The cool recycled air did little to ablate the stench of sweat and burnt cordite. Hymer sat at a corner table, busying himself with taking his massive auto shotgun apart. There was a ritualistic beauty to it. He imagined that ancient warriors who oiled their blades, polished their armor and prayed to their chosen war deity felt much the same way.
There wasn’t much to clean, save for a tiny bit of carbon build-up in the barrel, yet he kept oiling and scrubbing long after all traces of the muck were gone.
Then he reached for his sidearm and did the same. He hadn’t even fired it today, its components were still gleaming from the last cleaning, yet like his father used to say “There is no such thing as over-maintaining a gun.”
That, and it provided ample excuse to not mingle with his team.
“Good job, team! Damn fine room clearing! That’s a new killhouse record!” Patrone beamed in his heavy Riguri accent. Hymer could feel his dark blue eyes on the back of his head. He prolonged the process of snapping the handgun’s slide back on its frame as long as he could.
“Just… Eight Gauge, you tore up that last target real good. Five blasts from that howitzer ‘a yours would be overkill for a Light-damned tank. Let’s not make the boys down in the morgue curse us more than they already do.” He chuckled, though it lacked humor. Hymer looked at him in the reflection of his handgun’s polished slide.
The middle aged lion seemed to be thinking of placing his hand on his shoulder. And there was that look… that look of worry and pity… that awful pity.
Not saying a thing, Eight finished assembling his weapon by attaching the slide back to the frame with a gratuitous kerchunk.
“Tomorrow’s gonna be lit!” Kahina “Sap” Promet beamed. This mercifully drew Patrone’s attention away from Hymer.
“My old man called. It’s finally confirmed: the beach house is all ours tomorrow!” The charcoal-furred hyena pumped a fist in the air, a gesture that was reciprocated by all her teammates. Hymer forced himself to turn around, form his mouth into the vague facsimile of a smile and join in on the celebration.
“Been planning this for weeks!” Sap’s Indigo eyes gleamed with excitement as she ran a comb through her thick, dirty blond mohawk. “I know it’s just a beach party, but we rarely get together lately! It’s a relatively new team, and well, I want everyone to get to know everyone. And I wanted to make my birthday special not just for me, but all you guys. And-”
“I can’t come.” Hymer cut in. All eyes fell on him. Sap’s mouth was agape.
“What?” She whispered in something between disbelief and sorrow. Damn… he’d hoped she wouldn’t care. He shouldn’t have cared much of what she thought of him. Teammate or not, she was still the enemy. Even if they depended on each other in the field. This city was neutral ground. Were they both to return to their homelands, they’d go right back to despising each other and working to ensure the destruction of the other’s world.
“It’s my father.” Hymer said quickly. “I got a call last night from my mother back in Riguri. He’s… not well.” That wasn’t a lie, which made it easier to say. At least, there was no falsehood in his words, though their intent was to deceive.
Indeed, his father was not well. And he had received a distraught call from his mother yesterday.
Just not yesterday this year…
“Shit,” Sap whispered. “I’m… sorry.” The hyena seemed to genuinely mean it. If he knew the truth, would she be silently celebrating instead? Eight pushed those thoughts away. Looking angry wouldn’t get him anywhere.
“I meant to tell you guys earlier,” He replied. “But I didn’t wanna interrupt training. Anyway… I’m leaving on a plane tonight and I’ll be back tomorrow around the same time.”
Sap looked down. Hymer didn’t know why the Gehl she was so glum. Outside of training or work, they’d hardly exchanged a few sentences. He’d gotten the sense that she distrusted him as much as he distrusted her, and that was utterly fine by him. Now, however, she was acting like she found out her own brother would miss her wedding.
“I understand.” She smiled sadly. Understandingly… as if not only did she infer the real reason why he would not be attending her birthday, but she understood.
Almost against his will, he found himself sadly smiling back. She wasn’t a bad person. She’d gotten him out of more than one tight situation on the field, as he had her. And he was sure the party would have been an entertaining way of spending a few hours.
