"Someone might ask, what are things made of, in reality?"
Some of the children muttered, some of them yawned, but none of them looked particularly engaged.
"Our fundamental understanding is—smaller and smaller things. All of humanity's greatest technologies are just that: complexes of isolable things. But first, we had to isolate the material we worked with…"
Betelgeuse shifted his side pouch over to his lap and reclined upon the bench of carven porphyry, watching with mute interest the youthful teacher sitting by the edge of the spitting fountain. His wounds had yet to heal fully and his left hand throbbed painfully from the effort of holding up a cinnamon-flavored sweetmeat.
About the teacher were bored-faced children who could not be older than nine years of age, jabbering, thumb-sucking, engaging in horseplay and juvenile crooning and generally doing everything they could not to pay attention to their broad-nosed, dusky-skinned tutor.
"... so down we went the rabbit hole, discovering things like molecules, atoms, then sub-atomic particles like protons and neutrons and electrons, then quarks of the major and minor distinctions, the major quarks comprising up quarks and down quarks, the minor quarks comprising charm, strange, top and bottom quarks, and then we found a whole new universe revealed writ in the quantum language—"
"Mr. Gervase, Abby hit me!"
"Did not! It was Daniel who started it, Daniel bit me first!"
"Well, you're stupid, Abby!"
"At least I'm human-stupid! You're dumber than a cow!"
The young teacher squinted like an old man. The children had started shifting around restlessly and murmuring canards to each other, mumbling and jostling and even accusing Daniel or Abby or possibly Ira or Everett of "sexual defiancy".
Betelgeuse raised an eyebrow. The children were getting loud and boisterous and fabricating scandals that would make a politician sweat. Saltilla's elementary students were clearly exposed to a fraught media, he mused.
Mr. Gervase had begun to mediate between his charges' antinomic assertions in a gentle tone when Betelgeuse started to wonder where Voke had gone. Voke was the reason why he was here in the first place—he'd returned to the barracks after his session at the infirmary, the dormitory empty save for riffle-haired Voke, when Voke had asked if he could "tag along".
He wasn't thinking of going anywhere, he had said, and Voke, decidedly aghast, had decided himself that they should check out some of Saltilla's "communal spaces" on their "first day off in two months". So off they went in search of the shuttle bus that would courier them to the shopping district, a single street made large, Betelgeuse realized, by the towering columns ringed with moats of artificial talus.
Betelgeuse eyed his wrist-transceiver. Fifteen minutes. It shouldn't have taken that long to find a toilet. He didn't feel like moving—no choice but to take in the sights a third time.
He tipped his cap's visor upward.
It was a plaza bathed in afternoon light and centered with a fountain spewing droplets of water suspended mid-air, a visual illusion that clearly appealed to the idling onlookers loafing athwart the encircling granite benches. The fountain looked to have been fashioned out of marble or a material very like marble. The fountainhead and its stem had been precision-carved into writhing figures both human and animalian, the gaping faces appearing to strain against alabaster sheets. They looked like they were suffocating.
Below his feet was a pavement tessellated with isosceles tiles and lined with white grouting, the tiles colored white and indigo, the contours of the indigo mingling and then splaying through the fountain and across the circular plaza. As he followed the contours of color with his eyes, he found it looked very much like a tree denuded of leaves. Its brittle branches were pointing down the plaza's exit to the shopping district.
The thick base of the tree-symbol pointed at the entrance opposite, the pavement of which terminated at the bend of a tar road that hooked sharply and led down an extended straightaway. At the end of this road squatted a building of singular breadth, its shape reminiscent of either a Sinic palace or a toad resting on its haunches.
An incessant flow of Saltillans, short and thick and bedecked in clothes splashed with primary colors, passed through the entrance and streamed across the plaza toward the shopping district.
Now Mr. Gervase was moving, leading the clamoring children toward the street, his sable palms holding onto the little hands of Daniel and Abby. Soon they disappeared amongst the sea of humanity and were no more, vanishing like ripples expended of the will-to-individuality.
