Beyond Delta - On the Blood Sand

December 2067. Tiger is tasked with an undercover operation to shut down an underground betting ring, forcing him to fight again and face the ghosts of his past.

A thick cloud of dirt impaired his vision. The taste of the red grains assaulted his taste receptors, his fangs, his teeth ached as if they had been hit by a hammer. Only, it wasn’t a hammer. It was the fist of a mountain, a mountain with the head of a bull. Still, it was just that—a punch. He had survived worse. He roared, put back his foot on the ground, raised his arms in what looked like a muay thai stance. His tail hanged down his legs, giving an extra fix of balancing to his body. All while he breathed. Breathed. His opponent, that massive bull mutant, was not someone he could take on lightly. Not without killing him. Not without maiming him, causing irreparable damage to his body. Yet, he could not. He would not. Even under that disguise. Even under that fake name.

Tiger was still Tiger.

And no life was unworthy enough to be taken.

A voice boomed in the arena, an unpleasant voice coming from somewhere safe, somewhere far from that carnage, protected by a metal mesh.

“Woah! Shabeel Han is cracking under pressure! The bets are soaring right now! Seven to three! Seven to three for Ferno Santamarta—the Ox of Doom! Who wants to double down on Shabeel Han?!”

Shabeel. Tiger groaned every time he heard that. Why did he use his dead brother’s name as an alias? He didn’t know. He couldn’t know. It just felt natural. Like natural it felt to dye his fur gray, have a fake scar applied and wear red contacts, forcing himself to keep his eyes slightly more open than usual. Yes, he was not Tiger Sambiong on that ring—he was Shabeel Han, a Cambodian mutant freshly landed in the British Isles. And fallen into hell.

A hell he was used to.

Tiger coiled his legs, sprinted forward, kept his guard up. Ferno Santamarta, the bull in front of him, simply spread his arms in wait. He didn’t move. He didn’t wince. He just sunk his feet more into the red sand and waited, smirking under his bovine snout. His whole posture was inviting the strike, to show how he would withstand it. To show that, no matter what his opponent did, nobody could down the Ox of Doom. That nobody could win, if he didn’t allow it.

“Come on, pussycat! Try it! Try your best! Ain’tcha a smart fella?!”

But Tiger didn’t answer. He weaved in, darting faster than the eye could see, before Ferno could even begin to react, lost in his illusion of invulnerability. The knee strike broke his fiction. The two punches to his chest assaulted his balance. The final rising kick under his chin made him fly back on the dirt, causing his back to taste the sand. Ferno growled, rose on his knees, pounding the ground with a violent strike soaked in his rage. The gray tiger, though, was just watching. Standing tall. Staring at him with those half-closed, slit-like eyes.

He wasn’t pressing his advantage. He wasn’t hitting his downed hide. He wasn’t doubling down with punishment. Ferno bellowed, clenched his fists until he felt physical pain from it. That was mockery. Plain, simple mockery. Mockery that had to be punished.

**

“An illegal betting ring? On mutant fights?”

Tiger sipped his coffee, browsed through the printed documents on his desk. The red delta logo was plastered all over them, accompanied by stamps and holographic seals. His claw-proof gloves helped him hold them without shredding them to bits, even if they were extremely unpleasant to work with. His tail waved around his waist, jolting erratically as it always did when he was nervous.

“Correct, sir. Somewhere in Oxfordshire, but we’re still closing in on the exact location.”

“Drop the ‘sir’, Jenn, okay?”

A soft chuckle. Not exactly the kind of reply he was expecting. Yet, the human woman in front of him, Jenn Husler, was no stranger to being playful. In fact, one could have said it was her whole shtick—to make her targets more comfortable, before silently offing them. Still, all that playfulness had limits and she knew that. So, second thing second, she nodded and beamed at the mutant in front of her.

“Okay, okay, no need to be bossy, Tiger. I’m not really accustomed to first name basis in a professional setting.”

“Commander Sambiong is also fine. Cyphr calls me that all the time.”

“Would Commander Furry work too?”

Tiger’s grip on his mug stiffened. His barely visible eyes landed on Jenn’s azure irises, shooting invisible darts at them, all while his mouth distorted in something akin to a grimace.

“We don’t talk about that terrible movie, Jenn.”

“But your wife sure talks a lot about it.”