Yet not on that day… and not with one like her…
He nodded, packed up his gear, and left with an awkward goodbye.
----------------------------------------
The mask was clammy and itchy, which only added to the uncomfortable heat of the Crater. The filthy sand, covered in splotches of red from the day’s previous fights, was bathed in reflected stolen neons covering the impromptu snack shops and bars surrounding the Crater.
The improvised stone steps looking down on the arena could only accommodate a few dozen guests, so there were more spectators shouting, cheering or booing from on top the crumbling buildings and shanty homes.
The air was thick with the smell of cheap moonshine, greasy food, tobacco and other less wholesome substances. Many of the spectators waved multi-colored lightsticks.
For an area known as the “Dark Zone”, there sure was a lot of light.
Yet for Hymer, all this had ceased to be thirty seconds ago. All that existed was him and his opponent.
He was a black jaguar, tall for his species, his wiry body thick with corded muscle and sinew. Midnight purple eyes glared at him from beneath the sneering black mask. It matched the rest of his body so well that it hardly looked like a mask, but merely an extension of his body. He was built like a runner, for speed rather than strength, as opposed to Hymer’s brawny, almost ogrish build.
The hulking tiger grunted in frustration more than pain as another pair of lightning-fast jabs found a chink in his defense and punished his abdomen, right around his peculiar patch of black fur. The counter-attack sailed right over the smaller feline’s head as he danced around the tiger, a grin visible through the mouth slit of his own mask.
“Too slow, you overgrown fuck!” the jaguar sneered.
Hymer stood back, keeping his opponent’s guard busy with his longer jabs. Even if he blocked, he was hurting, the tiger’s gloved fists jarring flesh and bone with each strike.
Hymer swung another haymaker after several stringing jabs, only for the jag to once again duck beneath him and punish his ribs with two knee strikes. This time, Hymer could not suppress a growl of pain. As he doubled over, he saw his opponent as a spinning blur.
He dodged just in time for the roundhouse kick to strike the top of his forehead rather than his jaw. He stumbled back, clutching his white-hot injury. Stars and three perfect clones of his opponent danced around his fuzzy vision.
He went with the tried and tested “hit the one in the middle” technique and he felt with satisfaction as his heel met flesh. As his vision cleared, he saw the jaguar getting up from the sand, spitting out blood wrathfully. Something rang in his ears. The crowd cheering for him or his eardrums ringing, he wasn’t sure. Judging by his opponent’s look of ire, it had been the former.
In a fit of rage, the jaguar charged him. Not expecting the smaller opponent to attempt such a direct attack, Hymer was too slow to block the head ramming directly into his stomach. He snarled, tasting bile in his throat.
A kick to the back of his knee brought the towering tiger down, then he felt an immense weight upon his shoulders as a powerful arm snaked around his throat. He grunted, his neck muscles fighting against the irresistible force. All his attempts at recovering his breath were denied by the vice grip. The darkness at the corner of his eyes threatened to become all-encompassing as his brain struggled with the lack of oxygen.
There were two solutions: tap out, or use his Forte to break the grip almost effortlessly. His pride allowed for neither.
With a herculean effort, roaring with effort and pain, Hymer rose, lifting the jaguar up as well. Almost losing his footing, his opponent dug his heels into his back. Hymer half ran, half stumbled backwards.
He slammed full force into the concrete wall, nearly crushing the black-furred feline between unmoving rock and 350 kilos of tiger. The jaguar dropped like a marionette with its strings cut and fell on his face. Hymer leaned against the wall, gagging and coughing in a desperate scramble to recover his breath before the fight resumed, swallowing down sour bile.
A thin wire of crimson streamed out one corner of the jag’s mouth. In spite of that, he got up, far quicker than Hymer would have liked.
