Battle for The Purple

 

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Prologue - Jessica Boyle - Red Hook

“Samantha, we should stay and show Jessica the sunset,” General John Boyle urged his wife as the chestnut oaks of Brooklyn Bridge Park began to grow dark around them.

“We should return,” Lieutenant Marco Rossi put in. “Brooklynites will be scavenging soon.”

Boyle laughed. “Does Brooklyn scare you?”

“Oh, leave him be John,” Samantha added, tenderly. “He’s doing his job.”

Marco didn’t bite. He was a young man, just past thirty, and he had seen Brooklyn do good and bad by them. “Want to find out what they do,” he replied, sternly. “I’ll return to Greenwood and leave the lot of you Red Hooks here to camp under the stars.”

“Jessica, what do you think?” Boyle queried, softly. “We go at it alone tonight?”

Jessica glanced at her mother for inspiration. “Sure thing, Dad.”

“Decisions made,” Boyle approved. “Marco, grab our swags and get a fire started.”

Marco had known they would drag him into the Red Hooks academic ways sooner or later. Greenwood had known only war. He wished it had been later rather than sooner.

Their entire afternoon had been spent searching the river’s edge for life, to document any native species other than alien pests the Su’mer had released after they conquered Earth. Of all the clans, only Red Hook had taken a proactive approach to Su’mer occupation to prolong the human history of New York. “Fine, but we should avoid a fire. It might draw attention.”

“Just get the swags,” Boyle replied. “We can argue the fire over some rum.” His voice echoed, too loud in the dimming oaks.

As a fire was lit, Marco glanced at the sky with disinterest. “Almost time for one of their cargo ships to hurtle off into the black. You wait...”

Jessica could see the tightness around Marco’s mouth, the barely suppressed anger in his eyes hidden under the thin green hood of his cloak. Marco had spent fifteen years serving their army, boy and then man, until he reached the rank of lieutenant three months ago, and he was not familiar with her father's badgering. Yet it was more than that. Under the wounded pride, Jessica could sense something else in the young lieutenant. She could taste it; an agitation that came precariously close to fear.

Sharing Marco’s jitters, Jessica had spent the past three years under her father’s tutelage; above and beyond her religious and education studies with Miss Ashley. Jessica had never heard of a woman, let alone a girl, become a general of a clan. Boyle saw the world differently than what priests of the Serpent preached, and that scared other clans. Although he planned for the worst, he expected the finest leader out of his only remaining heir.

Marco had taught her his past too. The first time he had gone into battle with Su’mer, all the old stories had come rushing back, and how his bowels had cried. He had laughed about it afterward. He was a veteran of three dozen battles by now, and the concrete skeletons of Brooklyn had no more terrors for him.

Until tonight. On their walk to Brooklyn Bridge Park, Marco had told Jessica something was different tonight. There was a threshold to this twilight that made the hair on his neck rise. A small band of storms were blowing across from the east, and it made the chestnut oaks sound alive. All afternoon, Jessica had felt as though someone was watching her, someone that wasn’t friendly. She wanted nothing so much as to run hellbent for the safety of their clan, but that was not a feeling to share when your father was General John Boyle.

Boyle was the youngest son of General Zion ‘the Brave’ Boyle, leader of the original human resistance against the Su’mer invasion. He was an old-looking man of fifty, brown-eyed and stout like a boulder. Under his red cloak, he wore clean khaki gear and black sneakers which blended with his skin. Boyle had been general of Red Hook and Greenwood for the best part of thirty years, but no one could say he had not prepared for his entitlement. Many had tried to claim his title, and many more had died at his request.

They had all shared a laugh, knowledge and a cry. “Bet you killed many Brooklynites all by yourself, General,” Marco told the dignified family over rum.

“Brooklyn shouldn’t be your concern,” Boyle returned, glancing briefly at the shiny purple domed citadel of Manhattan. “Su’mer watch from The Purple too. They don’t bother us as much as they used to, but you can be assured they’re always watching.”

Marco seemed not to hear him. He studied the deepening dusk in that disinterested, agitated way he had. That moment, a Su’mer cargo ship skimmed across the blackening sky and disappeared into an ominous-looking cloud. Jessica had known the lieutenant long enough to understand that it was best not to disturb him when he looked like that.

“What bothers you, Marco?” Boyle asked, flatly.

Before Marco had joined Greenwood’s army, he had been a hunter, an orphaned human with no clan. The Su’mer named these hopeless humans En’ki, and over time the name stuck. Greenwood had caught him desperate and red-handed near the stadium, flaying a Lacal for a meal, and it had been a choice of putting on the green cloak of Greenwood or being strung up for Su’mer to find. No one could move through the southern lands of Brooklyn as silent as Marco, and it had not taken Boyle long to discover his talent. Lieutenant suited Marco well.

“During a recent scavenge, the men discovered a new Su’mer checkpoint at the river’s edge of Pier One,” Marco revealed. “We got close, but there’s a dome over it. Must be important. We should go and take a look?”

“Did you see any humans?” Samantha asked.

Marco shook his head. “Just two of those beady-eyed Su’mer. Why?” he enquired.

Boyle watched Samantha keep Jessica warm. He seemed frustrated. “Did you see any of their weapons?”

“Yes,” Marco admitted, reluctantly. “One had a rifle. The other, a baby.”

“A baby…” Marco now had Boyle’s full attention. “…are you sure you never saw humans?”

Marco shrugged. “Besides the baby, I only saw Su’mer. If there were any there, I guess they were long gone by then. There are many places to hide in this park.”

“What were they doing with the baby?” Boyle asked.

“Getting ready to feast,” Samantha jested.

Jessica found the humorous side of her mother’s quick gibe of Su’mer. “Gross.” A large cloud hovered overhead, immediately bringing the temperature down, and rain started to trickle.

“Smiling,” Marco insisted. “They were taking care of it. Like it was one of their own.” The young lieutenant turned back to his judging general. Wet leaves whispered, and Jessica moved restlessly to remain in her mother’s embrace. “I’d even go as far and say they were nurturing it.”

“Who do you think gave them the baby?” Boyle asked, casually. He adjusted the drape of his long generous cloak. “Surely you saw a human.”

“No, I didn’t,” Marco reassured with steely confidence. 

“They’ve asked me before,” Samantha stated. “You remember, don’t you.” Her eyes focused upon her husband’s. “Well, they didn’t actually ask. It was more of a request…”

“I’ll never forget.” Boyle placed his hand upon Samantha’s belly. “Our son… many Red Hooks and Greenwoods sacrificed their lives for you,” he struggled to say, looking at Jessica with soft eyes, “but we fought the Su’mer off. That’s all that mattered.”

Samantha glared at Boyle, placing her hand upon his, with just the hint of a smile. Loyal and smart, she was a perfect fit to stand next to a general at events and gatherings. A woman in her early forties, who had seen much and the impressions in her face showed she had gained much knowledge. Thin and quiet, she possessed a fierce tongue when needed.

Marco nodded. “Earlier yesterday our scouts followed a handful of Brooklynites roaming from this park all the way to Vinegar Hill. There were Su’mer ships scanning overhead too. Nothing to make us feel at ease. Brooklyn’s up to something.”

