Broken Republic and all affiliated Chapters and characters are copyright Steven Swanson 2000-2001. The characters and events in this document are purely fictional, any resemblance between the characters and any person, living or dead, are purely coincidental. UNATCO, the FBI, the CIA, the NYPD, INTERPOL, the Spetznaz, the Mossad, and the NSA are all real organizations and should not be cited as the creation of any single person. Mason Industries is not affiliated with any existing corporations in the real world. Due to mature content, reader discretion is advised. No part of this document may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission of the author. Steven Swanson is not responsible for any difficult reading caused by the influence of drugs, alcohol, or just plain idiocy. If you are offended by some of the content in this script, that's your problem. Conspiracy theorists are warned not to take this seriously, and that this disclaimer is to simply cover my ass and make aware to plagiarists that ALL the aforementioned agencies feel that that practice could be bad for your health. Uh, well, that's pretty much it. Don’t say you haven’t been warned, and get reading!

May 12, 2020

Hell’s Kitchen, New York City

The flight back to New York hadn’t been forgiving on Paul’s senses, and he soon found himself wearier and more confused from the emotional ordeal plaguing him. His schedule was written cleanly on his palmtop and the wire that attached to his HUD glasses helped him decipher the list of grim tasks to complete. First, he wanted to find out what happened to his brother. After the eighteen-hour flight, the crime scene was likely going to be cleaned up, the primary investigators gone back to work to callously decipher and pick apart the evidence. He drifted through the main terminal of the old airport, not needing to push through the morass of people because of his aggressive appearance. Looking out of the large window nearby, he spied the massive flying wing in which he arrived, a Boeing 797 that looked like a gigantic delta with two vertical ailerons at the rear and a two-story cabin.

He was quick to pick up his bag and head out of the airport, scanning the columns of cars for his own ride. His legs, he found, moved a bit too fast for his liking. He felt that seeing the crime scene would only make things worse. Unfortunately, though he wasn’t assigned the case for personal reasons, UNATCO felt it necessary to let a downed operative and his close relatives know exactly what happened. A black Escapade almost directly in front of him flashed its strobe lights, relieving him of his depressed stupor. As the passenger door and the trunk popped open, he silently placed his rolling suitcase in the rear of the car, closed the trunk, tucked in his tail, and slid into the smooth simulated leather seat.

He wondered how Dana was doing. The return to New York was so abrupt that Dana volunteered to stay behind, clear things up, and return to Toronto a bit later. If anything, he knew she would try to catch up with him as soon as possible, so she might have already boarded a flight home. He fastened his safety belt and reached up to carefully rub his eyes with clawed fingers.

A rather informal looking driver looked at Paul, a bit surprised at the emotional and melancholy behavior of a decidedly aggressive species. “ ’Evening.” He extended a palm of courtesy, prompting a handshake. "You must be Captain Calabrese.”

“That I am.”

“Well I’m Corporal Mollard.” He casually attached the title. “Sir.”

“You gonna drive, corporal?”

He looked at the opening ahead and soon found a taxi in his bumper, honking incessantly. “Oh, right.” Abruptly pressing the gas, the vehicle drifted forward noiselessly and joined the slow columns of traffic heading into the city, which was shrouded in darkness by the ominous gray clouds. Even the skyscrapers had a dark and ominous feel, lacking the constant glass and concrete glow they normally had. The driver looked at Paul, who had a melancholy pout glued to his face. “Sir, are you alright? You look ill.”

“Just take me to the crime scene, corporal.”

He sighed, looking forward. “Yes sir.” Despite the subtle warning, he continued the small talk. “I understand that there was a murder.”

Paul intrigued, surprised at the soldier’s lack of knowledge. He figured that they’d send someone who could brief him on the way. “They didn’t tell you?”

“No, I’m just a driver. These sorts of things require security clearance, something an NCO like me doesn’t have.” He paused, realizing that the man next to him did have some authority. “Would you happen to know who was killed, sir?”

“My brother, James.”

An apologetic look shot like a wave over his face. “Jesus, sir, I’m very sorry. I…”

“Don’t be sorry, be quiet. Just take me there.”

“Yes sir.”

The remainder of the ride was deafeningly silent with the thick, soundproof windows, the quiet engine, and the sleek, dry superhighway barely even whizzing beneath.

