10-05-2023, 09:19 PM
Allen Mackleby was never known to be much of a drunk. In his most pensive moments, he might’ve even called alcohol a blight on humanity. This was not one.
He layed on the floor of his dingy apartment, half-empty bottles of sap ale littering the floor around him. The day after he’d lied about the Drowned Angel, he’d walked to the local liquor store, slammed 400 Quinta on the table, and demanded as much ale as that could afford him. He didn’t want to feel his guilt. He didn’t want to feel his anger. The magic of Branchian sap ale is it made it quite easy not to feel anything at all.
So now he laid here alone, sprawled out, a thousand yard stare on his face. He still didn’t even know her name. The agent who had ruined his faith in himself, the nation’s faith in him. She had ruined his reputation without a care in the world. They knew he was lying. He knew he was lying. She knew he was lying. So why? Why force this story? Why cover up the girl? Was she important somehow? Dangerous?
Allen let out a sigh. The ale had quelled his feeling, but his thoughts still ran as wild as ever. Part of him knew he’d run out of liquor soon. That the crash and the pain and the misery that came from abrupt sobriety would hurt more than anything had in a long time. But he was lost, torn from his vessel. It was like his very mind was being burned, a war waging between his fear and his sense of justice.
It was fear, he realized, that kept the citizens docile. It was fear. Nobody had the strength to speak up anymore. Those who did were silenced. Even politics these days felt like it was being run through a thin funnel to achieve a perfect drop of a result at the end of it all. Manipulation. Manipulation and fear.
He was done being scared.
Still drunk, Allen wobbled to his feet, kicking over bottles as he slugged through his apartment. He grabbed his pistol off the table. Something had to be done.
•••
Three days later, blood pooled in the streets of the city. Another crowd gathered as another body lay suspended half in the fountain. Her blonde hair was muddied by matted blood on the back of her skull. Her cigarette holder lay floating in the pool beside her, cigarette doused.
He layed on the floor of his dingy apartment, half-empty bottles of sap ale littering the floor around him. The day after he’d lied about the Drowned Angel, he’d walked to the local liquor store, slammed 400 Quinta on the table, and demanded as much ale as that could afford him. He didn’t want to feel his guilt. He didn’t want to feel his anger. The magic of Branchian sap ale is it made it quite easy not to feel anything at all.
So now he laid here alone, sprawled out, a thousand yard stare on his face. He still didn’t even know her name. The agent who had ruined his faith in himself, the nation’s faith in him. She had ruined his reputation without a care in the world. They knew he was lying. He knew he was lying. She knew he was lying. So why? Why force this story? Why cover up the girl? Was she important somehow? Dangerous?
Allen let out a sigh. The ale had quelled his feeling, but his thoughts still ran as wild as ever. Part of him knew he’d run out of liquor soon. That the crash and the pain and the misery that came from abrupt sobriety would hurt more than anything had in a long time. But he was lost, torn from his vessel. It was like his very mind was being burned, a war waging between his fear and his sense of justice.
It was fear, he realized, that kept the citizens docile. It was fear. Nobody had the strength to speak up anymore. Those who did were silenced. Even politics these days felt like it was being run through a thin funnel to achieve a perfect drop of a result at the end of it all. Manipulation. Manipulation and fear.
He was done being scared.
Still drunk, Allen wobbled to his feet, kicking over bottles as he slugged through his apartment. He grabbed his pistol off the table. Something had to be done.
•••
Three days later, blood pooled in the streets of the city. Another crowd gathered as another body lay suspended half in the fountain. Her blonde hair was muddied by matted blood on the back of her skull. Her cigarette holder lay floating in the pool beside her, cigarette doused.