Dusk deepened. After a bout of rain, a few speckled stars came out. A full-moon rose. Marco was grateful for the light. The cloudy sky turned a light purple, a shining reminder that Manhattan was too close for comfort.

“We shouldn’t be here,” Marco gnarled. “It’s not safe being this close to The Purple.”

Boyle didn’t bother responding. Somewhere off in the oaks, a dog growled. Startled, Marco stomped on the fire.

“What are you doing?” Boyle barked. 

“We’re not alone,” Marco answered, softly.

Boyle paused a moment, staring off into the distance, his face studious. A cool wind nudged through the trees. His cloak stirred behind like something alive.

“It’s not right,” Marco muttered.

Samantha gave him an arrogant smile. “Why?”

“Can you feel it?” Marco asked. “Listen.”

Jessica could feel it too. A life spent in Red Hook, learning ways to lead and fight from her father, she had never been so afraid.

“The breeze. Trees stirring. A dog. A wokil. Which sound daunts you, Marco?” Boyle asked. When Marco did not answer, Boyle approached Marco. Moving his cloak aside, he pulled out an axe. Weighty, thick-headed, a bastard child of iron and wood, and held it in his right hand. Moonlight ran across its luminous head. It was a beautiful and powerful weapon.

“The oaks press close here,” Marco warned. “That axe will get you tangled.”

“If I need instruction, I’ll ask for it,” Boyle growled. “Samantha, stay here with Jessica. Make another fire if you need warming.”

Marco reluctantly agreed. “General Boyle, if there are enemies out there, a fire is the last thing we want.”

“They stay. We go,” Boyle said.

Marco’s mouth became a hard line. “No fire. They must come with us.”

Boyle’s hood shadowed his face, but Jessica could see the shimmer in his eyes as he glared at his lieutenant. For a moment, he was afraid Marco would go for his sword. It was a short, hideous thing. Its grip defiled by perspiration. Its edge dented from hard use.

Boyle looked down. “Fine,” he moaned.

Marco knew he was right and turned away.

“Lead on,” Boyle said to Marco.

Marco threaded their way through and over tree roots, then started up the slope which led to the clearing known as Pier One. Under a thin crust of mud, the ground was damp, slick footing, with rocks, cracked concrete and hidden roots. Jessica made a squelching sound as she followed battle-hardened adults. She heard soft breaths, the leaves awoke, and snarls from her parents as reaching branches grabbed at their splendid clothes.

The signage to Pier One was at the river’s edge. Marco slid in underneath, flat on his belly in the mud, and peeked at the empty pier. “Join me, Jessica,” he quietly urged.

Boyle agreed. “Be careful.”

Jessica’s heart stopped in her chest. For a moment she dared not breathe. Moonlight shone down on the empty pier. A hoot from an owl broke the silence.

“They’re gone,” Marco pointed out, softly.

“Su’mer!” she heard Boyle cry. Marco’s hideous sword slashed at a branch as Boyle came closer. He stood there, two trees back, axe in hand, his cloak bouncing behind him as the wind came up.

“Get down!” Marco whispered, urgently. “Something’s wrong.”

Boyle did not move. He looked up at the empty pier and laughed. “Your aliens seem to have wings.”

Jessica’s voice abandoned her. She searched for words that did not come. It was not possible. His eyes swept back and forth over the empty park.

“Look,” Marco pointed out. A long-barrelled weapon, well-used, with alien markings scrawled all over it, lay just beyond their reach, untouched.

“On your feet, Jessica,” General Boyle commanded. “There’s no one here. I won’t have my daughter hiding under a tree.”

Reluctantly, Jessica obeyed.

Marco looked over at Boyle with open displeasure. “I’m not going back to Red Hook empty-handed. I will find the checkpoint.” He glanced around.

“Up the tree, Jessica,” Boyle ordered. “Be quick about it. Look for that checkpoint. Keep our lieutenant from losing his marbles.”

Marco frowned, unhappy at being made light of by Boyle. Jessica turned away, wordless. There was no use to argue. The storm had picked up and the wind was growling. It made the hair on her neck rise. She went up to the tree, a vaulting chestnut oak, and began to climb. Soon her hands were dirty from bark, and she was lost among the needles and leaves. Fear filled her gut like a meal she could not digest. She slipped her dagger free of its sheath, an heirloom her grandmother had used during the invasion. She put it between her teeth to keep both hands free for climbing. 

Boyle called out suddenly, “who goes there?” Jessica heard uncertainty in his demand. She stopped climbing. She listened. She watched. The trees gave the answer of a distant bark from a dog. The river stroked the shoreline as it had done for eternity. 

Her parents and Marco made no sound.

Jessica saw movement from the corner of her eye. Pale light purple-looking clouds sifting through the trees. She turned her head and glimpsed a lavender shadow in the darkness. Then it was gone. The oaks stirred gently in the wind, scratching at one another with wooden fingers. Jessica opened her mouth to call out a warning, but the words seemed to freeze in her throat. Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps it had only been a parliament of owls, or some trick of the moonlight.

“Jessica, where are you?” Boyle called up. “Marco, can you see her?” Jessica saw Boyle turning a slow circle, suddenly wary, his axe heavy in hand. He must have felt them, as Marco and her mother must have felt them too. There was nothing to see.

Shivering, Jessica clung more tightly to her perch. Her face pressed hard against the trunk of the oak. She could feel the coarse bark on her cheek. Until an ant bit back.

A shadow emerged from the murky-looking Hudson river until it stood in front of Boyle. Bald, tall, grim and flesh purple as lavender. The purple patterns on its skin, as the mud dripped away, ran like moonlight on water with every step it took.

Jessica heard the breath go out of Boyle in a long hiss. “Stop right there, Brooklynite,” her father warned. His voice cracked like a boy’s. He threw the long cloak back over his shoulders, to free his arms for battle, and took his axe in both hands. The wind had stopped.

The Brooklynite slid forward on silent feet. In its hand was a longsword like none that Jessica had ever seen. No human metal had gone into the forging of that blade. An obvious gift from Su’mer. It was alive with moonlight, translucent, a shard of technology so thin that it seemed almost to vanish when seen edge-on. There was a faint purple shimmer to the thing, a ghost-light that played around its edges, and somehow Jessica knew it was sharper than any sword.

Boyle met it bravely. “Dance with me then.” He lifted his axe high over his head, defiant. His hands trembled from the weight of it, or perhaps from fear. Yet in that moment, Jessica thought, he was a general no longer, but The Brave soldier like his father.

The Brooklynite halted. Jessica saw its eyes; purple, deeper in purple than any Su’mer eyes she had read in books or seen in photos, a purple that burned like fire. They fixed on the axe trembling up high. She watched the moonlight run along the head. She prayed for her father, her mother. Even Marco.

They emerged silently from the oaks. Quickly there were six of them, only clouds. Surrounding her party of three, Boyle may have felt the wind that came with them, but he never saw them, never heard them. Jessica had to call out. It was her duty as their child. She shivered and hugged the oak.

The purple sword sliced through the air.

Boyle met it with iron. When the steel met, there was a ring of metal on metal. Boyle checked a second blow, and a third, then fell back a step. Another spurt of blows, and he fell back again.

Behind, to the left, to the right, all around them, the clouds hovered patient, faceless, silent, the shifting patterns of their delicate lavender mist making them all but invisible in the trees. Yet they made no move to approach.

