“I am sorry, my friend,” Tyras said, running his fingers over Borsas’s blunted claws. They didn’t feel right, his touch accustomed to their texture. Blunting a dragon’s claws simply involved taking a grind saw to them until they couldn’t eviscerate anymore (they still could to Tyras’s eyes, it’d just be a lot messier). It left them looking like jagged rocks after a mine blast.
At the very least, Tyras had managed to persuade the Dragon Unit veterinarian to go easy on the claws, arguing that Borsas would most likely not be used in riots and he needed some claws in order to latch onto airships, cliffs and other precarious landing spots in his role. Still, they had to grind them down in case a surprise inspection came about.
Tyras was stripped to his shirt sleeves, rinsing a large sponge over a bucket then beginning the process of brushing the green-scaled dragon once again. Truth be told, he didn’t really need a wash, but he figured the poor creature deserved some pampering after the rough treatment he’d received.
Borsas still cooed and nuzzled Tyras, but his golden eyes had lost their near constant gleam of ecstasy. He was no longer free. He knew it, his master knew it, the Constabulary especially knew it. There would be no more flying off on his own in the middle of the night. No more sneaking around the Great Market to scare flocks of chickens or groups of misbehaving urchins. Whenever Tyras took him out, he’d have to fill out a form with the motive of travel, expected time of absence and muzzle his dragon.
Tyras avoided looking Borsas in the eye as he scrubbed at already pristine scales. He already regretted agreeing to take him in. He wasn’t just some piece of equipment to transfer from one unit to another, he was a flesh and blood creature who’d been his closest, and sometimes only friend.
Borsas nuzzled his master again, pushing his head so that his one good eye looked right at the dragon.
“It’s fine. I’m serving you. That’s all that matters.” The creature’s eyes spoke. Tyras gave his first smile of that day, scratching Borsas under the chin, which drew a contented growl. He noted morosely the red indent the muzzle had already formed around Borsas’ maw.
He sensed a presence in the room and turned around. A tall lean young cougar man with russet fur was just entering the dragon stables. His shoulders were stooped and his neck had a slight incline, telltale signs of someone who spent far more time at a desk than anywhere else. Intelligent yet nervous blue eyes glinted behind spectacles that were somehow wirier than his frame. He wore an old-fashioned, elegant suit that was marred by the fact that it clearly hadn’t been pressed or brushed in weeks, an old top hat and even city gloves in similar states which looked decidedly ridiculous in the rough, militaristic environment. Not to mention each garment was a size too large, making him resemble a child who’d broken into his papa’s old wardrobe for a laugh, sleeves going past his wrists and the hat held with a securer so it wouldn’t fall over his eyes.
“Oh, uh… sorry, I can come back… later. T-tomorrow! I don’t wish to intrude!” The man blurted out in a high-pitched voice, rocking back and forth on his heels as he started to toy with his pocket watch.
“You’re not intruding on anything.” Tyras reassured, dropping the sponge into and wiping his paws on a grimy towel. “Leftenant-Inspector Tyras Maloko. At your service.”
The young man’s eyes went wide.
“Ty-… the Tyras Maloko? The Hero of Appolum Kaga?!” The man blurted out.
“I am afraid I am ignorant of my own fame. Appolum Kaga had hundreds of thousands of heroes, you shall have to be more specific than that.” Tyras gave a kind smile.
“Oh, you’re famous enough in the right circles, sir! Those of us interested in military matters know all about your exploits.
“You are here to submit a new submachine gun for trials, are you not?” Tyras asked.
The wiry little man seemed taken aback.
“I… indeed I am, sir, but how-“
“First of all,” Tyras interrupted him. “There’s only a handful of reasons as to why you would be here. I initially believed you were a dragon safety inspector or yet another bureaucrat asking me to sign my team in this registry or that, yet I admit I was incorrect. Your constitution is that of a… shall we say, bookish type, yet your paws are callused beneath your gloves. That, and they contain traces of some sort of oily substance, suggesting that you are heavily involved in engineering.”
The youngster frowned, looking at his gloved paws, then his face lit in realization.
“Oh, right! I forgot about your Forte! That’s a neat trick! Must have come in real handy when fighting the heathens!” He chuckled uncomfortably, perhaps feeling as if his privacy had been intruded upon.s
“Oh, where are my manners? Angelo Opilio, at your service!” He removed his glove to reveal a thin, callused hand. It was now Tyras’s turn to look surprised as he shook his hand, which felt like a bundle of dry twigs.
“Aren’t you the author of a monograph upon the development of night vision devices in aerial and ground warfare?” The lion asked.
Opilio beamed with surprise and professional pride.
“Well, yes, but this is the first time I’ve ever heard someone mention it! Newspaper critics gave me a most discouraging account of it.”
“Pshaw! What do those chinless poltroons know of warfare? If it’s not a Penny Dreadful which makes an absolute mockery of our brave warriors and the horrors they went through, they fold like Night before Day. Truly brilliant research! It taught me some things and I was among the first to use night vision scopes on flak cannons at Fort Vezna. It’s part of what had saved us.”
The young man frowned in confusion.
“I thought the defense of Fort Vezna occurred in 135. Night vision devices were only issued to airship crews in 136, and to infantry only much later in limited numbers.”
“Correct.” Tyras responded. “The devices had been shipped to us and the Air Navy were supposed to pick them up in a week for field testing, but the Lunists broke through our lines quicker than anticipated. Our struggle became not just to hold the line, but to make sure the new technology did not fall in the enemy’s paws. Though while the devices were with us, we decided to put them to good use. They were even kind enough to supply field manuals. We mounted the scopes and rangefinders on four machineguns and two flak cannons. It made the infamous Lunist night raids useless, which bought us time.”
