Rough Justice
#3 of A.M.
Okay, you want me to prove I'm not just some spineless close-lover, that I actually care about my sister? Okay, dumbass, I'll spin a tale to make you blink.
It starts off with me and Alyssa going to the corner store. This was when we first moved to the Hegemony, where incest is still illegal, and we were a little worried our reputations preceeded us. We were well-known back home, after all. So just in case someone tried jumping her or me individually, we travelled together, because we each knew the other could take on your average ideo-punk. We were out of soda water and the only bottle they had was warm, as we only found out at the purchase counter.
She told me to get home and put that bottle in the icebox so it'd get a little cold for lunch while she got a surprise for me. I left the store ahead of her, and that must've been the cue. I was too far down the street to hear anything, but I heard a shocked yelp from someone behind me and turned in time to see a gang of figures, wearing prole gray like they'd fucking earned it. They were massed around someone on the ground, one or two of them lying on the victim, the rest in an out-facing circle to ward off any heroes. I ran to the site with drink still in hand, forgetting they were even there as the cold sank into my fingers. That was when I heard Alyssa bellowing in pain. You can imagine how it felt- a bomb going off in my skull- and I ran like the goddamned wind to the gang. Lizards and some kind of dogs, I don't know, it was pretty blurred. They were looking antsy by then, knowing sentries were on their way, but they stood their ground until I was only seven or eight meters away. That's when I threw the bottle in his shabby-scaled face, glass smashing across it and jabbing into his eyes. The punk screeched and collapsed, the rest immediately hauled him up in a seven-part fireman's carry like a football hero, and they all ran off like they'd practiced it, just in time to escape a hissing knockdown bolt that clanked against a brick wall near their slowest runner's head.
I can't put it into words, what I felt when I saw Alyssa on the bricks. Her shirt was cut open with a ragged edge, likewise the bra underneath, though it still covered her breasts. Thank God for small favors. Her pants were pulled down enough to show her lighter fur. Fur matted with blood and road dirt, nosepad smashed clean open, claws sprinkled with red where she'd gotten in a few hits before she was pulled down for a boot party...granted, I didn't have much time for details. The sentries had to forcibly pull me off her when they circled around me, and they're not weak I guess I got a little crazy. Later on I found out that they thought I had been another attacker, I'd been clinging so tight to her, screaming. The sentries dispersed the crowd gathered to hear all that shouting, and an ambulance arrived in minutes, with me riding in the back, holding Alyssa's broken fingers and dripping clear mucus from my nose and mouth. The ride gave me enough time to calm for answering questions- one of the riot sentries had followed along, standard procedure for a gang crime like that, and he (or she? I never did find out, with those armored visors) watched over the two of us like a 200-kilo guardian angel from the messy emergency room on to the hospital room.
Ruptured inferior vena cava. I'll have trouble forgetting that phrase. Apparerently one of them stuck her with a knife while she was down, something I missed in my initial examination. She was promptly morphined out of consciousness, and as she was set up in her private room- thank God for insurance- our faceless guardian took a good look at the two of us. "Siblings," I explained with what little voice that sobbing had left me, and I got a 'wait one' from its glove. I wiped some of my fur clean as the sentry actually rooted out pencil and paper from the bedside charts, writing something with frequent glances at the door. Then it took up a standard attention posture at her bed, responding to absolutely nothing I did. It stayed like a statue the entire time I was there without saying a word or even twitching. I peeked at the note about half an hour later, eyes flicking between it and my sister. Blocky, impersonal handwriting: an address about five minutes' walk from my home, another address beyond that, with a number written beside each. A hit list, and prediction of body count, I've seen enough chophouse action movies to guess that.
Just like that, my sadness changed pitch. Those bastards would have been hard-pressed to offend me more if they had tried. The sin against my family, declaring unspoken war on its children. The sin against my beloved sister, using her sacred body as their own plaything. The sin against me, for doing the preceding. There was the matter of my own sin against myself, by failing to drive them off before the police did, but that was the only one of those sins that could be redeemed. I've said monthly prayers for that sentry for giving me the chance to do it.
Love before war, though. I stayed in her room for an hour, comforting myself the best I could, until one of the attendants told me to either shut up or leave. There was no possible way I could act a stone in her presence, so I kissed her goodbye, on the lips- the attendant looked revolted, but the sentry didn't bat an eye at my violating the anti-incest codes. Then I jogged the ten kilometers home. It gave me time to plan.
Every male has a span in his adolescence, some longer than others, where he is convinced he is the baddest thing to walk his land, and those sorry sons of bitches had caught me in the middle of that span. I was spitting and sputtering by the time I got home, but a few minutes' rest and water was enough to fix that, and I went on with the preparations. It was night by then, so my father's beat-up prole jacket wouldn't look out of place, nor would the other tough clothing I slipped on, allegedly for warmth. What was thick enough to insulate was thick enough to take a blow. This was back when I wore shoes, so my sneakers were dropped for a pair of my father's boots, the old military kind with steel toes. I checked the jacket over for all his old patches and insignia, and carefully put duct tape over those identifying marks, the grey blending in with the fabric. Belt, to keep field trousers on- the heavy buckle was just a bonus. Gloves, to prevent damage and prints.
