ᕼᗩᒪOGEᑎ KIᑎG | Open Novella Contest 2024

9: Beloved Things

Nyx Odenburg blurs in a hail of violence right before his lenses as he watches the content of Zina Gratsova's messages.

The personal feed of an unnamed security intel at Steiger, initials and ID nr in a corner, fills Mars' vision as if he is at the scene. The number is familiar, Gratsova's divison of investiagtion. The video material shakes, directly from a source that blinks and breathes. Then, two more appear, in a corner, one of the same unnamed rank and one superior.

Lao, the tag reads. Head of Internal Investigations Security sectors.

One alleyway, a slow trickling stream of corner booths with a few mint-clad signs. Bodies in high-end fashion sneakers and tight bright jackets. Then, a familiar dark-clad figure exits one of the booths. Gloved hands, scarred cheeks.

"Nyx Odenburg, you are under arrest," a voice shouts.

Nyx turns around. Everything flies by fast and hard now. Lao draws a taser. Another officer moves at the same time, and the silver piece of a nuzzle shines in a traffic light.

Violence unfolds. The god of war would be proud of Odenburg if he existed.

Nyx turns around. Everything flies by fast and hard now. Lao draws a taser. Another officer moves at the same time, and the silver piece of a nuzzle shines in a traffic light.

Violence unfolds. The god of war would be proud of Odenburg if he existed.

One gloved hand runs to his back, two hands on a gun, and he fires a round right at the security officer with a shattering explosion echoing in the video. A scream and civilians scatter in a panicked flock.

The next time Lao aims the taser, a stranger takes the spasmodic, twitching assault, a shield in a gloved arm, before falling down in a heavy thump. Nyx keeps shooting until Lao and another stranger in a red tank top lie bleeding on the asphalt.

The security officer watches with horror and wild breath under his vest, then ducks.

It doesn't save his knees as Nyx aims and bellows a shot, shattering bone and flesh.

Mars pauses the feed. In the imagery of the alleyways, a haze pulls over the hooded face, the coal-black needles of his eyes in a bloodless, scarred, grey face.

Then rewinds a little bit.

Gone is Nyx Odenburg the kind-faced figure in his life, aiming to improve his moral compass. The image smudges the longer he stares at the deadly creature.

Something fragile inside him cracks. A dissonance that gives him a headache. Something that helped to put Mr Odenburg the saint on his pedestal as he cared for Mars, held him accountable for tactics and persisted Mars had a heart that he could conquer.

Shooting kneecaps is a Mars tactic. Every fiber of his being screams that Nyx would never. Then Zina's data comes back, the questions, the fact Mars knew virtually nothing about him before they worked together.

For what it is worth, he attempts to call Nyx.

Of course, the connection is dead. No one answers. No one ever does. Nyx killed it off the moment he fled. The rational part of Mars is extremely aware of it. It doesn't mean he never wonders. Where he is. What he does. When they meet again.

For someone asking me to run away, you're not very keen on getting to me, are you?

It is such a silly, toxic thought. If Nyx makes one wrong move he will get caught and he will be persecuted.

Maybe I don't want him to come.

Mars cannot say where the thought comes from. Another petty idea of an impudent, petulant boy, not a grown-up man.