Book 2: Chapter 89: Hatred (1/2)

Their sanctuary smelled like freshly polished steel. His tongue flicked out to taste air that was dry, almost chemical in its texture. It made his scales itch in those hard-to-reach places between the creases. He shifted in his seat, his tail squeezing uncomfortably against the cross rail of his chair. His sharp claws sharply drummed against the wooden table in front of him, carving dozens of tiny scratches in the wooden surface. He eyed the undulating walls, soft silver streams cascading across the four sides of the room like an endlessly looping waterfall. It really was quite beautiful, all things considered.

”It's your turn,” a voice interrupted his wandering thoughts. ”Stop stalling.”

His gaze fell back to the table, and its other occupant sitting across from him. The other man looked much the same as he: yellow eyes with slit pupils, green scales running the length of his body, and a pronounced snout filled with sharp teeth. They were Scales, the both of them, and they were in hiding with the rest of their gang. They were playing chess against each other, because there wasn't much else to do.

This safehouse had been created specifically for them, through the power of Champion and his People. The National Guard had increased their patrols, and were growing increasingly harsh on any overmodded citizen they encountered. Almost two dozen men, women, and adolescents had been injured so far by NG troops, none affiliated with the Scales in anything other than appearance. All because some young hotheads attacked a single patrol rolling through Scale territory.

Those young men were dead now, victims to a retaliatory FAT strike. But the feds' anger had not quelled in the slightest. Scales were now treated as full on cooperators with both the People and Coldeyes' Crew. It had been a ludicrous accusation, but the gang's leadership did not control government policy. Then an offer came from old enemies and an argument was quickly made: Why not pause their feud with the Crew? Why not band against the stronger enemy, if only for now? Who were they to refuse salt from an enemy?

The Scales were patient; they could hold enough hatred in their hearts for two. They could hold that anger close, and wait. They need not even work with Coldeyes and his ilk. Someone infinitely more desirable had crawled his way out of the grave. Champion had returned! And he bore a message of hope, acceptance, and revenge. The Scales would stand with this man, who had been a prisoner during the assault on their people, and who had promised retribution at the end of all this.

So they would wait. They would be patient. Their time would come.

He moved a pawn forward, earning a frustrated snarl from his opponent.

His eyes roamed the room they'd been provided. It was a wide, flat space with low ceilings. There were no walls aside from the shifting silver ones at the edges and two sectioned off areas: one for the bathrooms and one for the bedrooms. This facility had started life as a pre-fabricated industrial storage shed, but had been entirely converted by one of Champion's Naturals. Fourteen Scales now lived in the premises in relative comfort and almost absolute security. They had electricity and running water—somehow—despite being apparently cut off from the rest of the world. They even had a working television.

Several Scales watched said device, keeping an eye on the local news in case the situation in the city changed. They were effectively isolated from the outside world, something that should probably frighten them much more than it had. It was only trust in Champion that kept them steady; something about his words, about the way he spoke, rang true in their hearts. They were, in a way, imprisoned. They could not leave of their own recognizance. Yet, they held strong and waited for their moment.

Already, politicians were receiving backlash for the situation. The American people expected villain situations to be handled efficiently and promptly, with most problems being resolved in a matter of days. It had been over a week, and Champion was still at large. The NG looked incompetent; the FATs looked helpless. The citizens of Austin were a hair's breadth away from full-scale riot. Brief oppression was understood, expected even, but this long and drawn out campaign was testing the people's patience.

One wrong action from any of the governmental forces would light the match of revolution.

Or at least conflict. The Scales could work with either. They knew victory could not be achieved without an entire city in protest. They'd get there, one way or another.

The sound of a sharp clunk distracted him from his thoughts. He turned towards the center of the complex, where his sensitive hearing had caught the sound of metal on metal. One of his brother Scales stared down at his feet, where he'd apparently dropped a circular object about the size of an apple. He didn't recognize the object, black and round and smooth, and asked his brother about it.

”It's not mine,” his fellow Scale protested. He looked upwards, at the shimmering ceiling. ”It fell down.”

”Down” he repeated incredulously. ”Down from where?” He thought it a perfectly fair question, given the state of the ceiling. Sure, there were lights and fans protruding from the bubbling silver, but those had always been there.

The other Scale shrugged, gesturing upwards. ”Down!” He swiped a hand past his head. ”Just fell right past me.”

More of the inhabitants began to take notice of the strange conversation. It couldn't be helped given the living arrangements. Several stood up and made their way over, one crouching down to investigate the odd object. The Scale seized it with his large hand, hefting it experimentally.

”Heavy,” he commented, turning it over as he examined it. He passed it over to his neighbor, who tossed it between two hands, before scratching at the surface with a sharp talon.

”Hard, too,” the other commented.

Several more looked at the ceiling, low enough to reach if one stretched.