Yeah?"

"Written in blood, actually."

"That's definitely a way to make a statement."

"I took a picture using my Kom Cell."

She held an image up to Tavon that displayed the symbol of a crimson bear weathering an intricate depiction of a surrounding storm.

Tavon's eyes grew wide. "No. Why would..."

"What's wrong?"

Tavon stood up. "Can we go?"

"Yeah." Aaliyah dusted her clothes. "I lied to Kaust. The Lieutenant was a little preoccupied, so I guess I gave the orders this time."

"Let's just get out of here."

Tavon moved toward the door, but Aaliyah sighed and said, "Wait. I think there's something we need to do."

"And that is?"

"Lieutenant Shraeu is on some other shit today, and I gotta make sure he doesn't hurt someone."

13

Simply Falling

\--

Tavon

\--

I REMEMBER SITTING WITH EZE, WHO WAS IN HIS best wool blazer before the Khalil Center Headmaster in his private office.

It was the first time I'd ever tried to dress up for anything, and I looked rough, with a button-up, short-sleeved shirt that was far too big for my size paired with a set of tan slacks; the slacks barely fit unless I used the very last notch on an old belt—all of which was handed down to me by Eze himself. The Headmaster was an older, condescending man whom no one seemed capable of pleasing.

"The Administration has reviewed your documents for the fourth time, Mr. Jerik Sandeze. At this point I can admit, truthfully, that I see you more often now than I see my own wife,"—he frowned—"she's a traveling real estate agent. We've continually rejected your applications to enroll Tavon here. The Dawn Federation doesn't necessarily enforce every kid to join an institution of learning, and so most schools can be very selective in who they actually allow to pursue a diploma.

"The Khalil Center can be even more selective at times. Now, Mr. Sandeze, we're run as a religious organization under the guidance of Avva the Saint; thus, it's often the Head Chaplain's decision on troublesome cases such as this. Also, there's the concerns about the proper parentage of Tavon..."

"What do you mean, sir?" Eze asked.

The principal sighed and adjusted his glasses.

"Well, to be blunt with you, Mr. Sandeze, you don't appear to be in the best condition to raise anyone. It's difficult to believe that Tavon is your son without the results of a paternity test, and then we'd have to have a social worker inspect your living conditions and see written approval that you're even qualified to have custody of Tavon."

"But Tavon's been mine for years!" Eze lied. "He has potential that far outweighs any of your other students!"

"Is that so?" a new voice pondered aloud.

Everyone in the room turned to see a man garbed in a white, silk suit and who sported a different ring on each finger. The appearance of Citadel Chaplains had altered over the years to fit with its current society.

"Good morning, Father." everyone said in unison.

Head Chaplain Louis Berlusca III put a reassuring hand on Eze's shoulder. "After seeing Tavon's applications numerous times, I believe it's only fair that Mr. Sandeze be awarded for his persistence."

"I'll follow your lead on this, Father." The Head Master bowed in deference.

"I've decided that, if Tavon can pass our entrance exams, then he's more than welcome to enroll. The only issue would likely be the costs involved, good sir—"

"I can pay—"

"And I'm offering you a way to cover them."

"How so?" Hope returned to Eze's demeanor.

The Head Chaplain grinned magnanimously.

"If Tavon can find it within himself to excel in our exams and move on to help prevent our falling test scores, then I don't see why you should have to pay for someone who could benefit us greatly. That is, if he really is as intelligent as you insist."

\--

The Chaplain took personal responsibility in administering the school's entrance exams outside of their normal schedule, as he really believed that there was something worth salvaging in me.

The exam consisted of eight different subjects: Grammar and Word Composition, Statistical Analysis, General Mathematics, Basic Chemistry, Life Sciences, Dawn Federation History, Geology, and Avva's history as a hero—later Saint—worshipped by many in the nation.

Chemistry and History were the first tests I rushed through, and I knew that I'd bombed them. I was seated in front of a miniature computer modem that generated a holographic interface which asked me a bunch of questions using formulas and wording I didn't totally understand. They still felt so familiar to me, though, like it was all something I'd done before.

After failing those two portions, they moved me into a different room—I don't know why—and issued me two written exams over those exact same subjects. And so, I retested and did better... I think, and the following exams were given in much the same fashion.

I remember arriving at the testing center in the morning and working late into the night to finish the final exam over Grammar and Word Composition.

One question asked me to write about my feelings toward the government's "current effort" to help and sustain the lower classes. I wrote something long enough to require multiple pages handed to me by the Head Chaplain, who'd remained stoic during the entire process. And, after I'd written that final essay, I was led back into a lobby to wait with Eze for what seemed like several hours.

We were eventually called in to discuss my results after having patiently stood by, and the Head Chaplain's expression appeared grave when we entered his office.

A grave look which quickly switched over to a genuinely warm smile. "My, my, my, Mr. Sandeze. If you would've told us you were hiding a little genius from the world, then Tavon would've been walking the halls of this school months ago!"

"Yeah? S-So my boy came through?" Eze patted me on the back as excitement overtook his composure.

"Well... I wouldn't say that." Head Chaplain Louis Berlusca III scratched his head.

"In some ways, you could say he failed miserably."

"Excuse me?"

"—IF we're going by what a computer says. Instead, we simply had him write the best possible answer for every pertinent question for each subject. It's... a new method we've been trying out.

"Although he often didn't have the exact right answers we were looking for, Tavon demonstrated a type of fluid intelligence we rarely see at this institution. He comprehended what the question asked of him and showed critical thinking while working with no previous knowledge of the subjects. Furthermore, he seemed to get better and developed more accurate answers the later we moved into the day... like he suddenly remembered how smart he was." the Chaplain laughed.

"So, uh, what does that mean for him, Father?"

"Ah..." He put his hands together and comforted us with his serene expression.

"You have nothing to worry about, Mr. Sandeze. I believe that Tavon here would be a fantastic addition to this institution—that is, as long as he catches up and, as mentioned before, helps our test scores. As long as he can do that, I really don't care about who's taking care of him because, to be perfectly honest with you, Mr. Sandeze, I can't think of any other suitable options for your son considering the Federation hasn't formalized a foster care program.

"Tavon at least deserves someone who will actively look after his interests. As far as I see, you're not beating the boy to death, and he's better-mannered than most of our applicants, believe it or not."

I'd never seen Eze so happy. To him, this was a miracle.

However, life had other plans in store for me...

\--

Janelle

\--

Tavon and Aaliyah followed the Lieutenant, who'd taken Zola along for the ride as he drove toward the mansion owned by one of the wealthiest entrepreneurs in the Citadel. Detective Aaliyah had taken a private company cruiser that she could pilot herself in order to ensure that they didn't lose Shraeu.

"Are you sure it wouldn't be better to report this one in?"

"Everybody's giving their share to help with the bombing incident AND the attacks on our people. It's been a long night for the Bureau."

"And you're sure Shraeu said he was going to 'kill' this guy?"

"Tavon, when the fuck have I ever lied to you? Don't start this shit with me—Zola's my friend, and I can't believe she'd seriously betray her husband!"

Tavon sneered. "Maybe she got tired of him. Decided he wasn't enough."

"But Zola loves her husband, Tavon! She's open to me about their relationship, and... sometimes I envy them."

"For what?"

"For what they have." Aaliyah glanced at Tavon before returning her gaze to the road.

He reacted with a coy smile. "What are you trying to say?"

"Look," she sighed, "I keep protecting you from people like Kaust, and I don't understand why I'm doing all this, risking my career for someone who—someone who just..."

"Just what? Tracks down other criminals? Smokes too much?"

"You smoke?"

"That's beside the point."

She scoffed. "I didn't know that about you. The more you tell me, the more I feel like you're a stranger. Sometimes, I... I want you to be there."

"When haven't I been there? We've been together throughout this whole night. I don't understand what's wrong?"

"My best friend is going with my boss's boss to murder a man whose only crime was marrying the wrong person!"

\--

The light went out in Tavon's mind.

He could only see a formless darkness in front of him, but he couldn't comprehend what it was. A burning sensation flooded his body, and he opened his eyes to the wind blasting against his eyes.

They'd been hit.

One of Tavon's legs was stuck underneath the passenger seat, but he was unable to focus on it after watching Aaliyah's body fly toward the door. He rapidly took hold of her arm and freed himself before jumping out of the flaming cruiser!

With what energy he had left, Tavon concentrated his strength into his thighs—expanding them far beyond what he had before—and absorbed a fall which brought him and the detective onto the streets of the First Quadrant.

\--

Tavon fell to his knees and started coughing violently just as the police cruiser crashed into a nearby building overhead, exploded, and sent a piece of stray shrapnel in their direction, grazing Tavon's shoulder. He looked down at Aaliyah, who was laid unconscious in his arms and covered in cuts, bruises, and burn marks. Tavon began coughing again and clutched his chest to keep himself from dry heaving on the spot.

"Aaliyah!" He shouted.

Tavon put his index and middle finger together and felt the detective's carotid artery.

It produced a faint pulse; she was still alive.

He groaned as he felt new wounds across his body, and then he ducked as a sharp, metal star came whirring past his head! Tavon grunted before pivoting on his heel to turn and—!

He narrowly moved to the side as the edge of a short sword was thrusted directly at his head! Tavon darted forward and right into a kick delivered by an unknown assailant.

While most men would've succumbed to just that move and thrown the fight, Tavon pressed on to grasp at what was an over-sized hoodie before nearly collapsing as the figure evaded him. He almost tripped while staggering to his feet but once more was forced into action and dodged the blade of another sword wielded by the previous attacker.

His opponent launched forward with both weapons extended out toward him, and Tavon responded by running in the same direction, rapidly leaping over him!

He exclaimed upon feeling something cold and sharp cut deep across the side of his right leg! Tavon prepared to hit the ground running, but all focus was suddenly lost when he felt a strange pain course through his body.

I'm still hurting from the wreck. Shit. I can't stop here!

He had little time to react as the attacker plunged one of his swords toward his neck. Tavon drew close and reached in to bat away one blade-wielding arm but ultimately stumbled back and howled in pain.

Both the enemy's arms were comparable to two slabs of concrete. Soon, Tavon came to realize that the assailant's body happened to be remarkably solid as he threw a punch into his abdomen and flinched in pain when feeling no resistance.

His enemy spun around and brought his first sword down at Tavon, who stepped back and then stooped forward to avoid the second one coming his way! He then closed the distance between them while focusing all his available energy into his arms, empowering them, and launched an uppercut into his opponent's jaw!

—But he missed...

The stranger was already over his head and dug a blade, hidden under his shoe, deep into Tavon's upper shoulder before forcing his prey's body onto the ground.

"Do not resist. Admit your inadequacy."

Tavon pressed his palms against the ground, roared as they shuddered from his forearms doubling in size, and ripped the blade through his shoulder, coming up in an attempt to grapple his enemy into a head lock. However, as soon as his arm came around the assailant's neck, Tavon watched as the metal end of one of the swords pierced the flesh at the bottom portion of his bicep. At the same time, Tavon's body was suddenly penetrated with what he thought were hundreds of elongated, sharp needles. He pulled away and increased his distance while feeling thin spikes fall away from his skin.

What the fuck? What is this thing?

In an instant, Tavon felt someone's elbow collide into the side of his skull.

With his vision blurred and his limbs rendered unresponsive, he collapsed onto the concrete for a moment before lazily standing up to face the new challenger.

The attacker threw a haymaker that Tavon could see but couldn't react to in time as it landed on the same side of his head. He stumbled and tripped over to fall on his back and looked up—he noticed a glock pointed at his head, a glock held by a man whose own features were obscured by a dark cloud.

Tavon stood again and felt great rage within his heart. He clenched his fists and shouted, "I won't go down here!"

I won't let them touch her!

He lunged forward, grabbing the top of the barrel, and slid it back to stop the weapon from firing, as he'd done in the past. Tavon was able to retrieve the firearm almost too easily. But, in that same moment, he had little time to throw his head back as one sword came sailing down an inch before the tip of his septum.

Just as his now unarmed opponent proceeded to kick the gun from his grasp, Tavon crouched and swung his body into a punch he sent to the swordsman's side, a strike that seemed to do nothing. He jolted to the right and threw his fist into a wide arc!

—Directly into shards of bone that sprang out from the swordsman's body and dug themselves deep into Tavon's right hand. Jets of blood spurted out from torn flesh, and Tavon grunted prior to expanding his left arm while also summoning a dark aura around it. He swept around and applied pressure to the shards that trapped his hand in place—

Within seconds, his opponent's bones broke away to the agony of the assailant, and Tavon retreated as he quickly ripped out the remaining fragments buried in his hand. Nonetheless, the swordsman was relentless and was fast upon him with his blades dominating the space between them.

Tavon crouched under one of the swords and deftly batted it away while moving outside of a thrust that came aimed at his stomach. The swordsman then delivered a rapid slash, cutting a gash into the top of Tavon's scalp as he failed to back away speedily enough. He rushed and thrust both of his weapons forward a second time, and Tavon leaped in the opposite direction before dashing forward when spotting an opening. He rolled under another of the swords' arcs and stabilized his body on the ground, kicking out with extraordinary power!

It was an attack that would've been devastating if not for the intervention once again of the other assailant, who struck Tavon hard enough to interrupt the move altogether. The swordsman began another assault, but Tavon tucked and dodged as he came to his feet—just as one of the swords also dug its way deep into the flesh under his clavicle.

Tavon pulled away from the blade but not in time to miss another slash that tore across his stomach! He winced and prepared himself to go again but soon noticed that the stranger wearing the hoodie had backed away and allowed the other attacker to step forward. He inspected his new combatant and gasped upon noticing that this couldn't be a normal man, that it couldn't even be considered human.

Two shadowed craters for its eyes... immense pits giving way to what looked like portals disturbing the wind and obscuring most of the stranger's face. Those two voids kept growing larger, it appeared, and the creature stared at Tavon with its hands resting calmly at its sides.

Darkness. Peace. Emptiness...

Tavon's body steadily lost feeling, and his sight became burdened. The creature stepped closer, and, as it did, those Eyes... they continued to increase in their own vastness.

Tavon tried to work up the energy to move, but exhaustion had overtaken him, weakening the assassin to thoughts of slumber in an endless abyss.

"God is looking at you." he heard Eze's voice in his head.

His mind departed.

14

Pain

\--

Janelle

\--

THE WANRE UNIT, AFTER HAVING CAPTURED Doctor Rustam, ended up enlisting his services as a field medic. Amour was also given a similar position but under a different battalion located days away from where his foster father was stationed. The boy was treated as a slave for some time before he escaped one night and ran far enough to lose his keepers.

From then on, Amour resolved to avenge himself on the one who'd violated him and rescue his father from the Wanre army. In conclusion, he did something most would consider taboo, if not suicidal.

Following the events of humanity's last global war, demons inhabited the same world as humans while both maintained a generally hostile relationship. For good reason, cartographers began illustrating more dead zones on newly-drafted maps to indicate areas known as the Dusk.

The Dusk consisted of regions on Earth turned to barren landscapes that had been rotted away by the collective presences of certain demons. They were twisted places made up of beings which sprang from horrific mythologies, realms designated for the mad, and Amour was losing his mind after having sustained far too much misery.

The young medic traveled to the Dusk.

He risked everything he had to find answers. Growing up, Rustam had told him tales of fragments in the darkness that could enable a person to develop abilities that were not of this world. One such item was a book or, "Tome," that was a small part of a larger group of written texts fabled to bestow extraordinary power. However, it was also said that such fragments were capable of causing madness and, in some cases, a swift death. Amour sought one of these tomes in order to learn any secret he could use to avenge his honor.

Hence, he traveled for months through a cold, empty desert that extended from an abyssal outflowing of the Dusk. With boundlessly grey skies overhead, Amour starved and struggled to locate any drinkable water. In fact, most of what he did find to imbibe, from small streams to strange, liquid-filled flora, poisoned him and dehydrated his body further.

Despite the ongoing battle for his life, Amour continued to keep seeking someone or something that could guide him, yet he eventually succumbed to weakness.

Perhaps a higher power looked down on Amour and chose to show him mercy, if that's what one could call it. While on the cusp of passing away, Amour began to pray fervently to the land. He spoke directly to the Dusk itself and persisted in asking for the fulfillment of his desires as his will to live withered.

When he'd finally resigned himself to his fate, Amour noticed that an old Tome was suddenly at his side. With all the effort he had to give, Amour opened the ancient text and began to absorb a special type of Knowledge. He received a manifestation of what would come to be known as the "God Mark."

A manuscript, with writing formed from sentient atoms arising from a much deeper realm, old as time, imparted Knowledge to Amour before he lost his life, and this Knowledge triggered a sudden rebirth. Amour found himself equipped with a stronger reserve of energy, close to the clutches of death.

He wandered the Dusk and encountered a fugitive who'd suffered the same fate. The dying man noticed him and begged for Amour to kill him. Amour refused, and the man attacked, accidentally forcing the boy to utilize far too much of his new power.

Amour rent the fugitive to death and simultaneously discovered a terrible secret about himself:

He longed to see the human body arranged, to see perfect symmetry, and to reform what he believed was the fractured figure of Man...

Amour devoured the fugitive's body. Upon finishing, he recovered all previous strength with the addition of a well of power from which he could draw. His body's musculature had become remarkably denser, although he was still quite frail, and he began to appear healthier than he'd ever in his life. Amour believed that he could do anything and, for a time, began roaming across the landscape with what seemed like everlasting endurance while scavenging for corpses of other humans that he found.

He spent exactly three years lost in the demonic wilderness, reverting to his more bestial nature. Amour hunted and nourished himself whatever way he could, but his desire to devour and manipulate the bodies of humans only increased as his malice strengthened. Despite his remarkable growth, one evening he was beset by a tribe of demons who were able to see something in him that only their kind could see.

They said unto him that he contained a "pure darkness" they had never witnessed and that intrigued them greatly. Not every bearer of the God Mark consumed their own kind, and still fewer possessed the hatred carried so fiercely by the former medic.

The leader of their clan took Amour under his wing and confessed that the boy had shown him an unquenchable lust for chaos, a lust that outmatched his own and greatly impressed the demon elder. And so, he ordered his clan to train Amour in tactical guerrilla operations: raids, ambushes, proper maneuvers for retreat. He became somewhat skilled in the basics of nomadic combat, but the focus shifted to become entirely about his own powers, abilities which laid dormant and would remain undisturbed unless Amour reached into his past to remove what was holding him down.

These demons, like many others, had formed a clan known for producing effective hunters that operated on the outskirts of the Dusk. The demon elder of the clan saw potential in the young man; he demanded that Amour admit to the secrets buried in his history.

\--

The Ark, a title describing a "Demon Elder" in the language of the Unaer'e demons, towered over Amour—who'd become much more toned as he'd grown into the role of a clan member. He bellowed to the former medic: "You will disclose the items in the past that are affecting your growth. In your spirit, you are the same as any of us."

Amour searched within himself, drawing from an untouched pool of rage and glaring psychological trauma. While he'd traveled the Dusk alone, a wandering scavenger who'd became notorious for murdering anything remotely human on the borders of the land, Amour had effectively blocked out the memories of his capture and subsequent molestation by the Wanre officer. Unfortunately, when he was forced to think upon it all himself, the young man's insanity peaked.

The Ark handed a lilac-tinted mirror to Amour, who stared back at his reflection to see that half of his face had been paralyzed during a stroke for which he'd not been completely conscious.

"Whenever you found that Tome—that Fragment of True Sidogush, you most likely lost control of your senses. The Fragments are myriad; they spawn and are endlessly scattered across the globe since the gate opened that merged our worlds. People discover them with no higher knowledge and often suffer extensive injuries—injuries looking very similar to your own. Feeble, repressed human, your mind attempted to grasp far ahead of its own progress; therefore, you were damaged while at the same time being blessed with the opportunity to be reborn."

"Reborn?" Amour asked.

"When you remove the speck from thine eyes, you shall become yourself, a destiny meant for only the darkest of men... men who have suffered the other face of Fate: a cold, unrelenting visage of enmity. For you to inherit power and bring glory to the clan, you must undo what was done to you."

\--

One night, after a year of searching, Amour discovered both his "father" and the man who'd molested him.

High Lieutenant Jeles McGarnes and Doctor Rustam had both been stationed within a new super-battalion of Wanre's growing military. The United Clans of Wanre would go on to be conquered at a later time, divided once more, and renamed as part of modern day Gaspul.

The super-battalion was comprised of two forces branded as the Strikers and the Valor. High Lieutenant McGarnes belonged to Valor while Rustam had become a well-respected field medic in his service to the Strikers. A man blessed with a luxurious, comfortable lifestyle in the Citadel that he'd known for most of his life had gone from being a wandering doctor to someone who lived on the front lines of the battlefield.

High Lieutenant McGarnes had graduated to a more decadent standard of living, for he was transferred to an office where he organized training drills and only went out to the field with his troops when he was required to confirm that no issued weapons or equipment had been stolen. McGarnes had been groomed to fit this type of position after his wife fell seriously ill and also after he'd demanded more time to spend at home taking care of his family.

Subsequent to having exhausted Wanre's known resources in an effort to find some sort of cure, McGarnes became desperate. He began accessing the dark web, specifically the Moses Sector, through his work terminal. Amour learned that his wife's disease was merely one out of a series of conditions brought on by bacteria otherworldly invaders had brought with them long ago.

As it so happens, the Unaer'e Ark knew of a panacea; he extended a small sample of it to Amour so that he might deliver it to the one who'd traumatized him. Amour, cloaked in a dark robe that he used to conceal half his face, visited McGarnes one morning upon request.

Amour had uncovered the High Lieutenant's online pleading for information about his wife's illness and responded with the promise of something that would help. When the McGarnes finally met with Amour, he didn't recognize him but was distrustful of his appearance. Amour, fighting back overwhelming anxiety, gave him the sample in a vial that restored Mrs. McGarnes to a vigor she hadn't felt in some time.

For a short period, she was able to walk again and was constantly moving on to the next activity—taking care of their shared estates, hosting dinner parties, and helping with the High Lieutenant's dry cleaning, like she always had when he was away on business.

And, just as quickly, she lost her energy as well as some of her basic senses and fell back into her original stupor. Mrs. McGarnes became pitiable, an emaciated woman confined to a bed with only a window to view the world outside her room. It was the sight of her that caused the High Lieutenant to reach out to Amour again in desperation, and Amour followed up by requesting the officer's presence at his "abode."

Though, this abode happened to be a narrow, rectangular hole that had been dug several feet into the ground...

\--

Upon his arrival, High Lieutenant McGarnes demanded haughtily, "What is this supposed to be, healer? A morbid joke?"

Amour stared at McGarnes as quiet fury escalated from within, tainting all better judgment.

"Is this shit funny to you? Huh, dumbass?"

He stepped forward to pick up Amour by the collar of his undershirt. Amour's cloak fell away to reveal his deformity and shocked McGarnes.

"Oh," he sneered, taken aback, "you're a curly-headed freak, aren't you! What, you give me false hope for my wife and then take me to this fucking hole in the ground? –What did you give her the first time, bitch? Some shit fiends use to keep themselves awake? Answer me!"

McGarnes slapped Amour, and the he hefted him higher into the air.

"I swear I'll kill you right here, fucking prankster! How could you give my WIFE drugs!"

In a moment, McGarnes' ears fell away from his face. Before he could grasp at the bleeding crevices left behind, he lost the tip of his nose, then he felt an intense burning which traveled across his scalp...

Half of Lieutenant McGarnes' face detached itself and tumbled to the ground, and the last thing he saw was Amour's wicked smile beaming at him as his vision faded.

Amour had transcended himself as a medic, using his talents to become an artist capable of bisecting individual body parts to form a new masterpiece.

\--

"Amour-deo'zu, you are but a human, so I understand if you do not share in the knowledge and courtesies the brethren use and faithfully demonstrate. A deo'zu does not typically call for a private dinner with an Ark. Any discussions should be shared with the family over a meal intended to nourish the Whole. By the same token, what you have provided here is a specific dish, and one could easily assume that you intend to procure something from me personally. That is why it is considered disrespectful to suggest an occasion such as this, but, for now, I will humor you."

"Yes, my Ar—"

"As long as I can have seconds, Amour-deo'zu." The Ark revealed a pleased expression. "Do not keep or hide exquisite food from me."

"Why of course!" Amour replied. "This was specially prepared to show you my growth."

"Growth?"

"Transformation, if you will!" Amour began tearing apart the cooked meat on his side of the room with an aura emanating from his hands.

"It appears you've finally abandoned utensils common to human creatures for consumption. Is this what you speak of? Or is it the way you can slice at the food as if your hands were blades themselves?"

"It is neither, my Ark-deo'zu. I have become something new, you see. The dish I prepared for this feast is a courtesy sacrificed by someone who owed me a great deal."

"What manner of courtesy?"

"He offers his body as our nourishment. I refined his tendons and connective tissue into a more solid texture resembling something of a main course—isn't it wonderful?

"Art emerges in many forms, and—although I'm no chef—I found this creation suitable. I buried the non-essentials but otherwise crafted this piece with his flesh and bones. I put together a dinner to show that I'm ready to become myself."

The Ark began to laugh. "What thirst! To be of men and know chaos as the Unaer'e have... that is a gift, Amour-deo'zu. I recognized the aroma despite your efforts to disguise it.

"You've earned your place in the cla—"

"No." Amour said reflexively.

"Hmm?"

"There is one more speck I must remove. An imperfection. I can feel my power growing, but it's stunted by one further obstacle..."

Amour journeyed to find his father, Doctor Rustam.
15

The Sky Is Crying

\--

Janelle

\--

LIEUTENANT SHRAEU AND DETECTIVE BALI WERE TEN minutes out from the lavish palace owned by her husband in the Upper-City.

"So you've been rolling large all this time, and you're still a Bureau detective? You could be doing so much more, Zola!"

"Don't overstep your boundaries with me, Sir."

"'Overstep my boundaries?' We're about to take this man down for good! I will not allow this monster to keep hurting the woman I love!"

"Aren't you married, Lieutenant? You have a wife at home. Have you called her today?"

Shraeu looked away from her. "She's... she's not like you. Haidi doesn't bring out the best in me like you do—from the start, we always felt like our marriage was a mistake.

"Now I see that Saint Avva herself is giving me the opportunity to change that! I'll either find enough evidence to lock him up, or I'll make sure he never hurts anyone again!"

Zola lowered her eyes.

"Those are some lofty goals," she said.

"Excuse me? Zola, I don't think you're taking me serious!"

"When did I ever give you the permission to stop calling me Detective Bali? I don't remember ever doing that, do you?"

"Well, I... uh, I'm sorry—"

"Let's keep things professional for now, Lieutenant. We have to focus on the primary mission and nothing but that." Zola stared ahead and seemed to wander off in her mind.

"You know what? You're absolutely right, detective."

He smiled. "Why stress about anything other than doing what's right! We'll get justice in the name of the Citadel!"

"It won't be what you think, Lieutenant..."

"What do you mean?"

The police cruiser pulled up in front of an immense mansion suspended on an isolated block that had been made from a new, lightweight metal, mezatonicum, used for modern construction. It was surrounded by several other luxurious houses which were also suspended on their own individual platforms and separated from each other by wide expanses leading down toward the Mid-City.

The only way to travel from this quiet neighborhood was via cruiser, as its design was intended to enforce privacy, personal space, and enhanced security.

The collection of lone estates was equipped with its own public park and a series of monuments to the Dawn Federation isolated on their own, much larger mezatonicum-based foundations. Future agriculture had become a portable science, making it more than possible to synthesize the beginnings of a garden or groups of crops almost anywhere—including metallic surfaces. Therefore, landscapers developed beautifully adorned plots all positioned within view of any house belonging to similar communities.

"This jackass has been living it up like a big league. Just who is he? Why is he so important again?"

Zola stared at him blankly and said, "My husband is..."

\--

Eager to find his father and rescue him from the threat posed by the Wanre infantry, Amour infiltrated the Strikers and discovered intelligence on their personnel. He recovered a file detailing information on Doctor Rustam and noticed that Rustam had been receiving what could be considered a pension from the United Clans of Wanre. The medic had access to free medical treatment for himself and was permitted to eat with the other soldiers... as if he'd always been one of their own.

After investigating further, Amour located Rustam's assigned unit and figured out on his own that they'd deployed to fight back a wave of militia banded together in the northern regions to affect a rebellion against Wanre.

He searched through operation orders to find Rustam's commander and obtained the leader's current plans concerning the unit to which the field medic had been assigned. Thus, Amour traveled the countryside and stayed hidden as he sought to find the unit's outer border of security around their established camp.

Perceiving Rustam's company of soldiers far too threatening in size, Amour assassinated one of the lower enlisted who'd been placed on guard duty around the camp borders. The soldier on watch was young, close in age to Amour. When their fates collided, however, only one prevailed.

Amour cut the soldier's throat and stole his company uniform in order to blend in with the other fighters. Luckily for him, Wanre's lower-ranking soldiers weren't required to wear any identifying information on their clothing. Despite this, all of them possessed tags stored in the pockets of their uniforms in case one of them were to fall in battle. Lately, due to a number of skirmishes with the local population, many had already perished from fatal wounds or the infections produced as a result.

Wanre was up against forces who'd been supplied superior weaponry and were, in their eyes, inexplicably able to procure the upper hand in a war that would prove to be short-lived. Although this new opponent was a threat with which to be reckoned, the Wanre government hadn't been made aware of the gravity of their situation until it was much too late.

Nonetheless, this was the perfect time for Amour to infiltrate a unit so ill-equipped to confront this persistent enemy, and there appeared to be more casualties than the company was prepared to treat. Amour took advantage of their weakened forces and made himself useful in an understaffed clinic that barely contained the appropriate tools needed to remedy increasingly severe wounds. While triaging what appeared to be a constant stream of patients, the young man searched for any clue that would lead to his father... and, after an entire day had passed, Amour finally saw the man from a distance.

Because he was in the field as a deployed soldier, Doctor Rustam had been promoted to the rank of Support Sergeant and was now considered the authority for all medicine in the company. He'd proven to be an incredible medic and became renowned for having saved the lives of men who'd narrowly avoided swift deaths. To the company of fighters, Rustam was a hero and was rumored to frequently associate with commanders across the Wanre army.

On that night, Amour sneaked his way into a spot near Rustam's tent. Giving in to his worst suspicions, he listened in on his father's conversation with celebrated officials who often drank with the doctor when they weren't in the middle of another brief detailing future plans of advancement.

He recognized Rustam's slow, deliberate voice that was colored more frivolous due to him having become a mild alcoholic. He was laughing. Happy.

"And to think, Wanre believes we stand a chance against these-these damn robot men! They bring me guys with craters blasted straight through them and expect me to whip up some magic on the spot. I'm a doctor not some sodding wizard. The First Rift had everybody believing too much in the supernatural, but the world is the same as it ever was: constantly engaged in pointless conflict because people are too reluctant in the face of change."

"Robot men? What do you mean, Sergeant?"

"You haven't seen them yet? Weren't you in the last two operations?"

"Actually, no. They, uh, sent me here recently. Said you were short on manpower and having a few difficulties with the enemy?"

"That's an understatement, Sir. There are men and women out there who've underwent specific transplants; they've sacrificed parts of or all their bodies to some damnable experiment! Now, they lead their own patrols and use cybernetic enhancements to completely decimate our people—we send a report of the casualties every time it happens! Have you not seen the numbers?"

"Eh. About that... they, uh, warned me not to discuss the losses with anyone. To the Wanre troops, it's important that we appear as though we're the dominant presence on the field. If these 'robot men' you speak of are real, then we don't want the ones we fight for to panic over the idea of cyborgs raiding the fucking capital."

"But the news has to get out, Sir!" Rustam piped up, "This isn't just an isolated incident; the Gaspul Rebellion is taking form, and it's costing us people! They refuse to bow to anyone!"

"Wait a minute!" a third official spoke, "The point tonight is not to fret about the coming events. Cyborgs or not, we will win. Wanre is a crown of a country."

"Bullshit." Rustam replied.

"Oh yeah, hot shot? You've seen better?"

"That I have."

The doctor cleared his throat. "I used to practice medicine in the Dawn Federation—at the Citadel itself! I was essential..."

He took a drink from the flask he'd kept on him.

"I'd everything a man could want, and then... he came along."

Amour listened intently to the following conversation.

"Some politician screwed me over, and I ended up with this little brat. His mother liked to get around, as far as I recall, and, my goodness, was that little pissant irritating."

A handful of officials snickered as he went on.

"I tried to teach him the art of medicine, but he failed miserably. The amount of people who didn't make it because of his incompetence..." Rustam sighed. "You know what, I think the raid really did bless me. For one, it ridded me of that damn kid."

Amour clenched his fists.

"You don't think you're being a little harsh?" one of them inquired.

"To be frank, my friends, I distinctly remember the night when some officer came to me with the most serious expression on his face. I kept laughing at him because I thought he was a complete simpleton, but he asked me: 'How much for your son?' I scoffed and told him that he wasn't my son and that he wasn't worth anything. The officer thanked me. And, you know, I never saw him or that peon again." Rustam laughed. "Maybe the boy liked him?"

"Doc, you're sick." one of the men jeered. "Remind me to never let you babysit my son!"

"Alas... that's why I'm here to deliver the bad news, fellas."

The tent grew quiet.

Rustam spoke in a more serious tone, "I've been assigned a role on the Quick Reconnaissance Force, meaning if tomorrow's operation moves down a road we don't expect, I'll be required to intervene in triaging the wounded. And the three of you... well, word is that they want to use one guy as a point man—and they're in desperate need of soldiers who can work a D-6.7 mortar system."

\--

After sitting through the Doctor's confession, Amour cultivated his desire to kill the man he'd always known as 'father.' To know that his rape could've been avoided and was likely caused by Rustam's negligence was the worst feeling he could experience, something more painful than the moments preceding his near starvation in the Dusk. Amour felt the urge to murder rise curdle his blood, and so he remained at a distance, biding his time.

\--

The following day's operation proved catastrophic.

Rustam's company had attempted to extract prisoners taken by members of the Gaspul Rebellion. Some of the captives were fellow soldiers whereas others were those who merely didn't support the Rebellion's cause. The Wanre unit commander called for small squads to quietly infiltrate a town that had recently been occupied by the enemy. To their surprise, members of the Rebellion used better signaling technology to spot individual Wanre contingencies before they'd even arrived.

Wanre's squads were immediately fired upon by mortars before they were engaged in an ensuing battle which drew the attention of the entirety of the unit's camp and escalated into an all-out gunfight.

This skirmish turned disastrous as synthetically altered humans stepped in to dominate the conflict. Each were warriors of similar makeup to Ekwueme; all were enhanced in some way and equipped with the heaviest arsenals owned by the Rebellion.

After the majority of Wanre's first wave of reinforcements had been wiped out, the company reacted by sending in their remaining ground units in order to recover as many fallen soldiers and discarded equipment as possible. All the while, Amour patiently walked among the bodies of the dead.

Doctor Rustam was sent in behind the reinforcements. Their current mission was to form a forward line of suppressive fire which would give medics and all support personnel the time to retrieve those who could be saved in this incident. Amour had skillfully evaded other medics in his search for his father, and, once he'd located him, he prepped accordingly...

\--

Doctor Rustam, covered in blood, excretions, and vomit, tiredly dragged himself over to a tree and noticed that his hands were shaking. He wasn't allowed to be away like this—they need me there, he thought. But, while he was working, the wounds requiring immediate attention tripled and added to the hopeless devastation surrounding him. He needed a break before he felt himself lose his grip on reality, and so he screamed in frustration when he heard someone cry out: "Please..."

Rustam checked around and saw, from far away, a lone body resting against a wall that had been partially obliterated. The doctor garnered confidence in his ability and hurried over to a man whose face had been paralyzed on one side. Rustam noticed what appeared to be a large splotch of blood near the abdomen and quickly checked to see if he could pull away the clothing and expose the injury—!

Amour stabbed the doctor's chest.

He cut at him with his power, which allowed him to use his full arm as something resembling an artist's paintbrush summoned from another realm.

Amour could recreate pocketed slivers of reality, slicing through almost anything depending on the amount of skill used. And thus, Amour grasped Rustam by the throat and granted him a dark glare that the doctor recognized.

"No—NO! Not you! You fucking monster! President Derek is as far as he could ever be from me, and yet he STILL continues to show up, always ruining my life!"

Amour slapped the dying Rustam before shaking him as he demanded, "Derek? Who the hell are you talking about?"

The doctor coughed, looked at him for a moment, and then grinned wickedly.

"I should've known it wouldn't be that easy to get rid of you—and I should've killed you! I chose to keep her secret; I mean, how could your mother expect me to raise someone who isn't my own! And I always knew you'd be a little shit when you grew up! You have Derek's blood in you... dammit!" Rustam held himself as he shuddered involuntarily from his gruesome injuries.

"Who is Derek? –Tell me!"

"Your cursed fucking father.

"The damned President of the Dawn Federation, an idiot known only as Derek who used to be a mercenary and now rules a whole sodding nation—but he didn't want you, Amour!" Rustam clenched his jaw. "He decided that he couldn't let the world find out that he'd been unfaithful. That would've ruined his precious career, and so that makes you what you've always been: a bastard!

"A bastard, Amour. You're the reason Avva died! Now the Citadel treats her like some god—they worship the person YOU killed! I gave everything for her. You wouldn't understand; you're his unwanted spawn, and you'll be his downfall."

Amour finished the doctor by severing his head from the rest of his body.

\--

"Again, Amour-deo'zu, you make me repeat myself: there are no 'private discussions.' Everything that can be said to me can be said to your brethren!"

"Oh, but this one is special, Elder. I want you to witness my rebirth; are you ready?" Amour led the Unaer'e Ark to his hut and stopped right before the entrance.

"If this is an attempt on my life, then it is foolish. The Dusk, as a whole, enforces that human kin are less valuable than the lives of others, and so no human steps foot into these lands without asking for a brutal demise at any time. Amour, you must either rectify your mannerisms or leave this place."

Amour looked at him without fear and smiled.

"I've already decided to leave, as there is one more wrong that must be righted."

"You are enthusiastic. A strange specimen, indeed."

"Right this way."

Amour opened the door to his hut and revealed to the Ark a torso impaled through the center and painted in several different shades that were blended in hues of amethyst and violet. Parts of Doctor Rustam's spinal column had been removed and rearranged to make a necklace adorning the piece; the head was nowhere to be found, but Amour had smeared ash across Rustam's heart and placed it at the top of the torso.

"Amour-deo'zu... this..."

"Is a work of art, is it not? I found that my ability not only cuts... it stitches back together, which makes me the perfect sculptor, the ascended artist."

"Extraordinary. A pure art form that can be taken into the human world. Very in likeness to our methods, just as destructive. Amour-deo'zu, you are unmatched in your intent for Righteous Chaos, or Hakixaoc. This is something intrinsic to the worst of our kind, but I never knew that humans had the capability to be so... innovative."

"You've not seen best part, my Ark!"

Amour hurried over to a wooden crafting table where he picked up a new creation.

He used the band attached to it in order to strap it to his head. "The perfect piece."

Doctor Rustam's face had been removed and melted onto a claylike material with which it fused. It was a mask, the malformed and horrified visage of his victim.

"I will return to my home and find 'Derek.' If he really is a President, someone with authoritative and royal power, then I won't stop until I take everything from him."

Amour declared, "I will show Derek his mistake, that I'm more important than he could ever believe himself to be. I will take his empire from him, and when he has nothing left and has watched everything in his life vanish... I'll take his life. I won't eat him—and I won't make him Beautiful. No. I'll throw him to the dogs, because that's what he did to me!

"It's time for me to carve out my destiny in the Citadel."

\--

Lieutenant Shraeu followed Zola, who moved through the mansion with a distinctly stiff gait and casually called out, "I'm back, honey!"

Silenced followed for a few seconds before a voice responded:

"Oh goody! In here—quick!"

In an act so out of place that it shocked Shraeu, Zola started to play "Pain," by Tupac, on her Kom Cell, placed a listening piece in her ear, and turned up the volume to deter him from asking any further questions.

\--

"I am bestowing upon you what appears to be a book. It houses something special. I understand your plan, Amour-deo'zu, and I deem it worthy.

"However, the object hidden away in this book is a mirror that links its way into the world of Another. A Spirit much worse than our species and not one to take lightly.

"In this world, demonic deities lurk with the potential to cause mass havoc. If this plan ever goes awry, I'm entrusting you to Its guidance..."

\--

Joel Petrus was locked away in a private room once he'd become a danger to those around him. The Executive was descending into a feverish madness which nearly compelled him into taking his life once again. Amour believed that Petrus would eventually regain his sanity and consequently become entirely pledged to his cause, although this had yet to be seen.

Detective Zola Bali opened a door that led into a dining room, and Lieutenant Shraeu strode behind while trying to decide if he should leap in front to protect her. He peered around nervously once inside the lavish chamber.

Amour Bali was waiting for him.

He'd taken his wife's surname before migrating to the Citadel.

Before Shraeu, a large, marble table had been conscientiously set. Three seats decorated with cushioned, lavender pillows were shadowed by silver-embroidered plates and various polished cutlery.

Amour had positioned his wife's chair next to him and the Lieutenant's at the opposite end of the table. He reclined with his left ankle resting atop his right knee and smiled as he took a sip out of a tall wine glass. Amour formed a disgusted expression at his drink before turning his gaze back to the two of them and shrugging slightly.

"Ugh, it's Jadot Chat'el—some unpleasant, uh, bullshit, if you will—a friend suggested I try with my next meal. But please... have a seat, Mr. Shraeu—or, I'm sorry, 'Lieutenant' Shraeu." He feigned his respect for the title.

Zola continued to avoid Shraeu's eyes and calmly walked over to her husband's side.

"Zola! Y-You don't have to—"

"She doesn't have to what?" Amour cocked his head to the side, seeming genuinely puzzled.

Zola put her arm around her husband's shoulders and leaned in to kiss his forehead. Amour smiled and said, quietly enough so that only the two of them could hear, "Missed you." She took her place next to him, interlocked her fingers, and set her elbows on the table so that she could rest her chin in her hands.

"I had my butler, Mr. Thume, prepare enough food for the three of us!

"Today's menu includes a salad sprinkled in basil and chives as well as sufficiently drowned in a new dressing that's been getting rave reviews in the city and in Goethe'gashi Magazine; a vegetarian soup made from ground Alandran herbs and tofu; venison topped with a stream of a subtle sauce; and roast pork coupled with shiitake mushrooms—it's a cheerful mix of some very creative pieces!"

With barely a moment's notice, Lieutenant Shraeu drew his gun from the holster on his belt.

He shouted, "Listen up! I don't know what this shit is, but I'm not having tea with a psychopath."

"Did I say anything about tea?" He turned to his wife and seemed baffled. "Honey, did I say anything ab—"

"I didn't order you to talk." Shraeu's face turned a deep shade of scarlet. "Zola's suffered long enough at the hands of you, Mr. Bali. I'm here to put an end to this once and for all!

"She told me about what you were involved in—your insane plot; in my eyes, that makes you a terrorist!"

"And what exactly do you think I've done?" Amour grinned.

Zola continued to wander off in her mind and didn't remove her headphones.

"I'll bring justice to you myself and use the evidence left behind to label you as an enemy of the nation! I will FREE Zola from you!"

Shraeu squeezed the trigger, grunting so loudly that he didn't realize what was happening. He kept squeezing with full force until he realized that a round hadn't properly entered the chamber...

As he struggled to remedy the jam, a strong forearm collided with Shraeu's hands and knocked the gun away! The Lieutenant flinched and staggered before he became aware of the barrel of a shotgun being pressed into the side of his head.

"Ah, and the man of the hour—the one who made this all possible—makes his appearance. Allow me to introduce you to Mr. Thume!"

Shraeu shook with anger but could do nothing.

"You haven't used that handgun for over a year now since you moved up in the world. Don't worry, my lovely wife filled me in on all of the details." His expression grew more serious as he crossed one arm over his chest and placed his chin in between his thumb and the side of his index finger.

"You see, that's something we both paid attention to: an improperly loaded gun—something that I'd never expect a Bureau Official to do. You love Zola, don't you? It's okay, you can go ahead and have a seat! Thume, be a pal and bring us dinner, would you?"

Thume retrieved Shraeu's gun from the floor and promptly moved into the kitchen.

Shraeu angrily took a seat and glared at Amour. "Yes, I love her," he said, "—much more than you ever could!"

Amour looked to Zola. "Why does he always have so much to say?"

She continued looking down.

"I mean, a 'yes' or 'no' would've been...

"Nevermind." He shook his head and said to Shraeu, "By the way, Mr. Thume is from Gaspul."

"Gaspul?"

"Yes." He sighed. "I just said that, didn't I? Currently, the Dawn Federation occupies them; the government intends to make it into a 'territory,' and I can see the reasoning behind it. Gaspul can provide us with the resources we need to move forward in the future these people built for themselves! Psh."

Amour chuckled. "Nonetheless, you would do well to pay your respects to Mr. Thume. I'll just say that he's much more than he seems."

The butler, who was wearing a stark white mask and was garbed a strange brown robe, carried in salads and gracefully placed individual dishes for the entire party. He then swiftly moved over toward Amour and poured him a glass from a new wine bottle before rushing to stand at his master's side. He became stoic, as if he were a living statue.

"Concerning your love for my wife..." Amour took a bite and looked away while pondering to himself. "How deep is it?"

"What?"

"I mean," he snickered in between chewing, "What, did you guys sleep together?"

Zola took out her headphones and interjected. "No!"

Shraeu thought for a moment but admitted, "No."

"Well, did you guys do anything else—like kiss or...?"

"No."

Amour threw his hands up. "Then why the hell did you think this was going to go your way, Lieutenant!

"Don't you understand how to tell when a woman wants your attention versus when you should just let it go?

"My lovely wife knows that I have a very peculiar appetite. Still, I never thought I'd see the day when she'd actually cater to it! I mean, I imagine she made promises, am I correct?"

"Well, yes, but—"

Amour held up a finger. "Easy now." He winked. "She probably promised you a life with her and glory for trying to turn me in—she told you that she was 'afraid,' that she needed a chance to get away from me."

"That's exactly—"

"And she was very convincing; I'm proud." He looked over at Zola. "She's been faithful to me since we met, back when I was treating soldiers in Gaspul and long before I finally made my place in the Citadel. You know, Lieutenant, I always told her that I would build an empire from nothing; I confessed that I had an unconquerable ambition. I then established connections in the country via both my art and medical knowledge. I am the model citizen. Do you understand what I do, Lieutenant?"

"Hurt people. Destroy lives."

"Well... yes, there's that—there's certainly that, but you shouldn't think in such a shallow manner, buddy!

"Believe what you want, but I own three major corporations in the Blue Sector. I'm the director behind a culinary brand, an art conglomerate (my first business), and,"—he slammed both palms on the dinner table—"I sell medical equipment from a group of chain shops around the Citadel!

"Amazing, right? –It's amazing. While rising above the rest of the population, I had my face reconstructed—my nerves regrown and reconnected. Yet, I still have a fondness for masks." His grin spread over a disturbingly jovial demeanor. Amour moaned, "I cherish them."

Soon, the Gaspulan butler had brought in everything and began portioning out food to all prior to standing aside once again.

"So, Lieutenant." Amour ate a chunk of venison with one hand and scratched his head shyly with the other. "You could say that I've accomplished my goals..."

Amour then considered a spot on the ceiling, concentrated for several seconds, and scowled while suffering some new vexation.

"Except I fucking haven't!"

With fork in hand, he banged on the table. "I have a portrait in mind, a dream."

"Any dream you could possibly have is going to be a damn awful. You aren't human, and Zola is being brainwashed by you!"

"Oh! Is she?" Amour looked astonished.

"No." Zola quietly got up from the table and became grim as she stared ahead. Finally, she looked at Shraeu and smiled faintly.

"You are a damn fool," she said, "don't ever question my loyalty."

She turned her head in a gesture of superiority, walking out of the room as she said, "I'll be upstairs, Amour. Keep the noise down."

"Easy enough." Amour had begun voraciously devouring everything in sight and scooted his wife's untouched food closer to himself.

Shraeu bitterly started eating in small amounts here and there but downed every glass of wine poured for him. "Noise?" He inquired.

The wall behind Amour had been obscured by an old, blank tapestry. With a quick movement, Amour pulled at a rope that rolled the tapestry up and out of the way of a painting:

A rather graphic display loomed over the feast...

"Normally, Lieutenant, I work with sculptures and masks, but sometimes I become fully... Awake. I paint. Author new ideas."

"Is that blood? It's all made out of blood?"

Amour had used a victim's own fluids to craft the portrait of a featureless person whose face stretched and contained a dreadful scream. "A good replacement for ink, don't you think?" he mused.

"What have you done?"

"Oh, what have I done? Just wait. We're getting to that."

Amour's eyes dimmed to a much darker shade of crimson. It was as if they were enclosed in faint light, glowing with despair which engulfed his guest.

He stood up and walked in the Lieutenant's direction as Thume trailed behind.

"Finally. FINALLY. I get to discuss my dream with someone—even if it's just you, an incompetent man in a place of power in which he has no business being.

"Even from the beginning, when Zola told me about you, I knew you were of a lesser sort. A man imbibing bottle after bottle, taking credit for work he couldn't possibly do himself. Lieutenant Shraeu—oh, Lieutenant Shraeu, what a fucking joke you are! That's why I can't find it in me to eat you. I can't even make you Beautiful again. But maybe you, too, can laugh."

"Excuse me? W-What the f—"

"As I said, nothing about you really speaks to me as an artist. So, I don't have any use for you in my exhibit—you know what I mean? It's nothing personal; it's just that you don't provide me with inspiration. Still... there's someone who did, albeit for a short while—Mr. Thume, show him."

The butler turned away and slowly took off his mask...

"Listen, Lieutenant Shraeu. This world we inhabit together, it's held by the unworthy—the unwashed. And no," he laughed, "don't be foolish. I'm not talking about celebrities or the big wigs in the Federation, I'm talking about humanity in general."

"I don't understand."

Thume grabbed another object out of a small, dark bag.

"I knew you wouldn't. You see, I've been called—called to be the world's greatest artist; it's a bit of a burden, you'll have to excuse me if I'm feeling a little tired, but the only way I can accomplish my dream is by ridding my memory of one small hiccup, if you will. It stands in the way, obscuring the best of my paintings."

Shraeu said nothing, for his nerves were coming to a peak.

"There is a man who believes I've been unworthy since I was born. The last thing I'll do for myself is take everything away from him. I will make him understand that I am important, that I am needed, Shraeu! Because this world needs me..." Amour's expression hardened as he fixed his eyes on the Lieutenant. Below those foul, red embers, the rest of his face grew dark.

"It needs me," he said, "far more than it needs you."

The butler spun and revealed a different kind of mask, one made from freshly-procured skin, stretched across a backing, and displaying a look of distress from someone whose eyes had been gouged.

"Is this all an act? You know if you put a finger on me, the Bureau will swarm this place! You're absolutely sick, no better than a depraved psych patient, and you should stop while you're ahead, Mr. Bali."

Amour acquired another mask, but this one covered the wearer's face and neck. It was completely black except for a skull that had been welded to it. Attached to the skull, there were horns that had been sanded down into shorter versions.

"Of my creations, this one remains my favorite. Blood portraits are nice, but nothing beats something you can wear!"

Amour fitted the mask over his head and looked down at the Lieutenant. Shraeu went on the defensive and stood while backing away gradually. The madman kept walking toward him, teasing out his anxiety with slow, deliberate steps.

"I need to let you in on a final detail, Lieutenant." His voice had dropped to a deep, solemn whisper that bellowed in a way and in conjunction with an odd resonance.

"W-what? What is it?"

"Thume's mask. Does it look familiar to you?"

"Huh?" Shraeu looked at it. "Uh, no—w-why?"

"Where's your wife, Lieutenant?"

There was a short period of silence that followed.

"In your hunt to kill me," Amour's twisted voice continued to deepen, "did you ever consider checking up on her? While chasing another man's wife, you managed to completely neglect your own..."

"What does—"

Amour was face-to-face with the Lieutenant.

"And now... the painting." He breathed in and out deeply. "The mask. The dinner. She came running right back to you.

"Just in a different form than to what you're accustomed."

"What? Wait... no." Shraeu understood but couldn't let himself accept it. "This. It's all her? This dinner—you fed me... her?"

Amour stepped back. His voice resumed its lighter, more jovial hum. "You will have a place among my paintings, after all, Lieutenant—in my Dream.

"I will fill this empty world with bodies. Corpses made anew. Into purity. Into art. It will be the perfect portrait of entropy, wouldn't you say so? And Zola? She will stand with me as a God, a fellow artist."

"You're lying—you've completely lost it, Amour! I'll won't let you hurt anyone else and neither will the Bureau."

"Mr. Thume..."

The butler handed Amour his shotgun.

Amour sighed and then spoke again, "Fortunately, that's already been taken care of."

"What do you mean? Did you kill all of them, too?"