As the car slowed down and coasted through Hell’s Kitchen, the telltale flashing of emergency vehicles was clear in the distance. Looking to his side, he noted the obscenities shamelessly emblazoned on the walls, the drowd joints where people would hook their brains up and pay for false pleasure, the gangs and punks out in the late night… all closely observed the sleek car with an intrigued look in their eyes. Was it because of the car, or was it his heavy genetic augmentation? He read a sprawl of graffiti that read “666- Number of the Beast”. He remembered this line, as conservative fanatics found that in some cases, there had been 666 genetic alterations in genetically augmented agents. The other half, of course, was related to Satan and his number. He ignored the protests, silent in gesture but loud to the eye, as the exact same feelings had occurred when TV came around, then Rock and Roll, then Artificial Intelligence, Cybernetics… hell, he thought to himself, if there’s anything people hate, it’s the new.

Suddenly, a voice sounded in his ear, the unusually young voice of Alex Hansen, the communications officer. He had almost forgotten about his communication implements while on vacation.

“Welcome back Paul, I’m so sorry about your brother.”

“Cut it. Everyone’s sorry, but nobody’s told me what happened to him. So, are you going to tell me?”

“This is evil work, Paul. Don’t rush it.” Paul pondered his words. Evil? In a sense, messengers had never gotten good company when they reported bad news. “It sounds like you want the uncut, undressed version, so I’m going to give it to you. Your brother, James, was in his apartment on the 54^th floor of that big apartment complex in Hell’s Kitchen. You probably know where he lives. At about 22:24 hours local time, the assailant eluded the lobby guards with thermoptic camo.”

It immediately hit Paul. Thermoptic camouflage? That was expensive equipment, not your average black market goods. The assailant would have had to be a high profile criminal to do that… or a government employee.

“After taking the elevator to the 54^th floor, he took roughly 18 seconds to approach James’ door, where he knocked the door and placed a 10 millimeter pistol against the door in hopes of an ambush.”

“10 millimeter? That’s UNATCO caliber.”

“It’s also the caliber of U.S., British, South African, and a vast array of handguns by many companies. Anyway, James approached his front door and neglected to look through the peephole, as he was, like you, hampered by his muzzle. The unexpected opening of the door caused the assailant to poorly aim again and fire a single shot through it into James’ left shoulder. The disfigured bullet curved and was lodged under James’ left Scapula when we found him. It had also punctured his lung and narrowly missed his heart.”

“Jesus. What happened next?”

“The assailant busted in to finish the job, but James managed to put up a fight with the oncoming suspect. He managed to bite the suspect hard, but with only one arm to fight, the assailant forced his weapon down and fired two more shots into James’ abdomen: one through the liver, and one through the large intestines. Bleeding profusely, with only minutes to live if the assailant had mercy, these were his last words.” He paused, as if reluctant to carry out the grim task. “Do you want to hear them?”

Paul was finding it almost unbearable. He began to sob again, now at the realization that his brother’s death hadn’t been a quick or painless one. Yes, Paul had killed before, many times, but not with the intent of administering pain. In every case, he took a head or heart shot. The assailant pictured here was certainly not his type. No, he was a monster.

But what kind of monster? Genetic Hybrid? Mech? Certainly no feeble human could have overpowered a physically fit, combat seasoned wolfman like his brother. He struggled to say the words with some dignity. “Yes. Play them.”

After a short wait, he heard the gurgle and the panting of a terribly wounded man. “Backup!” He hacked and coughed fluid. “Send… Backup…” The next words stuck out with unusual clarity, and sounded more like pure anger than regret, pain, or despair. “My brother’s going to rip out your throat, you son of a bitch!”

He found it hard to decipher the message’s underlying meaning with the hatred and anguish clouding his judgement. He hoped to hell that the bastard had been caught so that he could carry out his brother’s promise.

“The… the assailant, was he captured?”

“Sorry Paul, no. We saw him on the scene and tried to save him, we tried our best, but…”

Paul exploded in anger. “Tried your best?? Dammit, this is my brother who you guys let die, not some shot you missed in a basketball game!”

Hansen tried to pull Paul out of his anger, to keep some order in the conversation. “Paul! Listen to me! A pair of troops tried to administer field medicine on the spot. Emergency crews arrived a near record five minutes later. He… he wouldn’t have made it anyway. I’m sorry, Paul.”

He spoke firmly, gritting his teeth. “But why did you let the assailant go?”

A short pause ensued. “Your brother’s well being seemed the most important thing at the time.”

Something suddenly dawned on Paul. He was right, there was little that could be done, but why didn’t the soldiers engage the enemy on the spot. Something didn’t smell right, in a figurative sense.

“Hansen, what have they done with his body?”

“He’s been at the Coroner’s office and was put under external examination.”

“What have they found out? Do they have to cut him apart?”

“No, Paul, they don’t. We have technologies that avoid this. We fully understand your desire to respect your brother’s body. As for the verdict, they found two liters of free and clotted blood on the spot. Your brother died quickly of shock and blood loss, perhaps over the course of five minutes.”

