What happens when fire is stolen from the gods? where do dreams go when they die? the capital's stars twinkled in the distance, he could see the projectors, obtuse alabaster twins, that stood watch like the guard dogs of some long sealed forbidden tomb. Huxely's Hope, Magnamalia's capital. In the sunlight it was as gleaming as fool's gold and as hospitable as a broken leg, and among the lesser, those that couldn't afford to cough up a lung to live amongst Huxely's grand high towers.. the city was a well dressed corpse. One that was pretending that everything was fine and that the worst absolutely hadn't come for them. The Slums, the outcasts of Magnamalian society among them was a common thought that spread like wildfire: "Macomb was a businessman, not a leader." The slums were a tug of war, depicting the infernal struggle between the Monal and Nature, and it was proof that the Monal were losing. vines, and roots seemed to crawl and colonize across vast stretches of the slums. There were those that seemed to care, mowing their lawns with such fanatic zeal. only to watch weeks later the colonizing force of flora come back, seemingly with a personal spite. The Slums, themselves were a great nesting spiral, an impossible maze of homes, gates, rusted metal sheets that seemingly have no origin, and disagreements of where one's property began and where another ended. It was his home... Ohma looked at the sky, a small smile drawn across his lips. He was sat, legs folded, watching the stars. suddenly the light's vanished, and the sound of a thousand wingbeats thundered over the horizon. Ohma watched with rapt attention, clutching the effect--the sword he pilfered from that deceased soldier. "Macomb Industries Combat Gearika Prototype Model" he read aloud, watching and waiting for its creator to appear like he did every night. The army of drones stopped some yards away from where the slums began. a metallic slit opened, like watching a serpent distend its jaw, a horrible rapturous choir of chirps and whirrs followed: "The Song of the Night" as the slum dwellers called it. then the choir stopped, a crackling floating image, a picture of a picture of a picture. larger than any of the slum's biggest buildings--like it or not: You HAD to behold him. All of the slum dwellers knew, and loathed him. one by one, each of the drones projected a small piece of a holographic circus, a wall here, a canon there, trapeze overhead, and a clown leaping through a ring of fire just to top it off. with a bombastic show of holographic confetti, applause and rising symphonies... played through blown out speakers. The red faced Macaque's grinning visage appeared, cane twirling, and with a smile adorned face: his appearance applauded by a collective symphony of grunts and sighs. The grandfather of Magnamalia... Mayor Hawthorne Rosefield Macomb. He looked out at the slums with his one good eye.Following his appearance, he took a bow, removed his hat and from it he retrieved a lonesome bottle of wine from within it. "Ya'll wanna see a trick?" Macomb spoke flickering his eyes between his unwilling crowd and the bottle, with a flourish of sound and fury, he smashed the projected bottle to pieces, its holographic shards transforming into a swarm of scarabs, the swarm buzzed about before suddenly disappearing with the song of the night announcing their departure. Macomb chuckled, wiping a digitized tear from his eye, before suddenly snapping straight. his eye scanned the slums with a godly ire, as if preemptively judging everyone there as nothing but lowly scum. then with nothing but a chuckle, and a tip of his wide brimmed hat, he was back to his showman's persona. "Alrighty ya'll." the mayor spoke. "hate to be the bearer of bad news buuuut~" there was low sputtering chuckle as the recorded message buffered and sagged. "Its ooooooficially curfew. so please, return to your homes and have a hap, hap, happy day tomorrow!" the transmission ended, and the world was left to grapple with the horrendous buzzing of tens of thousands of drones returning to their home. The young goat sat upon a rusted roof, watching the city on the hill, clutching the small contraption in his hand, shaking his head, with a chuckle to something only he found funny, he stood up, aiming to leave, yet a misstep and he tumbled. slipping off the rusted shed and down he went, like a fleeting Icarus illuminated by the faux moonlight. the harsh pearl light slipping through his grasp... he could see his father, the old, alabaster goat one more time: his smile, his horns... his blood. he may have landed but his hand, still raised and reaching for the father he had abandoned all those years ago hadn't received that memo. Harmony Bucks, was a memory lost in the back of Ohma's mind, yet, he could see him clearly tonight. "Papa..." he spoke softly. the final words his father ever spoke: replayed behind his eyes, and he curled his lips, a taught frown. thousands of miles away in their homeland's coast his body lay: but Ohma could see him clearly tonight--and he hated it. hand drawn over face, and somber tears rolling down his face. "Papa..." he said a little louder. eclipsing the night, and parting the pearl moonlight, was a paw. The paw in question belonged to one Jishi Marks, a young, bespeckled Hyena. "C'mon... up we go Ohma." they spoke. taking hold of Ohma's limp wrist and pulling the goat to his feet, it wasn't much of a feat, more of limply dragging him until he decided to lift himself. "fell off the roof again I take it?" They said with a playful jab