Again, and again the weapons met, until Jessica wanted to cover her ears against the strange anguished howling of their clash. Boyle was panting from the effort now, his breath steaming in the moonlight. The axe-head glowed purple with dust; Brooklynites danced in pale purple light.

Then Boyle’s sidestep came a beat too late. The pale sword bit through the sage cloak beneath his arm. The general, a husband, a father, cried out in pain. Blood welled between the layers of clothing. It steamed in the air, and the droplets seemed red as fire where they touched the ground. Boyle’s fingers brushed his side. His grey tactical gloves came away soaked with red.

Marco drew his sword and stood in front of Boyle and Samantha. Boyle placed a comforting hand upon Marco’s right shoulder. Marco shook his head, and reluctantly moved aside.

The Brooklynite said something in a language that Jessica did not know.

Boyle found his fury. “Marco, protect Samantha. This battle’s mine to have. I bested your kind before, and I’ll best you again. For Red Hook!” he exclaimed, and he came up snarling, lifting the axe with both hands and swinging it around in a sidearm slash with all his weight behind it. The Brooklynites’ dodge was mostly lethargic.

When the weapons touched, the axe shattered and the moonlit head landed by her mother.

Jessica wanted to scream through the night. The axe had exploded into a hundred pieces, the shards scattering like a rain of wooden needles. Boyle went to his knees, shrieking, and covered his eyes. Blood welled between his fingers.

The Brooklynites moved forward together, as if some signal had been given. Swords and axes rose and fell, all in a deathly silence. It was butchery. The pale purple instruments of death sliced through her family as if they were silk. Jessica kept the silence and closed her eyes. Far beneath her, she heard voices and laughter.

When she found the courage to look again, a long time had passed, and the pier below was empty of lavender.

She stayed in the tree, daring to breathe, while the moon crept slowly across the purplish sky. Finally, her muscles cramping, and her fingers numb with cold, she climbed down.

Her father’s body lay face-down, one arm out flung. His thick cloak had been slashed in a dozen places. Her mother’s body lay in two, both halves a good distance from the other. Marco’s head, arms and legs were sliced cleanly from his torso. Like a knife through butter, the cuts were so neat no blood spilled. It seemed the Brooklynites had toyed with them in death. In a surreal moment, she realised there would be no more hugs from her mother, and no more lessons from her father.

She found what was left of her father's axe a few feet away by her mother’s torn torso. Holding back tears, Jessica knelt, looked around warily, and snatched up the head. The broken axe would be her proof for an attack on Brooklyn on the eve of their own peace treaty between all the clans. Miss Ashley would know what to make of it, and if not her, then surely that old bear John Balderson from Greenwood. She had to hurry.

Jessica rose quickly. Slow squelching footsteps from behind lured her attention. She saw her father standing over her. Her mother and Marco were whole again, watching from the river’s edge.

Boyle’s fine red cloak and khakis were a tatter, his face defiled, and his grey sneakers browned by a mixture of blood and mud. A long shard from the handle of his axe had pierced the pupil of his right eye and punched out the other side.

The left eye was open. The pupil burned a lavender purple. It saw her. “Dad!” she cried.

The axe head fell from her nerveless fingers. Jessica closed her eyes to pray to the Serpent for guidance. Stubby fingers brushed her cheek, then tightened around her throat. They were coarse and sticky with cold blood. Then a woman’s voice similar to her mother’s spoke in that language she did not know. Boyle released his grasp. Daring to breathe, feeling the moon continue to creep across the purplish sky. She opened her eyes and saw her family were gone.

 

 

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Chapter  One - General Daniel Jones - Queens

When the request came, Dan was drawn back to the clan where he once lived, the tunnels, the trenches and the communities within. He remembered there was a room deep within Brooklyn he had dug by a handful of Diggers at his disposal. For days they dug until the room was the size he wanted. In the room, he crowded it with arch mirrors, fat chairs and square tables he had found during ransacking’s on the surface. The chairs were upholstered in that itchy, red velvet that he associated with his father’s throne. The walls were clay, and a colour rather like a fox’s coat.

“What soft hands you have,” General Daniel Jones pointed out to the Brooklynite woman standing in front of him. Cold to the touch, smooth like satin, he could tell she hadn’t worked an honest day’s work in years. He glanced at Lieutenant Abdul Omar for inspiration.

Abdul made a slight tilt of his head. He was a strong young man, proven and a decade removed from military training. The Brooklynite woman Abdul had referred to earlier as Miss Janet smiled at Dan. The kind of smile one made to a long lost and familiar face. Then she tossed that same smile at his younger brother General Joe Jones.

“Where’s General Steve?” Joe asked.

Dan glanced at Abdul for advice. They watched Joe, until Abdul proceeded to encourage Dan to silence his younger brother. The two were well aware Joe was a pistol with a touchy trigger.

Janet attempted to wriggle her hand free. “General Joe, he’ll be arriving soon.” Once free, Janet shot Dan that old-friend smile once more. “It’s been such a long time. What an honour to see General Steve’s two famous brothers again.”

Dan showed his upper teeth and flexed his lips at Janet. Many eyes watched his noble try. “Famous. Warriors. Same thing, I guess. You’d have been a Digger last time we were here.”

Janet nodded enthusiastically. Obviously, thrilled they remembered her.

From the hands of a large antique-looking clock which hung on the longest wall of the Bunker, Dan noticed it was getting late. The constant tocks reminded him of the seconds ticking away until he saw the oldest Jones again, a brother he hadn’t seen in thirteen long years.

Joe had known it was his turn to be pleasant. He put out his sweaty, filthy, callous ridden palm, and shook firm the hand of a Brooklyn woman neither of them had respect for. Reluctantly, he held onto her hand until even he would have felt uncomfortable, which was impossible. If it were up to Joe, he would’ve had this privileged woman burned. There were eight kerosene lamps in this Bunker at his disposal. Joe only needed to say the word.

Abdul leaned in. Dan heard the habitual cautious undertones of a whisper punching air into his ear, “General Dan, I know its late in the night, but we’re in their world. Not ours. You must ensure we keep the peace.”

“What if we see her?” Dan asked. “I can’t promise—”

“—we must do nothing,” Abdul replied sternly.

Dan frowned, showing his frustration to Abdul. He made a short grunt. “Fine.”

“And make sure you limit General Joe’s input,” Abdul added. “We can’t afford to make a scene in front of Brooklyn. They're too strong.”

Dan always appreciated Abdul’s wise advice, but sometimes he had to go at it alone. Brooklyn was meant to have been his. He had played the wrong card thirteen years ago and lost. Regrettably, that card was Joe. He wouldn’t play it again.

Biting her top lip, Janet took a less than subtle step away from Joe. “General Steve often speaks volumes of you both.”

“Bad or good,” Dan suggested. “Bad I hope. Reputations are hard to maintain,” he joked.

Janet chuckled. “No, only good,” she answered, coyly. “I guess, welcome home is in order.”

Dan felt the right side of his lip slither. Interacting with a woman, a Digger, instead of his brother irked him. For Abdul, he gave that smile another go.

“We’ve organised food for your troops and prepared beds. You will feel right at home. Like the two of you never left.”

Dan nodded. “A promise?” he queried, cheekily. It seemed Steve had put in a significant effort.

