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The steel frame did its task, separating the dark case from the monitor built by hollow optimists. I couldn’t stop looking at it. Today was different. I knew my chair had to been squeaking, but my ears couldn’t process anything. My eyes, however, were unmoving. The screen in front of me did not lie. I’ve been working in this position for about two months now, yet I’ve never seen anything like this. I was aware of injustice. I’ve seen it all my life. As the camera recorded footage atop the pole, it was undeniable. The masked individual inserted his thin blade through the forearm of the unsuspecting Eric Vaaskel. I’ve met Eric on several occasions. I never got a grasp on his personality, but he certainly didn’t do anything to deserve getting assaulted. Usually, the worst I see on these aged screens are the feeds of people hurting themselves in accidents. Yet, this was different somehow. It was none of my business, what happened to Eric. Yet I felt the need to deliver justice. Revenge was not the emotion my brain processed and believe me, I knew what revenge felt like. I removed the lanyard around my neck and held it near the camera, where the video was paused on a frame where Eric was lying on the ground while his assailant was walking away. The paused frame included some light from the convenience store where Eric had just exited. Aisechnweld’s Colony rarely had buildings with labels on them, but if I had to guess, Eric had just purchased a small weapon and wanted to get home as quickly as possible. The video suggests this was the most likely possibility. Since my shift was about to end, I decided to use my job as an excuse to sneak over to the weapons store to see if any criminals required justice to be handed to them.

The security room I worked in was in the Central Security Center. The room looked like a completely different building compared to the rest of the center. The walls of every other room were the color of quartz. While the office I worked at had rust on the door handle. That meant the managers of the Security Center spent the little budget they had from our glorious Armada Colonel, Jaqson Aischenweld, on the cameras and not enough to decorate the last room where the high-spec monitors were located. I wasn’t the type to think about the physical appearance of anything anyway. I wanted to clock out of my shift and catch a little assailant. I doubt a random street gangster could compete with me. I was trained, after all, by one of the 6 Generals of Aischenweld, who were personally picked by the legendary figure himself. It was during the start of the 3rd American Civil War that Aischenweld proved how knowledge could be used as a weapon and how terrifying it could be in large groups of geniuses. It was a story that needed no introduction. It was a story that would be told until the end of time. And for me to end my shift, I had to go to Cathy’s desk. It was not like he was a cruel manager, but it was hard to get his attention when he was working, and he was always working. “I’m busy, see Karnes.” I wonder if Cathilio Antones said anything besides his iconic catchphrase during his shifts. The answer was probably not, since he wasn’t aware the only way for me to end my shift was through his software only he had permission to. Last week, I managed to catch Cathilio just as his shift was ending. After an agonizing hour of arguing, we compromised by my sending him a phoenix symbol ten minutes before I was going to end my shift. Today, it seems he was more focused on his assignments than usual. A slight knock on the glass was sufficient. I pulled out my phone and made sure I was excused on the CSE app. As soon as I saw “Otoro Gienes: SHIFT ENDED,” I dashed out the set of double doors, into Armadatowne, also known as Aischenweld’s Colony.

Mr. Aischenweld’s ancestors knew what they were doing when they decided to put a weapons store directly next to the CSE. I wasn’t complaining, that just meant there was less walking for me to do. It wasn’t like I had weak legs, but the prospect of walking long distances after running track in school was not an appealing prospect, at least not for me. As I crossed the iconic uneven and half-broken concrete of the Colony, I reached for the blue door that hid my greatest desires behind it. Upon opening the handle, I froze. Dark golden hair protruded from the rest of the head, then the body presented itself to me—his body. I haven’t seen Dinrali Rune in some time, but I haven’t truly given up on my friend, even if it looks like he did. “Hey man, how’ve you been?” I started. He stared disapprovingly before replying. “My state of mind has been better, but at least I know I can support myself now.” He didn’t wield the face of a man who believed what he was saying. “Executing people can’t be supportive of your brain, man,” I said. “If you’re here to spout some bullshit about executions being the same as murders, I’m respectfully not interested,” Dinrali said. It hurts to be powerless to help someone who respects you. Dinrali was probably in even more pain than me. “It’s not even about your job anymore, man. It’s about your state of mind.” The words did not come from a confident man, but instead, a boy who could barely speak his mind. “And who will mourn me when I change?” His dark orange hair softened, making his face look even more pitiful. “Am I worth changing for?” My reply calmed his facial features, igniting a spark of nostalgia of days long past. Unfortunately, nostalgia was most like a highly flammable material. I always wondered if optimism or pessimism was the opposite of realism. I knew I was optimistic, maybe I was still a boy and I should grow up. But seeing my friend change like this, maybe growing older wasn’t the greatest thing that could happen to someone. “Well, it seems you won’t ever grow up, will you?” Dinrali’s interruption paused my thoughts but didn’t destroy them.  “Yeah, and I’m okay with that.” My reply was absolute.

