The Law of Averages

Book 2: Chapter 89: Hatred

Their sanctuary smelled like freshly polished steel. His tongue flicked out to taste air that was dry, almost chemical in its texture. It made his scales itch in those hard-to-reach places between the creases. He shifted in his seat, his tail squeezing uncomfortably against the cross rail of his chair. His sharp claws sharply drummed against the wooden table in front of him, carving dozens of tiny scratches in the wooden surface. He eyed the undulating walls, soft silver streams cascading across the four sides of the room like an endlessly looping waterfall. It really was quite beautiful, all things considered.

“It’s your turn,” a voice interrupted his wandering thoughts. “Stop stalling.”

His gaze fell back to the table, and its other occupant sitting across from him. The other man looked much the same as he: yellow eyes with slit pupils, green scales running the length of his body, and a pronounced snout filled with sharp teeth. They were Scales, the both of them, and they were in hiding with the rest of their gang. They were playing chess against each other, because there wasn’t much else to do.

This safehouse had been created specifically for them, through the power of Champion and his People. The National Guard had increased their patrols, and were growing increasingly harsh on any overmodded citizen they encountered. Almost two dozen men, women, and adolescents had been injured so far by NG troops, none affiliated with the Scales in anything other than appearance. All because some young hotheads attacked a single patrol rolling through Scale territory.

Those young men were dead now, victims to a retaliatory FAT strike. But the feds’ anger had not quelled in the slightest. Scales were now treated as full on cooperators with both the People and Coldeyes’ Crew. It had been a ludicrous accusation, but the gang’s leadership did not control government policy. Then an offer came from old enemies and an argument was quickly made: Why not pause their feud with the Crew? Why not band against the stronger enemy, if only for now? Who were they to refuse salt from an enemy?

The Scales were patient; they could hold enough hatred in their hearts for two. They could hold that anger close, and wait. They need not even work with Coldeyes and his ilk. Someone infinitely more desirable had crawled his way out of the grave. Champion had returned! And he bore a message of hope, acceptance, and revenge. The Scales would stand with this man, who had been a prisoner during the assault on their people, and who had promised retribution at the end of all this.

So they would wait. They would be patient. Their time would come.

He moved a pawn forward, earning a frustrated snarl from his opponent.

His eyes roamed the room they’d been provided. It was a wide, flat space with low ceilings. There were no walls aside from the shifting silver ones at the edges and two sectioned off areas: one for the bathrooms and one for the bedrooms. This facility had started life as a pre-fabricated industrial storage shed, but had been entirely converted by one of Champion’s Naturals. Fourteen Scales now lived in the premises in relative comfort and almost absolute security. They had electricity and running water—somehow—despite being apparently cut off from the rest of the world. They even had a working television.

Several Scales watched said device, keeping an eye on the local news in case the situation in the city changed. They were effectively isolated from the outside world, something that should probably frighten them much more than it had. It was only trust in Champion that kept them steady; something about his words, about the way he spoke, rang true in their hearts. They were, in a way, imprisoned. They could not leave of their own recognizance. Yet, they held strong and waited for their moment.

Already, politicians were receiving backlash for the situation. The American people expected villain situations to be handled efficiently and promptly, with most problems being resolved in a matter of days. It had been over a week, and Champion was still at large. The NG looked incompetent; the FATs looked helpless. The citizens of Austin were a hair’s breadth away from full-scale riot. Brief oppression was understood, expected even, but this long and drawn out campaign was testing the people’s patience.

One wrong action from any of the governmental forces would light the match of revolution.

Or at least conflict. The Scales could work with either. They knew victory could not be achieved without an entire city in protest. They’d get there, one way or another.

The sound of a sharp clunk distracted him from his thoughts. He turned towards the center of the complex, where his sensitive hearing had caught the sound of metal on metal. One of his brother Scales stared down at his feet, where he’d apparently dropped a circular object about the size of an apple. He didn’t recognize the object, black and round and smooth, and asked his brother about it.

“It’s not mine,” his fellow Scale protested. He looked upwards, at the shimmering ceiling. “It fell down.”