His eyes blazed with fury. The jaguar was used to quick, brutal wins, his speed and aggression being more than enough to fell even physically superior opponents. Another glorious victory had been snatched from his grasp. However this fight ended, he’d bled. The myth of his invincibility had been broken in the eyes of all spectators of the Crater.
He didn’t want to just defeat this tiger, he wanted to bury and humiliate him. And if he were to be bedridden for a good few weeks or months all the better.
The jaguar jumped and feinted a left kick, yet at the same time, his right foot planted on the concrete wall, ready to launch itself right into Hymer’s jaw with the jaguar’s entire bodyweight.
Hymer watched in fascination as the sand was kicked up from the movement then lazily floated back down. At the pawpads which connected with the wall for only a fraction of a second, then kicked off. At the heel coming his way…
Do something! Do something now!
Hymer’s massive paws caught the leg screaming towards him. For a moment, he saw his rival’s masked expression shift from gleeful rage to sheer terror. Turning his body around, he both dodged and swung the jag’s entire body like a sledgehammer.
He slammed him into the wall, the kick’s immense momentum turned against its owner as he was bulldozed into unyielding concrete. Hymer both felt and heard the shin bone he was holding crack like a breadstick beneath skin and fur. A louder crack confirmed either broken ribs or a dislocated shoulder. Perhaps both.
The man fell in a heap. He groaned and grit his teeth as he clutched his ribs. He knew he’d lost, yet he kept himself from screaming, as if that would achieve him some tertiary victory.
He even was struggling to get up, fists clenched. Hymer felt the rage he’d been suppressing all day well up within him. For a fraction of a second, his brain seemed to believe it had been this jaguar right before him who’d killed his father.
A mental image flashed before his eyes of the jaguar in a tan Yavuzi uniform, his father kneeling before him, a gun pressed into the back of his head-
Hymer grabbed the killer by the throat, lifting him off the sand. He choked and struggled to no avail. The tiger placed him in a kneeling position, tightening his vise-like grip.
A massive haymaker sent the jaguar flying backwards. He felt something give beneath his knuckles like when he shattered wooden planks during training. Hymer watched curiously as a string of almost rubbery blood alongside three small white objects flew out of his mouth.
The world around him gradually became clear again. He felt the cold nip at his exposed, sweat-slicked torso. The dirty neon lights bathed his prostrate opponent, the blood seeping out of his maw seeming bluish-mauve beneath them. The constant ringing in his ears eventually solidified itself into a discernible pattern of sound.
“FO-AK-MON! FO-AK-MON! FO-AK-MON!” the crowd cheered, like choppy ocean waves that had suddenly received the power of speech.
Hymer felt like he should have felt something. Elation, victory, the triumph of a hard-won battle. He felt nothing. He looked down at his fingerless MMA gloves. The black leather was slick with blood, his knuckles numb despite the padding. The many pains of combat began to flare up, forgotten and buried by adrenaline and sheer fury.
He wondered what his father would have felt: pride that his son had taken their many martial arts lessons to heart, or shame that he had sunken to this.
Hymer left the ring, reasoning that the stinging moisture in his eyes was sweat.
----------------------------------------
Hymer washed his face, hissing as the water entered the cut above the right eye. He looked in the cracked dirty mirror at his broken, murky reflection. He sipped some water and spat into the grimy sink. It came out crimson.
He looked down at his knuckles. They were an angry red and bruised. Flexing them was painful and stiff, like he had to actually focus to get them to close all the way. He’d submerge them in ice water and rub some ointment on them. Thankfully, tonight’s injuries weren’t too bad. Nothing that couldn’t be explained away by a sparring match that got out of hand.
“Hey, kid.” A voice rasped. Hymer turned around to see the towering bulk of Benny “Glove” Satriale. The ten foot tall musk ox actually had to crouch to enter the door. The reason for his nickname was evident enough: his right arm had been replaced with a biomechanical prosthetic. No one said that mobsters were awfully creative.