Opilio whistled in admiration.
“By the Great Lady’s Torch, what an honor it must have been! I tried enrolling once I was of age, but-“
“It’s best that you didn’t.” Tyras interrupted him flatly. “Trust me.” He gave the younger, smaller man a look which stifled any argument. The cougar looked around uncomfortably before he coughed to change the subject.
“Well, nevertheless, I contributed to a few defense projects. I was still in University, but the government ran programs for students to try and come up with military tech to get the upper hand over the Archenemy. I had developed a prototype for a man-portable night vision scope powered by a battery backpack and I was even developing a machine-carbine which I believed was best paired with it. The War Department showed interest, but-“
“The war ended.” Tyras guessed. Opilio nodded solemnly. He seemed a little too disappointed about that. The man gritted his teeth slightly, and his hand flexed as if to clench a fist. It wasn’t disappointment necessarily that his inventions hadn’t been adopted and made him rich (though that was certainly part of that), but something deeper.
The man was in his late 20s, yet there were no signs that he was married or even had a roommate. Someone his age with limited means would normally still live with his parents. He didn’t. No loving mother would have left her son walk out in clothes of such a state. There was no mother. Or father. He was most likely wearing his father’s old suit, the best clothes he had.
He’d lost both parents in the War, and while he’d been rejected from the Legion due to his frail physique, he was itching to watch his inventions slaughter Lunists, even if he wouldn’t do it himself.
Tyras could sympathize, if not condone the sentiment. He knew all too well where such detestation and loathing led to if left unchecked, or even fed…
“Well, I assume you are here with the “machine-carbine” half of your project. Shall we?” Tyras gave a warm smile. The man smiled back and nodded vigorously.
Tyras gave Borsas one final rinse and a pat on the back, then he and his new acquaintance took the elevator down to the precinct’s firing range.
It was a mostly featureless concrete chamber which stretched out for only a hundred yards from the shooting table, as constables weren’t expected to ever have to shoot any further in an urban environment. Targets, some classic bullseyes, some paper targets with drawings of fierce looking armed mammals, were littered amongst the wide concrete range. A brass control panel filled with levers and buttons stood ready to be used in the back. The stale air reeked of old gunpowder and smoke.
A large metallic briefcase was the sole intruder in the familiar room. Opilio picked it up with a slight grunt and set it on the table. Inputting a six-digit code on the combination lock, he popped it open. As he lifted it, Tyras had to do a double take to make sure he was truly looking at a firearm.
“The Special Purpose Carbine 90! Or SPC-90.” The cougar held a proud grin that could have eclipsed the sun.
It more resembled a brick with a trigger than any weapon Tyras was familiar with. There was also no obvious spot where the magazine would go. Yet the more he looked at it, the more the design grew on him. Firstly, the trigger had a pistol grip (which he thanked Arstoros for, as the rifle-style grip on the Vezia SMG was utterly miserable) and an identical-looking foregrip was mounted beneath the weapon’s handguard. The safety, sights and charging handle were brass, which broke up the weapon’s steel black frame in a way that was both utilitarian and almost artistic. He picked up the weapon and instantly noticed it had a folding wooden stock, which he unlatched then put the weapon to his shoulder. It had a decent cheekweld and the sight picture was clean and easy to acquire. Despite initially looking ungainly, the weapon was well balanced, with the weight evenly distributed.
Looking for the ejection port, he eventually found it under the weapon instead of the sides. This way, spent shell casings didn’t risk hitting allies. An important thing in close quarters.
He also noticed that the charging handle was mirrored on the right side as well. He smiled. Finally a weapon with us lefties in mind.
He racked the charging handle, feeling the bolt lean back with a slight, crisp resistance. It flew back forward instead of remaining in the rearward position. He frowned and reached for it again.
“No, no, it’s primed.” The young gunsmith said with a grin. Tyras frowned.
“It’s closed-bolt?” He asked. Most machineguns were open-bolt, as it was simpler to manufacture and it helped with cooling. The downsides were less accuracy and if it was dropped while primed, mud could easily enter the exposed chamber, but they were deemed acceptable losses. MGs generally weren’t made for accuracy, and as for the latter issue, well, just don’t drop your weapon, you berk. The one exception to the rule he could think of was the late-war Osnyan “Storm Rifle”, which fired an intermediate 7.5x40mm round, neither a pistol nor a full power rifle cartridge. The overheating issues were solved by the simple fact that the Storm Rifle was mostly fired in semi auto or short 2-5 round bursts.
Tyras aimed and gently squeezed the trigger. There was some slight resistance, then it clicked on an empty chamber. Roughly a five-pound trigger, quite soft for an automatic weapon.
“It’s made primarily to fire short bursts.” Opilio explained. “I understand it’s primarily to combat airship raiders, and accuracy is far more important in such an environment than suppressive fire. Not that the SPC-90 isn’t capable of such in emergencies, it-”
“This is all very interesting,” Tyras interrupted dryly. “But I don’t trust a gun I haven’t fired myself.”
“Oh, of course, that’s why we’re here!” The cougar rubbed his paws giddily as he grabbed a long box from within the briefcase and popped it open. In it was an ammo box marked 6.5x30mm and two long magazines that were… transparent?
“The ammo is my own creation as well,” Opilio explained. “As I’m sure you know, 6.5x60mm is the Class I rifle caliber, but was seldom used until the end of the war to streamline logistics. However, those that did get it, including soldiers larger than Class I, commented on its decent performance against armor while maintaining low recoil. This is that caliber shortened to pistol ammo length. It’s practically a miniature rifle round with pistol characteristics. It has a very flat trajectory. Even an appalling shot like myself could hit targets 300 yards out! When I tested it, it could penetrate 6mm of hard steel at a hundred yards.”