Betelgeuse had visited a city only once before, when he was fourteen years of age. His mother had brought him there to see a psychiatrist. He supposed she had been concerned about his rapidly budding truculence. That Earthen megacity, Jochi, was larger than Saltilla by land area, but lacked any landmark that could compare in size and magnificence to the columnar obelisks of Saltilla.
Betelgeuse had just gotten to counting the number of women in sheer blouses that revealed an upside-down-heart-shaped patch of skin at their backs, when a middle-aged man, compact like the majority of his fellow Desertians and dressed in wool finery, approached to him.
"The blue lapels… are you come from the TAF?" he asked, his expression full of amiability.
"... Yes."
The man raised both hands open-palmed as if in offering and, when Betelgeuse proffered his own hand instinctively, clasped them together over Betelgeuse' outstretched appendage.
Betelgeuse winced, pain lancing up his arm.
The man's words were effusive and filled with a thanks Betelgeuse found quite unnecessary. He nevertheless kept his opinions to himself and managed a smile, until at length the man settled onto the bench beside him and struck up a friendly conversation.
"Where did you live before?"
The man's accent was thick but easy to understand. His features were sharp and he spoke well, with a deep voice.
"I come from Earth," Betelgeuse returned politely.
"Ah, the capital of the universe. I am native of Saltilla, but this is not my city. I am from Jegorich, the capital of the Protectorate, but perhaps not such a capital as your capital," he chuckled loudly, laughing at his own joke.
"How do you feel, really, about a foreign force taking up here?"
"What? Maybe I am not understanding you, but TAF is no foreign force, yes? It is come from our protector, the protector of the Protectorate. Democracy."
'There was sense to that,' mused Betelgeuse. The Democracy was, after all, suzerain over the Sylvan Protectorate.
"It is a time of need after all," Betelgeuse nodded.
"And we are forever grateful! The Democracy, sending such young as yourself to defend us… you know there was another war not fifteen or sixteen years ago, when the alien came down upon us. I was young as you then, but because my body does not work as it should, I could only be at the factory, making munitions. It is what I am good for, anyway, with my Tzevtao… my Incunabula. Helping the war, I only hope I helped kill many of the alien." The man rubbed his eyes, as if clearing it of the brimming memories. "But I think I am suddenly understanding where you are coming from. The Saltilla Ombudsman, we know, is very anti-Democracy, and has often raised much the same concern as you on the evening debates. Anyway, it is his job to do so–I do not think he is really like this in his private life."
"I see… I have heard of that incursion and about those who fought. We remember and honor their sacrifice on Earth," Betelgeuse said. Then, turning to meet the man's eyes, he added, whilst absentmindedly fingering his side pouch, "I am curious, though—earlier, you mentioned your Incunabulum. I did not know the same rite of passage existed in the Protectorate."
"Ah… it is already a very old practice. We learn in school that the Democracy gifted these powers nearly three hundred TAF-years ago. There is a history to this—it is said we on Ayish, which you call Desert, were descended from the explorers of the Old Empire. After its collapse, the connection between us and the great Tellus was broken, until the Democracy rediscovered us some five hundred TAF-years ago. It took two hundred years for us to accept the suzerainty of the Democracy, because, we are taught, of the obstructionism of some misguided autochthony-practitioners. But once we were welcome into the fold the Democracy built a Library in Jegorich for our benefit. The best decision our government, corrupt as they are, has and will ever make!"
Throughout his ramble the man slowly increased his volume, and by the end of his speech Betelgeuse could see some passersby shoot them dirty looks. The man, it seemed, was attracting some outright hostile stares. It occurred to Betelgeuse that the corruption of the Protectorate government was by no means an opinion widely held.