It was old and worn, like its owner, and the outdated augment moved slowly, purposefully, incapable of too fast or complex movements. Between its metallic digits was a first aid kit. It looked like a lunchbox in that gigantic artificial paw.
“You did good.”
Wordlessly, Hymer took the kit and popped it open. First order of business, he located the painkillers and swallowed three of them dry.
“How is he?” the tiger asked, not looking up at the Crater’s caretaker.
“Black Lightning?” The ox shrugged, his metal shoulder doing so half a second after the real one . “You gave him one Gehl of a trouncin’. Can’t say it wasn’t warranted though. Little shit made it a point out of putting good fighters in the hospital. One of the fighters who quit because of him was a trainee of mine.” His small dark eyes glittered dangerously for only a second, then he returned to his usual quiet self.
“He’ll have to eat through a straw for a coupla’ weeks, I’d say. Hopefully he ate that heavy hand a’ yours with a side of humble pie.” A smile grazed the fuzzy, almost lipless mouth. Hymer sighed.
“I came here to blow off some steam. I specifically wanted to beat the shit out of something, and I did. I’m better than him how?”
“We’re all here because of frustrations,” Glove said. “That is what most people your age feel, Foakmon. Frustration.”
“What are ya babblin’ about?” Hymer sighed, turning back to the mirror to treat his cut. It was nasty, but it didn’t look like it would need stitching.
“You’d be surprised at the identities of many of the fighters here. Some are soldiers of various families and gangs, of course, but a majority of them are people you’d pass by the street and never give them a second glance. Take Lightning, the fighter you just trounced. He’s a bloody lawyer, believe it or not. And you, you’re a cop.”
Hymer froze, barely stifling the gasp bulging his throat. Taking on the massive old ox bare pawed head on wasn’t his first choice. Phlegmatic and amiable as he was, Hymer knew his type: the past his prime, yet experienced mob enforcer.
Despite being old and fat, Glove had a build suggestive of a long life of training and experience. He’d probably been in more shootouts and fist fights than Hymer had sparring or range sessions. Whenever he’d lost his arm, his capo rewarded him by giving him management of this establishment. While it was slow and clunky, if he did catch Hymer with a single swing from that massive iron hand, it was game over.
He looked at his locker, where his sidearm was located. Too far. The mirror was already half broken. It’d be easy to smash a good sized shard off it to use as a shiv, even if it meant cutting his paw open.
“Calm down, I don’t give a shit.” Glove assured him with a smirk. “I figured it out the second time you came here. If you were here to bust us, you’d have done that long ago. Besides, we’re too low-profile for you to take note of us. No way you’d send a tactical team this deep into the Dark Zone for something as trivial as a bunch of criminals beating the crap out of each other.”
Hymer allowed himself to relax only a little. He made a decent point.
“My parents fought in the Second Burning Steel, despite having no obligation to answer their country’s call to arms.” Benny continued. “They knew what they were; despite having grown up in Nyter.
“Me, however? You, Officer? We have no War. Famine, pestilence, are supposedly all but eradicated. You and I are the first generations of our kind to have never gone hungry a day in our lives. Our war is a war against monotony, our famine is being starved of purpose.
“We no longer fight for our families, for our nations, for our gods, even for ourselves. We crunch numbers for corporations, seeing millions and billions that we will never have. Then we take our pitiful wages and purchase electronics and clothes that will be out of fashion within three months, swelling up those millions and billions in a chase for little flashes of triumph.
“You see people, young people, fighting with clubs and knives, throwing Molotov cocktails with the same grit and courage with which our grandfathers stormed Lunist trenches. And for what? For what flag?
“For… sports teams. That is how desperate for meaning we have become.”
Hymer pondered as he treated his injuries. The words held some truth. On paper at least, the world was doing better than ever. In the “civilized” world, problems such as starvation or children dying from preventable diseases were practically non-existent. Aside from the Grazali Conflict, there hadn’t been a single major war since the Second Burning Steel. Someone was unsatisfied with their life? They could hop on a plane and try their luck somewhere else in the world within a full day.
