Chapter 2: Brian

                                    

                                          

My hands are gloved, and I am dressed in the uniform of the guards. Its stark white only emphasizes how out of place I seem against the backdrop of the slums.
An extraneous figure amidst the whirl of sweaty bodies.
An Imperial.
The air is filled with dozens of scents, but the most overwhelming is the stench of poverty. A destitution so severe it strips people of their humanity. I don't want to absorb it, which might be why I try to breathe as little as possible—or maybe it's because my partner reeks of alcohol.
"Can't wait to get home," Drax hiccups. "My wife's probably cooked up some great stew."
I want to remind him that last time she beat him with a frying pan for showing up drunk, something he told me about this morning, but I just shrug silently. It's none of my business. What's the point of teaching an old dog new tricks?
"Don't envy you," Drax says with satisfaction. "I wouldn't want to spend the night on the streets of Loot with this rabble."
The sun is already setting. Long shadows from the dilapidated buildings stretch across the cobblestones like dark snakes. Vendors start packing their goods into carts, buyers haggling loudly until the last moment. Life bustles around, with people bending under the weight of yet another day. Every glance is filled with exhaustion, fear, and distrust. It's so noisy here that I long to hide in some basement and just be in silence.
Drax and I walk through the grimy streets, each step resonating with pain in my soul. Passing by a half-ruined house, I notice children playing in the dust. Their faces are dirty and hungry, reminding me of my own childhood and how I once was one of them. A boy of about thirteen eats a fried fish. Grease and grime drip down his hands. He probably stole it, or perhaps begged someone to give him a stale piece.
"Hey, why so glum?" Drax slaps me roughly on the back, yanking me out of my thoughts. "Relax, it's just another night."
I nod, trying not to show my emotions. For Drax, it really is just another night, but not for me.
"Or has Your Excellency become so high and mighty that a shift in the slums wounds your pride?"
In the past ten hours, I've been reminded yet again that Drax should probably stick to silence. He would be better off as a Mute than a Flash.
"I've patrolled here plenty of times," I reply gruffly.
Two years, to be precise.
And every patrol served as a reminder that, despite my white guard uniform, I am still a boy from the slums. Nothing can wash that away.
"Yeah, buddy, that's life in Loot for you. But don't worry, you'll be back to your palace tomorrow."
I am no buddy of his.
Turning away, I try to hide my anger. Drax's eyes gleam with alcohol and a foolishly self-satisfied grin. He spends his days dreaming of returning home to his wife and stew, while I brace myself for a night shift surrounded by poverty, despair, and the ghosts of my past.
"And what did you do to piss off the commander so badly that you got sent to the slums?" My partner hiccups drunkenly again. "Did you mess around with his wife or something?"
His laughter is loud and booming. It's terribly unpleasant. Disgustingly irritating.
Plague, he really should be a Mute.
While he drinks cheap wine and makes lewd comments towards the women in the square, I carry out important orders from the senior Guards. My commander is the right-hand man of General Archer himself. If we were in the palace right now, Drax would never dare speak to me in such a tone. But then, he's far from palace material.