“Down” he repeated incredulously. “Down from where?” He thought it a perfectly fair question, given the state of the ceiling. Sure, there were lights and fans protruding from the bubbling silver, but those had always been there.

The other Scale shrugged, gesturing upwards. “Down!” He swiped a hand past his head. “Just fell right past me.”

More of the inhabitants began to take notice of the strange conversation. It couldn’t be helped given the living arrangements. Several stood up and made their way over, one crouching down to investigate the odd object. The Scale seized it with his large hand, hefting it experimentally.

“Heavy,” he commented, turning it over as he examined it. He passed it over to his neighbor, who tossed it between two hands, before scratching at the surface with a sharp talon.

“Hard, too,” the other commented.

Several more looked at the ceiling, low enough to reach if one stretched.

“What is it?”

“Where did it come from?”

The outside was the obvious answer. But they had been assured that only the Safemaker could manipulate this space. The even more obvious conclusion, then, was that this had been given to them on purpose.

“A communicator?” someone posited.

“Why not just use a phone?” another asked.

“Maybe that’s what it is?” the first replied.

They passed it around, as the rest of the Scales in the safehouse began to gather. A minute passed, as they examined the object for creases, or any method of identification. It resembled nothing so much as a cannonball, and had no identifying features to speak of. They might have assumed it was some kind of glitch in the matrix, or a practical joke by their hosts, except for one fact:

“It’s electronic,” a Scale said, his secondary eyelids blinking rapidly as he examined the ball. His upgrade allowed him to sense electricity and several forms of radio activity. The object was giving off radio waves of some kind.

“So it is a phone!” the Scale who had first suggested this crowed.

The ceiling rippled, and everyone present jerked in alarm. They’d been told that they would only be brought out every four days, to resupply their provisions and make sure nobody was suffering some kind of medical issue. The last resupply was the day before yesterday. This was too early, which meant that something had gone wrong, or something had gone right. The mood immediately turned serious, as everyone present implicitly understood their new circumstances.

“It’s probably a speaker of some kind,” the highest-ranking Scale announced, taking the orb for himself. “I’m betting it’ll give us instructions once we’re out. Prep for exit, everyone! We might finally see some action!”

People scrambled for their gear. The great thing about being a Scale was that very little was required to be combat-ready. Their bodies were their weapons, and thus all fourteen Scales were assembled in the thirty or so seconds it took for the massive storage container to resolve itself back into reality.

The change came in stages. First, smooth silver hardened into harsh aluminum walls, somehow making the space seem more claustrophobic than before. Then the air changed, fresh scents filtering in from outside. Sound joined smell, chirping cicada and distant cars. There was a quiet hum resounding through the floor and ceiling, as the process finished and the container settled itself.

The safehouse had been placed in a decommissioned power plant, one storage shed of many that nobody cared to look at nor monitor. The exit door had been modified so that it could not be easily locked from the outside. The leading Scale opened the door, letting the evening sun stream in. He blinked in the light, one hand grasped around the black orb that had been delivered to them. He hefted it expectantly.

“It’s receiving some kind of signal,” his fellow Scale offered, squinting from within the pre-fab.

He nodded, tossing it up and down as he glanced around and tasted the air. The old plant stank of acrid smoke and rust. Ash layered itself thick along concrete infrastructure, the result of the fire that closed the facility. It made for a truly unpleasant assault on the senses, practically choking the nose of most Scales. It was an unfortunate disadvantage to an otherwise perfect site.

His ears had no such disadvantage, and every Scale present quickly picked up the sound of distant aircraft. An NG helo was circling nearby, the familiar sound sending a rush of adrenaline through his body. His neck frills straightened unconsciously, and he took an uncertain step backwards. He glanced once more at the orb, then skyward, towards the rapidly approaching speck of black.

“It’s a tracker!” one of his Scales bellowed, rushing forward. “It’s broadcasting to the chopper!”

The lead Scale’s eyes widened, and he pitched orb away as hard as he could manage. He glanced towards the distant helicopter in time to see a trio of black dots detach from its side and blur towards the old plant.

“To arms!” he bellowed urgently, turning to the storage unit where most of his Scales remained within. “To arms! We’re under attac—!”

Something struck him. He felt bones break and the earth quake. He fell, and all went black.