As if noticing this, the man sidled closer to Betelgeuse, and dropped his voice to a near whisper, "I heard rumors, you know, that the alien had infested the Ninsei mine, the one in the Pit. They are having to bring down soldiers from Jegorich to guard the Saltilla underground entrance to the mine and push back the alien from the Pit…"
"Saltilla is physically connected to the mine?" Betelgeuse blurted. 'Insane,' he thought, bewildered at the sheer speed by which the 'rumors' had spread. Was TAF confidentiality really that flimsy?
"Why yes, it is common knowledge! For Saltillans, that is. I am anyway hearing everyday that things are not looking good, that the vathouses are being destroyed and supplies are running low. I am meaning to ask you if you know whether this is true?"
"... I'm sorry. We've just arrived and our higher-ups are still stuck in their own administrative processes."
"Aiyai… it is impossible to run away from bureaucracy, eh?"
The artificial solar rays beating down upon the city seemed to be getting brighter. The information supplied by the man fomented a peculiar restlessness in Betelgeuse. He squinted into the distance, realizing that the plaza and the surrounding columns had been built on a raised and flat surface, like a mesa. From his vantage, he could make out the outlines of certain buildings in the Saltilla Barracks between the columnar structures in the middle distance. One particularly wide column blocked his line of sight to where he supposed Barracks Block 50 lay.
"What's that one?" Betelgeuse pointed.
"Oho! My school, my, how do you call it, my alma mater, the State University. It is a beauty, yes? So large! And it is not only the university; they have everything inside—good food, good shopping, good virtual fantasy. You must visit there! Also, you see where it reaches the ceiling? Above that, on top of the Dome, is the Transportation Gate."
"I see, so it's like a hub? I wanted to find a messenger relay, and I was wondering if it might not be in there."
"Yes, yes, it is only logical that the relay is there, see, because as I said the Transportation Gate is just on top!" the man chortled.
Out of the periphery of his eyes he sensed someone familiar, and Betelgeuse turned to see a slight-figured, pale-skinned man come rushing through the crowd, his path taking him against the large and growing moil of people traveling into the shopping district, a lone eddy defying the relentless currents.
Voke, his eyes partially shaded by a blue cap, his expression endlessly apologetic, brought an arm up in a half-wave. His side-pouch slapped arrhythmically into his thigh.
"There is my companion! It was good talking to you sir, but I must be going," Betelgeuse smiled, holding out a hand.
The man sandwiched Betelgeuse hand between his own rough palms, his farewell much like his greeting, none of his effusiveness having abated.
"And it was good talking to you too! Good luck, young one! As they say, godspeed!"
----------------------------------------
"Who was that guy?" Voke asked, raising an eyebrow.
"An indigenous of Desert, but apparently not of Saltilla. Lover of the Democracy," Betelgeuse returned, his voice low.
"Aren't we all," chirped Voke, his mouth widening into a grin.
Betelgeuse turned to regard his companion, opening his mouth, then closing it again. He remembered their conversation back aboard the Vespertilio and knew they were two souls of antithetical philosophies. There would be no point.
All about them were people walking, jostling, shoving, squeezing through and moving with single-minded determination, their minds set on disparate destinations, their individual energies small and private yet combining with all the rest into this interminable, indefatigable stream of humanity.
They had joined this movement of bodies, Betelgeuse leading and Voke following, into the yawning shadows cast by the overweening columns of Saltilla towering above-head.
As they eked a path through the claustrophobic press, a sudden and strange nervousness gripped Betelgeuse. He withdrew inside himself, following the thin thread of anxiety to its source.
The man had said the Protectorate wanted to oust the Chimerae from the 'Pit', as he had called it, and for that purpose had transferred a party of soldiers from their capital to Saltilla. Yes, he was concerned about the possibility of a party being sent into the Pit and discovering that the deaths of Lawrence Gomez-Evans and Strionis Jove had, in fact, been caused by a ZWEN Mark-567 railgun. In other words, there was a non-zero probability of the deaths being traced back to Betelguese himself.