Tiger’s hand trembled, as he sipped more coffee from his mug. He should have involved a lawyer, like Vince did. An army of lawyers. Sue the alien ass of Mr. Daevka to the ground until nothing remained but ashes. Okay, Vince lost because ‘no copyright on urban legends’, but would his case have been easier? Technically, Schwanzerblitz didn’t use his likeness, so it would have been harder to prove that Command Knot Furry of Dildo Team was, in fact, inspired by him. Except, how many feline team leaders did work for the British Army? Not many, right? He groaned, shook his head too for a good measure. No use to cry on spilled milk. He had to sue when it was the right time to do that—but his twins being born meant he had to deal with parenting and unexpected expenses too. Which, in turn, meant he had no time for frivolous lawsuits. Had he been more forward-thinking, he could have caught two birds with one stone and got at least a year worth of diapers out of that deal. He stared again at Jenn, still while trying to contain his inner turmoil.

“One more word about it and you’ll need another job.”

Jenn shrugged, adjusted her hair with a somewhat automatic gesture.

“Good thing I like this one very much. Otherwise, tempting fate would have been quite alluring.”

Tiger directed his gaze at the documents, trying to bleach his mind out of that previous topic. He needed to get back into his working mindset and forget about everything else.

A mutant fight betting ring.

That thought made his blood boil.

That was the exact kind of evil that made him proud of being there, of being part of Delta Team.

Of being able to do something to shut that horrifying venue down.

And, possibly, burn it with fire while rescuing all of its victims.

**

Ferno rushed forward, his horns tilted down, his boots sinking into the sand every step more, accruing momentum as he sped up. Scorn. Rage. Annoyance. All of them painted on his face. All of them pouring out of his eyes.

“I’ll crush ya!”

He screamed from the bottom of his lungs. His voice echoed in the arena, blasted through the dirt. He spread his arms, all while still running, still charging at his opponent.

A rookie mistake.

Tiger rolled on his side as soon as the giant shouted. You don’t shout when striking. You don’t boast while getting ready to hit. That’s one more cue for your opponent, one more cue to avoid your carefully prepared assault. Some used them to their advantage, faking a strike to force an answer and catch the evasion. But not Ferno. His patterns were simple. His movement linear. Tiger had seen dozens of people like him. Strong. Powerful. But unskilled. Untrained. Unprepared to deal with a real fighter. Tilted by that sudden shift, Ferno missed his target, lost his balance, almost fell forward.

Only to be struck by a rolling assault, an advancing strike to his solar plexus. Tiger used that momentum to his advantage, his forearms became a springboard. A double kick, delivered with both of his feet, all while still rolling. Hitting Ferno square in the chest, making him fall again. The bullman yelled, flailed his arms, stood up one more time. His eyes were bloodshot. His breath ragged. His muscles bulging.

“Ya muthafucka…”

Tiger raised his guard one more time, not pushing his advantage. Not rushing forward. Time. Time was what he needed. Time for the net to fall. Time for the plan to work. And, for that, he needed to keep the show running. Blow by blow, combination by combination, set piece by set piece. All while the crowd cheered. All while the commentator screeched in his microphone.

“Shabeel Han! Shabeel Han is turning the table! Ferno’s rates are falling down, falling down!”

The crowd yelled again. Businessmen in suits shaking their payment cards, businesswomen raising bunches of old fashioned notes, thugs and drug addicts growling like crazed beasts. That was the audience of that kind of show. The underbelly of the British society, reveling in the woes of someone unluckier than them. The frustrated upper echelon, always searching for new ways to relieve their boredom and basking in the pleasure of the forbidden. A world where money could buy everything, even dignity. A world that made Tiger puke. A world he could have been part of, if luck wanted. If he didn’t say ‘yes’ that day.

**

“Tiger? Is that really your name?”

“That’s the name I chose.”

“So, if you were a dog, would you have gone by dog?”

“Yes. I would have.”

The man at the desk couldn’t help but squint his eyes at that peculiar sight. A feline mutant, with what could only be described as a perfectly fit body. A killing machine built to shred humans to bits. A massive artificial creature designed to kill. Yet, the meekest, most well mannered, most self-disparaging personality. That contrast was odd, odder than the man cared to admit. A clock ticked on the desk. It was one of those old-fashioned clocks with analog hands. The man listened to its ticking, to the rhythmic movement of the internal mechanisms. It was comforting, really—something that repeated over and over, regularly, always with the same cadence. A constant. Something a man like him needed, once in a while, in that everchanging weird world. A reference point to go back to, even in the face of the most baffling events, of the most bizarre catastrophes.