I waved goodbye as Dinrali went on with his day. The weapon was responsibly concealed in the back of the utility belt on his hip. I wouldn’t even bat an eye at someone with a weapon in their hands in Aischenweld’s Colony, but I was sure my friend wouldn’t use it for self-defense. The Guillotine X52-O was part of a series that wasn’t known for non-violent government punishment. It was just after Dinrali left the scene that I realized how dumb my plan was. What were the chances of encountering an assailant here? Sure, it was a weapons dealer store, but there were rarely any criminals who bought legal, tracked blades and firearms. I had put my foot on the door to keep it open, but I shortly removed it. Just then, I heard a voice coming from inside the store. I cringed when I heard the shopkeeper's familiar groans. “Hey, boy, you haven’t been here a little while yeah? Well, I was happy when a cub like you knew his limits. But if you’re already here, might as well buy one of my wares, yeah?” Anderson Jausta was a pretentious and narcissistic fellow. His voice was evidence of his smoking addiction and he smelled like it too. Nobody came to Anderson’s store for him and his impressively unfunny remarks about his competition. They only came for the weapons he bought from the competition he insulted. He was either too busy smoking a Wikee Vape or admiring a weapon he was going to sell off to admit nobody liked him, though. Anderson shouldn’t have angered me, but today, I was not in the mood for his remarks. I entered his store, immediately regretting it. At this point, my pride prevented me from reversing my decision, so there was I, a successful and smart kid traversing through the worst establishment in the colony. I didn’t even know how I was going to get back at the middle-aged addict. I was always full of ideas, especially when it came to petty revenge. As good as a schemer I was, it was pretty hard to ponder when the worst music you’ve ever heard is the store’s lullaby.

I’ve been to Jausta Banes dozens of times. The place was ample-sized for the variety of products for sale. The shop looked like a gas station, including its exterior. There were posters plastered on every wall you looked at. Most of them came from wannabe authors and artists who wrote propaganda pieces in exchange for a few bucks. In big black letters, most posters shared words like “VOTE” or “JUSTICE” and “DEMOCRACY.” For all his faults, he was a politically unbiased owner. Sure, it was probably because he made more money nailing posters onto his wooden walls from desperate teenagers who couldn’t stand the idea of losing, but he wouldn’t let anything get in the way of his greed. Maybe being an executioner like Dinrali has its benefits, such as the ability to ignore morons like Anderson and think about how you’re going to kill the next guy on death row. Even people who carried self-defense weapons might’ve been desensitized to violence.

I felt weak at that thought. I wasted my childhood viewing explicit security footage to delude myself into thinking the strongest people were emotionless beings who didn’t feel fear or pain. As I aged, I realized the rain was necessary for you to enjoy the sunlight. I wondered if Anderson was desensitized to violence and thought it normal to be an unlikeable jerk to everyone. Maybe he was what Dinrali would turn into. No, I couldn’t let that happen. I would restock on ammo and work together with Dinrali to take down the assailant we were undoubtedly looking for. After we catch the criminal, I would try my hardest to convince my best friend violence is not the only answer. If, no when I convince him, he would take up a less stressful occupation, maybe an officer or one of the soldiers in Aischenweld’s Armada if he still enjoyed violence. At least there were support groups for the mental health of veterans. You couldn’t say the same thing for executioners. I wandered the store one last time before reaching for the ammo for the Hauler Pistol on the top shelf. The only things noteworthy I saw today were the unfamiliar weapon Anderson was caressing and the unusually abundant number of boxes with the iconic logo belonging to Aischenweld’s Armada on them. Anderson was making some decent coin with his business, so it would make sense if he could afford to resell government-manufactured weapons for profit. Even if I didn’t the artist, I could still indulge in the art. The shelves were surprisingly sturdy, so he must’ve upgraded his equipment since the last time I was around here. With minimal effort, I grabbed a pack of bullets and made my way to the checkout. Anderson was tending to a young couple as he was cracking a vape. Behind them was a slim figure with one of those military helmets you’d find in the Armada. Unfortunately, the figure didn’t carry any government-manufactured weapons, though. He didn’t seem to carry any weapons at all. I was right behind him in line. I couldn’t see the couples’ faces, but judging from their body language, they were both pissed. This was a habit I learned from watching too many drama films. I was afraid my favorite escape from life was being caught up to and possessed.