It was a Nirvana his forefathers could have only dreamt of.
And yet, it wasn’t. Depression was the new pandemic of the world. Crime rates were at an all time high.
Hymer would never forget his first bust as a beat cop, when he was called at a high school by the principal who caught a student snorting Twinkle in the bathroom. Shockingly, it hadn’t been a troublemaker, but a straight-A honor roller about whom neither teachers nor fellow students had any reproach to voice.
On the ride back to the precinct, he’d asked the young fox why he would risk his health, his freedom and his promising future for a momentary high.
His response? “Because I am bored.”
Hymer had thought it was a typical sneering teen response, yet it had been told completely sincerely.
Boredom. Hymer had once read in a magazine that boredom comes when the brain believes that what the body is doing is pointless. That there could be something else, more productive and more fulfilling, that the body could accomplish.
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He certainly felt that way a lot. As difficult as the lives of his forefathers had been, and how grateful he was that threats such as going hungry for months because of a crop bug, or foreign invasion were distant memories, there was a beautiful simplicity in it. One’s duty was to their families, their nation, their gods, in that order. A freedomless, often dangerous life, perhaps, yet a complete life.
Boredom is the soul asking the question “Who am I? Where am I going?” and receiving no satisfactory answer.
A cough brought Hymer out of his meditation. He looked up, and instantly wished he was back in the Crater, fighting a dozen Black Lightnings.
Citla “Citadel” Aca entered the locker room much like Glove had; by crouching through the comparatively small doorframe. The female bison’s gray-white eyes settled on Hymer with a glare that was equally contemptuous as it was disappointed. He looked away from his giant dark-furred team member, as if averting his gaze would make her disappear.
“Officer Aca! It’s been a long time!” Glove said with familial glee. The two massive bovines shared a hug of old friends.
“So long that it’s ‘Sergeant’ now.” She chuckled. “Picked up the good life, I see. Ain’t the cage fighter I picked up for collecting for the Moltisantis no more.” She slapped his prodigious gut. Glove chuckled humorlessly.
“Not as good as I’d like…” He flexed his metallic arm. “Look, I’d love to catch up, Citla, but I’d rather not have anyone around here see us together.”
“Good. I was about to ask you to piss off anyway.” She grinned. Glove looked at Hymer pityingly, who was currently in the process of looking quite longingly at a window and the chair next to it.
“You’re not gonna…” Glove began.
“Nah. He got the shit kicked out of him enough for one night, I think.”
Nodding, Glove went out, closing the door behind him. The cheering, hoots and boos of the crowd watching the next match were instantly drowned out, replaced by the constant buzzing of the old, fading light bulbs.
Neither police officer said a word. The bench groaned and sagged slightly as she sat next to him. The tiger expected the beratement to begin any moment. How dare he betray the trust of his team? How dare he, an officer of the law, partake in such a brutish display of violence? He winced as he felt a sting across his cheek. For a fraction of a second, he thought she’d slapped him, yet there was no pain. A wet coldness seeped into his fur. She was treating his wounds.
She continued doing so for a good few minutes in utter silence. She noticed Hymer’s silver arrow necklace stained with blood. Taking out another piece of gauze, she rubbed alcohol over it, cleaning the dirtied religious icon to a shine.
“Why?” She eventually cut through the silence.
Hymer sighed through his teeth. He reached for his water bottle and emptied it in one long swig.
“There was one thing I didn’t lie about: my father is unwell; he died today last year.”
“I know.” She answered. Her massive hand held his meaty shoulder like a smaller mammal may have embraced a babe. “He died in a border skirmish with the Yavuz Shannate. I looked it up in the system as soon as you left today.”
“They took him prisoner and executed him.” He snarled, bloodied fists clenched eager for a new target. “Honorless, sunless fucking mongrels. They killed him for nothing. Only to satiate their sick need to get back at him for holding off their entire assault with only a handful of border guards. We should have gone to war there and then!”