“You know why you’re here, Tiger?”

“Because I need to be disposed of.”

The man tapped his finger on the desk, squinted his eyes even more. His bony arms and cyanotic skin were in stark contrast with the imposing build of the mutant. Two worlds that couldn’t have been different, that couldn’t have been farther away.

“That’s not… correct. ‘Disposing’ of you would run afoul of our laws. Albeit it is still hard to accept for some of us, demihumans like you have rights.”

“Oh, yes, sure. The right to be property.”

Tiger’s voice was but a whisper. His eyes looked like slits, as unassuming as he acted. Still, the man sitting in front of him didn’t seem fazed. Words made their way through his thin, dry lips, hitting like a cannonball.

“The right to be treated as human beings.”

“But the Morelli laws…”

“The Morelli laws?”

“Yes. Demihumans are codified as property, right? That’s why Father could create me and my brother!”

The man blinked, his mouth fell agape for a short instant, before he got his composure back.

“Tiger… no, Mr. Sambiong… the Morelli laws have been thoroughly repealed twenty years ago. I made sure of it, when I was the minister in charge.”

“What?”

“…yes. You… huh, are not property of anyone, Mr. Sambiong. Maybe, you were born as property, but, for the past twenty years, you’ve never been property.”

That’s when Tiger winced, jolted. He shook his head, almost sunk his claws into his legs. That was ridiculous. That felt ridiculous. He would have roared. He would have chewed insults. Spewed them. Twenty years ago. That had to be a bad joke. Father would have known, otherwise. Father wouldn’t have told them all about the Morelli laws. About Shabeel and him being things, not people. Father wouldn’t…

No, that was wishful thinking.

Father would.

He would totally had done that.

Everything to advance his experiments.

Everything to run his science.

Even lying.

About basic rights.

To keep Shabeel and Sambiong under his thumb.

Gaslight them.

Control them.

Strangle them in his grasp.

“But I…”

“This is what the law says, anyway. What’s your opinion on mutants, Mr. Sambiong? Do you think of yourself, of your kin, as property?”

Tiger fell silent, took a deep breath. Inhaled. Exhaled. What did he think of him? The answer was simple. Not what the man wanted to hear, of course, but, indeed, simple.

“The world would be better without us.”

“As in…?”

“We should have never been created. Freaks like me don’t deserve to live. Even if you say the laws were repealed… even if this is true… that doesn’t change anything.”

The clock ticked further. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. A veil of silence only broken by the clock incessant ticking. Stares locked in, in a voiceless conversation, a heart to heart between a cold bureaucrat and a creature that didn’t know what his place was supposed to be. Still, the man with the bony fingers couldn’t help but groan, lower his gaze.

“…there are some fringes of our army that share your opinion, Mr. Sambiong—General H.H. Boost above all. But, see, the government doesn’t. We are of the opinion that you deserve to live as much as the guy next door, as much as the King of England. You think, you feel, you eat, you laugh, you cry, you get hurt. You and I, Mr. Sambiong, are different, but not that much different. That’s why you are here today.”

He slid a printed sheet in front of him, written in large block letters.

“Because we need check and balances. Because we can’t let Boost the Butcher dictate our policy in terms of mutant acceptance. And because there aren’t so few demihumans that we can simply ignore them. This is why we want your help.”

Tiger looked at the documents spread in front of him. He could read them, understand them even. But the content

The content didn’t make any sense to him.

“…leader of a special mutant retrieval and protection unit? Me?”

“You’re a highly trained combat specimen. You are… compassionate. You were a victim of the system. You are the symbol this nation needs, Mr. Sambiong.”

The clock kept ticking. Tocking. Ticking. Tocking. The man crossed his fingers under his chin, glanced at Tiger with his piercing black eyes. Tiger stared back, stared in that dark endless abyss, trying to grasp its essence. Still, he couldn’t. It felt like losing himself in a bottomless pit of nothingness. Where was his soul? Where were his thoughts? Was there anything else behind those anonymous black irises?

The man noticed his confusion, shrugged, smirked.

“The choice is yours, of course, but think about it: as a mutant without education, you won’t find a honest job, a place to live, and a way to survive without seeping into the underbelly, without diving into the grime that festers at the roots of this country.”

