Internecine.
----------------------------------------
He didn’t like the image in front of him.
No, the two girls, Sativa and Kandida were great, but the two women on television?
It was the President of Gan, Zhao Ye, and the Emperor of Hispania’s only daughter, Paloma Marsia Liana Karemena Hispania. The former had your typical Minzuaren features: short stature slabbed strongly with modest black features. While Zhao Ye had the fairer skin associated with those who could afford protection from labor, Karemena’s glow was of a different magnitude. It was unexplainable. How she was a bit more tanned than Zhao Ye yet still glowed brighter. Nobody could say. It was not the television broadcaster, Amadeus was sure of that.
What he was sure though was that shit was gonna blow. Aside from his groin being worked on by the two girls that formed an uneven valley view of the television screen, Karemena had just exited a helicopter. Alone. With a rapier so ornate with jewels. It could not possibly—
“This meeting was unsanctioned by my brother,” Karemena began as she neared the two heads of state. Zhao Ye’s microphone picked up the royal voice. Cold and seething. The camera zoomed in on the faces. Karemena, Zhao Ye, and the President of the Beihai.
Zhao Ye held several titles relating to her beauty before she was voted into presidency, but with Karemena’s face in the shot. It was like the Sun versus Andromeda or some other unreachable star.
The President of Beihai’s young but folded face hit the purview and Amadeus was planning to close his eyes. A slew of red formed an arc. It bloodied Zhao Ye’s traditional Minzuaren dress. But not Karemena’s, despite its overflow.
It was the blood of Beihai’s president. It was the blood of Beihai.
The two girls working him did not seem to sense his abrupt tensing. Not before Karemena spoke again.
“My father rules this world. I rule this world. My family rules this world. Hispania rules this world. If we tell you to not proceed, then you should not do so,” Karemena declared. She then turned around, sheathed her sword, and headed back to the helicopter.
His groin tightened, but not out of pleasure.
“What’s wrong?” Sativa asked.
“Didn’t you guys hear that?” he asked.
“Karemena?” Sativa presumed.
“Ya, did you not hear the blood of the Beihai gush out?”
Kandida sniffed. “What we wanna hear is just one of type of liquid—”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Kan,” Sativa said, a bit of order accompanying. “What is it, Amadeus?”
Amadeus bounced off the white-but-ornate pillow that Sativa probably sourced from some illegal-but-legal furnishing dealer. From Hispania.
“I gotta go somewhere for a while,” he said, kissing Sativa first on the lips. Then Kandida.
When he went to the bathroom, they did not say anything as he brushed his teeth. When he gathered clothes and a towel, they joined him. Kandida scrubbing his back, Sativa tracing his face with her soap-laced pearly fingers. He left Sativa’s lot without saying anything more than, “It’s gonna be a while, but I’ll be in touch.”
The drive northeast was a long one, but he needed to make it before the sun set. He passed through the Sierra Sekoya like a dolphin through water. His car would not have been able to do so if the road to his destination was maintained by Rosnova. Although Rosnova was strong in many areas, the abandonment of the highway system had taken its toll on those using it outside the cities. When he was in The Valley, potholes skirted the underbelly of his car. It was a funny thing, like dolphins once again, as open flat areas should be easy to maintain. But the world was different, internally amassed problems were all the rage and it needed to go somewhere. The open ocean now held huge whirlpools of garbage. Dolphins evolved near rivers, so it was said, but they thrived in the seas. Cars were made to cross distances, so it was engineered, but they allowed laziness in droves. Rivers were understandably clogged and river dolphins had re—he did not know anything, if he was honest, but there was one thing he knew. What every educated person should know. Hispania.
It looked like your average border station. Except there were two lines: one with those in cars and one with those without cars. He disembarked as he needed to piss. He got a meter to the opened doors before somebody shouted. “Back in the line!”
He tensed his eyebrows. “I need to piss, fam,” he said. “Relax.”
“You still have to be in line!” another person shouted.
