Chapter 9

"We can offer you better information, follow please."

I gazed back at the Dome Mountains, the Vipers territory, for all I knew, they were the only gang occupying it. I didn't want to be seen walking away, but I had to take the chance.

"It's not far is it?"

"It is approximately twenty paces to your left."

They were talking about an area around the side of Hornet. Which works in my favor, since all the Viper's caves I knew about were in the front, not the side. I followed the twins, and we stopped at a thick tree, standing about ten feet from the planet's surface. Right at the top was Leif, dead, tied to the tree with twine. A sharp pain jabbed at my heart, and I contained my initial shock. When I turned around the twins were gone, and a box cutter was on the ground in their absence. I used it to cut Leif down, and since losing my chains, this was my only weapon.

Leif's eyes were wide open, empty, void of color. I checked his body and didn't see any marks. It must've been poison, Serene again? Possibly, but not logical. I sat next to his corpse for a moment, not even thinking that whoever killed him will know someone was here. Someone cut him down, Leif must've been an example. And the craziest part of all, despite him being dead over a few hours, the Ouroboros tattoo on his back still moved.

I remembered my first day as an enforcer, stationed in District 1. This is before Darius had even arrived. He stayed in the military for longer than he had too. We were cordial grunts at best, back-to-back on the killing floor. But his decision confused me. He either prayed or cried every night during the tour. On his knees, pressing his hands together, choked by the mortal coil. Later on, I would find out that in reality, Darius was nothing more than an obedient soul.

Unable to think for himself, the type of person who needs rules to live.

I was released once the tension quieted down, after the Wreckage of Gerson. The whole world fell quiet after that. Food tasted different that following morning. Strangers were more kind to one another. Up until then, no one had dropped a Hydrogen bomb, at least not on real people. It taught us that the frailty of humankind lies at our fingertips. Two months later, diplomacy staked its claim in the Citadel, and the battle between the East Ring and the West Ring ceased to be. During this time, the High Priestess came into rule. She was the first of her kind. An anomaly, both a ruler of the world and a woman.

War for me was a kaleidoscope of carnage. Subconsciously, it played a significant role in my youthful aggression. Way beyond merely 'acting out' or going through a phase. I was sixteen when I entered the military, and twenty when they let me leave. At times, I felt that I had to split myself into two people. The Lex my mother raised, and the Lex that the world created. My eagerness to engage in combat never lingered. But I wanted it on a smaller scale, a closer-to-home scale.

During my last days in the military, I saw a man lose both legs in a mine explosion. It was his fault, trying to play the 'hero' role. That wasn't the sad part. The sad part was that his wife had just left him. Maybe he thought that act of bravery would win her back. Hoping she'd forget all the nights his fist went upside her head when the whiskey went down his throat. All his other family members disowned him. Their black sheep in combat clothing. He cried alone in the hospital for a week straight. The deepness of that sound, like a wolf howling at a moonless sky, made me miss my own family. So when the politics and the money collided, instead of bullets at my garrison, my escape plan was hatched.

The only thing holding me back was pseudo-love. That early infatuation stage, where you believe you can control the future. I'd love another physically before Jasmine, but inside her was a passion I'd never known. However, in time she began to see me as something different. Venturing into a prism of emotions without me, changing inside unbeknownst to me. She'd say things like "Maybe this was a mistake," and I'd reply "Then why do you keep making it?" We degraded, and morphed into an amalgam of 'what could be's' and 'I'm-not-my parents'. Eventually, the lovemaking became a burden. There was glass between us.

Enrolling in the enforcer program was easy. I had combat experience, and that's all I needed to be invited to the kill party. I was mentored by a man named Weston, who had served time in the Lowlands before changing his life. Let him tell it. He'd call the place the 'Deathly Lowlands.' A landscape of corpses.

He was a multi-faceted man of forty-one years old. The constant grind of the beat, hawking down perpetrators half his age, some half his kid's age, had chiseled his aged fat into stone muscle. He was shorter than me, salt and pepper hair, with a crew cut hair-style. Low eyes, as if he stared at the sun his whole life. Scars all around his body, with a knife, wound across his cheek. I never did learn his last name, and word in the station was, whatever crime he did, it was a crime of passion. I was skinnier then, youth shining from my eyes.

I'd known District 1 from the papers, but the moment our cruiser parked at the border, I realized everything I'd learned was a lie. Poverty infested the entire area like a plague, sweeping and exposing the pure hearts of men. My very first assignment, the first time I unearthed my service weapon was on a Code 56. Suspect accused of human trafficking. Before we exited the car, Weston opened the glove box, and a small canister rolled free. It was silver, with a pull off top, the inside separated into three compartments. One full of a lime green powder, another with tiny glass pipes, the last held a matchbook. Weston took a pinch of the green powder.

"Look green, but they call it Yellowstone. These people die for it. Yellowstone might as well be water to them. A needed thing. And because they need it, we lock em all up. Bang em all up, bury em one by one by one. And the sad thing is, it ain't even that bad, of a drug that is," Weston said, as he put the pinch of green powder at the end of a tiny glass pipe. "It's day one, Rook. Hard to keep a steady hand when you've seen what I've seen. Violence takes practice."

A twist of his thumb and middle finger sparked the match, and the powder burned in seconds. A cloud of cobalt yellow smoke escaped his nose, bull-like. In an effortless sway, he offered me the drug. Yellowstone, the very thing I took the oath to fight against.

"I'm your commanding officer, Rook. I can tell you now, at least two people in there...in that place. They don't understand the word 'Stop.' And this ain't war, the people look like you, like me. Could be somebody you know. You're not going to be able to shoot someone you know, without this."

A stench of burnt plastic, glue, and soap traversed my nose. It was a terrible smell. I couldn't imagine what it did to your insides. But Weston never let up, and I'd be lying if I said he forced me. Strangely enough, it was hard to say no to Weston, that old man charm. The end of the glass pipe was still wet from when he used it, and I let him light the other end for me. A powerful blast of smoke assaulted my chest, and I exhaled mist of a brick-like color. I heard the hammer pull back on his service weapon, and after a sharp head nod, he exited the car. My neck stiffened, and I fumbled my way out.

The street was full of people. Various motley crews with matching gear sprawled about, following us with their eyes. In District 1, Saturn's rings, which served as the ground, was hologramed to resemble concrete. Only during a power outage would you be able to see through the rings, and take in the full gravitas of unlimited space. The clothes of the ordinary folk were dingy and loud. An oxymoron at best. I believe the color Turquoise was trendy then.

Every other house was old and bordered up. Families of twelve lived in dilapidated homes, some with comet-sized holes in the roof. They'd catch the toxic rain in buckets, drink it with dinner, and develop kidney stones within months. Every import of food came from District 2, and that district only respected money. Every penny District 1 ever saw came from selling Yellowstone.

Time slowed down when I closed the door on the cruiser, and Weston nodded again, before circling an abandoned warehouse. Spray painted on the bricks at the side of the building was a massive image of a scorpion tail. A popular tag for the gang who owned this turf, the Venoms. Double-vision started early, and my legs felt feather-light. While under the influence, Weston seemed to break into two people, going in different directions.