“That’s not necessarily a good thing,” Tyras commented. “Police typically use pistols and shotguns for a reason: less chances of overpenetration and hitting an innocent civilian after the bullet goes through a villain. Not to mention that for certain older airship designs, a stray bullet could hit something important and compromise flight.”
“I know.” The cougar said with a knowing smile. “That’s why I developed both spitzer and flat-nosed hollow point versions of the ammo! Can be changed out depending on mission parameters. Or you may even carry both ammo types and swap on the fly!”
“Hm. Good thinking.” Tyras conceded.
He picked up one of the mags. The spring and follower were visible through an opaque material. He realized what he was looking at. Plastic. A relatively new compound made out of purpurkrumb sap, formaldehyde and phenol. It was starting to see use in packaging, toys and even cheap jewelry. Firearms were certainly the last thing Tyras would have associated it with.
He squeezed the magazine and cringed as he felt it give slightly.
“Oh, don’t worry! I covered it in mud and saltwater and such, it runs fine! In fact, more than fine, it never rusts!” Opilio proclaimed proudly.
“Yes, neither does wood, but you don’t see magazines or gun barrels made out of it, do you?” Tyras didn’t say.
The magazines were loaded with forty rounds apiece. The magazine was then loaded horizontally directly on top of the weapon. It did not protrude at all, keeping the weapon incredibly compact and well balanced. The advantage of the transparent magazine was evident: he could see exactly how much ammo he had left at a single glance. It’d always be in a shooter’s face, even during intense firefights. It didn’t resemble any design that Tyras was familiar with (and that covered nearly every contemporary firearm on Horti). The rounds fed near the rear of the weapon, similar to a lot of Lunist designs where the firing mechanism was behind the trigger (a… bullpup, they called it?), which maximized barrel length while keeping their weapons compact, but which increased the overall complexity. More complexity meant more potential failures in adverse environments.
Tyras charged the weapon, setting the selector to single fire. He picked a target at 50 yards away, took aim, and fired. The weapon’s kickback was almost null as the sharp gunshot echoed through the firing range. A tiny black dot was now where the paper target’s heart would have been.
“Not bad.” Tyras muttered. He took a few more shots in quick succession. All the holes were within an inch of each other. Right below his eye, Tyras could see the rounds depleting as he fired.
Switching to full auto, he aimed at the same spot. The firing rate was faster than he expected, the sound reminding him of a lumber mill buzzsaw, but the foregrip kept all but one of the ten fired rounds on target, two of them finding the head. The closed bolt did indeed help with the accuracy.
Deciding to test point-shooting, he switched to a much closer target, aiming by only looking through the sight’s protective wings and he let it rip. The buzzsaw-like screech of the rapid SMG echoed through the concrete, yet all he felt was a slight push on his shoulder. The target had been all but torn apart, with only the last few rounds going wide as the mag was depleted. The gunsmith was giddy with excitement, seeming to struggle not to squeal in joy as he held a painful-looking grin.
“As you can see, its accuracy at ranges within a hundred meters is second to none. I have closely studied CQB reports, many from the Scout Raiders, and-“
He was interrupted by Tyras removing the empty magazine, grabbing the remaining one and slamming it three times against the steel table like a carpenter driving a particularly stubborn nail. Opilio bore a face like he just witnessed Tyras strangling his newborn son.
Tyras then loaded the beaten magazine, and Opilio cringed as he noticed a slight dent in the clear plastic.
Tyras again squeezed the trigger, a short burst sounding off before the gun jammed. He calmly removed the magazine and cleared the weapon, letting the unfired round clatter to the floor. He reloaded and tried again in semi auto. Two rounds fired, then the third didn’t.
Opilio looked like Tyras had just stabbed him in the guts.
“Mags are no good. It’s one of those ideas that’s better on the drawing board than in practice.” He summarized. He unloaded and safed the weapon and saw Opilio looking down in utter defeat.
“It’s a promising weapon,” Tyras encouraged, patting the youngster’s shoulder. “Very forward-thinking design. I’d even call it revolutionary. Wait a few years for plastics to get tougher, it may even be battle-ready.”
“Yeah, thank you…” Opilio muttered. Tyras could tell it wasn’t the first time he’d been told one of his designs were no good.
“Can you make the magazines steel with witness holes instead?” Tyras asked. Opilio’s face instantly lit up with hope.
“I-It’ll add some weight, and I’ll probably have to redesign the feed system slightly…” He mumbled. “But certainly! Give me two weeks!”
“Then I shall schedule a more formal trial in two weeks. The Bastiza Proving Grounds, just north of the city. Your design shall go through a 10,000 round torture test, mud, saltwater, heat and ice exposure. It will go up against the Lunist Harbinger SMG and our own tried and true Vezia Machine-Carbine. Battle-tested weapons that are as legendary as they are deadly. You have two weeks to streamline the magazines and do whatever other improvements you believe adequate.”
“I shall do my best, sir!” Opilio said giddily.
“Try to get at least four hours of sleep each day, hm?” Tyras said with a smirk. The slight man smiled back in a way that let Tyras know he wouldn’t be following that advice in the slightest.
Opilio packed his weapon and turned to leave.
“Oh… just one more thing.” Tyras said, holding up a finger, fishing in his pocket for a cigar. The young gunsmith turned around. Tyras’s single eye twinkled.
“You said you had a working prototype of man-portable night vision devices?”