“Yes, a promise.” She smiled. “Hope the journey west wasn’t too troublesome. Su’mer have been very active lately in these parts. There have been raids every night for the last two weeks.”

“No doubt Brooklyn must’ve stirred the nest,” Joe spruiked. “Like old times, hey brother?”

Dan made a slight tilt of his head. Joe wasn’t ready and retreated into Dan’s shadow. Speaking or thinking was never Joe’s forte. Surely, a leader needed to possess those abilities as a bare minimum.

“I heard they’re throwing a welcome party for Chancellor Nikau,” Dan pointed out.

“We’ve heard that too,” Janet confirmed. “General Joe, you shouldn’t be afraid. You can speak freely here,” she said with compassion.

Joe heard his ego being stroked and stepped forward, shoving a seasoned Abdul aside.

Dan shook his head. “No,” he mouthed at Joe. “Stay there.” He pointed at an empty spot behind him.

Right on cue, Joe withdrew himself again. Ever since childhood, it was accepted that Joe was not like his older brothers. Obviously wired differently, their father had determined something just wasn’t right in Joe’s head. No matter how often their father tried to beat it out of him, he continued to twitch his neck, rapidly blink and disengage from everyone who talked to him. Why Steve gave Long Beach to Joe, to this day still astounds Dan. Like their father, it seemed Steve had kept a soft spot for their baby brother.

“It’s warm,” Dan mentioned, tugging on the collar of his khaki military uniform. Sweat welled uncomfortably under his armpits. Even he thought he wreaked. “Much muggier here than Queens,” he added. He combed his fingers through his greasy hair, feeling coarse sand get stuck in between finger grooves. Bending over, he shook out what he could. “Vents playing up?”

“Is it that obvious?” Janet asked, trying her hardest to break the ice in Steve’s stead. “Such horrible timing. Diggers spent the best part of yesterday and all of today trying to fix them.”

From behind, Joe chortled. Dan couldn’t hold it in either and together they howled. Their voices bounced off the clay walls, and it reminded him of homely acoustics he had missed these past thirteen years.

“General Steve needn’t worry,” Joe barked from Dan’s shadow. “Ours haven’t worked in months. No one complains.”

“Ours too,” Dan added. “No one complains in Queens because you’d have them executed brother.”

Joe grinned at Janet. “Well, that’s true.”

Dan took a deep breath in, and then glanced at Abdul. Shrugging his shoulders, Abdul encouraged Dan to go adlib and stop Joe from talking. How much longer did he have to entertain Janet? Under his father’s watch, no woman would’ve ever risen so high.

“Miss Janet, right?” Dan asked.

“It is,” Janet accepted. “Hope you don’t mind, but General Steve requested Sera also attend this initial meeting. He mentioned the four of you were like family.”

Any appearance of Sera meant Dan had to keep an eye on Joe. Abdul knew he had to do the same. “It was a long time ago,” Dan said with hesitation, keeping Joe within his sight. Steve had always been smitten by Sera’s sweet nectar, but they were never together. Perhaps their relationship had changed over the years. At that moment, three soldiers in full military accoutrements entered the bunker. Chainmail croaked and showed its age with every step taken. With sticker covered biker helmets and clear vizors decades removed from being see-through, they took to their positions at Janet’s side. Two were armed with a rifle and the other held a metal spear like the one Steve always favoured.

“General Dan. General Joe,” a woman’s voice softly mentioned from behind the hoarse chainmail. “How long has it been, eleven, twelve years?” she asked, stepping out to reveal a thirty-something woman with familiar porcelain skin. She still wore that familiar white lab-coat that barely reached her knees, forever aged by her many days spent pushing the boundary of science. Her dark hair was in a high ponytail. Thin glasses entertained a somewhat seductive look, and it brought forth the possibility of a rumour he had heard months earlier.

“Thirteen,” Dan said with much fervour. He glanced at Joe, urging him to say nothing. She shouldn’t be here. Not with Joe around. Steve would know not to play with fuel near fire.

Joe’s wide eyes zeroed in on Janet like a wolf finding its prey. His eyebrows posed in a straight line. Dan gulped, fretting what his brother would do. He glanced at Abdul for inspiration.

Dan stepped in front of Joe, hoping his brother wouldn’t make a scene in Steve’s clan. “Dear me, thirteen long years. Where did the time go?” he wondered, playing nicely.

Sera smiled. “Too long, General Dan. Far too long.”

Seeing how the soldiers protected Sera didn’t surprise Dan. If women were obtaining power in Brooklyn, then surely Sera would’ve been the prototype for their rise. He could hear Abdul’s voice in his head, ensuring he kept his tongue in check. Dan had another go at giving Sera that smile, but his cheeks strained more than he could handle.

Turning to face Joe, Dan pointed at an empty spot beside him. He needed something more from Joe. Anything would be helpful at this point. Anything but an unhinged Joe. “Come and stand next to me. Get involved in the conversation.”

Joe approached his brother’s side.

“You remember Sera. Say hello to her,” Dan said, reluctantly. “But just hello. Got it,” he added, firmly.

Abdul’s eyes fixated upon Dan, and sure enough when he looked at Abdul he saw the whites moving from side to side. “No,” he mouthed.

Dan signalled to Abdul that everything was under control.

Then foolishly Joe took three unwise steps forward, halting merely metres from Sera. Dan went to reclaim those steps, but it wasn’t his place to protect Sera. Brooklyn's soldiers needed to do their job. “Miss Janet,” Joe said softly. “Miss Sera…”

Dan shook his head at Abdul. “Louder, General Joe,” Dan barked. “Can’t have you being shy tomorrow when we meet the other clans.”

Joe cleared his throat. “Miss Sera,” he repeated, just as softly.

“You get it, don’t you?” Dan quizzed, but then an interesting thought crossed his mind. Perhaps he should stir his brother. If Joe made an advance on Sera, or even Janet, then perhaps Steve would be forced show himself tonight.

Joe appeared absent, but then he licked his lips at Sera. Dan thought interesting could work in his favour. He just had to make sure no killing.

“Joe,” Dan hissed, hoping Joe would turn around and face him. “Joe, over here.”

Joe’s feet inched even closer to Sera, but this time the soldiers did their job and surrounded Sera in a show of force. Dan felt a heavy weight lift from his shoulders. Interesting was in motion.

“Joe,” Dan repeated, louder than before, egging Joe on. “Look at me. Don’t you do it.”

“Whore,” Joe roared. Like the reaper, ready to claim another soul, he was drunk on the premise of death – her death. “I know what you’ve done.”

Perhaps Interesting was a bad idea after all. It didn’t fit in with his own ultimate plan to claim his birthright and retake Brooklyn for himself. He unhitched the sheath which held his sword and rushed over to Joe. “Shit,” he projected loudly. He felt for it, remembering he had it checked when they entered Brooklyn. He missed his long and golden, beautiful blade. He called it Widower, for it had made many. He liked the way crunchy sand snuck into its every crevice. If Joe tried anything, then he needed Widower to quickly put an end to it.

Janet’s eyes shifted across the soldiers and onto Sera. “Miss Sera, step forward and introduce yourself. Tell our guests what you’re working on—”

Joe was having none of the diplomatic pleasantries, “—Sera!”