She rubbed his back as he growled. She picked up his empty bottle and refilled it in the sink. She offered it to him. It tasted rusty, yet it was deliciously cool.
“And you think Sap had something to do with it?” She asked.
“Oh, don’t fucking give me that!” Hymer almost laughed. “If she knew how my father really died, she’d have cheered for it.”
“I guarantee you she wouldn’t have.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Well, you don’t either!” She said sternly, her grip on his shoulder turning to a bruising squeeze. He looked up at her tensed, wondering if she’d forget her promise to Glove to not harm him.
“You belong to two different worlds that have been at war with each other on and off for centuries. I get that. Believe me, I do. But have you thought that maybe there’s more that unites than divides you?
“You’re both cops, for one thing. You both swore an oath to protect the innocent and uphold the law. And you both actually stuck by it. And sadly, that’s rare enough among the cops in this city. You’re both gym rats. You both love Sixth Era cars. You both love history. Both of you think “The Two-Faced King” is the best movie ever made.”
Hymer cocked an eyebrow. “She’s a fan of a movie about the Osnyan king who humiliated their empire?”
“She loves it as a movie. And from what I remember, it’s a surprisingly deep biopic. It painted a sympathetic picture of Dekebus the Fifth and of Osnya as a whole, but also showed his flaws. Gehl, the movie actually drew some criticism from religious groups in Osnya because it acknowledged his adultery, and especially the war crimes of the Osnyan Legion in Alexandrios before Dekebus put his foot down.”
Hymer chuckled humorlessly. “ Dekebus is my Patron God, I literally worship him. There’s only seven men who were declared gods in the Fakonan Canon and actually remained that way, and Dekebus is in my opinion the most worthy of that honor. And even I can acknowledge that he was not perfect. Fucking Osnyans… you can kiss their ass and they’ll bitch that you didn’t brush your teeth first.”
Citadel’s throat swelled as she snorted with laughter.
“See, that’s another thing you have in common: you both think the Osnyans are a bunch of stuck up arrogant prats.”
Her laughter died down and she swallowed. “There’s another thing you two have in common: you both lost someone you loved today.”
Hymer snapped his gaze towards her.
“What?”
“Yeah… as a matter of fact, this will be the first time in five years she actually celebrates her birthday. It was too painful before.” Citadel began. “You know what a clusterfuck the World Football Tourney is, of course.”
The tiger grimaced with bloodied fangs.
“I was a riot cop for a year, you don’t need to tell me. Give me a compound full of heavily armed cartel sicarios over a horde of drugged up football ultras any day of the fuckin’ week.”
“Well, five years ago, it was even worse. But Sap was a huge fan of the sport. And her brother got her tickets to see a game. It was the Riguri vs Yavuz national teams. It was the Finals, so the stage was packed. A hundred thousand fans chanting, screaming, waving flags and flares. I was there too, as part of the thousand strong contingent of cops sent to keep the peace. We were literally outnumbered a hundred to one.
“It was clear it would be a bloodbath days before. There had already been clashes between fans of either team. Both teams’ hotels got multiple bomb threats. Before the game began, my unit alone broke up seven fights, five of which involved knives, confiscated three concealed handguns and one improvised explosive. My captain and several others urged the organizers to delay the game. But, the tickets had already been sold and millions were tuned in worldwide to watch the match of a lifetime between two rivals.
“I remember one particular poster showed soldiers in old Riguri and Yavuz uniforms fighting over a ball in a trench with the tagline “The Third Burning Steel War BEGINS!”. Which… I’m sure that helped soothe spirits.” She spat.
“Game was close. A lot of sports outlets called it the closest game in decades. The crowd was rowdy, but aside from the occasional fight, a few drunk streakers and a flare or two thrown on the field, things were manageable. Until the last penalty kick…
“The Yavuzi won by the skin of their teeth. And that’s when absolute Gehl broke loose. The Rigurian supporters broke through the few officers guarding the Yavuzi stands and started bashing heads. The Yavuz then retreated through the underground parking area and flanked their attackers in a move that I’m sure would have made their ancestors proud.
