History of Discrimination

Christopher's apartment was compact, cluttered, and lived-in. A studio at the edge of the 14th arrondissement, the kind of place that smelled of black coffee and yesterday's laundry. Papers were strewn across the desk, and two coffee mugs — one fresh, one half-empty — sat forgotten near a monitor still displaying police records.

Brendon ducked slightly as he entered, his tall frame nearly brushing the ceiling fan. He moved with the silent grace of a predator long used to confinement. He took a seat at the far end of the small couch while Christopher kicked off his boots and tossed his coat onto a hook.

"So," Christopher said, flopping into a desk chair and spinning it halfway to face Brendon. "What do you make of the dart?"

Brendon glanced toward the apartment window. The evening light spilled through dusty blinds, casting long shadows.

"It was left in haste," he said. "That much is clear. It's not an ordinary dart either. The weight balance is off. Modified. Possibly used to deliver something."

Christopher leaned forward, brow furrowed, hands gesturing. "But how does it connect with the message? The whole 'You Have Given Us Despair' thing? You said the capital letters weren't random. So what do they mean? What's the—"

"Just calm down," Brendon interrupted softly.

Christopher blinked. "What?"

"Those are the capital letters. From the message. It's not a mistake. It can be a cipher, or an acronym. Possibly a code only known to the killer."

Christopher clicked his tongue, spinning again. "Damn. I missed that possibility. Should've written it down."

Brendon tilted his head slightly, his ears twitching with mild amusement. "You're trying too hard."

"Huh?"

"To solve this," Brendon said. "You're chasing every thread like a bloodhound with something to prove, that I don't know of."

Christopher rubbed the back of his neck, chuckling awkwardly. "Well, yeah. That's kinda what detectives do, you know?"

Brendon didn't press. He simply waited.

And after a moment, Christopher's confident facade softened.

"I guess…" he looked away, eyes settling on the wall behind Brendon. "I guess I want to be seen. Really seen."

Brendon raised an eyebrow.

Christopher leaned back. "You know what it's like for guys like me? A six-foot-one crocodile walking around a civilian neighborhood in a trench coat? People don't see a detective. They see like a threat. A thing. A monster. I walk into a bakery and moms pull their kids closer."

Brendon's expression remained unreadable, but his eyes were locked in. Focused.

"You ever heard anyone say, 'Crocodile anthros make great detectives'?" Christopher laughed humorlessly. "No. We're full of muscle. Considered best for military, riot police, heavy lifters, brute squad."

He tapped his chest lightly. "But me? I have read every Holmes story twice. Watched every Poirot episode. Even dug up old Philip Marlowe books. I want to be that. I want someone to say, 'Wow, that croc solved it. He saw what no one else did.' That's why I wanted the Bleeding Eye case. It's the big one. It could be my ticket. My ticket to be something more."

Brendon nodded slowly.

"Recognition," he said. "It's often the sharpest hunger."

A pause settled in. Then Brendon asked, quietly, "I've noticed something since I arrived. In Paris, humans occupy most of the high seats. Anthros are there, yes, but not many. And hybrids... seem almost invisible. Treated second-class. It's the same in London. But not in Ridgecliff — the town where I was stationed as the sheriff just a year ago. Why do cities struggle so much with this?"

Christopher sighed, resting his elbow on the desk. "That... well to explain you that I have to tell you the history first."

Brendon leaned in slightly, listening.

"See," Christopher began, "Humans were the first to become sentient. Thousands of years before anyone else. They created art, civilization, tools. The first thinkers. And then... slowly, over centuries, others began to follow. Mammals first — dogs, cats, wolves. Then reptiles like me. Then birds."

"And hybrids?"

"That's where it gets murky. Inter-species mating — it was taboo for ages. Unnatural, they said. But people fell in love anyway. Had kids. Hybrids started popping up."

Christopher's voice dropped.

"But society wasn't ready. Those kids didn't look like any one species. They were reminders of things people didn't want to accept. So hybrids became outcasts. They built their own communities. Lived separately and helped each other for survival."

He glanced at Brendon.

"Then came the First World War. A nightmare for everyone. When the UN was founded afterward, they made a push — laws that encouraged inclusion, gave incentives to countries that accepted hybrids. On paper, it looked great. 'Unity through Diversity.' But in practice…"

Brendon nodded. "...the old prejudices never left."

"Exactly," Christopher said. "People pretend. But the streets don't lie. It's like... some scars are stitched, not healed."

The silence that followed was thoughtful. Heavy, but honest.

"Discrimination is something that can't be removed from the society. We sentients do these discriminations to gain power, to feel better than others. Huh.... it's just sickening." Brendon thinks.

Just then, a sharp buzz from the intercom cut through the moment.

Christopher stood up. "Uh.... it seems like our pizza has arrived."

He disappeared down the stairwell. Brendon glanced around the apartment again. Photos. A diploma. A figurine of Detective Conan on the desk. He smiled, just faintly, at the dedication this young detective poured into his dream.

A few minutes later, Christopher returned, balancing two boxes of steaming pizza.

"You like pepperoni?"

Brendon shrugged. "Well I never tried them."

"Well, today's your lucky day, wolfman!"

They ate in relative silence, save for Christopher's occasional complaints about cheese ratios and crust thickness.

As the sky darkened, the mood grew quieter.

Around 7 PM, Christopher's phone buzzed against the desk.

He checked it. His face shifted.

"Zuekh," he muttered. Then answered. "Yeah? What? Wait, what do you mean now—? Uh... okay. Got it."

Brendon's ears twitched.

Christopher's back straightened. "Okay. We're on our way."

He hung up, spun toward the coat rack, and yanked his jacket off the hook.

"Get up, Mr. Wolf," he said quickly. "We're heading to the Paris Police Station. Now."

Brendon stood without a word.