“What’s in it for you?”

A violent answer. Nobody did something for nothing. Father said that too. Nobody cared about the wellbeing of others. There had to be a value for the messenger. There had to be an advantage to be gained. That was how the world worked. The man smirked again.

“Peace of mind, Mr. Sambiong. I’m dying of pancreatic cancer, last stage. Maybe two weeks more before being strapped to a machine for my last month of pain. I just want to make things right before kicking the bucket.”

“…make things right?”

Those deep black eyes fixated on Tiger, stared into his very soul, an intrusion he couldn’t stop, he couldn’t defend against.

“I was the one who let Boost the Butcher off the hook, when it came to punish him for his crimes. I let them slide. I let him climb the ranks, because I thought it was the correct choice. If he’s where he is and has the power he has, the fault is mostly mine.”

Tiger’s claws almost delved again into the wooden desk. He ground his teeth, breathed, relaxed his shoulders, breathed. Looked down. Breathed. Looked up. Breathed. Met that void. Breathed.

“So, you want me to fix your mistakes.”

The man nodded imperceptibly, almost without moving.

“Yes, but put it this way: by fixing my mistakes, you’ll do more good than I’ve ever done in my life, Mr. Sambiong… and you’ll help other demihumans in your situation. So, let me ask it one more time…”

He proffered his hand, spread his fingers.

“…are you in?”

**

Tiger’s back impacted against the cage, all of his muscles ached, his bones screamed. Ferno was towering over him, crunching his fists, wiping the blood out of his bovine lips. His boots smashed the dirt, slowly, with all the power he could muster. Tiger stood up, barely hanging, catching his breath. Almost. Almost there. His gray-tinted fur was starting to reveal yellowish tufts, as the damage accumulated, as his body grazed the sand more and more. It was just a question of time, now. He breathed. A perfect cover up operation. Jenn organized everything down to a maniacal level of precision. His fake origin story in a Cambodian research center. The fake desperate trip to Europe. The fake crimes Shabeel Han committed, his resolve to take part in the arena. No level of cross-checking pierced it. No amount of due diligence saw through his simulated self. So, here he was, Shabeel Han, borrowing his dead brother’s name. Fighting for his life under the flashing lights, inside a ring surrounded by a metal mesh, all while a deranged audience shouted numbers and bet money on who was going to leave in an ambulance—if at all.

He weaved on his right, ducked.

Ferno’s fist barged against the mesh, made it shake. Another fist, another strike. Tiger slid underneath it, left the corner behind his back, kicked with a rolling sobat. Ferno was hit straight in the back, his head hit the wall of the arena. He tried to pull it out, pushed his palms on the mesh. But it didn’t move. Not at all.

His horns.

His horns were stuck.

Stuck in the metal mesh that separated their world from the outside, form the audience eagerly watching them massacre each other.

He pulled. His muscles contracted, bulged, bellowed, almost to the point of ripping.

But his horns

Didn’t come out.

The crowd roared.

It was the roar of a wild beast, an animalistic yell that outshone, dominated all other noises. The collective growl of a serpent made of human bodies, a hive mind of shouts and utterances that took the form of a sprawling wall of flesh, chanting and throwing bills against the cage. That creature craved blood. That creature longed for it, spent every living second of its wake reveling in the bliss that violence sparked inside its entrails. The arena, Shabeel, Ferno… toys to play with and break to savor that primal, instinctual pleasure of watching a spectacle of slaughter.

As Ferno Santamarta got stuck, as his horns made it impossible for him to escape, he started to kick the ground, smash his boots on the dirt, throw every inch of his energy at the wall. Shabeel was behind him. Shabeel could finish him off. That was all that went through his mind. Fight. Break free. Get back. Don’t die. Don’t die. Don’t die. Get back. Break free.

Break.

Break.

Break.

BREAK.

It felt like a sound of thunder.

The crack.

The crack was heard all around the stalls.

Silencing the beast.

Overshadowing anything else.

Even his own pain.

Ferno’s own pain.

The horn.

His right horn.

Was

Shattered.

Broken in half.

Broken by his sudden movement, by all the energy he poured into it. A horn. Broken.

But now

he was

free

Tiger raised his guard once again, kept his distance, cursed under his breath.