“The most ironic part is that the rival players worked together to escape their rabid supporters, some attacking their own fans to save their counterparts.
We tried to contain it, but we were hopelessly outnumbered. Not to mention that we were busy escorting the regular fans escaping the junked-up freaks who were reenacting the Battle of Foakmon Mountain. The fighting spilled out on the street and the hooligans started trashing cars and buses, which prevented many from escaping.
“Sap and her brother had avoided sitting in the Yavuzi stands, thinking that would help them avoid any potential fight. However, they made one fatal mistake; they were still wearing their team’s colors, making them a clear target without having the backing of their fellow supporters.
They got spotted by four of the bastards as they tried escaping into a subway station. They fought back and eventually sent the degenerates packing, but her brother got a pipe to the temple. He survived… for a week. During which he couldn’t even say a word, eat or drink. The operation failed… and he went braindead.” Citadel looked back at Eight, eyes blazing.
“Her little brother whom she’d sworn to protect is dead. And for what? Because some degenerate junkies were mad that their team lost a fucking ball game?”
Hymer stood in stunned silence. He looked down at the tiled floor, fascinated by the abstract pattern the cracks created.
“Fuck…” Was all he could say.
He couldn’t imagine what Sap had gone through. If he had failed to protect his own little brother… it was too horrible to think about.
And his father had at least died for something. He died ensuring his comrades escaped to fight another day. He’d died for his country, and at least as far as their leaders and gods were concerned, there was no better death than that.
Sap’s baby brother had died for nothing. Like an animal. For no reason other than to satiate someone’s hate-fueled psychotic rage.
“I… I…” he croaked. “I’m sorry.” Citadel’s massive paw squeezed his entire beefy shoulder.
“There’s still time to make things right.”
----------------------------------------
The waves licked gently at the ochre sand. The water timidly splashed a foot or two onto the shore, then retreated as if intimidated by the prospect of moving any further. The sun was setting, casting rays of burnt caramel over the beach. Patrone had arrived early carrying a gift box, trays upon trays of chicken and a cooler of beer. The silver-maned lion was manning the grills with the expertise of an old soldier manning an artillery piece, jumping from one grill to another like he was reloading shells, then jumping back to adjust his aim…
Sap sighed as she prepared a large bowl of salad for the soon to arrive guests. Even now, conflict and violence were at the forefront of her mind. It was at the forefront of everyone’s mind, even if they didn’t realize it, no matter how pacifistic one tried to be.
A small distance away from the house, on a public beach, most tourists were packing up for the day, save for a few families who remained as their children played. A lion and an antelope cub crossed wooden swords, swinging at each other with great, telegraphed strikes, aiming for their opponents’ sword rather than their body. Their laughter and glee made it clear that the gruesome purpose of the weapons their toys were based on was lost on them.
Their battleground was flanked by intricate sandcastles she’d watched them build all afternoon.
Castle. A fortified structure meant to protect against enemy attack via the use of thick walls, battlements, moats and traps.
She returned to the task at hand, realizing she needed olive oil. As she retrieved it from the cupboard, she came face to face with the picture of her and her brother. It had been taken when he was twelve. She was eighteen, holding him up on her shoulders. He was grinning ear to ear, flying a toy plane in circles above his head.
He’d wanted to be a pilot… their parents had bought him entire encyclopedias about the history of aircraft. They’d taken him to half the aviation museums of the country. By now, he’d have finished the Civil Air Academy and gotten his pilot’s license…
She looked away, noticing distantly that her tears were staining the cutting board.
Why was the Bestia Sapiens instinct from the very cradle to fantasize about war and violence? Was it so inescapable?
Every instinct had an obvious end goal: hunger to avoid starvation, sexual desires to mate and perpetuate the species, fear to avoid danger.