----------------------------------------
“Cop bars” had been a subspecies of establishment which Achlos had so far in his life done his utmost to avoid like the plague. Beyond the obvious reasons, no one except other bobbies seemed to want to go to a cop bar. He supposed it was natural. After all, who wants to get drunk in a building full of bluebottles? Though it was not just that.
Entering a cop bar as an outsider was a deeply unwelcoming experience. Everyone was huddled together in groups of four to ten, chatting and laughing, like in any other pub in the world, but the moment an outsider stepped in, it all stopped and eyes fell upon them. It was like when someone got a badge, they also received a sixth sense which allowed them to sniff out anyone from outside their tribe.
You’d get suspicious, almost spiteful looks between drinks and card games, you could feel their suspicious gazes from behind as you nursed your beer. Even the bartender seemed eager for you to get lost. And inevitably, you would.
He expected the sentiment to change after he received his badge, yet it hadn’t. The wooden chair was stiff and stinging against his backside. The “Copper Casquette” lacked the raucous, jolly nature of a rowdy pub, yet it also wasn’t quite as clean as the more luxurious saloons he’d been in. It sat in the limbo of too civilized to be a pub and too austere to be a gentleman’s club, while also lacking the pleasantries of either.
The sole decorations were pictures of previous generations of constables, drawings replacing them once time went backwards enough that the camera was only some ambitious inventor’s distant dream.
The sole other occupants were sitting at the other end of the pub in a private room, separated from them behind a double glass door that was hardly transparent from years of smoke and neglect. Come to think of it, why was it so quiet? It was 8 PM, around the time the day shift constables finished up, and those who didn’t have wives, husbands and children usually went to pubs. He’d heard some noise about a worker’s strike turning violent today, but it had apparently been dealt with by the Riot Amelioration Unit… the only way the Crimsons knew how.
Kiah Senca seemed particularly vexed as she quietly sipped her rum. The rabbit’s former squad, the Non-Conflictual Pacification Unit, had apparently been held back from talking down the angry mob as the Crimsons got into the strikers with batons and tear gas. Eldar was next to her, the borzoi saying increasingly bad jokes in an attempt to placate her mood as he occasionally sipped from his glass of milk. He was the only one that was smiling. Eventually, she smiled as well, more from the canine’s infectious laughter and elation.
Rafil was leaning back into his seat, passing the time by making his beer boil, then freeze, then become temperate again before each sip. A cup of coffee alongside his drink prevented his Forte from tiring him out too much.
Tyras had dragged them all here under the pretext of celebrating their squad getting approved for action, yet the atmosphere was almost funeral-like. Worse, actually, at least funerals had an end goal.
“Will we actually get a mission tomorrow?” Eldar asked, the dog’s eyes glittering with excitement.
“Let us hope not,” Tyras said, twirling his glass of whisky before taking a sip. “If we're deployed on a mission, it means people are in mortal danger. And if that doesn’t happen, good. It’s always a good day when you get to keep your guns holstered.”
“Well, yes, but missions are also fun! Police work can be so dull. Luna, I miss being sent on special missions!”
Achlos cocked an eyebrow. “Mr. Dolnayu… weren’t you a flamethrower operator during the War?” He asked the borzoi.
“Yes I was! Well, not all the time, but yes!” He replied, decidedly way too chipper. “Why?”
Achlos looked at the grinning constable for a whole ten seconds.
“No reason,” The moose mumbled, suddenly becoming very interested in the manner in which the bubbles in his beer slowly floated towards the surface.
“I fixed up the old armored van we got.” Kiah said, switching the subject. “May have taken some… ‘advanced tinkering’ with some of the parts to get it to run properly, but I managed, with a few thermoses of coffee, to keep my Forte going. Gods, I’ll enjoy tonight’s sleep.” She chuckled, absentmindedly rubbing her half-mangled ear.
Tyras was looking down, occasionally opening up his timepiece, checking the hour, then glancing at the blurry sillhouettes of the patrons beyond the glass door. Kiah gave him a reassuring smile.
“It’s not your fault, sir. So, you took us to a boring bar, so what? We’ve finished training, and starting tomorrow, Ignisdava’s streets and skies will be a little bit safer. That’s more important than a grog-pit not being exactly up to our standards.”
“Y’know, I know a place, just on the border of the dark zone…” The dark-furred dire wolf unfroze his drink again before taking a long swig. “Fun times. Better booze than this, dancing, card games, bare knuckle boxing… anything your little hearts may desire. Normally they don’t like coppers, but they know me. And it’s legal.” He paused. “Well… barely. But that’s my favorite kind of legal.” He grinned before another swig.
“I actually like it here.” Eldar said, almost shoving the glass into his long, thin snout as he drank his milk. Rafil rolled his eyes.
“Well, you like it anywhere.”
“Well, almost anywhere. You can find goodness anywhere, if you look hard enough.” The dog said, his ever-present smile broadening just a little.
Rafil looked unimpressed.
“Well, what’s so nice about this place? What are you smiling for? Enlighten me.”
“Any place is as good as you make it,” Eldar said. “Right now, I am happy. I was happy before I came here, why should I be unhappy now? Why shouldn’t I smile? It’s nice when you smile. The War was a time of frowns, grief and anger. But that time is long gone, so let’s smile! I am alive and with all of my friends. That to me is enough reason to smile!”
For a moment there was silence, only the clatter of equi-drawn carriages and grumble of automobiles from the outside world being audible.
“Well said!” Tyras said, sporting one of his broad infectious grins. “Here’s to being alive and together! Here’s to our successful training! I am proud to call you all my squadmates! To the 1st High Risk Reserve Unit!” Tyras proclaimed a bit too loudly, getting up, raising his glass with glee.