He looked between the doors. On his right was cool but stale air. Ten people. To his left was warm and spunky air. Thirty-nine people. He looked at the area outside the air-conditioned building. It had a parking lot and that was it. His bottles were already orange, not a trace of concentrated apple juice as substitute.
“Fuck it,” he mumbled as walked to the very back of the line.
The person in front of him was a short woman. She carried a baby in her arms.
“What’s the name?” he asked after a minute of standing behind them. He left his phone to charge in his car.
“Of what, I’m sorry?” the woman replied, her accent leaning on unrecognizable to him.
“The baby?”
The woman smiled, her baggy eyes disappearing for a moment. “Oh, it’s Ern. Ern Satine.”
“Oh cool,” was all he could reply. There was something that bothered him about her smile.
When it was just five people before the doors, somebody stood behind him. A young son of the hood. It was obvious from the bandana and tattoos on the face. He was about to talk to the guy despite his personal leanings, but he saw the blood on the guy’s shoes. It was a one thousand dollar shoe, he deduced. Marred by blood, whose host could have been worth a burger meal at some fast food joint or a funeral procession at some middle class cemetery. He tensed a bit but kept his eyes ahead. He did not want to offend the gangbanger in any way. Especially not in the border station of all places.
When he was at the border between cold and warm, he had a clearer hearing of what was being said by the immigration officer.
“Is your name Dara, or is it Thandara?” the immigration officer’s voice was smooth as silk. As expected of a female authority figure.
“It’s Dara,” the person being questioned replied. He did not know whether the person was male or female due to the unisex attire.
The immigration officer scribbled a few words. “How come you did not take the plane to Pelosanto like the rest of your bandmates?”
As the person made out their excuse, he figured out the attire trend. It was a fashion thing from Lasilafinas. “… I also think they wanted this to happen as a prank.”
The immigration officer made a swooshing gesture to her right. “Aight, you can go. Next!”
The next border crosser was not unlike the person behind him. The only difference was the gender. In a closer inspection, the articles of clothing were opposite of the person behind him. He had heard a silent hiss behind, which was both a contradictory matter and an anxious-filling one.
If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.
The line moved and as he crossed into the cooled air, he could somehow hear even clearer and the name tag on the immigration officer was laid as clear as her beauty. “Captain Ivanka Nuta Frankova.”
“Name?” the immigration officer asked.
“Denisha,” the female gangbanger replied.
“Your birth name?”
“Denisha,” the female gangbanger repeated, clicking her tongue.
“Do you want to know your birth name?”
“No.”
“Okay, you can go. Next!”
He did not notice it before but Captain Ivanka Nuta Frankova only stopped scribbling on her immigration log when the last person crossed to the other side.
“Name?”
“Winice.”
“Last name?”
“You haven’t asked that to the others before,” the border crosser noted, annoyance in his voice.
“Last name?” the immigration officer dodged the bait.
“Cod.”
“Occupation?”
“You didn’t—”
“Occupation?”
“Rapper.”
“What’s a rapper?”
“Uh, it’s a person who raps,” the border crosser cooled his voice. “Basically, I say words really fast or—”
“Religion?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Religion?”
“I don’t practice.”
“Orientation?”
“What?”
“Sexual orientation?”
“Is this a joke?”
“Orientation?”
“Vegas.”
“Are those aliens?”
“No.”
“How much you have on you right now?”
“I got five stacks.”
“Of what?”
“Frankas.”
“And?”
“What do you mean?”
“And?”
“Well, I got my bank card with me.”
“Okay?”
A minute passed, with the air conditioner humming. And the occasional cough. He looked around the spacious room. There was only one person not in the line or sitting down the table wherein Captain Ivanka Nuta Frankova sat. It was another immigration officer, same color of uniform, but a different color of gender. He had a skin way darker than Captain Ivanka’s, almost borderline a South Asian of some sort. He stood at the doorless entrance to the restroom. It had no imagery for gender.