"Of course not—you think me some barbarian! Really, I'm not that reckless. I mean, I may be a little different in the brain, but that doesn't bring me down to your level. Most certainly not! As it turns out, the Bureau is focused on other problems entirely. But worry only for yourself—would you prefer to be fed to dogs or given over to leopards?"

"I don't—"

Amour blasted the Lieutenant in the face and shouted, "Oops!"

Shraeu's body was splotched in scarlet bright enough to match the one eye it had left.

"Too FUCKING slow!" Amour screamed at the obliterated corpse.

16

Street Struck

\--

Tavon

\--

FOR A WHILE, I ATTRACTED A LOT OF ATTENTION at the Khalil Center, and it was for all the wrong reasons.

By age fifteen, I was already going from fight to fight. To everybody else, I was just a scary kid dressed in wack clothes that smelled like piss and failed to fit me in any complimentary manner. I'd been there long enough for other students to have an idea about where I'd come from, so most kids didn't try to bother with me too much, they just gawked.

And the others... well...

The strongest guy I ever got into with at school was my very first harasser: someone who was about to leave after having failed for two consecutive years and who took his frustration out on the rest of the school.

He left me with a few scrapes and bruises, but it seemed like whatever I'd been taught about combat in the past kept rearing its head more and more often. I hit him a total of five times, and he gave up once he'd passed out for a moment and became conscious enough to flee in a different direction.

After that initial confrontation, everyone wanted a piece of "T, the bully." Bully. I know, right? So, during that time, I generally thought: Fuck it. If that's what they want me to be, then I'll give it to them.

I took on individuals as well as larger groups with varying success. It's funny because the real tough dudes in school were the only ones holding back and leaving me mostly alone. I guess I always got the idiots, and, in hindsight, I was lucky no one ever pulled a gun on me. But, as you can imagine, I was a troubled kid—at least, that's how the Headmaster viewed it.

That man wanted nothing more than to find reasons to expel me. I'd kept roughing up the wrong guys, kids who were part of wealthier families. These families started to consider other schools because I chose to defend myself. They threatened lawsuits until they eventually found out exactly how I lived.

There was no money in trying to sue us.

Jerik Sandeze stayed on the streets in the Third Quadrant, and for years he'd managed to sustain us, coming close once to owning his own shop. But Eze wasn't all there sometimes, and that's probably the reason why he always fell so short of his goals. He swore to me that he wasn't shooting up anymore, but the truth was that he'd just learned to hide it better. Luckily, I'd gotten off that stuff and dealt with the withdrawals during my fourteenth birthday.

Anubis had stuck around for a time but got to be more absent over the years; he never aged in the slightest.

I started out as a good student because I had nothing else to keep me company but books and Khalil's endless tide of exams that demanded excessive hours of study. It was the only real measure of my importance—to be honest, though, I feel like fighting did even more to build my confidence. Eventually, someone was able to see a person underneath my growing hostility toward the outside world.

\--

I was in my Composition class as we were getting handed our graded essays after a month of wondering if I'd completely fucked it up this time; I'm not a good writer. More importantly, Eze had endured pretty extraordinary stress from dealing with the overwhelming amount of complaints about my actions at the Khalil Center. All I could do to salvage my reputation was maintain decent grades.

Everyone was assigned a computer and portable virtual headsets that linked to the school network, allowing students to send in assignments from home. Actually, the institution had its very own class on how to operate the headset because its design was complex to most of us. Since I spent so much time alone, I came to understand that thing well.

Professor Aloc Norlin stood in front of the class and viewed information stored within his virtual headset through an opaque visor that lit up with visuals we couldn't see. All that was visible happened to be the blankness of my own screen me as I anxiously waited for the results.

The kid next to where I was seated, a rich boy who hadn't been missing any meals, started looking at me and then glancing back to the screen displayed by his headset. He boasted, "Just watch, T! I'll be a professional writer starting today—I know I killed that dumbass essay. Ay, if you want any tips, man, just lemme know. I got you covered," he punctuated this with a patronizing wink.

"T don't want no tips from your fat, bumbly ass!" exclaimed another kid only a few seats down.

"Shut up!" the chubby kid retorted. "Who are you to talk, anyways? You got a dog face—you just mad 'cuz your mamma forgot you at the dumpster thinking you were the family pet ya'll couldn't take care of!"

"How about you try sayin' that again, you stupid—!"

"Hey!" Norlin's intimidating voice shook the two of them as it thundered throughout the classroom.

"Both of you settle down or I'm failing you for this rating period!"

The damage was already done, though, as the class had erupted in laughter and cries of "Tell him 'bout it!" and "Yeah! Get his ass good!"

"All right—all right now, this your final warning before I fail ALL of you! Chill out. What's gotten into you kids..." The look of disappointment he expressed sobered everyone's attitude.

"Yes, Professor Norlin." the class responded reluctantly.

There was a piercing emission that echoed across the room—

He'd uploaded the results online.

I clicked on a link and viewed a paper I'd titled: "Marketing As A Lifestyle." We were supposed to write an essay about a subject, any subject we felt we knew the best. My entire topic was about how difficult it was trying to generate an income when one had nothing.

I looked to see that I'd gotten a ninety percent on my paper; In a comment box to the side, Professor Norlin had typed: "This is an interesting take on the mentalities of people struggling to move from one income level to the next. I know you have it in you to do great work, Tavon, but you need to stay out of trouble to make it to that point."

"What the fuck!"

The boisterous kid from earlier had received a score of ten percent, with a note: "This whole thing is plagiarized, but I gave you a ten for spelling your name right. See me after school."

"Is something wrong, Mr. Eason?"

Eason stood up, struggled for a second to peer over at my screen results, and clenched his fists.

"Yeah! Fucking rat-boy hobo," he stuttered, "got a better score than me! If anybody plagiarized, it's him! I'm innocent! Sir, T's too stupid to spell!"

"Mr. Eason, that doesn't make any sense. Go on and sit your ignorant self down already."

"Yeah, Eason!" another kid chimed in, "You heard 'em, that's your cardio for the day!"

Eason threw his headset and walked toward the door. "Man, fuck all you guys—"

"Watch your mouth, Mr. Eason!" Norlin warned.

"Fuck you, too. I'm out." Eason slammed the door behind him.

"Ay yo, you just gonna let him talk to you like that, Teach? You gonna write him up?" a girl in the class asked.

Professor Norlin rested his hands on the podium at the end of the room and shook his head.

"I don't believe in trying to get one over on people—especially a student." He stood upright and grew somber; Norlin liked giving dramatic lectures:

"Teachers volunteer themselves into a position to assist the next generation's growth. If I see someone failing in my class, then I see it as a reflection of my own ability to educate. Therefore, it's not on me to punish some punk and get him in trouble. He'll work his way through his own problems and come back when he's ready."

Norlin was a hell of a guy and someone I'd always had incredible respect for.

I did him so much wrong.

The professor confronted me after class. Before he'd become an instructor, Aloc Norlin had modeled for a series of advanced supplements supposedly used now by Enrec soldiers. Steroid use had come a long way historically, and so Norlin was also one of the bulkiest dudes I'd ever seen. Overall, he'd a macho, likable personality.

Norlin reached out to me for the first time and said, "Word is you've got hands to throw, Mr. Tavon."

I laughed. "What?"

"Everybody tells me to watch out for you: Big Bad T." Norlin chuckled and patted me on the shoulder. "You got the whole school afraid to fight you. They say you've been whoopin' on some people, is that right?"

"I don't really know what they say. I don't care about what they think, Teach. Ever since I've been here, people avoid me. I'm not like these kids."

"Ain't nobody want you to be like them. I know you've got a lot of pent up anger, don't you?"

"How would you know that?"

"Boy, it's obvious." He scoffed. "All you do is keep to yourself and somehow still end up in silly fights. You show up to class all torn and beaten up, so are you winning or losing?"

Norlin stared at me; he was blind in one eye.

"Winning."

"Good." Norlin grinned. "Because there's something I'm going to show you that I think you'll come to appreciate..."

Norlin was one of the wealthiest people in the Third Quadrant, but he wasn't known for showing off anything he had or owned. Despite this, there was one amenity he'd decided to share with the world:

A dojo.

\--

Other fellas and I liked to call Professor Norlin's place "the dojo." As it happens, he'd purchased a two-story house and renovated the first floor so that it matched the kind of facility used by one of the previous cultures previous to the First Rift.

The dojo was a sparse, open area that was enhanced with subtle calligraphy and walls and flooring that reflected a mostly vanilla setting. Norlin had strategically placed incense around the dojo and kept a statue of Saint Avva next to Lord Isolakandi at the center of the room. Norlin used the dojo to train small groups of kids from the Center. His plan was to become a renowned fighting coach, to train a crew of talent to compete with other champions in the Citadel.

Competitive fighting was a tiered system structured by the Dawn Federation. Age wasn't necessarily important past a certain limit; anyone capable could give it a shot and try to represent the Citadel as the best combatant. Not only that, but the money involved often made it a lucrative opportunity.

Norlin's specialty was in rustic street fighting, slightly informed by remnants of old martial arts having been recovered from the Old World. He passed down a peculiar style which enabled his disciples to become rather effective in combat.

By this time, I'd already developed into an arrogant little punk. Running into conflict all the time at the Center had given me an attitude, and I'd come to believe that I could ground anybody into the dust. I was just begging for people to fuck with me, because I didn't have anything else but my reputation. Eze was getting older and seemed to be losing his mind as the months dragged on. It was up to me to let people know who I was.

When Norlin had first taken me to his private gym, I remember looking at the other kids like they were... lesser.

I believed that I was the only one worthy to call myself a true brawler, but little did I know that it'd be the first time I met Isaac Reaver and before he walked the streets under a different name. He was a lot bigger than me and a lot stronger and he ate healthy, in part because his parents were around to support him. Isaac's dad kept food on the table while working as a successful dealer in the projects.

I walked into that dojo to the sound of Big L's "Street Struck" playing on an advanced speaker system that was just a thick, metallic disc installed on the ceiling. Isaac was already at it with another kid the same age who was built like me.

I'd never seen someone swing so quick, and I remember watching Isaac transition from pounding this dude in the head into a submission that had him choking his opponent out with the use of his calf muscles.

After Norlin declared Isaac the victor, the boy looked at me and piped up: "What, this little brat wants some, too? None of you chumps want a piece of the Third Quadrant Champion. Actually, nah—fuck that—I can do better: let me have a serious fight with you, Teach, I wanna test what I got!"

"Hey now," Norlin said, "don't be getting too ahead of yourself! Start small! –And, boy, stop CURSING in my gym!" Norlin scolded.

"Whatever, pops. I'm finna give the world the one-two fuck up, slap a man, render him another fool stuck-up."

Norlin sighed. "Be quiet. Say, isn't your mother that one lady who swears to Avva that she still spanks you?"

Immediately, the rest of the kids at the dojo burst into laughter.

"That's not funny—s-shut up!"

"Oh yeah? Why don't you take that anger out on the newcomer here then, huh? Let's see if a newbie can outwit you in a fair match!"

"But it's not fair! I just fought, pops! I'm dam—darn tired," Isaac complained.

"What, you scared or something? Afraid little T's gonna knock you off your game?"

Isaac clenched his fists. "Hell naw! I'll beat him, too. Let's go, punk!"

One of the other kids quickly interrupted, "Yo Rise, I don't know, man. I seen that cat drop some kid just the other day—T's skill is real dope, on Avva."

I walked forward until I was only a short distance away from Isaac and smirked.

"I hope you're strong. Everybody else backs down on their promises."

"Just fight me already, kid."

My forearm flashed forward into Isaac's chest, and he started to fall back. He caught himself and looked very, very taken aback.

"What the... aww shit!"

Isaac rushed at me, trying to clumsily ram himself into my stomach using his head—

So I reached my hands out and pushed back against his scalp while tearing through a few baby hairs! Even with all of his available force, Isaac was sent back a few steps, and so he slid under my grasp and threw an uppercut—

Which narrowly missed my jaw as I tilted my head up and back! I quickly turned to the side and hurled my knee into his solar plexus, and he fell to the ground gasping for air for a brief few seconds.

"Easy now, T!" Norlin bellowed. "Don't punish him too much or you'll hit his pride."

I nodded in compliance and backed away.

Isaac got to his knees and punched the ground; he shouted, "Maaan, this kid's cheatin'!"

Someone in the audience jeered at him. "How's he cheating, eh?"

"B-because his ass is over here using metal plates in his knee!"

"Boy, he does not have metal plates in his knee!" Norlin responded.

"But h-he's just!"

"Better than you!"

Isaac shook his head. "No! I'm not about to let him sleep on me like that. I'll win this."

He lunged at me, launching three swift, powerful jabs in my direction. Taken off-guard, one of the blows landed on my cheek and caused my right eye to swell. As I ducked, the second punch scraped against the top of my head—and, by the third hit, I was crouched underneath his arm in order to send a strike directly into the bottom of his nose.

Isaac lurched back while holding his broken septum, and I stepped in to finish the fight when—

"Tavon! Enough, boy! I think he gets it."

Isaac pushed me before stomping away to sit in the corner and isolate himself from us all.

Professor Norlin shook his head. "Don't be such a bad sport, Rise, we still need you out there swinging! Go practice your form with somebody on the same level!"

He looked at me and said, "As for you... hmph." he chuckled. "You're gonna take on the king of the dojo himself, Teach Norlin!" He puffed out his chest and exuded an admirable pride.

The mention of that sent me into a slight state of panic. I mean, I was good but definitely not ready to take on someone who did this professionally.

—But it was too late...

Aloc Norlin charged forward and used his momentum to leap and twirl his body; he nailed me in the chest with a kick strong enough to hurl me across the room! I got up as rapidly as I could and reacted in time to dodge another kick that sailed above my head! I stepped forward to strike his abdomen, but he blocked my attack with one forearm! I then rotated my body and aligned my fist to land on his side—but it was deflected away by the deft movement of the palm of his hand.

Norlin got closer and struck me across the jaw with the top of his right wrist, then he brought it back again to hit me on the opposite side. I tried to send a kick his way, and he raised his knee in time to stop me, proceeding to push me into the ground. Norlin folded his arms across his chest but relaxed after having measured my abilities.

"That's good." He nodded encouragingly. "But it's not all you're made of! Get up!"

I used my abs to leap into a stand and generated the momentum to lunge forward and throw an uppercut into his solar plexus in the same manner I'd used before to finish Isaac!

Once again, Norlin moved his forearm to block my strike—

Then I shifted into a stance that allowed me to use my elbow to slide past his defenses—I landed a controlled blow to his sternum.

Although I'd been quick and strategic, Norlin narrowly evaded the attack and stepped inside of my guard. He then proceeded to use his wrists as tools to continuously batter me.

But I refused to quit! After feeling my vision fade in and out, coupled with the sensation of blood running down my face, I focused so that I could regain my orientation and charged toward Norlin again! Recalling the beatdown I'd suffered all those years ago when I was a street urchin, I sent a haymaker his way but stopped short, causing Norlin to try to block before moving inside of my guard once again.

I spun and balled my fist in preparation for a left haymaker that he in turn ducked. Norlin held his posture and, with his hands tucked close to his body, began boxing me again using only his wrists!

Most of his strikes landed square across my body. Every time I tried to attack, it felt as if I were hitting sheer blocks of stone when he deflected my constant flailing. I lunged in for one quick jab I thought would turn the tides in my favor and reeled back as his fist collided with the center of my forehead and sent me spiraling toward the embrace of the cold flooring as my waking mind faded from the present world.

\--

When I came to—which was only a few moments later—I opened my eyes to see every other kid in the dojo looking at me like a damn zoo animal.

"T's got it in him, fellas!" Norlin announced, "Now that's someone who can make a name for himself in the ring—shiiit, my old trainer used to beat my ass on the regular!" He looked at me with a more serious expression. "But that's something you can overcome, am I right? You learn how to outmatch me, and you could prove to be the best in the Junior League..."

\--

I didn't know how I was able to handle myself so well, and they all laughed at me whenever I swore that I couldn't remember anything from my childhood in later conversations. I didn't think it'd be too wise to tell anyone that I'd woken up on a cruiser smuggling organs, and so I kept up appearances by saying that Eze was my real father. And... he was.

If it wasn't for him, I might've just ended up as another statistic.

It wasn't long after I'd begun training with Norlin that Eze started wondering why I would always come home so late. When I was sixteen, we finally managed to score ourselves the cheapest, dirtiest apartment room that we shared with another group of junkies. The only thing that separated us from them was a divider made from paper, wood, and cloth. To Sandeze, this was the furthest he'd recalled coming in his life. That fool inevitably gave up his dream of living large and imagined that he'd spend the rest of his days as a street bum. But I refused to go with that plan, and I'd put in work—with some help from Norlin—to assist in securing us a place so that we wouldn't be wandering throughout the year. I was tired of trying to figure out how to get to school while the one taking care of me was too lost in a stupid habit.

Worse still, the Khalil Center was adapting to new changes put in place by the Federation. Because President Derek had recently set up a legal system that allowed for the filing of personal lawsuits, the heads of education in the Citadel decided to rethink how their student body went to class altogether. It wasn't long before they were encouraging students to educate themselves from home using a virtual reality simulator. Instead of physically having to be present in a building, the next generation were about to start utilizing avatars of themselves in simulations that would have them going about a regularly perceived day at "school." With the same avatars, students could easily get by all forms of discrimination and interact with digital environments that posed no real threats to their safety.

Obviously, this caused a lot of citizens to protest against the change in education. The majority of schools run by the government were soon to switch over to this system; on the other side of the argument, parents argued that this gave local syndicate members all the opportunity they needed to start recruiting from their own home towns.

So, I'm afraid, the private sector of schools eventually went bankrupt after virtual classes took over as the more convenient trend.

Eze was ecstatic about this because it meant I'd be free to help him sell his useless junk again. But I was done with that shit—I'd been finished with it a long time ago, after Officer Rowlo had tried to beat on us.

Rather, I thought my future would be in fighting. Teach Norlin kept giving me pep talks while I trained at the dojo, and so I was convinced that I'd move to a professional level and find out what kind of person existed at the top of the Junior League. There were stories of grown men losing to the youngest punks because they were "gifted"—whatever the hell that meant. I intended to find out because maybe those kids and I had something in common, and I needed to know, so I did something I regret to this day...

\--

I was in the dojo with only Isaac and Norlin. After I'd beaten down High Rise, we'd started growing on each other once he'd taught me about basketball—something at which he was far better—and now here he was, focusing solely on ways to help me improve in what I was good at.

"Stance, T! Focus on your posture, brother!" Isaac shouted.

I was battling it out with Teach again and still having my ass handed to me every time I managed to get to my feet. By now, Norlin had come up with a new nickname for me:

"Boy, get up and throw your hits like a man! C'mon, Knockdown! Don't let me keep handing it to you, Knockdown T!"

Norlin locked his hands together over his head and brought them downward!

–Only for them to catch air as I evaded the attack and stayed at his side while I launched a fist into his ribcage. I then jumped slightly in order to follow up by rotating my body to deliver a powerful kick into his back!

With inhuman speed, he caught my foot while simultaneously stopping the full weight of my gathered speed! Norlin slammed me on the ground with ease and broke out into a hearty laugh.

"You're learning, Knockdown! Go clean yourself up and we'll talk about setting up your first public match!"
17

Dfari

\--

Tavon

\--

I ENTERED THE DOJO AGAIN AFTER WASHING the blood off my bruised face. Norlin never held back when he was instructing, and I always caught the brunt of it since I was his "star pupil."

"Hey, Teach!" I said.

"What's up, little Knockdown?"

"I didn't go this week." I never felt ashamed of it until talking to him about it.

He laughed. "Go to what?"

"I've been skipping school to train..."

"What?" His expression turned serious. "That's impossible—you've been in my class!"

With the recent shift in education, most private institutions were doing everything they could to retain their current students and avoid losing revenue. I could get away with a lot more now than you'd think.

"Yeah... just yours, Teach.

"I feel like you've actually got wisdom to say to us in there—and-and with the new shit getting put in place, they don't really seem to care if you show up anymore."

"You mean to tell me they've just been letting you leave?" Norlin folded his arms and looked furious. "No accountability whatsoever, and that's why you got these cats on the street growing up like born criminals! No parents around, no responsibility taken; they leave these kids to figure out their lives for themselves in this damn... jungle."

"I'm sorry, Teach."

"Who you been trainin' with then?" Norlin seemed curious.

Isaac interrupted, "Yo, Teach, we been getting the guys together to box around at Dreme Park."

"Aw, you shittin' me! Who's allowing kids to street fight? Who's about to pay for it when one of you fools get seriously hurt?"

"We got it, Teach! You the one who trained us, so what do you expect?"

"At this rate, I might as well become a full-time coach." Norlin chuckled. "With all the potential here, this dojo could do a lot for the Third Quad—but listen!" He became stern. "All of you—including the other guys that come here—ALL of you will go to your classes until the government drops public attendance altogether."

"Aww c'mon, Teach!" Isaac complained.

Professor Norlin sighed. "They've already given me the virtual tools. I'll be teaching from home soon, so I have more time to try to work with this community. But that doesn't change the fact that I still have a job to do, and I expect you fellas to do right by the Khalil Center. It held out as long as it could, you know."

By the time the Khalil Center had begun to shut down months later, I was preparing for my first match.

\--

At sixteen years old, I competed against a lower-ranking Third Quadrant fighter. I felt nervous as the eyes of hundreds watched the battle. My opponent was some dark-haired, bulky kid who'd been trying too hard to make himself look tough as he glared at me. I waited impatiently while the announcer finished introductions, and soon he gave us the signal to go.

Like I said, I was nervous—meaning, I couldn't wait to unleash what I'd learned and see how he reacted.

The other combatant cautiously sized me up before swiftly moving in with his hands guarding his face. He threw a few quick jabs that I stopped using my forearms, and then he switched to low blows before...

I struck him with the end of my elbow, immediately knocking him unconscious.

The crowd went silent. I searched around awkwardly for approval or at least something. But, once the referee announced me as the winner, there were cheers going up all around me.

Just because he was Teach Norlin, the professor started shouting: "Knockdown T! Knockdown T!"

Everybody else began repeating it, and I sighed as I realized that Norlin was going to make fun of me for the rest of my career with that stupid-ass nickname.

\--

Honestly, that's how the majority of my fights went: one good hit sent them all down for the count and, specifically, when it came to the lower-ranked contestants. It's a shame, but I spent a long time trying to move up in the ranks; it's just that there were so many fools trying to make it to the top for just a little bit of glory. For me, it became a journey to find someone strong like Teach. I wanted a fight that would bring everything out of me—something that would make me feel the thrill of a hard-earned victory.

To help in my journey, Norlin added in a weight lifting portion to my training, and damn was that man almost as surprised as I when we found out that I could heft an unbelievable amount for my age. There was a time when he desperately wanted to see how well I could perfect my bench, and everybody knew that Norlin was the reigning champion of that exercise. He was once used to lifting six hundred but was now benching at four hundred and seventy-five on a good day.

The first time I touched the barbell, I almost dropped the weight on myself. But, after a little practice and only two months of constant lifting, I'd reached a max of three hundred and fifty. My progress was amazing...

It would only go up from there.

I'd already been abnormally strong, but the room for growth was something I'd never expected. As I slowly but surely moved up in the Third Quadrant amateur ranking, I brought in a small amount of prize money. It wasn't anything much, but I always brought a little bit of it to Eze to help with the rent. He was going through a phase again where he sold on the streets a few times a week to stay afloat but mainly stayed at home and kept getting high. New drugs were in the Third Quad, drugs I didn't care to know about because I was always at the dojo.

When he wasn't beating me with his wrists and yelling out his critiques during practice, Professor Norlin sometimes went off into history lectures. He's where I learned everything I needed to understand about the Citadel and the Dawn Federation...

"You already know, T, that Derek, Avva, Khalil, and Ishida are typically viewed as heroes, right?"

"Are they not?"

He smirked. "Not exactly. They were a group of mercs, contractors who fought in a war for this city. You see, the Citadel's been here longer than the Federation. It was owned by three different factions at the time when Enrec was still a mercenary company. Derek and the rest of the Enrec Warlords waged a secret war with those they perceived as rivals and kept pitting them against each other until they were hired by the strongest force to eliminate the rest. And, would you believe it, Enrec used all of its resources to take out the opposition before turning on the faction that hired them. This is common knowledge, Knockdown, so you should know this."

"I don't, Teach. I missed that lesson."

"But you have the new system at home, right?"

I shook my head. "No. My family can't keep up with the cost— 'virtual' isn't cheap."

"That's a damn shame, Knockdown." Norlin sighed. "Looks like the universe needs me to teach your ass everything. As I was saying, the Dawn Federation's oldest enemy is Alandra. It's a group of six cities in the World Below and to the South, and their people live the same way we do, but the Federation has this crazy dream of making its borders bigger and bigger. If you ask me, boy, those big-league fools in the government want to do the same thing our ancestors did: reunite the world for the sake of profit."

Professor Norlin coughed and thought briefly.

"An impossible dream. You can't reunite a world we no longer understand. Any hope humans had of 'normal' disappeared eons ago. These days, we live next these... others.

"You can call them aliens or monsters or whatever you want—the thing is, Knockdown, many of them can talk and think like us. Many of them look just like us, but the world isn't ready to come together as one community. We have enough divisiveness within our own families—I mean, brothers grow up in the same country and somehow end up on opposite sides of a fire fight. Forget about all that, though." He put his hand on my shoulder.

"Just keep your head where it's at, Knockdown. Don't let this world corrupt you, no matter how much a fight changes who you are."

"Got it, Teach."

\--

Later that day, I won another competition; in fact, it was my final fight before I was able to enter a contest that would decide the Third Quadrant's official Champion. It'd been more than a year since I'd met Isaac, and it was the first time I'd ever seen him act the way he did...

I washed my face and looked at myself in the bathroom mirror.

High Rise walked in and seemed excited. His dad had been shot and ruthlessly slain three months ago, and his mom was getting sick... too sick to keep up with incoming bills. Isaac had been both broken and heavily stressed for a time, but this was the first that I'd seen him genuinely happy since then. He walked up to me and looked around before lowering his tone.

"Ay T, I got a proposition for ya."

"If it's about another basketball bet, you can—"

"Nah,"—he nudged me—"I'm serious, brother." Isaac rubbed his hands together eagerly. "You remember my cousin Dfari, right?"

I started laughing. "You mean that fool with the ugly line-up?"

"Bro!" He bumped me again. "My guy's got connections. All this cheap cash you been gettin' for fighting professionally? Dfari's crew can top that easy."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean motherfuckin' dough, man. Real cash! You're not hearing me, so let me break it down real quick:

"Junior League ain't shit, bro. It's not the big leagues, and the big leagues are taken over by a bunch of rich cats who paid their ways into those matches! All the hyped-up competitions are rigged, I know it. Plus, dude, the money you get from takin' hits isn't enough for you to live on—but I got you.

"My moms couldn't afford the 'virtual game' neither, so I gotta grind and do what my father did, see? Not only am I going to end the punk who killed my dad, but I'm going to make two times over whatever he got for doin' it—that's not all, T! Yo, Dfari's crew been watching you, win after win; they know it's going to take too much time for you to make it big, they know it's not gonna be worth it...

"I think they want you to work for them, man."

"And what's Dfari about, huh? What's his 'crew' up to?"

Isaac exhaled, "They just about gettin' the money, T. You don't have to think about it all ethically. They'll set you up if you do right by them, brother. They already know you the best fighter, so they want to use you for security."

"Security for what?"

"On... —on jobs, man." He avoided my gaze. "You know, like making packages get where they're supposed to or—or providing extra muscle on a job."

"Yeah, but what is the job? Why you being cryptic, Rise? It's just me here, man. Why'd you stop training with Teach, anyways? He been asking about you."

Isaac reached into his backpack and searched the room again before showing me stacks of Citadel currency neatly bundled together.

My eyes went wide. "Yo! You hit it big, Rise!"

"You know it!" Isaac zipped his bag up again and slung it across his back. "So, what you think? You down to do a man's job?"

"I... I guess I can see what's up with it." I scratched my head, feeling uncertain, and laughed nervously.

\--

I might've told you that I wasn't very intelligent. This is true because I thought my first job for Dfari's crew would be as a delivery boy or something you'd see in a crime film.

After I hesitantly agreed, I was told to report to the corner of some streets I don't exactly remember since they moved spots so frequently.

I arrived to find a tall, lanky older kid wearing shades and who'd braided his hair. He was leaning on the side of a building next to a short, bald brat much younger than me and who stood out on the corner shouting names I'd never heard before.

They noticed me as they walked up and quickly sprang into action—running to confront me like I'd disrespected them somehow. The tall one spoke while staring me down: "You the one Dfari been talkin' about? You Knockdown T? The REAL Knockdown T?"

I stood there for a moment, quiet, until he yelled, "Well? Say something!"

"Yeah," I said, "but I'm just 'T'—I don't need nicknames like that."

"Shit. Whatever." The taller guy smiled and shook my hand. "I'm just playin' with you, I know who you are. Name's Vic."

The shorter kid did the same and chimed in, "Little."

"Little?" I jeered.

"Yeah." Little got serious.

He reached behind his back to pull out a glock that he aimed at my face.

"But that don't mean you gotta laugh."

I put my hands up. "My bad, Little. Wasn't trying to make fun of you!"

"Good. That's smart, T." He put the gun away, shook his head, and smiled. "Wasn't loaded anyways. You're good peoples—Here, hit this; you're gonna be here for a while."

Little handed me my first properly rolled blunt, and it's a gesture I still think about to this day.

\--

I kept imagining that something was going to pop off on my first shift. All we did was stand on the corner and take cash from strangers. After receiving the money, we'd tell them where to go and rotate said locations every time. The Third Quadrant had a lot of opportunities as far as good stash houses go, and Dfari only entrusted us with smaller amounts of the product. There were two other cells the same size as us operating on the fringes of the Third Quadrant, and we'd fortunately been given space to work in the very center of the district's activity.

They told me I didn't have to say anything. I'd grown into a more sizable individual and so was ordered by Vic to "look tough." The only reason I was there was to make those two appear more intimidating if we were approached by someone trying to disrespect Dfari's name. So, that was what I did, which was essentially nothing at all—but, at the same time, I was warned that I'd fulfill a more essential role when they needed me.

At the end of our workday, an old, rusted cruiser arrived at our spot. The driver rolled down a tinted window and revealed himself to be Dfari.

Dfari was around eighteen years old and much shorter than anyone else. He'd stubble across his jaw and was missing an eye—in a way, it made him seem more fearsome. It was rumored that, although he wasn't intimidating, per se, Dfari had killed three people when he was a younger foot soldier for the crew.

He called Little over and handed the young kid a backpack much like the one Isaac had been wearing; he said, "Split it between yourself and Vic, and..."

Our eyes met.

"Tell the newbie to get in the whip."

I did as he asked and was surprised to find Isaac in the passenger seat. Dfari was a man of few words, as I started finding out when he tossed me another backpack and never glanced back as he spoke.

"I'm told you're stronger than most. If that's so, then we can use you, take care of you. High Rise, explain things to your subordinate."

"That's my boy!" Isaac shouted. "Look at you gettin' your grind on. Dfari's boss has something big planned for a group of us. He said it'll take some time to put together, but D's requested you take part, Knockdown!"

"As long as I don't miss a fight."

I didn't want to come off as disrespectful, but I had my own priorities. "I'm entering the contest to be Third Quadrant's Champion..."

Dfari laughed but kept his eyes fixed on the road.

"Listen man," Isaac said with a frown, "you gotta start thinkin' on bigger things. My father was a banger, you feel me? He did what he had to so he could put food on the table and afford what we needed—but now!" He shook his head. "I'm in the slums tryin' to make sure my mom gets the right medication. The fuckin' doc won't diagnose her right, and he keeps charging us for his mistakes."

"I'm sorry, Rise." I said.

Dfari pulled up to one of the more expensive apartment complexes in the Third Quadrant, one that actually had hot running water and its own kitchen, but it was normally reserved for the working class in the area.

Dfari spoke confidently, "Tell him, Rise."

"Ay, brother," Isaac's cheerful demeanor had returned, "you see this place here?"

"I'm not blind."

"But you see it, right? Jurulian Apartments?"

"Yeah, idiot! Why?"

"It can be yours."

"What?"

Isaac smiled. "If we pull off this next job, we can afford our own rooms here—and Dfari's boss knows the manager. He can guarantee we end up with a spot!

"My mom's gonna come live here so I can get her out of that mess!"

\--

The following few days I kept going to the corner to watch over Little and Vic, who both quickly grew on me. Though they didn't necessarily show it, they both respected for who I was and had witnessed my abilities in a fight. Because of them, I made enough money to afford a virtual reality system for school, but I gave most of it to Eze so that he could make the purchase and feel better about himself as a guardian.

Unfortunately, he never bought the system. Instead, that money went toward a larger quantity of Graidol for his own use.

It's my fault that he slipped.

All because of that morning.

\--

I'd woken up late for work and was hurrying to get dressed while Eze decided to finally confront me with every question he'd ever had:

"So, you skip school for weeks and you wanna act like it's all good, eh? Why the change of heart, T? The only company I have now is Anubis—and he's barely here either!"

I snorted. "Look, Eze, it's probably because all you do is get high."

"Excuse me?" He was taken aback.

"Don't talk like you don't know!" I raised my voice.

It was the first time I'd ever legitimately been mad at Eze.

"You used to be so ambitious, pops! You wanted to move up in the world and become some yuppie big shot. Then you started getting money, realized you could grab more than you needed for your fix, and now everything you got goes to more fucking drugs!"

"It's not like you don't come home smellin' like weed, kid."

"That's beside the point! I'm always helping you pay the bills—"

"And you should." Eze was curt.

"No!" I shouted. "I shouldn't! I pay for everything around here!"

"By scrappin' and sellin', what else is new."

I couldn't believe him. It was as if he didn't remember how hard I'd worked for him on the streets before I attended the Khalil Center. I chose to calm down for a second and said, "Look... I do what I gotta do. For us."

"You do it for yourself, T! I didn't ask you to buy me a 'K Cell'—or whatever they call it! I didn't ask for a new couch or TV or any of this!"

He kept yelling, "I wanted you to keep doing what you needed to do in school! I wanted you to graduate and become something big, not throw away your dreams banging on corners! You could be a doctor—or a successful manager—but you're choosing a goddamn gang over your own true values. I told you once and I'll just as soon tell you again: God is looking at you. Don't you realize it?"

"Whatever, old man..."

I walked away from him without another word and headed into the world outside when he shouted: "I'm not wasting hard-earned money on a virtual school since you wanna act like this—A-and don't bother coming back if this is how you want to live! I don't support what they do, Tavon... I hate what you've done to yourself."

\--

I worked the corner that day and was getting to know Little and Vic better when I got a call on an old cell phone I'd purchased, a call from Professor Norlin.

"Knockdown T!" he exclaimed. "It's a bit short notice, but I finally got you in!"

"Got me in?"

Vic and Little stared at me curiously.

"People in the Third Quadrant been watching some of your wins, boy, and a petition went around requesting that you fight the current Champion of the Quad. This is real big, Knockdown; it's your first shot at real fame—you'd be able to rep your home if you won!"

At last, my big break. Maybe I could go beyond my current lifestyle. I'd prove Eze wrong.

"When is it?" I was eager but cautious. "Like a few weeks from now, because I'd like to prac—"

"It's tonight at eight."

"What?"

"You'd better be at my dojo, because HE asked to challenge you there!"

"What's the guy's name?"

"I don't know—I think it starts with a 'B' or 'D' or something, but win this match, T..." Norlin stuttered, seemingly overcome with emotion. "Son, you could change your whole life."
18

Shook Ones

\--

Janelle

\--

"HOW CAN YOU JUST SIT THERE AND TELL your life story when we've been fucking captured!" Aaliyah yelled, "You're insane!"

Detective Aaliyah and Tavon had been bound to wooden chairs on the top floor of a rather immense building. Curiously enough, they were surrounded by office suites with only panes of glass as well as glass doors dividing each individual room. They were being held in a black, monochrome-themed conference chamber and were both seated side-by-side before an elongated, oak table.

The two of them had been left alone with each other for over two hours now, Tavon having decided to keep talking to pass the time.

"I'm not worried."

He smiled very cheerfully.

"Motherfucka." She glared back. "I don't know why, but I always end up with the crazy ones... people like you with no fuckin' sens—"

"Aaliyah, I could've broken out of here a long time ago." He said sternly, "You know what I am by now, don't you?"

"Yeah, I think I got th—"

"So you know I don't give up."

She spoke more softly, "I just wanna know why you'd casually sit around. What about Zola and the Lieutenant? You saw our kidnappers, right?"

"That's why..."

"What?" Aaliyah was confused.

"It's called recon. If they think they have you, sometimes they'll give up a little more about themselves than they normally would—well, that is if they're going to end up killing us. Regardless, Aaliyah, the whole point is to see our enemy before they see us."

"But they obviously see us—they tied us up, you fool!"

"But they may not know enough. Easy. The goal here is to find out what these guys are and how to go about stopping them. Don't worry, I'll handle it."

Aaliyah's face reddened. "Don't tell me that shit! I can fend for myself, Tavon!"

Tavon remained serious. "Do you have your gun?"

"No. Does it look li—"

"Then you can't! Not against those things that got me." Tavon moaned as he tried to stretch. "That crash messed me up more than I thought."

"You need to see a doctor. Tell them to get you a d—"

"Aaliyah!" Tavon growled in a more irritated tone. "I'm not worried. Just relax."

"How the f—"

"Keep listening to my story. It's helping me focus. I've got to in order to win."

"Someone's a little presumptuous, don't you think? You know they give us classes in combatives, right?"

"Sure. Whatever. But what we're about to deal with is above anything human. These guys are capable of slaughtering on a mass level."

"Don't be so dramatic." Aaliyah sighed.

"We'll see them again soon; this fight's not over."

"You're an idiot."

\--

Tavon

\--

The reigning Champion of the Third Quadrant was a kid my age. He'd taken the title when he was fourteen, and he'd become the hardest challenge since my bouts with Norlin; damn, he was such an angry dude.

I returned to the dojo, feeling unease for the very first time.

Stepping into that gym, I imagined that there was someone worthy enough to take on. I just couldn't see him in the crowd that had gathered around a central arena.

Norlin was making good money as the host of the fight and was proud to see his personal project move on toward the heights of the Junior League. It was disheartening in a way, as I recall Teach falling out of shape over time and putting on weight. He met one of the other kid's moms at an event, and the relationship that came of it was the only thing that could take his mind off fighting.

Once Norlin lost his original passion for the sport, he resorted to only lifting lighter weights and his own upcoming retirement. Also, the old man accumulated enough wealth to easily take care of himself, and so Norlin wasn't around to train me as often as I grew older.

I regretted his change in character upon hearing Norlin announce the beginning of the fight:

I stood across from a fierce, muscular kid who stood several inches taller than me. His face was locked into the most determined expression, and fear seemed to be absent from his mind. The kid's head was shaved, but his lower face was covered with a five-o-clock shadow.

"Get ready, folks!" Norlin's voice boomed.

He was a Mobb Deep fan and played the opening to "Shook Ones" on his sound system before turning it off at the match's commencement.

"We're fortunate enough to have here today the two greatest fighters in the whole Quad!

"On the left, we've got the ever heavy-hittin' superstar: KNOCKDOWN T!"

A small portion of the audience, mostly composed of those from the Khalil Center, cheered and chanted my name. It was strange to feel so popular all at once.

"And on the right..." Norlin paused, looking at the audience gravely.

"He who has dropped more opponents than anyone in the ranks—the brawler whose power has been long unmatched, the monster himself: BROCK THE BERSERKER!"

\--

Before my best friend enlisted in the Enrec Army, Brock was the reigning Champion of the Third Quadrant. It was a small claim to fame and netted him a private fortune. But, because of who he was, he decided to quit fighting and espoused his unshakable faith in the Dawn Federation. He wanted to fight for his homeland, and so he went from a Lower-City Hero to a lowly soldier.

They used him as a point-man.

Brock's story is another topic entirely, and what's more important was that we engaged in a battle never before witnessed in a regular match...

\--

Professor Norlin shouted, "Let's go, fellas!"

Without so much as a word, Brock dashed at me with a speed I didn't comprehend immediately before he was standing mere inches away and chopped at my throat! I stepped back from the strike but caught the back of his other hand to my cheekbone, and that was followed by a direct jab from the same fist into my mouth!

My lip burst open—

I crossed my forearms in order to block his next attack! In response, his leg sprung out from under him and ascended into my chest, compelling me to stagger backward until I lost balance and stumbled...

But Brock didn't fight dirty.

He stood and waited for me to clumsily get to my feet. Norlin cried out, "C'mon, Knockdown! Don't let the Berserker lay the whoop-ass on ya! Remember what I taught you!"

I went in for a tackle, mustering all the strength in my body in an attack that would HAVE to send him to the floor!

I collided with him and suddenly felt all the force I'd built up work against me. I couldn't even budge the guy.

Brock bent over and hefted me up by the waist, then he slammed me down on the ground. I grunted upon feeling the impact and watched with annoyance while my opponent arrogantly approached the crowd.

"He can't hang!" Brock shouted to them and shook his head.

I tapped him on the shoulder, and Brock spun around with a rapid hay-maker that I'd expected—

Using what I'd learned from my time with Teach, I flipped back into a partial handstand while wrapping my legs around Brock's arm before flexing my abs and hurling him onto the floor! I then transitioned, keeping my hold on the same arm, and tried to extend it to force a submission.

He quickly slid out of my grasp and kicked out in an attack that narrowly missed my sternum!

I leapt up and moved forward just as Brock rocketed upward and brought his heel down across my skull, forcing me into a kneel as I fought back enormous pain!

Brock broke out in laughter.

He exclaimed, "Weak," and prepared to send a definitive strike my way with his fist, but I used the torque in my abs and twisted in evasion before sending forth a flurry of rapid jabs.

My fists flew at him and retracted themselves in a manner so swift that they appeared hardly visible to me. It was part of a technique Norlin had introduced me to a little while ago:

By using the right form and remaining grounded in a proper, forward-leaning stance, I could focus my strength into contraction, I could flex my arm muscles while swing fast enough to land solid, instant blows on my opponent!

Brock felt himself being pushed back as he kept trying to step away from the sting of every hit! Just so you know, this is also a psychological maneuver intended to shock one's opponent into overexaggerating the strength contained in each individual strike.

"Uh oh, everybody!" I could hear the satisfaction in Norlin's voice.

"Looks like Knockdown's givin' the punishment right back to him! GO T! Give it everything!"

Brock grabbed one of my arms and jerked me toward him!

I watched his top half disappear and then felt his knee fly into my side. I keeled over for a second and turned into a jab thrown by Brock which almost knocked me unconscious.

The "Berserker" continued and picked me up by my neck before launching a devastating uppercut into my gut!

I collapsed onto the ground, and Brock walked away once more, thinking that he'd won.

"STILL can't hang!" he screamed to the delight of the crowd.

All eyes were on me as I slowly got to my knees; my body was shuddering with effort.

"Knockdown! Ay, Knockdown! Ya hear me!"

I could barely make out Norlin's voice in the chaos of the crowd.

"Listen, T—and I'm being real with you, boy! Are you listening?"

I nodded in response. Brock was still waiting for me to act.

"This one might be too much for you, Knockdown! Don't get yourself hurt; Brock isn't like those other fools you fought!"

"Fuck that!" I responded before getting up to stand before my enemy.

Brock snorted, then he threw a punch that I deflected and brought to a halt with the help of my wrist, like Norlin would. His other arm came around to strike just as quick, and I did the same with my other joint.

I slid both fists forward, one aimed lower with the other aimed high! Brock blocked his face but was struck in his sternum—and I used my technique to reproduce the sting of the attacks a second time! Brock reacted by trying to defend lower, and so I responded with a hard strike to his face!

He stumbled back while I moved into to uppercut him in the jaw and finish with a focused strike to his kidney! But then Brock moved back a few feet and became even more serious.

It was as if my hits hadn't affected him...

Brock smiled. "You're no push-over after all."

"Never have been."

"I've longed to face someone with potential."

He frowned. "But that's all you possess... nothing more. I'll crush you here."

I realized that my opponent had been holding back all this time, and I became aware of it far too late—

He came at me again but, this time, swung at me with such speed that I had less time to react. Brock forced me to start anticipating attacks from both his fists and feet as he began striking with an unbreakable offense, and I couldn't help but be overwhelmed.

Eventually, it was one jab that collapsed my entire defense.

One weak, controlled punch that distracted me from blocking another, much harder strike. Once I'd been decked in the head a few times, Brock sped up his attempted hits even more and began aiming for every exposed section of my body!

I gasped and choked as his fists rained down, and, finally, Brock ended it with a chop to the neck that felt like a block of concrete!

I hit the ground, bloodied and broken, and Brock walked away for a third time.

"Knockdown! Face it, you can't win!" Norlin shouted.

"What the hell, T?" Isaac had been closely watching the fight. "You can't let him punk you like that—get up! Dfari's watching!"

I noticed my boss, a silent spectator, as sweat crept between my eyelids and burned while blurring my vision.

"He can't do it, ref. It's over." Brock said solemnly.

I drew my arms to my sides and struggled to move as I coughed. "I'll win."

The audience grew silent.

"Knockdown T, you gotta sit this one out, man!" Norlin was pleading. "Accept it. We'll just take the time to train harder!"

"No!" I came to a weak stand and tried to straighten my posture. Norlin respected me too much to call the match before I was ready to throw in the towel.

"I won't lose to him."

"Knockdown, he will kill you!" he screamed. "Give it up!"

I looked over at Brock, who now held me in higher regard.

"Are you ready?" he said.

I nodded and got back into my fighting stance.

This time I went on the offensive; instead of keeping my guard up, I did everything I could to land an effective hit. As I struck Brock with a barrage of blows, he maneuvered his arms and body in a strategic manner and pushed back any effort I made to land an attack. Brock finally recognized a portion of me left completely open, and so he went in for a strike he believed would finish me off once and for all!

He brought his fist around and slammed it into the side of my jaw, and—

I crouched, shouted as I bolstered my strength, and put the last of my energy into a punch aimed perfectly below and behind his chin.

That's when the unexpected happened:

I felt a surge of intense pressure filter into my arms. My entire right limb expanded into a larger, bulkier version of itself, and I buried my fist into Brock's chest in a moment astounding everyone who'd spectated the match!

Brock was thrown off his feet across the whole of the room, and the only thing that brought his body's flight to a halt was a wall he collided against before he crashed onto the floor and struggled to catch his breath, blood seeping from his teeth. But he came into a quick recovery, and Brock sprang to his feet.

He sprinted toward me with a renewed will. From afar, I could see something odd.

He was smiling.

I crouched into a squat, concentrating isometrically on the fibers in my legs, and launched forward at my opponent! As I soared through the air, I brought my knee up and clashed square into Brock's sternum!

It knocked him off balance, and he stepped back while gasping for air. He hesitated, and I contracted both arms, slamming my fists into his chest. I forced him to trip and collapse onto his back!

Respecting his space—as he'd done mine, I waited for Brock to come to his feet.

"What the hell?" I heard Norlin mutter.

The crowd around me wasn't sure of what they'd just witnessed and had grown eerily quiet.

"No way!" Isaac shouted. "Did he just make parts of his body... bigger? –Did you see that thing that was around him, Dfari?"

"I did," he said, looking perplexed. "It was... black. Some bullshit magic trick? This another one of those rigged matches or somethin'?"

Brock looked bitter as he came to stand and said, "What are you—how did you do that?"

"I-I don't know," I said, feeling somewhat afraid myself.

I briefly remembered the smugglers who'd brought me into the Citadel. Had I done this to them, too?

"No matter." My opponent brushed it off. "That was only a minor setback. It's time to end this."

—We both charged at each other—

Brock was faster! Demonstrating surprising dexterity, he grasped my neck and tried to slam me on my back. My arms pulsed, and I used them to propel myself from the ground as I consequently kicked him in the head!

Brock almost fell to his knees but rapidly moved into a running crouch—

I faced him, dashing in to meet Brock head on!

The two of us collided, our fists outstretched and striking each other at the exact same moment!

And I fell unconscious in the ensuing impact.

\--

My eyes opened to the sound of Norlin speaking to the audience.

"In an unprecedented match, Knockdown T pushed back with ferocity against the Berserker's heavy-handed offense! It was an epic battle, fellas!"

The crowd stayed hushed in anticipation.

"Although both contestants managed to completely KO each other, there was one who consistently showed superior skill, and I declare that—"

"Hey look! He's moving!"

I shook as I struggled to gain my bearings; my legs wouldn't obey me.

"What's this? Knockdown T isn't down for the count?"

I could only prop myself up using my shoulder.

"I intended to declare the Berserker the winner of this fight, but if Knockdown gets up and Brock stays down... well, folks, I guess that makes T the victor!"

A few familiar voices in the crowd began to cheer.

"Hell yeah!" Isaac shouted. "That shit was extraordinary, T!"

"I SAID!"

Everyone looked toward the spot where Brock laid.

"I said..." he struggled to speak, "He... c-can't hang."

The audience went wild as Brock wearily got to his feet. Eventually, I came to a clumsy stand as Norlin made his way over to us. Brock gave me a serious look before offering me a handshake; I took it.

"Tavon."

"Brock."

Norlin came up to us and shouted toward the crowd:

"In the match between Knockdown T and Brock the Berserker, I declare..."

He held up Brock's arm. "Brock the winner!"

He then looked to me with an expression I'd never seen before and caused me to nearly become overwhelmed with emotion.

Norlin was... impressed, prouder than he'd ever been of one of his pupils. He said to me, "Good job, son."

\--

It was a long time before I ever saw the Third Quadrant Champion again. We were scheduled to have a rematch, of course, because not everybody believed that Brock was the real victor. But, in the end, we never ended up having the official fight.

Brock enlisted in Enrec and gave up the title, and I'd moved on to a completely different world; in spite of that, the two of us wondered who the stronger man was for some time before it was ultimately decided.
19

Running Away

\--

Janelle

\--

"DECIDED?" AALIYAH ASKED.

"I'll have to get to that part later—you don't gotta rush me."

"I wasn't rushing you. It's just hard to hear you, you know, underneath all these fucking ropes!

"Break us out of here, Tavon!"

"Yo," Tavon chuckled, "you don't have ANY patience! You know, they say 'patience is a v—'"

"Shut up, Tavon. They're going to shoot us anyways, so just continue with your story." Aaliyah closed her eyes and sighed.

"This time, it's not exactly my story."

"Oh,"—she raised one eyebrow—"so it's not all about you after all, is that what I'm hearing?"

"If I could just find out what makes you so petty—"

"Tavon! Just tell me the story!" She paused for a moment before appearing embarrassed. "Your voice is calming right now, and I'm trying to think."

\--

Tavon

\--

After—

\--

Janelle

\--

Tavon stopped talking as the two of them heard the sound of elevator doors opening. He only heard one set of footsteps approach, and he was slowly realizing something about their kidnappers.

A figure, obscured by a black robe, walked into the room and spoke with a haunting voice:

"I'm moving the female to the other room, as we have business to discuss."

Tavon looked at him before coolly responding: "Okay."

"You're just going to let—"

"Aaliyah!" For once, the assassin's gaze hardened as he glanced at her. Aaliyah noticed something in his expression and instantly gave up any further resistance to what she perceived as a developed plan.

There wasn't one.

"Oddly comfortable for a captive."

To Tavon and Aaliyah's surprise, the stranger simply grabbed the back of Aaliyah's seat and, with ease, dragged her into another suite.

"Tavon... get me out of here already."

Before she disappeared from his sight, Tavon said to her, "Don't worry. I understand now."

The kidnapper stopped, looked over at him curiously, and positioned her in the other room before he approached again. "What is it that you understand?"

"Your voice..." Tavon looked at the ground.

"It doesn't sound... right—It doesn't sound normal, but I recognize it."

The stranger didn't as he stiffly drew closer.

Tavon continued, "What crew are you with? Who do you work for?"

His kidnapper sat at the other end of the table and began, "My associates are well-known and respected. My lord says you are the one called Tavon: a sloppy hit-man for hire."

"Who is your 'lord?'" Tavon smiled and made himself appear innocent.

"Why, this truth comes, in fact, from the leader of Noboros."

"Fuck." Tavon frowned. This couldn't get any worse.

\--

Noboros.

A tribe of people operating deep within the criminal underworld; they were looked up to as gods by some. In all of Tavon's time as an enforcer, he'd only seen with his own eyes one real member of the small syndicate. They were a reclusive group, but they were known to be capable of completing any task assigned to them regardless of how impossible it might've seemed. No target could survive the full wrath of the Death Clan, and it was rumored that entire cities had been devastated by their actions.

\--

"You are familiar with us?"

"Yes. Why?"

The stranger abnormally cocked his head to the side.