“To the 1st High Risk!” Everyone else cheered and clinked their glasses. The mood had lifted somewhat, yet Achlos had the sense that everyone save for Eldar did it more out of respect than anything else.
Tyras downed the rest of his glass in one gulp. His eye was fixed somewhere beyond, as if he were closely watching something. When Achlos turned around to see what his comrade had been looking at, eight crimson-clad riot constables were approaching the table. They were mostly Class IIs and IIIs on the larger side, as well as a single towering grey-pelted horse. Some were carrying bottles or pool cues.
Achlos began to sorely regret leaving his cane to the footman at the door.
The leader of the group, a familiar-looking caracal, stepped through. His black and crimson uniform was topped off with the padded leather riot armor of the RAU, fresh slashes and dents adorning it. His face sported a recently stitched cut just below his left eye and his snout was just a little bit crooked from when Tyras had rearranged it with the heel of his palm.
“You know, regulations say drinking in uniform is forbidden.” Tyras piped up before the seething RAU sergeant had a chance to say anything.
“Oh, we’re not drinking, sir,” the caracal sneered. “We were drinking. Then we saw your little exclusive lord’s club in this here hovel. You don’t wanna drink with the peasants, now do you? Thought I’d do y’all a favor and recommend going somewhere… nicer.” One of the other riot cops, a barrel-chested ram, pulled out a collapsible wood and brass baton and began to casually, yet pointedly twirl it.
“Oh, sod off, Cartas. Don’t you and your goons have some street urchins to beat up for tying cans to the back of a hansom?” Rafil said, his voice dripping with disgust like he’d just squished a particularly juicy bug.
“Don’t you fucking talk to me like that, you traitorous mongrel!” Cartas barked, his dark eyes blazing. Rafil looked up at him with an almost bored anger, like he was hardly worth his time.
The swine bartender looked at the scene, sighed and shook his head like someone who’d seen this scene many a time, tossed his cleaning rag into the sink, then walked into the backrooms, locking the door behind him.
“Look, we understand you want the place to yourselves.” Kiah said, the doe’s voice slow and placating. “We’ll just finish our drinks and-“
“No one asked you shit, grass muncher!” Cartas snapped. Kiah stopped talking, yet did not back down, her violet gaze like seeping purpurkrumb sap as she regarded their harassers. She was feeling for any mechanical devices that could be used as weapons… or she could use to her advantage.
“Don’t talk to her like that.”
The blustering caracal turned to the one who said that. Eldar was looking up at him, his long snout making reading any emotions near impossible.
“What was that?” Cartas said, more confused than offended that the canine had dared address him.
“Please,” The dog began. “Just… go back to your table and we can all continue enjoying the evening. We’ve all trained really hard in the last few weeks and passed trials of the utmost adversity. We’re happy that we made Lieutenant Maloko proud. And interrupting such joy and insulting us is… not nice.” He’d said it all completely evenly, like a naïve child hoping to placate a bully. Rafil facepawed and mumbled ‘oh, Light, brighten his mind.’
Only Tyras had picked up on the malice in the dog’s voice.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
The Crimsons stood dumbfounded, as if processing the words, then all burst out laughing.
“Oh, sorry!” Cartas said in an exaggerated tone of grief, theatrically pretending to wipe away a tear. “We’ll go back right now and have a little cry for being such blackguards!” His confederates all shared another belly laugh. “Make the leftenant proud… so you do whatever this half-blind pussy tells you?” He gestured to Tyras, who continued to have no reaction to the beratement.
“Of course. He’s my lieutenant.” Eldar said, confused like he was being asked if grass was green.
“And what if your holy leftenant told you to climb up on top of the Solarium Cathedrale and jump off?”
“Then I’d wait until midnight. Less people on the street, less chance I hit someone and hurt them.” Complete silence followed for half a minute. The dog glanced around at the flabbergasted expressions of friend and foe alike, his eyes eventually settling on Tyras’s own wide-eyed face.
“Uh… was that a trick question?” Eldar whispered worriedly.
“Ah, fuck this!” Cartas bellowed. “You have ten seconds to leave of your own volition, or we drag you in the street by your arses!”
Tyras downed the last of his drink, savoring each drop. He wiped his maw with his handkerchief, folding it neatly back into his breast pocket. He got up, the chair scraping against the stone floor like a tortured violin.
He looked down at his shorter opponent, his singular eye resting on his crooked nose.
“In the war, we always took the enemy by surprise. The regular infantry sent out probing attacks to find their weakest link, then we snuck in there under the cover of artillery, and by the time they realized we were there, half their comrades’ throats were ribbons. Yet the war is over, therefore I am extending you the courtesy of a window of escape.”
Cartas laughed, yet this time, only a few of his men joined in with nervous giggles.
“Well, beanpole, you made a slight miscalculation: there’s five of you, and eight of us. And we break up bar brawls for a living.” Cartas snarled.
Tyras looked at the party that was surrounding them, mouthing an ‘aaaahhh’ as if only now noticing them, before settling back on Cartas.
“You’re right. There is quite the imbalance of forces: you are at least two men short.” His forehead cracked against Cartas’s face. The caracal knocked two of his comrades off balance before he split a table open.
“Fuckar brook mha nose aghen!” He coughed out blood.
A veteran of many a saloon brawl, Achlos instinctively leaned back in his chair just as a pool cue swung above his head. He rolled backwards, kicking the chair towards his opponent. It crashed against the ram’s head, exploding into splinters as he collapsed.