“Well,” the border crosser began after a deep exhale. “I got about a thousand on my chequing and fiddy on my savings.”
“And?”
“What do you mean? I got nothing more.”
“Are you sure?”
Another minute passed.
“Well, my neck bling here is worth about ten kay.”
“You sure?”
“Ya, I bought it for ten kay.”
“Mhm, okay. Take out your bank card.”
“Why?”
“Take out your bank card.”
“Okay,” the border crosser said, unveiling his diamond-studded wallet. Oddly enough, it was a velcro one.
The border officer took out a device. It looked like a derivative of the Kayano L650 or 2000. Which was not supposed to release yet, not later next year. He gritted his teeth.
“Put it on the screen of my phone.”
“Why?”
“Put it on.”
The border crosser did. The phone lit up and vibrated for a moment.
“Hand me the bracelet on your right.”
“Wait, what did you do—”
“Hand it.”
“Wait fam, this one costs—”
“Hand it,” the border officer said, with finality in her tone. The border crosser did. “Okay, you can go now. Next!”
The next two were just like the female gangbanger: just asked for a name and they were off.
The fifth person ahead of him was beautiful, but there was something about her that threw him off.
“Miss, can I use the washroom?” the border crosser asked.
“Dunno, can you?” the immigration officer retorted. He rolled his eyes. Captain Ivanka Nuta Frankova caught him.
The border crosser coughed a giggled. “Ahm, may I use the washroom?”
“We have no washrooms here.”
“Then what is Mister Officer doing near that entryway?”
“Guarding it.”
“Against people like you.”
Two minutes passed. It was exact as he counted from the television screen above the interviewer and interviewee. It also looked like another unreleased product from his group of companies.
“I’m sorry, nani?”
“We don’t speak Nongo here, chan’er.”
“Chan’er? Well I’ll be—”
“Name?”
“What?”
“You watched me repeat again over and over to the previous border crosser, don’t make me do it again.”
“You know.”
“I do know.”
“I meant, Yuno.”
“I know. But are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“How sure are you?”
“A hundred percent.”
“What’s your purpose of visit?”
“I wanted to see Centrum’s urban landscape, I heard there’s—”
“A lot of blood and tears. Who told you to come through here?”
“What do you mean?”
“Who provided you the weapons in your bag?”
The border crosser gripped her brown leather back closer to her. It contrasted highly with her white appearance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I have nothing—”
It was over in a second. As quick as lightning seeking its terrestrial target. The border crosser’s light clothes got slaked by dark and somehow coagulating red blood. There was not even a sound. The immigration officer did not even move the rest of her body. Where a pen rested on her right hand before, a golden pistol was gripped. She clicked her tongue and the floor below the border crosser started to unfurl. Amadeus and the remaining border crossers stepped back slowly, in case they were reached by the expanding abyss. In case a swift retreat would meet a swift end.
He could not smell or feel anything change in the air. If he had not seen the girl’s forehead bearing a hole and brook of blood, he would not have rationalized what was in front of him. The floor seemed to disappear into some black locus, but it was soon retopped by the pristine-white that everything else in the room stood on top of. There was no thud, crunch, or anything for the shot border crosser’s body. She just simply disappeared down to the ground.
“Next!”
The next two were quick. They were quivering as they left the room. The one before the mother in front of him even puked. Right on the right side of the door to the other side. The immigration officer guarding the restroom entered his charge and reappeared with an old-fashioned mop. He set to clean the retch.
He wanted to go to the restroom before the Nongonese girl met her demise, but when the immigration officer asked for the next border crosser, he had let himself flow.
Not with embarrassment, but fear. And it seems the same for the baby in front of him. He started crying as he and his mother faced the immigration officer.
“Name?”
“Asiana.”
“Last name?”
“Oper.”
“The baby’s name?”
“Ern Satine. Nuredes. Ern Satine Nuredes.”
“Are you running from Mister Nuredes?”
“Yes.”
