Riley awoke the next morning, his body aching in protest as he tried to get up. The previous night with Autumn had been rough—really rough. He leaned down to give her a soft kiss before limping away, feeling a sharp pain in his pelvis. It felt like his bones were groaning and crying out silently.
As he stepped out of the apartment complex, he spotted Jack, who immediately burst into laughter.
“Damn, Autumn really put a number on your pelvis,” Jack cackled loudly, catching Hayden’s attention.
Hayden chuckled as well, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Jesus Christ, Autumn’s a beast,” he jeered, though his tone wasn’t mean-spirited—just amused.
Riley rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. I’ve got work in an hour,” he mumbled, causing the two to laugh even harder.
“You’re seriously going to work after being wrecked like that?” Jack exclaimed, clutching his stomach as he doubled over in laughter.
“Fuck off,” Riley retorted, smirking despite the soreness. “It’s not like it’ll affect my performance.”
He left the two behind, still snickering and making catcalls, as he walked into the chaotic streets of New York City. The noise of the city was interrupted by the sharp crack of gunfire. Riley’s heart skipped a beat as he turned the corner and saw a clash between the Red Hand Sicarios and Federal Soldiers. The squads were firing at each other, turning the street into a war zone.
Quickly, Riley ducked behind a ledge, scurrying away as bullets whizzed past. He let out a sigh of relief once he was clear, heading toward his workplace: The Hybrid Society Headquarters.
Riley worked as a deliverer, tasked with bringing much-needed food and water to the Subspecies—hybrids who faced discrimination and exclusion.
The extremist group known as the “Swords of Christ” regularly targeted them, donning armor marked with Christian symbols. These Crusaders were notorious for their intimidation tactics: lynch mobs, harassment, and general bullying.
Riley clocked in, pulling on a balaclava to hide his identity from the Crusaders, along with gloves for extra grip strength. His beak stretched the balaclava, though his other unique features were hidden. He loaded his van with crates of food and drove into one of the city’s impoverished areas. The sight was grim: Pure Men and Subspecies alike, all wearing ragged clothes, wandered the streets, desperately trying to survive.
When he stopped his van and opened the back doors, he set up a temporary outpost. The people flocked to him, hungry and exhausted. Riley handed out the green-labeled welfare packets, marked: HYBRID SOCIETY WELFARE PACKET – INTENDED FOR A FAMILY OF 4.
A teenage Felinus approached him, dressed in tattered hand-me-downs, his black cat ears and tail messy and unkempt. “E-Excuse me, sir,” the boy stammered, his voice weak. “Can you please give me and my mom a packet?”
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Riley nodded, handing over a ration packet. The boy’s face lit up with a genuine smile. “T-thanks, mister,” he said, hurrying back to his mother, who held a baby in a makeshift stroller crafted from wood and cotton scraps.
Riley continued handing out supplies until a group of Crusaders approached him. Four men, clad in trench coats emblazoned with a Crusader Cross, glared at him, clutching their clubs and shivs. Riley didn’t hesitate—he quickly jumped into the van and sped off, the Crusaders chasing after him. He narrowly avoided several crashes as he weaved through traffic before finally slowing down, unwilling to waste precious gas that cost a whopping 24 ration tokens.
Back at the Hybrid Society HQ, he parked the van and walked inside, where he was met by his manager, Frank.
“Had a clash with the Crusaders,” Riley reported, rubbing the back of his neck. “Luckily, they didn’t get me.”
“Damn those racists,” Frank muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. “I just don’t get why they bar subspecies from help... Oh wait, it’s because we’re ‘the devil’s creation,’” he added sarcastically, mocking the Swords of Christ’s reasoning for their persecution.
Frank sighed. “Riley, you should go home. It’s obvious these Crusaders are patrolling the streets more often now.”
Riley hesitated, disappointed he couldn’t help more subspecies in need, but he knew he couldn’t risk his life. He reluctantly took off his balaclava and gloves, putting them back in his locker before stepping out onto the streets again.
He spotted Autumn in an alley, chatting with a customer—a Felinus clearly showing signs of heroin addiction. Riley sighed but felt a pang of empathy. It wasn’t easy for Autumn to find a job, given the stigma that Verminus were thieves.
He walked up to her with a warm smile. “Hi, Pumpkin,” he greeted, pulling her into a hug.
“How’s your day been?” he asked.
“Eh, nothing much,” Autumn shrugged. “Had an argument with some old guy wearing Crusader symbols. Pathetic bastard,” she muttered, lighting a cigarette and offering one to Riley.
He accepted, pulling out his green lighter. They smoked in silence for a moment, letting the nicotine calm their nerves.
“So, Autumn,” Riley asked, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “Any ideas to pass the time?”
“We could do karaoke at the bar,” she suggested. “You’re good at singing.”
Riley blushed, scratching the back of his neck. “Y-yeah, I guess.”
The two walked down the decaying streets, glancing at the increased patrols of Federal Troops armed with shiny new XM7 rifles, riding in Humvees. They reached the pub, its neon sign glowing brightly: Foggy Dew.
Inside, the bar was packed as usual. They headed to the counter, where the bartender, Finn—a burly Irishman with a full beard—greeted them, wearing his iconic IRA Uniform he wore during his time in The Troubles.
“Aye, the lassie and her boy-wife,” Finn teased, grinning. He’d nicknamed Riley “boy-wife” for his submissiveness to Autumn.
“We’ll have two mugs of ale,” Autumn said, handing over a few crumpled bills.
Finn poured the ale, frothy and rich. Riley took a sip, wincing slightly. “Yeesh, it’s... very Irish,” he remarked.
Autumn chuckled, nudging him playfully. “Of course, they’re known for their ale,” she quipped, handing him a microphone. “C’mon, Ray Ray, give the pub a good song.”
Riley, slightly tipsy, took the mic and began singing a song that fit the mood of the pub: The Foggy Dew. He sang with passion, his voice filling the room:
As down the glen one Easter morn,
To a city fair rode I,
There armed lines of marching men
In squadrons passed me by...
The patrons listened in silence, captivated by the haunting melody of rebellion and loss. Riley’s voice carried the sorrow and pride of the lyrics, ending with a somber bow as the pub erupted in applause.
Autumn pulled him into a kiss, smiling against his lips. “You were amazing,” she whispered.
Riley blushed, his heart swelling with affection. “Thanks, Pumpkin,” he murmured.
The night wasn’t over yet, but in that moment, they felt a rare sense of peace amidst the chaos of their world.