Paul carefully formed the words. “Th… Thank you, Hansen. Over.”

He had obvious sympathy and a hint of self-disappointment in his voice. “I’m sorry, Paul and may God have mercy on James’s soul and watch over you in this time of turmoil. Over and out.”

Paul arrived at the Tenderloin Apartment Complex a few minutes later and noticed the telltale cars and SUV’s owned by UNATCO. An array of other vehicles included a pair of Chevrolet Griffin police sedans, a large forensics team utility truck, and little else. The vehicles were parked in a uniform manner, which suggested that the crime was far inside and had happened long ago. Stepping through the sliding doors of the building, he stumbled into the simple lobby in a fatigued manner.

Upon taking the elevator to the 4^th floor, Paul was quick to step out. Immediately, halfway down the pleasant, warmly decorated corridor was a team of typical trenchcoat wearing investigators. Each meticulously placed scraps of evidence into varying places: Flecks of hair into small plastic vials, blood samples into portable DNA scanners, and other miscellaneous items into plastic bags. He approached the scene, almost unnoticed until a smaller man with coke-bottle glasses walked by hurriedly with a covered cardboard box. The man, barely able to see over the box he was carrying, smacked directly into Paul’s chest.

“Oh, uh, sorry. Please excuse me.”

As the man tried to slip by, Paul immediately became suspicious. What sort of evidence from a murder case was carried out in a crate? A decapitated head? The shredded victim of a Russian Mafia? Paul stepped in his way. “Hold on, mister. What’s in the box?”

“Who are you to ask?”

“Paul Calabrese… Captain Paul Calabrese.”

The man suddenly became nervous, emitting the acrid human smell of stress, the kind induced not by fear of a person, but fear of a question. “Um, DNA samples. They’re all over the place. We’ve tested them here, but we need to take them back to headquarters for a full analysis, sort of like a Breathalyzer.”

It didn’t take a genius to find out that this man was lying. Sure, the lie was convincing, but his eyes wavered, his heart rate jumped, and it became almost hard to breathe with the stifling, offensive odor of stress sweat. He let the man go, stepping aside. “Alright, but watch yourself on the way down.”

“Thanks. I will.”

Paul began to wonder. Why would the man lie? Perhaps there were some issues with paperwork that were best left unknown to Paul. Then again, in any case, why keep information away from an agent’s brother, who was not only an agent himself, but also a commissioned officer?

“Captain Calabrese?” The rumbling basso of a large black man sounded behind him. He turned around to see one of the trenchcoated investigators.

“Please, just call me Paul.”

“Let me show you my deepest condolences.”

He looked directly into the marbled brown eyes of the man, who had a well-groomed mustache and a receding hairline that was convincingly dyed black. He had a broad jaw and a smooth chin, and his complexion was less black than normally expected. “Thank you. Do you have a name, sir, a rank?”

“Agent Tyrone Denton, FBI. Apparently UNATCO needed some assistance on native threats, wanted to hear our opinion.”

“And what would that be?”

The man sighed, thinking about the right words. This man didn’t lie. “We’ve taken a look at the situation and have found an amazing amount of evidence. Almost too much.”

“Does that mean you know who the killer was?”

“Not yet. We have to check our databases. It may take some time.”

“I thought the FBI had the world’s best DNA profiling system.”

“To tell you the truth, we don’t, but the NSA does. We still have very good systems, though, but the problem doesn’t lie in our computers, it’s where to start looking. We think this may not be a normal murder.”

Paul became a bit peeved at the somewhat insensitive statement. “ ‘Normal’ murder?”

“Yes, this murder doesn’t share the characteristics of a gang-banging or bear the mark of a hired hitman. No, we’re beginning to suspect that a government employee might have done this. To get the information, a high profile person in that organization would have needed contacts within UNATCO, and, most of all, motive. There might be an entire group of conspirators, but I just can’t tell who would want to kill someone like your brother. ”

Paul’s spine tingled at the thought of a mole who wanted to selectively kill UNATCO agents. “So you think that there’s a cesspool out there, but you don’t know where it is?”

“That’s correct.”

“Have you uncovered any evidence other than DNA at the site?”

“Yes. Your investigators recovered a bullet from a wall in your brother’s apartment. It was amazingly flawless, safely nuzzled into a layer of insulation. It was taken back to UNATCO as evidence.”

“What about anti-genetics fanatics. Are there known Christian militia groups working in the area?”

“Well, we’ve run a check on that, and it’s proven negative. The phantom of the FAC still keeps a lot of terrorist cells and militia groups out.”