Kiah had gotten picked up by the scruff by the large horse. She swung her powerful legs around with a snarl, catching him in his jaw. She landed on the table, ready to counter his next move.
A tiger slammed Eldar into the wall, strangling him with a baton. Eldar dodged a massive right hook and kneed the armored Crimson in the unarmored groin, before disarming his much larger opponent and slamming the weapon over and over on the downed brute’s head.
He was laughing with childish glee as he did so.
Upon noticing Kiah’s plight, he launched himself at the horse, catching on his chest, his claws sinking into flesh. The massive herbivore neighed in agony as he punched the smaller canine’s lean midsection to no effect. He tried pushing him off, yet the dog had his claws and fangs into him like a tick.
The horse tripped on a chair, falling down with the snickering, mad dog on top of him.
Eldar’s knee found the horse’s windpipe, preventing him from catching any breath, his fists blurry missiles pounding the Class IV’s face.
“Picking up my friend isn’t nice!” He half-yelled, half-laughed as he hit him again and again, blood and teeth staining the floor. “I said be nice! Why is that so hard to understand!? Next time, remember your manners!” The horse had been beaten unconscious long before Eldar finished his cackling lecture.
The rules for trench raids and bar brawls were on the surface identical. Rule number one: don’t let yourself get cornered. Rule number two: never fight bare pawed.
Even the table leg he’d ripped out was remarkably similar to a trench club. Achlos blocked the pool cues a puma was trying his defense with, each blow jarring his fingers. He dodged a thrust then slammed his club down on the staff, cracking it in two. He followed it up with a blow to the stomach which knocked his opponent down retching. Achlos moved in to finish him off, but was grappled from behind. One paw clamped his armed hand and the other snaked around his neck. Achlos instantly ducked forward and ran backwards, slamming the burly ram into a wall. He saw movement to his left and he jumped just in time for a stab to his gut to turn into a slash on his arm. Pain flared above his wrist as the broken bottle pierced flesh, the snow leopard cocking back his hand for another blow.
Achlos flared up his Forte, the world around him slowing to a crawl. He elbowed the ram’s gut in slow motion as his body twisted around the shard. He grabbed the ram, shoving him into his comrade’s weapon.
The world sped back up just as the bottle pierced the man’s shoulder with a scream and spurt of blood.
“Shit, I’m so-“ The feline was interrupted by a devastating uppercut cracking his jaw. He flew backwards and through the window, sprawling on the muddy street beyond.
Achlos feinted a jab then swung his table leg into the ram. The club splintered in two as it bashed a cheekbone, teeth and blood streaking the wall.
The brute whimpered, yet was still able to retreat before the coup de grace.
Their injured opponents retreated and regrouped. Only five Crimsons were still in fighting shape, all sporting various gnarly injuries.
“Form a fucking line!” Cartas bellowed. The Crimsons’ discipline shone through as they stood up in a skirmish formation, chairs, table legs and bottles held defensively as they held their ground. Kiah tossed a bottle at the ram, only for it to smash harmlessly against his riot armor. The giant herbivore smiled a sinister grin of broken teeth as he twirled his baton, clicking it to… nothing. It refused to extend as he cursed and shook it. Kiah was looking at it intently.
“Hammer and anvil!” Tyras bellowed. In an instant, the group split, just as they’d trained. Achlos and Rafil went left, Kiah and Eldar went right. Tyras climbed a table, jumped to hang off the overhead rafters and swung himself right behind the Crimsons.
A wolf went down as Tyras landed on him, cracking his head into the wooden floor with an elbow. The stub of the ram’s baton swung towards Tyras’s head. He dodged, one paw grabbing the armed hand, the other sticking a thumb into the ram’s eye socket, the claw mercifully sheathed. The ram shrieked as he backed off, allowing Tyras to twist his arm further, the wrist snapping with a wet pop.
Cartas raised a full bottle to smash against Tyras’s head, before dropping it with a scream as the liquid suddenly boiled and seared his hand. The bottle fell from his hand and smashed into the floor, the liquid seething and evaporating. Rafil grinned behind him.
The two wolf Crimsons on the right flank screamed and fell prostrate, hands above their heads as the chandelier above them rolled down on its chain with frightening speed, ready to impale them, before stopping inches from above them. Kiah and Eldar however, did not stop. Kiah shattered one’s muzzle with a dropkick, both feet smashing into jaw and snout. Eldar went low and tackled his opponent into a wooden post, cracking it. He grabbed his opponent by the ears and smashed his head into the wood again and again, cackling like a pup the entire time.
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The snow leopard blinked himself awake, his brain a blur of pain and dizziness. He got up on his elbows and knees, ears ringing. Bad mistake. His ribs burned in protest. He tried to growl in pain, but found that his jaw didn’t listen to his commands. Something was floating in his mouth, and with a gag, he spat it out. Frothy blood and three teeth splashed on the mud.
Damn, the riot really had gone badly… no, wait, that was already over. He had vague memories of a bar, of laughter and too much drink. Then their sergeant spotted some inspector he had a beef with and drunkenly decided to teach him a lesson. The sounds of grunts and fists slamming into flesh brought him out of his daze.
His comrades! They were still there!
He struggled to get up, grunting through teeth broken down to the gums as he did so. Beaten or not, he could still stand, and if he could stand, he could-
The door crashed open, Cartas barreling out of it and into a light pole. The rest of his squad were likewise unceremoniously dumped through the windows, crashing into mud and shattered glass. They moaned and groaned through bruised, bloodied mouths as they barely got up. Cartas used the pole for support as he dragged himself up, the caracal’s nose, again, broken.
“S-sah” the leopard was able to barely blurt out. “O-ordees?”