"No one has ever survived a formal encounter. Warnings are sent out, we tell the people to cover their eyes when we come. We aren't often united, as one of us can move mountains on his own, so to speak."

"Really? Just one?" Tavon snorted.

"I do not say these things out of arrogance. Survivors should not be tolerated. We work with no one. Anything we want, we acquire." His voice resounded as a higher-pitched but monotone echo.

"That sounds real peachy—but what does any of that have to do with me?"

"You've been found guilty, Tavon. Something bad is growing in the Citadel. There's been attention needlessly drawn to Noboros, and we refuse to be discovered."

"But you're still known!" Tavon retorted. "I've met those who used your services."

The kidnapper pondered his statement.

"Only the nameless ask for our help. We do not protect the interests of celebrities or officials. Rather, we are an unstoppable movement."

"You don't make any sense." Tavon sighed.

"Hmph." The speaker crossed his arm. "Noboros discovered that another was committing bad deeds and leaving behind evidence that would lead to information being discovered about us.

"Noboros could not decipher if it was a singular entity or a group. We don't understand the full purpose, but we place you at multiple events surrounding this development.

"You... are everywhere, Tavon. Genod & Portis. The hit on Bureau members. Lieutenant Shraeu's disappearance."

"Disappearance? Shraeu's... —"

"We researched you. A Core-Man. Your kills have been pitiful targets. Unsatisfactory endeavors."

"You could say that." Tavon smirked. "What? Are you offering yourself as a 'good target?'"

The figure cackled in its odd but deliberate tone.

"Noboros requests a confession: are your intentions to frame us?"

"No." Tavon responded calmly. "I don't know any of you. Why the hell would I go out of my way to frame you?"

"As I've said, Noboros has found you linked in some way to all events. Anyhow, it's been decided that you will be eliminated to reduce further inconveniences to the Death Clan as per our investigation."

The stranger removed his robe, revealing a deformity like no other:

His body displayed hundreds of what appeared to be lacerations so deep and myriad that they formed a kind of pattern across his shape. The groves belonging to the cuts folded into empty cavities; it was as if he'd been an anatomical puzzle carefully stitched and meshed together.

"When I was speaking before, I represented the interests of Noboros as a whole.

"Now that I've been blessed with the opportunity to kill you, I couldn't be more excited." The stranger's twisted grin curled in on itself. "We're more alike than you'd think. Two killers drawn into a hopeless conflict. It's wonderful, I admit."

In the other room, Aaliyah, after having stubbornly struggled with them for hours, broke her bonds by smashing her chair against a wall. She leapt to her feet and rushed into the room in order to face the stranger—

But not before Tavon yelled: "Run! Get out of here!"

The stranger slowly pivoted his head in her direction and said, "This won't take long. I'll come for you shortly."

Aaliyah froze in place upon inspecting the true appearance of her kidnapper and was only brought back to reality after Tavon pleaded with her again, "I'll take it from here—just RUN!"

She nodded to him, saying "I'll get backup," and left the room to the relief of Tavon, who turned his attention back to his kidnapper.

"So, what are you supposed to be?"

His opponent bared his set of narrow, sharp teeth. "I... am the exiled Duke Artemis Spilsbury.

"Within Noboros, I am known as 'The One Who Impales,' number sixteen."

Promptly, Tavon flexed and broke through the ropes binding him. He came to a stand, clenched his fists...

And he felt it.

Tavon buckled over and began coughing rapturously until he vomited a dark wad of blood.

Dammit.

His enemy grew rather joyful. "This might be too much for you."

Tavon wiped his mouth, then—

He threw the remains of his chair at Spilsbury!

Duke Spilsbury was already out of the way and slowly coming toward Tavon once more. Without further hesitation, he displayed his ability:

Sharp, thick bones sprang from the grooves scattered across his skin. From the bottom side of his forearm, elongated shards jutted out, extended far past Spilsbury's wrists, and became what was the equivalent to two swords—the blades which had wounded Tavon earlier.

The rest of Spilsbury's skin turned to a sicklier shade of yellow, and The One Who Impales howled as he lunged forward to thrust his weapons at new prey!

Tavon only just managed to shift to the side and abruptly felt a sharp pain arise from his arm...

Another bone shard had emerged from one of the grooves in Spilsbury's skin, piercing deeply his right bicep!

Tavon gritted his teeth; he blocked the sting of the injury out of his mind prior to being forced back as Spilsbury twirled his blades and slashed through the air inches before him! Tavon clumsily ran back on his heels—and, first, he quickly rotated his body to evade one of the weapons but narrowly ducked in order to dodge a blow from the other aimed to decapitate him.

However, as he lowered himself, another shard bolted out from one of the many crevices in Spilsbury's skin and grazed the side of his head!

Tavon flinched, then received a cut to his lip from a second bone fragment that appeared from the bottom of Spilsbury's arm. Utilizing pure reflex, Tavon finally attempted to land a strike on his enemy.

His fist rocketed forward—to meet only air as Spilsbury launched himself above Tavon and proceeded to extend a blade from a groove in his foot. He thrusted it through Tavon's wounded shoulder, shredding through any tissue that had marked the top of the puncture wound!

Spilsbury landed and spun to face his target; Tavon limped momentarily and cringed while holding his bleeding shoulder. He straightened his posture and confidently popped his neck.

Artemis mocked him. "Surrender... your zol is far too weak."

"Bullshit." Tavon scoffed. "Is that all you've got?"

He knows how to use zol. This fight could already be over.

Tavon focused strength into his legs and accelerated at Spilsbury with exceptional speed! Spilsbury drew himself into a hastily formed guard, but Tavon could already see in the man's eyes that he hadn't expected that reaction.

Tavon moved quickly enough to dart behind Spilsbury, steadied himself, and performed a leg sweep!

He prepared to trip his enemy before transitioning into a stance that would allow him to strike Spilsbury's head with the force of his elbow! But, before Tavon went through with his attack, it became clear to him that he was making a mistake.

As his legs soared to topple his opponent, smaller bone fragments quickly jutted out from the side of Spilsbury's closest calf muscle in a defensive move that would've impaled Tavon's leg—

Yet, Tavon halted before striking and whirled himself upward at the last minute, using his built-up momentum to strike his enemy's backside!

He accomplished actually hitting Spilsbury this time, but it produced next to no effect. The One Who Impales merely stood in place and, just as swiftly, forced his fragments out to stab at Tavon!

Tavon rolled away and came to his feet as Spilsbury cautiously approached...

"What can human hands do against an effective blade?"

He slashed at Tavon, who dashed to the left of his opponent, shifting onto one leg in support. Tavon concentrated his energy into a kick that he was sure would devastate his enemy—but gasped in agony upon witnessing his foot become impaled by a shard protruding from the center of Spilsbury's mouth.

Feeling true fear, Tavon drew his bloodied foot away from the blade and remained on his other leg while he prepared a much stronger kick and battled through the pain.

But he wasn't fast enough.

Spilsbury brought one of his swords across Tavon's abdomen before he could strike, tearing into flesh. Tavon tried to react in time so as to evade the next attack, and then the end of the other blade sliced diagonally across the whole of his face.

"Shit!" he muttered under his breath.

By the time Tavon had pulled away, he was beginning to grow weak from blood loss; his vision faded as rose droplets threatened to flow into his eyes.

"It was a fine effort." Spilsbury said in his polite manner of speech.

"There's a key to stopping you...

"Ugh. There's a way to win this!"

He chuckled. "Noboros is not some gang you can break apart. We are followers of the most Perfect Way."

\--

Aaliyah used a lengthy flight of stairs to reach the bottom floor of an establishment which seemed to have been completely evacuated. She'd tried to be stealthy and, initially, moved quietly but soon realized what Tavon had realized:

That there were only two kidnappers.

In the entire building, which could've been supplied with guards and proper security, only two people were running this operation.

To Aaliyah, this meant that she had to divide and conquer; Tavon's probably got a handle on things by now.

She retrieved a nightstick left out on a coffee table and searched the only security office. The silence surrounding her was nerve-racking, but she maintained her focus and hurried around an old desk to open a series of lockers. The leftmost locker contained nothing but a pamphlet which read: "Kozas/Andrewa Security Professionals."

Aaliyah felt increasingly flustered as she rummaged through the contents of the second locker, and then the third, until she accidentally bumped her foot against the corpse of a man dressed as a guard.

The locker above him contained a backpack, but she believed she was running out of time as she heard a wave of sounds coming from the outside of the building. Based on the name of the structure: Adull & Clanson, she knew that they'd been taken somewhere in the Upper-City–but how? she thought.

Aaliyah grabbed the bag, and, when she finally cleared her way to the main lobby, she witnessed a lone figure facing a wide decline of steps which descended to a stone path that ended in a broad, mezatonicum street.

The full breadth of it was swarming with police cruisers and even personal vessels designed specifically for...

Them!

The Ministry of Beautification.
20

Number Twelve

\--

Janelle

\--

CITIZENS REFERRED TO THEM AS "THE MOB," but the Ministry was yet another branch that belonged to the Dawn Federation Government. The Executive and Legislative Divisions, with President Derek's approval, had chosen to create two different types of higher-level law enforcement.

The first existed in what became known as the Dawn Bureau, a system ran primarily by licensed detectives who attempted to deliver justice under Federation law. Both the Bureau and the police in the Citadel were told to believe that every citizen was innocent until proven guilty in a public courtroom. In contrast, there was a much different and often more effective method of dispatching justice should the Bureau fall short.

In the Citadel, the Ministry employed those who'd been officially "knighted" by the Dawn Federation. They were operators known, colloquially, as the Dawn Knights: a group of individuals who followed a separate system of justice.

For better understanding, the Bureau as well as police departments nationwide had become overwhelmed with case work due to a constantly growing population. Often, some cases dropped from the scene and remained unsolved for decades until reassigned to the Ministry; additionally, the Executive Division decided to use the Ministry over the Bureau for targets possessing abilities far surpassing the capabilities of ordinary citizens. Where the Bureau failed, this organization acted as the final wall of defense against domestic terrorism.

The Ministry of Beautification consisted of a fellowship of ranked Knights, and they democratically selected who they would kill and who they would detain. When the Federation left justice for the Mob to sort out, the Mob produced fast results. If they didn't kill their prey, they would hold them captive and garner votes instead to decide a victim's fate. It was said that they used high quality bio-enhancements designed by the government—enhancements still in their experimental phase. The Mob were an effective, albeit dangerous bunch.

Aaliyah was about to witness them for the first time, if only a small contingent of the Dawn Federation's "shock troops."

Still, there was something wrong...

Their cruisers remained suspended in the air, left running. They weren't leaving their vessels, which were armed with two small gatling guns aimed at the lone figure. These weapon systems didn't fire standard bullets, either; on the contrary, they were known to be something else entirely and strong enough to melt almost any armor.

Clustered outside of the entrance, there were numerous officers from both the Dawn Bureau as well as a police task force from the Blue Sector of the Upper-City. Everyone in uniform directed their sights at the stranger standing before them: a being with only darkness expanding from where his eyes were meant to be.

They continued growing, dwarfing the kidnapper himself.

Everyone at the scene froze. None could speak. All were stiff and primed to attack, but they wouldn't move. Aaliyah watched from a distance before wondering whether or not she should take him out her own way.

But the scene which unfolded that night took away whatever bravery she might've possessed.

\--

One of the Dawn Bureau agents Aaliyah recognized from another section suddenly relaxed. He stood there for a time as his features turned entirely vacuous, but he kept his gaze affixed to the stranger.

A member of the task force dropped his weapon, with a look just as hollow, then he slowly reached for a pouch attached to a load carrier placed over his body armor; he also refused to turn his eyes away.

Another officer retrieved a shiv from the side pocket in his pant leg and held it tightly as his face reddened, and his body shook violently.

It was over rather quickly.

The task force trooper retrieved a grenade, smiled eerily, and prepped it—

Before dropping the ordnance at his feet:

Those surrounding him were barely afforded the time to scream as the resulting explosion eliminated most of those within its radius and blasted each encircling cruiser. The agent who'd been affected first only collapsed to the ground, his hands pressed intensely against his ears... He was screaming. The one carrying the shiv promptly shoved it into his gut but retained his glare as he brought it across his stomach and fell to his knees, bleeding out with an expression of serenity.

A second passed prior to Aaliyah realizing that the Dawn Knights had remained at the scene and watched everything happen without intervening.

The dark, horrendous figure started to focus its ravenous dread toward the Knights. Those black spheres doubled in size, applied pressure that pushed out veins around an all-encompassing void, and...

"They're fucking driving away!" Aaliyah didn't bother being quiet.

"They just... left? The fucking Ministry?"

The Mob had indeed left the scene.

Aaliyah tensed as the stranger slowly pivoted to look at her—

And she screamed when she felt herself lose control of her mind. Sight partially obscured by a multitude of black marks, she felt nauseous; the thought of a bloodied eye persisted in her vision.

The stranger stopped.

Aaliyah collapsed to her knees and held herself as she felt a wave of emotions she didn't understand. She started to sob before the entity.

"P-please... don't. Not a-again."

She screeched as she felt a searing pain course through her skull. Following it was a voice, one that resonated while blocking out all other thoughts:

What a disappointment.

The tone was unnatural; it was a collection of sounds formed from something abominable.

I looked at who you are... and you are not responsible.

Noboros is not guilty of the crimes committed against the Federation. Someone is deceiving the world. Tragically, because you have become involved, you will be considered another casualty in our conquest.

"Fuck you!" Aaliyah yelled through the pain. "My friend killed your friend. You're finished, w-whatever the hell you are!"

Thank you for your reminder.

The stranger pulled his cloak tightly around himself and partially obscured his blackened orbs.

We must finish viewing the fight. I want to watch you feel the outcome.

"Excuse m—what the fuck are you talking about? He'll win—he always does!"

The One Who Impales is our weakest, but our weakest is enough to overcome such a small threat.

"Then, before we go," Aaliyah pleaded, "who's behind this operation? The bombing, the attack on the Bureau, Genod & Portis—is it all the same group, same people? What does it mean?"

I found the answer at the corner of two streets. One named after the Citadel's First Tree and the other named in honor of a fallen soldier. Because of foolish actions, there will be a war with Noboros on this night. If the Bureau makes us an enemy and forces our hand, we will destroy them.

The stranger seemed indifferent to her presence altogether and departed toward the ongoing conflict.

Aaliyah glanced toward the ravaged scene before coming up with a new plan; she searched inside of the black bag she'd acquired.

\--

Tavon had spent most of the battle trying to avoid attack after attack from Spilsbury's perfect offense.

That's all it is, he thought while fighting to catch his breath, he doesn't stop striking. Doesn't become fatigued.

As Spilsbury swept a diagonal arc of his right blade and simultaneously thrusted forward with his left, Tavon leaned into his opponent and let himself be grazed on his uninjured shoulder. He worked his way around Spilsbury, who reacted by pirouetting and slashing low and horizontally in a move that could end the struggle once it had dismembered both of Tavon's legs!

Tavon jumped and forced part of his weight onto the blades, which he urgently pressed downward–and, in an instant, he channeled his power into his right leg. While having balanced himself on Spilsbury's swords, he kicked through the air, his foot soaring to crash into his enemy's skull!

Surprisingly enough, The One Who Impales backed away and appeared stunned.

Tavon used this short lapse of time to refocus everything into his working arm, and then he struck the center of his opponent with power that broke away fragments of bone. Spilsbury was thrown backward; he uttered something that resembled a groan.

His offense is too focused. It was intended to hide something, and, although this thing's a killing machine... That's it!

His body's his core weakness. He's trying to keep me from getting close—if I shorten the gap, I could overpower him too easily. Tavon grinned, having felt intelligent for the first time since he could remember; he was resolute in his coming victory!

And, just like that, he gasped and fell to one knee. Tavon grasped at his chest.

Jutting out from him was a smaller shard of bone...

Tavon looked over to see that one of Spilsbury's blades had broken in half.

He... shot me with one?

"I honor your commitment to your own survival. How brave of you to fight someone so far beyond your own ability; alas, every war has its casualties."

Spilsbury briskly moved toward Tavon as he attempted to stand but continued to fail in his efforts. His blood loss was now significant, and so he fought to stay both alive and awake.

Spilsbury continued, "I will execute you using a move passed down from my own culture."—he raised one of his swords and partly reabsorbed the other—"You'll be delivered to Fate with a direct and clean thrust through your heart.

"My stance, speed, and power are enough to make any resistance negligible. Verily, will I give you a brave one's execution."

Aaliyah arrived and had recovered a handgun from the backpack she'd recovered. She prepared to aim, to stop Spilsbury from proceeding, but the other member of Noboros glanced back before she could move.

Vortexes stared back...

\--

Aaliyah

\--

W-where am I?

Flat earth all around me. Grass colored grey and leaning lifelessly at my feet. I'm not in the real world anymore—I'm not anywhere! The dead land stretches on for miles, centuries of empty plains. There's open air around me, but I can't breathe. Anxiety. Avva, the damn anxiety.

I'm on my knees, and there's only dark clouds above. What's happening? I'm gasping for air; I'm scared, and I need to breathe! I tense my body; anger resurges. I HAVE to breathe!

Oxygen returns in short bursts, and so I look up.

Dark craters now fill the heavens. Two vacuums that eat surrounding clouds and seem to draw me toward them with a rush of air. Forehead's burning, but the rest of me's cold.

It's then that I have to see His damn face again...

His body is on the ground where I last left it. Blood comin' from His forehead the way it did back then. Eyes all glazed over. They look to me, and then a smile forms.

I remember Him. I remember Him every day.

"No!" I'm screaming. It's a shitty memory.

I hear a voice that I think I know:

Fascinating. Now I understand, but my question is to you, dear human: Do you?

Is this why you stand beside a murderer?

"He deserved it." I say bitterly.

The face changes. It's Sikes. Someone's playing a trick, trying to provoke me, and it's working. I have to save Tavon.

I'm looking at Odwal now, but he opens his mouth to sound out the words of the dark one above:

"You failed me," he says, "like you failed everyone. You'll fail the one you love as well."

I grit my teeth. "No."

Can it be? You and the murderer...? Impossible. Succumb, little insect. Do not waste any more time.

Odwal's body shifts back to Him again. I won't look at Him. I'll break through.

I shout back at the decaying skies in defiance, "No!"

I won't let you hurt him.

\--

Janelle

\--

To everyone's astonishment, Aaliyah broke through the illusion just as Spilsbury sprinted forward to end Tavon's life—

Aaliyah raised her weapon and fired!

A bullet flew from the barrel and caused Spilsbury to step back—but not in time to avoid it completely. The round penetrated and shattered one of his blades; Spilsbury recoiled and shrieked in pain.

"Now, Tavon!" Aaliyah spun to aim at the other Death Clan member.

Tavon started to move but stopped in fear upon being compelled against his will to gaze at the man with demonic eyes. Aaliyah froze as well and then shook as sweat beaded across her brow.

"I-I... can't shoot."

"Aaliyah." A tear escaped from Tavon's left eye as he called out to her.

I can't save her, he thought. I'm not strong enough. Not yet.

Number twelve's eyes had swelled to occupy a greater area. Spilsbury—while attempting to regain his composure—announced rather calmly, "An unneeded intervention."

It wasn't enough of a challenge for you, Artemis.

The female shall prove herself yet. She, too, has been blessed, but she is very fast asleep.

"Oh? I suppose it's been ages since I felt pain." Artemis Spilsbury looked to Aaliyah and slowly straightened his back before taking a few steps forward.

He stopped, while facing the three of them, and smirked. "There's two of them now. Nevertheless, this execution has only just begun!"

The One Who Impales became aglow with some manner of distorted space, as if small fractures had appeared in the universe surrounding him and began spewing a strange, blinding light. Spilsbury's basic frame started to change; his bone structure shifted and rapidly molded into a more malleable, sponge-like material. It quickly fused its multiple and splintering shards together, creating a completely different body structure for Artemis.

"Shit!" Aaliyah exclaimed, temporarily regained control of her body, and was about to fire her weapon when...

It was looking at her again. Those two Eyes buried themselves into her mind like intrusive, ethereal fingers clutching and violating her will itself.

She viewed more flashbacks of her past—and, in the beginning, they were accurate depictions. Afterward, moments she'd remembered in her life began having odd changes she didn't quite remember. Progressively, these constant, aggressive flashbacks turned to nightmares, and she'd been so absorbed that Aaliyah didn't notice right away when she fell onto her side.

Her strength nearly outweighs his own. She burdens herself with trivialities to stifle a mountain of potential.

Spilsbury stood before Tavon as almost an entirely new life form. He'd transcended his former appearance and currently consisted only of dense bone that modeled human muscle groups. The One Who Impales had taken on a bulkier frame with enlarged extremities and glared at his opponent from a pale face which gleamed with bright, pupil-less eyes demonstrating a fierce vigor. His injuries had relocated to mostly his forearms, showcasing hundreds of microtears across them, and Spilsbury was once again renewed.

It was a fight Tavon knew he couldn't win, but he refused to give up on his life, to surrender Aaliyah's life as well. He was released from the grasp of the Eyes and dashed forward.

Tavon expanded both of his arms in sheer mass. He plowed his following punches into Spilsbury, who easily deflected each strike and absorbed a portion of every blow.

No! There's no way he can just—

Tavon lunged at his opponent and weaved strategically to place jabs across his body, but Spilsbury simply faced those moves without allowing himself to be pushed back, and he anticipated most of Tavon's attacks as he solely used his forearms to block! The situation worsened once Tavon lost strength in his legs and was nearly overcome with nausea. He fell forward and was caught by his opponent.

"Tavon!" Aaliyah screamed while rendered completely helpless.

"Don't hurt him! Fight me, you weak bastard!"

"It's over." The One Who Impales spoke in a sorrowful tone.

He hefted Tavon by his neck and a slender shard of bone began to extend from the top of Spilsbury's free hand.

"Please! STOP!"

He thrust the shard into Tavon's stomach then hurled him onto the floor. Spilsbury was silent as he watched his opponent quiver before becoming motionless.

Aaliyah was horrified.

"Amazing." Spilsbury uttered. "He's still..."

Alive, number twelve interjected.

And he plans to keep going, but his body isn't quite listening. Kill h—

There followed a pause shadowed eerily with silence Aaliyah didn't understand.

We must go now.

"I will end him quickly."

Number twelve shook his head, cutting off Spilsbury's rebuttal. The One Who Impales stared back at him for some time.

"You mean, they're wanted alive? But why?"

Ours is not to question.

"But we've—"

Remember our Unity. Unity prevails, Artemis.

Spilsbury scoffed in disgust and then briskly walked toward Aaliyah.

"This isn't over. NO ONE can be privileged enough to remember my face!"

"You cheap scrub!" Aaliyah prepared herself to fight using everything she had left within her.

I'll break free again if I have to...

Spilsbury walked past without even looking in her direction and disappeared behind number twelve, whose shoulders slumped in disappointment.

HE disapproves, and so we must dutifully obey.

Thus, without further acknowledgement from either kidnapper, it ended: the kidnapping, the battle, and Tavon's struggle for life. Those two strangers disappeared just as quickly as they'd arrived.

Aaliyah felt her will return; she rushed to Tavon's aid, who was attempting to at least prop himself up with his knee.

"Don't move!" She fought back tears and embraced him. "The police should be here any second! –I already hear them!"

"Don't... bother." Tavon responded as his breathing intensified.

"Tavon. I'm not gonna let you die here! We have to restore the respect owed to us, get those fools back. We can't do that if you give up now."

"Run," he said. "Meet with the police and explain what happened."

"You didn't see it, Tavon!" Aaliyah yelled, "You didn't see what that... Thing did! An entire task force turned on itself; that bastard made them do it somehow! Tavon, there was so much death..." She began to sob.

"Leave me, Aaliyah."

A dart buried its way into the detective's neck. She gasped at the sting which followed, then Aaliyah attempted to get to her feet but promptly collapsed as her body went numb, and she fell unconscious.

Tavon saw the ones who'd arrived and felt a sense of relief upon recognizing them.

"Don't worry," he said to her, "It's to protect you."
21

Hop, Skip, And Jump

\--

Janelle

\--

BEFORE A CIVIL WAR TOPPLED THEIR SOVEREIGNTY as a nation, the United Clans of Wanre bombarded one of its own cities which had proved resistant to their form of government while also maintaining a general acceptance of migrating Hayashi populations.

The act of accepting the Hayashi as human stood as a reprehensible stain in their short history, and Wanre had begun developing explosives that could decimate multiple times in radii which halved with consecutive blasts. Therefore, the United Clans were initially referred to as a nation that came to rely solely on remote combat using drones and robotics to deliver IEDs (Improvised Explosive Devices) in their conquests of settlements before conducting brutal raids on its remaining inhabitants.

Wanre thus developed a group of special operation soldiers known as Iotz; they were the Clan's greatest computer scientists as well as effective hackers who piloted a series of drones carrying incendiary explosive devices—weapons that could set mass fires to agricultural communities existing in the surrounding dominion.

Task Force 1-17, a small team of Iotz soldiers, infiltrated one such community that was once a part of Wanre and known as Acre. 1-17 formed their own patrol base in an area not typically frequented by the Acre city watch.

Acre stood between the capital of Wanre and Manandio, separating two rival forces and situated in a valley along a river divided by national borders. Wanre desired to either gain Acre as an ally or to otherwise eliminate them as a possible enemy.

Their team leader, Captain Franken, had ordered his men to stand by, sustain their collective presence in the area, and observe Acre. They were to conduct temporary surveillance which would feed information back to a higher-ranking official about those who'd resisted assimilation.

More than a week later, and Captain Franken was tasked with preparing an arsenal of surveillance drones. Not long after that, 1-17 realized that they'd been provided with more drones than needed—the majority of which were equipped with incendiary grenades; furthermore, there remained others bearing fragmentation grenades that were enhanced to more devastating heights than their original counterparts.

Captain Franken reported on the status of his team's equipping, proving himself competent in matters of logistic. However, the nature of the mission had changed.

Franken was informed, by his superiors, that Acre had cut its diplomatic ties with Wanre. The Wanre government took this as a gesture of great disrespect, and this appalled reaction solidified into hatred. Franken's superiors no longer believed that peaceful negotiations were possible.

To make matters worse, something rather unexpected happened during this operation...

\--

Wanre's bureaucratic government often made errors when it came to controlling its military. Captain Franken's superior, a Colonel in the Wanre Army, disagreed with a fellow Colonel on how the situation in Acre should have been approached.

As a result, a second task force had been assigned to bomb the same village using military-grade predecessors to cruisers with Hell-fire missiles attached. Due to Wanre's foolishness, the entire community was set upon at once and reduced to a burning pit within the Earth. Wanre had obliterated everything in sight; Acre became a mixture of body parts and the debris of fallen infrastructure. Although it was obvious to Captain Franken that nothing could've been salvaged from the destruction, he was ordered to proceed with raiding operations. Task Force 1-17 moved in and quickly lost morale upon seeing only fire, upon smelling burnt flesh...

In the center of Acre, a large crater had formed in the ground subsequent to a multitude of concentrated explosions in the same area. At the bottom of the crater, there was a charred corpse which resembled a woman, and, below her, there appeared to be someone else.

\--

"Sir, do you want us to clover-leaf out? We can cover more ground on our own."

Captain Franken sighed and ruffled his hair. "Might as well, but it's probably a waste of our time."

"How do you mean, Sir?"

Franken turned his head, a grim look in his eyes. "We just killed a bunch of randoms, people who could've been unarmed with no intention to fight.

"We took lives here because Wanre hates the Hayashi."

His subordinate laughed. "We get paid to make problems go away, don't we?"

Franken shook his head and looked away before ordering: "Spread out. We move now."

"Wait," one of his soldiers shouted, "do you hear that?"

"Sounds like crying." Another exclaimed.

Captain Franken moved closer to the crater, which emitted the faint sound of wailing.

Upon closer inspection, he saw it:

A child. A child having been smothered by a woman's body so that she could protect him from the incoming blasts. He cried beneath the weight of his dead mother.

Instinctively, Captain Franken affixed a gas mask to his face and rushed into the center of the crater. He carefully took the child in his arms and wiped the ash from his face before looking into his bright, striking blue eyes.

The Captain saw something in him.

"Is this the only survivor?" a soldier exclaimed. "S-Someone's newborn? It's gotta be some kinda fuckin' demon, Sir. What could survive something like this—how could a newb—"

"Shut up!" Captain Franken admonished his subordinate, "Something like this doesn't normally happen in a world full of..."—he gestured to the surrounding area—"This. We should accept it as it is, a miracle."

"Sir, what if... I don't think—"

"You don't think what?" Franken stared him down.

The Captain had focused so intensely on his own career that he'd given up marrying and having children of his own. Franken imagined that he'd never be the given the chance raise anyone, and so, in this child, he saw everything that he felt he'd missed.

Franken spoke wisdom:

"Some would say this is blasphemy, but no government is absolutely righteous. The fuckers above me often don't see the situation from our eyes; they establish a bigger picture—something that would never matter to us. But men, there are times when we can shine.

"We should relish in moments like these, because here is an innocent casualty of war we can help—a survivor. After all the misery we've witnessed, this is a sign of hope to come. Do you all understand?"

"Yes, Sir!" His team said in unison.

\--

Captain Franken named this child "Brock." In the Gaspulan tongue, it means: "Carved from the Rock."

Brock was raised within the confines of the Wanre Army, understanding nothing but combat and the tactical skills required to endure countless war scenarios. Although Captain Franken later became preoccupied and often overwhelmed with Wanre's further attempts to expand, he made time to train his adopted son and instructed him in the way of the warrior. Brock spent most of his childhood learning from Franken, and he often listened to the Captain whenever he would express doubts about the cause itself.

Task Force 1-17 grew to be so valuable that they were collectively promoted into positions that had them primarily operating from behind terminals. They were no longer considered a force that went into the field unless absolutely necessary and were stationed at F.O.B. (Forward Operating Base) Kunsalvo.

Task Force 1-17 piloted drones that carried a different manner of weapon, one which released a nerve gas with the potential to produce quite an excruciating death.

During Wanre's war with the Gaspulan Rebels, the Clans found themselves quickly overwhelmed because of the eventual intervention of the Dawn Federation. The Federation supplied Gaspulan troops with an arsenal that would guarantee victory against their mutual enemy. And, with time as well as significant financial contributions, the Gaspulan Rebels became the dominating force in the conflict.

This caused Task Force 1-17 to one day face a siege on F.O.B. Kunsalvo and with the addition of cybernetically-enhanced soldiers who tore through the Wanre Army with relative ease.

When Brock was only a young boy, Captain Franken, experiencing tremendous anxiety, scrambled to get both him and the ones close to him away from the unstoppable Rebellion's assault. Franken was one of few officers who understood that there was no way to effectively handle their opponents, and so it was necessary to break contact and regroup on the outskirts of the F.O.B.

However, the United Clans of Wanre viewed this as cowardice, accused the remaining task force members of treason, and captured 1-17 in order to execute them in front of the public as punishment for their actions.

Fortunately, Brock was perceived as far too young to be considered wholly responsible for his actions, and so he was viewed as a boy who could be "converted" if he admitted his supposed guilt and complicity.

Brock adamantly refused to join them; for the sake of punishing him, he was forced to observe Captain Franken's execution for "treason" by firing squad.

Wanre constantly attempted to brainwash him. They forced their beliefs upon Brock in an effort to recruit him once more as the perfect soldier and later began administering him drugs they felt would cause him to be more open to their commands. Wanre then ushered the young man into combat zones, which consisted of challenges Brock wasn't quite old enough to fully understand. But his mind, addled from frequent abuse, convinced him that he had to impress the ones above because Franken's efforts to train him would not go to waste.

On the other hand, Brock was faced with reality when he was beaten by his own men for expressing any fear in battle and, often, was only spared due to his young age. He was a strong young man, but still not fully prepared for the horrors of war.

\--

The world around Brock underwent rapid changes; therefore, it was of little surprise to him when the nation of Gaspul, formed from a unified rebel front, steadily conquered Wanre. Once their neighboring rival had been defeated, Gaspul was left to the mercy of the Dawn Federation. The Federation had forced their country into a state of debt it could never repay; therefore, most of Gaspul came close to an occupied vassal for a time as the Federation's method of siphoning needed resources while casting a wider net for future trade relations.

Popular media in the Citadel was made aware of Brock having been inducted as a child soldier. In an effort to rectify what had been done to him, a handful of influential news outlets pleaded for the rescue of Brock from his living conditions. Thus, the former child soldier became a charity case, via a private corporation focused on providing foster parents under special circumstances.

\--

Brock disappeared into the system, but he refused to relinquish his name. He was still proud of who he was, though PTSD plagued him for the rest of his life. Brock was forced to be a soldier, and the Dawn Federation now forced him to be a civilian.

As one can imagine, Brock didn't quite fit in at school. He was an adolescent veteran who was also easily triggered by hostile body language or abrupt noises. As a student—before the virtual system was implemented—Brock often brutally attacked anyone who happened to mock him.

Brock didn't have any parental figures or a place of belonging, and he returned home every day to an old apartment complex that housed other children like him. Children who were essentially owned by the corporation created to assign them guardians. Whenever he'd been shown to potential caretakers, all had been too afraid to adopt a war casualty, a statistic.

But Brock chose to overcome this.

In his later years, he was expelled from school after hurting yet another student who'd challenged him to a public fight. But, not long afterwards, he became a revolving pupil to a series of fighting coaches within the Third Quadrant. It was obvious to his instructors that the boy was powerful, and he was growing quickly into a man who would come to stand above most individuals later in his life.

And, while Tavon competed for the title of Third Quadrant Champion, the two of them had met for the first time in combat. They would meet one more time before the start of a tumultuous friendship, and then Brock would settle into a safe home, reflecting gloomily on the past.

Despite whatever might've happened to him before, Brock's personal journey was just beginning...
22

6 Feet Deep

\--

Janelle

\--

ON THE NIGHT OF THE BOMBING, AND AT LEAST an hour before Tavon and Aaliyah's capture, a chemical plant owned by Dar-Tech had begun conducting trials using neurotoxins on small, biosynthetic rodents.

The plant was simply known as "Smog-01" and had been constructed between the Upper and Mid-Cities in suspension on its own private land.

Brock was startled awake by a phone call...

\--

Brock

\--

As soon as I open my eyes, I realize I'm still wearing the same clothes from the day before. I've gotten lazier.

She said she was coming to visit soon.

I ponder the black, rubber ring on my left hand and block a flashback trying to force its way into my head... again. I feel stupid, because it averages me a total of two minutes before I notice that my Kom Cell hasn't stopped buzzing.

The Director of Trauma from Zone E's hospital, Dr. Ezekiel, is panicking on the other line.

"Brock? A-are you there, Brock?"

I yawn, first, then I respond, "The hell do you people want now? I—"

"Listen, Brock! T-there's no time—something's happened!"

This gonna be complete bullshit, one way or another. They want me to work without pay.

"Are you still th—"

"Yeah!" The irritation keeps getting worse for some reason. I didn't mean to yell at him so loudly.

I lied to Tavon. I wasn't laid off, I was put on suspension after straightening out a dude. This guy brought in his daughter, and I already knew something was off. Turns out that he'd been putting his hands on her, but, hey, I didn't completely break out of character.

The administration behind Dr. Ezekiel had a policy against confronting family members about domestic issues.

I told him I wouldn't tolerate it, and that's that.

"Please, Brock! There's been an attack!"

I chuckle. "What? Is this some shameless excuse to get me—"

"There's been a bombing in Zone E—and it's not just that..." Ezekiel sounds out of breath.

"You're not making too much sense, Doctor." I begin washing my face and then quickly change into a uniform I thought I'd never be allowed to wear in public again. It's a blue jacket with the emblem of blue heart emblazoned on its right sleeve.

I knew I was a damn good paramedic. I had to be, because that's how I thought I could make up for the things I did. For what I used to do to people.

"You have enough guys on reserve to do this shit."

Don't know why I'm arguing when I'm going to help anyways.

"Brock, this is serious! We need you at the Zone E Chemical Plant; we're out of control of the situation and require as much help as we can get!"

"Well, shit. I guess I'm on it."

I grab a bag of medical supplies and stop before the door to the apartment upon seeing a cabinet containing my old combat gear. I'm not sure if I should go in heavy—can't imagine Zone E actually having a real catastrophe, but I'm taking an automatic pistol just in case; I bought it from a circle of guys who'd tried to market their wares before they got raided by the police.

It's not legal to bring on the job—but I'm not on the job anymore. If they "need" me, we're going to do this my way.

\--

The chemical plant is in a man-made depression and circled by the type of space needed for a potential disaster of this scale. Because of its isolation, the plant has never seriously been thought of as a risk for Zone E or other neighboring Zones.

I expect smoke.

When I get there, it's the only thing I can see: thick clouds billowing from a distant fire. It's rooted deep.

There are loads of police cruisers coupled with utility vehicles. Other paramedics have arrived on scene and are around somewhere, but there appears to be no one in the immediate vicinity. Every cruiser has just been... left there. Weird. I walk through an empty parking lot toward a wall of smog that's coming my way and up from a steep decline in the ground that leads to the main plant. Something isn't making sense.

A figure comes rushing toward me—a slender, bald man. Doctor Ezekiel. His face is scarred and showing signs of swelling. His clothes are torn, and he's pissed himself. Recently.

Ezekiel tries to grab onto me while he glances back in fear, but I simply shove him away and let the doctor fall to the ground. There's nothing behind him.

"It's-it's so awful, Brock!" Ezekiel breaks out into a cold sweat. "We didn't know—oh Avva, we didn't know!"

"What's going on?" I humor him.

"It's the chemical p-plant—s-something in the plant! Officers went in—they called for us, and we were cleared to get to work triaging while the utility group fought back the residual fires."

"And then what? Spit it out."

Ezekiel starts crying.

"You didn't see it, Brock. You could've helped them escape! Those things in there aren't people! They're not human—they... they can't be!"

"Just get somewhere safe. I'm not treating you if there are more serious cases."

I head in the direction from where he'd fled.

"No!" Ezekiel gets up and grabs my arm. "Everyone's dead, Brock."

I push him off me.

"Then why aren't you?" I say as I continue moving down a trail and allow the clouds of smoke to wash over me. At the same time, I strap on a gas mask I've used only once for a scenario like this. Medical workers aren't supposed to operate in areas that haven't been cleared, but, at the moment, I've got no other supervisors other than Doctor Ezekiel. He's weak.

I look back and nonchalantly order, "Call for backup."

"You should wait here!" Ezekiel shouts. "This isn't according to procedure!"

I ignore him and quicken my pace. He's a lousy doctor; in my eyes, if Ezekiel managed to survive, then there's gotta be others.

How much time do they have left?

I could wait, but I don't have that much sense. If I do wait, it could mean someone's life. I'm not willing to have that on my conscience.

The area I find myself in is surprisingly clean—I mean, aside from mass debris scattered all over the place. I notice the thick clouds around me have gotten a little darker, and I halt for a sec to check that nothing's leaked into my mask's seal.

There's some noise echoing in the distance. I know it's not nearby, but it can be heard from anywhere. It's some loud impact being made repeatedly, almost like someone's hammering against metal.

The structure that was once the chemical plant looms in front of me as a flaming tower. I don't have the right kind of protection to just rush in right away, and so I perform a quick scan of the surrounding area and—

A woman's mangled body lies sprawled on the ground next to another. Both have multiple stab wounds. One of them was armed with a bloodied knife, and the other woman's hand is still open and the closest to the handle of it. Their pupils have completely vanished.

There's other corpses, many of them most likely killed in the same way. I frown involuntarily after viewing a man whose body has been shredded and torn into by the hands of someone else—and then I hear it more clearly.

Grunting. Sobbing.

I work my way around a steel shack to find someone hunched over a man and persistently ramming a dull, kitchen knife into his limp body. She continues jamming the blade into him relentlessly as I approach.

"That's enough." I demand.

She stops for a moment, rotates her head to reveal blood oozing from her dark, pupil-less eyes, and moans, "I can't... stop. I-I... can't... s-stop."

I'm puzzled but move in anyways to try to calm her down. "Just tell me—"

I'm not as smart as I'd like to be sometimes.

The woman, having superhuman reflexes, spins around and thrusts the knife at me!

All I feel is a slight, pronounced burning sensation when she nearly cuts through my stomach and leaves behind a gushing slit. I take the knife from her and toss it behind me, but she keeps on attacking and claws my chest while grasping at my neck! She's turned totally primal.

"I have to!" she screams. "They're after me! They-they want me to be their leader—but I won't do it! NO. I can't—I won't kill for them...

"S-so I'll kill for..."

Poor lady's gone insane, perhaps from grief. I grab both her hands before rushing to tie them up behind her and string together her feet prior to calling a dispatcher on my Kom Cell to notify them of a pickup location.

Dispatch is pretty confused as to why a suspended paramedic is on the scene but gives in, and I drop the ranting woman off close to the beginning of the trail to the plant. Ezekiel is nowhere in sight; I figured he'd be smart enough to run as far as he could.

From the direction of the burning plant, I can hear someone else crying out.

It's a bad habit I never could shake, but I run toward the action. Civilian or enemy?

The fog around me gives way to reveal a stranger in a very disciplined firing stance and garbed in a black uniform. He's donned a mask like mine, and he's aiming a stun gun at another, similarly-dressed guy who's shaking awful hard.

"Goddammit, Ellom! Did you think I was playin' with you when I told you to keep the mask seal tight? Motherfucker, if I gotta put you down—"

"It won't get away!" The unstable one rips off his mask, falls to his knees, and screams while tearing his hands into his head. "It's going to kill your family, Kaust!"

There's blood seeping from his scalp.

"I gotta help you see. You have to... S-SEE!"

Ellom, who I'm guessing is this "Kaust's" partner, slowly gets to his feet. He laughs hysterically, tears streaming down his face.

"Hey buddy..." Kaust takes a nicer approach. "Listen: it ain't all that bad, brother. Let's get you out of here. Don't make me use this shit on you, all right?"

"You don't understand!" Ellom raged, "I'LL TEAR OUT YOUR EYES!"

He charges at Kaust and screams, "I HATE THEM!"

And, without hesitating, Kaust shocks Ellom until he falls to the ground. Kaust then flips a lever on his weapon and shoots a tranquilizing dart into Ellom's carotid artery. He turns to acknowledge me and nods in the direction of his partner.

"Neurotoxin." he says and surveys the area. "That's what's eatin' everyone here, or so they tell me..."

I approach, remarking, "Impressive," and extend my hand. "Name's Brock."

He accepts the gesture and responds, "Detective Kaust. I reckon that anyone with the sense to bring a gas mask would be part of the backup—but just... 'Brock,' huh?" Kaust looks a little suspicious. "Who are you?"

"I was a paramedic for the—"

"Was?" Kaust has a genuine smile on his face. He seems likable, if kinda remotely.

I shrug. "I guess it wasn't my calling."

"Not your calling?" The detective laughed. "So you wanna tell me that you just threw some shit together and decided to play hero today? You know we can't make it in there, right—that we can't save whoever's left."

For whatever reason, he seems overtly angry all of a sudden.

He's right. We can't save those people, but we can limit the damage.

"Doctor Ezekiel called me. I didn't realize the situation was this ugly." I mention to him as we circle the far peripheral of the main building.

"That's an understatement." Kaust speaks with a bitter tone. "The Bureau just...

"I lost a team. A group of field agents and now maybe Ellom, who's from another division. Shit got heavy, as you can tell—this damn toxin is turning people into savages. If they aren't runnin' at you, the bastards are trying to rip out their own brains; they came at my team in waves."

"I'm sorry." He doesn't understand how much I can relate.

"No one's sorry, Brock. What, it's only a couple of high-speed cops gettin' ambushed by lab experiments.

"People don't respect their government like they once did—in fact, people see me as an enemy, like I'm another thug." Kaust takes a deep breath. "My Lieutenant's nowhere to be found, either; he was supposed to supervise."

We walk past a series of those who've bled out from wounds inflicted both by themselves and from others. The smoke thickens, and, in the smog, a figure with a deep, grotesque gash in its head sprints at us. It utters a piercing screech!

Kaust draws his stun gun and prepares to fire, when a man with merely a crimson hole in place of his eye brandishes a combat knife above him and thrusts it down toward the detective! I hurry to his side in time to deflect most of the strength of the blow before rapidly stepping in as I punch the opponent and knock him out, causing his body to collapse onto the ground.

Kaust shoots the oncoming attacker, and we can almost relax until we're thrown off guard when we notice hordes of the same fiends killing each other in fields surrounding the main plant's interior! Before us, we watch horrified as one infected man knocks down another and proceeds to fight his way to his enemy's throat, and then he's trying to claw it open with his hands. His victim tears at the side of his face roughly enough to cut through his ear, adding to the pool of blood forming around them.

The one at the bottom screams, "It's—it's a JOKE! HAHA! They sent you, didn't they? You're here to take me away."

Kaust fires a round which affects both of them before delivering the two into a deep slumber.

He looks pretty exhausted, poor guy.

"Someone in a cruiser caused this." The detective stares at the burning tower. "Crashed into the plant. At the right spot, right time. Released some kind of gas that makes people... insane, violent." He sighs. "I don't know for how long—Ellom damn well better come out of it, though; he better make it, Brock, because whoever planned this doesn't have a prayer. Nothing will save them from my wrath."

I smile. "Good."

He seems taken aback by my response, but I continue. "Just as long as you don't quit."

"Don't you want to see the motherfuckers who did this brought to justice?"

Before I know it, one of the infected begins raking his broken nails into my back!

Sharp, hot pain crawls along my body as I quickly move away while pivoting around to connect my elbow with the attacker's head! I then draw my handgun and strike my opponent again, at the same spot, with the butt of my gun and move out of his way as he falls forward.

"A 'not really' paramedic whose got hands, huh?" Kaust is a little surprised but stays mostly stoic.

"I guess they're not done trying me."

As we move toward the entrance to a steel building outside of the tower, a group of three flanks us from behind.

I dispatch one of the savages with a controlled blow to his neck, but Kaust is beset and overwhelmed by the other two—

One of them waves an iron pipe at the detective, who ducks then rushes forward to tackle his new opponent. However, Kaust is stopped in his tracks when another infected victim grabs him from behind and thrusts a shiv at his neck!

The detective very narrowly moves in time to avoid the blade, which pierces and lodges deep into his upper back! The third infected emerges and flanks Kaust on his left side, but, by this point, I've already closed in on all of them.

Kaust shocks the fiend wielding the iron pipe. I control one of the attackers by his shoulder and force him into my gun—

I send a barrage of rounds through his fuckin' stomach.

Kaust looks over while appearing to feel a mix of astonishment coupled with pure rage. He's so distracted by my actions that he doesn't expect when the last of the infected strikes him over the head with her forearm. The detective tries to back away but gets dizzy and falls on his back.

He could've handled the situation on his own terms, I'm sure, but my mind is gone again. The civil me, the law-abiding public servant... it's my way of penance. But here. In this place...

I fire a bullet into the woman's head and then rotate to shove the barrel of the weapon into yet another approaching savage's jaw, fracturing it. I prepare to fire when I hear a sound that's almost been completely drowned out.

It's a voice. Someone's afraid—or angry?

"STOP SHOOTING! BROCK, STAND DOWN!"

My picture of reality changes.

The person I just struck is seizing. Kaust is aiming his stun gun at me now, looking mightily pissed off.

"You killed them! Do you understand what you just did?"

I don't know what to say.

"Do you hear me? I could place you under arres—"

"I did what I had to do." I look up at him. "I hope you brought more than just that little taser."

The detective stares at me for a long while.

I'm figuring we'll fight. I'm also figuring that he'll try the stun gun as his first option; Kaust is too clean of a guy to go around puttin' bullets in people. When the stun gun fails, the detective will rely on his own raw skill. That is, if he has any.

I see it all as I do every scenario. I know how this fight will end already, but I'm looking forward to the thrill.

The detective gathers himself into a defensive stance and is about to move his weapon to fire at me. I put away my gun and charge at him.

Kaust reacts on cue and looks smug as he pulls the trigger, sending a powerful, chronic pulsation throughout my body.

I'm used to it.

I use the back of my fist to knock the stun gun out of his hand and try to close in on his guard. He can't hope to stand up to me in a one-on-one battle; I've won, but, like I said, Kaust is a good cop, and I won't let him go down without his gas mask.

Securing my victory, I grab onto detective's sleeve and pull him forward to uppercut him in the gut—I'm hoping that'll get him to stand down. He keels over but still resists, so I focus my strength, use precision—and then I see it!

Kaust retrieves a baton from a holster on the side of his hip which generates an enormous amount of electricity, and he thrusts it into my side while reaching for my gun with his other hand!

This time the shock is even more painful and nearly paralyzes me, but I recover and grab Kaust's arm before his hand reaches the automatic pistol and—!

There's a blast.

\--

I blacked out.

I can't open my eyes... I feel intense heat; my face is burning.

I can't breathe.

I-I can't breathe.

"I... can't breathe!" I sit up and realize that I'm still unable to see. It's painful when I try. I smell... burning.

Where's my mask? What happened? I continue rubbing my eyes to clear them of... ash? I hear someone coughing.

Kaust.

"Detective!" I call over to him.

No response.

"Det—"

"God... damn." Kaust says in the middle of a cough.

When I finally get back at least part of my vision, I start coughing, too.

"It was..." Kaust is trying to speak. I notice that the two of us are equally covered in soot.

"An explosion." I finish for him. "Probably," I spit out a blackened substance. "something on the inside."

"That," the detective struggles to stand, "or it was a delayed bomb from our dearly beloved terrorist."

Kaust strides over to me so quickly that I ready myself to strike him, but then he stops and gives me this intense gaze.

We've both lost our masks.

There's another passing moment when I consider how the next fight will go. I prepare myself, and then—

"If the neurotoxin gets me and I turn..." Kaust grumbles, "I'm coming after you first."

I look at him for a few more seconds.

We both start laughing.

And, on a very hazy horizon, several forms begin to show up and seem to be hurrying this way. More savages, it seems.

"Well," Kaust shakes his head, "at least we're going out like champs, am I right? Didn't wanna live with a new concussion anyw—"

"No."

"No?" There's a curious smile on his face.

"I'll take them all on, and I won't do it your way."

I prepare to draw my weapon as the oncoming horde seems determined to kill us. The only things they seem hate more than themselves are people who aren't infected. I know Kaust will try to stop me and will probably come close to getting us both killed, but I head into the fray regard—

A storm of bullets burrows into the mass of infected victims, bullets that implode and blow apart their mangled bodies. One of the savages manages to get away and continues his path toward us until the end of a long blade plunges through his back and protrudes out of his chest.

The newcomer holding the sword flicks her wrist, keeping her grip firm on the blade, and sends the corpse of the afflicted to the concrete. I can see a group of newcomers who, at first, are obscured because of the smog. But soon, I'm assaulted with the imagine of a squad of individuals encased in... armor?

\--

A foreign alloy was once taken and smithed into a defensive suit that was both flexible and could take a high amount of impact. Not sure about the whole story, but I know it was ditched because the early Enrec army couldn't adapt to the physical demands of this new technology. The armor was known to have been extremely heavy; more soldiers died in combat due to heatstroke from wearing the suit too long than from the normal causes. Over the years, the Federation made their variations of the armor, and now it's evolved into not only a protective shield, but modern versions have these special heating and cooling systems installed on the inside to monitor and aid the user in homeostasis.

\--

The woman standing in front of me is in a sleek, grey suit that's made from that very alloy: a metal shaped and designed to fit her individual body. The suit looks slender, and I'm guessing it's a much lighter version of the original. Eyes peer at me from behind a large visor. The others in the squad have similar helmets but with visors designed in different patterns, and they approach, some wielding swords and others aiming their rifles at us. Without our gas masks, we look... contaminated.

Kaust springs into action by flashing his badge and exclaiming: "Don't shoot! Detective Kaust!"

The lead woman flinches and looks real skeptical. "Why are you without a full team in the Hazard Area? Who authorized you to be here?"

The detective readily shows how annoyed he is: "Who authorized you to be here, huh? My team was taken from me!"

Kaust hangs his head in shame.

"All agencies other than the Dawn Federation Knights have had official jurisdiction removed by order of the government." She speaks with an arrogant tone of voice, "Further tampering of the issue via outside parties would result in prosecution under our own terms, Detective."

"But..." he presses on with his line of questioning, "Y-you just shot a bunch of innocent people!"

The Knight scoffs condescendingly. "You fail to remember how we operate. The Federation has ordered the execution of all fully-contaminated specimen."

"'Specimen?' They're just 'specimen' to you?"

She continues, "You've been exposed to the nerve agent, but you're still in a manageable time window. With your cooperation, we can ensure the toxin leaves your body."

Behind her, another team of the armored fighters moves to enter the plant proper.

Kaust thinks for a sec before he sighs in defeat.

"I'm afraid there's no need to fight this one; the Knights have a special relationship with the law, apparently."

"Not special." the Dawn Knight replies, "God-given. Our organization was created to handle problems the legal system could not. The Knights will keep the havoc in this plant contained far better than the Bureau could; simply put, you fight for the wrong side."