“Does he know you’ve gone here?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What city are you trying to settle to.”
“Any.”
“Do you want any recommendations?”
“No—I mean yes.”
“Okay. Well, Centrum is obviously your best bet. Especially if you wanna hide in the ghetto. Then the next best is Sixland, but you’ll never really be safe unless you go to Pelosanto.”
“Wait, why Pelosanto, where is that? All I’ve been told was Centrum was the closest and best place.”
“Did you know that Mister Nuredes is a citizen of our nation?”
“No. I know you guys can’t just deny people—”
“Mam, we can and do deny people. Just like Miss Yuno over there,” Captain Ivanka Nuta Frankova pointed her right index finger downward, pen almost piercing her log. “But citizens like Mister Saper Nuredes can’t be denied, even if he doesn’t know that he holds citizenship from us. The non-citizens like you are only permitted in special circumstances, such as when fleeing life-threatening situations or performing in venues as an artist. But that’s only if you’re accompanying a citizen of ours. Which,” the immigration officer paused, changing the direction of her right index finger, “your son is.”
The border crosser bowed her head. “Thank you, thank you!”
“Mhm,” the border officer sounded. “Would you like to know the truth about anything at all? Us Truth Officers can give border crossers one free freebie.”
“Wait, anything?” the mother queried. Her baby stopped crying.
“Anything that you could think of,” the border officer affirmed, nodding her head.
“Will we be alright? Us two?” the mother asked, her voice breaking.
“You will,” the border officer declared. “In fact, that handsome young man next in line will be a teacher of your son.”
Say what? Amadeus asked himself many questions. A teacher was something he did not see himself as. He did not even lead, except for his disobeying of Sativa earlier in the day. Every time he would enter or leave her driveway with his car, it had always stung him a bit. Blemishing such a picturesque view. It was an option, of course. Everything was. She had offered to buy him a car matching hers. Or his other relatives’ but he had stayed true to his ambition. Or lack of it. He could not even be bothered to encourage Kandida to leave despite Sativa drunkenly confessing that she had only picked Kandida because of him. He reckoned it was true at first, yet when he left earlier, he felt that there was something definite growing between the two. He had always suspected that she swung that way as she’d dated no boy except for him, and that she’d begged for a new third party every time she was bored with the old one. He had actually told her to stop messing with the other girls if she was only going to throw them away after a few months. That was when she concocted Kandida, or the idea of her. Kandida’s beauty did not surpass hers. Kandida was as toned as him. He had an inkling it was her culmination of what they both preferred. It was one of the few times he heard, turned, incurred, and asserted his diamond-furred words.
“I asked for the next one in line, boy!” the border officer barked, but not to the level of a shout.
“Sorry,” he said, scratching his scalp with both hands.
“Did you know you were a citizen, Amadeus?” the border officer asked. His mind glided over the weird instances before, as quick as a peregrine or cheetah chasing its prey. He wanted fly or run. Either one would produce none of what he wanted.
“No, I didn’t,” he replied, thoughts racing all over.
“Come here, lemme cop a feel,” the border officer insisted. “You’re gonna need to talk like that.”
“Talk like what?” he asked, halfway in and out of reality. He gravitated toward her.
The border officer kissed her teeth. “The school you’ll be on.” Captain Ivanka Nuta Frankova enclosed her hands with his, electrifying him with a soft silent squeeze. It was all he saw before his eyes stopped working. “There, I’ve activated your connection to our citizen system. Now, is there anything you want? You can ask me anything. I’m sworn to the truth.” He wanted to open his mouth, to ask a curious one, to determine why his eyes were not working, but his lips would not budge. “There, there, I do want something,” Captain Ivanka Nuta Frankova’ smooth voice became extra smooth. To the point of sultriness. “And I know how much guilt you feel with consent. With slaughter. With birth. With tragedy. With justice. With pain. With beauty.”
For a long while, he heard an unbuckling. Until his eyes started working again.
Before his eyes sought forth.