That crazy fucking dog was standing in the doorway, his crumpled suit sporting streaks of blood. Not his blood. The grin of the devil himself was upon his muzzle, low cackles bursting from his thin neck as his fire-colored eyes blazed with childish glee.
“Piss off, those are my orders!” Cartas bellowed as he ran away with a sudden burst of speed. It was an order all of his subordinates were more than happy to obey.
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The dark purple Pilum dragon with its vixen rider shot forward ahead of its much bulkier Hammerhead adversary, its body tucked in and its pointed head shooting forward like its namesake javelin. As it flew over the hay bales painted bright red, it shot out incandescent spears of flame, bursting each one with a marksman’s precision.
As the Hammerhead flew over its own targets, its coal-furred wolf rider tapped a signal on its neck, then it opened up its massive jaws that could have swallowed a Class IV whole and let loose a torrent of liquid fire, a roar accompanying the flamethrower-like woosh of the deadly magma-like flow. It blew spectacularly in every which way, lighting up the nearby stands in perfect detail, the spectators shielding their eyes from the terrible glow. Tyras was pretty sure that had they been closer, they’d have felt as if the night had turned into day. The staff dragons hovered around nervously, their riders ready to open up the tanks of water beneath their mounts’ bellies in case the inferno got out of hand.
The smaller purple dragon had to do another pass to get the rest of the targets, allowing its heavier counterpart to lumber past with a throaty cackle.
Rafil whistled and whooped as he held the binoculars to his eyes.
“Arstoros’s balls, I felt that all the way here!” He took a swig from his beer to cool off, which he chilled near the point of freezing with his Forte. He pressed the bottle against his eyebrow where a bruise was trying to swell.
The group was some distance away from the Great Market where the event was taking place, having found a good hill overlooking the race. Conveniently, it was still close enough to go down to the Market for drinks.
It also meant they were far enough away from the braziers, gas lamps and electric lights connected to generators to be able to see the stars. Tyras looked up at the thousands of twinkling jewels over the blue-mauve sky. So many Fakonans thought the night was terrible and to be feared due to its association with Lunism. It didn’t say that anywhere in the Holy Texts, but many reached that conclusion on their own. They made a point out of being inside before dusk, drawing the blinds to not see the night and ensuring plentiful electric or gas light filled their homes like artificial day. Tyras pitied them.
Eldar and Kiah were slow-roasting a svini piglet over a campfire, the dog spinning the roast while the doe sprinkled it with herbs or doused the singed parts with water. Achlos was returning from the Great Market with a crate of drinks and a box of sweets. Tyras had said they shouldn’t overdo it with the drink, as they were on call starting tomorrow, so he instead went for Spring Step Soda, a Nyteri sweet caffeine drink that was gaining popularity worldwide. Served best ice cold, it was sweet and had the fizziness of beer. Though it had the exact opposite effect of beer, giving one a jolt of energy and vigor.
It was initially made for the Nyteri Expeditionary Forces, then called “Marching Soda”, to be used not only recreationally, but to keep their men marching for extended periods of time and make sure they were at 100% when they had to assault a Lunist position afterwards.
Achlos wasn’t quite sure what they put in it, but it certainly had a kick. And it wasn’t much weaker than its wartime counterpart, just a lot sweeter. And the label was prettier.
“I remember those,” Tyras said, grabbing a bottle and popping it open with his claws. “Highly sought after. The Nyteri knew that and gouged the prices. Just one bottle usually cost you an entire pack of cigarettes. The NCOs kept them under lock and key to be used only during forced marches on mass assaults.” He took a swig and licked his lips. “They didn’t trust regular grunts to keep something this tasty in reserve.” He grinned.
“Don’t blame them!” Achlos said, flexing his injured arm slightly. “It was sorely tempting to gulp it down with my rations in the rare instance that we received the sodas. And the Nyteri were always mercantile-minded folk, so of course they’d try to turn a dime on their allies’ desire for the stuff. Would have probably done the same.” He chuckled, thinking to take another swig, then deciding to save it to wash down the meat.
“Sometimes their ‘mercantile mind’ does more harm than good,” Kiah chipped in. “My sister and her husband moved to Nyter to escape the war and decided to stay there. Her husband is a doctor. Almost every other patient is a workplace accident. Burns, lost limbs from unsafe machinery, ruined lungs in the mines, or just straight up collapse from exhaustion.” She grit her teeth and sprinkled just a bit too much salt on the meat, which she attempted to brush off.
“Let us not dwell on that, Kiah,” Eldar smirked. The borzoi was the only one not presenting a cut or bruise of some kind, though some blood that wasn’t his remained dried on a patch of neck fur. “We are deployed tomorrow, and we just proved ourselves as a team in a real combat situation! We know we can rely on each other!”
The two dragons were now neck and neck as they flew over a river flowing between two cliffs. The giant Hammerhead’s flapping winds displaced gallons of water, sending it splashing tens of feet high against the rocks in a fine mist. The cliffs were angling down and were dotted with targets. Both riders pulled firearms from their saddlebags, the Pilum’s master sporting a short carbine, the Hammerhead’s a Yavuz cavalry SMG, identifiable by its signature sickle-like magazine that went straight into the grip.
The lithe purple dragon slowed down, allowing its rider to pick her shots. To get the full score, the rider had to hit each target twice. Any extra hits were not counted. She did so with surgical precision, bang-bang, bang-bang.
Her opponent used the spray and pray technique, emptying out his magazine over the targets presented. The first two he peppered with bullets, the next he grazed and the last two, the SMG went wide.