In front of him, stood no more a human with a bull head. In front of him, stood a monster that bent to the will of the bloodshed, maiming his own body for a victory. He steeled his fists, prepared himself, thought about Amy, about their children, boosted his resolve.

The worst was yet to come.

And he had to be ready for it.

**

“Does it hurt?”

“What’d ya think, cub? Course it hurts.”

“Sorry…”

It was always like that. Shabeel would come back from the lab with burns, cuts, dislocated bones, and all the kind of wounds. Because Shabeel was the better specimen, according to Father. He was the sturdiest, most promising among the two. So, Shabeel had to suffer all what Sambiong couldn’t bear. But he always did it with a smile. His clawed hand rubbed his brother’s yellowish fur, so more colorful than his whitish-gray one.

“Say sorry one more time and you’ll be sorry you said sorry.”

“Sor… huh, okay.”

“Good boy.”

In their colorless, dirty, ripped lab uniforms, they sat on the floor between their cubicles. It was a moment to cherish, one of the few where they were allowed to actually interact. Seven-oh-four. Seven-oh-five. Those were their callsigns, a string of numbers without a meaning. Yet, their names was something they’d not give up, no matter the punishment, no matter the cost. They wouldn’t cave in like Seven-oh-three and Seven-oh-two, a.k.a. the faceless men. Seven-oh-two was almost always in a pharmacological coma, they didn’t see him around often. And, whenever he peeked around, he felt unsettling. His whole skin looked blurry and dark, of a darkness that felt outside of what was normal. Once, Father told Sambiong that those two had ‘a superimposition of all possible faces’, making them the perfect spies. Shabeel, though, simply called them names.

“That’s a Johnson, I tell you. Seven-oh-two looks like a Johnson.”

“What’s a Johnson?”

“I dunno, but sounds like the generic background character name, right? Like, I dunno, in a movie, see? Every non-acting extra is a Johnson.”

Right, Sambiong surmised. Shabeel was the better specimen, so he had some privileges – such as having access to an old TV set that only showed ‘movies’ and ‘telenovelas’. That is, pictures in motion with annexed sound. Sambiong had, at most, received some books. Novels, they called them. One of the few type of items he was allowed to keep in his cell.

“And Seven-oh-three? Seven-oh-three’s a prick. A gigantic prick. Every time he talks, he swears. Like, wow, so many swearwords—I’ve learned a couple new ones too. Furry waste of oxygen and the likes. I guess he’s just angry. Can’t blame him, though. Having your face evicted sounds… not very nice.”

Sambiong’s fingers moved on Shabeel’s forehead, touching the scar going through his closed eye. He had to call in all of his self-control. He had to clench his other fist. He had to breathe. Breathe slowly. One experiment went wrong. Shabeel lost an eye. Father didn’t care in the slightest.

But that was right, because they were property. Designer items for military research, greenlit by the highest echelons. So, it was fine. That was their role—live to serve humans, die to serve humans.

“Hey, cub… what if I ask Father if we can sit an evening in the same cell? We gotta watch telenovelas together! So that I can show you what a Johnson is, and trust me—you’ll start calling Seven-oh-two Johnson too once you get it!”

At that point, Shabeel’s voice raised, turned into a bought of laughter.

“Seven-oh-two, it’s fine if I call you Johnson, right?

A groan emerged from the shadows, from behind the door marked with the number seven hundred and two. It was something between pain and annoyance. Probably, Seven-oh-two was sleeping—or trying to—despite the chaos elicited by the two tigermen. Or maybe he was in his usual coma and that was just an automatic reflex. Shabeel smirked, snapped his fingers.

“Of course the Johnson would never admit he’s a Johnson. But, hey, someone gotta be the Johnson and he totally looks the part.”

Sambiong couldn’t help but smile too. They were prisoners, no more than lab rats, but they were together. Brothers—if not by blood, at least in spirit. As long as they could talk about it, as long as they could exorcise each other’s demons, ease each other’s pain, there was no hurdle they couldn’t overcome. Sambiong felt a little warmth growing inside his chest. That was right. The experiments wouldn’t last forever. Sooner or later, they would have stopped. Sooner or later, their conditions would have improved. It was just a question of enduring their common predicament a little longer. Just a little longer.

Shabeel patted his head, caressed his fur.

“Okay, enough with the chatter, gotta get patched in the medbay. Tomorrow I gotta go for that endurance test, and I need to be the best tigerman I’ve ever been.”