A detail from the infomentaries rose half-remembered in his mind. The Chimerae, savages that they were, were known to favour the use of fire against their human enemies, and routinely razed human settlements and their living populations to the ground. They were also known for cremating the bodies of any human being they came across. Betelgeuse found himself hoping that the Chimerae cleaved to their reported pyromania—at least in the case of his dead colleagues.
No use worrying about that now. Nothing I can do about it anyway.
"So… uh… what was he saying? He promise his daughter to you or something?" Voke poked, jogging Betelgeuse from his thoughts.
Betelgeuse snorted and did not deign to reply.
They took the first exit to the right and followed that narrow capillary down several bends and a steep decline. The downward slope ended in another broad street, this one less crowded, and the duo trod across its slate tiles to find themselves before the massive automatic doors of the State University. Upon the lintel hung a steel plate embossed with the emblem of the University—an outstretched palm held vertically, fingers pointing skyward, the middle of the palm marked with an empty circle.
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The first floor of the University building was capacious and flooded in warm yellows emanating from a legion of pendant lights. The demographic was young, not much older than Betelgeuse, and mostly bespectacled.
On Betelgeuse' approach and inquiry as to where the message relay station was located, a helpful officer at the information counter pointed them to "floor three of eighty"; then she added, unsolicited, that he "should throw that" in the rainbow-colored container that absolutely-did-not-look-like-a-trash-bin by the elevator at the end of the hall. "No outside food and trash beyond level one," she explained, staring at the crumpled bag of butcherpaper clutched in Betelgeuse' hand for emphasis.
'It wasn't very good anyway,' he thought, absentmindedly squeezing the bag and the half-eaten bun within.
The elevator spit them out into another spacious hallway illuminated in soft whites and obnoxious blues and lined with various DIY and miscellaneous-equipment shops. The ground was covered in reflective tile and the walls between the panes of tempered glass were painted in an eclectic blend of styles, from pointillism to cubism to whole sections draped in dalmatian-print. A panel-projection of the floor map informed Betelgeuse that this was one of the four hallways comprising 'floor three of eighty'. The hallways were arranged at right angles to each other, forming a rectangular shape that left the middle section hollow; the message relay station was located past a bend, at the northeastern corner of the floor.
They passed the rebreather-repair stations and the exosuit-upkeep outlets, the shop selling terminal parts and the 'Partner of taotie.com' advertising the latest models of superlonglasting high-cobalt solid-state batteries. They turned the bend.
The message relay station occupied a large L-shaped recess at the end of the hallway, and bustled with so much frenetic activity that the chaos spilled out into the adjoining walkway. The space within was split into two, one-half jammed with whirring mechanical arms spinning and transcribing and sorting at breakneck speeds the human eye could not follow, the other half crammed with sweaty workers moving so fast they seemed a mess of human limbs. A long line of Saltillans, discernible because of their trademark short stature, snaked from the station counter, reaching almost a third of the way down the hallway.
"So this is where you wanted to go… wait… you're joining the line? It's going to take forever!" Voke exclaimed.
"Yeah, well, I have something to check," returned Betelgeuse.
"Brother mine, what could you possibly have received? We weren't even allowed to contact our family before the embarkation," Voke sighed.
Betelgeuse shrugged.
"Okay, I'm going to explore around then. I'll be back! Wait for me once you're done—maybe send me a message on the transceiver?"
"Transceiver's only for official business," Betelgeuse monotoned. "Non-adherence equals a week of latrine duty."
"For someone with such a rebellious philosophy you sure tend to be a stickler about these sorts of things," Voke muttered.
Betelgeuse shrugged again, then added silently to himself, 'I just don't feel like it.'
"I'll be back anyhow. You be sure to wait for me," and Voke was gone.