From the inside of the plant, I hear gunfire followed by frantic shouting as the armored soldiers begin clearing the place. They aren't affected by the intensity of the smoke or scorching heat; they're... different. Along with Angelos, the Knights have their own designation in the government. Making them an enemy would be setting myself up for a quick death.

Like Kaust, I concede and even speak for the two of us: "Get a doctor."

23

Blue In Green

\--

Tavon

\--

BROCK LEFT HIS TITLE BEHIND AS THE THIRD Quadrant Champion to enlist in Enrec as the lowest-ranking recruit. He'd gotten humbler and therefore was more tolerant when it came to being cursed at and scolded repeatedly. And so, when Enrec bore witness to Brock's growing potential, they made training harder on him.

Brock had to constantly surpass himself while under the duress of exercises meant to strengthen combat reflexes. He once told me that he underwent a forty-five minutes to an hour regiment that had him memorizing cones of fire while maintaining concealment on an obstacle course designed to weed out weaker recruits for a unique school offered only by Enrec.

He was pushed by his commanding officers. They would awaken him after midnight and force him to practice firing maneuvers vigorously before he would be made to wrestle them all at once. Afterwards, his battered body would be hauled to a lifting room where he'd be beaten further if he didn't heft the demanded weight.

Every day, Brock was singled out and tortured individually; they compelled the guy to grow into a more powerful version of himself with every passing month. I envy the discipline he had.

Soon, he became aware of Enrec's new plan for him:

Brock was to be placed on a reconnaissance team in order to participate in a short war waged against both Gaspul and Alandra. Though the Federation is responsible for today's Gaspulan government, most of the population, outside its wealthiest cities, has sided with the Gaspul Native Party. The GNP might've been driven out when they first declared independence, but they've taken over every piece of land not currently occupied by the government. Alandra, on the other hand, is just as powerful as the Federation, and no military action taken against them has ever proven successful.

In the years before another attack on insurgency forces in Gaspul, Brock remained faithful to the Dawn Federation's military; he got his share of fame, too. As a young soldier, he was renowned for being able to lift objects well beyond his body weight. Brock was also a respected wrestler in his unit and eventually graduated to fighting clubs contained within close, discrete circles.

For Brock, all there was buried in what was left of his heart was anger.

He'd learned how to control it over time but still had outbursts while serving in the military, outbursts that nearly cost him time in prison. I guess you could say Brock never intended to try to kill anyone, but he had a lust for battle. Although he'd spared me in our first encounter, just because he'd put a man on the ground didn't always mean that he was finished beating him to a pulp.

In the end, Brock matured in his attitude and allowed himself to become more acquainted with Enrec's military tactics. He and his team were put through a series of drills based on tactical manuals developed by President Derek's original mercenary company.

That company had all but perfected guerrilla operations, and the Dawn Federation was built on the cleverness of four people; therefore, the manual, praised as "The Good Book," became the cornerstone of what Brock learned as he was given more responsibility in his team over time. He was later put in charge of members of the Enrec's Intelligence Corps. A group of Corps commanders chose to promote him—earlier than expected—to the rank of Sergeant Follower after reviewing his accomplishments in Enrec.

Not long after, Brock was deployed to spy on Eastern Gaspul. Little did he know that his team's work would lead to an invasion which, in effect, crippled the heart of the Gaspulan government and resulted in its vassalage to this country.

Following the Federation's successful campaign, Brock faced another deployment to settlements the Dawn Federation believed could be converted. In one of those settlements, Brock's team was ambushed...

\--

It's said that it took only one of his men going down before the Sergeant Follower unleashed his wrath upon the enemy. Brock turned into a military legend when he managed to outmaneuver two squads that had been spread out over the village in preparation for Enrec's arrival. Tales are spun about how he lost his mind and slaughtered every one of his enemies on the battlefield while the rest of his team just... covered him.

He was field-promoted to Sergeant Master shortly after.

I think that's what changed him, honestly. Brock's conscience disappeared when he was out in the world fighting for the Dawn Federation. In fact, everything human vanished. I know he only opened up to his men and had a strong bond with his inner circle, but most of his emotions had frozen over. He'd stopped sleeping in the field and would remain up from midnight until dawn while pouring over his plans.

\--

One morning, Brock's team had disguised themselves as traveling villagers in order to infiltrate an underground drug ring that had been connected to fatal poisonings back in the Citadel.

While traveling in an armored vehicle, they ended up stranded in a trap designed for them. Brock and his men had driven over a series of IEDs linked together and programmed to detonate as soon as they reached the center of an organized minefield.

Needless to say, Brock was hospitalized and then field-promoted, once again, to Lieutenant. He'd sustained wounds that would've ended any normal human, but Brock had an unstoppable resolve known to place fear into the hearts of others.

He fell into a coma lasting exactly a month.

Afterwards, he awoke to hear that his entire team had been killed in the attack. Another recon element near their group had been alerted and rushed in as reinforcements. They discovered Brock's unconscious, battered form sprawled next to his fallen comrades.

Brock was later recognized for his valor, deemed a war hero by the public. President Derek had even planned to thank him for his service during a national broadcast, but he was unfortunately called away during another insurgency in Gaspul. After the forces ahead of him found the small rebellion more than manageable, Brock was ordered by his superiors to take a vacation while they reviewed him for a new position that would have him acting as the Major for a battalion-sized raid unit. It meant that he'd be participating in even more deployments while in charge of a few hundred soldiers.

The newly-promoted Lieutenant couldn't be more excited to get back to work. But, in the meantime, he gave himself a long-needed rest as he wandered around various clubs and bars littered throughout the Citadel.

He fell in love with someone...

24

Midnight And You

\--

Tavon

\--

ANGELOS DOCTORS UNDERSTAND HOW MY body works by now. I don't know who called them—I don't even know how they knew my location, but the organization I work for saved my life. Could be because of the coming interview.

Yesterday's wounds become today's scars, only subtle reminders of injuries that could've killed me. Except, this time, I look at the image in the mirror and notice a deep, darkened cut with a clean diagonal path permanently marring my face. Its center is just above the bridge of my nose.

But she's alive. She's safe.

\--

Janelle

\--

"I... I didn't know you were friends with a war hero." Aaliyah smirked. She said to Tavon, "I guess I didn't think you kicked it with the 'noble' crowd."

"Thanks?"

Tavon was lying on her couch, his body wrapped generously despite most his major lacerations from the prior bout having healed.

\--

After Tavon's body had been recovered, Aaliyah was woken by another Bureau Agent who became worried upon viewing blood stains covering a large portion of the area surrounding her. She was then taken to see a nurse and ordered to remain home until cleared by a Bureau psych examiner.

Tavon, on the other hand, disappeared back into the hands of Angelos.

One carrying quite a bit of influence saw to it that the assassin was properly treated and given over to a team of surgeons. And thus, he seemingly vanished out of everyone's life for a day and night before reawakening back at his apartment with Brock kindly watching over him.

Brock had attempted to speak with Tavon to understand better what had happened, but his friend simply left as soon as he was able and went to find Aaliyah. He collapsed from fatigue once he'd arrived at her apartment.

\--

"So, who was the love of his life?"

Tavon frowned. "Her name's... 'Kalene,' I think." He paused for a moment before continuing, "I don't know if she's even still alive. Haven't seen her in a long time."

"You two are really that close, huh?" Aaliyah chuckled.

"What's funny about that? –Tch. Whatever, just put some coffee on."

"Oh,"—she raised an eyebrow—"Well, you came over here with your own grown self, didn't you? So why don't you make it then?"

"If I could, I would. Please?"

"That's a good point. And okay." Aaliyah smiled at him before getting up to brew a full pot.

"But really: I don't get why it's funny to you."

"I just don't see you as the type of person to open up to... well, anybody, Tavon."

"Even though I'm giving you my life story."

She smirked. "That's true—but you're so cold on the outside, like you don't wanna be bothered with people."

"Likewise."

"Boy, shut the fuck up. Keep going with Brock's story; I wanna know about 'Kalene.'"

Tavon laughed. "We might come back to him. Don't you wanna know how what happened to me before we met the second time?"

"If it makes you happy, then tell me."

"It does."
25

Heartbreak

\--

Tavon

\--

AFTER MISSING MY SHOT AT BECOMING CHAMPION, you can imagine I was pissed. I thought I'd come close to a sure win against Brock, but he'd proven the better fighter in the end. I kept thinking that I could've won if they would've let us keep fighting. Even though Brock didn't possess refined techniques and was sloppy, he fought with a savagery that persists to this day. That's how he'd come to earn his reputation as The Berserker in the Third Quadrant.

Brock was born with potential, but he decided to use it for Enrec shortly after our fight and essentially gave up the title of Champion. But, that night after the competition, I was more than ready to go again and prove myself as the stronger man. I returned home to find Eze passed out on the cot to which he'd taken a liking lately—we changed it up every now and then—and was surprised to find Anubis quietly resting by his side on the floor.

I walked up to Anubis, who stared back while hinting that he was there for the man's protection. The dog-beast wouldn't allow me to inch any closer without growling in response, and so I hesitated to pet him before going to bed myself and sleeping for a long time...

So long that I'd overslept on Dfari's watch.

There came a banging on the door to the den followed by Isaac's voice:

"Yo T! They ready for you, bruh; we about to get the real grind on!"

I went to the door as fast as I could in order to avoid waking up Eze, who still appeared sound asleep. Anubis didn't respond to Isaac's appearance, and I don't think Isaac could see him anyways.

Rise stood at the entrance looking out of breath, with a cruiser hovering several feet behind him.

"Ay T, they jacked a vehicle—and Dfari overrided the console! Vic and Little in the back, but Dfari wants you to ride shotgun! C'mon, man, we ain't got the time to fuck around."

I started speed walking with him to the hijacked cruiser.

"Why does he need me in shotgun?"

"You fired a gun before, right?"

"No! I can—"

"Look, man," he showed me a glock strapped to his side before pulling out another that he forcefully handed to me. "We both about to partake in this; Dfari's gonna explain in the car."

I nervously got in next to Dfari, who was much more serious than usual. He didn't bother looking at me and just said: "You didn't show up for work today. I needed you earlier than this."

"I'm sorr—" I tried to say before he interrupted.

"It's no matter, kid." He waved me off. "Operation's still in effect."

"What are we doing?"

Dfari seemed annoyed by my question. "It's breaking rank to ask me that kinda shit, but I'll humor you this time." He snorted, "The Cordunion Market is a small, moldy-ass building that's next to a power station built for cruisers trying to pass into the Mid-City. As such, the shit heap sees a lot of cashflow, a fine income while making itself appear like it ain't nothin', you feel me?"

"He understands, D." Isaac spoke up for me.

"Good." Dfari grinned smugly.

"I looked into it, brothers, and the Market's in a fuckin' dead zone, a place I know cops don't usually patrol in spite of the traffic. But there's a reason for that: Cordunion Market gots paid security makin' rounds, and there are only a few times when half of them split and go on break.

"The cats they're using are free agents, ya hear; they allowed to clip us if we get in their sights—and that's why we've gotta speed and hand off the money to the boss."

"Wait... what?" That didn't make sense to me.

Dfari didn't say anything further and angrily stared ahead as he drove.

So, I kept pressing him:

"Let me get this straight, D: you want us to bust our asses trying to rob these people and then hand off the prize to a guy who didn't do anything?"

"...

"Kid, I ought to put a fuckin' bullet in your head, you know that!" He finally snapped, "It's not your fuckin' role to question orders, understand? If you disrespect me one more time..."

"Got you." I responded.

Dfari sighed with frustration before going on, "Obviously, I'm gonna be playing driver—so I'll drop you guys off at the right spot and then wait to be your getaway.

"Little, because he's the youngest, is going to pull off a trick we went over, and Vic will be standing in as security for Little. You... 'Knockdown T,'" Dfari said the nickname with disgust. "You're gonna help Rise cover BOTH Little and Vic whenever the Market's alarms go off—and they will; this place is stacked, my brothers. Trust this."

Not long after Dfari's poorly-thought-out brief, he dropped the three of us off in an alley where we prepared to approach the Cordunion Market.

"Ay Knockdown!" Little laughed. "Dfari only puts the people he hates as point man!"

"Point man?"

Isaac tried to reassure me. "It's nothing big, bro. All we gotta do is watch for that security team they got—"

"And what?"

"Damn!" Vic exclaimed, "This guy really is full of questions... the big boss don't like that kinda shit, ya know?"

"If something starts to pop off, T, we gonna be on the frontlines. We're here to protect Vic and Little—but if we prove our loyalty to Dfari, then he'll prove his loyalty to us.

"And, by the way, Little and Vic outrank you in Dfari's eyes; ask THEM your questions, man! You don't question a Lieutenant like D!"

I shook my head, feeling that Dfari was just full of himself. I was stronger than him by a wide margin, but I couldn't rely on my fists for everything—especially when guns were involved.

"Let's move!" Vic ordered.

"Wait!" Little called out with irritation. "I just rolled one up—we gotta smoke before we make this hit; we'll make it our pact!"

We all agreed and quickly passed around a joint Little had rolled for this exact occasion. In that moment, it helped me focus. The goal was to make it appear like a simple exchange without letting anyone know, and so all I had to do was act calm and pretend to browse the store while keeping an eye out for the security force. Though we were just teenagers trying to get our names on the scene, not only did we look shady, but Isaac and I were bigger than most teenagers our age. We were able to stand in as grown men, and people often treated us that way as time passed.

After putting in some work, both in the ring and with Dfari's crew, I'd finally been able to buy clothes that fit me. All those advertisements shown in the Citadel—ads for new, brand-name shoes and shirts—came to mean something more. At first, I had nothing and had gone to school with other kids who seemed like their families owned the world itself. But now, I was making it a priority to show off what I had.

I rocked a Yolando t-shirt, cargo shorts, and dark running shoes; I'll admit I was definitely more of a punk in the past than I am now. Sure. I kill people, but at least I'm not a total prick...

When we ventured into the Market, I didn't know what would go down. Everyone stared at us, and I felt like they knew we were up to something. I was anxious and paranoid and didn't want to have to use a gun when I knew I could handle myself fine.

\--

Little approached the clerk by himself and faked a gloomy demeanor.

"Uh, can I help you, kid?" asked the older woman at the counter.

He wiped his eyes and complained, "She... she keeps hurting me."

"Wait... what?" She leaned in.

"I-I don't know how to make—to make her s-stop." Little pretended to cry and hid his face.

The clerk's brow furrowed, and she retained a growing interest. "Who's hurting you? Is it a parent?

"Kid, is it someone in your fam—"

"I don't know what I'm doing wrong." Little looked away. "She makes me... do things for her. It's bad stuff."

"Kid, what's wrong? Come here now."

Little feigned being fearful and backed away. "No. You'll hurt me, too!"

"Nonsense." She smiled as a protective nature claimed her. "Come over here and let me check you out. NO ONE should dare lay a hand on kid as sweet as you!"

She was a genuinely caring person, but she happened to be in the wrong part of the Citadel and at the wrong time...

Little strode behind the counter and drew his gun, forcing it into her gut and quietly ordering: "Give it all up, all the money you got—right now."

In an instant, Vic came up to the counter with group of random items he'd gathered from around the store.

"Just start shoving cash in the bag and make it seem like a regular purchase, feel me?" Vic said to her and pulled his jacket away to display his own revolver that he'd tucked inside the front of his waistband.

The counter clerk turned visibly distressed, which I knew would be a factor working against us. But my role was an expendable one, and so the most I could do was stand by and keep searching the area.

She was starting to sweat as she grew red in the face and took longer than we expected. Vic awkwardly waited at the counter and noticed that some of the other browsers in the store were beginning to watch what was going on due to her unusual expression.

"Yo. Hurry the fuck up, lady!" Little demanded in a hushed tone.

"Okay, okay..." She was out of breath and a little loud as she cleaned out what she could of the Market's daily income from a series of metallic drawers and containers while scurrying back and forth.

It would be obvious soon. Stores didn't operate around here for long without experiencing a robbery or two. Someone approached from behind Vic and began watching the unfolding events closely, which made Vic tense up a little.

Vic glanced impatiently at Little, who was dead set on claiming as much as he could; I respected his tenacity. Most of the security team was sparse and loosely scattered throughout the area, but they would catch on.

The man behind Vic finally spoke up: "Excuse me, miss, but is—"

Vic pivoted and struck the man across the face with his revolver. He anxiously aimed it around the Market and screamed: "GET THE FUCK DOWN!"

The rest of us were horrified.

The public wasn't supposed to be alerted in this operation. Dfari had specifically told them to keep everything as quiet as possible, regardless of the circumstances, and now the two had all but announced their presence to the entire Market!

Guards turned to respond but immediately held their hands up as a gesture of surrender when both Isaac and I exposed our own firearms. I felt like a fool, as I had no idea how to work a gun.

Little darted away and shouted: "Let's go! C'mon!"

I started to rush to their aid in reaction and stopped myself when Isaac pleaded, "Wait, T! We're the security, remember! We gotta make sure those two don't go down with bullets in their backs!"

"Right..."

I noticed a member of the store's protection force slowly reaching for a handgun resting in its holster and rapidly directed barrel of my firearm in his direction while shouting: "Stop!"

He shook, sweat coating his fat cheeks, and put his hands back up as others in the building issued panicked screams.

"SHUT UP!" Vic screamed.

I nervously gripped my weapon and cycled my aim between the people in the Market. I waited to see if more guards would show up because it was only a matter of time before we were caught—or worse, gunned down...

But it wasn't long before I was hauling my ass behind the rest of the team, running past crowds of onlookers into less populated streets with a keen lookout for Dfari.

Little, struggling to hike the weight in his backpack, kept trying to call our ringleader on his Kom Cell while we fled the scene. Some of the guards were still following us, and so we were forced to take a more hazardous detour through a construction zone as bullets rang out in the distance and to the cries of scared citizens. With Isaac and I keeping an eye out from the rear, Vic and Littler maneuvered through a narrow alley and led us onto a half-finished walkway made from dark grating that overlooked a long patch of synthetic grass.

They were already panting from having sprinted only a short distance, but Little spoke, in between bouts of heavy breathing, "T-there's a route... we gotta take..."

Close to us, we heard the voices of adults still on our trail.

"Shit! We can't shake 'em!" Vic exclaimed.

One after another, we jumped from the end of the grating and onto the soil below before sprinting as a unit through an open square of concrete and stopping before a fenced gate with a locked entrance.

"Fuck it!" Isaac sighed. "We gotta hop this one!" We started climbing to the top, carefully ambling over spikes adorning the top of the barrier.

"Use the wall for support!" Isaac added.

Although I'd done as Rise recommended, sharpened points pierced my shins, and that caused me to tumble over as the last member. I broke my fall by grabbing onto two of the lower metal holes. Blood leaked onto the ground, and I shuddered for a moment in an effort to block out the pain.

"T, c'mon!" Little demanded.

I stepped off the fence and began running as our pursuers suddenly emerged from the opposite side and gasped upon catching sight of us again.

"It's locked!" one of them said when they'd reached the gate.

"Hey!" Another drew his weapon and pressed its muzzle through a cavity in the fence. "Stop or I'll shoot!"

We didn't stop.

As we hurried to turn right at an opening onto the following street, a series of rounds penetrated the wall next to us. Several of them came close to striking me, and then the Market's security team decided to scale the fence themselves!

The situation got more desperate when we thought Dfari had abandoned us. What a cruel joke it would be for our "boss" to throw us to the wolves...

But Dfari pulled up in his cruiser with rage written starkly across his face. He retrieved a revolver from his side door and aimed it at us. Dfari then bellowed and spit with an unnerving intensity: "Who the FUCK blew it!"

He shoved it in my face. "Was it this motherfucker here? I already know h—"

"It was Vic." Little interrupted. "Can we get a ride, D? They're right behind us!"

Dfari glared at Vic, but his features softened as he ordered: "Everybody in the fuckin' car! You bastards got that place crawling with police!"

Once we'd all clambered to get in, Dfari accelerated his hijacked cruiser and steered us in the direction of the Mid-City in order to blend in with traffic. His anger was soon renewed, however.

"You know what this means, right? Major Sofie finna be all over that shit you just pulled—do you get what I'm sayin', you dimwitted motherfuckers?"

"We gotta move now." Isaac responded.

Dfari pointed at him. "Exactly! We gotta FUCKIN' MOVE out of the Third Quadrant—and that means my boss has to move! He's not gonna like that shit, Vic!" He glared at the kid again. "Do you realize what this means for the whole business? Do you, Vic?"

Vic kept his gaze affixed to the ground in shame.

"It means we have to start the fuck all over! That money you got there? That ain't shit now, thanks to you!"

"I'm sorry..."

Dfari refused to look at any of us while turning the cruiser's media player to Pete Rock's "Hop, Skip, and Jump." He peered out from the cruiser window and muttered, "Ya'll done really fucked up this time..."

\--

We were to move to the First Quadrant in two days in order to escape unwanted attention on the crew. Dfari dropped us off at our corner and, without a word, drove off.

"Ay... I'm sorry, fellas." Vic looked dejected. "The guy scared me, to be honest. I—"

"It's no problem, Vic." Little cut him off. "You're a good soldier. That's why Dfari chose you to have my back."

I realized something and spoke up:

"What about our payment?"

Little paused and then turned to face me with eyes darkened by his anger.

"You just don't understand, do you? Dfari pays us based off the quality of the work we do, and the crew fucked up!

"You gotta get your head outta your ass, T!"

He poked me in the chest but was slightly nervous when doing so; they all knew I wasn't someone to be trifled with.

"Now the whole operation has to pull itself together and move to a new place! We could end up in a war with some rival punks who don't want us there!"

"Yeah..." I was unphased. "But that was a good score, you know? That wasn't no chump change—and we worked for it."

"I don't wanna hear it, dumbass!" Little shouted, "Dfari gonna kick you out of the whole thing if you keep steppin' against his plans!"

"I'm not steppin' to nothing; I just wanna know why I'm not getting paid! I did my part, didn't I?"

Little sighed. "Like I said before, kid: you don't get it... and you ain't gonna last here if you keep actin' up."

\--

I returned home that night while trying to figure out how to tell Eze the news...

I had enough money to support myself for a few months, and I was getting older; I felt that it was right to start making my own moves.

Eze had slowly backed away from parenting me and settled into the original life he'd lived before he'd taken on that role. We'd respected each other's distance, but I regret being too stubborn to reach out to him the way I should've. I'd been so focused on becoming stronger and doing what I could for myself that I'd completely ignored that junkie fool.

\--

Janelle

\--

Tavon was solemn.

"What's wrong?" Aaliyah touched his arm.

He looked into her eyes and shook his head with a bitter frown...

\--

Tavon

\--

Eze was my first friend in the world; the first who ever looked out for me. If not for him, I don't think I would've survived.

On the night that I came home from the robbery, I noticed that Anubis was nowhere to be found once again. Eze was still lying on the bed; there was no way he could've been asleep...

I was worried and walked over to his cot.

Eze's skin was so... pale. His eyes were closed, but his mouth stayed agape. Next to his arm, a needle attached to a syringe had fallen away from the bloodied area it'd pierced.

Eze had passed on. Overdosed.

\--

I remember sitting next to his limp body for a prolonged period of time. I waited for my emotions to take over—for tears to start raining from my eyes...

But they never came.

Rather, it was a different sort of feeling. Shock mingled with crushing remorse, you know?

I didn't stick around to push Eze to fulfill his own dreams the way I should've. I'd left him alone and tried to disassociate with his legacy simply because I had too much pride for my own good (I still do). And, at the end of his life, he'd left the world right after a pointless argument with someone he'd considered his son.

The truth is that "Tavon" was the name of Jerik Sandeze's real son: Tavon Sandeze.

You see, Eze hadn't always been such a mess. There was a time when Jerik was a different man altogether.

He'd come back to the city after five years of serving the Enrec Military, and he'd suffered from severe night terrors after having witnessed events he'd later never be able to speak of. Jerik Sandeze once had a wife and kid of his own.

Eze was happily married for years and invested most of his free time into his family. He was a good father.

Eze was devastated when Tavon was killed by a stray bullet during a shootout in their neighborhood. His son was rushed to the hospital, and the Sandeze family was informed that Tavon had passed the instant the round made contact. He'd hemorrhaged once it coursed through the side of his head.

Alas, Tavon Sandeze never had a chance in this world.

This drove Eze partially mad. Even more tragically, Jerik and his wife, Amy, split up over a shared, inescapable misery; they were reminded of Tavon's death every time they looked at one another. The end of the relationships he'd held dearest to him was what sent Eze into a downward spiral.

Before he became a junkie, Eze had sold cruisers for a living and once planned on owning his own dealership, but his funds were completely depleted because of his new habit. He'd always had a talent for calming and convincing people, even when he was high. He had an uncanny ability to persuade people; this is primarily how he'd managed to survive for so long. But this is what my "father's" life came to, destroyed by his own vices and left alone. That was the very last lesson he had in him: your demons exist to challenge you, but sometimes you lose the game.

It took me a lot of time to process what had happened, but I eventually told myself that I would carry on Sandeze's legacy by always honoring his memory. I'll admit that his outbursts and erratic behaviors pissed me off at times, but he was—by nature—a great man.

Rest in peace, Jerik Sandeze...

\--

I was emotionally broken after his passing.

Professor Norlin kept trying to contact me since I hadn't been fooling around at the dojo lately. He wanted me to start training early for another major bout he was trying to set up so I could gain a larger audience. At that time, I was too concerned with what was going on with the people I worked for. The four of us had spent months smoking and selling together, and so, in a manner of speaking, we were our own family. And now, we had to relocate to the First Quadrant.

Word was that Dfari's boss had been negotiating with a much bigger mobster who was more interested in absorbing our crew. Still, our actions had left us with no choice.

The Citadel is a city divided into its three societal layers. It was built the way it is largely for the purpose of housing a whole nation while filtering its residents. A move from one Quadrant or Zone to another is considered a drastic change just because each section of the Citadel is pretty big in its own right. The First Quadrant of the Lower-City was northeast of us by over a hundred miles—

\--

Janelle

\--

"You don't gotta speak to me like I'm a dumbass, Tavon. I know what the Citadel is! —I live in it!" Aaliyah rolled her eyes.

"You'd be surprised at how many fools still think they live on the ground. They stopped teaching history, and most knowledge about the past is all speculation put together by people on Fi-O..."

Aaliyah chuckled. "You're telling me that someone could live in the Citadel their whole life and not realize what it is?"

"Yeah!" Tavon raised his voice, "There's a lot of dumb people, even in the New World. We've got access to all the info, but no one takes the time to actually look at the truth."

"Keep going." Aaliyah kissed him. "What happened after that?"

"Too much..."

\--

Tavon

\--

When I arrived on the corner where we were supposed to meet on the day of our departure, I waited alone for a long time before Isaac finally showed. I remember that he was twitching and that he avoided any eye contact.

"Rise, you good man?" I asked hesitantly.

"I-I... don't know. F-fuck."

He was pacing back and forth with his hands interlocked behind his head. Isaac was drenched in sweat and seemed feverish; his eyes darted and searched for a nonexistent enemy.

"Yo Rise."—I put my hand on his shoulder—"Just tell me what happened, man? What's wrong?"

"I-I did what he told me to do."

"What did he tell you to do?" I got irritated. Something was welling up inside of me.

"I'm sorry, bro. I felt like I needed to do it to prove something."

"What the fuck did you do, Rise? Why you being cryptic again? It's me here—relax."

"Ay, kid, you watch your mouth around here!" Little had entered the scene.

He quickly shoved his gun into my backside and threatened: "Don't you ever fuck with a higher-ranking member again, ya hear? You finna be fired soon, you know!"

I shrugged, pushed the weapon away, and backed up from Isaac. "Whatever. Where's Vic?"

"Kid, you've got a lot of—wait, that's why I came here. I thought he was rollin' with you two?"

I shook my head. "No. I've been waiting here for the longest, man; he ain't never showed."

Isaac remained silent.

"Well, we can't leave without him!" Little started yelling. "We gotta look for his ass—ay, Vic is good peoples, man."

At that moment, Dfari pulled up in another cruiser he'd overridden. He didn't roll his window away to address us this time and only unlocked the cruiser doors.

We climbed in, and Dfari accelerated at a rapid speed onto a hyper rail that would direct us toward the First Quadrant.

We rode in silence for some time, and, eventually, Little began speaking again.

"Ay, so... we ain't takin' Vic?"

Dfari didn't respond; an awkward silence followed.

"All right." Little continued, "So, boss, what do you got planned for us, huh? You know, I was thinking you could give the crew a bigger role seein' as—"

"You mean after that fuck up you guys just had?" Dfari finally responded without glancing in Little's direction.

"Nah. There's plans in motion, Little; it's some high-tech shit we're working on, but I'm sure you're gonna get the hang of it."

"Sounds good, D." An eager smile spread across Little's face; he was almost too ready to grow up.

"We about to be rich, own our own apartments—we gonna be popular with the ladies, too, 'cuz you know it's all about the money these days, right?"

\--

It was hours later when Dfari had navigated his way into a condemned housing area that belonged to a poorer section of the First Quadrant.

He drove the stolen cruiser through numerous, uncomfortably tight city corridors before bringing us to a building that had been mostly destroyed in a previous firefight possibly dating back to the founding of Enrec itself. Dfari took us to a place that had been mostly unbothered for some time and was known for its squatter population. In a way, it was all left as a home for those who had no shelter—but very few in the First Quadrant knew about its existence as its own social pocket stowed away in the city.

It was here that Dfari ordered us to "Get out."

He stepped out as well and approached our group as we gathered inside of the corroded building.

\--

"Aight, boss, what's happenin'? I'm ready for what you got to deliver."

Dfari looked into Little's eyes and stated: "Vic is dead."

The boss then drew his revolver and fired a bullet into Little's skull, instantly killing the young street soldier.

I'd already reacted by this time and dashed toward Dfari while preparing to deliver a combination of strikes I knew would shake him up! Our boss pivoted toward me and—

I was shocked that it took just one, swift strike. A punch I'd intentionally made weak to test his mettle somehow knocked Dfari down and caused him to drop his weapon! With one hit, I'd already defeated someone who'd been fronting his whole life.

Dfari shielded his face and pleaded, "Wait! Stop—I-I can't beat you!"

"You can't kill me either, moron!"

"T-the boss ordered me to get rid of everybody but one! You-you gotta believe me, T!"

"But one?" Isaac gasped; his face reddened. "You told me only Vic had to go?"

Dfari steadily got to his feet and backed away from us. I took up his gun and aimed it at him, but I didn't know if I could actually kill him. I wasn't even sure if I could work it.

Can I really just... do it? Do I have it in me?

"Wait!" he screamed. "The boss said Rise is the only one who can move past that fucked up heist—s-so we had him do it!"

Dfari was crying now. "Don't kill me! Please!"

"Isaac,"—I peered over at him, shaking with fury.

"You... killed Vic?"

He looked away. "It was him or me, T...

"Dfari said I'd be promoted, but I didn't know you and Little were also supposed to be hit!"

"He's telling the truth." Dfari had calmed down, but he disgusted me. Little's body was only a few inches from my feet, and it nearly drove me mad when noticing the scarlet halo gathering around his ruined head.

"I-I wasn't sure if I could take three of you guys at once... Isaac helped me divide and conquer."

"And now look what that's cost you!" I prepared to pull the trigger, hoping a round had already entered the chamber.

With a rapid motion, Isaac batted the gun out of my grasp and pushed me back while attempting to stand his ground. I was ready to strike him—but his eyes bore into mine... remember my mom. He didn't speak it, but I knew.

"Look, T! I love you... a-and I know you can kick my ass, but I'm not about to let this crew down, ya hear me?"

"What crew?" I was too astonished to be angry anymore. "Dfari killed our friends, Rise!"

"So did I." Isaac said grimly. "Vic didn't fuck with you anyways, man; Little and him were plotting against you."

"But they didn't deserve to die!"

"And neither does D, Tavon!" Isaac tightly gripped my arms.

"If you want to fight me, Knockdown, then give me your best damn shot!"

Isaac released and stood proudly.

"I've come too far with these people for you to just... to just fuck this good shit up for me!"

He readied his fists and prepared himself, waiting in anticipation for me to strike!

"..."

I turned and walked away from the scene.

"Ay, so you scared to fight me now or something?" Isaac yelled after me, "You just mad you lost the Championship to some bald punk!" His laughter was contrived.

"..."

It doesn't matter. I won't ever see him again.

I didn't know how wrong I was.

\--

During the first month that I'd been squatting alone in abandoned housing, I'd often wake up to money or food left for me. I always assumed that it was Isaac still trying to help me in his own way while staying loyal to his cause.

For whatever reason, Rise disappeared after that first month along with any further contributions. I figured that Dfari's boss had probably relocated him to another part of the Lower-City. The last time I saw him, he was dying in my arms; his appearance had changed so much. Like Sandeze, I wish things had turned out better than they did for High Rise.

That's four of my family members who've passed now.

Though I'd suffered losing people I'd considered my friends and the man who'd raised me as his own son, I felt a different type of hunger.

Buried in my own confusion and disappointment, I gained a new resolve. In my mind, Little and Vic had to be avenged. With Isaac out of the picture, I realized that I could hurt those responsible for ordering the assassinations.

I would hit Dfari and his leadership back—except it wouldn't be by killing them...
26

My Philosophy

\--

Janelle

\--

LANCE RECLINED IN A BARBERSHOP CHAIR AND patiently waited while the man he went to regularly began braiding his hair in Zone D. He uttered verses, claiming that he was working on a "mix-tape":

"I'm one step ahead of the competition, competition struck by demolition from the Master on a mission...

"Ay, Mr. Mauros, how's that sound to you, huh?" Lance grinned with pride. "Good, right?"

Old Mr. Mauros, who'd been a barber for the latter portion of his life, snorted before breaking out into laughter.

"Boy!" He clapped. "Sounds like you used colored pencils to write the lyrics in detention! You've got no flow." He lightly slapped the back of Lance's head.

"Psh..." L sighed. "Listen, old man; I got this shit—"

"Watch your mouth!" He slapped his head again, harder.

"Ow!" Lance started to curse but then simply gave Mauros a dark look.

"You lucky you're old, Mr. Mauros, 'cuz otherwise things would be different between you and me, you know?"

Mauros chuckled. "Ever since they pulled the young ones outta school they've been nastier than ever." He glared at the boy and resumed working on his hair. "What ya'll really need is some role models, ya hear? I mean, trying to base your career on music is risky enough without you getting' thrown into the game like these other fools out here."

"Man, you just don't get it, pops. Rhyming is my ticket out the Zones and into the Upper-City! I've got talent. Just listen real quick:

"My name is L, not the old but the new, here to deliver something smooth, flow heavy with groove.

"Quickly, I creep through and knock a muthaf—"

"Lance!"

"Apologies, pops; I just wanna put it out there 'cuz I've been through some hard stops, some hard pauses following periods convalescing into moments of inspiration that got me movin' beyond hesitation—"

"If you don't shut up and let me do my job..."

Mr. Mauros placed a sound emitter on the counter and drowned Lance's voice out with Boogie Down Production's "My Philosophy" and almost finished with his hair when—

A kid only a few years younger than Lance arrogantly burst through the door and stuttered, as usual, while he spoke loudly, "L, w-we got problems, man!"

Mr. Mauros, on cue, rushed to confront the boy and looked even more intimidating as he yelled: "Don't ever announce your presence like that again or I'll whoop your butt right here! You hear me, boy!"

The young kid backed away and gave in, hanging his head low. "Sorry, pops... it's just—"

"It's just what? You need a haircut. For real." His eyes grew wide as he addressed the newcomer. "Crazy fool coming in here and lookin' all busted up."

"I don't got time!" the boy replied, "T-there's somethin' going down t-that my boy L needs to be in on!"

Lance got up from his seat and said nervously, "Did we... did we get hit?"

"It's not that, i-it's j-just..." He stared at the ground for an extended period of time, trying to find the right words.

"It's N-Nathan."

Lance's eyes lit up at the mention of his name. "That motherf—his as—" he rolled his eyes and attempted not to swear, "He disappeared on us after talking to the cops!"

"Yeah. And he's coming this way, too!"

"What? Why?"

The boy clenched his fists. "H-he came back telling people that you were the one who s-snitched and got Magellan locked up—and he's been s-saying that that girl you used to hang around gave you something! He's callin' your old g-girl a whore, L!"

Lance was furious. "Nathan screwed us more than that 'Davon' cat; he gave up everything, and now he has the nerve to come back and start talking about me? Me?"

The boy scoffed, "I guess it's-it's just a part of who he is..."

"What do you mean?"

"Idiot." He rubbed his forehead and exhaled in irritation. "I'm s-saying that Nathan realized he could overpower a teen and t-take everything left of the K-Kijivu for himself. H-he realized he could c-change the story and make you out to be the snitch, and t-that's why..."—he clenched his jaw—"We gotta punish him."

Mr. Mauros frowned. Of all the kids and grown men who had come into his barbershop, this young one seemed to him to be the most hopeless. Mr. Mauros reached out to the boy but did so cautiously; after all, he'd heard vicious rumors about the juvenile.

"Just one moment, son."

"What, old man?"

Mauros breathed in hard and struggled to keep his temper from overcoming him. "I know about you, boy; I know things haven't been so easy."

He laughed but stood his ground. "W-what d-do you know, pops? Tell me."

"I know you grew up in the system..." Mauros looked sympathetic. "You always say you don't remember what happened, if you had a family—But I know that some part of you remembers, and I don't think that this is the legacy that you should be trying to leave behind, understand?"

The boy became quiet and extremely serious while pondering a spot on the wall. There was an emptiness to his gaze when he turned to look at the barber, clenched his jaw again, and said: "Your words don't mean anything."

\--

Nathan and one of Ekwueme's old enforcers were calmly walking on the pavement leading toward the barbershop.

Ekwueme's operation had been taken over by a chain of command he'd established himself, and Nathan had negotiated his way back into a crew to whom he and Lance once swore they'd never return. Nathan's partner had remained stoic up to this point but at last inquired, "Why's it necessary for you to humiliate L? He's just some kid you used to run with, right?"

Nathan sighed. "People way up in the ranks decided that the best way to show my loyalty was to let L know that we're enemies in public." He snickered. "Tsk. It could've been worse... they wanted me to put a bullet in him, but I pulled some strings and—"

"Now we're wasting our time with someone who isn't a real competitor. L is fucking up his job good enough at this point. You sayin' someone higher than me ordered this bullshit? Are you strapped for this?"

"That's funny; why would I need steel for this cat?"

"I can't believe this is a legit task, Nathan."

Lance and his companion rapidly approached and to the laughter of Nathan, who bellowed: "This is your whole crew now, eh?"

"Naw, fuckhead. They all tasked out."

"Tasked out so much they can't roll with their friends? They find out you were gonna die today or somethin'?"

Lance paled for a moment. "Die? W-w-what do you mean, die?"

The boy next to him said calmly, "It's pretty clear what it means, L. He came here to fuckin' ice us..."

Nathan placed his hands on his hips and smirked.

"Fools. I'll only hurt you if you don't obey me—I'm Ekwueme's replacement. My loyalty remains with our old crew, and that makes us enemies, plain and simple!" Nathan stepped close enough to prod Lance in the chest. "The only way you'll be moving product is through us now, understand?"

Lance's face turned scarlet as he batted away Nathan's arm.

In an instant, Nathan's ally drew his pistol and casually aimed it at Lance. He scowled as he spoke, "The man said no bullshit, did he not? Will you disrespect the legacy of Ekwueme by laying hands on a mem—nevermind!" he snorted, "I'll kill you where you—"

The man clutched his side and cried out as a slender, black blade was withdrawn from in between one of his ribs.

Using combat knifes designed to fit between the digits of his hand, Lance's companion dashed around the gunman and began stabbing him repeatedly in every opening he could find. He took control of the man's firearm and then disemboweled him!

In the background, citizens gasped and screamed at the horrific sight; Mr. Mauros came out of his shop with a shotgun and exclaimed: "Enough! Stop!"

Lance was taken off guard and, so he didn't realize it when Nathan swung his fist and struck a blow to the side of his jaw that incapacitated him. Nathan followed up by getting on top of Lance and threw successive jabs at his former partner!

It only took a second before Lance's friend noticed and quickly came to his aid. He began thrusting his weapon into Nathan's lower back until the older man turned and tried to block his attacks. Despite his desperate attempts to stop each jagged blade, he received several deep cuts across his arms. The boy lunged, stabbed Nathan through his cheekbone, and then subsequently thrusted two daggers into his jugular.

The sound of sirens drew closer as he backed away from two men bleeding out upon the street.

"Raiko!" Mr. Mauros shouted, his voice tinged with sorrow. "How cou—" There were tears in his eyes. He knew that he couldn't open fire on two kids he'd tried to shepherd. "Why would you do this?"

Nathan curled up into a ball; his lifeblood quickly escaped him, and he felt his will to live diminish. Lance, being softhearted in nature, ran over to the bleeding man's side and hesitated before he got too close.

"I'm sorry, Nathan... I-I don't know what to do."

Nathan went into cardiac arrest, his eyes great saucers that looked to Raiko in disbelief. While one hand grasped at his chest, the other reached toward the boy.

The local police had arrived on the scene and quickly surrounded everyone who was armed, including Mr. Mauros.

Raiko, his hands coated crimson, glanced back at Mr. Mauros and said calmly, without stuttering, "They weren't important."

\--

That afternoon, the Zone D police used videos taken at the scene to assess the situation. An officer working in administrative data looked up from her laptop and said, "Let me try for a summary: Lance—who wants everybody to call him 'L,' is just as much of an instigator as Nathan. Nathan's pal, who the hospital has booked as Kungo, gets nervous and brandishes a weapon at a minor. The minor is triggered and attacks the two of these guys with some kind of knives you can't find in any store—at least, any that I know of—and we lock it into evidence as the thing that put Nathan and Kungo both in critical condition at the hospital."

The officer at the scene, who was a close friend of Detective Kaust, nodded his head. "Exactly. The minor goes by 'Raiko.' The only record we have of him is as a ward of the Federation, an orphan..." he scratched his head. "Old 'L' will probably make it out of this okay seein' as his dad is a pretty important guy. Raiko, on the other hand...

"Whatever shot Raiko had as a good, upstanding citizen is gone now. If the two fellas he shanked pull through, he's being tried and going to jail for attempted manslaughter. If they both die, then he'll be executed. The kid doesn't really look crazy, either."

"It's just such a shame." the data administrator replied. "This stuff happens way too often."

\--

Such a shame, indeed. The Citadel Prison was its own twisted world.

President Derek had developed a pretty cynical view of crime. Dawn Federation law had changed to reflect a more intense stance on all offenders, which eventually caused the construction of the Hanging Prison: a great stone building that hung from the lower reaches of the Lower-city via a series of reinforced chains placed throughout the Citadel to support its incredible weight.

Because of its design, the Hanging Prison was known for swinging in the wind and producing a nauseous, unbalanced sensation felt throughout the prison. The tale goes that the President lost family members to street violence during the time when the Citadel was just a group of factions fighting for control of the city. In chaos, Derek saw a need for order and thus made it his life's goal to harshly punish those who broke this order. He wanted the Citadel Prison to be the type of world that withered away the minds of its inhabitants. To him, it was Justice that the facility was known for causing prisoners to become insane and, if they didn't turn suicidal, evolve into even more dangerous versions of themselves at times.

The Hanging Prison consisted of levels, much in the way that the Citadel itself consisted of its own divisions. These levels were developed to establish different classifications of criminals. After the Dawn Federation had implemented its federal authority, the government decided to fund a program of neurologists and psychological professionals whose sole purpose was to interview every prisoner. They also reviewed files and looked over family history before deciding whatever level the prisoner "belonged to."

On the First Level, the Hanging Prison, naturally, housed more petty offenders. Small time thieves, muggers, and similar criminals were placed in cells with three other individuals at a time.

The Second Level was known for more discrete crimes: insider trading, hacking, and stealing private information. Most white-collar criminals were known to be placed here in cells designated for two.

The Third Level was reserved for more high-profile crimes such as murder, rape, and kidnapping and housed one prisoner for each cell.

The Fourth contained the men and women thought to be the most depraved in society, and they were left mostly alone in solitary cells to slowly go mad as the prison perpetually swayed through the air. The Fourth Level was a prohibited section of the Prison, and it was only accessible by Dawn Bureau agents or Dawn Knights.

It's said that the final floor of the Hanging Prison was a bastion of insanity. Those assigned to the Fourth Level were rumored to have drastically changed in appearance, to be more creature than human.

Raiko was tried by a High Court in the Upper-City and sentenced to ten years on the Third Level followed by five years of psychiatric hospitalization. His case had made public news, and, although he was only a young boy who was soon to turn sixteen, the jury sided against him. The problem wasn't the crime so much as Raiko's complete indifference toward what he'd done.

The lawyer appointed to him by the court suggested that Raiko explain that he was terrified and merely reacted on impulse. When the magistrate over the case inquired as to why he'd murdered Nathan (Kungo survived), Raiko nonchalantly replied: "They didn't matter."

It was this statement that promptly became used as the headline of every news outlet looking into the case. Raiko wasn't showing enough remorse for the crowd; he seemed as though he'd already accepted his fate long ago and didn't feel the need to apologize. And, at every one of his hearings, Mr. Mauros sat behind him with Lance and offered his support.

Despite feeling bitter about the event, Mr. Mauros eventually admitted, "Raiko is loyal, Lance. You can say that much."

Raiko was temporarily transferred to the Second Level in a solitary cell. They took away both his belongings and his contact to the outside world and only offered him an old, grey uniform and a bedroll. Because Raiko had become infamous, he received the worst treatment possible from the guards and was forced to starve for several days. The prison staff did not understand the delay and were quite eager to have him processed and transported to a cell on the Third Level.

Some of the other prisoners would occasionally get some time to leave their cells and go outside for "recreation." That option was never offered to Raiko, and he was only let out to use the community bathroom. The other prisoners simply glared at him and threatened him; they thought he was arrogant, and—in a way—Raiko was. A misunderstood orphan raised in the system, he understood loneliness better than anyone else; thus, he was able to make his home in a cell barely tall and wide enough to contain him.

It was some time before he was visited by a stranger wearing a rather extravagant suit. When the newcomer first visited, he hid most of his face behind a tipped hat and a pair of shades that seemed wholly unnecessary for how dark it was. He waited in front of Raiko's cell and asked: "Are you finished?"

Raiko, despondent and detached from what had happened, refused to answer; the stranger then disappeared.

Raiko's new friend came to see him at least once every week and asked different questions, questions which Raiko continued ignoring, though this stranger was the very reason as to why he'd not yet been fully processed.

Finally, he'd had enough and, without being cognizant of the fact that he no longer stuttered when he spoke, demanded, "What group are you with, huh? You some sorta psych dude they sent to, I don't know, analyze me? You buggin' me the fuck out, man."

The stranger tilted his head up to reveal a somewhat elderly face containing what seemed to be a very genuine smile.

"I did a little research on ya, feel me? Let me break it down for you, cat:

"I talked to Mr. Mauros about your... situation. He spilled everything you've said over the years; cat really cares about you, though, boy. You keep tellin' people that ya don't know where you came from, am I right?" He leaned in. "But it's all cool, son. You ain't gotta lie anymore behind closed doors. I'm here to hear you."

"Who the fuck are you, old man?"

The stranger chuckled and maintained his humble appearance. "See, you gonna learn about these kinda things in time..." He possessed a very soft-spoken, musical voice. "Just tell me what went down, and I might be able to help you."

"I don't need no help, fool!" Raiko edged in closer to confront the visitor. "I'm not a damn liar, neither! I don't remember–I DON'T remember!"

Tears welled up in Raiko's eyes briefly; he fought to keep them at bay. The stranger looked sympathetic before admitting, "I believe you, son. I wanted to think somethin' taught you the type of ability it takes to near murder two men—much less to kill off one.

"The other barely managed to make it out of the hospital, and here you are. No scratches, nothin'. Why, that's talent if I've ever seen it!"

Raiko laughed through his tears and leaned on the bars. "What you gettin' at, old man? Who let you in here, anyways? There ain't no guards on duty?"

A smile flashed across the visitor's face. "You probably don't know enough about Citadel history, do ya? It's some shit they don't be teachin' kids nowadays because everything went digital..."

He exhaled. "You may as well consider me an agent for a wicked special cause, ya feel me?"

"I don't know what that shit means, fool!"

"Settle down. Settle down, little man. Does the name 'Angelos' mean anything to you?"

Raiko mocked him. "It's part of some fuckin' myth."

"Myth?" The stranger was taken aback.

"Well, I mean, word everywhere is that Angelos is a part of the government—like they get contracted and stuff. They kill people, but I know that can't be real! People be talkin' like they're livin' shadows, motherfuckers who can kill without gettin' in a whole lot of trouble."

The visitor took on a solemn demeanor. "It's not a myth; it's a tradition, my man."

"What?" Raiko was puzzled.

"Angelos selects who it wants. From the youngest to the oldest, ya dig? And it teaches them to overcome their weaknesses..."

"Is that what this is about?" The boy went on the defensive once again.

"You're a recruiter? Look, I was ready to off those two fools 'cuz they was ready to off me and my friend! I'm guilty of what happened—I'll do my time! This is what my fate's gotta be, I guess." He looked down sullenly.

"You've been blessed, my man." The stranger said to him. "You have power that could be used to cut away all the bad from the world as you and I know it. I wanna offer you something that will give your life the meaning it deserves...

\--

When Raiko turned sixteen, he was initiated—only a few years before Tavon—as a Student in the Angelos Association.

The Grandmaster of the Federation branch of Angelos had personally recruited him, and it was well known that this particular Grandmaster could decipher an individual's character in under a minute. To him, Raiko was someone who'd grown up without a family and had, so far, lacked an identity. Raiko could become anyone if pushed in the right direction.

But there was an issue...

He may have known his way around basic combat, but, as it happens, this was all the real skill of which he was capable. Raiko could barely read, had never sat through a full class, and only concerned himself with survival. Because of Raiko's inexperience, Angelos normally wouldn't have been able to use him.

Against the Grandmaster's wishes, Raiko would be admitted into Angelos but under the condition that he signed up for a project run by Dar-Tech.

He was to be a subject in Project 12-1 and was informed that he'd remain in prison, on the Third Level, for one more week. Afterwards, they would come to 'retrieve' him. Raiko wouldn't understand how desperate his situation was about to become until he was dealt an unfortunate blow.
27

Gimme The Loot

\--

Tavon

\--

DFARI'S BOSS WAS A WELL-KNOWN PLAYER ON THE STREETS: OVO.

Ovo was on, what some would call, a "business venture." He'd gone from robbing people in the streets and frequently getting busted for dope to a figure in the shadows who operated in the same fashion as the best of the underworld... quietly.

I remember I stalked Dfari for a while after what had happened. Isaac became his companion for a brief period before he was moved to a completely different Quadrant, but Dfari stayed put and continued pulling jobs for Ovo.

And I watched.

Dfari had been designated as an "enforcer," the same rank given to anyone directly below Ovo and a title handed out to Isaac after he'd killed Vic. As such, Dfari had been assigned with taking charge of other crews just like us and getting new kids into the game. He didn't seem to discriminate when it came to age, and I think that's part of the reason he was able to form small collectives so quickly.

Ovo had an empire in mind.

\--

I planned to make them hurt; I'd leave my mark and do what I could to avenge the people I'd considered family, but I wasn't ready to fight Ovo's entire faction. They were armed, and Dfari always seemed like he was waiting for someone.

He was waiting for me, I think. A banger like him didn't survive for very long without constantly looking over his shoulder, but it's almost like he knew that I wasn't about to forgive him. Dfari rolled deep now, so I haunted his new crowd and learned a little bit about the layout of the First Quadrant.

It'd started out as one of the first mega farms to sustain the Citadel population, and then the First Quadrant developed into a very congested district that was home to one the biggest concentrations of the lower class in the Federation. Because of this, Ovo had planned to move to this Quadrant regardless of the results of our heist. Our actions hadn't mattered; Ovo was only going where his business could flourish. Instead of merging with another mob like I thought they would, Ovo "partnered" with the leaders of rival gangs in the area and managed to find his organization a new home.

On the corner of Wask Street, an old path rounds and will take you down an avenue with holes broken into the concrete. The land's unsteady and hovers over a spot the Citadel never reinforced; there's just a drop off to a huge field suspended on its own, and so it easily turned into a forgotten area in the city due to almost every former Major's reluctance to spend money on necessary repairs. It was a square of land dominated heavily by shacks often used by junkies. At the southeast corner, there were some old barns surrounded by terrain that had been artificially made. It was a grow site that had been nurtured, raised, and uprooted; Citadel farmers can package up their own crops and transport them across the city for a decent profit.

So far, this land had stayed unbothered and generally ignored...

