Estranged

The Message

The glass shattered on the fifth round. She used her fists and feet to clear out a larger hole in the glass, then turned to Wilda, holding her hand out.

“What of Halon?” Wilda asked, stepping into Haylen’s embrace.

“He’s doing his job, ma’am. Let me do mine.”

Wilda nodded, and with that, Haylen backed up until she reached the gaping hole in the wall, then stepped back once more.

***

Halon and Germaine, light on their feet, skulked towards them, wary of the weapons Gringe’s team wielded.

“Stay where you are or you’ll join them,” Gringe warned, nudging his pistol at the bodies pooling blood at his feet. “Now hands on your head.”

Halon and Germaine paused.

Gringe would have missed what happened next had he blinked. Halon raised his bulky arms, complying with the District Head’s order. Germaine whirled violently, a glint in his eyes—and hand—as he planted a blade into the side of Halon’s neck, all the way to the hilt.

Halon gurgled blood, turning slowly to the dark man by his side as he dropped straight to the ground. He lay motionless, the life bleeding from him.

Germaine said nothing. He walked over to the side, allowing them passage.

Gringe’s team were breathless at the viciousness they had just witnessed, but veterans themselves, they recovered quickly, tipping their heads at the dark man as they ran past him for the entrance.

With Praetor and Scott flanking him from behind, Gringe drove his fist sharply into the door’s lock, punching a hole through it. He rammed the door with his shoulder, the momentum carrying him across the threshold and into a cosy room. Soft music played in the background, at odds with the disarrayed state of the meeting area. Lady Synthë stood next to a round table topped by empty dishes and wine glasses, her face clouded over in a mix of fury and despair. And to the left stretched a glass wall with a gaping hole in its centre. Beyond the glass, in the air above RoseField, floated two figures, hovering by virtue of a jetpack.

Wilda met Gringe’s eyes, holding her gaze on him even as he stepped over shattered glass across the room to the hole in the wall, gesturing at Praetor to apprehend Lady Synthë. As he stared up at Wilda Damij, a knot twisted in his gut at the look of frigid loathing in her eyes. They bore down on him, unblinking, unwavering in intensity even as the wind freed strands from her bun and sent them whipping frantically across her face. She had drawn a line and he had crossed it—daring even to swipe for the jugular, coming straight for her. This was a level of impudence that boiled Wilda’s blood, and he saw the magnitude of the rage in her eyes.

Good, Gringe thought. He needed her to escape with that swirling fury. He could not be sure, but it would perhaps cloud her judgement, if only for a short moment.

Laying across Haylen’s thick arms with hers wrapped around the guard’s neck, Wilda said something—nearly drowned out by the wind but barely making it to Gringe’s sharp ears— “Go.” Haylen obliged, controlling the jetpack by some unseeable means, and they retreated, sailing away across the skies till they were mere specks in the distance, abandoning Lady Synthë to her fate.

***

Aliyah squeezed the buggee’s grab handles tight as they bounced along the bumpy dirt road. In the passenger seat in front of her, Whylan let out a howl of unbridled joy as explosions and gunfire rocketed off from all over in short intervals. She knew their invasion of Aunt Jebba’s sector was all a ruse, yet the sheer amount of firepower that had shaken the dusty-aired cluster of neglected quarries and mines, understaffed supply lines, and lowly populated residential areas in the last twenty minutes had made her doubt her conviction. They drove through a vista of white sand and rocks, escorted by a train of trucks that carried what remained of their forces that had not gone to ‘confront’ the sector’s defences and equipment.

They were headed towards a towering building that lay at the centre of the sector. Its glass sides gleamed in the evening sun. Emblazoned at its top, in bold enough font to be legible from any corner of the sector, was a holo display which read: ‘Synthë Corp’, followed by a dancing blue flame.

Aliyah had begun to worry, and now she could not keep herself from staring at the building and its holographic title. She was not an impatient person, yet for some reason, her boots tapped repeatedly against the floor and chills held her chest in a tight grip. Then without any warning whatsoever, so suddenly—and rather anticlimactically—the holo display went off. The evening seemed darker and more silent for it.

Whylan cut off his cries. He stared out the window by his side, taking on a rare pensive look. “Now, the game is afoot.”

Five seconds passed and the holo came back on. But it was different. Instead of blue, it glowed a fierce red. And instead of Synthë Corp, it was just one flaming, glaring phoenix: the emblem of the Royal Family. The sector had been regained. Gringe had been successful.

Notifications rang from MiraLinks all around. Aliyah looked at her wrist to see the public alert. The MiraLink’s display popped open, showing video footage of Aunt Jebba sitting behind a desk.

“Hello, people. I must announce that due to overwhelming force, our sector has fallen. Cease in resisting the enemy. The lives of mine must come above all else. Expect further instruction in the coming hours. I repeat; stay your arms. Thank you.”

The video continued on a loop. Aliyah turned off her MiraLink’s display, sighing as she did. The tower drew closer. She knew why things had to happen this way; she just could not shake off a feeling of…unrest. Perhaps she would feel more at ease when she saw Gringe—and Praetor and Scott, of course. Perhaps confirming their safety would calm her.