It would take thirty minutes at least to reach the counter, he thought. The line moved slowly, slow enough for Betelgeuse to become consumed by a directionless brooding. His thoughts soon shifted to the circumstances surrounding Strionis Jove's ability to usurp his intentionality. A sort of mind control effected, he was almost certain, through the medium of his Incunabulum. But if it did not manifest as an Etching or Increment, then that must mean it was a latent ability.
Betelgeuse scrunched his brows together, reaching back into fading memories. Nothing of his experience trafficking low-value research on the black market Pecorino seemed directly applicable… he had, however, come across some throwaway references to a 'compulsion matrix'. All he knew was that the efficacy of the 'compulsion matrix' could be affected by an Ash grade's Increment and/or Etchings. Certain Ash grades could to some extent be incompatible with the 'compulsion matrix'.
At the time, he hadn't had any clue what a 'compulsion matrix' was or what it did. Not much had changed on that front, but the name of the thing seemed to fit very closely to what he had experienced. Compulsion. If Strionis Jove had 'used' the 'compulsion matrix' on him, and he had broken free, then might he not count among the so-called incompatibles?
His estimate of thirty minutes was extended to forty because the geriatric Saltillan queuing in front of him couldn't remember his name. They went back and forth a long time about nothing, the old man and the attendant, until finally he tottered away, his mind confused and in tatters, his eyes hazed by cataracts and unseeing, his departure colored by an incessant mumbling: "the sky is falling, the sky is falling".
Now he was up in front, facing the female attendant and observing, behind her, the troop of workers coordinating with impressive speed an operation to log with their hand-held scanners the relevant details of non-standard items.
"Have you been allocated a Firewall code, sir?" she asked, her voice tinted mellow by a faint accent. Her bored expression had been replaced by some semblance of liveliness, perhaps occasioned by his uniform, its lapels identifying him as a member of the TAF.
"No. I just arrived yesterday… early this morning."
"We'll allocate one to you right away, sir. Could we have an ID?"
"I'll scan it in with my transceiver," Betelgeuse replied, holding his wrist out, his wounds throbbing faintly.
"Give us a moment… here you go."
She slipped him a piece of paper, upon which was penciled in neat, blocky letters: "17102996".
"It's your account number, for your reference. In future," she continued, "you'll need to use this to access your relay account in any of the Ayish cities. There'll be biometric at the terminals, of course, as an additional layer of security mandated by our treaty with the Democracy. Do bear in mind that if you lose your account number or if someone else is caught utilizing your account number, your relay account will be locked and you'll have to apply to the embassy to verify your identity, in line with the treaty provisions. For your information, this means an in-person Information Sanitation check–only once you have the physical certificate confirming your identity will the Protectorate be authorized to reveal your account number to you."
"Thanks," he replied, pocketing the piece of paper.
"The terminals here are in the back. You can proceed there to check if you have any private messages," the attendant said, pointing at a door which lay beyond the turmoil of her coworkers.
"Actually, I'm wondering if you have a public relay?" he inquired.
"Yes, of course. May I check who the message is addressed to?"
"Uh… Desert?"
"... Sir," she began slowly, "we've received seventy billion messages addressed to 'Desert' since the start of the month. It's unlikely any of them will ever find their intended recipient."
"Okay, then how about P-D-S 70?"
"I'm sorry, that's not much better, sir."
"Can you try 2-4-7-B, no spaces. Just see if that works, and if not, try permuting 2-4-7-B with P-D-S 70. The numbers should be expressed as Arabic numerals, please."
The attendant fiddled with her terminal; craning his head slightly, Betelgeuse peeked over the counter and surreptitiously observed her attempting the AI-permutation and fuzzymatch, to no avail. He retracted his head.
Turning to him, she said: "No matches, sir. I'm sorry."
"That's fine. Is there a way to send messages back to Earth?"
"I apologize, sir. As of three years ago, the Democracy had promulgated Requisition Order number twenty-five restricting data egress. Messages can come in, but no messages can go out except through the authorized channels. You may want to speak with your embassy—"
"That's fine, that's fine. No need to apologize. That's all I need," he interpolated, smiling.