All eyes in the room focused upon Joe. Janet went silent, quickly realising there were no hardback books in Steve’s library on how to deal with Joe. Dan needed Abdul to step in, for he too was fluent in dealing with his younger brother.

Right on cue, Abdul rushed over. “General Dan, the look in his eyes, I told you before, it’s not right. We need to put a stop to him this time.”

In agreeance, Dan reluctantly grunted. He looked at the three soldiers tightening their grasp on their weapons.

“Make sure General Joe pulls back. Remember where we are,” Abdul reminded Dan.

Joe knew only two speeds: full on, or nothing. Steve had sacrificed his life for Sera. Another time, another life, then perhaps Steve and Sera could’ve been more. But in this life, Steve would’ve dominated her in every way possible. Her evolution from Digger to Doctor was legendary. Her accomplishments were a great feat, but many years had passed since Dan respected what she brought to the world. Time had taught him otherwise. Women should know their place as Breeders and Diggers, and nothing more. The rumour Sera had been betrothed to a human from The Purple far outweighed any loyalties she had with his older brother. He doubted Steve knew of her pending marriage.

Dan saw the scuffle commencing before Joe took his first step forward. “Sera!” Dan released Joe, waiting for the soldiers to earn their keep.

The soldiers shoved their weapons into Joe’s face, urging Joe to not take another step with loud voices. Joe halted and covered his ears, rocking back and forth, twitching, blinking and crooking his neck. Poor Joe, he meant no harm. His head just wasn’t right.

Dan smiled, appreciating the diplomatic efforts of the soldiers. No one had to die. “Stand down Joe. We’ll take our issue up with Steve when we see him.”

Very wisely, Sera disappeared further behind the wall of chainmail. Janet also stepped in as an added layer of protection. No doubt, Brooklyn had been through this before.

“General Dan, what’s wrong with General Joe?” Janet asked. “I don’t recall him being like this. Have we offended him?”

Dan shook his head, and then glanced at Joe’s backside. “Guess your general didn’t tell you everything.”

“I remember,” Sera voiced, firmly. “He’s autistic. A freak…”

“No father!” Joe berated, spit flying from his mouth. “I told you to not call me that anymore.” It seemed Sera hadn’t remembered all that she knew on Joe. Even in their childhood, she had forgotten no one word angered him more than Autistic. An instant rage consumed Joe and his faced reddened, his eyes would’ve charged into battle too if they could. Dan realised Joe’s speed was now set to full.

“Do your job,” Dan hissed at Abdul, as he pushed his lieutenant into action. He too rushed over to Joe to stop the attack from happening.

It was too late. Joe met the three soldiers with force. Unarmed, a flurry of Joe’s fists checked the jabs of the spear and rifle butts. Rightfully, the soldiers were aware they needed to also keep Joe alive. They feared their general more than they fretted for Joe’s barrage of trivial punches and kicks. Another spurt of blows, and Joe fell onto his backside, only to rise again, drunk on getting to Sera.

Dan reached into the melee for his brother, only to cop a rifle butt across the bridge of his nose, breaking its seam. “Joe, stand down,” he roared, trying to stem the blood. He feared the worst from Steve, reaching in again, he latched onto Joe’s right shoulder. “Stop making a fool of yourself!”

“Don’t kill him,” Janet ordered.

“Stop him,” Sera pleaded for help. “We don’t want to hurt him.”

“I’m trying,” Dan barked. “Put down your weapons and grab his bloody hands.”

Sera then made an error in judgement. She moved out from the protection of the soldiers and made an unwise break for the door.

Sniffing the opportunity, Joe wriggled free and quickly caught up, latching onto her lab-coat. He yanked her to the floor in one fluent motion. He boomed, “you’ve jeopardised everything and you must die for your treachery.”

“Help!” Sera’s pained voice cried. “Miss Janet!”

“Death’s going to be easy for you,” Joe berated.

Dan surveyed for Abdul. “Stop him!” he ordered. “Do your fucking job!”

Abdul hurried over to Joe, only to look at Dan and shrug his shoulders. “I need your help. He’s too powerful.”

Joe closed his hands around Sera’s throat and started to throttle her.

“Help her,” Janet shrieked at the soldiers.

The soldier with the spear ferociously poked at Joe’s ribs and legs. Joe grimaced and grunted after each strike, but Dan doubted Joe felt any pain. A childhood of beatings from their father had made him strong. Then the two with the rifles bunted Joe’s head again and again, but Joe was a man possessed by rage and death and brushed off each hit. Sera’s mouth gasped, and her eyes became bloodshot, as she struggled for breaths.

“Not Sera,” Janet wailed. “We can give you someone else to punish.”

“Punish...” Joe chortled, loosening his grasp. The soldiers sensed Joe’s waning attack. He rotated his head until he saw Janet. “I want more than that, I want to slit the throat of this whore. So should all of you,” he emphasised to everyone in the Bunker.

Joe pulled a petite dagger from his sock, putting it between his teeth to have a proper go at her throat.

“Stop him!” Janet roared. “He’s got a knife.”

Joe freed a hand to grab the handle of the dagger, and then latched onto her high ponytail and pulled down tight. He lined the blade up along the crease of her throat.

Dan urged the soldiers to push back, feeling there was still time to save Sera. He knelt beside his brother’s side and placed his hand upon Joe’s cutting hand. “Joe,” Dan said, tenderly. “It’s me, Dan. Don’t do it.”

Joe listened and stopped himself from sawing through her neck, but he wasn’t ready to stow the dagger.

“She doesn’t have to die. No one has to,” Dan ensured, keeping his voice soft and brotherly.

Joe shook his reddened face. “I hate you. Always have,” he directed at Sera, spit hitting her cheeks. “Never again will you spin your web around Steve. Time for you to learn your lesson and place in our world.” He dipped the dagger into her neck and drew a smidgen of blood.

Dan immediately reached for the hand holding the dagger and put a stop to Joe’s treatment of Sera. “Enough!” he thundered. With the help of Abdul, they shoved their shoulders up under Joe’s arm, ramming Joe out of the way with all their combined strength. It took all of it too.

Dan rose and stared at his brother. “Stay down,” he hissed. He held out his hand for Sera to take, and while he helped her to her feet, he glanced at Janet with what he hoped were sorry eyes.

“You’re aware General Steve will not be happy. Miss Sera’s untouchable,” Janet pointed out.

“I’m fully aware,” Dan replied with venom. “General Joe’s not happy either. Get him someone else to kill. Lessons need to be taught. That’s the way it’s done out there. That’s the way our father taught us. Steve will understand.”

Janet looked lost. She faced Sera for some timely advice.

“Do it,” Sera ordered from the floor. “Now.”

Reluctantly, Janet looked down.

Dan pointed at the wall of chainmail. “One of your statues should do.”

Janet faced the loyal Brooklynites. Fear stricken, all three stared each other down. “Who’s it going to be?” she asked. “Make a choice. Quickly.”

The soldiers ummed and erred. Regardless, a decision needed to be made.

“You,” Dan singled out, directing his finger at the one holding the spear.

The soldier with the spear shook his head and made a break for the door. The other soldiers knew it was him or one of them and chased him down.

Joe looked at his brother and smiled. For Joe, death always felt natural, but why did some people have to put up a fight?