“Wait.”

Sambiong’s blood chilled. His heartbeat accelerated.

“…I have to take that test, not you! Father was clear that…”

“Nah, I told Father I’ll do it and that I’ll kill him and then kill myself if he doesn’t let me take it in your place.”

“But… why?”

“Because your body is a mess. You’ve taken a beating against that test drone, yes? Three broken ribs and such, I mean. You can’t possibly get out of it unscathed. You roll and strike and make all those jumps, yes? You need to move a lot to fight, but can you, with all that pain you’re hiding? Nah, don’t think so. Me? I’m different. I just punch and slash things hard. So, just focus on resting and let your bro handle it.”

He stood up, raised his thumb.

“Five armed rustbuckets ain’t gonna put a dent on me, even if they send in that new H-168 dipshit. Watch me smash them all, cub!”

A hug. Sambiong hugged him, rubbed his head against his back. His tail was a mess of random movements, his voice low like a whisper.

“…be careful, brother.”

“I will, don’t worry.”

Shabeel left the warmth of Sambiong’s embrace, walked slowly away from him, in the direction of the medbay, waving his hand as a form of greeting. Sambiong waved his hand too, vigorously, matching every movement his brother did, almost as if they were one and the same.

The next time they’d meet, Shabeel would be lying dead on an autopsy table.

With both of his arms ripped off and torn to shreds.

**

Rage. That was rage piling up in the bull’s eyes. Unyielding rage, without beginning or end, a cycle of pain and violence. That rage was fuel. That rage was his way to push forth. The broken end of his horn was still watching him from the metal mesh of the cage that kept them prisoner, mocking him for his weakness. That’s when he roared, roared from the bottom of his lungs. Cursing a name. Cursing a name with all of his soul.

“SHABEEL HAN! Ya’re… ya’re dead meat!”

He slammed his foot on the ground, raised his fist to the sky. The crowd cheered, a rain of fake banknotes poured from the ceiling, falling down without an order, without a direction, floating like dead butterflies yielding to gravity.

Then came the fist. Tiger felt it, felt the taste of those bare knuckles smashing his abs, hitting like a truck. He spat, lost his breath, his jaw opened to an unnatural degree. All the weight of Ferno’s body thrashed him, like a high speed train running over a corpse. A second strike, now to his shoulder. A sharp pain cruised through his nerves, causing him to spit again.

The next instant, the boot smashed his chest, throwing him on the ground, slamming him on the dirt. Ferno raised his arms, roared again. The audience. The audience cheered him, chanted his name.

Ferno! Ferno! Ferno!

That meant nothing, though. It was just a puppet show. Fake glory.

Wireless marionettes dancing to the tune, fake simulacra of living beings playing their part on a stage, all for the amusement of that fake audience. Tiger slowly rose up, his arms aching, his legs aching, his chest aching. Every single limb, every single part of his body was hurting like hell.

Still, he breathed.

Calmed down.

Observed.

Stood still.

And Ferno’s head fell on him like a hammer. Their foreheads clashed, forcing Tiger back down, on the floor again. Ferno raised his foot, ready to stomp on his downed opponent. Yet, Tiger’s body reacted at that sight, reacted in a split second, sweeping his opponent’s support leg, causing him to tumble. Ferno’s to give away some distance. Despite it, despite that last second distraction, he was still there, ready to strike. His advantage was clear. He spread his arms in a gesture of challenge, roaring to the crowd, showering in the chants.

Ferno! Ferno! Ferno!

Tiger managed to stand up again, raised his guard, kept his legs ready to sprint. Almost time. It was almost time. He glanced quickly at the stands, at the bunch of apes yelling and throwing stuff at the cage while still pretending to be human. Amuse the ape overlords with your blood and tears and body parts. That didn’t change from his time in the lab.

It was always like that.

It had always been like that.

He gritted his teeth.

But won’t be like that forever.

Amy. Vince. Cyphr.

A change was possible. A change was coming.

He clenched his fists.

He was the vehicle for that change.

His legs bent like coiled springs.

There was a light at the end for creatures like him.

So, he breathed one more time.

And.

Dashed

Forward.

Raised his arms.

Lunged at the bull.

With

All

Of

His

Body.