He remembered the near demise of the Free America Coalition. Apparently, they were the ones who had been dumping Spirovirus in the first place, and Iraq had supplied it all. It was UNATCO that had uncovered this, and when the people realized that the FAC was killing people and controlling illegal Ambrosia distribution, angry mobs of people turned from attacking the riot cops to hunting down the FAC. Many people, however, did nothing, suspicious of the whole ordeal. How could they have been, he thought to himself, if the handwriting was on the wall? Pure greed was a very popular motive in modern times, and their foolish lust for money had cost the lives of 1.7 billion people worldwide. The number was still climbing, but without the restrictions and stockpiling by the FAC, Mason Industries managed to get a lot more to the people, right where it was supposed to be. Was this murder a parting blow by the FAC? He simply didn’t know. Denton had said that it wasn’t a terrorist or a criminal organization.

“Anything else stand out?”

“Not that I can think of right now… no.”

“Thank you, sir, you’ve been a great help.”

“No problem. We’ll find that killer, Paul, don’t worry.”

As Paul began to proceed closer to his brother’s grave, Denton turned around, remembering something. “Hold on.” He strummed his fingers on his lower lip. “There was… one thing.”

Paul, intrigued and hopeful, was eager to reply. “What was it?”

“Despite plenty of evidence, there hasn’t been a trace of fingerprints at the site… and the DNA… apart from your brother’s it’s not of any human type I know.” He turned to fully face Paul. “No, as I recall, it was feline, but that’s just a preliminary check. Are you guys shedding, cause we’ve picked up quite a bit of follicular evidence.”

Paul suddenly reached a stunning realization. “Yes… some of us are shedding, being animals and all. Agent, if you can, I’d like you to find profiles on all UNATCO agents.”

“But Paul, I’ve been told not to give you authority in this investigation, for psychological reasons.”

“Yes, I know they don’t want my judgement to cloud the case, but please, for me?”

He paused for a moment. “Alright. I’ll search the UNATCO files and call you if I find something. I don’t want to hang around in there too long, it’s not really standard procedure to dive into the files of another security organization, if you catch my drift.”

Paul smiled. He knew he had at least one honest friend in this case… or an extremely convincing liar. He showed none of the signs. Good enough for my trust, he thought to himself. “Thanks agent.”

“No problem.”

He hoped that the man would follow up on his request.

The crime scene was almost a disappointment to Paul. It lacked the drama and gruesome intensity that most movies had in a similar circumstance. The forensics specialists silently went about their mopping up and bone collecting, meticulously and silently looking about with microwave scanners, magnifying glasses, latex gloves, and many tweezers. In the main doorway Paul saw and smelled three stains of blood. He would rather have not done the gruesome task, but he was the only one in the vicinity who could tell where the blood had come from in just a sniff. Most of the blood had an ironlike, tangy smell. Trace scents of gunpowder and paraffin clouded the area. These scents were strongest at the bullet hole in the door where the first shot had been fired. A ruddy brown spot of blood around a light red square, where he assumed a pile of gauze pads were laid, looked darker than most of the blood, and had a darker, richer scent. That was likely the blood from his brother’s liver. The smell of blood, to Paul, was normally appealing in an instinctual manner, but at this point, he found it hard not to vomit.

On the floor several feet away were smatterings of blood generated by the force of the passing bullet. Having been too far away from an opposite wall, these spraylike spots had fallen with the help of gravity to an inglorious splatter on the linoleum floor of his brother’s kitchen. Soon, his emotions overwhelmed his curiosity, and when he resigned to the fact that the crime scene was thoroughly examined, he swiftly left the room and headed back down to the car. Inside the car, he realized that he was taking this way too hard, that he needed something to cushion the blow. He needed a trip to the Anthrope Cantina.

The Londonderry Pub was a conveniently located venue where UNATCO ops could finish their day with some fine refreshment. There were all the options; a small cooler… some gin and tonic… a civilized, cleansing Cognac… perhaps a long stroll with Johnnie Walker… at this time Paul felt like he needed an the bottle, the tumbler, and a bucket of ice. He’d at least be drunk with friends, knowing that the bar’s location near the UNATCO headquarters was prime anthropomorphic territory, anthropomorphic being people with animal like qualities.

Upon entering the old fashioned wooden doors of the bar, his eyes were greeted with some familiar operatives, the pleasant green Heineken and Budweiser lamps, the rainbow of scattered balls on the pool table, and the soothing, heady music of old. It was one of those “Cheers” clones, with a tasteful maple theme and a strong tobacco smell. A holographic sign in the corner had a depiction of Christ with a cigarette between his middle and index, the cheap, three-frame setup projecting a 3D image that screamed “Holy Smokes… They’re Savioriffic!” to his eyes. Just below lay a decidedly featureless cigarette vendor, commonly referred to as the collection plate by the UNATCO ops. He looked around for some friends, and, despite seeing some familiar faces saw none that he could spill his emotions onto. A pair of love smitten fox hybrids were in the corner booth, a slight ocelot sergeant sat at the bar, and a few humans also occupied the place. The place was so frequented by UNATCO operatives that the hardwood floor was in some places scratched by the claws of operatives who preferred to walk barefoot. Paul was one of these.