\--

I was able to follow Dfari on an occasion when he wasn't being chauffeured around by one of his soldiers, and so, that morning, I had noticed that he'd been stressed, more prone to violence than he was on the day that he shot Little.

His bodyguards walked with him into a cafe on the nicer side of the Quadrant; I'm guessing to meet with someone. It was either that or he really didn't like what he'd ordered, because, as soon as Dfari left, he answered a question from one of his guards by backhanding them and yelling, "Not here! What did I tell you, huh?"

This bodyguard, who was probably the same age as Dfari, looked dejected as he scrambled to get the cruiser door open for him. Their group took off in a hurry, but I raced after them on foot and used up all my stamina to keep up before they headed toward a hyper rail. I figured I'd lose them, that they'd enter the rail and disappear before I'd have to seek them out again like I'd always had...

Except they didn't this time.

The driver turned away from a rail that would lead to the Third Quadrant and slowed down to follow a route that wasn't frequented very often. I moved more quietly in order to remain concealed; I knew Dfari would recognize me in a heartbeat if he caught so much as a glimpse. I remained in the distance as my target weaved through different paths that looked as if they hadn't been used in some time.

They traveled beyond pastures which had been left unchecked and past a group of old farms that had long been abandoned.

While I crouched behind the window belonging to the top floor of a condemned house, I was able to get a good vantage point on the banger. From where I was stationed, everything could be seen clearly for several miles. I watched as Dfari was taken to the corner of Wask Street, and the driver brought them before a cluster of barns.

I pursued them and used the surrounding sheds as my cover, and so I made my way toward a nearby stable as fast as I could and hid out in a building that still reeked of animals. Surprisingly, I was able to find enough fodder to hastily cover myself with before trying to survey what was going on without being discovered...

Dfari and his two bodyguards nervously stepped into a brown, empty barn. He hurriedly searched around the building and then signaled at his men. On cue, the guards walked with rapid steps over to the back of the cruiser and used a tablet to trigger the opening of its trunk. At the same time, Dfari had grabbed a folded ladder from an obscured corner in the barn and extended it, propping it against what I hadn't seen:

A second floor.

Because there was literally nothing in the barn other than hay and the ladder, I hadn't noticed that the top shelf turned into a section of its own. The men at the car hefted two small, black strongboxes in the air and brought them over to the ladder before passing them off to Dfari, who shouted: "Hurry up!"

Afterwards, he ordered them to get in the car and remained himself to conceal what they'd brought with hay. He then looked around suspiciously before placing a chip in his ear: a miniature phone. He began to speak in more respectful, hushed tones and looked... fearful.

I made sure I'd a secure route of entry, then I sprinted to the outside wall of the barn closest to Dfari. He was silent for a second as I crouched low and attempted to mask my presence. There was a partially broken window above me, and I used it to peek inside and watch my prey.

"Yes!" He nodded to no one vigorously. "Yes... —yes sir! I-I'm sorry, I... yes sir."

The man on the other line scolding Dfari must've had an intimidating voice. Unfortunately, I still couldn't understand him from where I was.

Dfari spoke like he was pleading for his life, "It just came up in a conversation, ya know how it goes, daw—look, I wasn't asking!

"Yes... I'll stop asking questions; I didn't know it was supposed to be on the down low like that, you dig—"

This time I heard, very plainly, in response:

"Shut the fuck up, you punk-ass bitch! If you ever disrespect me like that again..."

The last part wasn't as loud, so I couldn't make it out.

Dfari got a little sullen and kicked hard at the ground in frustration. "Aight—I mean: I understand, sir."

His resolve just barely returned; his tone got more aggressive. "It won't happen again!"

He powered down the speaker in his ear and rushed toward the cruiser, looking angrier than before. He grabbed one of his bodyguards from where he was seated and slammed him against the side of the cruiser.

"What the fuck?" The man barked at him while preparing to defend himself.

Dfari pushed him away and kept shouting, "Oh, so you think I'm gonna be the one babysittin' the source, huh? I'm a motherfucking Enforcer, dumbass, Ovo's got some shit for me to accomplish!"

Dfari calmed down and pondered something while staring at the ground. He said, "So... here's what I'mma need you and your boyfriend to do, okay? If you wanna keep gettin' paid the way you been, then the two of you gotta be stash bodyguards, aight?"

The man he'd recklessly assaulted seemed irritated but most likely reflected on his paycheck before he reluctantly agreed.

"Got it, boss."

The other bodyguard had gotten out of the cruiser and looked ready to help his coworker take down Dfari if it came to that; but, once an agreement was reached, he lowered his guard altogether. I took note of the jackets his men were wearing: thick garments with the ability to conceal smaller firearms. They appeared professional—even if they were working for the Citadel's weakest crime lord.

Dfari continued to lecture the guards, completely oblivious to the notion that the two of them could easily rip him apart.

"If you cats fuck this one up..." He grinned aggressively and shook his head. "Both you fools' heads finna roll, ya hear?"

He glared at them again before getting into the cruiser and being driven off by a third bodyguard, probably to one of the clubs he went to so often.

\--

While I'd been creeping on his crew, there were honestly a couple times in the past when I could've taken out Dfari. He wasn't exactly brilliant—and he ditched his bodyguards frequently for no reason other than to feel bold about himself. I wasn't sure that I believed in killing, but I had to pay him back for what he'd done.

I'd seen people get blasted in front of me, but, to my mind, it felt like the scenery to my existence. I was able to lock away a fragment of how I felt in order to keep fighting so that I'd have the willpower to keep going. I regret it at times, because when I try now to go back and process someone's passing...

Eze's... Little's... Vic's....

I can't mourn them.

I wanted to then, but it had become impossible. The conflict, the war, wasn't over for me then, and it never has been. Some part of my spirit moved me to deliver the next strike against my opponent. But this time, I would out-think him; I thought I'd out-smart all of them.

\--

I spied on the two bodyguards for an hour until I was ready to act.

"Looks like he roughed you up there, man." one of them said.

The other grunted in annoyance. "Bastard's in over his head; what else is new, eh?"

"Well, I'll confess I've helped a few clients out who had me getting into some shady business, but this scrawny clown tops it for me."

"No shit?"

"I kept good company up until I started rollin' with Ovo's crew." he replied

The other man lit a cigarette and snorted. "The pay is good, but he's got us on guard duty for some shit nobody would ever really find, ya know? I mean, what's even in those boxes?"

"Dfari asked that same question... Tch. Didn't go so well for him."

"Oh yeah?"

"He thinks he's secretive. Sneaky. Honest to god, Dfari runs his mouth way too much, brother. I'll give him props, though." He snickered. "Dfari could only say a little about the stuff we're on watch for."

"Well, what'd he say, fool? I wanna know."

The bodyguard pondered his next words before laughing. "Aw, fuck it..." He leaned against the wall and said, "It's supposed to be what's keeping the operation here in the Quad together. He called it the 'lifeblood of the cell,' some pretentious shit—I don't get the context, but I'd take it that D Boy and his boss are trying to make a grab for territory. I reckon Big Leagues himself doesn't work here—if he does, it's not close by. Have you ever seen him?"

"No. The little punk has me step out of the car whenever he gets called in for a 'meeting.' Sends me down the street like he's trying to make some time for his girl in between... whatever the fuck this cat does, man."

"Boss really whips D Boy into shape, don't ya think? Maybe we're working for the wrong guy, eh? Loyalty's fine, but we've got better options than Dfari."

"Who's really the 'good guy' in a mob like this? Like, somebody we can count on?"

There was a peephole in the barn large enough to fit the barrel of the gun I still had from the heist. I'd practiced with it every night, disassembling and reassembling the weapon to keep my thoughts from wondering back to the dead. I thought I knew how to fire it properly now.

The closest bodyguard was a man with red hair and dark stubble.

I positioned my gun and hoped the bullet's trajectory would go where I needed it to. I've never been as proficient with weapons as some; it's just not my strength, I guess. My nerves had been taken far beyond their limits by my twisted conviction to take a shot at a gang, and so I can't say that I was genuinely ever nervous. I went through the motions, followed rehearsals I'd buried in the deep layers of my consciousness.

I took the shot—

It bounced off the side of the barn and into a stack of hay, startling the two bodyguards.

I reacted by firing again! This time I pulled the gun away to watch as my target clutched his burst kneecap while curling up on the ground.

"Trevor!" The other guard exclaimed, "What the...?"

He made his way over to where the bullet had landed, inspected the residue, and—

I was already behind him. I came around from the other side of the barn because I'd thought it would be easier to evade his line of sight. And, though he was the most out of shape bodyguard I'd ever seen, he still put up a good defense.

He pushed me before I could put him into a headlock that would've decided the fight then and there, and he threw a quick but weak jab at me.

I'd become a true scrapper, and so I made it into a game as I searched his body for weak points, striking him with an open palm. I forced him to lower his guard and followed up with a haymaker that caused him to stumble back a few steps.

The man on the ground was searching for his gun; I saw an opportunity and drew my pistol before slamming it over his head. He blacked out, and I turned to aim at the guard who was trying to flank me.

He knocked the pistol out of my hand.

I guess he felt like he'd secured some kind of victory. That goofy smile never left his face...

Not even when I'd hit him hard enough to send him into the dream world for a few days.

\--

I rolled up the last of my personal stash, lit a blunt, and hid away in a lone building on the other side of town while it rained. Like an idiot, I'd taken the earpiece and Kom Cell off one of the bodyguards and was trying to access Fi-O for the first time. I didn't think that their Cells could be tracked, and, unfortunately, I didn't have his online passcode and had to settle for a tiny music library he'd built that literally consisted of only two Biggie albums. I thought "Gimme The Loot" would make sense for the occasion.

There aren't very many ways to transport two black boxes on foot without looking conspicuous. I'd stuck to less populated areas and ended up crossing through territories owned by other gangs in the Lower-City. To this day, the Lower-City is the battleground for various syndicates vying for supremacy. Sometimes, Majors are paid to look the other way; as a result, crime is allowed to thrive in an environment built and structured to sustain it.

Before I allowed myself to fall asleep on the second night, I pictured Anubis. Could he have died with Eze? Were they... the same person? That creature had made sure I'd survived in the beginning. Anubis had left Sandeze to find a random kid dying in the snow; he'd stayed with me when I would've died without his presence.

And now... I didn't need him anymore. I believe a demon had taken the form of a canine to show its interest in loyalty, but its motivation to help was never made clear to me. My vision slowly faded out to a memory I had with Eze, when he'd taken me to church for the very first time. This was a new world, and I have yet to understand the way religion is set up across districts. It'd become a common practice to worship Saint Avva in the Citadel, and it was when I was still getting to know the man on the morning he forced me to wear some old blazer he'd gotten from a flea market. Sandeze wore one of his own that almost matched, so I'd felt like I reminded him of his son while we were sitting in a pew hearing "Avva's Word."

The priest praised her as a woman who'd gone from mercenary work to dedicating her life in aiding the poor and then to being heralded as the most popular god in the country. He said that she'd fasted to gain a vision; Avva, according to him, had perished in her fast.

In death, she had a message to deliver to Citadel churches. Saint Avva had some secret, something that would solve humanity's problems once and for all and prepare us for... the "Above," I think? When I was still in a physical school, I met a sparse population of kids who followed the Saint; it seemed silly to me, so I ignored it then like I do now.

I was still happy on that day, though. I don't know what it's like to have a legit father, but I was able to somewhat relate to those feelings while I was with Sandeze.

Now, Sandeze's adopted son had just robbed a major mob boss in the Lower-City by himself.

\--

Janelle

\--

Before Tavon had been returned by Angelos, Brock was forced by hospital personnel to recover next to Sergeant Kaust. However, the Bureau Agent had remained mostly unconscious throughout the duration of his stay. Furthermore, Brock had been administered a series of opiates to cope with the residual pain from the attack. They were claiming he'd need to be hospitalized for some time.

The following day, in the very early morning and before he'd rendezvoused with Tavon, Brock couldn't bring himself fully conscious as a short, familiar figure approached. His thoughts were tangled and even more impaired by the sheer blurriness of his vision.

They said I kept waking up in the middle of the night... must've... drugged me again.

She stood there strangely. Brock knew her, but he just couldn't remember. He struggled to form words, acknowledging that she was important.

His strength failed him, and he thought he viewed a smile as he once more faded from the waking world.

I have to break out of here! What if she's there now!

\--

Years ago and recalled in Brock's dreams:

"You think it's just so fucking easy for me. Don't you understand what this country demands? It's... i-it's..."

"Too much for you to be around to take care of us, Brock? Is that what it is?"

"Kalina!"

"You're not a fucking killing machine, Brock—you're mine! I didn't marry a drone."

"And you can't expect me to be here at all hours of every day! Why can't you understand that if I don't pull this off—"

"What? The Citadel's gonna burn to the ground if Brock isn't there to save it?"

"I thought—"

"You thought what? And why can't you man up and just say 'No!' when it's time to say it?"

"I'd do anything for this marriage..."

"It's loveless, Brock."
28

Mysteries Of The World

\--

Tavon

\--

I STARTED ON THE PATH TO THE FOURTH QUADRANT.

Major Kohaku had taken a small piece of the Citadel and removed all facilities designated for law enforcement. He wanted to create a completely free market governed by the populace and lead by the strongest in his Quadrant, and so it became my safest bet. I could find somewhere to stay if I chose a side in the ongoing conflict brewing within that section of the Lower-City. Not many are aware of this, but Kohaku had a lot invested in one of the larger syndicates, a collective that eventually caused my personal reputation to soar pretty dramatically; they played a crucial part in my journey to become an assassin.

Unfortunately, the only direct route to the Fourth Quad was through an intricate subway system suspended just over the World Below. Most Lower-City trains had been modified with the same technology used for cruisers, enabling them to course much faster throughout the Citadel. Because of this, only two circuits were used—one leading to my destination while the other led to a checkpoint placed before the exit to the outside world. I don't think you can get out of the city that way anymore...

For me to make it to the Shimazu Prefecture in the Fourth Quadrant, I'd have to transfer between three different trains over a period of three hours due to their sloppy scheduling. Overall, though, it was a quick trip that would let me escape far from Ovo and his crew. Still, without them pursuing me, the real threat was everyone else considering I was on my own again. I'd managed to cop a backpack large enough to contain Ovo's "Lifeblood." When I'd gotten time to look through it all, I didn't understand at first; I wasn't as smart I needed to be back then.

In one of the containers, it was just ammo. Large rounds of all types neatly condensed into one general area. Initially, it didn't seem like much but only due to how well Ovo's men had arranged the presentation of his prized stash. And, in the other black box:

A disassembled machine gun as well as a weapon intended for launching grenades; it was rather heavy in comparison.

Ovo was to be absorbed by a gang with superior numbers, but this shipment of weapons to his cell in the First Quadrant... it meant he'd been planning on going into battle. I kept wondering how much my interference might've affected what he'd set into motion; hopefully, Ovo would fall in return for taking away the ones I cared about.

The Fourth Quad's changed a lot since then. Now, the Shikon Clan oversees everything—it's not so much a free market for gangsters anymore. Despite the way things are currently, the Fourth Quadrant, when I was sixteen, was divided into the Meiziki, Uesugi, and Nagao syndicates. There was also the Shimazu, a small sect having recently become a vassal gang under the rule of the Uesugi.

It was an entire area of the Citadel run solely by mob bosses under the supervision of Kohaku; additionally, most of them were fighters and insisted on battling it out with each other over control of the Quadrant. Their shared struggle profited the Major, who ultimately decided who was supreme between the three and gave the prevailing cause more assistance with their efforts at controlling the market.

I only wish I would've known a little more upon arriving at the Shimazu Prefecture...

I'd expected more of the same from this Quad: unkempt projects, small businesses, and neighborhoods living on the edge of poverty. Considering the Citadel was complex in its design, I'd assumed it'd be easy enough to disappear into the Fourth Quad and stake out a living without having my identity discovered.

But the Syndicate Prefectures themselves... they were unlike anything I'd ever witnessed.

Instead of the rest of the Citadel's mostly modernized infrastructure, the Fourth Quadrant existed as a massive, mostly open plain of steel as well as tilled fields containing condemned and decimated buildings that were positioned next to tents and shelters, shelters made by the native mobs. The only other constructions were just sections of hyper rails descending into portions of the Quadrant, which possessed the gleaming Tenshu of a castle in the center that housed Major Kohaku himself.

He was an eccentric guy, one who'd been appointed by someone President Derek respected. Because of this, he'd been given free reign over the way he controlled his territory, and any media involvement would result in immediate prosecution of their respective outlets.

The Citadel was still rebuilding back then.

\--

When I'd arrived in territory shared by both the Uesugi and the Shimazu, no one had warned me to come with a story already prepared.

I was supposed to have a reason why a teenager would be wandering around a paradise for thugs. The Quadrant didn't have cops; bangers patrolled and monitored everything that ventured into and out of the Fourth Quad.

They were worse than the most corrupt police, decked out in thin, metal cuirasses coupled with leather padding. Over their armor, they applied a thick coating of a transparent substance that acted to either absorb or repel bullets, depending on the type used. It worked well and was an idea unique to the Uesugi.

I stepped off the subway train—to the barrel of an assault rifle being shoved in my face.

My age or disheveled appearance didn't matter; I was just as much a threat to them as any other guy. I was confronted abruptly by a large group of Shimazu wielding sabers and voltage-inducing batons. The majority sported sapphire-toned kabutos which obscured their faces with golden masks inspired by the faces of demons. The one who confronted me, his helmet having this spike spiraling out from the top, seemed to become more furious the more I stalled.

"Salām-Iga."

I stuttered, "Uh... what?"

He looked at the others and then back at me, shaking his head.

"One more chance, kid."

The warrior-banger paused for a moment to allow me to process what he'd just said.

"Salām-Iga." he repeated. "Respond in five."

"Uh, I..." I struggled to think of an answer that could work.

"Four."

Maybe they'd understand if I just—

He rammed the barrel into my skull and knocked me against the ground. I seized and shook before coming to my senses in time to hear the man order:

"Take him to the fuckin' site! When you arrive, confiscate his bag just in case he's got somethin' we need to know about, hear me?" He growled and then proceeded to jab me in the ribs, then he stepped back and readied himself to fire if I made a move.

His colleagues pummeled me and forced me along to a special camp they'd prepared for people like me. From behind, I heard same banger continue to shout:

"We can't turn a pussy like this into a fuckin' soldier. Just get him hooked on our shit and put him on the streets to... advertise—and fuckin' hurry up or I'll make one of you into a fiend, too!"

"Yes, Milord!" the group of them uttered in unison before going on to take me to the site. They let me keep my bag, possibly thinking it was only filled with worthless personal belongings.

\--

Uesugi had become a very wealthy gang due to its sales strategies involving several different illegal and overly-enhanced substances. In order to generate more revenue while under the constant looming threat of rival gangs, their boss started exploiting the new educational methods and virtual system being employed by simply contacting young "associates" through social media.

After recruitment, some teenagers were groomed into soldiers; others were forced to become dependents. The Uesugi created and extorted their own crew of junkies. In return for providing protection and, occasionally, shelter, several younger adults were made into addicts before being sent back into the streets to be the mascots for their organization's products. Because of their resulting success, the Uesugi mob boss was able to double his own ranks so that he could hold the territory that had been spreading his foot soldiers thin.

Despite their focus on making their gang the biggest player in the Fourth Quadrant, the following exchange was a very unexpected turn of events and is also the reason why I came to be who I am now...

\--

A total of four guards had been delegated to escort me to what the Uesugi called the "Hive." It was where they would remove what sanity and independence I had by drugging me in an endless cycle. I knew that I had to break free of this, to get away from these people and find sanctuary somewhere.

But they had their weapons fixed on me—they were professionals, after all, people who'd been accustomed to an ongoing war for control of their district. It was all some twisted play by Kohaku, but he'd unknowingly created a cesspool of mobsters. A cesspool which could threaten the Citadel itself.

"Ay, Souin," one of them said, his tone expressing boredom, "why you think boss passed on this one?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well," he shrugged as he strolled aside me, "kid doesn't look like some scrawny punk. He's gotta little meat to him, even more than some of the boys we got trainin' to be soldiers now!"

"Tch. Zander..."

"What? We've been short on guys—"

"Just shut up." Souin scoffed. "No point in questioning a Lieutenant's orders..."

"Damn right about that," responded Zander somberly.

"Aw shit..." uttered another one of the bangers known as Gola. "Did anyone check his bag—"

"What did I just fuckin' say—"

A cruiser crashed into one of my capturers, whose name was never made known to me, and snapped his vertebral column as his body soared forward into a nearby hut.

At the same time, someone new, garbed in thin plates of red armor overlaying a white robe and mask, leapt out from the back seat and, wielding a double-bladed axe, decapitated Gola while landing and proceeding to pursue Zander!

Zander tried to electrocute his attacker, but the assassin growled defiantly while forcing himself through the baton's pulsations.

The newcomer wasn't just some gangster; he was a samurai, someone who's skill and loyalty to his leader proved exceptional in the underworld of the Citadel. The samurai lunged forward, tearing open the carotid arteries of his targets throat with one precise movement!

He proceeded to seek out the remaining Uesugi member before realizing he'd been ambushed from behind. The samurai turned in time to view a slash directed at his head! He narrowly tilted to avoid the strike but knew this might be the end; he'd been too reckless...

From the rigged driver's side of the cruiser, one of the new arrivals leaned out and shot the last target, preventing him from delivering a potentially lethal strike. Without hesitating further, the samurai pivoted and elbowed me with enough force to knock me unconscious.

This time, I lost Ovo's stash.

\--

There were certain details about Dfari's relationship with my old crew's boss that I wouldn't come to understand until later, when I'd matured.

Ovo, operating mainly from the Third Quadrant, had planned a raid that would target the constantly expanding Meiziki syndicate. Their leader, much like Ovo, had decided that increasing his territory in opposing directions and absorbing weaker crews would grant him enough power to dominate the Fourth Quadrant. Thus, Ovo's crew and the Meiziki warred before the former's eventual surrender and offer of an alliance between the two powers.

In spite of their inferior numbers, Ovo sought high explosive weaponry he believed would give him the advantage if he conducted a bunch of skirmishes against Meiziki's leaders. Nevertheless, there was only one who commanded the division sent in an attempt to occupy the whole of the First Quadrant:

Ovo's father.

The father, who'd renamed himself as Mendo Meiziki, turned out to be an even more merciless guy. After my intervention, Ovo boldly and foolishly attacked Mendo's people, expecting Dfari to reinforce them after the main assault proved to be a failure.

But Dfari had been lying.

He'd continued reassuring his boss that his group was still bringing the needed firepower, and they didn't. Ovo was wounded in the ensuing firefight and was forced to ultimately surrender the First Quadrant to Mendo.

And Dfari's fate... revealed itself to be much worse.

\--

I remained silent in a cruiser belonging to the Nagao, Meiziki's only formidable rival in the Lower-City. They'd blindfolded me and shown themselves to be gentler than I'd expected for a group of thugs in a mostly quiet ride through the fringes of the Citadel. I never figured out the path there exactly, as the Nagao had hidden themselves away in the deepest crevices of the country, away from public attention.

Before I finally allowed myself to fall asleep, the figure in red armor seated to my right nudged me and broke through the lull, "You don't seem too worried, kid. All those people were killed in front of you—must be in shock."

"No."

"No?"

I didn't know how to explain, but I wasn't concerned anymore. There was a reason they hadn't executed me yet.

"I think I like this guy; he's got guts!" He laughed and socked me in the arm.

I winced.

The driver spoke up in a soft-spoken and eloquent manner. "We don't recruit kids."

"But we question them?" The female member in the passenger seat responded.

"Ugh," The driver sighed. "Don't make me explain to you, in front of a stranger, why a clan does what it needs to do."

"Easy now."

"Easy? We just left a murder scene!"

"In Uesugi territory." the female voice retorted, "Major Kohaku doesn't care about them anymore."

"It's just..." the driver exhaled heavily once again. "They're getting better at catching people like us."

"Samurai?"

\--

It wasn't long before we'd arrived on land that had been synthetically terraformed to create a "beach" of sorts at the eastern edge of the Citadel. The rag around my eyes was hastily removed, exposing me to a different part of the universe.

At the edge of the city-nation, two big hyper rails extended into an oval-shaped station suspended several hundred feet above a false oasis containing only a group shacks that were formed from operating cells of the Nagao. In the center of the territory owned by the syndicate, there loomed a shrine formed from stone and clay and constructed by members of the gang long after having established their homeland in the Citadel. It blocked my view of the Sun as we approached, and I was almost able to make out what could've been land beyond the edges before the Nagao grew hastier.

"The Elder is about to begin his daily ritual! If we don't make it on time—"

"Aren't you his son?"

He grunted. "That's how I know we have to hurry. That bastard won't let us have an audience if we're not aligned with his life!"

"Such disrespect..." the man in red armor next to me observed.

"He's too old-fashioned." the driver replied.

"He's the shepherd of this clan, Naizo..."

My hands were soon unbound, and I was allowed to walk freely up a flight of wide, stone steps toward an obscured peak. At the top of the climb, a plateau was crowned with a stone shelter built over a series of specially sewn rugs and a colossal, stained glass mural that illuminated an older man dressed in a yellow yukata. Despite his age, he rocked long, white hair draped over a beard and mustache having long since grown into a gruff forest. A scar running through his right eye revealed that he'd been blinded, most likely in combat.

He'd taken his seat upon the shrine floor and crossed his legs. Before him, he'd carefully placed a lengthy blade on a stand between the two of us.

"Show respect, stupid kid!"

The armored foot soldier jabbed me in the side with brass knuckles before shoving me to the ground—

"You will BOW before our venerable leader! You are privileged to meet the Elder of the country's strongest army!"

"Put your mind at rest, Rokshasa—and cease cursing in this place."

Rokshasa complied while expressing mild embarrassment, "Yes, Elder!"

I remember their leader as straightforward but not necessarily a cold man. Elder Nagao studied me, concealing his own feelings in the process and letting the atmosphere fall into an uncomfortable silence. I'd been instructed to seat myself in the same manner now as the clan's boss; it was the Nagao's way of encouraging intelligent thought inspired by conversation in which the two participants were, if only for a moment, considered equal.

At last, Elder Nagao acknowledged me: "The thief has arrived at my doorstep. Seeing as the world has forsaken its duty, I will stand to judge you. Do you acknowledge my authority?"

I hesitated for an instant, wondering what the true implications of his question meant. "I... guess so." I responded.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Naizo exclaimed.

"Naizo!" Elder Nagao glared at him scornfully and then looked back to me without seeming to be upset in the slightest. "The thief is honest." He nodded before smirking. "I didn't expect that one so young would be brought before me, and yet no family has claimed him for themselves—tell me, can you fight?"

I thought over my response. "Yes."

"Confidence." Elder Nagao smiled.

"Tch." Naizo folded his arms. "That's what they all say before getting put in the dirt like the rest..."

"Don't be bitter." the female samurai said with a hint of irritation.

"No bitterness here, Beatrice; I just don't understand why we're wasting time with this kid when we already have what we wanted!"

"Such an ignorant fool..." Elder Nagao said aloud to the astonishment of all present.

"What, father?"

The Elder glared at Naizo until his heir felt himself being silenced and looked away in defeat.

"Now," Elder Nagao began while looking at me earnestly. He valued mutual respect more than anything else, and his pride meant more to him than his own empire. "What is your name, young man?"

"Tavon."

"Why did you steal from Ovo's operation?"

I felt a surge of anger when remembering my own vendetta. "He hurt my friends."

He grinned, a scheme forming within his mind.

"I will honor your honesty. Welcome to my family, Tavon Nagao..."
PART THREE

The Nagao

\---
1

Change This Game Around

\---

Tavon

\---

THE NAGAO BEGAN AS A TRIBE THAT FIRST MIGRATED to the Citadel before the nation had been unified under the direction of President Derek. Because of their sheer size and expertise in combat, the Nagao had survived the passage of time to emerge as a clan still untouched by the government, a remnant of what society once was.

They'd maintained their position on the fringes of the Citadel for decades and kept on being a major roadblock to Meiziki's growth as a criminal super power. The Nagao once believed that the most talented warrior should be selected to lead the clan. Elder Nagao, fond of his firstborn, decided to make his seat into a hereditary position while honing his body to defend his title from potential rivals. The Elder had borne a son other than Naizo, a samurai who'd turned his back on the clan's survival in search of personal gain.

Naizo was next in line to inherit the throne, but his future subordinates weren't exactly convinced of his competence. Though their future leader had a bad attitude, Nagao had been the host to exactly three loyal families who'd served the Elder and his ancestors since their immigration.

Rokshasa belonged to the Gia House and Beatrice heralded from the House of Kai. The third family was known as the Shikon and were particularly reclusive, as they led an existence on the very rim of the Citadel. I would come to meet their heir at a later time... someone quite a lot like myself.

\---

Under the Elder's orders, the three family representatives constructed a gym intended to train the future warriors of the Nagao. Rokshasa, a samurai my age who'd been seated next to me on the ride, had been the most enthusiastic in his training. He came off as hostile, but the warrior from Gia showed me that he was, truthfully, compassionate and loyal. While Naizo and Beatrice shrugged off introducing me to my new home, Rokshasa took an interest and answered my questions with more patience than I'd expected. He eventually decided that my skills deserved to be tested in the gym.

\---

"How did you guys know I robbed Ovo?" I asked him on that day.

He shook his head in disappointment. "That man... is the grandson of the Elder and the definition of a moron."

"He kills kids."

Rokshasa stopped to look at me.

He was a bulky dude known for arming himself with heavier weaponry and compounded protection. At a range, Rokshasa was a feared marksman with a rifle; up close, he devastated his opponents and made some horrific imagery as he used a double-bladed ax to cut through them. Other than the Elder, this samurai stood to become the most powerful fighter within the Nagao syndicate.

"You should understand better the effect war has. There are no innocent parties." Rokshasa said coldly.

"War?" I asked.

The young samurai said nothing as he led me into a training room housed within walls made from a combination of wood and a dense paper material. It was unlike anything I'd seen yet.

The Nagao had sectioned off the place: at the far end, I noticed what appeared to be an armory; closer, there was significant space cleared and set up to encourage sparring; adjacent to us, there had been assembled a series of free weights on benches designed to isometrically target specific muscle groups.

Rokshasa, unlike most of the Nagao, believed in building his body as he trained. He'd never learned any formal martial art; the samurai had instead faced combat so often and sparred so frequently that he'd developed his own method of fighting. It wasn't long before Rokshasa became part of the reason the Meiziki Syndicate were so reluctant to move on their rivals.

Before we'd been in the gym for more than three minutes, the samurai demanded a sparring session. And, prior to this encounter, I'd been fairly confident in my skills; I mean, I'd trained under Professor Norlin, and I figured that counted for something!

What kid my age, aside from Brock, could possibly compete?

I watched as Rokshasa removed his padded armor and kabuto to expose raven black hair that he tied into a ponytail. His beard had grown into a thick mass overshadowing most of the warrior's features despite being only seventeen. Even without the armor, Rokshasa was equipped with a frame dwarfing my own.

An opponent this size... with his practical skill...

\---

Rokshasa beat the shit out of me, a prized fighter.

I'd only used my fists, but my strikes had no effect on this kid. Rokshasa absorbed most of my attacks; he destroyed whatever confidence I had.

"I expected this." he said after the first time.

Rokshasa continued to mercilessly beat me every day until I became stronger on my own. Although the Elder hadn't spoke on my role as a Nagao clan member, Rokshasa decided to take full liberty in training me to become just as lethal as he was.

Nagao was known for their exceptional defense, as they'd had to defend their territory since its inception so many years ago. And so, their best warrior had grown into a force way beyond my own power at the time.

Rokshasa had made me feel weak, but he insisted: "You'll get better."

My life was cut off from the outside world in the Citadel; soon, all I knew was the constantly increasing intensity of my training.

"A great battle will one day break out..." Rokshasa insisted all the time. "Nagao has become fragile, undisciplined. We need someone like you, Tavon."

I believe he came to regret those words.

Rokshasa tried to teach me the use of melee weapons: katanas, kusarigama, spears, and even axes. I couldn't learn them. I've never been skilled with a blade or any weapon that's not a bat or my own fists.

This concerned Elder Nagao, who believed that someone who couldn't even learn the art of swordplay had no place in his army. He confessed his worries to Rokshasa, and he relayed their conversation to me:

"After you took him captive from the Uesugi and Shimazu, without informing me, I might add..."

"I'm sorr—"

"His performance has been... poor, Rokshasa."

"I apologize, milord—it's just that he's an orphan."

"An orphan?"

"He's not accustomed to these things, sire, but he can be trained—I assure you!"

Elder Nagao remained unconvinced.

As a result, Rokshasa and Beatrice both decided to see if my talents lie in marksmanship. They instructed me on every weapon system possessed by the syndicate. After they noticed that I'd terrible accuracy with both rifles and handguns, Beatrice suggested that I fire at targets with a light machinegun.

Though I kept fucking up my situation, the two of them were growing to like me.

"You're humble..." Beatrice said after I'd wasted over two hundred rounds and missed the indicated target nearly every time.

Having felt generally incompetent, I got hopeful and took it as a compliment but asked anyways: "What do you mean?"

She chuckled. "I mean, most men would be going through some kinda ego death right now, you know? It's because you suck, new friend!" Beatrice exclaimed.

Rokshasa, however, didn't share in her blissful attitude. She seemed to enjoy being around me, though I didn't speak much.

"Tavon!" he shouted. "You've gotta stop fucking around—are you a warrior or not?"

"Rok!" Beatrice scolded him in my defense.

"The Nagao have no use for thieves." His eyes bore into my own. "We still expect you to prove yourself..."

I tried.

I'd thought I was pretty talented, but there wasn't anything I could offer the Nagao: a clan on the verge of destruction if the Meiziki, the strongest syndicate in the Fourth Quadrant, expanded any further.

After months of failing both marksmanship and melee training, Beatrice attempted to comfort me one afternoon.

"Don't take it all too personally," she said. I'd noticed she really wanted to make eye contact with me.

Beatrice was pretty. She was strong, maybe stronger than me back then, and her face was small, with kind of a pointy chin. Just like her eyes, one green and one red, her afro was divided in shades of red and black.

I was nervous; I stared at the ground while she kept speaking. "Naizo is a weak excuse for a leader, so Rokshasa feels responsible for preparing the clan for combat. Naizo's older brother, Mendo..." She ruminated disappointedly. "He loves glory, but he's never desired leadership."

"Mendo Meiziki?"

"Once Mendo Nagao." Beatrice replied in a scholarly manner. She dressed in only a shirt and jeans, sported rounded sunglasses, and happened to have the most mellow outlook of any member of Nagao.

"That guy's a total freak..." she snorted. "Too powerful for his own damn good."

\---

The morning I'd turned seventeen, Rokshasa startled me awake with a strong hook to the abdomen.

"Tavon Nagao!" he bellowed.

I'd sparred with him enough to partially understand how the samurai fought. I recovered by distancing myself from Rokshasa slightly before moving into a handstand that allowed me to pivot as I sent a kick toward Rokshasa's head!

Reflexively, Rokshasa absorbed the blow by using the outside of his forearm and stepped into a boxer's stance while hastily jabbing in my direction.

He'd taken me off guard, causing me to instinctually retreat and fall right into his next tactic. Rokshasa closed the distance and swung at me faster than I could block; powerful strikes rang across my body and forced me into an inevitable retreat! For a moment, I bore down and tried to deliver an uppercut while ignoring another attack from the side.

Rokshasa simply took the hit, charged forward, and shoved me before hooking me in the side of my jaw as I staggered away weakly...

"Don't you understand?" the samurai growled. "This place is not a paradise for you, kid!"

I regained composure and noticed the figure of Elder Nagao spectating on a nearby hill. He was very still, focused...

The scene had been mostly vacated, indicating to me that this had all been purposefully set up. I was still young and naïve, and I'd thought that a "family" would have patience. I was a great fighter; I knew I had talent, even if I hadn't been able to defeat Rokshasa.

"Tavon!" His eyes widened as he seemed to be imploring me through his kabuto, which had been crafted to resemble a lion's reddened maul.

"This is the day the Elder judges you!"

Rokshasa indicated a table he'd positioned to his left displaying every weapon he'd trained me in the use of, including a handgun. "The Nagao cannot afford to be led by the weak, Tavon. Thus far..." He looked at the ground while lowering his tone. "You've proven that you're unfit to be a warrior."

Rokshasa withdrew his ax from the table and brandished it before coming forward. "Elder Nagao desires vanguards, not children!"

He charged at me and swung his weapon down with impressive force!

It split the ground below me as I dashed to the side, and, without thinking, I used the momentum of my body to hurl a fist into the side of Rokshasa's helmet! The attack nearly tore open my knuckles but created enough impact to cause the samurai to stagger backward.

I moved in and focused on removing my opponent's helmet. Without armor, my speed could overcome his sluggish attempts to strike me!

Or so I thought...

As I stepped in, Rokshasa performed a rapid pirouette before slamming the flat side of the ax against my face, breaking my nose and knocking me to the ground. The samurai proceeded to stand over me while hefting his weapon high in the air.

"Stand, Tavon Nagao! If you must die a Nagao, you must perish with your honor intact. We follow traditions ignored by today's society, and you can join in them by atoning with your life!"

"Rokshasa!" I stood to reason with the warrior, but he swung in response in an effort to end me as painlessly as possible.

I moved to the side once again, but the samurai altered his stance before bringing the ax up and narrowly decapitating me as it veered just above my head.

I felt rage; Rokshasa, like everyone else had, was betraying me.

This broke my illusion of what the family really was while also awakening in me something I didn't understand. I've always had an ability, but explaining it makes me sound like I'm crazy.

The samurai got agitated as his repeated slashes met with the air. Out of frustration, a sweaty Rokshasa began removing his excessive body armor and allowed it all to crash heavily onto the ground surrounding my sleeping quarters. I could smell... alcohol?

He'd gotten drunk in order to cope with his mission. In a way, I felt sorry for someone I'd considered my friend... but I wouldn't let him kill me.

The Nagao had shown me what they were, and I refused to die under the title of a band of thugs I could grow to defeat.

Rokshasa was much faster now but simultaneously just as reckless, swinging with even more applied force as he chopped the air with abandon in pursuit of me.

"Just die already, Tavon! Don't make this harder than it is!"

He was losing focus.

Elder Nagao called to him in the distance, "Finish this, Rokshasa! Do NOT keep me waiting."

The samurai nodded, regaining his composure, and he sprang forward with a dexterous lunge I hadn't anticipated! I dodged backward and away, but the warrior proceeded to step in with his generated momentum and swung in an arc, a lethal move executed with the brilliance of a disciplined soldier.

But I understood him better now. The way he thought, his grandiose attacks that could've been shortened into more efficient strikes...

I sprawled onto the ground before drawing on all the anger contained within me to rotate toward Rokshasa—

I launched my heel into his solar plexus. While Rokshasa coughed and hacked, I postured, shifted into a forward stance, and charged in his direction!

They'd all been able to see It. What was in me. That's why the samurai lost his will to fight at his best.

Before I'd gotten prepared to strike the warrior with everything I had left, my form had become aglow with some kind of black energy I used to not be able to see myself.

My anatomy had changed; my strength multiplied at the same time my body expanded as I sprinted forward and punched Rokshasa! The famed samurai staggered away a few steps and then fell promptly onto his back.

I moved in to continue the battle but gasped when pushed back by only the open palm of Elder Nagao.

He stared at me angrily and said, "You've been hiding this from us the whole time? You have... the Blessing?" His eyes grew wide with disturbingly hungry curiosity.

"I-I don't know..." My body ached all over with the most severe pain I'd ever experienced. I collapsed, and the clan leader appeared smug.

"A true Nagao, after all. Another son." The Elder laughed heartily.

Rokshasa stood up and replied with a sense of relief, "That was something else... it reminds me of..."
2

Tell Me What You Want Me To Do

\---

Janelle

\---

"SO WHAT HAPPENS NOW?" Tavon asked, caressing the detective as they reclined together on her bed.

"You mean with us?"

"No."

Aaliyah seemed disappointed. He added, "What will they have you do with the disappearance of Shraeu?"

She groaned. "It's a mess, Tavon. Looks like Kaust is going to get what he's always wanted; that motherfucker might as well shoot for Major at this rate. Psh."

"Hey..." Tavon replied. He decided he'd see what it was like to be more comforting. "You'll pass him up."

She smiled. "At least someone believes in me. Even Zola seems taken by his shady ass...

"Looks like someone's declaring war on the Bureau itself with the way things are going; it gets more dangerous every day. It can't be Gaspul, but Noboros..."

"I don't see why Noboros would want to go into the battl—"

"Unless someone paid them." Aaliyah interrupted.

"A group that powerful... it would make sense."

Is now the time for me to tell her about Angelos?

"So, you don't understand what your power is besides being really strong?"

Tavon shrugged. "I don't understand any of it—why or how I was born. All I know..."—he paused—"is that I can't tell who the good guys are anymore. Not in the Citadel, at least."

"Hmph. My thoughts exactly." Aaliyah folded her arms while smiling and looking at her lover.

"So that's why you didn't arrest me. You really believe that it's okay for some people to die."

"Tavon, don't go there."

"Just trying to understand you." he said in a humbler tone.

"What's there to understand? You think I'm lying to you about myself?"

"I'm glad you're not afraid of me. That's all."

Her features softened, and she thought, I think I get him now. But...

"I like you." Aaliyah said. "Really."

"I thought that was obvious."

She shook her head. "When I was coming up, you know, my sister was like... my Person." The detective spoke with emphasis, "We looked out for each other. We made sure neither of us got bullied when our dad decided to dip out of the picture. He was still fucked up in the head after fighting in the Gaspul Invasion, but he found time to teach me how to protect myself before his mind completely went."

"I'm sorry..."

"We didn't need him." Aaliyah said, "His mental illness, whatever it was, made him into a different person, so mom eventually pushed him out. But once mom got sick...

"Yeah. Shit was hard, Tavon. I relate to you."

"Nobody's perfect." the assassin smirked.

"Still..." Aaliyah seemed to ignore his remark altogether. "It eventually all fell back on me. It's why I'm starting to look like an old woman."

"You're not old at all. Is your sister still around?"

"Tallah." she said. "Her name's Tallah, and..."

Aaliyah grew quiet.

"What's wrong?"

She cried. Tavon hugged her tighter, but the detective had become inconsolable.

"Tallah was hurt, Tavon... somebody hurt her really bad."

"Tell me who."

"It's not like that." she responded resolutely. "Tallah. Some man came on to her. She was polite—everyone says she was polite about it."

Aaliyah looked forlorn. "My sister turned him down, and he stalked her when she'd thought he'd given up long ago. That fucking bastard..."

"What's stopping us from serving him justice?"

"I said it's not like that.

"No matter what you do, Tallah's still in the goddamn hospital because a psycho decided to toss acid in her face before he... took her fucking legs from her."

The detective barely managed to utter beneath her sobs, "She was always quiet and kept to herself. I was the partier, the one who went out of her way to get to know everybody—and what he did to that girl... I just wish it would've been me."

"Don't say that; no one deserves that fate."

"But don't you see? It's my fault—you're just not getting it." She sighed in frustration. "I teased her about not going out enough when she turned twenty; she was a shut in, but she's such a great person, Tavon."

Tavon shed a tear.

I... can feel what she's feeling? She gave me back my empathy. I thought it was gone.

"What can I do to help?" he asked.

Aaliyah reacted by hugging him and asked, "For now?"

"Yeah."

She smiled. "Finish the story; I want to hear the end."

"Well," he said nonchalantly while scratching his head, "I guess we are coming to the end of it, aren't we? Are you sure you want to hear the rest of this... it's a little bleak, Aaliyah."

"If it's about you," she said, "then yes."

3

Please Stay

\---

Janelle

\---

"YOU'RE JUST GOING TO LEAVE US?" he said. "Is there nothing I can say to change your mind?"

She shouted, "All you ever think about is yourself, Brock! How about letting me do something for me—for ONCE, huh?"

"You mean sleeping with other men and doing drugs up in strange apartments you have no business being in?"

Kalina snarled. "I should slap you for what you just said—"

"Go ahead—that's what do, isn't it?"

"Excuse me?" She approached him, wild-eyed.

"That's right." He nodded confidently. "You hit me and then turn the tables on me, Kalina! You say I'm abusive, but I've never touched you!"

"You put fear in me. I fear for my life, Brock!" Kalina screamed and slapped him.

He remained indifferent and continued with his reddened face, "Are you serious? I put your life in danger? How?"

"Fuck you, Brock. Quite frankly, I don't trust you around Lina!"

She slapped him once more.

"You're a pussy, a failed soldier who can't even do his job as a medic correctly—do you know how embarrassing it is to be married to someone so ignorant, do you Brock?"

He let out a long sigh. "Listen..."

Brock calmed himself. "If this is what you want... I won't stop you—"

She punched him this time and stepped closer while screaming, "And you'd better not! You're absolutely pathetic!"

Brock stood his ground while struggling to control his burning anger.

Kalina shoved him before jabbing him in the mouth and yelling, "What's wrong? Why don't you hit me like you've always wanted to! You don't love me—admit it!"

"Kalina! Stop!"

"Asshole!"

She swung at him again and again, giving everything she had to provoke a man who'd just returned home from a warzone.

"Hit me!" she screamed while clawing his chest aggressively.

His anger swelled...

Brock—
4

You Won't Fail

\---

Tavon

\---

AFTER HAVING PROVEN MYSELF TO ELDER NAGAO, I was officially inducted into their gang; however, Rokshasa's actions, regardless of how noble he wanted to appear, had made me disillusioned. After spending what had been close to a year with the Nagao, his actions still had me second-guessing how I felt about their "family."

I'd thought that maybe I could become like a son; it's all I really wanted: to belong. But to think that my value laid only in how well I could take lives for them...

\---

It was during one afternoon that I'd noticed Elder Nagao had come down from his shrine earlier than usual and seemed frustrated. He'd been speaking with Naizo, who also held back his indignation at something I hadn't yet discovered.

While I'd been assisting Beatrice in our daily grounds keeping, the Elder angrily called for Rokshasa's presence several times and betrayed his normally calm composure.

"ROKSHASA!" he bellowed. "To me!"

Rokshasa, not known for being the smartest tool at the Nagao's disposal, had taken extra time to suit himself within his body army before hurrying to the clan's leader. Already drenched in sweat and out of breath, he called "Moving!" as he unnecessarily sprinted toward the Elder.

Elder Nagao sighed and waited until Rokshasa had arrived before him to ask, "W-why are you dressed for combat, Rokshasa?"

"Your voice..." Rokshasa gasped. "You sounded upset to me, milord!"

The Elder looked to his son. "It seems as though the fate of the Nagao may be bleak, after all."

"Idiot!" Naizo shouted, "Elder Nagao called because he desires to brief this clan's protectors!"

"Do not speak for me, Naizo." The Elder glared at him. "This is an urgent matter... I've been given an update on a situation out of our control, Rokshasa. We need you."

Rokshasa, despite his stupid entrance, nodded while ever displaying his sincere desire to help his clan. Without saying another word, Naizo and the Elder began walking so as to move away from the public eye; Rokshasa called to us: "Pray to Bishamonten!"

\---

I didn't understand the belief system followed by the Nagao.

They'd been reluctant to teach me any history before I'd shown I was capable of hurting their best warrior. But, now that they'd placed more trust in me, the Nagao had been tenser than ever considering their precarious position within the Fourth Quadrant. I wouldn't understand the entirety of the situation until Rokshasa spoke to us later, but Beatrice made an effort to take my mind off everything I'd endured while serving their cause.

We were at the height of the shrine, and Beatrice sat peacefully with her legs crossed before taking my hands in hers.

There were a select few in Nagao who fervently believed in Bishamonten, an ancient warrior god Rokshasa often obsessed over more than he did the Elder. Only the Elder and the young samurai shared a strong belief in their god; others didn't seem to care to such a degree, and Beatrice just enjoyed being present for their practices.

"This gives me peace." she said.

"I... I still don't get it," I replied. My hands were beginning to sweat, and I was afraid she'd feel it.

Beatrice giggled. "My god, Tavon."

"What?"

"Nothing. Sometimes I can't tell if you're just slow or fucking with all of us..."

"Why would I be fucking with all of you?"

"You're weird, you know that?" She was serious all the sudden. "Like the oddest person I've ever met."

Although I'd grown up under the care of Eze, I was emotionally stunted; it was hard for me to comprehend how I should respond to Beatrice's comments.

But she recognized this. She understood.

"Hey, I didn't mean it like that." Pity hung clearly in the words she spoke. "I just meant that you almost defeated Nagao's greatest warrior—and he's three times your size, Tavon! How the hell did you do that?"

I blushed, not anticipating the compliment. "I used to be a good fighter. At least I thought so."

"You're a fantastic fighter—no one's ever come close to pushing him back like that! The Elder doesn't understand that Rokshasa's been training to be a soldier near since he was born—but you, you're some kid who showed him up with just his fists? What?" She started laughing. "The story's so absurd that the Elder warned everyone not to spread it. Shit... I mean, what would the clan think if they heard some kid off the streets beat one of our own guys using his hands?"

"I guess you've got a point."

"Like I said, Tavon..." she sighed. "I can't tell if you're an idiot or just playing around. Do you have parents? A family?"

"No." I said. "Do you?"

Her smiled faded before she looked away. "No."

"But you're one of the families, aren't you?"

"Listen, I'm sorry I even asked..."

Beatrice ended up ignoring me the rest of the time we spent at the shrine. I didn't know what I'd said to offend her, but being ignored was a reaction I'd grown used to after living in the Citadel.

She made it seem as though she'd entered a deep meditation—yet another concept I couldn't grasp, but I understood that there must be something wonderful about relinquishing your own attachments to the world.

The more fervent believers meditated more frequently, proceeding into a state capable of organizing and anchoring their minds.

After some time had passed with the two of us in silence, Beatrice said simply, "I lied... I do have family."

Rokshasa arrived with the Elder and gestured for us to leave the shrine before he caught up to me and Beatrice later.

\---

"What's going on?" Beatrice didn't hesitate to ask.

"They've become more conniving." he said. "Advanced their methods."

"That doesn't make sense, Rok." Beatrice said. "What did they advance?"

Rokshasa spoke in short, rapid breaths. He'd aged considerably more than someone his age due to undergoing a very stressful existence under the Elder.

"Mendo has killed Ovo, claiming a good section of the First Quadrant for the Meiziki—but it's not just that, Beatrice... there's something going on with our enemies."

"What, lug head?"

"They seek these... machines. Small machines. Ones capable of appearing as tiny insects; they get inside of you."

"And what?" I asked.

"Elder Nagao says they change the way the people outside think. They invade a sacred place and transform you into one of the depraved."

"Depraved?"

"Rok's fancy word for drug addicts." Beatrice rolled her eyes.

One of Meiziki's best intelligence officers was an Alandran native, who'd journeyed to Alandra to investigate rumors surrounding the manufacturing of a new type of artificial intelligence.

An engineering company in Alandra—now a thriving corporation—developed nanobots intended for use in the medical field in the case of more invasive procedures. The syndicate, however, retained close connections to the small family owning the manufacturing branch. As a result, their leader had succeeded in negotiating the delivery of several nanobots that remained, as of yet, unprogrammed.

Meiziki's intelligence cell intended on repurposing these bots to manipulate chemical receptors in a regular human's brain. If done correctly, they could influence more of the general population to become pools of revenue as addiction grew within the Lower-City. On the bright side, the nanobots, were mostly experimental and not necessarily guaranteed to produce a junkie out of just any citizen.

With word of the Meiziki's ambitions spreading, Nagao felt pressured to retaliate by seeking out their own method to overcome their rival's newfound strength. The enemy was growing faster than the Lower-City could contain, and Elder Nagao was known for his overbearing anxiety on any matter pertaining to his people.

The Nagao Syndicate, opting out of more wicked practices, had sustained its operations solely on substance and weapons deals throughout the Citadel. Though the Meiziki Clan was considered the experts' choice when it came to arms dealing, the Nagao had conscripted a talented gunsmith who belonged to a family the Elder considered lesser:

The Shikon. A family who'd fooled everyone around them.

\---

In the following days, and after we'd been given the news, I got closer to Beatrice. She'd been the most patient of anyone I'd met, and her kindness curbed an anger that rested dormant inside of me. Beatrice was an excellent markswoman; she believed in using handguns to settle any issues.

But her father, who'd she'd pretended not to have, was Uban Kai.

Uban earned the favor of the Elder after having gunned down many while taking bullet wounds in a war waged against the Uesugi years ago. Beatrice's mother supposedly was once engaged to the Elder but chose Uban over the clan leader. Elder Nagao felt little contempt, however, as Uban had let his obsession with combat warp himself permanently.

One morning, I met with Beatrice near a willow tree.

\---

Her face looked battered, clothes torn over deep bruises. The outer rims of Beatrice's eyes had gone black, and the samurai peered down sullenly.