The sand shook. Dirt flew. Dust exploded. The impact sent shockwaves through their bodies, sent shockwaves through their brains. A rolling strike. A knee to his abs. Two quick body blows. Two kicks to his head. One strike to his solar plexus. A kick to his shin. Two quick rising punches. Then, the rolling sobat. The finisher. Ferno’s back kissed the ground, blasted away by an unstoppable force. He was there, basking in his glory, standing tall until a second sooner. Now, he was watching the ceiling, while sprayed on the unending red field, while his mind tried to focus, to reconstruct what had just happened.

He couldn’t.

He couldn’t make heads or tails of it.

He was standing. He had the upper hand. There was literally no way that scrawny cat could turn the tables.

Yet.

He was.

Lying down.

On the dirt.

With pain flaring up

From every inch

Of his being.

He couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t defend against it. An unstoppable combination that made him feel struck by one thousand blows at once, that sent him to his personal hell. One he couldn’t even begin to contest, to counter. One that caught him flat footed.

Now, Shabeel Han was towering over him.

Raising his arm in silence.

Baring his claws.

As the crowd fell silent.

As the cheers died.

It was time for the finale.

Ferno bit his lips.

Cursed.

Tried to command his muscles one more time.

Yet, they wouldn’t listen.

Not quickly enough.

That strike.

That last sequence of strikes.

Messed him up.

So, he uttered words.

Words that meant something only to him.

“Serpo, bro… please…”

Something wet grazed his skin.

Tears. Those were his tears. Unacceptable. He couldn’t cry. He couldn’t cry anymore. But he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t simply…

“I’m not taking you away from him.”

A voice.

Shabeel’s voice.

His hand proffered.

His claws retracted.

A

Smile?

It was a smile on his face?

And

Tears?

Tears too?

A loud roar echoed in the arena.

His voice. Shabeel’s voice.

Thundered.

Shook the ground.

Shook the air itself.

“All units, commence operation Corrida! Now!”

All of a sudden, chaos.

Gunshots.

Smoke.

People running in all directions.

Soldiers in heavy armored uniforms pouring in from everywhere.

All with a sparking red triangle printed on their sleeves.

Ferno blinked once, twice. He had seen that logo before, but he couldn’t remember where, when or what it meant. He gazed at the stands, as the audience swarmed, as the crowd yelled, trying to get out, trying to outpace the intruders. The humans that, until one minute before, were betting, cheering, throwing notes at the cage, were now scrambling for their freedom, screeching like apes in their useless designer suits. He winced one more time, at the figure of Shabeel Han, sitting close to him, watching the bedlam unfold under his slit-like eyes, wagging his tail with nonchalance, patting Ferno’s broken horn with his paw.

“…Shabeel…?”

“That was my brother’s name. I lost him years ago. You have a brother too in Euterpe, right? Giuseppe, but you call him ‘Serpo’.”

“How…”

‘Shabeel’ smirked, letting out a deep breath, all while more handcuffs clacked and more businessmen were chained, just as the commentator was snatched from his cabin too.

“Knowing about mutants is my job, Ferno. Helping them… well, that too.”

He wiped his tears from the gray fur, caked with red sand. His whole body was a mess of dirt and dust, scarring his colors even more than the artificial tint. Slowly, under his eyes, the chaos subsided, the voices got silent, the movements ceased. All doors shuttered. All way outs sealed. No way to run. ‘Shabeel’ lay down on the ground, close to Ferno, let his muscles rest. Most of the attendees were civilians. The few able to shoot a gun had been taken care of immediately after the blitz started. A plan well conceived, one he had to thank Jenn for—the very same Jenn that brought the case to his attention. Now, he could relax, let the others take charge of it, call Amy as soon as he was out of that hell. Yes, Amy would have been worried, she was always worried when he was on the field—and for a good reason. But he couldn’t let anyone else handle it. He was the only one who had the required skills, the required pedigree, the required training to deal with that case. Of course, there were Delta agents hidden in the crowd, with tranquilizer shots ready to fire if things went south. He had never really been in danger, nor he planned to be—no way he’d take such a risk, not with wife and children to come back to. Still, he enjoyed the moment a bit longer, sitting close to the bull with whom he traded blows not even a minute earlier.

In the end, that cyanotic, nameless bureaucrat had been right.

He could really make a difference.

He could really be the change.

One freed mutant at a time.

Sowing seeds for the world of tomorrow.

A world that no other Shabeel would need to be sacrificed for.