“Hey! Paul! Welcome back! How was your honeymoon?” An enthusiastic, somewhat nasal, and very Brooklynese accent spoke. It was Trish, the bartender. She was the only retired operative who earned her keep by working for UNATCO, at least as far as he knew. She was a slight, thin, Caucasian woman with straight red hair tied in a ponytail and a thin face that seemed to form a pointed chin. Her heavy augmentation was most visible in her arms, where the skin had completely given way to shiny green mechanical arms. This discouraged the hybrids from arm wrestling with her quite effectively. He remembered her description as part of the first mech battalions in UNATCO. If things got rough, she could almost sell them as antiques and be able to handily afford new ones.

Paul responded with a tired, slightly aggravated tone. “Good, until I had to come back for my deceased brother.”

The typical response, flushed humiliation and sympathy, emanated from her face. “Oh Jesus, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I heard about that from a few people today, but is that what really happened?”

Sticking out his tail, he sat on the red cushioned stool. “Yes. I… I don’t want to go into it again. As a matter of fact, that’s why I came here… to relieve the pain for a few hours.”

“Listen, I know I’m supposed to be giving you sales pitches and shit, but I think you’d be better off not trying to stop your depression this way.” She paused briefly. “I know, how’s Dana? Sergei told me you were having a blast over there in Thailand.”

“Well, she’s fine, but worried for me, as always. God, I love that woman.”

“I can see why, the way she stands up for you. I remember when she beat Connolly in a drinking match, do you remember that?”

“Mr. Guinness vs. Ms. White Zinfandel? Yeah, I’ll never forget that. I guess Connolly thought that a genetic transformation and a few beers would make his tolerance better.”

“Guess he was wrong, eh?” Both laughed simultaneously, his smooth, low tone and her slightly nasal high pitch in contrast.

Paul found himself laughing at a time of mourning and was disgusted at his conduct. “Hook me up, Trish.”

“What’ll it be?”

“Well, I dunno, I’ll start light. How ‘bout a Forty?”

“Light? Even Dieter the Hulk starts out with something smaller.”

“Well, Dieter doesn’t have a dead brother. I’ll take Cobra Head, if that’s alright.”

"Sorry, we're all out of that fine local brew. How 'bout Super 45?"

"Fair 'nuff." She reached down behind the bar to pull out a fresh, 40-ounce bottle of Malt Liquor bathed in ice. Several of the crystals had stuck, so she wiped off the ice and, in her own unique way, flipped the cap right off with her bare thumb. The full bottle and inviting glow of the forty felt cold to the touch, chilling the black pads on his hands. He took a sip as she slid a coaster in front of him. As the cold, refreshing brew channeled down his throat with a mild bitter taste, he put down the bottle and wiped off the fur near his black lips. "So, how are the arms treating you?"

"Pretty good, but kinda stiff sometimes. Hey, at least it's not winter, right?"

"Winter, that's more my favorite."

"Yeah, I can tell. You guys must get pretty hot in those."

Paul looked up with a quick smile. "They're not body suits, Trish."

"Oh, that's right. Hey, gimme a break, awright! I've never been a fur before."

"You're not missing much." Paul quaffed his drink and looked at those arms, wondering about how much risk of contracting tetanus her patrons had. "You know, those arms… were you planning on replacing them?"

"Paul, we've been through this before. I'm used to them, they treat me well…" She rubbed a particularly rusted red spot where the air had eaten through the shiny outer covering, exposing the raw metal underneath. "They're just a bit rusty, that's all. Besides, they've got some sentimental value."

"I guess you could put it that way." He drank again, tipping up the bottle. Upon putting it down, he was surprised to see he had put away nearly half the bottle. Trish noticed it as well."

"Jesus! You drink like a camel or something! Slow down or you're gonna hurt yourself."

The alcohol was already beginning to work. "S… So, why do they call these Super 45's? They're about the same ounce… uh… size as any other Forty."

"They say it has the punch of a .45 caliber. Personally, I agree with you on Cobra Head. They're practically a major establishment in New York." She saw him beginning to drool slightly, a childish, but frequent habit among canine operatives under the influence of alcohol. "Ya need a bib?"

"Huh? Oh! Yeah. Sorry." He wiped off the trail of saliva. "The alcohol really hits you hard when you've got enhanced senses."