"Beatrice?" I moved toward her. "Who did this to y—"

"Be quiet, Tavon." she cut me off and stood there in silence.

Yesterday we'd planned on going to meet the Shikon heir, but something was wrong...

"Tavon." she said.

"Yes?"

Beatrice fell to a knee before waving me off as I tried to help. She paused before looking up and said, "I don't think... I should go today—but,"—her eyes widened—"you do need to meet him, Tavon! He'll be one of your battle-mates, kid."

"But I can't leav—"

She embraced me as her expression softened. "It's all right, Tavon; I'm just going to pray—but after you're done meeting the Shikons, I want to talk to you again, okay?"

"How should I introduce myself?" I'd been a ward of the Nagao for over a year now and had yet to meet the third family.

She smirked underneath the pain she felt. "I don't think there's any real way to do it, Tavon...

"They're not one of us, that's all I can honestly say."

\--

Of the assorted reasons the Shikons had remained a mysterious family was the fact that they'd constructed a modernized castle for themselves, which was held together by both a timber frame and stone foundation. It was a castle hidden away on an edge overlooking a blended texture of open plains and shallow mountain peaks that loomed before an ocean belonging to the World Below.

The outer rim of the Lower-City was a colossally thick plate of titanium, home to what was synthetic agriculture before the Quadrants emerged. At its edge, part of the overall foundation of the Citadel exposed itself.

The Shikons had a spectacular view of what had become of Earth following centuries of devastation. Much of the land had resumed normal patterns of growth, revealing what was—to me—a beautiful world I was more than ready to explore. I'd been bound to the Citadel because of my poverty, and all I wanted was to get out of the country.

The Shikon family reminded me of that desire, as their strange keep stood far above a group of wide shacks constructed from hay and thatch. Their home seemed oddly abandoned, and the surrounding atmosphere was eerily quiet. I didn't know exactly how to proceed with no one around to even acknowledge my presence. All I could do was begin an ascent to a long, narrow platform outstretched before an electronically-triggered metallic entryway—

But there was already a great giant waiting to greet me.

A humanoid giant larger than anyone I'd ever encountered. He was... surreal, blocky in stature, and it concealed its true form behind a full suit of armor and a mask melted and sculpted into the image of a demonic entity snarling as it bared its elongated teeth.

Without a word, the giant began to charge at me with a cleaver larger than my entire body.

Knowing I didn't stand a chance against this beast, I shouted: "I'm not your enemy! Please! Stop!"

It continued charging, swiftly drawing closer.

"I SERVE ELDER NAGAO!" It was my last effort to plead for my life.

—And, like that, the figure came to a halt while also standing in a fashion that clearly displayed its own bewilderment.

"The Shikon," echoed its booming tone, "were advised by the old one to strike if any were to come to the Edge! Human, swear you are not of the Meiziki!"

"I swear!"

Human.

I thought I'd stopped his advance, but the giant figure began calmly walking toward me; its cleaver became even more intimidating in size as he drew closer, and I felt something shudder uncomfortably within my mind.

Despair weighed on me...

This giant... he was from a different world.

I felt my memory dominate conscious thought, and it was as if something was compelling me to look back in time. I needed to soothe or destroy a deep kind of pain, and, what I later learned was a demon, guided me toward that against my will.

Some demons are known for having a profound psychological effect when being viewed at all, and so I collapsed, paralyzed as a dark, throaty laugh resonated above me.

"Father." a weaker voice pleaded, "Leave him. He's allied with our cause."

The demon giant snorted, "What human can be fond of something he doesn't understand, my son?"

His ethereal form turned to face the heir of the Shikon family as he spoke. "There is folly in trusting any but the old one."

"For now, he remains our friend—one of those willing to protect the Shikons if war does indeed break out."

Abul Shikon, the heir to a legacy of demonic entities heralding from the more humanoid D'olabadon race, stepped from behind his father as he proceeded forward to greet me.

He was not only the same age but the same height as well. The only difference between us happened to be his emaciated appearance. Abul had been the child of a half demon and a full-blooded demon, resulting in a body that could've been mistaken for a human's. One eye, however, burned black as the other radiated scarlet while he kept up the same mannerism produced from being in the presence of someone like his father. The Shikon heir was capable of shifting his facial features between the image of a young adult to a more monstrous visage not intended to be seen by the average person.

As Abul moved nearer, the bones in his face reconfigured while his body also shrank into an even less abnormal form. He smiled from behind a new mask, revealing perfect symmetry in his new look. At his side, I noticed an incredibly long katana upon which he rested his right palm at its hilt.

Abul's voice changed to sound like that of an earnest teenager's:

"I apologize for the poor introduction to my family."

He glared back at his father until the demon patriarch finally turned to depart. Abul looked back to me and smiled again while extending his hand in a gesture of friendship.

"It's rare for anyone in Nagao to visit—in fact..."

After I'd accepted his gesture, he pondered for a sec. "Those who know of the Shikon are usually too terrified to investigate. Thus, Elder Nagao promised us discretion and claimed that the only possible 'visitor' would have to be one of the Meiziki."

He ignored how confused I was and took the time to breathe in and out—"If the Elder didn't honor our privacy, the Citadel would erupt into chaos trying to find us or others like ourselves."

"What is your home like?"

Abul frowned. "It is not a place meant for you to enter. You are too young to handle the things to which you may be subjected. I am the Prince of the Shikon clan, and... as of now, I deem you unworthy of gaining entry."

I felt kind of insulted. "Unworthy?"

"Of course." He grinned smugly. "Humans are naturally below us in the order of things, but I'm not above taking a walk to better understand the reality of you creatures."

I considered fighting him but was unsure of how I'd fair against a monster occupying this kind of power.

\---

Abul Shikon carried the same pride and superior attitude for which his tribe had been reputed.

The demon prince had never truly fought anyone, believing his lifestyle above what he perceived as mundane combat. We walked through an abandoned park, and I listened to Abul—who I'd guessed had been lacking company or friends for years now.

"The Nagao used us, Tavon.

"They put the strongest of the Shikon on the forefront of the battlefield when they warred for territory in the Fourth Quadrant... that's why few of us remain."

He paused.

"My brother was the real heir; I was already adjusted to being a soldier, a servant..."

"I find that hard to believe." I replied smugly.

"The family is more important to me than anything..." His expression turned grim. "I have to ensure its survival against humans in this place. Although your numbers are great,"—we strolled through an open plaza replete with vendors and outdoor restaurants and close to central Nagao territory—"I will bring my people to power in the Lower-City."

I wanted to like Abul, but he could be a prick sometimes; regardless, I humored him:

"How do you plan on doing that?"

Abul scowled. "My kind... we don't struggle in petty conflicts against each other; rather, the strongest is the one who shoulders the weight of the truth. Do you understand?"

In a way, that message spoke to me.

"I've only lived this long by being strong. Rokshasa would've killed me if I wasn't."

"But you'd kneel before a demon?" Abul smirked.

The insult stinged. "I've never..."

Abul laughed. "I'm fucking with you!" He nudged me. "Tsutsu Shikon is more powerful than anyone in the Lower-City—I guarantee it, Tavon!

"It's only that he refuses to expand any further." He rolled his eyes. "And now's he's gotten sick again."

"He can get sick? Looked pretty healthy to me."

"Any time father leaves the castle, he always falls ill upon returning. The Citadel is infested with disease, I'm afraid."

The two of us traveled to a hilltop overlooking more of the World Below.

"We know now..." Abul began, "That the Meiziki have plans to consolidate their power before moving on Uesugi and Nagao at once. If they claim the Fourth Quadrant for themselves, our enemies would aim to rival authorities in the Lower-City, as they are proving to be a bloodthirsty group."

"But you make guns, right? You can protect the Nagao."

"No." he replied flatly. "Tavon, you must realize that the Meiziki's numbers have swelled significantly since Ovo's death; our only option now is to ally with the Uesugi. From there..."

He seemed wistful. "I could manufacture an arsenal to outfit a joint force, but..."

A shadow overcame Abul's features.

The old Sun emitted a dense heat, but we bonded in that we both took comfort basking in it.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"The Elder AND my father, they disagree with me."

"Really?"

"Tsutsu favors doing nothing because it protects his family. Elder Nagao wishes to negotiate with my uncle in Gaspul; he wishes to acquire the same mines and explosives used against Enrec soldiers by the insurgency. It's cheaply-made garbage, in my opinion, but the Elder is going about ordering an entire shipment of it to stop the Meiziki's schemes—and he still refuses an alliance with Uesugi!" he exclaimed, "It's asinine!"

I found myself able to level with him. If the Nagao didn't seek aid, they would be crushed. I, too, would most likely fall in the ensuing conflict.

"The Elder has an ancient vendetta against Uesugi's deceased boss. Their boss's son is now cursed to endure Nagao's wrath until the Elder passes away."

"But Naizo isn't strong."

Abul grinned. "Careful. That language could be considered treasonous, Tavon; can you best him in a fight yourself?"

Without a doubt I could. "Easily."

Abul seemed impressed. "So, the skill the Elder speaks of is authentic? You did, in fact, knock Rokshasa from his feet?"

I nodded.

"Tch." He looked me over. "I was informed by Rokshasa that you'd only been kidnapped to spite the Uesugi."

"I stole Ovo's back-up plan against his father—"

"You caused Meiziki to grow." Abul said. "Was it for your own entertainment?"

"W-what? I don—"

"Abul!" Beatrice approached and hugged the demon from behind.

The Shikon heir gasped in shock, which was out of character for him, but quickly got friendly as he turned to see his close friend...

And he became still.

"Abul?" Beatrice noticed that, from out of nowhere, he was deadly serious.

My anxiety increased with the following silence, and then Abul spoke...

Slowly, deliberately—

"Who. Did. This?"

"Oh... —!" Beatrice looked away. She'd been so ecstatic to see him that she'd forgotten to conceal her own injuries. She didn't know how to proceed and so tried to move past the demon to embrace me in a similar fashion.

"Tav—"

Abul moved her back while maintaining his disturbing gaze on her. "Who?"

"Abul..." she began to plead but grew quiet as she found it difficult to meet his eyes.

"I'm scared." Beatrice said.

"Has he always done this? Behind my back?"

"Please... I—"

"Abul!" I shouted before coming to stand before the Shikon prince, my fists ready at my sides. I was just an ignorant brat, but I wouldn't allow my friends to be harassed by anyone.

Abul turned to face me, rage clearly defined in his features. He looked me over for a time, and I taunted, "What? Do what you were going to do, Abul, but I won't let you hurt her!"

The prince analyzed me, peered into my very spirit. And then...

He smiled, crossed his arms, and closed his eyes as he declared, "Maybe one day you can hope to compete with me."

His voice returned to normal. "But, for now..." Abul stared ahead and seemed focused. "I have matters to attend to."

He began walking away from us without a word to Beatrice. After Abul had left my line of sight, I went to her and comforted the samurai the best I knew how.

\---

Beatrice insisted that we sit by her favorite lake in the region owned by Nagao as she confessed as to what had been done to her.

"Uban Kai... my dad..." she said. "He used to be a respected warrior—a true samurai."

"Is he still?"

"Not at all, and he blames me for it.

"Uban is burdened with a disease restricting him to his quarters for the rest of his life. Although he still dictates orders for the Kai House, I might as well be responsible for the future of my family. Mother passed on, so I, Beatrice, now lead the House of Kai...

"And this infuriates him."

"Your father is angered by you? I'm sure he can't blame you for something like that, Beatrice—"

"Tavon!" she interjected. "I thought you wanted to know so badly why I look the way I do today?"

"I just don't want you to be hurt," I said meekly.

I cared about her more than anyone. Beatrice had shown me compassion in a world I'd thought emptied of it.

"It is what it is." she said.

Beatrice turned and embraced me. "Tavon."

"Yes." It felt good to have someone there.

"Promise not to tell anyone else. I love him, Tavon."

"I-I understand... I guess."

"Sometimes, Uban lets me out after he's finished 'punishing' me."

She started crying. I waited patiently.

"At first, to avoid suspicion, he'd lock me in a shed and demand that I be quiet about what he'd done."

I felt fury again.

Beatrice continued as I ruminated in a web of my own rage. "Since I'm older—old enough to carry the mantle... he hits me and lets me go afterward."

"Do you hit him back?"

"No."

She wept.

"I can't hurt him... it's just that he loses control; he doesn't mean to strike me—I know he doesn't! You can't tell anyone about this, Tavon!"

"I won't." I replied.

I'd make him suffer on my own.

"I promise."
5

Pac Blood

\---

Tavon

\---

I TRAINED WITH EVERYTHING I HAD. I knew I was strong, but I planned to take on a samurai who'd been responsible for the deaths of many. I'd never killed anyone, but I planned to fight him, to win and make him understand.

I followed Rokshasa's daily routines with renewed vigor, intent on surpassing him and Beatrice. If I could confidently fight Nagao's greatest warrior, then Uban would be no match for me. Although the syndicate had exposed its grimier side, I believed that bettering myself would earn me a place at the top.

"Strange, huh..." Rokshasa began, "It's amazing how one's manipulation of a barbell can lead to greater power in all areas."

The warrior crouched, concentrating on his form as he lowered himself to grasp a steel bar seven feet in overall length. Attached to both sleeves, there hung five thick plates that had been worn away with both time and usage.

Rokshasa breathed in heavily and paused before exhaling as he hefted the weight and performed a set of controlled repetitions; it was the most he'd been able to lift as of yet. In comparison, I could only put up three plates on both ends at most; the young samurai demonstrated an intimidating potential for growth, and he'd compelled himself through grueling exercise far more than I'd been willing to participate.

But now I had a real goal—something like a purpose in an existence I'd only been conscious of for five years since I'd awakened.

I stayed mostly by Rokshasa's side, as he only seemed to be interested in lifting and sparring. Because of that, I came to understand how to better foster strength in myself. I learned how to grow and compete with someone of the samurai's caliber. He offered to train me in different weapons once again, but I was determined to deal with Uban using only my fists.

That's how I'd show my true strength to the Nagao.

In the months that followed, I'd met with Beatrice less and less due to her having become more reclusive. Uban was trying to discourage her from the path he'd taken as a thug, though he required an heir just as bloodthirsty to protect the Kai House.

She covered up much more than before, which caused me to suspect that she might be hiding more wounds inflicted by her father. The samurai was changing, her own image of herself contorted into something she despised. I was there to speak with her when she chose to, but Beatrice was despondent. I knew I needed to do something soon, and so I decided I would tell him.

Rokshasa needed to know what was happening to his best friend.

One morning, I waited while watching the warrior best himself with increased weight on the same lift. He'd added extra, smaller plates this time. Rokshasa growled as he mustered all of his power in order to deadlift his max weight until failure.

His face went red, and his thoroughly veined body tensed as the samurai groaned upon his final repetition, dropping the barbell to the ground while falling to his knees as it rang out.

In the same moment, I thought I'd noticed a dark, round shadow obscuring one of the windows giving view to the outside world.

Rokshasa struggled to catch his breath under a mountain of sweat as he spoke, "We're... getting better."

"You think so?"

The samurai stood before turning to smile at me while expressing something resembling pride.

"I'm amazed at how quickly you managed to catch up."

"What?" I smiled. "I'm nowhere close to you!"

Rokshasa chuckled. "Nonsense. For someone new to this lifestyle, you've demonstrated a resolve worthy of my respect! Perhaps," he said earnestly, "the Elder will grant you your own House should you continue to be one of the best."

"If you say so, Rok."

"I know so." His features became somber. "I'm going to need your help one day... against Mendo Meiziki."

He piqued my curiosity. "I thought you were Nagao's champion? What should you have to worry about?"

Rokshasa frowned. "How can you not see what others see, Tavon?" He drew closer while maintaining eye contact. "Mendo is more akin to you than I—that is to say, brother, that the two of you are cut from the same cloth."

"Rokshasa, that doesn't make any sense; I only served his son once."

"Ovo didn't inherit Mendo's unique... gifts."

He was about to continue, the samurai's focus nearly unbroken, when we heard the entrance crash open—and there before us:

Uban.

A man whose skin had greyed while transforming into a plane of ulcers and pus leaking from crevices across his abnormal shape.

"Uban Kai?" Rokshasa gasped, "You've been... changed!" His eyes darkened.

As the Kai House leader stepped closer, we noticed that his eyes had become only two balls dotted with black and white. Black blood leaked from his mouth while a pale substance oozed from his eyelids.

"What's been done to you, Uban?"

"Rokshasa!" I tried to stop him from proceeding, but the samurai found himself far too engaged.

"Get out of here, Tavon! Something's not right here, but it doesn't concern yo—"

"You've got to be kidding me." I responded defiantly.

Wisps echoing fractures in our reality hovered around the disturbed form of Uban.

He screamed, spilling a great deal of blood from between his jaws, before dashing with such unexpected speed that we weren't prepared when Uban grabbed one of the larger plates and used the momentum of his body to hurl it at us like a disc!

Rokshasa ducked as the plate soared by, narrowly grazing my cheekbone, as it smashed through the wall behind us.

Uban continued his rampage by grabbing a slightly smaller plate before he sprinted. The old samurai leapt from a weight bench and lead with the plate as he attempted to bash in Rokshasa's skull.

Rokshasa moved back just as the plate came to the ground in front of him, and I charged in, ready to strike Uban's side!

My opponent, however, pushed me back with a hand containing enough force to blast my body far away from the two of them. Not only had Uban been corrupted, but he was strangely obsessed with Rokshasa!

Uban grabbed the empty barbell my friend had prepared for me. He hefted it up in time to pivot and thrust it toward Rokshasa just as he advanced to stop him!

Rokshasa was struck square in his chest, knocking him off balance and onto the floor as Uban followed up by hoisting his new weapon in the air. The old samurai brought it down—but Rokshasa reacted by rolling to the side before springing to his feet once more as he prepared to make the house leader submit.

He looked back to his ax, which he'd placed on the wall near the barbell he'd been using, but Rokshasa decided that he might have one last shot at resolving this peacefully.

Rokshasa charged!

But his opponent's reflexes were faster than he'd hoped:

Uban recovered from his last attack by bringing the piece of iron into a spin! Rokshasa managed to evade the first arc but was hit in his side by the second, causing him to collapse to the ground but—fortunately—away from the next strike.

I started to move on Uban, but, as Rokshasa crawled backward, he shouted: "No, Tavon!

"You haven't fought Uban Kai before! Do not expect to defeat him in his madness!"

To my relief, Rokshasa found it within himself to return to a stand and ran toward his weapon.

Uban, anticipating this, altered his stance into a crouch. He used his strength to heave the barbell in my friend's direction! Rokshasa didn't have time to respond; the piece of iron was being hurled at the center of his heart!

I stepped in between them, wrapping my hands around two distant positions before redirecting the bar's momentum well enough to send it flying away from both combatants!

The Kai leader, roaring and burning with hate, decided to rush Rokshasa regardless if I was in his path or not. It was irritating to be thought of as so insignificant when I'd come so far, so I grounded my stance and readied my fists!

"Tavon!" Rokshasa pleaded.

As Uban rushed forward, I lunged while attempting to place a solid hook on the samurai's jawbone.

Uban, his arms much longer, reached out to push me to the ground as he absorbed the blow! His focus finally turned toward me, and I felt his immeasurable strength as he rained his fists down.

I couldn't keep blocking hits like that! His power was unnatural; no wonder I'd been warned not to fight.

In an instant, Uban Kai seemed to recall something and simultaneously reached for one of the kunai he'd affixed to the back of his belt. While he was distracted, I jabbed at his abdomen with all my might...

But he was indifferent to pain.

Uban prepared to thrust the knife into my skull, his arms having now expanded into gross tree trunks. He smiled wickedly and consecutively screamed as he brought the weapon down and ignored my efforts to stop him!

A wave of blood splashed across my face as a sharp hunk of iron buried its way into Uban's skull.

I felt a tremendous weight collapse atop me as the former Kai leader sunk to his knees, tumbling to the floor wordlessly.

"Hurry," Rokshasa said as he hefted the corpse above me, his ax still deeply enclosed within Uban's scalp.

I escaped from under the body while trembling from an enormous amount of adrenaline.

He'd saved my life.

Rokshasa gazed off in the distance while pausing before his slain opponent. He'd been showered in gore.

Rokshasa rolled over the fallen warrior and looked again into the man's eyes.

Black and white specks remained. Although Uban had fallen, he looked as though he could return to life at any moment.

I didn't know what to say to the samurai, and so I waited in silence with my companion until Naizo and the Elder had arrived to investigate the commotion.

\---

Naizo was ready to accuse:

"Rokshasa! You've murdered a family member? Y-you've murdered a family member in the home of the Elder!"

"Be silent!" Elder Nagao demanded as he walked toward Uban's downed figure. "Can you not see that one of our own has been... changed." He glared at Naizo.

His son's will faltered as he quickly turned away, embarrassed. "I-I merely thought—"

"Not thought..." Elder Nagao retorted. "Hoped."

Rokshasa and I bowed before the leader of the Nagao Clan as the samurai shouted, "I apologize, Elder. My life...

"It is yours to do with as you wish."

"Oh?" The Elder remarked before turning to address me, "And do you feel the same, Tavon Nagao?"

I hesitated, wondering if I could say something that would clear my friend completely of his blame.

"Milord, Uban Kai attacked Rokshasa. He wanted to—"

"That's not what I asked." The Elder wielded an odachi that he passed over the samurai's head to hold at my throat with a grin. "Do you pledge your life to me, Tavon?"

Loyalty.

I wanted to assure him, but this didn't feel natural. There was something about the Elder that removed my prior respect...

"Tavon!" shouted Rokshasa. "He is your lord and master—you must obey him as a privileged member of the Nagao!"

"I pledge my life." I said.

Elder Nagao held the blade at my throat for a moment, eyeing me, before he lowered the weapon and snorted, "The image of a man like Rokshasa turning on his own people... it is absurd."

He then chuckled and visibly relaxed. "I was made aware of Uban's transgressions by Rokshasa once before, but the solution..."

The Elder smiled at me. "I didn't expect it to fall into my hands so easily. It appears this clan has inherited a warrior, a second to Rokshasa."

I still wasn't good enough.

\---

Despite having witnessed Uban's death, the desire for even greater strength burned within me. I didn't understand how much it would take to catch up with someone like the Elder or Rokshasa, but a part of me believed I could best the both of them.

I didn't see Beatrice for more than a week after her father had passed, and I wasn't sure how to speak to her about it.

One evening, after another grueling sparring session with Rokshasa, we relaxed at a mess hall commonly used by higher-ranking members of the Nagao. I asked about Beatrice, which seemed to darken his mood for a moment as the samurai attempted to gather himself.

"She's the leader of the Kai house now, but she's locked everyone out...

"The Elder needs her helps before the next big operation, but I don't know if she can forgive me, Tavon."

His face reddened. "I don't think she knows you were there, but I killed him... a member of the Nagao. It is dishonorable."

"No. It's not." I said firmly.

Rokshasa looked at me for a moment. "Why did you make the Elder wait?"

"Wait for what?"

"You know what I'm talking about, brother!" He grumbled. "You looked disobedient, like you were ungrateful he'd taken you in—why?"

"It's not that..." I looked away. "It's just..."

"Do you not believe in our lord's leadership? Do you not recall all that he's done for you?"

"I do." I said. "I was a fool to say anything. I'm sorry."

Rokshasa seemed confused but eventually composed himself and might've even believed everything I'd said. "My apologies as well."

He stated, "I must have read too much into it—I was nervous, too, Tavon. Naizo thought I wanted to kill Uban!"

The samurai shuddered.

"He's only an asshole to you because he knows you're stronger than him, Rok! Don't let Naizo get to you—the Elder's smart enough to see that you were just protecting yourself."

"But Uban..." he sighed, "I grew up wanting to be just like him, a warrior."

\---

The Meiziki had come.

Now that I'd established my reputation, Elder Nagao consistently invited me to private tea rituals he often conducted with his closest subjects. Rokshasa, of course, was one of those subjects—along with Naizo and Beatrice. In Beatrice's absence, I'd been given her spot so that I could sit in on all matters relating to the family's survival.

The Elder was preparing a strategy for success that he'd enact after the destruction of the Meiziki Clan; the Nagao believed that they would show the world renewed strength and take territories from both the Uesugi and the Meiziki, but the Elder had bided his time, waiting for word on when Meiziki would send for their first shipment of nanotechnology.

With or without that news, our enemy had decided to act.

I sat next to the Elder, who seemed to have grown fond of me despite me never really expressing gratitude. I'd appreciated what he'd done for me, but I was gaining too much pride to admit it. It felt like expressing weakness, and I couldn't do that anymore.

"Tavon," Naizo began with disgust, "why do you continue to serve the Nagao?" He smirked. "If you can keep up with Rok, why waste your talent on a dying clan—"

"Naizo!" Rokshasa exclaimed.

"Excuse me?" The heir to the Nagao stood to his feet.

"My son—"

"No, father! Rokshasa aims only to please..." Naizo scowled. "He would attempt to silence someone within the highest echelons of the family—your son!

"This cannot go unpunished!"

"Unpunished?" I came to my friend's defense. "Rok has pledged his loyalty to Elder Nagao—"

"I've got this one, Tavon." Rokshasa said as he confidently stepped to Naizo. For a moment, I believed he'd broken free of his servitude.

"How dare you, insolent scum!" Naizo cursed him.

Rokshasa smiled.

"Upon sight of my strength, you weep as if you were a widow and soil yourself like a baby kitten."

Naizo's rage peaked. He looked ready to attack the samurai and breathed in deeply before shouting:

"You—!"

"Lord Nagao!"—a foot soldier burst into the shrine—"Lord Nagao!"

"WHAT?" Naizo redirected his rage at the newcomer.

"Speak, brother!" Rokshasa chimed in.

"The Meiziki have sent messengers!"

Rokshasa grew pale. "Messengers?"

"Their men say that they wish to negotiate 'one last time.'"

"The idiocy!" Naizo said. "Where are they?"

"On their way up. I—"

"You didn't stop them?" Naizo moved toward him while pressing a short sword into his chest. "Explain yourself!"

"Sir, I... uh..." The soldier was overcome with fear. "Apologies," he said.

Naizo glared while enraged further.

"Son!" Elder Nagao yelled.

The heir to the Nagao moved to put away his weapon—

Then Naizo brought the hilt against the messenger's cheekbone, crushing the spot as the man's body smacked against the wall.

"You must remember to make them fear us." Naizo declared calmly, "Do not compromise the reputation of this family, my subject."

The messenger shook as he spoke, "Y-yes, sir!"

Rokshasa sighed. "Pathetic."

This prompted a quick reaction from Naizo, who strutted toward the samurai shouting, "I demand you be stripped of rank, Rokshasa!"

"What?" Rokshasa's eyes got wide.

Naizo grinned. "From this day forward, Rokshasa is not a—"

"Please excuse us from butting in, but we have business to discuss."

"No. It can't be."

Everyone in the shrine went silent.

"This was not the reception I expected."

"It's him..." Naizo remarked bitterly.

The Nagao family's attention had been affixed on someone with whom I wasn't familiar. But he stood by an old acquaintance, someone I hadn't expected to see again.

Dfari.
6

It's Your World

\---

Tavon

\---

DFARI STOOD BEFORE US IN CRIMSON LEATHER and steel body armor, similar to Rokshasa's own but darker, and waited next to the one known as Mendo Meiziki. My hatred for him... I couldn't feel it at that moment, and the young banger kept his eyes solely on Elder Nagao.

While Dfari had an overly serious stature, Mendo appeared more carefree. He was home, after all.

"Why... why have you come here?" The Elder spoke with a mild aura of disappointment.

Mendo chuckled, "You can't say you didn't miss me, old man."

Elder Nagao's firstborn happened to be very slim but toned; Mendo was taller than everyone in the room, sported long, dark hair, and wore only a red vest for protection over a black undershirt and pleated trousers. On his back, he bore the weight of an odachi very similar to the Elder's, if not larger.

Dfari remained silent while the room's full attention directed itself toward the traitor.

"Your presence here is a disgrace!" Naizo confronted him.

Mendo's one glance was enough to break his sibling's spirit, "Refrain from speaking nonsense, brother; this is a conversation meant for adults."

Naizo clutched his fists angrily, but his eyes expressed... impotence.

Even Rokshasa was shaken, but he gathered his resolve and approached confidently.

"What business do—"

"Do not speak for me." Elder Nagao interrupted. "Mendo is my son."

Mendo smiled. "And you are still very much a fool."

"How dare you!" Rokshasa moved between the two of them, finally confronting his childhood mentor. "You turned your back on your own kin!" He continued shouting, "You would've inherited Nagao for yourself!"

Mendo blinked. "... That's not the life I desired. There'd be no real excitement for me in dying due to an old man's refusal to surrender."

"You've lost yourself, Naizo." Rokshasa replied.

"Are you issuing a challenge?"

"Challenge?" Rokshasa stared at him in bewilderment. "How can you speak of such things after betraying us?"

"Because it's the last chance you guys are gonna get!" Dfari yelled in a fury. "Now shut the fuck up and listen to what Mendo's got to say."

"Eh. You'll have to excuse my associate." Mendo looked genuinely irritated; he, too, understood the kind of person Dfari was.

"I took him from Ovo..."

The Elder's face darkened. "You've murdered your own son."

"Indeed."

"How far will you go?"

Mendo laughed. "I learned from your mistakes, pops. I sided with the Lower-City's future—something you should have done long ago!" His face turned more serious. "Your ambition has clouded your judgment; this makes us total strangers."

"Just explain to me what this is about..." the Elder said.

"Hmph." Mendo composed himself before speaking more formally, "The Meiziki have extended their courtesy to you more than once, and you have rejected our offers of peace."

"Peace?" Naizo exclaimed.

"What the Meiziki have offered is not peace, Mendo."

"Really?" Mendo raised an eyebrow. "Before I came to my senses, I distinctly recall other messengers, people who wished only to discuss a future between our clans. You disposed of them—although you act as if you don't remember, dad."

"Our Elder would never harm a messenger!" Rokshasa retorted.

"But Naizo would." he said, "The Nagao are a very violent family—in fact, their predisposition for slaughter is the only reason they still exist."

"What do you mean?" Rokshasa seemed broken.

"I mean that the Meiziki claimed the arms trade months ago.

"The Nagao, however, proceeded to negotiate with anyone... anyone, Rok."—he grasped the samurai's shoulders earnestly.

Naizo and the Elder looked to me before ordering in unison, "LEAVE!"

"Not yet." Mendo stopped me from leaving.

This time I imagined Dfari would look, that he would recognize me; instead, he pretended I wasn't there.

"That kid is a legend to the Meiziki!" He laughed. "If not for him, Ovo would've bombarded my men." Mendo smiled at me. "I could've died."

"Yes, now leave this place!" Naizo insisted.

"Absolutely not, Naiz." Mendo spoke using his brother's nickname. "He's of the Nagao as well..." He frowned. "But I see the old man hasn't changed the way he treats strangers. You'll always be an outsider to him, kid."

"And you'll always manipulate others with your lies, I see." the Elder said back, the anger rising in his tone.

"So, what offer of peace do you present, Mendo?"

"Surrender to the Meiziki. It's your only option now." Mendo looked at him grimly.

The Elder replied while grinning smugly, "What do 'the Meiziki' presume to do if I refuse?"

"That's the only thing I ever liked about you: your passion for a challenge. And so, if you refuse, I request a champion to contest the integrity of the Nagao."

"I... don't understand." The Elder said in puzzlement. "You wish to fight me then?"

"Exactly two weeks from now, whoever believes he is the true champion of the Nagao will be tested."

"And if I refuse that offer as well?"

"Hmph. We can kill you all tomorrow, if that's how you want to play."

Dfari grinned.

Tension built in the room, with Rokshasa mentally preparing himself to strike down both messengers.

"The Nagao..." the Elder began, "Bear might passed down through the ages; we deserve a legacy in this world for what we've accomplished."

He drew closer to Mendo while keeping eye contact. "A warrior does not surrender to a cause in which he does not fully believe, Mendo. The path you have chosen..." He shook his head. "It's become twisted."

"No." Mendo replied flatly. "You've destroyed your own family with your arrogance. The Meiziki's power can no longer be stifled from further growth.

"Therefore, I will inform our leadership of your desire to produce a champion... —and, to be honest," he snorted and laughed, "I think that's what they wanted all along! To see if the Nagao know what true strength is."

\---

After the messengers from the Meiziki Clan had departed, I practiced my striking for several hours at the gym with Rokshasa, who'd become a wordless shell of himself.

His eyes were empty when we proceeded to spar as usual, but his abilities were at their best. The samurai was suddenly able to fend me off much better than before in hand-to-hand combat, and his attacks got significantly faster.

Rokshasa upped the intensity of our training in the following days. I turned eighteen without realizing how much time had passed as we remained focused on our own improvement. Rokshasa was frustrated at my refusal to learn anything more advanced than my fists, and this revealed itself when he fought me, for real, in brief spurts.

"If you won't listen to me," he said, "then I guess I'll just have to draw Mendo's spirit out of you, Tavon! Do you still wish to be a Nagao?"

He attempted to sever my airflow while locking me into a strong submission upon the floor.

"I... p-pledged my loyalty."

Rokshasa sighed, released me, and let me stand before he delivered an admonishing kick to the head.

\---

It was in the afternoon when I'd been tasked to monitor and obtain reports on the status of Nagao cells throughout the Fourth Quadrant. The Nagao had a reach great enough to result in the demand of 'Lieutenants' who could properly supervise activities at the lowest level. In this way, Elder Nagao boosted his revenue through less micromanagement.

The Elder chose to create a rotation that shifted throughout the most trusted members of the family, only including me after I'd spent so much time proving my worth to them.

To start out with, I was given a specific path to abide by as I was chaperoned in a cruiser driven by one of the Nagao members. It was an easy job, and I'd be paid for babysitting others just like me—except to them, I was a part of the nobility.

The Nagao's weapons and drug trade were locally dry. It had been the Elder's idea to outsource all products from Gaspul, and this resulted in us often providing lower-grade items to our remaining clientele. Whereas the Meiziki maintained close connections to pharmaceutical companies in the Mid-City, the Nagao scratched together what it could to compete. To compensate for comparatively weaker products, Naizo suggested extending Nagao's services into extortion, a request promptly denied by his father. He was a man wary of any change.

After finishing my patrol—where I'd surveyed maybe a total of six guys—and finding nothing out of the ordinary, I stepped out of the cruiser and moved down the street toward the central shrine to see if Rokshasa was interested in sparring again before Mendo's arrival. I'd really done little; regardless, I felt fatigued as I strolled through the mostly peaceful area owned by the clan.

As the Sun passed below the horizon, I noticed a figure in the distance facing toward me. The shape of the stranger was pretty far away, but he was standing with legs at shoulder width while he crossed his arms and tapped one foot impatiently, waiting for me...

\---

As I approached, the silhouette shrunk to my height, and I recognized him.

Dfari's one eye bore into me.

He didn't blink; he didn't allow himself to look away. Dfari was like a gargoyle that harvested something beyond rage. I didn't know what to say. It'd been years since I'd encountered the bastard, and I wondered if he'd changed at all since then.

Dfari swallowed and said, "Do you not know what happened, Knockdown?"

His eyes were pale craters that drowned constricted pupils; Dfari was sweating and struggled to control his breathing as he experienced an inner anger that I couldn't comprehend at the time...

Until he told me.

"You didn't think robbin' Ovo would affect me?" His voice rose. "You really have no idea?"

"No." I said, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Tch."

He clenched his fists tightly enough to draw blood. "All this time, and you didn't figure out why I'd been working for him in the first place—you really are fuckin' stupid!"

"..."

Normally, I would've retaliated. Dfari's words, however, conveyed with them a deep, unresolved pain.

"Ovo..." A tear rolled down his cheek; he sniffed and continued. "You see, my dad owed him a debt...

"It wasn't something Ovo could just shake. My pops robbed Ovo once—like you, but he got caught." Dfari glared at me. "Like you will."

"What happened, D?"

"I told my family I'd serve Ovo and work off the debt, and he came to trust my dumbass..." He fought to keep himself from sobbing. "I had to supply Ovo, T! It was ALMOST over!" Dfari said.

"I'm..."

He'd hurt my friends. I couldn't apologize; I still hadn't forgiven him.

"Do you know what Ovo did to my family, T?"

"Dfari..."

"Tavon!" Dfari screamed, "Do you know he did? Do you?"

I didn't respond.

"HE KILLED THEM ALL, YOU FUCKING SHITHEAD. HE SET THEM ON FIRE."

I walked away, knowing he wouldn't follow.

It would've been impossible to reason with him; I moved as quickly as I could back to my living quarters and tried to forget about it.

But Dfari... his eyes sought a goal; they shone with an ambition that revolved around the purest hatred. Dfari aimed to kill me however he could.

7

Purple

\---

Tavon

\---

I MEDITATED WITH ROKSHASA, WHO'D BEEN SILENT throughout most of the day. After we'd spent an hour at the Nagao shrine, I asked him if he was feeling okay.

"Naizo..." he said, "The heir plans to take away my title and exile me from the clan, Tavon. I'm... ashamed."

For the first time since I'd known the samurai, he was at odds with himself.

"The Elder can't protect you? After all that you've done?"

He didn't reply, wallowing in his own guilt.

"Rokshasa, I'm sorry."

"The fault does not lie with you." Rokshasa said, bolstering a stronger disposition. "I spoke rashly of my lord's son..."

His eyes met mine. "But Naizo will lead what we've built into annihilation. Am I to fight for a clan that would disown me, Tavon?"

"I guess it depends."

"Huh?" Rokshasa furrowed his brow.

"If you care for the Elder enough, then you'll stay by his side. That's the only thing that could guide you right now. Your duty is to protect the Nagao family until they order you otherwise."

"You're right." He smirked. "I should feel lucky that I'm not being ordered to commit seppuku, but if I could only take back my words..." Rokshasa clenched his fists.

"You're right." I tried to comfort my friend. "Naizo is not good for the Nagao, and you should be the one to lead after you've defeated Mendo!"

Rokshasa smiled. "You believe in me after all,"

His expression turned grim. "But, if I am chosen as the Nagao's champion, it'll take everything I have to stop him."

\---

Only five days before the duel was to take place, Beatrice stopped me as I was on my way home. She'd become much paler and seemed... smaller somehow, as if grief had blunted her normally fierce spirit.

"Hey." Beatrice said, kind of meekly.

I was concerned, but I didn't want to intrude on her life after what had happened previously.

I'd missed her, though.

"How are you?"

She smiled before stepping closer. "I'm fine... Can I hug you?"

I nodded and shivered as she held me tightly; it felt good. And then, she was crying. I didn't know how to make her feel any better, but Beatrice looked at ease while in my presence...

And she kissed me.

"Beatrice..."

"Stop." She stared into my eyes. "Don't ruin it now... if it's what you want."

"What do you mean?" I nervously tried to keep myself from shaking.

Her eyes widened. "No!" Beatrice was taken aback. "You?"

"I don—"

"You've never been with anyone, Tavon? There's no way! You're an adult now."

"I... uh—" I blushed, feeling flustered.

I could beat down grown men with my fists, but I didn't know how to talk to the other sex, especially with what she had in mind.

Beatrice's attitude was hopeful. "So, you're just an innocent guy, after all? You've never broken anybody's heart—had your own heart broken? Damn."

I frowned. "I've always just scraped by, Beatrice. I started with nothing."

"And now they say you're almost as strong as Rokshasa." She grinned. I thought I saw desire in the way she studied me, but I didn't know enough about relationships to realize what it was.

"That's pretty impressive, Tavon; you've grown so much... I just thought you were the type to get around." Beatrice winked.

I scratched my head and faked a comfortable laugh. "Not exactly."

"Well, Tavon," Beatrice moved in to kiss me again. "There's nothing wrong with being a beginner—"

"Whatever."

"Hah." She smiled. "I can get you past that stage."

\---

I won't go into detail, but Beatrice was the first person I'd ever slept with. She was sad, alone. One of Nagao's greatest fighters had no one now, and she'd felt compelled to reach out to me.

On my bed, we laid together for some time before she began speaking again...

"Tavon?"

"Yeah?"

Beatrice stared at me.

"You should leave the Lower-City."

"What? Why would I do tha—"

"Because the Nagao are dying.

"The Meiziki won the war when they took over the First Quadrant. There's no way we could hope to defeat them at this stage, and the nanobots—"

"Beatrice." I couldn't let her believe that. If she did, then so would I. "We just have to be stronger than them by coming together."

"You've got to be joking."

"I'm not." I spoke resolutely, "Rokshasa can handle Mendo, and the Meiziki will respect our ability to negotiate our own legitimacy."

Beatrice laughed. "You sound like Rokshasa..." Her expression turned to a scowl. "I hate that."

"You hate the way Rokshasa talks?"

"I hate the way Rokshasa is, Tavon! Dogmatic. Too obedient. He used to be so much more fun before he started chasing after the Elder all the time—but you're not like that, Tavon. Not usually, at least."

"I'm glad."

\---

"Our plan's coming together, Tavon; it'll allow us to strike back!" Rokshasa startled me awake the next morning with his announcement. I awoke to notice that he'd been drenched in sweat and specks of stained blood.

"What ha—"

"C'mon!" he insisted, "The Elder is waiting on you, Tavon!"

I rushed to get dressed before hurrying outside to see...

Beatrice awaiting the two of us before our departure to the Nagao shrine.

\---

Elder Nagao was seated cross-legged before a small gathering of Naizo, Rokshasa, Beatrice, Abul, and I as he expressed something close to satisfaction.

"The future of the Nagao lies here, my subjects. It is with your endeavors that our clan can prove to the universe its might. Children, the Meiziki have claimed a shipment of nanotechnology using a specialized cruiser..."

The room waited patiently as he cleared his throat before continuing:

"Rokshasa and Naizo managed to commandeer a similar vessel developed by the Uesugi, as the Nagao are not versed on the manufacturing of such machines. The model we've captured is a sky-bound vessel the size of which is unheard of in the Lower-City.

"This vessel is enough to house an army, and it is composed of three levels to accommodate those who would partake in the coming mission."

Elder Nagao pondered how to phrase what he would say next. He was disclosing details that had only been kept between himself and Naizo.

"We found... an alternative, my children, the only way for the Nagao Clan to counter the Meiziki Clan's growth—for, if we do not defend ourselves, the Nagao Clan will be overtaken."

Elder Nagao stood with authority and proclaimed:

"The ones in this room deserve a better legacy than that, than serving under those greedy, dishonorable fools. And so, Muromusz Shikon in Gaspul has sanctioned a deal between us and his private cause: the Nagao are to receive a great blessing, weapons capable of penetrating our enemy's defenses." His voice was firm, "The Nagao will be enabled to strike at the center of Meiziki's operations before they expect it, but first we must use these gifts to prevent them from completing their own trade agreement.

"Therefore, two days from now, the Nagao cruiser will depart for Gaspul. It should arrive at the time the Meiziki begin picking up their shipment—furthermore, and as a countermeasure, we will strike with ferocity, capture what we can of their technology, and persist in bombarding the enemy. Rokshasa!"

Elder Nagao looked to the samurai.

He rose. "My liege!"

"Despite your prior conduct against the Nagao, I have deemed you worthy of standing in as the champion for this family; you've proven yourself above all others, time and time again. I believe now that even Mendo cannot muster the will to face someone of your ability.

"Yes, Elder!"

Elder Nagao nodded. "By overcoming this trial, you may reclaim your honor under my rulership, Rokshasa; you may continue to serve as a venerable samurai of the Nagao."

"Thank you, milord. It is an honor."

The Elder turned back to us, his expression remaining somber.

"I've yet to choose my guardians for the ship traveling to Gaspul. This council has been adjourned."

\---

"You want to serve them, Tavon?" Beatrice exclaimed in astonishment.

We'd been drinking wine by the lake. "Don't you understand what these people are like?"

"I've lived with them for two years. I think I know."

She got frustrated with me. "Don't be like Rok, Tavon; he's not himself anymore. You're all I have now, and I wasn't ready to be put in the kind of position where I'd be forced to serve some delusional old man... how can you trust him?"

Beatrice shook me with so many questions, but I replied coolly. "He gave me a home."

"That's it?"

"I met you through joining the Nag—"

"Tavon, that's not what this is about—it's like I said before: you need to leave the Nagao. Are you really okay with them blowing people up?"

"Are you?" I retorted, feeling annoyed at being scrutinized so damn hard. "Why do you continue to serve this 'old man?'"

"Hmph." She folded her arms. "You really don't know shit, do you?"

"What could you expect me to know, Beatrice?"

"Tavon!" she said., "The Elder BOUGHT me..."

"What?"

"Uban was not my real father, but I was given to him to do with as he pleased after the Elder believed I'd had no inherent worth.

"Because I'm not the size of a bear, Elder Nagao looked down on me—in the same way he did you—and he decided that I deserved less than any normal human."

"T-there's—there's no w—"

"Tavon." She eyed me angrily. "I'm telling you the truth.

"Elder Nagao once participated in the slave trade—honestly, all gangs in the Lower-City have done it at one time or another. It was only with him trying to seem more religious that he backed out of the trafficking trade, but that bastard has never stopped viewing people as his labor force..."

I hesitated before speaking, "You are still his slave?"

"Yes. He's never relinquished control of me, just made me serve one of his underlings. But Uban tried to be a father figure. He sucked."

"Leave with me." I declared flatly.

"Huh?" Beatrice gasped.

"If I must leave the Nagao clan... I want you with me, Beatrice."

"That's not real—"

"Realistic?" I chimed in. "If this whole syndicate is built on illusions, then it doesn't matter. You should come with me."

And, like that, Beatrice punched me in the side of my face.

She hadn't held back, and I stumbled away in shock.

"That was one hell of a hit." I said while rubbing the area.

Beatrice waltzed up to me, her face scarlet. "You want me to risk my fucking life for you? Don't you know that you're free to go? You could walk away from all of this, and the Elder would respect that decision! But me!"

She struck me with her forearm. "How can you be so stupid?"

After having suffered countless beatings at the hands of Rokshasa, Beatrice's hits were negligible. She cried as she kept bringing her fists across my body and yelled, "How dare you think about putting me in danger!"

I tried to offer a gesture of comfort, but the samurai resorted to slapping me. "You're a fucking idiot, Tavon—just like everybody thought!"

I stepped away from her, and the samurai jabbed me in the back while I attempted to leave. Fighting Beatrice was pointless; besides, I never wanted to do anything that could hurt her. Only Rokshasa and Beatrice could stand by me, and I was afraid of losing them.

Despite her pleas for me to return—for us to 'talk'—I kept going. She couldn't expect me to absolve her of her own grief, but I was empathetic.

We'd both lost a father.

\---

The following night, I returned from training with Rokshasa to find Beatrice waiting on me at my living quarters. She'd stuffed a backpack full and rocked a hoodie and pair of shades along with a gun holster attached to her hip.

Beatrice grinned. "Fine."

I was confused. "Is this...?"

"Yes, Tavon: I'm leaving with you—but I don't want to be seen, so shush!"

I stepped in and kissed her.

"What?" She looked at me almost taken aback. "Change of heart?"

"No. It's just... thank you."

We embraced before moving to leave the central area of the Nagao Clan.
8

The Nature Of Daylight

\---

Tavon

\---

"THEY TRUST YOU MORE THAN EVER NOW," SHE SAID.

Because venturing through the Lower-City on foot would've been too treacherous for the two of us, we headed toward the closest bus station.

Beatrice continued musing, "You've done so much for the Nagao... and yet you would throw away their favor for me? Rokshasa is the one who will be reduced to nothing, and Naizo is most likely planning on using you as his right-hand man."

"There's no way in hell that's possible, Beatrice. Naizo hates outsiders more than his own father."

"But he needs your talent, Tavon; even though you're a moron, you're damn good at holding your own." She smiled at me through her hood. "You could come to surpass Rok, especially since he won't hav—"

Rokshasa suddenly emerged as he crossed paths with us.

But he and I were both natural idiots, and I felt confident that he heard nothing.

"Gossiping, eh?" he said with a weak smile.

My friend had been humbled, and he no longer appeared worried; his mind was set on the task ahead.

"We were sightseeing." I smiled back.

"Ah," Rokshasa chuckled, "I didn't think you went for his type, Beatrice."

"Whatever." She rolled her eyes.

"What are you doing out here?" I tried to deflect that kind of conversation altogether.

He smiled while standing proudly. "I had to turn down an offer from an old friend, but you must excuse me, Tavon..."

Rokshasa put his hand on my shoulder as he progressed forward. "There's little time left for you to escape safely."

He winked.

The gesture stunned the two of us for a moment as we waited for him to leave, his back turned to us as he disappeared into the rest of the city.

"A loyal friend until the end," Beatrice said.

I smirked. "Yeah, well, we all came to see the truth about the Elder eventually."

"Don't pretend like you don't care; stop detaching yourself." She glared at me.

"Okay..." I replied. "Let's hurry."

\---

At the station, we boarded an incredibly elongated cruiser intended to seat hundreds. This bus would allow us transport to the fringes of Nagao territory, and there were no fees or tickets required in the Fourth Quadrant, a district that had always operated in the black.

We waited quietly on a crowded bus stocked with various characters so distinct that we were lost in watching other strangers come and go in the Lower-City. This Quadrant had been left for bangers to feud over and was easily the most hostile district in the Citadel. Alone, Beatrice and I would need to use everything we'd learned to protect each other.

Though both of us were adults, I shared her anxiety. I noticed she'd been trembling; I held her hand, and she grasped mine tightly as the cruiser continued its path through the lower reaches of the Citadel.

\---

We were the only ones to get off at our stop, being eyed strangely as few were known to leave their home territory, and we arrived on an abandoned street before being promptly left by our ride.

"Where do we go from here?" Beatrice was getting frantic, not helping our situation. I'm not sure if she'd ever journeyed very far out of her hometown.

"We'll have to move toward the nearest place we can find common people to get a better sense of direction," I said, recalling everything Eze had taught me. "Keep an eye out for power stations, marketplaces, and residential zones; we can ask for directions—and we'll have to hit a clothing store—"

"You still have money left over?" Beatrice gazed at me in shock.

"Some." I said. "Enough to get us clothes, food, and a way out of the Fourth Quadrant. Public transport is only free within this place; going to another Quad will cost us a small amount."

"All my life... what have I been missing?"

We began walking as I replied, "The Elder protected us from the Citadel, but struggle is inevitable no matter what way you take."

"You sound like fucking Rokshasa again." She shook her head. "Once we're out of this hell, you have to promise me to stop talking like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you only live for combat... don't become changed like him."

"Do you forgive him now?"

"No." she responded bitterly, "I love him, but Rok is too talented to do what he does. He's a samurai, Tavon, but he didn't have to kill him..."

I knew more than I should speak about at that time, so I listened and nodded.

"You wouldn't do something like that, would you?" She looked at me seriously.

"If I was trying to protect myself..."

"Don't answer!" Beatrice said, a strong hint of irritation in her voice. "You've let him get to you.

"Tavon," she said quietly, "don't let a murderer change you. Rokshasa is just as much a savage thug as any other member of the Nagao—even if he has shown kindness to you!"

"I'm sorry." It was the best reply I could think of in that moment.

"I'm hungry." she said. "Let's get food before we do anything else—"

"Clothes first!"

"Ugh. But I'm starving..."

\---

After wandering the streets for nearly an hour, we managed to locate a small thrift store. We changed inside before discarding our former clothes and gear altogether, all except for Beatrice's gun.

From there, we traveled in plain clothes to a small café where we were met with a rather welcoming counter chef in a business that had been suffering a dry spell lately.

The chef was an older woman whose husband had once owned the small coffee shop before he'd passed on the year before and left ownership to her. She was quiet and insisted we sit "wherever" while not stopping at all to judge us for who we were: two homeless people on the run from an ugly situation.

She didn't charge us anything and, out of kindness, gave me free refills on coffee as Beatrice ravenously devoured a plate covered in blueberry pancakes.

"I guess that makes us rōnin now, huh?" Beatrice didn't take time to chew.

"No. Tch. I was never inducted as one of the Elder's samurai."

"What?" She spoke in bewilderment. "I thought they'd made you one! Every family member has to go through the process!"

"I guess they didn't bother with me." I shrugged.

"We truly were shorthanded... shorthanded enough to grab an orphan off the streets—"

"And a slave," I remarked.

"You don't know what you're talking about." she huffed. "Don't blow a good moment, Tavon; I love you."

"No you don't." I replied curtly.

Beatrice finally swallowed before making eye contact.

"I meant what I said—do you love me, Tavon?"

This was hard for me, because I didn't genuinely understand love in the first place.

"You make me happy, Beatrice."

The owner of the place screamed.

To my left, I saw a small group approaching; they were armed.

They raised their firearms when we'd both spotted them and started shooting, shattering the transparent window separating us before we had time to react!

A piercing cry filled my ears as I struggled to get on the ground and move into cover. Beatrice was moving toward me and doing the same!

She was alive—yes!

Beatrice collapsed on the ground next to me...