“Get him to remove his helmet,” Dan ordered. “It needs to be messy if you want to satisfy his needs.”

Janet assisted in preparing the apprehended soldier for the afterlife. She guided him to stand before Joe, and then unbuckled the layer of chainmail. “Let it be known,” Janet started to say, digging her fingers under his helmet and pulling it off, “Brooklyn puts no one person above any other clan.”

Joe stared at his opponent. He licked his lips, twitching his neck, rapidly blinking, he had lost all want to execute Sera. Joe made sure no one else outtalked him from unleashing punishment, as he plunged his dagger deep into the soldier’s neck, ruthlessly stabbing again and again. Blood spilled perfectly from the wound. At the first sight of blood, he shivered and rolled his eyes. Right on cue, Joe grinned. “How good was that?” he asked, looking at Dan. His was not a normal smile, but one a psychotic murderer would make. Someone who took joy in killing another.

Dan made yet another attempt at an awkward smile, but this time he willingly directed it at his brother. The smile felt right.

The soldier covered the fresh wound with his left hand and stumbled. He grew pale, swaying as the red in his face quickly departed.

Joe wiped the dagger along his left arm’s sleeve and stowed it back into his sock.

“General Joe, you’ll need to hand it over,” Janet instructed, firmly.

Still smiling, Joe conceded, “sure.” With all his might, he flung the dagger at Janet, purposely missing. It pinned into the wall behind her with a dull thud. “It’s all yours.”

Janet went to the dagger and yanked it out. “Do either of you have anything else?”

“We were checked,” Dan answered.

“Seems we checked everyone but Joe,” Janet growled.

“Miss Sera, you look hot and bothered.” Joe laughed, finding humour when he shouldn’t have. “All of you Brooklynites do. You should fix your vents.”

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Chapter Two - Thed Smith - Citadel of Manhattan

“Angel?” Thed called out, loudly. Hyperventilating, he tried to slow his breaths. The taste of cigarette rubbed gently against the back of his throat. Short of breath, he choked a little. When he had calmed, he rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?”

He had woken in a fright. His legs had jerked restlessly throughout the night and a heavy weight had seemed to crush his chest. Instead of the night, an orchid purple poured in through windows, filling his Bowery studio room apartment. He sat up in bed, clutching at his chest.

On Angel’s bedside table, a digital clock ticked over another minute to show 11.46 pm. His palms felt clammy. He dragged them down the front of his shirt to dry, quickly realising he was drying them in a rainforest. After peeling off his shirt, he kicked away the bed sheet. His head ached.

Tense temples encouraged him to rub deep circles into them. Round and round, the longer, the firmer and the deeper he rubbed, until he felt the pointy edge from his chip. It had never errored in his 34 years, but in the last month he swore it had twice. Lifetime guarantee, yeah right. Last time, the pain lasted five minutes. This time, he gave it another five minutes too. Same situation, it went away.

He took a deep breath in. To the left, from his window he counted eight holograms of a smiling Chancellor Nikau dominating the skyline of Manhattan. No doubt there would be more. “Great, they’re up,” he mumbled. That Su’mer never smiled.

Six months had passed since he sealed himself in his apartment. At the start, there was only one rule: no outside interactions. He couldn’t handle anything else other than dealing with the loss of his wife, Angel. Easier said than done.

During the aftermath of her public execution, all he heard were the conspiracies and wild rumours, so he turned the HV off. He stopped answering the door when he started to receive the odd visit from his brothers and Su’mer officials. He listened to his mother when she said to take each day as it came.

Days turned into weeks, and the weeks into the past six months, his confidence had slowly started to return. Some days he had the strength. Others, he struggled mightily.

“Light on. Level two,” he ordered the AI system.

On those good days, he sought food and drinks from the corner store. One time he ventured a block further for Chinese. Six months later, he still hadn’t found a way to stabilise life and it continued to feel different. He hated different. Different was out of his control.

On his bedside table, there was a thin book-shaped mirror face down, resting next to his aged Translata and an ash-tray which needed emptying. Focusing on the mirror, there was a corner piece missing, the width of his thumb. Three days ago, on one of those bad days, he had slammed it a little too hard. He picked it up and gazed into it. Unable to see his face clearly, he brought it up closer. He ran his once leathery right hand through his black, wiry hair. Dark circles swallowed his eyes. Lacking Vitamin D, his pale cheeks were a by-product of living in the domed citadel of Manhattan. He sighed at the sight of a few strands of short hair under his chin, reminiscing on some stubble he missed when shaving off his beard a week earlier.

The apartment had a smoke-infused musty smell. The lone window’s latch had broken two months ago, and he hadn’t the money nor care to fix it. Mould went unchecked throughout his apartment, particularly around the edges of the window. Dishes stacked at least ten high stood defiant in the sink, which also acted as a makeshift bathroom. Soiled and well-worn clothes were thrown over anything with an edge. The mess was the least of his concerns.

Back when it happened, HV had her name and details of her execution on repeat. Before she died, they used to watch movies and documentaries, but months had passed since he watched HV.

“HV on,” he instructed, hoping her name would be far from everyone’s lips. When the holographic image beamed from the wall, its rainbow a welcome reprieve from the purple, he was greeted with the sound of trumpets and Liberation Day propaganda. January 26th got to him and every human too; inside or outside Manhattan, it didn’t matter. It would always be Invasion Day to humans. The reluctance to watch HV because of Angel had lifted.

His brother Alinga Nwaba lived with their mother, Lynda Jefferson, three doors down. When Alinga wasn’t home, his mother would swing by on her own. She was quite the story teller.

Seventy years ago, when the Su’mer invaded, she lost her husband and three children. Even though she had raised four men who became Lookouts – the most dangerous job for a human, a day never went past where Thed wasn’t reminded of how she wished to join her family in death. Every now and then, seeing his mother made him wonder what life was like back when there were only humans.

Then there were his other two brothers, second-eldest Olongo and third-eldest Justin, lived together in Tribecca. It had been a week since they last paid him a visit.

With less than forty-eight hours until the arrival of Chancellor Nikau, even at this late hour, the city would be going through its final security checks; a job he was conscripted into in his youth, well before his promotion to Lookout when he reached twenty. Tomorrow, finishing touches would be made to skyscrapers and streets. Buildings and laneways would be swept clean of their humanness. One would be hard pressed for luck trying to find a human wandering the streets without a purpose over the next few days. Only essential humans were required, and there wasn’t much of a need for them nowadays.

From the safety of his bed, he looked left, peering at one of the eight holograms of Nikau. Drawn to the impressive display of loyalty, Thed left the bed and shuffled his heavy feet around a table at the end of his bed, and over to the window to get a better look. Down below, the nightlife of the citadel was alive and kicking. Scurrying like ants, Su’mer have been breathing new life into Manhattan for the last year. Graffiti’s now rare. Crime has plummeted. 24/7 street sweepers keep the gutters clean. There’s a revitalised sense of ambition. A year ago, Angel was by his side when they were amongst it too.

