The Enemies

Not

Rhea

Humans are imbeciles. No. A hoard. This is what we are. I shove the table with my foot, and it collides with the wall. With a maddening tinny sound, the medical supplies, kept in its drawers, protest against mishandling. I jump to my feet, but my head betrays me as the picture of the paper-white ward sways a little. The window is open, and the wave of heat brushes over my cheek in a tender caress. The green view in the window is a different reality to the sickishly blank room. Five long days I waited. Now with the message staring at me from my communicator, I am ready to whale anyone or anything.

'Gus Monrow's case will be discussed later.'

Later means never. Later is a polite way of saying 'no'. Later is non-existent. The only constant is now. Later may never come.

My trembling hands open the drawers in search of my clothes. When I find nothing, I march out of the crazy place, in almost inexistent clothing, with my head high and my communicator in my good hand.

The available vehicle is next to the hospital entrance. My wobbly walk attracts too much attention from the passers-by, and I pour the sincere promise of aggravated assault into my glare.

'Go away, wankers,' I tell them as they scamper in various directions.

The sun is in my eyes, and, though logically, I should be glad to finally be outside, I am too vexed to acknowledge the rare warmth in Stolnter. As I press my finger to the scanner, the entire car binnacle lights up. It takes forever for that thing to process the data. As if it could speed up the process, I press my finger into the scanner so fiercely that my skin becomes the color of the hospital suit I wear. Bluishly-white.

At last, when I am able to drive, I step on the gas with such a force, the vehicle screams in agony. It takes me five minutes to get to the Assembly hall. I stop several feet away from the massive and unbearably long staircase, leading to the dull building. I would run, but I physically can't. So like an old buffer, I walk. Slowly. Here people stare too. A bunch of pigeons crosses my path, clanging in dismay as if it were me who disturbed them. In utter annoyance, I try to shoo them with my foot.

'Stupid pigeons!' I yell at them and attract even more attention as I keep walking. What is it with the staring? Yes, I am in hospital garments, so what? Karmians cannot even dress decently. Most of us look like hobos anyway.

I make my way through the tall marble hall with candlesticks and mushy rugs. The historical paintings stare at me from all over the place in tedious easels with the carvings of Karmian vines and birds of various types. I fight a groan as I pass the victory scenes and pompous faces of the warriors. Those are pigeons, too, but of a different variety. Maybe even more dangerous than the regular ones.

And I hate pigeons.

Completely disregarding the secretary and her pleas, I enter the Assembly room, interrupting the attendee, who was obviously not finished before my appearance. Well, he is now. He stares at me in utter disbelief and confusion. The doors with the small cardinals remain open as I stop for a moment, taking in the surrounding.

Crimson nightmare. If I had at least one of my knives, I would probably cut my eyes by now. Even the sun cannot help the interior.

The entire room stares at me as I march to the center. The glass roof allows sunlight into the place, ensuring the red is noticeable. It screams at your face. Once you are here, even with your eyes closed, you will see red. The mahogany chairs for the members paired with small blackwood tables. They are placed in a circle and allow some space in the middle for the attendee. The pea-green rug is the only thing that helps my eyes remain open, horrified by the crimson assault.