She crossed her tube latticed arms. "Hmmph. I wouldn't know about that. All I have are dulled senses. Still, I'm not upset. Personally, I believe that the bigger they are, the harder they fall. It's sort of a life lesson. I remember when we were in the field, back in 2011, this is probably ancient history to you, we were engaging the enemy when they had this huge robot come out of nowhere, one of the early bipeds that stand about two fuckin' stories tall. Anyway, my teammates and I were somewhat scattered, and I was the only one close enough to take it, do I took the squad's M3 anti-armor carnage delivery system, ya know, that old rocket launcher, took aim, and whup-POW! The thing came down like a fuckin' anvil, after one missile, square in the thing's chest! Fell flat on its ass, if that's the right terminology. If that doesn't convince you, I don't know what will."

He dropped the bottle again, almost slapping it down on the table. He was now officially into the "keep drinking to make the swaying stop" routine. "Huh? You said something? I wasn't paying attention."

"Get lost, chowderhead!"

Paul knew that alcohol didn't really warm you from inside, didn't really relieve depression or do anything wonderful from a medical perspective, but it seemed so refreshing to him just to slip from depression to confusion. He drank into the evening, which didn't take long, and soon, UNATCO operatives began streaming in. He looked at his watch, and, since he was too drunk to decipher the digital message, looked up to the bigger clock. Though it was hard to read, he could still decipher the message. "18:37pm--Fri 5/12/01". Still on military time, like the rest of the people in the joint.

It was about then that two figures with heavy metallic augmentation stepped through the door. The whirring of servos and clomping of heavy metal feet on the wood floor signaled to him that these men were mechs, probably leftovers from the last administration at UNATCO. New York, he remembered, was once at the forefront of robotic augmentation. Now it was, for the most part, genetic hybrids, but the mechs who had just started service two years ago were still around, soon to be transferred to their next assignments.

The sooner the better, he thought to himself. There seemed to be an unusual enmity between the mechs and the hybrids, probably because the mechs weren't the hottest thing in town anymore. There was regular taunting between the two groups, a fierce racism, and every now and then fights would break out. Simply put, the mechs hated the hybrids out of envy, and the hybrids hated the mechs for being such belligerent assholes. He noticed the pair sit down at a booth across the room and signal for the waitress to bring the usual.

Drunk and in need of entertainment, he perked his ears and listened in on what they had to say. Usually, it was interesting to hear their anthropomorphic rivals shoot down their fascist remarks. One of the mechs, a blonde with an eyeplate and the full metal treatment, spoke first. His friend was almost identical in augmentation, only he had short black hair in a style he couldn't deduce thanks to his drunken state.

"So, you say you're getting transferred to Guantanamo?"

"That's right, next week. I'll have to worry about sand getting in my gear, but it'll sure beat the gratuitous amounts of shit we have to eat in this godforsaken zoo."

"Aw, come on, Rick, it's not so bad. If it were a real zoo, we'd have to shovel manure."

"Yeah, but all these flea ridden, disease harboring freaks… well… I just can't take it much longer."

"Don't be such a pussy. I've been here as long as you."

"It's not that, it's just… the smell. I can't take it anymore."

"I know. It's like, they know how to bathe, but they don't because they just don't feel like it."

He scoffed. "Yeah, I mean, how hard can it be? Just a little extra shampoo and you're fresh. We have to go through all the trouble of scrubbing between pistons and replacing servos. I'll tell you what it all is, it's a sign that these hybrids don't pull their own weight around."

"True that. I heard that this guy, a wolf, got killed last night. The stupid fuck got shot through the door. Didn't even look through the peephole."

"Aw, come on, you can't make fun of shit like that! I mean, who was this guy?"

"That Calabrese guy, James, I think"

"Oh, well that's another story. Man, he almost deserved it. I don't think I've seen such a pussy in my life, always tryina arrest people so they can manipulate the system and get back on the streets. Hell, I think both he and his prisoners should have all been publicly shot together. That'd give 'em what they really deserve."

Paul couldn't take it anymore. He knew that Rick was one of the local fascists, which was the only reason he wasn't already shut up, but the way he and his friend were trash talking his brother… it wasn't just offensive, it was sacrilegious. He stood up from his chair, and, slightly wavering, stormed across the room. Immediately, the two men looked up at the black trenchcoated wolf.

"Hey, look, it's a stray."

"Yeah, what do you want, punk? A fire hydrant? There's one right out back"

His friend cockily backed him up. "How 'bout some kibble?"

The two laughed for a moment or two and abruptly stopped, wondering why this wolfman had just come up to the table and was standing there. "Hey bitch, you just gonna stand there like some laboratory reject or you gonna say something?"