Su’mer religiously wore purple. The more prominent the Su’mer figure, the shade of purple grew darker. He hated purple. He liked black. It was the colour of his Lookout uniform; it was the colour of his tattoos, Angel stood on his left shoulder, a skull on his right shoulder, and a snake slithered around his neck. It was the colour of Mouse, the all-terrain vehicle Su’mer entrusted Lookouts with. It was the colour he was taught to appreciate as a young child by his mother. Later in life as a Lookout, he learnt black was the colour of the flag for human resistance from the En’ki, with bold white writing which read Humans Only. He only came to learn of the En’ki resistance flag’s existence during his first Lookout mission.

Another intense-looking storm, rolled in quickly from the west, where shards of lightning shot upwards into the night. Thank goodness for the dome which protected Manhattan from a harsh environment forever changed by Su’mer, and from the clans who continue to mock them with their resistance. A minute later, the deafening sound of fist-sized hail hammered the dome, muting the sounds of a city preparing for Nikau’s arrival for a good ten minutes as the storm blew out to sea.

Tilting his eyes downwards, from the corner of his left eye, her bedside table called out his name again. On it, directly to the left of the ash-tray, there was a crumpled photo of Angel he hadn’t touched since it happened. The ball-shaped image re-ignited the feeling of loss. Unlike months earlier, he found strength to remember everything about her. Whether it was that cheeky look from the pranks she had always played on him, or the wide grin cutting deep into her cheeks whenever he came home from a mission, he had a gut-feeling it was the right time to embrace life again. Using the back of his hand, he wiped away a rare and lonely tear. He needed to be emotionless and cutthroat like one of those Brooklynites. He had to whip his mind back into shape, the way he used to be when he was Head Lookout.

Feeling hungry, he shuffled those heavy feet to the table at the foot of his bed. He reached for the stir-fry box he had ordered earlier in the night. Fishing around with a lone chopstick for a piece of tofu, he sighed when he came up trump. Unwilling to be outdone, he continued to pierce the rice and peas in his quest. Frustrated, he started to relentlessly stab at the rice, harder and harder with each strike. Until, the chopstick punched through the other side. Beaten, he returned the Tofu-less box to the table.

Her photo showed itself again. Unlike before when he recalled pleasant memories, this time he felt pained from the nightmares. Ten were hung that day. No thought crossed his mind on the nine who were strung up before her. The executioner dragged Angel by her hessian-bagged head toward the podium. His heart sank when her jelly legs struggled to walk. He felt her pain. He felt her anger. More importantly, he felt her humility. Even though he never wanted to see her die, he had to be there at her end. Disrespectfully, they dressed her in a lavender dress tattered and torn in places which gave those up close a show. Keeping her head covered, the Executioner strung her up; he used rope half the thickness of her neck. Thed’s throat stung, from his relentless shouting. The chorus of cheers and crude laughter from Su’mer and human-alike, drowned his voice out. The Executioner read out her punishment and within seconds the floor beneath gave way. He had that nightmare again tonight. There were others too.

The crack of a gunshot started the other dream, as he recalled the reason behind her very public execution. In the distance, from atop Mouse, he saw trees disappear amongst a plume of dust a mile wide.

“Wokils!” Thed warned his brother, Olongo. “Let her loose. Get us to the Long Island checkpoint.”

The herd of Wokil’s covered a great area and were approaching fast.

“Vector has us on course to intercept them,” Olongo delivered from the front cabin.

Thed roared into the mouthpiece, “then go faster!” As Mouse sped ahead, it churned through the carnage of ancient car bodies and skeletons of homes, remnants of the war seventy years earlier. “Faster.”

Through the scope, the first Wokil came into view. Staring at him with dark purple eyes, void of any conceivable intelligence, he watched it charge straight at them. With its woolly mammoth-like appearance, long black tusks fiercely curling upwards, ready to pierce any who challenged it, he cocked the rail gun and unleashed a reign of fire upon it. But the first Wokil was quickly followed by another and another, until there were hundreds of them within his sight, maybe five hundred, maybe a thousand, he didn’t have time to count.

If Mouse was moving, then it was his job to mow the Wokil’s down with the rail gun. They kept coming and he kept firing. Olongo detoured off the path to use forests and old houses made of concrete and wood as shields. The heat from the gun made it a struggle to breath. Quickly glancing down, he saw two heavy streams of gunfire exit Mouse’s side windows. “Let it rain brothers!”

He was a Lookout, the Head Lookout on that mission. He was not a public official. He was not an entertainer. All shades of purple gave him the chills. He was not educated. He had one job, a job Su’mer had groomed him to become his entire life and he had failed it. For his first ever failure on a Lookout mission, he paid the ultimate price.

Trained to fear nothing, Lookouts were known as being the bravest human warriors. They were entrusted by Su’mer for transportation between neighbouring citadels via Mouse. The wealthy aliens called it Sightseeing. Human’s didn’t see it that way, especially Thed. Even though they send cargo ships from Manhattan to their larger ships outside Earth within the blink of an eye, they used Mouse’s for cheap earthly thrills. Over the years, drunken mouthy aliens told of other citadels all over the planet and how it’s rare to find human Lookouts anymore. To the west of Manhattan, rumour of Washington’s survival made for a good drinking story. Six months had passed, and no alcohol had touched his lips. Good thing too, for Thed always ran a tidy unit.

Despite the carnage of dead Wokil’s piling up before them, they kept on stampeding. No matter how many died, they saw what was before them and kept charging. Their mammoth frames ploughed through carcasses of their own specie and before he knew it, a handful of Wokil’s rammed into Mouse’s thick heavy armour. Letting go of the rail gun, he leapt back into Mouse to protect their prized guests. He grabbed hold of two aliens and shielded them, holding them tight as Mouse started to roll, a roll which seemed to last for an eternity until tusks ripped into the undercarriage and forced Mouse to stop rotating.

Though he never knew fear before, seeing Angel’s legs stop kicking taught him this skill. He had felt it when the Wokil’s charged at them that day. He had felt it when the Su’mer abused him during his training as a child.

Real sunlight, not the purple light from the citadel, poured in through the gaps. At the time, he didn’t know it yet, but Thed and his three brothers, Olongo, Justin and Alinga, and the Su’mer officials they were transporting to the far away beaches of Montauk, had been thrown from Mouse. Dazed, unable to see through long grass, he immediately sensed danger. A black figure rose from the green blades, discharging pulses of white light from a laser gun.

“Thed,” Olongo roared. “Get up and fight.”

Thed stumbled to his feet. He used Olongo as cover, as he searched the wreckage for Su’mer. Hoping all were accounted for and alive, his heart sank when he saw limp bodies hiding amongst the green. Failure hit him hard until he saw the first Wokil charge at him, then instinct kicked in. Roaring, drunk on chaos, Olongo kept firing.

“Get on my back,” Thed ordered Olongo, as he reached over his shoulders for his two trusty Uzi’s. Going back to back, the brothers unleashed death in unison.

For the best part of the six months, Angel’s demise had kept him down. Long nights were spent struggling to fall asleep, with Angel’s photograph the only motivation to keep him going. Eventually reality kicked in, becoming a fire deep inside which needed to be released. Everything inside his apartment he touched, saw, smelt – and any other damn sense, he couldn’t understand why it had to remind him of her?

That’s when revenge kicked in. Retribution for Angel’s execution had become the sustenance feeding his motivation. The motivation feeding his revenge. It became the circle of his life. It rebuilt his courage. It strengthened his muscles. It helped him to remember. It gave life to the possibility he could be a Lookout again, but not just any Lookout, the Head Lookout.