What was hatred’s purpose? What final object was to this one horrible instinct? What great end was served by this circle of wrath, misery and death? There must have been some point to it, else it meant the gods left the world as it was with no real direction, and that was unthinkable.
And it could be shed. Her and Patrone were living proof of that.
Just two years ago, she would have rather cut off her right arm than serve under a Fakonan commanding officer. But now, she realized that she had been perpetuating the very poison that had murdered her brother. It would never end. Not really.
As long as at least two Bestia Sapiens remained on Horti, someone would hate someone else’s guts.
“Hey, look who’s here!” She heard Patrone bellow with cheer. She breathed in. The guests were here. It was time to meet and greet. She glanced one last time at her brother. She would want him to enjoy her birthday…
Drying her tears, she put on a smile as she walked on the boardwalk to greet her friends. Her mouth fell halfway open when she saw there were three guests coming, not two.
Leading the pack was Hymer Ignatius Jehud. The muscular tiger was dressed in swimming trunks and a blue floral shirt, holding a sky blue gift box under one arm. She realized with concern that his face was bruised and bandaged in several places. As if it weren’t obvious enough from his evasive behavior the day before, he hadn’t gone anywhere near his father. Yet she didn’t care. In that moment, she felt more joy at seeing him than she thought herself capable of. She wanted to run out, embrace him, tell him how much his presence meant to her.
She walked over to the party, beaming.
“Welcome, welcome! Glad you all could make it and that we’re all here!” She hugged each of them, Citadel lifting her up in a bearhug.
She came face to face with Hymer. His sea-green eyes looked away for a moment before returning to her.
“I’m sorry.” they said.
She smiled. “It’s alright.”
He hugged her, slowly, reassuringly, in a mutual unspoken promise of acceptance and understanding.
“That… problem you had last night… Did you solve it?” She asked.
Hymer looked at the sea. At the gentle waves disintegrating into the earthy sand. At the sun halfway sunken beneath the green-blue sea. At the first stars and premature moon upon the light mauve sky.
“Yeah…” He replied, smiling softly.
As Hymer went to place his gift on the table, Sap whispered to Citadel: “Thank you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her smile, however, said otherwise.
Sap was about to respond when she felt a sharp tickle on her hip. An insistent, high-pitched prolonged beeping seared into her sensitive right ear. The horrendous beeping was replicated across the beach.
Her and her teammates reached for the PDA on their belts.
“HOSTAGE SITUATION – BARRICADED SUSPECT – 375 DEKKER DRIVE – TACTICAL TEAM NEEDED” scrolled across the digital screen in blood-red letters.
Sap groaned. “Oh, of all the fucking-”
“Duty calls, team! We’re deploying in five!” Patronne bellowed in his commanding voice, hastily removing the meat off the grill and extinguishing the flames.
Hymer put on an apologetic smile. “Good thing no one cracked open a beer yet… you got your gear here, right?”
They all did. One requirement of being always on call was to always carry their gear with them. Within five minutes, they were in the beach’s parking bay, plate carriers and weapon slings hastily placed over their clothing.
Hymer looked faintly ridiculous in his black armor vest and ammo webbing placed directly over the loud floral shirt, though Sap could see how perhaps one day it would become a fashion statement.
They all entered Patrone’s large black SUV. It would be a little cramped, but it was better if they all arrived on scene at the same time and could all receive their briefing and exchange tactical opinions during the ride.
The five METF operatives checked their weapons as the SUV screamed through the streets, sirens blaring.
A resident of the Solkat ‘burbs, one Anton Fegor, took his next door neighbors hostage, armed with an illegal submachine-gun and several improvised explosives. He currently threatened to detonate the devices in two hours unless the government “releases the aliens they captured from their war within Hollow Horti.”
Sap found herself stifling a chuckle in spite of herself. What a way to celebrate her birthday… In a way, she was still spending the day with her friends doing what she loved.
Sweet Twenty-Fifth indeed.