I reached over with the intent to shield her with my body in case they charged through the opening, and I looked to see:

"Beatrice..."

Bullets had landed in the side of her throat as well as through several areas along her ribcage.

Her eyes were already affixed to the ceiling, tears falling as she struggled to form words. She met my eyes and wept further before trying to smile. Each corner curved up—

Then she faded.

"Beatrice." I curled in on myself. Sorrow.

I did love her.

I didn't understand it, but I really did love her...

She was the only one who'd kept me from losing myself, and I cradled her body, away from sight, as I heard voices overhead.

The counter chef's wailing had been louder than my own cries; I listened when one of the strangers fired another bullet to silence her.

"Looks like we got 'em, D!" echoed the voice of someone close to my age.

A younger voice yelled, "Yeah! We fucked them all up—especially that old woman!"

"Shut the hell up, you two!"

Dfari's voice.

Dfari had killed Beatrice.

"Let me get in a closer fucking inspection—those helmets fuck up a guy's aim, you know?"

"Tch," replied a third stranger, someone older, "you'll get used to it, boss... we all did."

"What did I tell you about shuttin' the fuck—" Dfari peered into the diner and exclaimed "ugh!" upon noticing a large section of the floor covered in blood. "Maybe we went too far in blasting them, huh?"

"Shit!" another banger said after inspecting the carnage. "It's lookin' ugly in there, D; you sure we not gonna get busted for this?"

"Not if we don't skimp on out of this place, fellas—let's go!"

I heard them begin to run, and I felt a shallow wound bleed from a bullet that had grazed my right shoulder.

But, when I looked at Beatrice's lifeless form one more time, I realized that I wouldn't let this story end in them getting away!

I sprinted after them.

\---

I wouldn't let Dfari win, and my rage had pushed me so far into a state of madness as a dim light engulfed my body. My veins began to bulge as every muscle attached to my frame became extraordinarily tense, gathering a power causing them to swell. My thighs, calves, ankles, and even my feet had thickened and pronounced my original speed!

Dfari would be punished; he'd taken everything I'd had left—reduced me to what I was before I'd met the Nagao! No! I wouldn't let this happen to me!

My upper body increased in size as I pursued the four of them through a narrow walkway which transitioned into a series of steps before it gave way to a higher platform. That platform led to an upper level comprised of more streets centered around squatters' dens. From the edge of the walkway leading to Xoxun Street, I could see the fringes of the Citadel from its heights before I caught up to Dfari and his men amidst a crowd of people who fled in terror as the group drew their weapons.

He'd figured out I was coming, and perhaps he'd played with me all along to tease out this moment:

Gunned down by Dfari's personal firing squad; it was his revenge fantasy come true.

"You shoulda seen this shit coming in due time, motherfucker!" Dfari spit while brandishing his glock. "You've always been trash. 'Knockdown T' ends as some low-time thug in a weak clan, killed by Dfari," he smirked, "the superior man, after al—"

The blade of an ax decapitated the foot soldier to Dfari's right.

As a stream of blood whirled before them, a samurai growled and charged, lowering his weapon to his side to swing horizontally as he gutted the consecutive Meiziki banger. Rokshasa then kicked out at Dfari with enough force to knock him on his back just as he fired a negligent round.

The last thug remaining with the will to fight fired an older model assault rifle, but Rokshasa responded by thrusting his previous opponent's body into him! The samurai hurried in and swung his ax downward, splitting through the head of the last member.

Rokshasa pressed his foot into the corpse's stomach as he withdrew the blade of the weapon from the deep depression made in his target's skull. He then turned, revealing eyes filled with a powerful bloodlust, as he stood to face down Dfari.

Dfari had recovered and currently aimed at my remaining friend in the Nagao, but the samurai continued to walk forward and appeared indifferent.

"I'm not gonna hesitate to kill you, you fool!"

Dfari squeezed the trigger.

His weapon jammed.

"Fuck."

And, in that instant, Rokshasa turned to me, acknowledging my anger, and said: "It's time you become a man, Tavon. THIS is the path of the warrior."

He connected with me in spirit.

Dfari gasped and turned to sprint away from us.

"Go!" Rokshasa shouted to me.

I didn't delay as I dashed with all my accumulated speed toward my oldest enemy.

I chased him to exhaustion while he tried to flee into the woods encompassing a small park. After he'd tripped on an unseen branch, Dfari limped until he decided to rotate and threw his fist my way!

I lowered my head and moved in—

Gathering immense strength, I altered my stance; I uppercutted Dfari in the center of his jaw, shattering some of his teeth and sending him to the ground.

But I wouldn't relent.

He began to plead, "Wait! Wait! Stop!" as I leapt onto him and began punching at him with a savage lust!

I continued striking and striking at the pulp that remained of his face before letting loose a battle cry as I grasped my hands around Dfari's throat!

"T-T..." the bloodied mass tried to speak.

I tightened my grip around his neck, shook with rage, and clenched my teeth. My hatred fed itself, and I increased pressure against his attempts to escape. Dfari resorted to punching me, but his hits became weaker as he lost circulation.

"Do you feel sorry?" I screamed while shaking his frail form. "You killed her! You didn't have to—and you killed her!"

I couldn't help myself; I strengthened my grip, producing a crushing sound as I pressed harder. More mangled noise was heard from within, and Dfari's eyes glossed over. He choked in between breaks, then I ended his life.

I waited for some time before letting his body collapse to the ground, and Rokshasa was nearby to pat me on the back as I came to stand.

"He knew you?"

I stared at Dfari's corpse, feeling far away from that place...

"He killed the people I cared about."

"Are there more like him?"

"No..." I replied bitterly. "It's over."
9

Flowers

\---

Tavon

\---

ROKSHASA HAD SLEPT WITH BEATRICE ONCE.

"I had feelings for her, too... so I understand the hatred you felt. He was your burden, Tavon, and you did well to confront a much lesser foe."

"..."

I wasn't able to think properly at this time. My mind had gone, leaving me with only my basic senses as I followed Rokshasa back toward Nagao's center.

"Tavon..." Rokshasa said worriedly, "Don't tell me this is the first one, is it?"

"..."

"Is that why you hesitated in the fight with Uban?"

"..."

I killed someone.

"You must collect yourself, Tavon; composure is key when following the path destined for a warrior."

"That bastard..." I said.

"He hurt many, and you were called to deliver justice."

"Nothing forced me to do that."

His face... why does it keep replaying in my head—why won't it stop? It's making me so angry. At myself.

Rokshasa sighed. "Brother, you must treat this as a lesson... we've both suffered a loss—"

"She told me she loved me."

Rokshasa grew quiet.

We walked in silence for a time before he asked, "Did you love her?"

"I think so..." I felt sadness well up inside of me. "I didn't have the time to figure everything out, Rok... I just wanted to leave with her."

"It's treason." he said flatly and then gave me a wan smile. "But I understand why you did it, Tavon."

I didn't say anything.

"Listen," Rokshasa spoke in a hushed tone as we approached more familiar territory. "I would have words with you following our return."

"We're talking now, aren't we?"

"Tavon," he warned, "there are some things not meant to be said aloud..."

\---

We moved to the shrine, which seemed to be abandoned for the time being.

"After I defeat Mendo," Rokshasa spoke earnestly, "will you side with me against the Elder's son?"

"Rok... what do you intend to do against the Nagao?"

"Not against." he declared valiantly, "For."

Rokshasa ruminated. "It is clear that Naizo has no right to inherit the Nagao Clan—don't you agree, Tavon?"

"He's weak, and he doesn't train or get any better."

"Exactly." he said. "Which is why I will challenge him for his position upon disgracing the Meiziki!"—the samurai stepped closer—"If you back me in my opposition, Naizo will be compelled to concede defeat—"

"Or the Elder will fight you to the death." I said, "Do you want that outcome?"

Rokshasa grumbled, "No. But I refuse to relinquish my legacy..."

\---

The day had come.

I was ordered to meet with Naizo at six in the morning and traveled to the outer edge of the Citadel, near the Shikon's castle. Naizo was already waiting impatiently for me.

"You've stuck around this long and still can't find it in you to be on time?" He scowled.

"Apologies."

"Nevermind. Why would anyone expect you to understand anything!"

Naizo still truly believed that I was a very stupid person and so didn't feel as threatened by my presence as the others in spite of my strength. He grinned at me patronizingly, "What? Aren't you excited to be my right-hand man, Tavon?"

"Huh?"

He grinned. "With Rokshasa out of the way, you're the one who stands the most to gain above all others." Naizo folded his arms while thinking smugly to himself. "You're young, so you'll enjoy a life of royalty after we set about annihilating our enemies!"

"Where's the cruiser?" I asked.

"Here," Naizo, expressing a seemingly kinder side, patted me on the shoulder and then led me over to the very edge to view a huge airship...

In the center, a colossal chrome exterior, in the shape of a diamond, hovered and was encircled by a transparent, glass dome. The dome encased linked and parallel, circular corridors which had these spacey rooms meant to house a small population. The gigantic cruiser was powered via an engine that had been installed at its other end. At its bottom, I spotted a bunch of jets aiding in its aerial suspension below us.

The cruiser was reachable by a long, flexible steel ladder that curved down onto a deck above one of the living quarters adjacent to the control room.

"What do you think?" Naizo asked. "Quaint, right?"

"It's... impressive." I said. "Are we leaving now?"

"Not just yet," Naizo was quick to reply, "My father insisted that we bring another with us on this trip."

"Oh?"

"He believes the Meiziki are waiting for us to seek aid and could use their numbers to route us if we separate ourselves, but the team he's assembled this time..." Naizo snorted. "I think he might have gone too far."

"Hello, everyone!" Abul Shikon came to stand before us, seeming pleased about the coming journey. "I have a feeling it's going to be a lovely day!"

\---

Elder Nagao had made the three of us leaders over a crew of around thirty men, as all manpower had been primarily concentrated at our base of operations in case Meiziki attacked earlier than planned. The foot soldiers he'd assigned were generally specialists in their own field and didn't need much more attention than Naizo already took care of as he labored obsessively in the control room, which was located in the center of the cruiser.

Naizo managed our schedule, believing a round trip would place us back at the Citadel the night before Mendo arrived to challenge us. The heir of the Nagao had us gather in the center to brief information that was sorta simple but did help me later get better acquainted with the place, one that proved to be more of a maze of rooms and unnecessary hallways.

"The elliptical design saves space." he declared as if he'd built the shit himself. "Fortunately, exceptional Nagao warriors stole this one away from the enemy—"

"You mean Rokshasa." I interrupted.

Abul burst into laughter, and Naizo grew red in the face.

"No, dumbass!" he shouted, still believing I possessed no real intelligence and thus failing to become truly angry. "I mean my soldiers!"

"Okay."

"Dumbass." Naizo remarked again before continuing, "The control terminal is set up next to a private shower and bed, so I'll be claiming this room for myself.

"That's fine with me." Abul replied.

"Tavon and Abul, the Elder ordered that the two of you be placed in the same room as each other—I have no idea why." He looked puzzled.

"Well," Abul began eloquently, "if Tavon is a true family member, then I suppose this is part of his efforts at fostering a better relationship between our two forces." Abul spoke confidently, "Either way, the Shikon have no intent of engaging those who do not attack our home directly."

He stared at Naizo. "We cannot join you in your quest for further bloodshed."

Normally, Naizo would've reacted with an insult already prepared, but Abul struck some kind of fear in him. His only defense was, "We didn't want this..."

"Of course you didn't." Abul smiled.
10

Lovely Day

\---

Tavon

\---

NAIZO, REFUSING TO OPEN HIMSELF UP TO ANYONE, isolated himself from us and became almost nonexistent as I explored the cruiser with my strange new friend. We walked the corridors after locating our assigned chamber on the map, seeing few other passengers than those hurrying to one of the breakrooms littered throughout the vessel.

"To save on having to pay chefs, the leader of the Nagao chose to give us meal rations... basic meal rations, Tavon!

"These people have no taste, no sense of style." He chuckled. "Perhaps you would make a good Shikon, what do you say?"

He took me by surprise. "I'm not—"

"Just kidding." Abul winked as we continued on.

I didn't even feel the cruiser move as it began to take flight, and I only knew we'd started traveling when we suddenly passed a window revealing other cruisers on a vast hyper rail.

"This thing is pretty incredible."

Abul shook his head. "You haven't seen anything yet, Tavon." He jabbed at my arm. "You've got to get away from the Nagao if you want to become really world-weary."

"I gave them my word," I said resolutely, "The Elder has done right by me, Abul..."

"Forget about it, my friend; it seems you really are a good person. I believe I might've misjudged you."

Eventually, we made it to the metallic entrance of a room mostly decorated in grey and wood furniture over a carpet of a similar, albeit lighter shade. At the far end of the room, we noticed a long window that exposed the tinted windshield of a cruiser traveling next to us. On the east side, a holographic television had been set up along with a stereo and some obscure gaming system we never tried out for ourselves.

Other than that, all that was left in the room was an overhead light, two small cots, an older Kom Cell, and several shelves full of books ranging from philosophy to erotica to medicine.

I thought that my conversations with Abul were soon to reach a different level, but the Shikon heir was too absorbed in the amount of knowledge presented before him. All but the erotica, thankfully.

"Abul." I spoke, trying to get his attention.

He began perusing a human anatomy book and murmured to himself before sitting on one of the cots and zoning out of reality altogether. Abul had left me alone in the room, and so I picked up the Kom Cell and accessed the Citadel's web server, Fi-O.

From there, I was humbled by how small the Nagao's problems were in comparison to issues faced all over a nation condensed into a city.

"There's to be an embargo on Gaspul soon..." Abul finally said and curiously picked up what looked to be a thick, black and white block.

"But Fi-O says Enrec is withdrawing forces—"

"It's a ploy, Tavon. Hah—" he gasped upon realizing something, "I thought it was a book—but no! It's a chessboard!"

And, as we waited as fellow passengers, Abul taught me how to play chess, something I felt unconfident learning after my recent efforts at studying anything new. To our mutual surprise, I grasped the fundamentals quickly, and we launched into extremely serious competitions against each other.

While I less than gracefully lost more times than I can count, my attention had been drawn away from the fact that our cruiser had moved on from the Fourth Quadrant and now proceeded toward a customs station barring the exit.

I peered through the window anxiously as we glided and slowed down onto a big platform filled with Zone Police who managed all travel from behind glass counters.

"Will we be able to get through?"

Abul chuckled. "The Nagao have gone through customs before. Although I'm not comfortable putting my trust in Naizo, he should know enough about what to do—and he can perform online transactions for passage fees through the cruiser's main interface."

I felt stunned by the vehicle's capabilities... to own such a thing.

"Rokshasa did not take this vessel alone." Abul said. "Your Elder respects the power of the Shikon, and so he requested our assistance."

"I thought you refused to help him in his endeavors."

"And I do," he replied annoyedly, "but, after the coming war, this ship has been promised to the Shikon..." He took a deep breath—

"There's more of my family I need to save from the chaos of Gaspul, Tavon."

"I don't know anything about that place."

"I wish you didn't have to learn anything about it at all...

"It's a condemned country—and now involved in an idiotic plan that will costs lives."

"You care?"

Abul looked at me with a mixture of puzzlement and annoyance. "Is that what you think I am?"

"I was—"

"I'm not human, but that doesn't make me some evil spirit bent on devouring people, Tavon."

I was embarrassed and looked away.

"I am, however, a prince. For you to think so low of me..."

"I don't think low of you." I said. "I'm just pissed that you've put me in checkmate again."

\---

The cruiser remained at customs for some time before finally being allowed to take off into a bright white, cylindrical tunnel leading to the outside world. I couldn't view the Citadel behind us as we left, but it was something surreal to be engulfed in nothing but blue skies.

"I can't believe you've never left the Federation." Abul spoke in amazement. "Most people become sick of its confines—eck! It's vastly overpopulated for the amount it's really capable of sustaining."

"Everyone warns about the World Below, about the horrors that lurk in the real world."

"You fool," Abul rolled his eyes, "horrors are present wherever you search, Tavon...

"Was Dfari's intervention not something horrible?"

"How do you know about that?"

"Stop underestimating me; that's why you keep losing."

I didn't understand because I'd already become wary of the Shikon prince.

"I may not be built like Rokshasa, but even he knows to proceed with caution around me." He smirked. "I'm excited to spar with you one day."

"Spar? How exactly do you fight?"

\---

Abul stayed tight-lipped about himself directly but seemed comfortable asserting his legitimacy as a figure of royalty as the trip progressed.

"Before you know it, I'll be much like the Elder," he mused. "Blindly carrying a legacy while trying to avoid oblivion."

"What?" I spoke so fast that my thoughts and words synchronized to an extent.

"Hmph." Abul popped his neck while making his move in yet another round of chess. "It's arguable that there's no reason for us to exist in the way that we do... that Nagao and the other gangs are remnants to be squashed by a regime growing in power.

"The Dawn Federation eventually seeks to cleanse everything happening in the Mid-City and below."

He went serious on me again, and he tensed up. "That's why it's crucial for me to make the right moves now, Tavon...

"The Shikon family is counting on me, and I represent a proud clan. Tell me," he said, "how do you feel about the coming war?"

Beatrice.

"These people care for no one but themselves."

Abul appeared shocked as he exclaimed curiously, "Who?"

I shook my head. "All of them, Meiziki or Nagao—it doesn't matter." For once, I looked at him sincerely. "It's all for the money, right?"

Abul creepily peered at me for a moment, his irises seeming to flicker brightly before he smiled in a wicked way.

"So you're not an idiot..." Abul perked up in astonishment. "Not an idiot and lethal, that's perfect—much more like Mendo than Rokshasa ever desired to be."

"Rokshasa is above their games, too." I said bitterly.

"A compassionate thug." Abul remarked. "It's no wonder the Elder kept you around for so long; we all couldn't understand why he'd adopted a homeless human out of the blue!"

We played late into the night, and, as the light outside faded, I noticed something about the Shikon prince:

"You're not tired at all..." My own weariness finally began taking over; it showed in my performance. "You don't sleep?"

"No." Abul pondered the chessboard.

"Like, at all?"

"I'm not one of you, remember? The barrier between human and the Other is quite... vast."

It was hard to think of him as some different entity, something that had taken on a human form just for my sake. I recalled a time that I couldn't help but continue to remember since...

It was important.

"Abul?"

"Hmm." He acknowledged me with a nod while still contemplating how to take my knight.

"What happened to Uban?"

He was quiet for a time.

Abul breathed in deeply before addressing me, "Tavon... do you believe that some matters should be left untouched? Unspoken?"

"It depends." I didn't back down from him.

This was about her.

Because he remained silent, I led the conversation.

"About that 'vast barrier': before Uban Kai was slain, it already looked as though he'd crossed it. Abul—"

"Don't be discourteous now, Ta—"

"I saw how upset you were."

Abul glared at me darkly. "It can get much worse, if that's what you'd like."

He finally moved. Feeling adrenaline building inside of me...

—I took his knight.

"Fuck!" Abul banged his fist on the chessboard, shifting nearly every piece. He ruined the match.

I laughed. "Sorry, man."

Abul smirked. "You saved yourself.

\---

Not long before I'd gotten too exhausted to continue, Abul broke another period of silence.

"You're smart, Tavon."

"Oh?"

"Yeah," he laughed. "Naizo speaks of you as if you'd fallen on your head as a child."

"Fuck him." I said.

I thought for a moment before moving a pawn forward, not really understanding what I was doing that late into the night.

"About Uban." he started.

"Uh huh?"

Abul paused before he said, "There was indeed something done to him, but I can't talk about that with you."

"I'm your only friend." I looked at him seriously. "Who else could you talk about this with?"

"Another demon." Abul retorted flatly.

"What?"

"These are matters not meant to be discussed between a demon and a human; though I do enjoy your company far more than that of other because of your genuine nature, this is simply something I shouldn't do... however..."

Abul eyes lit up. "You do have it."

"It?"

"Mhmm," He nodded. "You're not like the other humans, Tavon, but most people your age would understand why by now—and this leads me to believe that you haven't truly Awakened...

"Normally, these are the characteristic of a childish mind, but that's not your case."

"Nothing you're saying makes sense, Abul. What is 'it?'"

"I'll put it in easier terms."

"Please."

Abul groaned and then brought his voice down to a whisper, "Imagine your inner humanity... the essence of what makes you who you are.

"Most likely, you have enough personal history to understand your own power—and that power reveals itself in numerous different fashions. What was it like for you growing up?"

I had to explain this yet again, "Abul, my first memory is me opening my eyes on a smuggler's cruiser... my organs were to be sold off."

"Oh..." he said in amazement. "You really don't remember anything before that?"

"I rarely dream, but, when I do, it's in small fragments... pieces I don't understand, Abul."

"I see..." His expression revealed obvious concern to me. "Perhaps your origins are murkier than my own, friend."

Abul sat in concentration before admitting, "Uban was made to see himself, Tavon. And when he saw himself... his own mind became hostile. His insanity overcame him, and that is why interaction between us should remain limited at best."

"I don't agree." I responded. "Because I'm not afraid of you."

For the final time, Abul put me in checkmate.

He said, "That's the spirit."

11

Mystic Bounce

\---

Tavon

\---

THE LANDS BELOW THE CITADEL WEREN'T WHAT I'D EXPECTED.

As we got closer to our destination, the region around us turned increasingly more barren before giving way to a vast canyon that threatened to swallow us as we proceeded into its depths.

"What the hell?" I looked further to see a dense fog blocking the path ahead.

"It's nothing to worry about." Abul remarked, attempting to finish his second book in the time I'd been asleep. "It's unclaimed, useless territory... bad for humans, good for everything else."

"What's with all the fog?"

Abul shrugged. "In this world, you can't know until you really know, human. But I can guarantee that demons live here."

The cruiser accelerated faster along a channel facing the rising Sun, barreling past towering ridges above us over a wide stream.

"The rest of my family abides in Gaspul, some of whom I'm very fond of..." He reminisced fondly.

"It must be nice."

"Hah," Abul made direct eye contact. "I'll be sure to introduce you to them... and to tell them not to eat you."

"Eat me?"

"Yes, Tavon." Abul chuckled. "They're that type of demon—which is why Gaspul is a perfect fit for them. A lot of bodies piled up after constant invasions. You can thank human nature for that one."

"Why did the Dawn Federation invade them anyways?"

"You ask far too many questions with complex answers, Tavon." He scratched his ear. "Like, am I your friend or your life tour guide?"

"I'm sorry." I said without allowing myself to feel embarrassed. "There's a lot I don't know."

"Remarkable." Abul looked at me wide-eyed. "A humble warrior."

The route Naizo had chosen led us into a desert bordering a small river.

"You see those mountains?"

The sandy dunes were replete with several grassland areas, the majority of which were concentrated around a moderately-sized forest that preceded several tall mountains climbing far into the heavens.

"My uncle... he watches over everything from there."

As our journey approached its end, the terrain became uniformly mountainous throughout; a minor sand storm had picked up around us.

Abul appeared to perk up even more. "We're almost there!" he exclaimed. "There's so much I have to show you and so little time—"

"The weapons?"

"Nasty business, right?"

"Your uncle approves of us bombing the Meiziki?"

"He runs a business, like anyone else."

"Abul, your uncle sells bombs to people!"

"He donates a portion of his profits to the Nagao because of their allegiance with the Shikon; the Elder could not protect his people without the assistance of the one you are soon to meet."

"I..."

"You didn't know, of course."

We slowed as the cruiser ascended toward what appeared to be only a lone peak standing among other towering formations.

"Brace yourself, Tavon..." the demon prince warned.

\---

Abul understood that my encounter with the other realm was inevitable and so said nothing, allowing me to experience what happened next for myself...

Considering I could handle it.

It's as though the world around me broke in two, disconnected from itself in a manifestation of chaotic static. Reality melted, and I became fearful for my own sanity. Was I finally losing my grip after having killed Dfari?

White wisps of smoke billowed in the hollow expanse abounding, and the sky softened to a light, foreboding grey crowded with dense and unending clouds overseeing lands entirely blackened and barren.

Before me, a tear emerged in the empty space and grew to implode in a black rainbow so bright that I fell back in order to collect my will to confront this new world. But now, I couldn't even remember who I was.

I gasped when noticing that my hands had become formless, perpetually fading as they stuck nearby as misshapen deformities I no longer recognized.

"TAVON!" a voice boomed in my ear.

I turned to see Abul ensnared in flames and losing his form as he stared at me with a grim expression. The cruiser dissolved to leave us in this realm with nothing but thick clouds to stand upon, and I felt memories being pulled to the forefront:

Uban, Dfari, Beatrice... their faces flashed through my mind, among others. Eze remerged as a principally recurring one.

I was trying to grasp on to something... to reach deep into my thoughts and discover how this had happened to me. There wasn't anything there, and I was forced to examine the years I'd been conscious. It broke my spirit, and I got nauseous. I had to keep from fainting.

"Tavon!" Abul's voice echoed again, normal this time. "Steel yourself—this is not a place meant for humans!"

"Abul! Abul!" I screamed while pointing toward the body of a humongous monstrosity obscuring the skies above us. The creature resembled a massive centipede spiraling and crawling as it sped its ascension into the atmosphere.

"Do not show weakness here, Tavon!"

"B-But..."

I started sweating profusely and couldn't keep myself from shaking. "Is this all real? I-I'm not insane? —Why do my memories—they keep coming back!"

In full force, past images of those I'd known in my time growing up got to be increasingly prominent and placed a burden on my shoulders that I couldn't shake...

Until Abul placed a reassuring hand on my back.

"You don't have to be so afraid... not one like you." His voice had started to resonate and retained a static intonation.

I turned toward the Shikon prince, but he quickly grabbed the back of my skull and thrusted my gaze in the other direction.

"I'm Revealed, Tavon... it's not a comforting sight to those inexperienced. You are but a fragile human."

In a sudden fit of rage, I jerked my arm back with enough force to push Abul away before retreating in order to regain my composure. I prepared to proceed into what I believed could turn into a fight, the prince being known for his sense of pride, but I froze when I saw what he truly was:

Bright ruby, pupilless eyes glowed from a two-horned and completely darkened head. The rest of his composition was similar to his humanoid figure but emitted black particles which bonded with the air around us as they faded in air. It was like a small storm had gathered around Abul's body, speaking volumes of incredible talents I'd yet to see for myself.

The demon seemed appalled when he asked, "You can actually look at me? The Shikon Prince?"

My emotions, extremely volatile upon being exposed to this reality, had drained away once I'd accepted that I'd need to fight.

But Abul... he wasn't my enemy.

"I can see you." I said flatly. "There. Now tell me where we are."

Eze's smiling face was hovering behind him. I hated it, but I ignored the aberration, even when fangs abruptly protruded from his mouth and pink blood leaked from eyes which rolled into the back of his head. He was still smiling.

Abul smirked, and, in an instant, his voice grew deeper into a growling bellow as he went on speaking, "Naizo believes himself to be the one conducting negotiations with my uncle, but all cruisers are always vetted by him long before passing through...

"Do you understand now?"

"Not quite."

"You will."

Though there appeared to be no visible ground on which we stood, the two of us were thrown as the world around us quaked furiously.

"He's here!" I heard Abul shout as he scurried to get to his feet.

The surrounding area continued to tremble as a black sphere formed at the base of the mountain looming in front of us. This entity doubled in size within half a second, devouring all life inherent in the wind during its transfiguration.

It originated as what seemed to be a tree growing from a rock, which then expanded to absorb the ground before us. I thought that my mind had tricked me...

It wasn't a tree, but something was keeping me from comprehending it just as a gross limb struggled to reach out as an extension of it. It started to bleed and then transitioned to expose itself as a pulpy mass supported by a malformed skeletal system and muscular portions of its body that pulsated under purple veins. At the height of the abomination, I witnessed a very human face—one that appeared lifeless and hung loosely off the demon's neck. The face sifted between the despairing expressions of Dfari, Beatrice... Vic, Little... Eze again.

It hurt.

Looking at it... my mind burned as if it had been set on fire.

From the depths of the creature's stomach, it screamed at a pitch powerful enough to burst my eardrums before I was compelled to spectate as protrusions forced their way through several different segments of its body.

Blood seeped from deep wounds formed as thin appendages ripped through the creature's skin and soared across the breadth of the scene—

Sharply coming down to force its body up and into floating above the ground. The demon now closely resembled an arachnid, and, as part of the final stage of its growth, a gap in the creature's throat parted to expose a small, grey head containing no distinguishable features—not even a definable mouth other than rows upon rows of thick, rotten teeth which bared themselves at me through a repugnant mandible that leaked saliva. Before I'd time to react, one of the appendages thrusted outward—

It curled itself around me, and then I was hefted into the air as a stranger's laughter echoed in my mind.

"Oh, Abul!" it growled, "You've the kindness to bring a sacrifice to your elders! IT LOOKS DELICIOUS!"

The creature twirled my form before its terrible, gaping jaws.

Some demons love to eat humans.

"UNCLE!" Abul's voice blared louder than his relative's. "A SACRIFICE HE IS NOT! PUT HIM DOWN!"

I sensed rage as the demon breathed in and out and seemed to moan disturbingly from within its writhing form. It dropped me, and I hit the earth with a thud that was overshadowed by the creature's wail of disappointment.

"And here I thought you'd changed!" His uncle stabbed one of his appendages into the ground.

"His name is Tavon," Abul retorted while standing resolutely against a demon much larger than himself. "He's a family friend."

"A human is now a family friend?" the demon bellowed, "Why consult with such an inferior and not simply eat him—would you change your mind, nephew? We can share him if you want—"

"Absolutely not. We came to complete the transaction."

The great demon remained silent for a time before beginning again, this time in a slow, deliberate manner as he spoke to his family: "Abul... you don't know?"

"What are you on about, uncle?"

It groaned. "I suppose it is a matter to be discussed in private."

"We are in private!"

"Ease your mind, Abul..."

The demon's figure began to steadily vanish as he spoke in a more respectful manner, "It is good to see you again."

"Wait!" Abul pleaded. "What do you have to tell me that's so very important? Why can't you tell me now?"

"Prince of the Shikon clan..." his uncle's words came from everywhere at once. "This is not something to be spoken of in front of outsiders—in fact, the existence of one who can see us is an insult, Abul! You should dispose of such an insult if you wish to maintain our integrity!"

"You have no right to tell me what to do!" Abul shouted defiantly.

But his relative continued to disappear into what was merely an outline as the scenery surrounding us once again began to alter itself, and he sighed.

"It really..." I stuttered, "That thing..."

"Uncle Muromusz." Abul replied in his human voice. "He belongs to an older lineage, Tavon. An almost entirely different species on its own. Muromusz..." Abul clenched his fists just as his normal appearance returned. "He's a savage." the demon declared.

"Did he take us to his world?"

When I'd finally felt enough strength return to peer around, I noticed that we were back on the cruiser and now slowly gliding through a heavy darkness on our approach to the real dwelling of Muromusz.

"He vetted us, Tavon. In his line of work, he remains successful by bringing customers into a different dimensional plane before 'negotiating' with them in person." Abul hung his head. "As you can imagine, humans in a more vulnerable state of mind are often manipulated, used, and broken by him—it's how he maximizes his personal profit."

I breathed in heavily before feeling myself eventually able to hold a conversation after the experience. "That's why he chose the mountains."

"They are the eastern outskirts of Gaspul; Muromusz is able to see everything. That monster exploits those who often undergo what would've just been temporary moments of weakness..."

"I don't think I completely understand," I admitted.

"We're almost there now," he replied without skipping a beat. "More will be made clear to you about the true nature of everything the Nagao have done and accomplished up to this point."

I took a moment to let that sink in after having almost being eaten.

"I think it's time for you to see the full extent of the operation."

\---

"You brought the idiot?" Naizo asked with a raised eyebrow.

Abul and I stood on a metallic walkway with the Nagao Prince as we proceeded toward a cave that had been reinforced and used as the headquarters of Muromusz's private business. Except... there wasn't really a whole lot of décor to go along with the old demon's living area.

We were slowly approaching what appeared to be another walkway overlooking the beginnings of a factory.

"To my surprise," Abul responded, "Tavon has proven to be Nagao's greatest weapon."

"Perhaps we sent the wrong challenger to face Mendo then." Naizo said.

We proceeded down a long path revealing several connexes being shifted toward the exit by dozens of construction vehicles. I attempted to look inside of them to see who worked for the demon, but the barrier windows to every vessel had been tinted. We moved farther in to view vaults seeming to guard even more stockpiled goods by the profit-oriented spirit.

"Do we take the left or—"

The walkway split into two different paths, and we looked to the left to see some naked individuals with their hands bound as they were led through the factory.

Just as we noticed those victims, a pale man in an old, grey approached us and was desperate to draw our attention away from Muromusz's slaves.

"Welcome to my master's home." He was totally monotone. His eyes didn't stare at us directly and sat lifeless in a face that most likely hadn't been washed in months and was plastered in a light film of dirt.

"What is the meaning of this?" Abul asked in astonishment.

"It's..." Naizo beamed at the butler. "It's amazing."

Abul and I looked at each other while almost rolling our eyes in unison.

Naizo continued praising the hollow man, "A base so discrete and well-kept... your master has outdone himself this time! And he's multiplied his labor force—enough men to maybe put us at odds with the Meiziki!"

"Calm down, Naizo." Abul said.

"Elder Nagao, once this war is over—and your uncle could assure our victory." Naizo smiled earnestly at him.

Naizo's personal depravity was starting to match Dfari's; he was willing to do anything to win.

\---

We were led before a metallic door in the shape of an octagon that dwarfed our collective figures as we waited for the butler to explain.

"Master Muromusz is the only one allowed access through this door; he is a very private man, I'm afraid!"

"I don't think 'man' is what you meant to say." Naizo responded curtly.

"Excuse me?" the butler looked genuinely confused before staring forlornly in the distance.

"Hello?" Abul tried to get the man's attention, then his expression got more serious as he focused his own mind.

"Hmph." Abul snorted. "He's been brainwashed so thoroughly that nothing remains of himself."

"What?" Naizo's eyes went wide. "You mean this isn't really him?" He waved his hand in front of the butler's frozen statue of a body.

"Sometimes a person can be manipulated to perform one incorrigible action before they return." Abul replied, "Still, there are some humans who become so corrupted that they lose themselves."

"Some humans? What do you mean, 'some humans?' Is this more Shikon devilry?"

"Naizo!" I nearly shouted. "Shut up!"

The Prince rapidly turned to me, embracing his full fury, and—

Metallic panels parted before us to expose a small-framed, older figure who was gentle in appearance...

As he limped forward weakly, I felt real terror inside.

"What?" Naizo exclaimed. "What's wrong, idiot?"

It was same face from before.

Muromusz's dead face hanging from the top of his abominable form... the first lifeless visage I'd seen belonged to his human form, which showed itself to be disturbing in its own way.

Muromusz possessed eyes unable to move on their own, with one pupil shuddering and twitching by itself as he drooled and spoke behind rows of molars rotted far beyond recovery. "Y-y-you've... f-f-finally come." he croaked.

Naizo stared at him in repugnance. "And who might you be?"

Without a moment's hesitation, Muromusz quickly glared at the Nagao heir, compelling him to become motionless in place, psychologically disabled, and trapped within his own subconscious.

Muromusz looked back to us, and his voice altered as he growled, "Such disrespect... I should make him into a meal." he snarled, "Although there's no meat on his bones—unlike your companion there."

"Enough." Abul demanded, retaining his human form out of respect for me. "You are forbidden from eating ANY of the Nagao—especially their next leader!"

Muromusz laughed demonically. "This leader is nothing close to the caliber of their Elder. The REAL Elder Nagao wouldn't allow himself to become ensnared by his own weak mind."

"Regardless of that," Abul was getting more irritated with his relative, "you understand very well what we've come for—"

"And I'm having my men load everything up as we speak. This is simply a formality I've graciously granted to you all."

"Is every one of your 'men' brainwashed?" I asked boldly. "Are they... gone?"

Muromusz glance at me was very insect-like, and he grinned with a wicked expression. "Gang members aren't supposed to show compassion; what are dead slaves to you, kid?" —he edged closer—"The ones who lose themselves the most... I eat them."

I backed away in disgust.

I'd met someone I could hate, a true monster.

"Muromusz." Abul began, "What was it you had to tell me?"

The old demon, his attention now completely drawn away from me, quickly displayed a more somber attitude. "We must speak in private—away from the two of them."

Muromusz broke Naizo's delusion, freeing the prince. Naizo sank to the floor in his exhaustion, and the two demons walked into Muromusz's quarters, letting the door seal our groups off from each other.

Naizo looked up at me while covered in sweat. "What?" he exclaimed. "Why don't you get me a fucking towel, dumbass! Can't you see that the heir to the Nagao is distressed!

"W-where did Muromusz go?"

"Relax, Naizo."

"Excuse me?" The prince leapt up before forcefully shoving me. "I am your prince, Tavon—or would you like for me to strip you of your title as well?" he shouted in my face.

I didn't back down, and I didn't let myself get angry so that I'd fall into the same trap as Rokshasa.

"I'm sorry, but I'm not getting you a towel... Prince Nagao."

"Tch."

Naizo punched the wall next to me. "Such insubordination!" He then walked away in a huff while turning his back to me as he said, "There will be plenty of changes being implemented across the family, rest assured. I will make it so that your only desire is to serve me."

\---

An hour later, all cargo had been placed within our cruiser, and we were ready to depart from Muromusz's center of operations in Gaspul. As we ascended into the sky once again, Abul and I were able to catch a view of both the plains and the mostly desert region which encompassed the sprawling landscape of the vassal nation; it was a beautiful country.

To the northeast, we noticed small cities populated throughout the area, Sii-ingemun, a turbulent territory whose 'rulers' changed quite often...

"Muromusz exploits them." Abul said, acting distant ever since having spoken to his uncle.

"In Gaspul, hundreds of independent villages and tribes have survived on their own for centuries against an unpredictable climate and the terrors dominating the Earth. After the Dawn Federation's first invasion, the GNP had their power taken from them; their central government was replaced by ours; Gaspul turned into a country divided into only a few parties, and they still battle for supremacy.

"Most of the populace doesn't care and is indifferent to the war, desiring peace of mind and stable living conditions over the idealism inherent in politics. Those people have been caught in a foolish conflict between the GNP, Alandra, and the Federation, and so its victims are those who seek the help offered by Muromusz."

"You mean he's enabling them?"

"Exactly." Abul sighed. "I knew you had some sense in you... Muromusz corrupts others—usually those who've fallen victim to extreme hatred. The Dawn Federation is seen as the bad guy by most of the natives, who think that the Federation's intervention has caused more discord than unity between its inhabitants."

"And Muromusz provides an outlet for anyone enraged."

"Including the Nagao." Abul eyed me after having spent so much time brooding to himself. "Let me tell you something, Tavon..."

I waited for him to speak again as he cleared his throat and shook his head in an expression of disappointment.

"Muromusz has profited from perpetuating conflict in the Fourth Quadrant..."

"There's no way. He—"

"Before the Meiziki rose as the dominating syndicate, both the Uesugi Clan and the Nagao Clan were constantly at each other's throats. My uncle supplied both forces against their knowledge and is likely the reason why the Nagao is as small as it is today; so many men were killed due to the Elder's misguided ambitions..."

"You really don't like him, do you?"

Abul was silent.

"We should play another game." he said and moved to set up the chessboard.

Something was bothering him, and the prince kept trying to distract himself with anything he could analyze or mentally examine. Abul was dodging thoughts, reminders...

He glanced at me and declared, "We are going to play a match. It's not up for discussion."

"You could at least be polite—"

"Tavon." Abul's eyes abruptly turned to flames and carried a frenzy I'd hadn't seen since he'd spoken to Beatrice after she'd been severely abused.

"I don't have the patience for your feigned stupidity. Besides," he looked at the ground as he continued again in his human voice, "you came close to beating me last time. I want to know how."

\---

We were running out of time.

Muromusz had kept us much longer than expected, and we began to realize this as dusk arrived with the Citadel remaining quite a distance farther.

"Attention!" Naizo's grating voice pierced our ears through an intercom hidden away in the corner of the room. "I need the two of you over here now—don't waste a fucking moment!"
12

Two Can Win

\---

Tavon

\---

"DUE TO THE SHIKON'S INTERFERENCE IN Elder Nagao's plans, we've been set back—"

"The burden does not fall on me, Naizo!" Abul said angrily. "You are the one in charge, Naizo, and we trusted you to be the timekeeper for us all!"

"Bullshit!" Naizo yelled. "Now we're set to arrive the morning of the duel!"

"Have you talked to the Elder?" I tried to cut through the tension by asking a relevant question.

"Of course, moron!" Naizo shouted, his face reddened completely. "And he's been forced to develop a new plan."

"What new plan?" Abul asked with his mouth wide open.

"Is bombarding the enemy not enough, Naizo?"

The Nagao heir clenched his fists and snorted in repugnance. "He wants us to show our strength."

"Huh?"

He breathed out hard. "Once we've landed at our destination, our soldiers are going to have to rush to prepare our initial attack.

"The Elder wishes to strike right at the conclusion of the duel. Possibly before it ends, if it comes to that."

"That would be dishonorable." Abul crossed his arms.

"Oh? How so?"

"If the Nagao prove victorious—if Rokshasa proves himself as the champion, then there's no need to engage them in a war we'd be creating!"

The Nagao heir cackled; it made me sick.

"You never fail to surprise me with your displays of utter ignorance, Abul Shikon!"

"You piece of—"

I grabbed the demon's arm before he could move toward Naizo. "Abul!" I said curtly.

"What?" The demon prince was taken aback but relaxed when meeting my eyes.

"He's our boss... the next Elder."

"I understand that." Abul calmed down. "But to attack an enemy we've already downed? Whether we win or lose, our following actions will reek of cowardice."

Naizo stepped to the demon and stared down at him smugly and with a superior attitude. "You would accuse Elder Nagao of demonstrating cowardice? The one whose actions have preserved our clan all this time?" Naizo then stepped away and seemed baffled. "Your uncle is the one supplying us with IEDs! You, of all people, should be the last to disapprove of a desperate tactic—"

"It is desperate." Abul replied bitterly but maintained his disposition. "And foolish."

"Hmph." Naizo smiled. "To think... we were once friends."

He turned to me. "Subordinate, Abul would have us ally with the Uesugi to turn the tide of battle against the Meiziki; what do you think?"

He sincerely wanted my answer. I already knew what I wanted to say—what made sense. I couldn't.

"I... I don't know."

"Excellent." Naizo responded pridefully. "You see, Abul, Tavon—although stupid—is the ideal soldier for the Nagao; obedient, thoughtless, and prepared to do as I say!"

"Is this true, Tavon?" Abul looked at me incredulously.

Would I suffer the same fate as Rokshasa if I disagreed?

"Why don't we ally with the Uesugi, my liege?" I asked.

And, in a moment, Naizo's smile began to twitch and show indignation that I'd even questioned the Nagao's grand plan.

"Because the Uesugi are INFERIOR!" Naizo roared as his face blushed vibrantly. "Elder Nagao once desired an alliance between the two of us—"

"When the Nagao had first come to the Citadel." Abul interrupted.

"It doesn't make a difference!" snarled Naizo. "The Uesugi rejected the Elder's offer for a coalition that would see us beat out the staunch competition in the area."

"It was a poorly-thought-out pact, Tavon, and on Nagao terms—"

"I think I've heard enough from the Shikon heir today!" Naizo stepped closer to him. "You've been dismissed."

"And so I have." Abul said with bitterness.

As the demon walked toward the entrance, he added: "For saying the truth."

"Tavon." Naizo ignored the Shikon prince's comment. "We must speak before our arrival."

I'd never really been acknowledged in such a way by Naizo; for a brief second, I wondered if he was the type to look out for his own.

"I'm sure you're already well aware of Rok's new status in life, correct?" His manner of speaking was crude and didn't shy from aggressive. "Well?"

"He'll no longer be a samurai for the Nagao."

"That's absolutely right." he said, "My father has decided that we can only rely on those most devoted to our cause—especially when the enemy is at our back door—and so I was ordered to inform you that you will take Rokshasa's place. Officially."

"I don't know what to say..."

"And that's why you'll make a fantastic samurai!" Naizo exclaimed, excitement ringing clear in his tone.

I'd sided with the Nagao since the day they'd taken me in, molding me to fit in as one of their own despite being unknown and having earned nothing close to the respect shown to me by the Elder. I'd trained to become indispensable.

Now, I was indispensable.

"Tavon... at first, I wasn't certain." Naizo continued, "But this has to be it! I want you to be my personal bodyguard."

"But why do you say that?"

"Because, dear fool, after we launch our attack, the Elder wishes to pass the mantle on to me as part of an ongoing transition; I'll inherit his title, and I will be there at the conclusion of the war to claim new territory. With that in mind, I'll need someone I can count on to handle the more... gruesome tasks." As he proceeded to grin at me, it was clear that he viewed me as entirely oblivious to his own nuances and personal ideas.

"So, what do you say?"

"..."

In the past, I'd pictured telling Naizo to fuck off perhaps a dozen times—but this was real; this was my future.

I had pride, but I couldn't let it overshadow my sense.

"Why do you hesitate?" Naizo's expression was curious.

"I..."

Pride.

"I don't wish to serve you."

"Excuse me? Are you out of your mind?" I could see his rage get worse, compelling him to tremble when he shouted, "Is this some kind of dimwitted prank?"

"No." I said.

I was nervous... I shook, too, but this wasn't the life I wanted. Servitude to someone like this. The Elder was reputed for having been strong, but Naizo...

He condemned me with a glare.

"Very well." Naizo declared almost breathlessly. "Both you and Rokshasa will be exiled from the Nagao Clan. Period."

I could only stare down at the ground, feeling something close to humiliation; it was if I was going back on my word, but I couldn't obey someone like him.

"Maybe you're just confused." Naizo sighed, then he walked away and said, "Just get the fuck out of my sight."

\---

"You're lying!" Abul shook his head and issued a hearty laugh. "You've gotta be lying right now—there's no way you—"

"I did."

"Impossible."

"It happened."

"You said 'no' to being a drug lord's lapdog. Pssh." Abul laughed again. "You really are something!"

"I think I just threw away my whole career."

"No." Abul's face became serious. "I'm sure Rokshasa is beating himself up right now. However, the truth is... if he wasn't such a fool, he'd just seek employment next door.

"You're about to be in the same position. Except, who are you going to link up with next?"

"I don't really know anyone." I was a regular thug, a nameless kid. Above the theatre of the Lower-City, I'd have to make a noise if I wanted to keep moving up.

"I see... I haven't explored the Citadel myself, so my contacts are a little limited."

"But you're the heir to a clan of your own, Abul; the Nagao won't touch you."

He looked away. "They'll continue to try to use us while remaining in fear. I sense the intentions of humans every time, which is why it was so easy to discern your motives when we first met."

"I had motives?"

"No." he said, "That's why father didn't eat you; unfortunately, it's also why Naizo wants you around—and he'll still attempt to sway you over to his side in the end..."

Abul pondered something.

"You should take the position, Tavon. You'd go with Naizo everywhere; your name would become known that way, and people would respect you as a samurai."

"I don't want to be a samurai."

"Ha!" Abul chuckled. "How can you be so short and sure of every answer? Your confidence amazes me—Tavon, I never detected a rebellious spirit from you in the past."

"Rokshasa has been a good friend to me, but he's dedicated his entire life to the Elder. I can't take his path, Abul... they betrayed him. They'll betray me, too."

"It appears we have so much more in common than I ever realized." the bastard proclaimed as he put me in checkmate.

"I don't want to play this anymore."

Abul huffed. "Fine. Sore loser."

I walked over to peer out of the window to the dark skies encircling the diamond cruiser. It was a clear, enchanting night; these were the last hours of peace we would remember before our rendezvous with the Elder.

From there...

"Abul," I began.

"Yeah? What's up now?"

He talked differently after he'd gotten more comfortable around me. As a stranger, Abul seemed pretentious. Once we'd become closer, he exposed his true personality in spite of not being human, and it revealed itself when he'd finally let his guard down in our conversations.

I wanted to know what Muromusz had said.

To find out, I had to tread carefully. "Are you ready for the attack?"

He frowned. "Even if Rokshasa is killed, the Meiziki can't prevail against us—not with the arsenal we've been provided... but it'll all turn bloody, Tavon.

"The Elder has chosen the most violent solution when perhaps a duel itself could've resolved things. Besides..." His expression turned to puzzlement. "They were just curious of what talent the Nagao had to offer."

"And now we're bringing destruction to their doorstep—"

"Don't forget that we're doing this in a city on its way to expanding its law enforcement sector. The Nagao will be marked..."

"Marked?"

"We'll be branded as terrorists, Tavon!" he shouted before running his hands through his hair.

"That's why you're against the plan." I said, "You don't want to become like Him."

Abul appeared thoughtful. "Muromusz. You're right."

"Abul, can I ask what he said?"

He looked me blankly.

"It's a personal matter."

I nodded, and the two us were silent for the rest of the evening, up until I felt exhausted enough to sleep.

I was lying there, fading out from the conscious world and feeling some pride in having rejected the Nagao heir's proposition.

In that silence, he spoke.

"Muromusz." Abul uttered, "He says that the rest of my family in Gaspul..."

Abul paused.

"He says they're all dead."

13

Montara

\---

Tavon

\---

THE SHIKON HOUSE WAS ONCE A PROMINENT and flourishing legion that inhabited the lands Southeast of Gaspul. Following a mass raid on the city in which they'd resided, Abul's relatives had either gone missing or been found slaughtered in the resulting chaos.

Powerful demons had fallen to humans; this disturbed Abul, who believed in the superiority of his people above all others. The corpses discovered were said to have sustained lethal blast injuries, as Federation raiding operations typically involved several airstrikes before they sent in a ground unit to sift through the debris.

Abul had quietly suffered the loss of everyone he'd known while enduring the insults hurled at him by Naizo. I felt guilty for not having asked him sooner. Now, it seemed he felt he could only rely on his father.

When I'd finally managed to sleep, my last thoughts came to revolve around Beatrice... the way she smiled when our lives weren't as tense, as threatening.

\---

That night, Naizo betrayed us.

I was awakened by a creaking sound—something piercing, like metal being shredded, and it resonated across the room.

"Ugh!" Abul grasped his ears and groaned as he dropped the textbook he'd been browsing the entire second half of the trip.

The screeching increased in intensity within a short breadth of time and caused my ears to ring to the extent that I was nearly deaf to Abul's complaining. What happened next seemed unthinkable...

Some of the room's furniture slid toward the center and was then pushed into the atmosphere as a set of two steel panels slowly shifted themselves apart, tearing open the carpet in the middle of the room and allowing all of our belongings to gravitate toward the opening. It continued expanding, which caused most of the contents of our sleeping quarters to fall from the bottom of the cruiser.

As the suction of the portal strengthened, the two of us were forced to search for something on the surrounding walls that would keep us from dropping to our deaths.

"What madness is this?" Abul exclaimed while desperately studying what space we had left.

I could feel my own body begin to draw toward the opening, and I crouched to the ground in order to steady myself as the entire floor appeared to be involved with the machination. The room had been made sparse for a reason.

As each panel retracted inward, I pressed my palms against the wall next me as a last-ditch effort to grasp onto whatever I could. I felt the floor slide away, and my grip began to loosen; I held on even though the tips of my fingers were consequently torn and bloodied.

"Abul!" I screamed while searching for his scrawny form.

I panicked when I didn't see him right away—and, as a result, I accidentally let go...

"NO!" I cried and fell toward the World Below. "NO!"

I reached out at the wall hopelessly and was drawn toward the outside winds!

But something briskly and roughly grabbed my arm, and my body jerked forward as I was prevented from soaring to my death for the first time.

"Calm down." I heard Abul's demonic tone echo throughout a chamber that blared as the wind barreled into what had once been our bedroom. I looked back to see a gory paste in place of where Abul's hand had attempted to pierce through the wall. He'd succeeded, but his arm was mangled and leaked a dark substance while he hung, suspended in his fury, above the opening.

"Attention." We heard the one responsible chuckle over the intercom.

"Naizo." Abul growled.

"As you may have already realized, this is a cargo room!"

"I should've killed you."

This prompted Naizo to laugh hysterically. "If only you could see yourselves... helpless, hanging on to whatever thread of life available; it's perfect!"

As the two of us struggled against the powerful gusts pulling us toward the World Below, the Nagao heir continued taunting us without remorse:

"Believe it or not, this was my idea, 'Prince' Shikon! A cargo port renovated to appear as any of the other rooms on the ship!"

"But why?" I shouted.

"How is it not already clear to you?" Naizo sounded baffled. "Failure to obey an order is treason, and so you've justified the use of more extravagant means to execute a traitor."

"You betrayed us!" the demon howled, "You accursed creature!"

Abul lost his composure.

"The Elder handed your fates over to me—it's always been thus, truly. He doesn't know about this part of the operation yet, but neither of you will be missed in the coming days of the Naizo legacy."