Paul finally opened his mouth, speaking coolly and clearly. "Tell you what. I'll give you two options. One, you get your sorry, rusted asses out of our bar and whine about your outdated bodies, and two, you stay to do whatever you want and I won't bother you."

The two laughed, having a good time at this. "What, is that a challenge? You know I don't challenge without money at stake."

"50 bucks."

He sneered. "Go fuck yourself."

"Double."

He paused for a second, stroking his chin. "You're on."

It seemed as if the entire bar was watching the whole thing, because as Rick accepted the challenge, almost all the tavern's patrons began pulling out wallets and making bets. Rick stood up from his seat to shake Paul's hand as a form of acceptance. As his jointed metal hand grew near, Paul swiped his hand upward, generating "ooooh"s from the crowd.

"Old fashioned arm wrestling. Just you and me."

Rick began to laugh, knowing that his robotic arm was far more powerful than any muscular arm. "Hey, it's your funeral." He sat down, chuckling, and rested his elbow on the table, flexing his fingers and waiting for Paul to join him. With a toothy grin, he looked up at Paul.

As he did this, from nowhere, a lightning quick punch came and smacked his lower jaw, his reflex action propelling him off his seat onto the floor. Propping himself up on one elbow, he felt a trickle of blood down his jaw and wiped it off with his hand, looking at Paul.

"Why you dirty son of a…" he snarled at Paul after confirming the damage. His sentence was cut off by the crashing of metal, wood, and glass as the half-ton body lunged at him. Despite being visually disoriented, he managed to dodge the onslaught. A metal edge on the mech's arm caught on Paul's trenchcoat and tore a substantial hole in its shoulder, taking a black strip of cloth with it.

The man was quick to get up, and when his friend tried to join the fight, some hybrids who thought the odds were fine as they were, held him back. The man, now on his feet with his fists raised, tried a slightly less foolish onslaught. Paul managed to drunkenly dodge two punches, but when he bluffed one, he found himself leaning into a very powerful steel punch. His nose seemed to sear with pain as he cupped his hands over his muzzle, and just as he was keeling over, the metal leg of the man hit his abdomen like a battering ram, almost causing him to vomit. Seeing little other than blurs and spots, he soon fell to the floor and straightened out. Suddenly, when he turned and contorted onto his back, he found that the mass of metal and humanity was coming toward him once again, attempting to tackle him while he was down. Knowing that the image was offset a bit by his alcoholic stupor, he raised his feet as straight as he possibly could, ignoring what he saw, and soon the freight train of mass hit, spun upward, and was propelled a good five to ten feet behind him. Remembering his training and how to react when drugged, he jumped to his feet in a single bound, spun around, and tensed his hands. Doing this and bearing his teeth, his whole bodily arsenal was at his disposal. He found the hairs on his back and neck were standing on end, and his aggressive pose took on the look of a werewolf on a rampage.

When the man rebounded, he carefully approached, but his tendency to gain momentum landed him a punch in the groin, then a knee in the face. In a confused and miraculous maneuver, he pivoted on one foot and thrust Paul away, sending him careening toward tables at the opposite end of the room. Paul yelped in pain as smashing glass and wood splinters tore off patches of his hair and gave him several bloody cuts along the left side of his face. As Paul took on his own charge, he stopped just short to dodge a swift punch and remembered his teeth.

Mechs, though they had augmented arms, had decidedly human torso, upper legs, upper arms, and necks. Seeing the man's thigh in front of him, he took a deep bite, hoping not to hit metal. He didn't, and soon the man was howling in pain and slapping Paul around the head as he struggled to keep hold of such a wide chunk of flesh.

As Rick pulled him away, Paul's teeth made a parting blow, tearing back bits of muscle and skin in disgusting, painful lacerations. As the man swung another punch at him, it hit him square in the chest and made it hard for him to breathe. Suddenly, as he was staggering around and gasping for air, Paul saw a giant metal piston swinging toward him. Thinking that he should dodge right, he was afraid that it might be a bluff, but if he dodged left, he could be sailing right into it. He wasn't even sure if it was an arm at all, and in that sense, no dodging would help him. Just before the fist hit, his instincts told him one thing: duck.

That he did, and as the metal mass swung overhead, his legs sprung up. Utilizing this, he pivoted around, began to raise his right leg, and delivered a swift kick of deliverance to the man's head. The damage of his heavy foot was compounded with the attached claws, tearing through skin to create four deep cuts in the man's cheek. As the man dropped, screaming and feeling the fringes of skin that used to be a solid cheek, he took a nearby bottle and smashed it on the table. Just as he was about to swipe towards Paul's vulnerable calf, the double clicking of a pump shotgun sounded. He looked up and saw a female figure with white skin and dark arms.