A knock on the front door took him far away from his thoughts. Taking his time, he shuffled those still heavy feet over to it.

“Who is it?” Thed wondered at the late hour.

He placed an eye over the peephole. All he saw was the plain, beige hallway wall.

“Those kids,” he moaned, noticing the pot plant from across the hall had been pinched again. The same one he had requested the landlord replace. Bet it was those kids from a floor down. They were the ones that pinched the plant at the end of the hallway in front of his mother’s last week.

Thed moved away from the door to return to his bed.

Then a second round of knocking forced him to urgently return to the peephole. Lunging at the door, he placed his eye over the gateway to the outside world, scoping the hallway as best he could from the tiny microscope.

"Who is it?" Thed shouted, again no one responded.

Fretting, thinking the worst, he immediately assumed Su’mer agents were after him? He shuffled away from the door. “Shit,” he muttered. “What to do?”

"Just me dear," a woman’s raspy voice barely replied.

“Mum,” he blurted, reclaiming the steps to the door. “Give me a moment.”

Thed quickly found a shirt and put it on. His fingers punched in the code and he unlocked the door.

His mother waddled in and placed her hand upon Thed’s right forearm. “Thank you dear,” she said with her elderly voice. “Hope I didn’t startle you.”

Thed shook his head, focusing on where the pot plant was meant to be. “It's late. You alone?”

His mother appeared hesitant to respond. “Your brother will be here soon too.” She held a loose piece of yellow paper in her left hand. It looked important and familiar.

“Where’s your Translata?” Thed quizzed his often-defiant mother. “You can’t be seen not wearing it while Nikau’s here.” He closed the door and entered the code.

His mother gave those I know and I don’t care eyes. “Alinga’s a mess, especially with all those Lookout kidnappings going on.”

Thed felt his eyes light up. “Kidnappings?” It was the first time he had heard about them. “Good thing I’m not one anymore.”

“Excellent. You shouldn't concern yourself with that nonsense anymore.” His mother let go of his arm and handed him the piece of paper. “My poor boy, I can tell Angel’s on your mind again,” she evaluated him in her motherly way. “You always were the hardest nut to crack. Good to see you showing some emotions.”

Thed lowered his head. “Am I that bad?” he tried to joke. He read the paper and learnt it was an eviction notice. Pay up or leave.

His mother, half his height and still shrinking, wrapped her right arm around his waist. She tilted her face upwards until their eyes met and smiled. “When it comes to the loss of a loved one, I promise you it gets easier, but it’ll take time.” Gently releasing him, she continued her waddle to the table and sat. Her eyes scanned his apartment. “I’ll come around tomorrow afternoon, before their celebrations start and help you find a job too.”

Reluctantly, Thed shrugged. “Sure.”

“Open a window, it reeks of cigarette and man in here,” she moaned, abruptly.

Thed sighed. “The latch broke.”

Mockingly, his mother shook her head. She had a nervous twitch in her right leg too. Thed had seen her frustrations before. Something bothered her. “That brother of yours can sure eat. He’s eaten me out of home again.”

Thed felt that headache from the chip start up again. “He’s giving you money?” he prodded for her qualms.

Still twitching, she longingly gazed out of the purple window.

The sad look on her face gave away her response. Thed shook his head, needing to put in his two cents. “You want me to say something to him?”

She screwed up her face. “It’s okay,” she eventually answered.

“It’s unlike you to beat around the bush,” Thed said, noticing her leg still twitching. “Just tell me why you’re here.”

Reluctantly, his mother looked at him. “Do I have to?” she moaned.

“No,” Thed answered, understanding his mother’s pain. “But I know you want to.”

Yet another loud knock on the door broke their conversation. He sighed.

“That’ll be your brother,” his mother said, grumpily.

“Yeah, I gathered that much.” Thed took his time reaching the door, but not before another loud knock from the impatient visitor.

“It’s me, Alinga,” he squealed from the other side. “Open up.”

Thed opened the door. “I’m not feeding you,” he mentioned quickly, before his brother could get a word in.

Alinga acted surprised. “You can’t blame me. All this stress… I’m fanging,” he replied. “Did you hear? Another Lookout went missing last night.”

Thed forced out a smile. “Come in before they take you too,” he joked. He gleaned at his mother. “At least you’re wearing your Translata,” he pointed out, sarcastically.

Alinga strutted in like he owned the joint, with a newfound swag in his step Thed hadn’t seen before. “Don’t know why you’re so calm, you should be worried too.”

Thed closed the door and entered the lock-code. He shot Alinga a frustrated look. “I’m not,” he said calmly.

There was a spare chair at the table, Angel’s chair. Sliding the seat over, Thed sat beside his mother. In the background, Alinga paced back and forth, obviously affected by the kidnappings and hunger. Unable to shift his eyes from the kitchen, Alinga eventually went rogue and rifled through kitchen drawers.

Thed didn’t expect anything less from his brother. Directing his attention toward his mother, he asked, “how have you been feeling?” He folded his arms and faced the woman who raised four farmed boys all on her own.

His mother smiled. A simple gesture which made him feel somewhat at ease. Purple glistened in her eyes. “As good as I can be these days. These old bones aren’t as spritely as they used to be.”

Thed sighed. It saddened him when his mother showed her age. “At least we’re safe in here.”

“Safe,” his mother clipped. Purple still glistening in her eye, she looked depleted. “Weaker than water. Is this what the young call safe these days?”

There was a subtle thud in the hallway which lured Thed’s attention. Perhaps it was Olongo or Justin, joining them in their late hour dramatics. “Who’s that?” he wondered.

Alinga shook his head and then looked at his mother. “I didn’t hear anything.”

“You wouldn’t with all that munching,” Thed replied, facing his mother too. “You?”

Steely-eyed, his mother didn’t even respond.

Another thud, this time a little louder. It sounded as though it was right outside the door.

“Again,” Thed said, “surely you both heard it that time.” He lunged at the peephole and then gasped. For standing at the opposite wall, three shadows emerged. Short, dark and untidy, with flesh purple as lavender. Their black cloaks barely covered their sunken faces.

“You okay?” Alinga asked. “Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Thed, come away from the door,” his mother impatiently instructed.

The figures slid forward on silent feet. In their hands were longswords En’ki used outside the citadel.

The figures halted. Thed saw their eyes; purple, deeper in purple than any aliens’ eyes he had seen before, a purple that burned like fire. He gulped. He made out a B in the middle of each of their foreheads. What did they want from him? The one on the left placed a finger over the peephole.

What to do…” he said to himself.

“What’s going on?” Alinga asked, coming over to the door.

What to do…” again he said to himself.

Alinga tried to move Thed aside, but Thed’s feet were glued to the floor. “Move,” he growled, giving Thed a hard shove under the ribs. Thed moved enough for Alinga to put his eye upon the peephole. “You’re losing the plot again. There’s nothing there.”

“Go on,” Thed urged. “Have another look.”

Alinga glanced at Thed and then had another peek. “See for yourself. There’s nothing there.”

Thed nudged Alinga aside and placed his eye over the peephole. “They’re gone.” The figures were no longer there. “But how?” He fell to a heap by the door and buried his head into his hands. His chip started to ache.

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