“Short controlled bursts, dumbass!” Rafil shouted, hands formed into a cone around his muzzle.
The Hammerhead’s rider fought to turn around his massive dragon as he fumbled his reload, while his far lither opponent sped past him.
“So uh… is anyone else worried that Cartas may report us?” Kiah asked with a nervous realization, turning to Tyras. “No offense sir, but you did throw the first punch, even if it was in self defense.”
“Nah. Not Cartas and his blackguards.” Rafil said, draining the rest of his beer. “They’ll never admit they received a thorough drubbing from a group of numerically inferior coppers with whom is known they had discord. They’ll conjure up something about thirty Class IV striking laborers who awaited them in ambuscade, yet they still heroically fought off.”
“Those men were not nice!” Eldar added. “And men who are not nice try to make themselves seem better than they really are. They wouldn’t admit we beat them so badly!”
“I agree,” Tyras said. “When in doubt, always bet on a wicked man’s pride. Though before that, one should bet on us. Because I say that we have proven, not only to Cartas and his goons, but most importantly to ourselves, that so long as we work together, we represent the parts of an indomitable machine. We have trained to a point where we can all but sense the others’ intentions and work together as easily as if we were shouting our plans. You are as formidable as any Scout Raider unit I have seen or been part of.”
He raised his bottle. Yet unlike before, everyone else did so in unison without requiring prompting.
“To the 1st High Risk!” Five voices cheered in unison, bottles raised. The crowd in the distance cheered as the purple dragon sped over the finish line, landing cockily on the podium and looking down at its hefty adversary as it struggled to catch up. Achlos decided it was healthy to imagine the audience was cheering for them.
He looked at Tyras. He was as happy as any man could be. He had a reason to, after all, his team had been approved… but there was something else. The satisfaction of a man whose plan had gone on without a hitch and reached the perfect conclusion.
Then he remembered Tyras looking at his watch before Cartas and his goons came out… how he looked directly at the private room they were in several times… then he remembered Tyras’s Forte.
“You wanted this to happen.” Achlos said. It wasn’t a question, nor was it an accusation, but a statement of fact. All eyes fell on Tyras, the general merriment ceasing. Tyras turned towards his friend, yet he didn’t say anything, looking expectantly like a teacher waiting for his pupil to expand upon his claim.
“That conner bar was empty. At that hour, it should have been bustling with activity. Instead, the Crimsons were the sole occupants. Why? If I had to guess, it’s because other bobbies know better than to get in the way of the riot cops when they’re celebrating. I’m guessing you knew that was their favorite pub. You keep your ear to the ground, so you’d know.
And you knew that they’d be nice and impetuous after breaking up that labor strike. Especially once they’ve had some time for the liquor to go from their stomachs into their blood.
And you especially knew that they’d have a grudge against us after you refused all of them for your team and wiped the floor with Cartas in front of half the precinct. And you knew that he and his Crimson team are a bunch of ruffians who wouldn't say no to a fight.” Achlos finished an exemplary presentation before the class.
The team stared at their leader, demanding denial, or at least explanation. He smirked in his casual, disarming way and put his paws up in mock surrender.
“What happened was not my choice. Had Cartas suffered our presence and he and his team remained in their private room, none of this would have happened. Yet, he didn’t. He chose violence, and we chose to use our training to defend ourselves.” He shrugged. “And I say we did it damned well.”
“Wait, wait, wait…” Rafil said, glaring at Tyras. “You… set up a barfight to make sure we’re a good team?” His tone was even, yet carried an underside of anger. “Sir, with all due respect, what the-”
“Ooooohhhh, that was very clever!” Eldar cut in, smirking and rubbing his paws. “It was real combat, but not a straight up firefight! A trial by fire with less risk!”
“Exactly,” Tyras nodded. “I had no doubt in your abilities to work together and overcome a technically superior foe. Yet I needed you to know that as well. And when we’re out there and the bullets are flying, and trusting your teammate means the difference between life and death, you will know that you can safely leave your lives in the others’ hands.”
Everyone was silent. Tyras felt a slight chill down his spine. Had he gone too far? He didn’t think so. Scout Raider training was far worse. Almost one in twenty candidates died in training. During his own instruction, there were three lethal accidents during sword and bayonet drills. For their final trial, they’d had to cross the Foakmon Mountains via the Blighted Forest and Witch’s Cauldron Caves. Two hadn’t made it, claimed by the precarious rocks on the climb down from the caves. Yet that had been war. And at this point, the war had been over longer than it had lasted. Something Tyras kept forgetting.
Eldar eventually spoke:
“Well, either way, those mens’ comportment… left a great deal to be desired. A harsh lesson was in order! Maybe next time, they’ll think twice about bullying innocent people. And perhaps it’s only my sentiment, but that was fun!” The borzoi grinned.
Rafil chuckled. “Yeah. Been wanting to give those assholes a piece of my mind about their conduct for a long time.”
“Language.” Tyras smirked. “We should aim to keep a certain standard, Sergeant Caloris. Swearing is a sign of a weak mind and a weaker character. And I believe we are all of sound mind and character.”
The dire wolf rolled his eyes, but his respect for the chain of command prevented any further comment.
Cheering and clapping was heard from the podium, where the vixen rider had cracked open her victory champagne and splashed the foam around, then gave her dragon a swig, as was tradition. The wolf rider marched over to her, swept her off her feet and the second place rider pressed his lips against hers, to another set of cheers and laughs from the crowd.
The 1st High Risk Reserve Unit laughed and clapped themselves at the couple’s romantic display following their fierce competition.
“Called it!” Achlos said, grinning towards Rafil. “You owe me ten Krata.”