Departing from the counter, he looked around. Voke had yet to return. He decided to make a round, see what else 'floor three of eighty' had to offer.
Nothing much, apparently. Floor three didn't seem to attract many visitors. He passed stalls hawking virtual wares and shop-fronts covered in analog keys, and had just reached the corner of a Spelunking Essentials outlet when Voke came running down the hallway, huffing and puffing, the light of excitement in his eyes.
"There you are, there you are! I found something real cool-like—heh—I think you might like it!" he jabbered.
"What is it?"
"Come with me—they're having free drinks for TAF guys, and I met someone who'll get us into the Dromedary—"
"What is this, another one of your harebrained—"
----------------------------------------
It was hard to believe that it was the same building. They'd gone up two floors to reach the fifth, and then down eighteen to some dark, subterranean tunnelway. A man with coal-black skin was there to receive them; he and Voke talked and then they were let through velveteen drapery into a club replete with hedonists.
Wisps of smoke with orange-underbellies snaked to a high-ceiling, lighted by a smattering of parti-colored beams shot haphazardly from floodlights housed upon see-sawing pulleys. A huge congregation bounced in supplication to the music, their nerves twanging synthetic.
In this dark space, everywhere was bacchanal chaos, every body an instrument for mass delectation.
Betelgeuse hadn't been to a place like this before. It was stimulating. It was strange and exciting. They'd started at the edge, he and Voke, and slowly traversed the murk; the music heard from the middle was incredible and loud, and the words sung in that foreign tongue held an exhilaration all by itself.
Now surrounded by bodies moving to the whirlwind beat, every thought sublimated to physical movement, he felt a kind of freedom. Blood suffused with clangor steamed away the anxiety, he thought. Possible way to forget, probable method to allay.
It was empty pleasure, but perhaps that was the point.
It took fifteen songs for him to retreat into the bar, behind the loud and obnoxious space where humans felt free by giving themselves up. He'd lost track of time and now he saw that it was hours later. Voke was still somewhere inside freeing himself.
Free-flow alcohol, the nubile bartender advertised, her long and luscious hair spilling blood-red over her shoulders, her smooth forearms pale-purple by the underglow and resting on the surface of black marble.
Something that won't kill me, he asked.
What the hell you think we sell, she scoffed.
The liquor shot burned as it went down his gullet. It was stronger than he expected, but he willed himself not to cough. The bartender gave him a refill; another shot went down his throat.
Alcohol was as common as water back in Edom-Zeta. So were its ill effects. He knew enough about it from his parents not to indulge.
A third and a fourth shot. He was starting to feel better. His wounds no longer hurt so much. The pounding beat receded into the background, and he began to think of returning to the dance floor.
Where do you come from, she asked.
Earth, he said.
Earth, she breathed. Must be an amazing place.
This place is pretty amazing by itself, he said.
It's a small place. It's cramped and everyone recognizes you. I hate that.
Believe you me, I know what that's like.
But you're from Earth.
I'm from a small village right smack in the middle of a landlocked province. The air is thick with smog a solid third of the time. We have elders that look over our shoulders every hour of the day and sermonize every infraction into a learning point. Tell me I don't know cramped.
Ha! You're a funny man, Taffy.
He didn't feel like taking the fifth shot. His vision was beginning to swim, and he was sure he'd stumble if he stood up too quickly.
I've heard about this thing called 'paternalism' on the Common channels. The Ombudsman talks about it. I think that's what we have, she said.
I can see how a setup like this can turn out that way, he said. You're all trapped here. There's no way to leave, unless you can suddenly breathe outside without dying.
I mean, back when I just started working here, we used to be able to run this place through the night. Now we have curfew. I understand we need to make sacrifices—times like this and all that—but really… what are we, children?
We're all children, probably.
Ha ha! I appreciate a Taffy with some humor… My name's Nayly, by the way.