“You may treat the little girls in your basement like that, but you’re not going to fucking say that to my girl, you hear me?” The young man looked to be only a couple of years older than me, but he had the confidence of a hardened veteran. To a degree, he was not exactly out of line. Anderson had the appearance of someone who would fit the stereotype of being a human trafficker. “Let’s call my lawyer and see what he thinks about defamation.” The store owner never liked to raise his voice, the only thing he liked to raise was his prices. Anderson preferred to mock his verbal opponents, really get under their skin, you know? It was an effective strategy for the most part, except for the one time a dude dropped his pants and started urinating on Anderson (everyone in the store cheered, including me.) However, this situation looked to be something more than delinquent affairs. Anderson was not expelling his infamous chuckle from his dry lips. The angry customer had reddish hair that blended nicely with his khaki outfit. The woman looked around one or two years younger than him and a foot shorter, too. She had blonde hair tied into twin tails that looked like they were dipped in pink food coloring (don’t blame me. I’m not the guy you should be asking about fashion.) She grabbed his right arm and whispered into his ear words I didn’t hear. After only a few rounds of what looked like a staring contest between Anderson and the customer, the couple peacefully walked out of the store. The person in front of me was next and as soon as he got into staring distance of Anderson, he put on a hood I didn’t even realize he was wearing. I could now view the row of weapons protected by glass where Anderson’s cash register was on top. The transparent display showcased the owner’s rarest finds. The ones he would be shameless enough to sell for six figures. As I examined the row of wares, something extraordinary caught my eye. Anderson was known for reselling government weapons. He never gave a straight answer for how he acquired them. The only legal way you could get your hands on them was by filling out a form and getting it improved. My best bet was that Anderson was hiring lowlives to rob officials and loot their equipment. Then again, those guys would probably try to rob Anderson, if not for his weapons, but for his attitude. They liked to call themselves professionals with standards.

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Anderson’s plan had worked. I had found myself enhanced by one of his stolen wares. It was the one and only. Aischenweld’s Forensic Scientist’s masterpiece, the Taserblade. The dark-colored weapon had teal highlights and the Armada’s logo on it, Aischenweld’s extremely pale face with his equally white hat, covering his eyes in a minimalist art style. The General of Aischenweld had prepared this weapon for the Armada’s soldiers and anyone who needed a weapon for protection. Despite its gorgeous appearance, I doubt it was the real deal. It was only a week ago since the Taserblade was announced to be in its testing stages. Anderson was the type of person to get duped, considering his egotistical nature. The weapon was in duel mode, its blade sharp enough to best any foe in close combat. The handle was wider than anyone was used to, but the people living here were skilled enough to adapt to the difference. The best way to describe it was like a tall square with a sharp blade protruding from the front of the body. Like many of Aischenweld’s inventions, it was not the only form the device could take. The body’s interior was far more complicated than its exterior visage of a small black cube. With the dissected workings of a standard taser, Aischenweld rearranged them in his original weapon. Due to the inexpensive materials, the electric projectile wasn’t going to cause as much damage as a bullet, but Aischenweld never let a flaw pass in any of his products. With one press of the button above the trigger, the ranged weapon once again took the form of a long, thin blade. The blast of the taser would at least stun your opponent for a short time which you could take advantage of. The dagger-shaped weapon was intended for penetrating skin and entering flesh. Towards the tip of the blade was what would’ve been the interior of the Taserblade in ranged mode. Anything in contact with the components would react accordingly, usually flesh. There was also the rare scenario where you met someone smart enough to get their hands on anti-Aischenweld armor, but the only one confirmed to have such equipment was the big boss himself. There was only one size for the set and Jaqson was not known for having a common body type. I only saw him once before, when my father tagged me alongside his meeting. The man was a staggering seven feet tall, his skin paler than the stars in the sky he would eventually rule. Political conflicts were not in my top interests, however. I would contribute by checking security cameras tomorrow. For the remainder of the day, I would wait patiently in line and go home. It seemed like my plans for catching a lowlife were under. It wasn’t a huge deal. Criminals weren’t rare in the city. Besides, it was always a wise idea to appreciate a peaceful day. I didn’t know if the following week would include a prison escape with criminals making an armada of their own. Aischenweld would likely just send a few armed units to round the prisoners up, but