Proditor Pro Falsi Parti

By Sakki

None of the characters, plot devices, ideas, theories, lines of poetry or song lyrics are mine.

~~~

             There were certain disadvantages to being a commander. One of them was having to keep track of every single one of your troops. Currently this was the dilemma of the commander of the Krimzon Guard.

            "We've checked the port, sir. He's not there."

            "What about the bazaar?"

            "Not there either, sir. We're pretty sure he's in the stadium."

            "Get a unit in there and drag him out."

            "What if there's a race going on?"

            "Then wait until it's done and take him out then. I'll be at the Hip Hog."

            "Yes, sir."

            He did not watch his men get on their zoomers and head for the stadium, which was a glowing mountain in the not-so-distance. He did not wait for them to leave his line of sight before he turned his back to them and started walking away. He did not give them any last instructions, mutter any last curse words at them, or show them any kind of respect. He was their commander, and they were his soldiers; they were to follow his orders without question, as he had done for years until he had achieved his current rank.

            Instead he walked into the Hip Hog Saloon, the sleaziest, dirtiest, most repulsive run down bar in Haven City, and therefore the most popular. He skirted around the rather large group of people clustered around a makeshift stage in the center of the room and slid into the nearest blue-lit booth to wait. This one happened to have a bulb that was getting ready to burn out.

            It was only natural for him to sit in the one booth with a dying lamp. Men like him were normally attracted to dark, secluded corners in grungy bars where they could look mysterious and threatening.

            Men like him.

            Men like Torn.

            There were three people on the 'stage', he observed. One of them was a vicious-looking brunette, who was holding a microphone with one pale hand and clinging to a metal pole with the other. The guitarist was a redhead with surprisingly dark skin for someone who lived in Haven City. Their third member, the drummer, was blocked by the singer's twisting body, so Torn couldn't get a good look at him or her.

            Why did he occupy his time in such a strange way, investigating the looks of irritating young people who were insistent on marking their place in the world by singing about things people already knew about?

            He shifted his eyes across the crowd, wondering if he could pick out possible rebels or dissenters from the Baron's cause. Usually it was the young masses that were the most easily influenced, but this worked both ways – the Baron could frighten some into following him like sheep, but Underground sympathizers were very persuasive sometimes.

            He knew.

            He'd arrested a few in mid-lecture.

            "Thank you!" the singer said suddenly. Torn blinked once – just once. He hadn't realized the song had ended. "We're Metal Poison, and we play here as often as we can! Make sure to come see us next time we're here, because this is the best joint in town!"

           Metal Poison. How many ways could he take that? The first and most obvious was that they were a poison for metal, and therefore Metal Heads. But if you put the accent on the start of 'Metal' and 'Poison', it made them it made them seem like they were a metallic form of poison. This could make them allies of the Metal Heads and he would have to arrest them. But what if they had purposely named themselves as so and were trying to be confronted by him or his men so that they could gain popularity? Their fans would make an uproar, they'd get video coverage, people would feel sympathy, and then riots would erupt. He, of course, would have to put them down, probably with brute force. Or maybe they had named themselves as so knowing that they might get arrested, but also knew that he hated dealing with riots, and so they assumed he wouldn't do anything. Of course, one should never assume because –

            Ok, time to stop thinking.

            Where the hell was Erol?

~~~

            He could feel it.

            That tension that hung in the air like a solid block of suffocating darkness.

            He could feel it so well, so much better than any other person in the city, so easily that it hurt like all hell. It was a heavy kind of hurt, like his lungs were filled with that suffocating darkness that wouldn't let him breathe properly. He took one quick breath, as deep as he could manage it, and let it out slower so he could savor the moment where he didn't have to breathe at all. It was times like that that made him feel like a god – so powerful that he didn't even need to do a mortal thing like breathing.

            The pain was still there.

            "All racers must be at the starting gate."

            He could taste it, too. Taste it – coppery like the city he lived in – and smell it – burning like the fires he helped set to smash the Underground.

            Fires he helped set.

            Not that he set, period.

            "The Class Three Race will begin momentarily. All racers should be ready by this time."

            Eight racers.

            Five laps.

            He would be the winner.

            After all, he always was.

            "Ready."

            He pulled his riding mask down over his face; the world turned into a fractured and bloody picture within seconds.

            "Get set."

            He revved up the engine on his zoomer.

            "Go."

            He slammed his foot down on the accelerator. He shot ahead of three other racers and collided with a fourth.

            His eyes were hidden behind an insect's glare, but even through the red glass the other racer could see those eyes of nothing but insane hatred.

            Temporarily, the unfortunate man lost his focus.

            "Well, it looks like this race is off to a violent start! Already racer number 7 has smashed racer number 3 off the track and into a wall – don't worry, we'll get an emergency team in there as fast as we can!"

            He refused to remove his foot from the accelerator. It didn't matter how dangerous this was. He courted Danger and he spat on Death. The walls raced toward him and ran away from him. Sound escaped his ears, leaving him in a deathly silent world of metal and blood.

            Are you near me? he wondered, feeling his skin crackle and burn with cold. Are you following me still?

            He saw the unimaginable; another racer was on his right, trying to pass him. He could not have that. Oh no, he could not have that at all.

            The racer slammed into him. He jolted to the left. He slammed into the racer. The racer jolted right.

            "Racers number 7 and 5 are fighting for first place! It's amazing, folks – we're only on the second lap – oh, excuse me, third now – and we've already got a fight going on! This doesn't usually happen until the fourth lap."

            Shortcut.

            He threw himself over the racer, not caring that the back end of his zoomer caught the other man's head and pulled him out of two races at once. For a moment, he thought he saw a blinding shock of green behind him.

            But he was only seeing things.

            I want to win.

            I win.

            I win I win I win.

            Don't laugh at me. I win. I am a winner and you do not laugh at my win because it is not a loss.

            Only one casualty today, Erol?

            I thought you could do better than that.