The shutter to the room swung open to reveal two foot soldiers in tailored suits and wielding assault rifles; they prepared to open fire as we fought to keep from falling to the mercy of the abyssal atmosphere. And, in a second, the Shikon Prince turned his gaze toward them and focused intensely.

Both soldiers were abruptly petrified, and I could just view one of them shuddering as his eyes flickered wildly—as if he was trying to escape his own body.

"I'm not here to play with you!"

Abul began chanting something I didn't understand and in a language I'd never heard. As his chanting increased in speed and intonation, I spectated as the two attackers stiffened so much that they failed to clutch their weapons properly and released them to be swallowed by the opened cargo door.

"Abul!" I shouted. "Wait!"

I could hear the genuine hatred echoing from his tone, and—consequently—the two soldiers stepped into the portal we'd so desperately evaded.

They walked forward, willingly and blissfully, into their dooms, and we watched their bodies descend limply before they turned to obscure marks on a random section of land below us.

Abul continued chanting, and a third man revealed himself by shaking abnormally as he walked to the edge of the platform on which he stood and leaned toward us. He extended a hand in my direction just as Abul, having now transformed into his true self, lifted me with incredible strength to take the newcomer's arm.

I grasped his hand and was immediately thrown with all of the possessed man's power into the corridor leading up to the cargo chamber. I could hear muscles tear open and bones crack in response as Abul compelled his new subject to use his body to its fullest capability in spite of the injuries that might've resulted. Following my rescue, Abul used the wall to stabilize himself before relinquishing his grasp as he sprung toward the foot soldier and impaled him through the chest with the fractured stump left of his arm, and the two of them plunged to the floor.

We'd made it.

"He's screwed us, Tavon!"

The Shikon demon started to alter his appearance to resemble one of the men he'd dispatched. Within moments, he looked as if he were one of them now; his expression, however, still conveyed his arrogance.

"That scum thinks he'll kill us... but this is not the destiny of a Prince!" Abul tried to hide his bloodied arm and seemed to be weakening.

"Abul," I pleaded, feeling my resolve gradually become empowered. "Let me take care of the rest; I'm Nagao's second-best fighter, if you didn't already know!" I smirked.

"They have fucking guns, you fool. You can't punch your way out of every situati—"

"Hey!" an older voice resounded through the corridor as two more soldiers approached us.

Behind them, there appeared to be a small squad; ten foot soldiers equipped to handle an onboard threat.

"Fuck!" Abul screamed while nearly succumbing to the agony produced from aggravating his injuries.

"Can you control them?"

"Some!" he said, "But not enough to take the whole fucking ship!"

Seconds passed, and, before they could even raise their weapons, the two scouts froze before rigidly turning to face their own men.

"Damn." I said breathlessly.

The possessed men fired upon their squad, who were rapidly decimated upon not anticipating the attack. Despite taking gunshot wounds, Abul's soldiers marched through a hail of gunfire delivered by the remaining squad members before they gunned down the rest of them and shuddered in place.

Abul cried out upon releasing hold of the thugs' psyches and collapsed to his knees. His puppets promptly slumped over to loosely crash against the ground.

"TAVON!" Abul howled, "We have to use their clothes if we want to survive!"

I dashed forward while hearing voices echo far down the corridor:

"Did you hear that? Someone's firing inside the ship!" a man's voice declared.

A woman exclaimed, "We're under attack! Someone's trying to help the traitors!"

"How did other enemies get on the ship?"

As Abul and I changed, we could hear the intercom system activate before it stayed silent over what sounded like paper being shuffled in the background. At last, a muffled voice rang out across the entirety of the cruiser:

"Servants of the Nagao, it has come to my attention that there are two traitors running rampant in the J-Sector. They've already caused considerable damage to the crew, and thus the individual or party who manages to 'deal' with them appropriately will be rewarded with the title of samurai. Get them."

By now, we more closely resembled other members and made haste to leave the J-Sector altogether.

"Head west." Abul ordered, "The western sectors were never finished completely and are the farthest from any residential room."

"Got it!"

We sprinted through a series of silver hallways while panic ensued behind us. The portions of the cruiser that lacked completion revealed sparse, uninhabitable rooms with no air conditioning and an infestation of both pests and insects alike.

"Tavon, slow down!"

Abul's voice had grown hoarse, and he rested his back against a nearby wall as he panted.

"Demons get used up, too, you know... I-I might faint."

Abul started to stumble forward, but I stepped in and propped him back to his feet. His wounds needed to be dressed, but I wasn't completely sure if demons could bleed out.

"Thanks..." he spoke through his weariness. "When I take a mind, it saps everything I have."

"You can't give up on me now!" I insisted.

"You're right."

He grinned. "But, for once... I have to leave it up to someone else..."

"How do you mean?"

The demon winked. "I've gotten weak. Tavon, it's up to you now to win this fight... and I've one last secret to share to help you do it!" He balled up his fist. "Damn Naizo."

"You can't control his mind?"

Abul gritted his teeth. "I can't even possess the frailest fool on the entire ship right now, but if you believe what I say to you... we might just stand a chance!"

Soldiers were beginning to hustle in our direction and shouted to each other in the distance. With Abul's uniform already drenched in whatever dark fluid he produced, it would've proved impossible to get by them.

"Clear! Give me a visual on that corner now!"

"Moving! Looks Clear." one of the gunmen replied.

Abul inspected the assault rifle he'd taken with his one working hand, and he stared at me as he asked, "Haven't you ever wondered why you've become so strong? Because we can sense it, you know..."

"Sense what?"

"Most humans never really Awaken, Tavon... tangibly Awaken—though each Awakening always seems to take differently..."

"Abul! What are you saying?"

"Let's go—let's go!" another foot soldier yelled in the background.

They were getting nearer to us by the minute.

"Humans evolved something within themselves against 'monsters' like me. It's a hidden strength—a power that shows itself in ways that defy categorization and in more than one way... it's why I haven't eaten you like I would've Rokshasa had he become a close friend."

"ABUL! They're almost here!"

In an instant, the demon grasped my shoulder; his eyes changed to ruby planets of radiant fire, and he said to me:

"One day, Tavon, if you live long enough... you'll see yourself become this strong once again, but tonight—and for a brief time only—I'll grant you the power you were meant to achieve with a complete Awakening!"

Electricity jolted through my spine and spread across my body, paralyzing me as Abul's grip tightened.

My mind was slipping again...

What these beings were capable of... it was incredible.

"Most humans cannot handle potential like this. It changes them—often for the worse and especially when it's too soon."

My heart throbbed with intense speed, and I groaned in pain as every muscle swelled and defined themselves while condensing into the confines of my body's makeup. Every cell worked into overdrive, compounding more, new muscles into my limbs while strengthening my joints and ligaments as well.

I saw the head of the first shooter as he edged himself around the corner while aiming in our direction!

Without further hesitation, I bounded toward the henchman and sidestepped his line of fire—

I closed in and sent a haymaker his way! I struck with such immeasurable strength that the enemy's neck was immediately broken as he fell back and nearly landed on his colleagues, who quickly backed away to take cover behind the wall.

Abul crouched beside me and then delivered a hail of bullets toward them, causing rounds to ricochet and one to hit another of the foot soldiers in his calf as he reflexively cried out!

Once Abul stopped to reload, I rushed forward in time to grab the barrel of my next opponent's rifle and heave it out of his grasp. I followed by jabbing him with a blow hard enough to crush his vertebrae, and he stumbled toward me. I ducked under his upper body before bringing him up over my back as I moved forward through the next wave of gunfire.

My mind was gone... replaced with this berserk animal bent on wreaking mass destruction.

I reacted without conscious thought, swinging the corpse's body to the left to obscure another attacker's line of sight and rotating as I launched my fist through both the plate armor and abdomen of the opponent to my right. Refusing to stop, I retrieved my bloodied hand and jumped toward my next enemy. I brought my knee upward to soar into his cheekbone and dashed his head open against the steel barrier outlining the great vessel.

Just as the foot soldier I'd prevented from shooting me managed to move his deceased colleague's body off himself, Abul entered the room and emptied the rest of his available ammo on the last of the squad!

I crouched under his reckless aim; four men, three of them wearing only gaudy suits for protection, were hit and went unresponsive, and I plunged through the rest of the wave of thugs.

I rushed toward my next enemy, swinging my fist fiercely enough to smash his own weapon out of his clutches. I struck him in his chest and followed with a heavy kick to his side that broke through his ribcage and knocked him unconscious while he bled out from the inside.

Abul killed the next thug with a round to the head before I was forced to confront the final squad member, who aimed a pistol at me and attempted to smirk in order to hide his nervousness.

"What are you?" he demanded.

"Awakened humans can sometimes be just as scary as demons."

I kept moving.

He would shoot me, but I couldn't stop. I wanted to fight—to find somebody strong.

I focused my strength and channeled it in the pit of my stomach...

—A bullet coursed into my chest.

"Tavon!" The demon shouted.

I stood there for a moment, genuinely curious to the point of surpassing my untamed lust for battle. The bullet was on the ground, somewhat dented and covered in drops of my blood that streamed from a shallow wound. I looked up at the shooter and tensed in rage. I moved toward him again, taking advantage of his astonishment.

"A... a monster!" the young man with grey hair found himself able to see Abul's real identity, and, in his ensuing insanity, I grabbed his head, slammed it on the cruiser floor, and smashed open his skull to spill its contents.

"You okay, Abul?" I shouted with what sense I had left.

Upon hearing no response from my companion, I peered back and saw what he'd done.

Abul was devouring the thugs we'd slain.

I stared in horror as the demon, his form glowing with a dark fire, tore apart one of the gunmen's clothes before digging a clawed hand through the abdomen. Abul proceeded to eagerly reach his head into the small opening he'd created before he feasted on a fresh catch.

Abul groaned with delight before ordering, "Tavon! Keep going. Head toward Naizo, and I'll be there shortly!"

My adrenaline surpassed whatever shock I might have felt when seeing him hungrily eat his prey. On the way to the control terminal for the cruiser, I hurriedly dispatched two more of Naizo's men and was halted by a metallic door barring the way to the final corridor before the chamber itself.

Dawn was coming. Our resistance had compelled the Nagao heir to delay the entire journey just so he could focus on a plan to handle my newfound strength.

We weren't going to make it to the duel on time...

An octagonal portal parted to reveal a man adorning the plated armor normally sported by Meiziki thugs. He wielded a long, slender black katana and carried a side arm in a brown, leather holster on his hip.
14

The Duel

\---

Tavon

\---

"HE IS KNOWN AS FEINGOTZ; THE WARRIOR I'd planned to replace you with in case you rejected such a reasonable offer. Tsk. Tsk. What else should I have expected from someone who can't even use a sword properly!"

Feingotz grunted fiercely and ran in my direction despite his assault being slowed by the heaviness of his body armor. He seemed appalled when I reacted by heading his way, prepared to enter combat with just my hands to guide me, and Feingotz suddenly stopped as I commenced my approach.

Feingotz reached for his handgun, but I already understood his intent and raced forward while prepping to launch my fist into a strike. He was clumsily able to draw his weapon—but not in time before I'd kicked him in his abdomen and rocked him backward with a hit that knocked him off guard. Feingotz unsheathed his katana—

A swordsman is at the height of his power upon drawing his blade for the first time—

He'd drawn me into his trap.

I realized this as I moved to deliver rigid jabs across Feingotz's exposed upper torso, and he drew his weapon. Feingotz slashed upward diagonally and with the intent to cut open my stomach, then he brought his weapon down to decapitate me.

But I leapt back, missing its tip, and caught his blade before it came back toward me...

My hand seeped a thin line of blood, and I brutishly gripped the middle of the weapon while also ushering him toward me! I issued a battle cry, struck Feingotz, and caved in his helmet before he finally released his katana, stepping away from the skirmish!

Feingotz shrieked in pain as he removed his helmet and body armor and then stood to face me while holding out one hand in an expectant gesture.

"That," he said, "is how I fight."

For once, I was noble and tossed his blade back to him.

Feingotz nodded in appreciation and then readied himself into a stance, raising his katana with both hands and aiming an overhead thrust that tracked me as I circled his form.

"Finish it!" he shouted.

Feingotz was grounding his style solely in a defensive posture, waiting for me to move first. A patient warrior.

I didn't waste any more time; I rushed toward him and hefted my fist above me as I growled, entrenched in my own fury; drunk in a power threatening to consume me, and, at the very last moment, I condensed my momentum into a crouch. The floor supported me as I focused all my available power into a blow that might land before Feingotz could attack.

The warrior brandished his weapon overhead—he swung down with more speed than I could ever muster!

My fist connected with his blade.

There was a screeching noise as steel tore away from itself under the impact of my fist. His sword split in two, and I stepped forward, rotating slightly, right before I collided my elbow against Feingotz's exposed head.

He sustained the initial attack and stumbled back, then I jabbed Feingotz in the throat and forced him to his knees. Following that, I clasped my hands together over my head and brought them down to blast open Feingotz's cranium as bright blood burst and jetted out from where his head was once positioned. It shot out in thick waves, and I kept still when some of it splattered on me.

The next door parted with more speed than I'd noticed in the other portal mechanisms, and it revealed the entirety of the remaining hit squad who'd gathered into a unit that could strategically pick me off after Feingotz had worn me down.

I faced them, understanding that this was it; I'd be shot until I'd bled out on Naizo's ship.

They aimed their full arsenal at me, and—

Their firing leader, who'd been positioned behind them, began shooting into the back of one of his own men before he turned to begin dispatching other unsuspecting members of his squad. Naizo's soldiers were relatively well-trained but also fell into the same trap of stupidity as the others had before them.

In confusion, the unit fired on itself in fear—reacting more on impulse due to the fact that they didn't realize one them had become possessed. Their leader deliberately and unemotionally killed his own people until they realized, much too late, what had happened.

Abul stepped beside me in his demonic form and appeared as furious as ever.

"The Nagao have erred greatly. Tavon," he hastily turned to me, "I can only control one of them right now—you've got to—"

"Right!"

I sprung into combat after three remaining thugs had gathered around the last possessed shooter and promptly killed him. But I was upon them, and I broke the neck of one of the gunmen as I swung my forearm to connect right below the occipital region of his skull.

I followed by using the same arm to shatter my next opponent's jaw and then swung my other fist out and around to drop his companion.

Behind me, the last foot soldier on the cruiser had frozen in place and gritted his teeth in terror. His arms struggled to steadily raise the rifle he so desperately clutched.

"TAVON!" Abul screamed. "HURRY!"

I sprinted and stepped off the top of his rifle to launch a kick upward and into his chin, causing the last shooter to limply sink to the ground.

My power was still growing; it ebbed and flowed, building on itself while I fought for my life.

"Wait up." Abul patted me on my back. "Hold on, Tavon; you're losing yourself!"

"I feel... fine."

The demon gazed into my eyes and must have induced a spell of his own, because I immediately felt my adrenaline subside and a sense of calm come over me.

I understood then that I'd just killed nearly all of the Nagao onboard.

"Tavon," Abul spoke worriedly, "There's one more thing I have to tell you—and I can't believe I didn't feel this before..."

It felt odd to speak, to act normally again.

"What's wrong?"

The demon prince's face revealed despair.

"I'm not the only demon on this ship."

To my left, a monitor flickered for a brief period of time before transitioning into a clear picture displaying...

The Nagao gym, crowded with a multitude of spectators not only from the Meiziki and the Nagao.

Mendo, upon arrival and garbed in only plain clothes, moved toward the center of the gym and used a paintbrush to illustrate the borders of the arena. He created a large radius, then he discarded his brush onto the floor in disrespect of the Nagao.

He seated himself cross-legged within the circle and closed his eyes while he became still. Mendo waited patiently for his challenger.

"I was forced to stop the ship because of you two..."

"Open the door to the control room!" shouted Abul.

On the broadcast, the Elder was seated on his throne in the distance and elevated above all others. It was the first time I'd seen him use anything close to a chair, and I'd assumed it must've been for decoration prior to the planned annihilation of his rivals.

The last portal before us slid apart. Standing at the center and encircled by dozens of holographic monitors above a group of control panels across the room, Naizo appeared pale.

"Muromusz... he wanted this." Abul was shocked for reasons apart from my own.

Beside Naizo, there stood a withering entity. It was a spirit that was composed of a grey substance akin to clouds drifting through the might of a vast storm. It faintly held the outline of a face but no other definable features, a surreal silhouette of a humanoid whose essence gave off a threatening aura.

ABUL SHIKON

The voice of something otherworldly echoed throughout the chamber; the demon's mouth simply opened and exposed nothing but an endless cave.

"Tavon... this is my uncle's son, Dejinden."

"A very last-minute idea." Naizo added, attempting to regain his usual smugness. "Muromusz envisioned a new heir to represent the Shikon lineage..."

My anger was beginning to overflow, but I contained myself long enough to speak without sounding like an animal. "You already planned to replace both of us? Was the Elder in on this?"

Naizo smirked. "What do you think?"

My heart raced; I wanted revenge.

The Nagao heir kept taunting us, "The Elder requested that Tavon be spared in case he supported furthering our cause, but Abul... we believe retiring a lesser demon is best for the Nagao's future—"

"Damn you!" I hated his shallow outlook.

"Muromusz wants me dead... I sensed his intent, but I did not believe he would act in this way." Abul peered at the ground.

THE TIME OF THE SHIKON HAS PASSED

A NEW WAY MUST COME

The demon's voice had gotten painful to hear anymore; I'd have to confront both of them soon...

"But don't you want to know what's going on back home?" Naizo raised an eyebrow, his arrogance having made a significant comeback. He gestured toward a screen facing us, and I quickly noticed Rokshasa being outfitted in the traditional plated armor used by older members of the syndicate...

\---

After he'd tightened various straps attached to pieces of steel that were tactically and symmetrically positioned across his frame, Rokshasa struggled against the sheer weight of the protection before slowly adjusting as he walked with a wider gait. The Elder addressed him and spoke in a lowered tone as he sent the samurai on his way...

\---

"Believe me," Naizo began, "I considered allowing Rok to remain a samurai as long as he succeeded..."

He snickered. "But I despise him, regardless of what he can do in combat—besides," his eyes burned with maddened excitement, "he'll be nothing to me now!"

"You've always been such a fool."

\---

Rokshasa bowed to the silent figure of Mendo. Mendo remained seated on the ground, statuesque and unresponsive. The samurai looked taken aback when his former mentor failed to acknowledge him, and so he came to stand at a distance before his opponent and positioned his ax horizontally before himself as the Elder proceeded to make his opening announcement:

"It is not often that the Nagao hold contests of might, nor is it often that we allow our enemies past our borders to witness such a noble event."

Elder Nagao welled with pride. "Brothers and sisters, I'm reminiscing over a time when the Citadel was once a battlefield ripe for one to discover glory on their own.

"Today, the Nagao—the strongest empire this world has ever seen—have been asked to prove themselves in combat. Mendo, my son, champions the cause of the Meiziki, and I've chosen our greatest warrior to meet the call to arms!

"Whether Rokshasa succeeds or fails today..."

\---

"You'll attack them." I finished for him. "All of them."

"Hmph." Naizo sneered. "I made one last call to my father before you arrived... he looks forward to a new future."

His body tensed in a similar way to my own; he was becoming stronger than he'd ever been.

"Dejinden Awakened Naizo!" Abul gasped, "But he's not ready for that kind of power! His mind... i-it can't—"

HUMANS FALL INTO THE SAME TRAPS

PRESERVATION

GREED

IS EVERYTHING TO THEM

"I've been made into a God!" Naizo cried with aggression that flourished.

\---

"We all have our own business to conduct—so, without further ado, I'd like to commence the duel between the Nagao and the Meiziki; this is the final match to decide true supremacy..."

The Elder bowed, unexpectedly disappearing after the crowd grew quiet to watch the battle.

Mendo hadn't moved.

Rokshasa, feeling somewhat annoyed, awkwardly got to his feet and waited for a moment; he paused for his opponent to rise as well, but the Meiziki champion remained at peace, his odachi resting before him.

"Is this a joke to you?" Rokshasa asked him angrily. "Can you not pay me the most basic respect, Mendo?"

"..."

"Hmph." The samurai prepared himself and shrugged off what he perceived as an insult. "Rise to fight me, Mendo!"

The warrior lunged forward and roared with pride; he slowed just barely and used enough precision to swiftly bring his ax through—

To strike the ground several feet in front of Mendo—who'd remained in place the entire time.

Rokshasa stepped back and breathed heavily, his eyes wild as if he'd seen something hideous.

"What?" The samurai backed away when he'd noticed Mendo. "I thought..." Rokshasa gritted his teeth. "It's another bloody trick!"

He ran forward and swung the blade of his ax—

Onto the floor behind Mendo's peaceful figure, and he stumbled and came close to falling over.

"So-so... much blood!" he screamed while peering at his arms. "Mendo! I'm sorry..."

Rokshasa began to weep as he dropped his weapon and fell to his knees.

Just then, Mendo sighed and nonchalantly stood to his feet. He picked up his odachi in a lazy fashion. "And here I thought you were beyond this old trick..."

"Mendo?" Rokshasa turned and seemed to be frozen in fear.

"Have you not grown, Rok?" Mendo taunted and readied himself while the two warriors circled each other.

"Nagao's greatest warrior... is this the best you can do, 'samurai?'" Mendo locked out one arm and held the odachi straight as he aimed it toward Rokshasa's head. His demeanor expressed a type of hunger I'd felt when fighting the Nagao thugs...

"You haven't trained in some time, Mendo." Rokshasa smiled, an expression that seemed to somewhat stun his rival.

"Oh?"

"I can predict your moves. Your illusions are all you have." Rokshasa exclaimed triumphantly, and he charged forward.

Rokshasa came at his opponent with a low sweep, his speed appalling everyone including Mendo himself!

The Meiziki champion stepped in, stopped the bottom portion of the wooden handle with one hand, and then proceeded to move into a stance where he tried to push the samurai back with his other.

Rokshasa reacted quickly, deflecting Mendo's outstretched arm, then he tightened his spaced grip and shoved his opponent, to the amazement of the crowd. Mendo was knocked off his guard as he fell to his knees, and Rokshasa—too hasty for his own good—used his body's momentum to bring down an overhead attack with one arm that narrowly missed its target as the Meiziki warrior rolled to his side before coming to his feet.

"Nice." Mendo remarked, "An excellent start."

Rokshasa swung his ax up just as Mendo lunged at him—but not in time, as the Meiziki warrior shallowly pierced his side with a quick thrust and backed away, evading the samurai's sloppy second attack. Rokshasa grasped the wound cleverly made through his armor with fury before charging in again!

This time, Mendo scowled and met the charge, prompting the Nagao samurai to slow his pace as he made a defensive swing to draw his rival away from making his initial attack. Mendo had already anticipated this move, though, and he stepped in to deftly avoid the ax's blade and consequently thrusted the odachi across the top of the warrior's soldier.

The tip of the weapon edged close to his carotid, but Rokshasa growled and pivoted his body. He launched his armored gauntlet into Mendo's exposed chest.

"Augh!" The Meiziki warrior gasped and coughed blood while attempting to escape Rokshasa as he continued his relentless pursuit.

He trained for this day, knowing his greatest weakness would be his endurance under the weight of his own equipment. But the samurai prevailed in his intent, using everything he had to take the fight to his former mentor.

\---

"Tavon! We don't have time for this—we have to do something now!"

I found myself close to praying. "It's Rok... I should've been there with him. He doesn't have any support."

"He doesn't have any support?" Abul said, "We have to finish this before you're drained of your power!"

"Right." I turned to Naizo.

I'VE CHOSEN NOT TO PARTICIPATE

THE OUTCOME IS ALL THAT MATTERS

It was comforting to know I wouldn't be duking it out with an evil spirit, and so I cautiously rushed toward the Nagao heir.

Naizo, in turn, was confident and grounded himself in a stance prepared to fight me.

"I can take you now!" he cried madly. "I'm just as good as Rokshasa!"

And, in a flash, I brought myself to glide before I struck at the Nagao heir with my fist in a wide arc. It was so rapid that Naizo didn't have the time to block with his forearms! My knuckles smacked into the side of his temporal lobe, and Naizo's body immediately crashed to the ground. He shuddered.

I was so stunned by his weakness that I didn't react when Naizo fearfully scurried away from the fight and shook as he got to his feet.

"Dejinden!" he screamed, "You told me I'd become stronger! Why do... —w-why is—?"

Without further hesitation, I'd appeared before my opponent and uppercutted his sternum with enough force to incapacitate him as the heir fell to his knees, vomiting blood.

"Dej—" he coughed, "Dejinden!"

I heard the echoes of a crowd and noticed again the ongoing fight taking place on screen—

\---

Rokshasa swung diagonally at his opponent and then moved in to thrust at the exact same moment Mendo performed the same action. He caught the side of Mendo's odachi and forced away the weapon while sliding his ax up to strike at the warrior's mid-section.

Mendo closed whatever distance remained between them and rotated to elbow the samurai's helmet—

But Rokshasa persisted in spite of the impact, and he used his armor to slam into his enemy, sending him onto his back; Mendo hurried away from his next strike.

Rokshasa, having allowed himself to go completely berserk, began chopping wildly at the elusive figure of his opponent. Mendo managed to evade most of his attacks and seemed out of breath.

Mendo was compelled to a pause, which resulted in the Meiziki champion being stabbed in the chest from another enraged thrust. Mendo leapt away from the blood-drenched weapon, clutching the wound and expressing a measure of joy. "You've developed completely as a warrior, Rok." He breathed heavily.

"You've lost, Mendo..." Rokshasa clenched his weapon. "Surrender."

\---

I hefted Naizo by his collar and struck him with a jab to his head and then followed with a backhanded strike that bloodied his nose before I finished with a strong punch and tossed the Nagao heir across the floor of the control room.

Dejinden appeared indifferent; his face stayed vacuous as he crossed his arms and patiently observed both fights.

"Rokshasa is proving superior, Tavon!"

"I guess it's an all-around victory then." I smiled while glaring at Naizo, who could barely remain conscious after his beatdown.

SOMETHING HAS CHANGED

\---

A lower-ranking member of the Nagao interrupted the duel between the two warriors as he stood before the throne and announced, "The fighting must stop at once!"

He shouted: "Everyone—EVERYONE! Listen to me."

The assembled gathering grew silent in anticipation.

"Elder Nagao, our venerable Leader, has committed seppuku! The Elder has passed, long live the Elder!"

\---

"What?" Naizo was alert. "Father..."

"You didn't know he planned this?"

Naizo tensed up again, tears coursing down his cheeks. "No, you scum. It's because of you." He looked to us, succumbing completely to his own disgust for our existence.

\---

"Elder Nagao..." Rokshasa had the attitude of a lost child. "Why would he do this?"

"Enough." Mendo said firmly while sheathing his weapon. "With your leader dead, this battle is pointless, Rok. It's time for the Nagao to surrender honorably. The Elder understood that, and, now, so should you."

Rokshasa, infuriated, snarled as he shouted: "The Nagao still have an heir, and I will not surrender this clan to you!"

"Cease this, Rok."

"You wallow in your failures as a warrior, Mendo." Rokshasa took to a fighting stance. "I've surpassed even you, and I will carry the Nagao to victory!"

\---

NOW IS THE TIME

MAKE THE DECISION

NAIZO

"My awakening was meant to be grand!

"You've ruined everything! You killed my father!" Naizo pointed at me.

THEY DON'T SEE YOUR VALUE

THEY DON'T SEE YOUR INNER WORTH

NOT LIKE I DO

"Your father took his own life... I'm presuming he knew this was wrong, Naizo. Surrender." Abul ordered.

\---

Rokshasa sprinted toward his opponent and began hurling his ax through the air as Mendo weaved in and out of his attacks with a speed unmatched by his opponent.

Mendo's face was calm as he said, "It's over, Rok... where is your heir now?"

The samurai responded by continuing his assault, exhaustion never fully reaching him since he'd become obsessed with his target.

"You've proven yourself already—but this is your last warning, Rok. Rok, do you hear me?"

\---

"How is he avoiding him so easily?"

Naizo looked to Dejinden.

"Become one with me," the Nagao heir begged, "We can fuse together to strike down all of our enemies! I'll take on the Meiziki myself!"

The head of the demon swirled and turned formless as his tone resonated throughout the chamber:

I WOULD NOT BECOME ONE

WITH SOMEONE SO LOW

RATHER

I WISH TO CONSUME YOU

YOUR SOUL

GIVE IT TO ME

AND YOU'LL BE GRANTED POWER

"Enough to crush them?" Naizo's tone shook as he responded eagerly.

INDEED

"They killed my father..." he muttered, "I have to do this for him—for the legacy of the Nagao!"

ACCEPT MY DEMANDS

MY COVENANT WITH YOU

\---

"You're finished, Mendo!" Rokshasa lunged forward after he'd caused his opponent to stumble and thrusted at his enemy's midsection.

Mendo narrowly sidestepped, losing his balance.

Rokshasa reacted by swinging in the opposite direction with just his right hand clutching the handle of the weapon as he moved to behead Mendo.

A faint aura suddenly engulfed the champion of the Meiziki, and his form shifted swiftly, flashing before Rokshasa's eyes as his ax sank into the earth! Rokshasa carried his momentum and lunged at Mendo while reaching out to grab his opponent with his free hand as his ax dragged along behind him.

Mendo's form flashed once again.

The wide blade of the odachi soared down into Rokshasa's arm, cutting in between the plates of protection and severing the samurai's forearm from his bicep with a clean slice!

\---

"I accept!" Naizo shouted.
15

Home Is Where The Hatred Is

\---

Tavon

\---

BLOOD GUSHED FROM ROKSHASA'S DISMEMBERED arm, and the samurai cried out in agony and to the disturbed laughter of Mendo.

"I spared you this fate voluntarily... and yet you chose it."

"Dammit..." Rokshasa gazed at the ground while indulging his rage enough to overcome his pain.

"I'll win this! N-no matter what!"

"Rok!" Mendo started to scold him, "The Meiziki aim to build a better world—one meant to support the needs of the people, independent of bureaucracy! You may be a great warrior, but only someone Awakened can lead this city into the future!"

Rokshasa unleashed a feral growl before he ran toward his opponent, his weapon still dragging as he gathered the momentum to strike!

"For the Nagao!" Rokshasa bellowed and slashed a horizontal arc through the air.

Mendo slid under the attack and, with only a rapid movement, he amputated the samurai's right leg and came to stand as his enemy collapsed to the ground in an expanding crimson lake.

Rokshasa started to crawl in Mendo's direction, and he used what was left of his amputated arm to push himself forward while stubbornly carrying the ax.

"Tsk... So persistent..." Mendo expressed disappointment and was indifferent to having disfigured his former pupil.

"You would have made a great addition to the Meiziki—and had you actually Awakened... Hmph."

He looked at the crawling figure of Rokshasa in disgust before walking away from him as he declared:

"The Nagao have fallen."

\---

The monitors around us flickered and then shut off completely as Dejinden hovered near to Naizo, and the entity's composition collapsed before forming itself around the heir for a moment.

I moved to step in—to stop Naizo from giving up everything, but Abul shouted, "No! Let him have what he wants."

I shook my head despondently. "Rokshasa... he didn't know about Awakened humans. That's why Mendo's so strong."

"With the Elder dead, only Naizo remains to execute the plan..."

The two of us looked to the Nagao heir as he knelt down and seemed to shiver when Dejinden stepped away.

MY INTENT HAS BEEN FULFILLED

I TAKE MY LEAVE

"You're not here to kill me?" Abul responded in amazement.

I reminded him, "The Nagao have already lost. The Shikon no longer have a stake in this."

Dejinden's form dissipated in an aura surrounding him, an essence containing a breeze into which he quietly disappeared.

"He's left us to deal with a much more dangerous problem."

Naizo issued a piercing wail as he stood with renewed vigor! However, his body had been altered.

A series of branded inscriptions were littered across his bare, pale skin. His eyes became blackened spheres as a transformed Naizo howled thunderously at me, affixing his focus on his new prey.

"Without his soul, Naizo is an abomination." Abul warned. "You're going to have to take this one."

"What?" I glanced back at my companion as my new opponent drew close.

Abul was attempting to recover while on his knees.

"It's our last chance to make it through this! If you don't think you can do it... there's another op—"

"No." I turned to confront the transformed Naizo, understanding already the thoughts waiting to be uttered in Abul's mind.

Naizo's body had become ataxic, his extremities shuddered and stiffened at abnormal angles as he groaned and moved to swing at me with an enlarged arm!

I dodged the attack easily, but the abomination's movements quickened; he swatted at me once again, except, this time, black claws sprang from his knuckles, tearing through and severing most of the digits on his hands as a result!

He roared, rotating to thrust at me with both claws as I struggled to move away from his grasp!

Naizo kept getting faster, and he finally caught me with a slash to my right side before leaping as he brought his other spiked hand toward my face for a killing blow!

I reacted by awkwardly but swiftly leaning forward and delivering a solid jab to Naizo's disfigured head!

"Die!" I exclaimed and tore into my opponent by hurling my fists with more intensity as I landed consecutive hits.

The abomination was staggered as I continued to pummel him; I finished the assaulting combo with a concentrated strike to his lower abdomen—

Naizo made a screeching noise and then collapsed. When he moved to recover, he threw up an obscure, necrotic substance.

"Tavon... get away from him."

I took some steps backward and felt petrified in terror upon watching the body of my enemy convulse and display the pallor of someone close to death.

Blood began to well from a thin crevice that formed in a ring around Naizo's neck before the skin attaching his head to his neck was sheared away as an elongated, exposed mass of flesh extended from between the abomination's shoulder blades.

Naizo's face had contorted and been enlarged to fit his growing size, and his head began writhing disturbingly, making it seem as though he'd become akin to a monstrous worm that uttered incomprehensible lamentations. What Dejinden had left behind was a creature determined to evolve and consume everything in its path, the true corruption of Naizo's being made manifest.

The head lashed out toward us, smashing itself across the ground in an attempt to devour one of its prey. Naizo then whirled his neck back around and toward me as he tracked my evasions with an intelligence I didn't expect.

The monstrosity's immense maw followed close; as he pursued me relentlessly, I avoided his next strike and turned to do what I could to stop him...

He loomed before me, still growing and changing into a repulsive, skinless snake whose body was populated with both humanoid as well as serpentine eyes staring out at nothing.

Naizo froze in place, and I was so shocked by those lifeless eyes that I barely paid attention to Abul's screaming.

"His subconscious is the only thing there—but I'm in that thing's head... You've gotta move now if you want to survive!"

I rushed forward, prepared to finally attack my enemy, but Naizo recovered too fast—

He lunged at me and knocked me across the room using the side of his head.

Desperation rang out in Abul's tone as I struggled to stand: "Forget about fighting him! You're going to have a make a covenant with me!"

I took a moment to catch my breath. "And... become like that?"

Naizo was charging toward me again, his head tasting the air as the abomination approached.

"If you serve me, I can share my power with you!"

Naizo crashed into the wall behind me just as I narrowly dodged and was then forced to sidestep another attack as he slashed at the air inches from my eyes with one of his malformed claws. I dashed in to punch him, using enough force to stun the monstrosity as he issued a sound resembling choking!

I glanced back at Abul and declared firmly, "No. I'll find my own path to real strength."

The serpentine neck curled around and aimed the head in my direction as he glared at me angrily. Before I could react, the head—now completely transformed into the likeness of a snake—darted toward my position and—!

It halted before me, the creature's teeth surrounding and threatening to impale my frame.

"Tavon..." Abul pleaded breathlessly, focusing while utilizing everything he had left.

"Finish it."

I nodded at the demon, who was on the verge of fainting from exhaustion, and then I fell into stance, concentrating as every muscle fiber in my body activated in support of my next attack. Darkness wrapped itself around me; this one had to count!

I launched my knuckles into the center of the creature's jaws, rocking the abomination back and leaving Naizo unprepared for when I grasped the top of his maw with one hand and balled my other hand into a fist. I shoved it through the creature's left eye socket!

I retrieved my blood-drenched arm before swinging my body around and swaying with the beast's momentum in order to shift to its other side. From there, I blinded the abomination in its other eye before the creature screeched and at last was able to throw me from itself!

I thudded against a wall and was knocked out completely.

\---

HUMANS ARE WEAK

DESTINED TO SUFFER

FOR THEIR FRAILTIES

ELDER NAGAO ABANDONED THE FUTURE

BECAUSE OF HIS INADEQUACIES

AND MY BELOVED HUMAN SPAWN

HAS FAILED ME

Dejinden's voice. It resonated in my mind.

\---

I thought I'd died.

When I started dreaming, it was a vision containing depth, a message waiting for me in the afterlife. It didn't seem possible for a human to prevail against the machinations of a demon, and so... while I was conscious in a dream world, I accepted that we'd lost.

Abul appeared in a forest sparsely populated with sizable oaks decaying from a lack of sunlight. I looked around and noticed that I'd seated myself beneath a particular tree among dense piles of autumn leaves.

My friend strolled up to me and said:

"You're alive?"

I opened my eyes.

I couldn't move, but I could see a weary Abul looking down at me with a bandaged stump that had begun to regrow into its former state. I was back in the real world.

"Tavon? Can you hear me—"

"Yeah..." I grunted and felt immense aching all over. "But... I can't get up."

"Then Dejinden was right about you all. Humans are weak."

"Shut up." I rested my head back and closed my eyes again.

"We won, Tavon. When you have time... come see what Naizo became."

I felt no remaining strength and simply eased myself onto my side to see the slimy carcass of a fanged slug. The corpse had shrunk in stature, appearing much smaller than myself now.

"He," I tried to speak, "g-gave up his soul."

"Naizo was fighting a losing battle, and, as the prince of a clan, I can understand the pride he most likely felt. But we couldn't sanction an operation like this, Tavon."

"You're... a demon who moralizes?"

Abul glared at me. "We're not all savage animals. Just stronger than you." He smirked

"We'll see." I said defiantly but smiled regardless.

"The Nagao have been destroyed..." Abul paused. "I can't help but feel some responsibility for the Elder taking his own life; Elder Nagao knew how to interpret his son's last call, and Naizo remained oblivious until the end."

I sighed, "They all went down fighting."

"And everyone we know is dead." Abul's expression was serious. "Get up, Tavon; our work's not finished here!" He scowled. "Don't you remember who I am? You're in league with the Shikon Prince."

After the following few minutes had passed, I could position myself into a stable kneel.

"Tch," Abul snorted, "the Awakening must have wreaked havoc on your body. You might want to rest up for a few days, my friend."

"I'll... keep that in mind."

Standing required too much effort, so I stated flatly: "This is all I can do, Abul."

He exhaled with irritation. "For you to speak to me at such a position of weakness—when you're the one who saved us!"

Abul offered me his hand and found himself even more burdened when the entirety of my body weight fell upon his as I concentrated on getting adjusted to walking again.

The demon supported me while cursing as he all but carried me over to a chair overlooking the Citadel; it was drawing close on the horizon.

Abul was out of breath. He limped over to grab a chair of his own before seating himself beside me. Abul rested his ankle on his knee and interlocked his fingers behind his head, yawning and letting himself relax.

"You know what this means, right?" he said.

"No. I haven't given much thought to it. I passed out, remember?"

"Of course." Abul rolled his eyes.

"Tavon, it means we're for sale!"

I thought he'd lost his mind.

"I see that you still don't quite get it, but I'll explain: the Nagao stole a big ship from the Uesugi, T—"

"I get it." I managed to utter in response as I felt soreness continue to spread. The view of the Citadel was too beautiful for me to have paid any attention to the demon when he first spoke. "We've got all the ammunition now," I said, "but what do you plan on doing with it?"

"Well, I'm not going to blow up the Meiziki Clan, that's for damn sure!" he exclaimed while shaking his head in disappointment. "Such a stupid plan..."

"We should go to them."

"Suddenly you wish to aid our former enemies?"

"Not enemies." I replied, "They defeated the Nagao—"

"We defeated the Nagao." the irritation in his tone rose. "The Meiziki didn't kill the heir, but we did."

"And that's why we should make a peace offering." I said. "We're the reason the Fourth Quadrant didn't spiral into war—"

"That'll be much, much harder to explain to them than you think."

I shrugged. "We've got nowhere else to go and a cruiser stocked with explosives. You don't think they'd appreciate all the help they can get?"

"I supposed you're right." Abul crossed his arms. "My father is the only other Shikon left, and he'll retire with a new syndicate in place...

"That leaves me, and I don't have the family support I once took strength in."

"You've got me." I smiled.

"That may just be enough if you can punch a demon into submission."

"Then it's settled?"

Abul nodded resolutely. "We go to speak with the Meiziki..."

\---

In order to make it through customs, Abul was forced to use his abilities to control any human presiding over the paperwork originally given to Naizo. The demon manipulated his way past the inquiries of several, and we became one of their quickest visitors as empty-looking clerks waved us off with lost expressions.

Abul was a mediocre pilot, someone who had learned everything he knew about operating cruisers through Naizo himself. The two had been close once, long before the heir decided that he was above everyone else, but their relationship had enabled Abul to maintain relatively safe passage throughout the Mid and Lower-Cities.

Most of the areas were unfamiliar to him, but he'd taken the exact same route with his family for years and knew it from memory as he recklessly cut people off on the hyper rail and didn't seem to mind taking up as much space as possible on the main highways. Some of my energy had returned, but I failed to completely control my body.

"You're awake now." I remember him saying while concentrating on a series of cameras offering a complete overhead display of everything around us. "Not fully, but you retained some of what you gained in those moments when we were fighting to survive."

"What will happen to me now?"

Abul looked thoughtful and focused on something in the distance.

"The way power manifests itself is unpredictable at best..."—he turned to me and smiled—"But you have the opportunity to become stronger than you've ever been.

"A Gift Rokshasa always wanted for himself..."

\---

We landed amongst a gathering armed crowd that surrounded the massive cruiser as it hovered toward a steel platform.

The two of us had agreed that heading toward the Nagao shrine was our best bet, as we were unfamiliar with the Meiziki's native territory and realized that the rival syndicate would have taken over our home anyways.

Sure enough, we exited the vessel and were accosted by Meiziki thugs who'd been equipped in plated armor; they aimed both swords and guns in our direction. I attempted to walk forward but ended up having to come to a halt as the pain in my body came to a peak.

"Hey! What's wrong, guy—keep moving!" One of the thugs approached before Abul's rage was quickly triggered.

The demon infiltrated the gang member's consciousness and commanded him to drop the shotgun he'd been carrying and to walk toward Uesugi territory. His colleagues gasped in terror as the thug mindlessly followed his orders and ignored all others in his surrounding area.

"Where's he going? Soldier, get back here!" Some of the Meiziki chased after him.

"They're... one of them!" another member exclaimed loudly.

"Like the boss? Hey!" a Meiziki thug shouted to me. "You know the boss? You here for M? Let our guy go!"

"Everyone shut up!"

Mendo's voice echoed above the crowd as he emerged and began striding toward the two of us with determination. Abul finally relinquished his hold, leaving his former victim completely bewildered.

"What?" Mendo inquired as he approached. "Come to reclaim the Nagao's honor?"

"No." we both replied in unison, to the shock of the Meiziki warrior.

Mendo stopped in his footsteps and scratched his head. "I-I thought you'd come to fight, honestly."

"We've come to surrender." Abul made eye contact with him.

"Surrender?" Mendo tilted his head to the side.

"Everything on this ship is yours..." I began, my exhaustion taking over, "so long as you take us."

That was my last waking memory before I collapsed and gave in to exhaustion.

16

Water No Get Enemy

\---

Janelle

\---

"TELL ME WHAT HAPPENED AFTER THAT."

"That's it," said Tavon, knowing full and well that wasn't it.

"'That's it?' What do you mean? What happened after you went to the Meiziki?" Aaliyah stared up him with irritation as they laid comfortably on the couch next to a lit candle that evaporated in the scent of chamomile.

"You really don't have to know all the details—"

"But I want to."

She interlaced her hand with his.

"I became a thug, Aaliyah..."

"A thug, huh?"

"Yeah." He exhaled deeply. "I've always been muscle for hire, and I made a life for myself by being good at what I do."

"A thug who guns down bad people for... money—not for 'justice' or—"

"Nowhere in the Citadel is anyone truly safe." he said, feeling sobered by the thought. "The Federation set out to build a city sheltered from reality, but that doesn't mean reality doesn't make itself apparent from time to time—and I honestly can't always decide for myself who the good or bad guy is, Aaliyah.

"I just want to find the best target."

"And get your ass kicked like last time?" she chuckled.

Tavon laughed with her. "I promise I can get better—I've just been slacking, you know?"

"Right." Aaliyah smiled.

A long pause followed before she spoke again:

"So that's it, huh?" Aaliyah threw up her hands in defeat. "No more story."

"That's right."

Bullshit.

17

Untitled

\---

Janelle

\---

"WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL HER THE REST OF the story?"

Tavon, burying his hands in his pockets, replied simply, "It doesn't have a happy ending... are you sure you want to know the rest?"

18

Outro

\---

Janelle

\---

"THIS IS THE LAST CONVERSATION I'M GOING to have with you about this." Detective Aden Kaust said.

He stood authoritatively over Aaliyah while she freely dangled her legs and sat on the edge of the roof of the Dawn Bureau. His tall image blocked the Sun that once beamed at her back after she'd taken the time to decompress following a long shift.

Tavon was home, but she still didn't know where that was. He'd talked about getting ready for an interview.

Aaliyah ignored the Sergeant as she stared off into the distance, remembering something buried... something meant to be lost but entrapped forever within her mind.

\---

Only a few years ago:

She'd been hiding in one of the shacks belonging to a small neighborhood in the Lower-City.

The Third Quadrant, an area of the Citadel into which she could disappear regardless of her rank and status.

When she was still a beat cop, Aaliyah had brought an old case her father had left behind and unclamped the sides of it to retrieve a series of small components. Her father had trained her to be just as good as he was. He'd wanted to pass down a legacy of refined marksmanship and did everything to improve what started out as her poor shooting skills. Before her dad had abandoned them, he'd gifted her with this:

A worn Beretta the shade of midnight.

\---

"What do you want, Sergeant?" Aaliyah looked despondent, attempting to steer her mind away from that night.

"I think you need to know something..."

"Yeah?"

At last, she made eye contact with Kaust.

"The Bureau started in the middle of a war against those who'd labeled themselves as mercenaries—people without morals, people who killed for profit." he spat as his tone harshened, "Our organization was formed to bring reason and justice back into this world because, without people like us, Aaliyah..."

He paused.

"Just know that we cannot allow anyone to tear down what this institution stands for!"

"Okay." Aaliyah smirked. "So what are you trying to say, Sergeant? Are you worried about Noboros?"

"You know exactly what I'm saying."

\---

She'd finished assembling the weapon and had subsequently practiced her breathing as she'd done in the same spot for several days prior.

Always, it was assemble, position, and practice.

Aaliyah had followed this ritual in preparation for tonight, but she was never able to stop shaking. She peeked around the corner of the wood, now mostly decrepit and worn slightly from a recent infestation, and she saw him...

\---

"I'm simply enjoying my time off." Aaliyah's tone never matched her colleague's; she remained uninterested, her eyes continuously glossing over throughout the Sergeant's ranting.

"You know who I'm talking about, Aaliyah... it's time."

\---

Aaliyah

\---

When I was younger, I went with my sister to our father's grave not long after he'd taken his life.

He'd been stressed and plagued by visions of combat decades after having returned from a lifestyle of constant warfare, and it swallowed him in the end. I'd watched him go to shooting ranges and begged him every time to take me until he finally did. That's when he'd decided he'd teach me what he knew while warning me never to use a weapon outside of a practice range.

I was good.

My dad wouldn't always admit it, but I was even better than him...

I was planning on enlisting in the Dawn Federation military; I would figure out how to become a sniper and surpass stories told about my father. My little sister loved the idea of me playing hero, which—I guess—made me even more motivated.

We would visit his grave on his birthday, often traveling alone once mom got sick more frequently. She'd place flowers while I'd assemble and disassemble the gun he'd passed down to me to show him that I still remembered.

I never stopped practicing.

Without anyone else around, I went to shooting ranges on my own. Much like Tavon, I wanted to be the best at what I did.

After visiting with my father again, my sister and I drove to what had once been a park in the Citadel that was now overgrown and had become a forest expanding into surrounding settlements. We went here so that I could show her what it was like to fire something so deadly. It was exciting, but I didn't have any targets that we could use for her. I warned Tallah to aim toward the skies, in the direction of the edge of the Citadel, and she knew she only had one shot to pull off before we'd have to escape because of the resulting commotion.

Tallah fired a round before accidentally shooting another while gasping in surprise. I laughed and started to feel anxious as I quickly disassembled the old Beretta, packing it away as we sprinted to move as far as we could from the scene.

I looked back, and she was there. Always behind me, always wanting to be just as dangerous.

\---

"I've got him this time." Kaust declares.

"If Tavon isn't working for Noboros, then he's operating as his own agent—which could be more dangerous, granted that you've permitted him to do what he wants all this time!"

"You have no evidence that he's done anything, Kaust."

"'Sergeant.'" he corrects me judiciously. "And it's hard to beat a thorough DNA analysis." Aden Kaust bares his teeth in a fake smile.

\---

Tallah was so envious; she wanted to be fearless. Like me.

And, one day, while too engaged in my own life, I looked back to see how she was.

But she wasn't there.

People stopped asking me about her following some weeks, and I'd almost accepted that she'd either run away or died. Maybe she was ready to be on her own, I thought. Maybe this was her way of getting back at me for not being as present in her life as we'd grown older.

Tallah was discovered one morning in a dumpster.

She was alive, but she'd been hurt... something horrible had been done to her.

That sick bastard took her legs, blinded her.

He did whatever he pleased. When we thought we'd found the real culprit, who was being considered a "less likely" suspect, the justice system of the Citadel failed us by prolonging the investigation. We asked that they turn their efforts toward catching the villain in front of us, but those detectives were convinced on a story of their own making.

He got away.

The man who'd disfigured my sister ran from the courts and investigators altogether, who both began pushing a different suspect on us. That really agitated my mom.

I was now responsible for supporting the two of them... a dying mother and a sister who was to be hospitalized the rest of her life due to an STI that had wrecked her immune system.

So, I decided to become the hero my dad was.

I would provide; I would keep going to become the one who chased people who broke the law. I wanted peace in my household and peace in the world so that those like my sister wouldn't become victims to twisted individuals.

\---

"I don't know if I believe you, Sergeant."

Aden crosses his arms. "You're just as stubborn as me...

"And I like that, Aaliyah," his tone changes to one of concern. "You believe in fighting for what's right, and you're a good detective... that's why I'm worried for you."

"Nobody's got to be worried about me."

\---

I stared down the barrel at the one who'd done so much wrong to my family. My rage didn't boil anymore; it had subsided into a cold, calculated hatred.

Erig Deran. That was his name.

A banger turned junkie after losing custody of his kid to his wife in the Upper-City. He took advantage of Tallah, who was much weaker than him, and I couldn't forgive it.

I played it out in my mind as I stalked a figure wearing a tacky, corduroy trench coat and slouching as he smoked at a convenience store that had been shut down and the building condemned a year ago. He appeared to be talking to someone dressed in a similar manner, a friend he'd bonded with over mutual vices...

I was focused, waiting just behind the building. Breathing in and out while resting my index finger on the trigger. I felt so angry; when I fought the urge to move too soon, tears went down my cheeks.

Erig shoved his hands into his pockets and kept another cigarette in his mouth as he searched in his sweatpants for a lighter.

He'd been smiling.

Joking.

Comfortable.

\---

"He could bring you down, and I don't want to see that."

"Sergeant," I step to him. "With all respect intended, mind your own business."

"This time the Bureau can't." Kaust replies, his expression cold and hardened.

"The Bureau?" I chuckle. "What are you on about, Kaust?"

"While other operatives will handle the battle with Noboros, I'll be pursuing the people most responsible for doing damage to this city..."

\---

I focused on breathing again.

Calm down.

Concentrate—remember the pause following an exhale.

Breathe in...

Breathe out...

Erig's friend has left. I approach. Tonight's the night I make him remember.

\---

"I've decided to hunt Tavon myself." Kaust says.

\---

Breathe in...

Our eyes meet. Erig Deran: Guilty.

\---

"If a Bureau operative discovers an assassin working against the interests of the Federation, I'm authorized to apprehend or gun down the suspect on sight—do you understand me, Aaliyah?" Sergeant Kaust is prepared to dominate with his words and personality; he believes he'll convince me to join his side and finally turn in Tavon.

I hesitate before staring back at Kaust and responding, "No. I want you to understand."

"Understand what, detective?"

"That you don't want to be my enemy."

\---

Breathe out.

To Be Continued in Volume Two...
About the Author

J. B. M. Patrick is a former medical professional, Army veteran, and an independent novelist.

Born in 1994, to loving parents, he always had a passion for both literature and his personal fitness. Today, J. B. M. Patrick combines his pursuit of greater lifts with constant writing. He requests that those who enjoy his content please leave feedback and kindly spread the word of his efforts.