he had other issues to attend to. So did I, as the man directly in front of me left the sight of Anderson’s piercing eyes. If looks were blades, Anderson’s pupils would be duller than one of the documentaries that seem to play every other day at the local theater. Not like I had anything against documentaries or anyone that watched them. Dinrali often enjoyed them but didn’t bother to invite me when he saw a viewing or two. He attempted an eye-roll, but with his limited skills, the movement of his pupil could best be traced by drawing the letter c. Judging by the stacks of business cards beside the gray cash register, Anderson’s version of the third letter in the alphabet looked more like the sideways version of the letter v. It looked like the hooded figure in front of me could barely read the shopkeeper’s handwriting. Either that, or I found an incredibly slow person who needed sixteen seconds to read the infamous slogan “Every weapon under the sun, by Anderson, for fun” on the business card. As the overly-dressed man moved a few steps towards the exit, I greeted Anderson. Nothing with a positive or negative connotation, but even that didn’t look to satisfy him. He had dark brown hair which reached the back of his neck. His side-burns looked almost fake, but I doubt he’d spent any money on something that didn’t involve women. I dropped my boxes of ammo on the counter. If Anderson didn’t have anything else going for him, at least his cases of bullets appeared majestically. I might have been being generous, however. There was a very high chance he bought them off from another dealer. Presumably online, where no one could identify him by appearance. If I had to guess, he spent fifty percent of his money on investing. Contrary to what most people believed, he was constantly making decent bets. Unfortunately, he never spent any money on the cash register. It was one of the newer models that accepted Mugen Chips, but it was one of the prototypes. Mugen Chips worked perfectly, but the fresh register seemed to dislike other payment methods. That’s why I tried my best to retrieve my wallet among the several ammo cases stuffed in my pockets. “Four, five, seven, eight.” Anderson’s eyes perked up. “Eight ammo packs. Violent today, are we?” I ignored him as I finally pulled my metallic wallet from the warzone in my pockets. “No, just being safe and competent. You haven’t heard of those words before, have you?” It was ethically okay to tease Anderson. It was morally superior to try to piss the man off to the best of your ability. He started, but his lips hesitated. He sunk back into his seat faster than the bullets I was buying when fired. It took the register more time than Anderson to react. In a soothing male voice, it informed me of my total. Exactly twenty-two dollars. Armadan dollars. It was the most money I willingly gave to Anderson. No matter how long I looked at them, the bills always looked exotic to me. It was an outlier among designs. Foreign black and dark gray colors surrounded the perimeter of the crisp paper. A white emblem representing the pride of so many men was engraved in the middle. It was unlike anything the world has ever seen. I let myself a carefree smile. I knew Anderson was going to be pissed I was taking so long, but I knew that. He was always pissed. At least he wasn’t the type to show it. Especially not while working. The idea of losing profits by any means was not an option for him. Even if it was roughly four or five dollars. I theorized that range was how much he would gain after deducting the price of the ammo he bought. If others would do anything for twenty dollars, Anderson thought holding back his emotions for a few seconds was worth five. The register accepted the payment with a whisper-level tune, three notes to let both parties know the transaction had gone smoothly. The sound was one of those non-copyrighted samples everyone used, but it never got old in this store. Anywhere else, it would be considered mediocre and unnecessary banter. This was not the case when you desperately wanted to leave a loser’s store as soon as possible. I jumped at the sound that had become an unofficial alarm, the jingle music to my ears. I didn’t request for a small bag as I grabbed my cases and dropped them in my pockets, where they would find themselves in a battle of their own. I dashed to the right, where the exit was just beyond my reach. As I pushed the black door forward, I was greeted again by the familiar scenery of the only place I’d known. It was becoming dark. The sight of the Sun was omitted in half by one of the dozens of security towers with cameras. All of them were likely operated by me at some point. It glowed orange and bold like Dinrali’s hair, making itself known around the world. Places unrecognizable from the home I knew as the Colony. I imagined how overwhelming it must feel, to travel to places so opposing from the environment of your life. Maybe if I was older, I could understand how to be like Agathakako’s Sun. To look over so many exotic landmarks yet be the most enigmatic in the system. I was something of an enigma myself. A peculiar figure approached me as I examined a pack of ammunition I had bought from Anderson. I didn’t believe he was looking for me, so I continued studying the collection of metal shells. The sleezy-eyed keeper never scammed me once, but you could never be too sure. He was known for ripping other guys