The fifth shot went down less than smoothly. He didn't introduce himself.
It's my first time in a place like this, he admitted.
And how do you like it, she inquired.
I like it very much. But I don't think I'm coming back.
How come? Could use a wit like you around here.
Someone brought me in here, said there were free drinks. But I think I don't deal with alcohol well.
Doesn't seem like that to me. You've been downing those things like crazy. People only do one or two of them, even the other Taffies.
Then why did you give them to me?
Ha ha ha! Just wanted to have some fun, I guess.
Her hands were on his now, and he was looking in her eyes. They were a pale-gray, her eyes—contacts, maybe. Her face was small and well-shaped and sharp around the chin. Her snub-nose was upturned in the most alluring way. Their faces were close and he wondered if she did not have other customers to serve, but he didn't feel like removing her hand.
What say we get out of here, before the other Taffies come, she said, her lips curving upward. Can't really be fucked to wait for some action.
He saw her supple, lithesome form and felt a stirring within himself. He knew it well—all men did.
No, he said.
And she frowned, her palms tightening over his.
A hand came from nowhere to hit him on the back of his skull, sweeping the cap from his head.
Betelgeuse turned. It was a man, shorter than him, hissing vitriol in a tongue he did not understand. The bartender had removed her hand now, and was shouting, screaming at the man.
Who are you, Betelgeuse asked, standing, his voice so low it was almost drowned out by the sound.
I'm her boyfriend, you fuck, he yelled, and then continued to spew invectives alien to Betelgeuse's ear.
A hand reached out from the shadows and came to rest on the man's shoulder. It looked like one of his friends, whispering to him and pointing to the brand upon Betelgeuse' forehead.
Penal, Betegeuse heard, over and over again. His vision was swimming but he willed himself steady.
You want to fight, Betelgeuse said. It was a statement, not a question.
The bartender's boyfriend was starting to look unsure of himself. But something changed within his eyes and he waved his friend away, squaring up before Betelgeuse. The bartender was yelling angrily and flailing her arms like a chicken.
You don't want this, the man said. In your language, you call me Primary.
Betelgeuse unslung his side pouch and secreted it within his uniform jacket. Uncomfortable, but it'd have to do.
You don't want this, the men stressed.
Betelgeuse pumped his thighs, putting all his strength into a leap that took him into the man and both of them to the ground. Good, he thought, playing the striking game while inebriated can be troublesome.
The world was spinning and spinning and Betelgeuse had the man under him. He balled his hands into fists, squeezing, allowing the pain of his half-healed wounds to cut through the haze. And he was smashing his fists down, and the man's blood was being spilled.
He felt his skin sizzle. More pain that he used to his advantage. He looked at his knuckles. They were stained with blood and pale ichor, the ichor burning through his skin to reveal bone.
Primary indeed.
The man had taken advantage of the brief lull to catch Betelgeuse neck with his left hand. A runny liquid was seeping from the man's palm, and it was burning painfully, melting through his skin.
Betelgeuse roared and swatted the man's hand away. He brought his head down into the man's nose, smashing it in. More sizzling. His scalp felt like it was roasting atop a fire. His hands were smoking, and still he brought them down, pounding the man's skull to the beat of the music.
The next thing he remembered was Voke pulling him off the unresponsive body and shouting in his face. The man's friend was pointing at them, yelling something. A second man wearing a shirt printed over with purple flowers had come rushing over, brandishing a metal bat and swinging it wildly.
Voke pulled Betelgeuse back, taking the hit on his shoulder. The bat lifted and came down again, catching the music's beat on time.
Voke winced. Let's fucking go, man. Run… you can run?
Let's go, Betelgeuse croaked.
He pushed Voke to the side as the bat came down for the third time. It missed, passing through space and impacting dully on the ground; the regular beat, made syncopated. Betelgeuse barreled into the purple flowers and pushed, feeling the form fall to the ground.
Now, he hollered, turning to Voke.
And they ran.