"Alright! That's it!" She aimed the shotgun directly at Rick's head. "Put down the goddamn bottle or I won't hesitate to ruin this flooring. Go on, put it down!" He dropped it, almost hesitating, but easily surrendering to the bore of a shotgun. The instrument of death swung toward Paul. "And you! I don't care if your goddamn brother was killed, that gives you no right to start a fight in my bar!" She looked at Rick, once again aiming at him with the shotgun. "You, my friend, are a terrible disgrace to our kind! You come in here, full well knowing that this is primarily an anthrope joint, then trash talk a guy who's brother has just been killed?? You deserve a swift kick in the ass!" She turned to a burly looking man outside the door in a tasteful suit and sunglasses. "Hey Carlos… CARLOS!"

"Yes maam?"

"Take these piles of shit out of here and make sure they stay out for a week, and if any of them start up again on the street, I'll personally join you in shooting them."

Suddenly, a reddish-brown furred wolf hybrid pushed out of the anthropomorphic morass. Even though he was dressed in a simple green T-shirt and black slacks, Paul immediately recognized the distinctive fur color. It was Sergei.

He stepped up to Trish. "Miss Catlin, I will take the liberty of removing Paul."

"Please do." Sergei pulled Paul up from the floor and slung one of his arms around his shoulder. "And Sergei… take care of the kid, awright?"

He responded with a hint of compassion as well as a touch of pity. "Will do. I'll see you later."

As the mess subsided and patrons began turning their tables upright, Trish looked at the disappointed faces and fists of money.

"Whaddaya lookin' at? The fight's over! Put the damn bets away and have some fun, for God's sake!"

Paul staggered on drunken, glass speckled feet to Sergei's car, a respectable luxury Zil from Russia, the Buran model, he made out, by the characteristic horse collar front. Sergei wordlessly unlocked the car remotely, hauled Paul over to the passenger side, and plopped him into the front seat before going to the driver's seat. He then pulled out a pair of blue shades, put them on, and started the car. As the engine accelerated, Paul scrabbled around for tissues or something to dab his wounds, but Sergei soon turned up a pair of soft white gauze pads. Paul gratefully snatched the pads and began dabbing his face while Sergei turned and raised his arm toward Paul's face, bodily holding the pad in one spot.

"Don't pat it about. Hold it in one spot, and it'll clot."

Paul took the pad and held it on himself, listlessly shifting around his seat.

"That was very close Paul, and very foolish. Take this." He held out a 3M instacoil bandage he had also found. "For your arm."

Paul hadn't noticed it, but his arm was pretty badly gashed by a shard of glass. He took the straight stick, slapped it against his arm, and the bandage whipped around the wound, tightly bandaging the area and contracting to fit the curvature and muscles of his upper arm. Sergei carelessly threw the wrappers in the back, which was, for the most part, filthy. There were old magazines, trashy Russian newspapers, old files, and a "Playboy" in Cyrillic alphabet. Feeling the hum of the turbine engine, the small orange light on the dash turned off, and with that, the car lurched forward.

"If you've got any other wounds, don't be afraid to lick them. It will at least keep them sterile."

Paul carefully turned to Sergei, wincing at the pressure on his cut arm. "Sorry about that fiasco back there, Sergei, and thanks for helping me out."

"No problem. Besides, if I were to let a good friend simply walk out the door bleeding and drunk… I don't think I would be able to live with myself." He laughed slightly. "I've got to hand it to you, you've sure got a way of fighting drunk. I find it valuable to use an opponent's strengths against him. It makes things a lot easier."

Paul responded. "Yeah, well, not easy enough." He coughed, turning back to a more comfortable position in his seat. He looked at the road, filled with the perennial New York traffic, and wondered where this particular car was going. "Hey Sergei, where are we off to?"

"My apartment. I've got this great apartment in the Bronx. I think you'll like it."

Paul protested mildly. "The Bronx? Why did you pick such a cesspool?"

Sergei snarled, a bit aggravated. "It's not a cesspool, it's a very culturally diverse neighborhood. Besides, you'd be surprised at what one can do with a simple apartment."

"I should get home. I've got business to take care of." He leaned forward, feeling the massive bruise on his abdomen, and immediately retreated back to comfort.

"Not like that, you won't. Besides, what are you going to do? Sit and mourn your brother? At least with me, you'd have someone to talk to." He paused. "Where's Dana?"

"She's taking care of business and coming back later." Sergei began to laugh heartily.

"So, how does it feel?"

"How does what feel?"

"To finally get a dose of your own medicine. You were too busy to see her before, now she's too busy to see you. A fitting remedy."

"Well, I'll take it with a grain of salt, Sergei." Paul slipped off to sleep as the car continued down the roads, an endless pavement maze.