off and he would always say it was technically “sharking.” He would reportedly grin, thinking he was the first person to make that excuse. As much I wanted to believe the rumors, I would be less likely to believe Dinrali, who told me about the rumors, wouldn’t knock Anderson’s head off if he dared flash a malicious grimace. I heard the sound of a hasty animal sprint past me, into the alleyway beside Anderson’s edifice. As common as the ruckus was, I just couldn’t prevent my curious instincts from turning around at the occurrence. Unfortunately, they also overridden the fact I was holding an ammo case while turning. My thin fingers retracted and traversed but the rectangular box slipped from my grasp. The sturdy case flopped on the uneven bricks which formed the concrete sidewalk. I crouched towards the case and picked it up again. When your job revolves around sitting at a desk all day, you are more inclined to work your body. For me, it was mostly my lower half. Collecting the orange transparent case took minimal effort. As I retracted from my position, I spotted a familiar face. The figure whose black hood obstructed the view of the back of his head stood. His hands were in the pockets of his jacket, similar to how he held them when he was standing in line. I was going to turn in the opposite direction when I caught his movements. He was motioning towards me in a position similar to that of mine when I was picking up my ammo. As I took a step back and put my hands in the form of a common combat stance, his fingers pulled out his pockets, a small blade that was the only thing familiar about the individual. If this was the assailant who went after Eric, I wouldn’t have to worry too much. Eric was far from the strongest person I knew, and even then, this hooded figure couldn’t land slashes deep enough to leave a mark on him. This fellow would get a crash course on how badly small metal balls would hurt. It didn’t matter he dashed a short distance. I flinched-fired and the pellet passed through his liver like it wasn’t there. Yet this individual was still not down. After breaking his awkward fall directly on both of his knees, he had a new strategy. I heard and saw the clatter of a blade falling. Wrong one. The other weapon was in the man’s hand, and he stabbed it hard into my foot in a state of adrenaline. I landed sideways, my left leg giving out. My left arm had broken the fall, and possibly itself. That didn’t stop it from attempting to grasp the assailant’s head with it. It took about four attempts, with him trying desperately to break free. He was also swinging his arms, either trying to deliver a blow with poor form or trying to grab the silver blade which was now penetrating my foot. I’m sure the combined fingers imitating a clenched fist were more annoying than painful. I really should’ve considered a physical job like one of the officers in the colony. While the blows to the back of his head looked painful, I doubt it would compare to the agony that I would experience from the blade submerged in my ankle. However, I decided to use most of my adrenaline before it ran out. I risked using my right leg to stomp on the man’s kidneys before realizing he was already on his stomach. Turns out, I risked falling in the same position as him to give him an aggressive back massage. Fortunately, he was barely moving. I stopped as soon as I could. Sure, you could view me differently for stomping on his back multiple times, but in my defense, I believed it necessary for my defense. Adrenaline does things to people. I checked after my own injuries after making sure he wouldn’t inflict more. A quick glance was all that was required. My eyes pierced his body. By some miracle, he was getting up. It was as if I never landed a strike on him. He looked to be in the same fighting position he was a few moments ago, save for the blades, which he now had none. Time to see where this goes.

It didn’t matter how confident I was, considering the fact the assailant wouldn’t be the type of person to back down. With both of my arms, my hands retracted from clenching. With the form of an unbalanced drunkard, I’d shove the man to the ground. The sound was disgusting. I truly didn’t want to cause serious injury to him. I decided not to approach him. I was not about to move someone who hit their head on solid concrete. As I walked towards him, he looked like he was still conscious. In a manner of animalistic instinct, I kicked his head. The damage was diabolical, even if I was fighting my brain not to do it. Without experiencing the full force of a kick to the noggin, he was twitching, his movements resembling the motion of a seizure. I’d never tried harder to fight myself. He was down. I was not the type of person to wound someone when they were in immediate pain. It only took a minute for my adrenaline to dissipate and I watched as he moved erratically. I wasn’t going to help him. I didn’t know how to solve seizures. I wasn’t a medical professional. All I could do was extract my phone from my pocket and dial the Peace Officers. Before that, however, a familiar figure entered my eyesight. He walked towards the downed individual. His grin was not simply antagonizing, but peculiarly sadistic. It was curved like a scientist forced it that way. “That little fellow was directing scrubs away from my biz. Thanks for your efforts, even if they went into muding a stick of a man,” said Anderson.