to Ohma's ribs. to which the Goat remained silent. "aw c'mon Ohma... don't be like that. I'm just messing with ya." Ohma let out a long sigh, gathered their breath and spoke. "Jishi... have you ever lost someone?" "Ohma we've been over this already. Yes.. Yes I have." Jishi turned on their heels, tail swishing behind them, their brow knit. "where's this coming from? flashbacks again?" they spoke, flashing a soft knowing look, and opened their arms. "C'mon, big guy... bring it in." Ohma was upon them like a flood, his lean arms coiling tightly around the hyena, they stepped back, and chuckled lowly. "you're safe now, in the Slums you're safe." Ohma however, was whimpering and sniffling, his safety wasn't the issue. "when I fell, I saw a feint memory of my father...why... did I leave him behind!!?? Am I just a horrible son?" he asked through a series of gnawing gags and coughs. Jishi nodded, drawing a long breath before answering. "No. At least with how your mom describes how she found you, it was either your dad died or you did. you aren't a horrible son..." Ohma however, broke from the hug, face rent twixt with shadows, tears streaming down his face. "You don't get it!! Papa had dreams! and ...and!" Ohma's voice shifted and he couldn't tell if he was consumed by sorrow or anger, yet Jishi simply patted his shoulders. "Dreams are special... I know bud." they kept their voice low. "we got a job. you coming?" Ohma sniffled, and nodded, letting a deep sigh roll off his lips. the way Ohma's ebon eyes were consumed by a shallow blue hue, Jishi could feel it. motioning to the bottom of a scrap covered hill, Jishi wagged their paw like an omen cat's beckoning gesture. "Why don't you get loaded up in the van? I gotta grab my tools." Jishi let out a low chuckle, pointing to a rusted shack behind them. "Feel free to play your music, I won't be too long." The van was truly nothing to write home about, a worn old thing with a faded pictogram logo on its side--once the proud sortie vehicle of the Magnamalia Defense Corp... now it was the worn down all purpose van of the Magnamalia defense corp. wrapping his hand around the van's handle, the door came with the handle, falling down into a heap of rusted springs, and weathered cogs. Ohma lifted his head, and with a shaky voice called into the dirt stained night. "Oi Jishi! Door came off again..." there was a reply in the form of an exclaimed expletive and a biting string of foul words not even God would wanna hear. "Damnit! Again? really? did ya try setting it right?" Jishi replied, marching down the hill, rubbing the bring of their nose like it owed them money. "I told Lavender we need a new van... and I swear if this happens again so help me!" they said in between opening their tool bag, and reattaching the door, it was performance they had put on numerous times before, refastening, screwing, tightening and then some military grade tape just to be on the safe side. "Uhm... Jishi." "Ohma..." the hyena grumbled, a screw locked in their jaw like a cigarette, giving a nonchalant amber look-over to their coworker. "for the last time... no I don't wanna listen to whatever music those capital bastards are making." "Not that... we have a job right? but its after curfew...?" "Rules for thee not for me." Jishi stated plainly, giving the door a final affirming slap. "alright... get in. we gotta go fix something for my Grandma." "So that's our job?" Ohma rolled his eyes. "such a rebel Jishi." "hey! she made the appointment...not me." Jishi spoke, propping open the driver side door, only for it to suffer the same worn down fate. "Goddamnit..." Jishi grumbled. once again they set about reattaching the door to where it belonged. muttering something inane about the state of doors and how they aren't made like they used to. there was a machine intergraded in the car's hardware, of the same design of Ohma's pilfered sword. there was an orange box, yet it pulsed with an intense red light at its edges. Jishi gingerly tapped their claws along the object's surface, where it reacted like a liquid, and pulsed with an acknowledging green light. the van sputtered to life with a cough and a wheeze as if the old thing was saying: "Shit well, time to get to work." Down the rolling hills of cascading, homely trash, and sun bleached streets. the maze of homes ended, and there was only an empty lot, a blasted heath where only those truly resilient dared to live. the gutted sarcophagi of homes built a border, an ever present looming wall, a monument of all those lives compacted into the hellhole the capital built, and for a moment Ohma could swear he saw a resident as they drove past. "Black Heart... ain't it a special place?" "Reminds me of Talm...a little bit." "Really...? huh? guess it is kinda endearing in a weird way..?" Jishi grinned, and then looked over at Ohma, who was stark like a corpse, pointing. "Wha...tcha pointing at?" they asked softly. turning their muzzle and seeing what Ohma had. a black chitinous shell, drowning in black smoke.. as the headlights washed over it, it looked almost translucent. Jishi themself had gone stark, but there was an inventor's maddening glint, like burning flint in their eyes. "That's a star scourge shell..." they spoke, almost ready to jump right out of the car and take the damn thing home with them, although with a shake of the head, they sighed. "no... job comes first." silently, the van rolled onwards into the starless night, yet in the darkness...something skittered behind them.
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