By now I was psyched, but in a calm way, like an revving engine that suddenly gets shifted into a better gear. This was methodical, calmly collecting everything I needed, and it made me feel even more badass, so I had a feedback effect. I got into the silverware drawer, dropped a few knives in my pockets, wrapped in napkins with the jacket covering their handles. I was careful to note which pockets had them. Filched a couple medical patches. Grabbed my lighter, thanks to a burst of inspiration, and went to a cabinet adorned with the one spiritual icon in the house, a Nemesis sigil. That was what Father had said, I'd learned: use it for sport, and if bloodlust beckons you, wait until the gauntlet is thrown. It had been thrown pretty damn hard. I didn't bat an eye as I opened the door and took out the twin-barrelled shotgun inside, dropping a fistful of metal-cased shells in an empty pocket. I wrapped it up in a garbage bag along with some old cardboard boxes I found, hefted it over my shoulder, choked down two diet pills from my mother's prescription bottle, and started on my way.
Uneventful walk. I could feel something fizzing through my blood, probably those pills, and I felt roasted in my thick clothes. The most irritating thing was the garbage bag bumping against my hip. The address was one I had passed that very afternoon on the way to the store. Typical suburban house, lights on, rhythm music pumping out the windows- a few freshmen having a party while Mommy and Daddy are away, you'd figure. The kind of bastards who'd wear prole grey without earning it. Who'd gang up on a girl when she would be overpowered. I was still a little unsure that these were the criminals, but by this point, I'd wreak something wicked on anyone I found. I dropped the garbage bag at the side of the house, zipped my father's jacket up tight, unwrapped a heavy chef's knife, and tried the door- found it unlocked.
If you think I'm going to give up any details on what happened, you've got nothing behind your eyes. There was cutting and screaming and something stuck in my hand and there was blood on prole grey, not the first my jacket had blotted up, and the music was loud enough to drown it out and it took a few seconds. Something gurgled. I wasn't thinking about covering anything up, I just went back outside and tried to hide the fresh stains with that garbage bag. Walked all the way to the next house, those pills coming up strong enough I didn't feel cold, and found a different situation there. It was as empty and quiet as my own house a few blocks over. Kind of makes you think, doesn't it? Those shits were living practically next door to me and suburbia let them hide their shame until now. I don't know, I'm still a little confused on it.
Turn off the fucking machine, now. Does that red light mean it's off? Good.
I was lying earlier. I didn't feel too badass, but I remember what happened, and I don't think I let any of them die. People can live from a cut belly, right? I was shaking pretty bad for a couple seconds after the confusion was over, but I figured these people looked kind of like the ones I saw abusing Alyssa, and if I let their buddies in the other house go they might come after me and her some night. I don't think I killed them, but it's all mixed up, I think I wanted to kill them.
Right. Other house. This one was a lot easier. The front door was locked, so I managed to pull one of the windows open- crappy little lock- and there was a room with light under the door. The sheet said three people. There was some kind of noise from upstairs like people getting up in a hurry, so I gulped down spit and shot twice through that door, somebody screamed and the noise stopped. Tried reloading, it took a couple seconds...went looking. I had to reload. I just knew the police were coming, but I'd only gotten two people and the list said three at this place. Those machines are off, right?
I went in the last room and I found a boy huddled on the sheets with eyes ready to pop out of his skull, young little iguana in his pj's, and I don't think I'll ever know why I did what I did. All I know is, repay any sin dealt to you tenfold, and what they had done to Alyssa was bad- so this little kid was a victim, so what, I hadn't started their attack I got in and locked the door, listening for sirens every second, and...I got real calm, all of a sudden, and I dropped more empty shells on the floor and loaded new ones in and told the kid I'd kill him unless he shut up. There was whimpering from outside where I'd gotten people. He probably believed me, right?
The kid was coughing on something like he was sobbing too hard to breathe, but he wasn't really crying. I dropped my shotgun on the bed with the muzzle pointing at his neck Damn me, I made him take his pants off and lie facedown.Then I took off my jacket and undid my pants...I was already hard, my tip dribbling like I was watching a porno. I was heavy enough that the kid couldn't move once I was on top of him, but I shoved his face into the sheets with one hand anyway, the other lining my cock up with the only hole available, and I shoved myself in without even a slow thrust in, just a quick stab. He probably started bleeding, being so little and tight- God, he was tighter than anything I'd had!- but it was only more lube for me. He started sobbing then, but I was into the rhythm by then, shove in, wait, pull out, let him sigh out, shove back in. His ass was squeezing around me, something I'd never felt before, and the harder I shoved into him the stronger he squeezed.
I'm still not sure whether it was the hot muscle around my prick or the whimpering that was more arousing. My hips were banging right against his with every thrust, I could feel my whole body start to clench and freeze up, and all the while he kept on yowling like a tortured animal. When I finally came, I emptied at least four spurts into his tight hole, my off hand trembling a little with orgasm and finally buckling, so my hand on his head was bearing most of my body weight. My head cleared a few seconds later and I realized he wasn't squirming or trying to pull away. Maybe I suffocated him, maybe he was just unconscious. All I know is that I didn't care, I sat there enjoying the afterglow with my dick still invading him. This one's for Alyssa, I thought, when I finally pulled out with a wet plop.
God knows what happened from there. All I know is that I collected my gear and sprinted all the way home, swallowing pep pills until dawn while I showered and cleaned my gear, and took a taxi to keep a bedside vigil for my sister. I was never even questioned by the police, the murders were covered in zero detail in a few centimeters of the back page a week later, and apparently nobody on the block heard shotguns going off next door. Maybe they turned out to be dissidents and the media smothered the story with secret-police encouragement. Maybe the sentry had set me up, getting me to do his dirty work or fulfill his grudge. Never saw the kids again and never saw any signs of life at those houses- not that I ever went looking. Maybe I'd killed those people or maybe they were in shock, scooped up by paramedics and whisked away. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
All I know is that I did a hell of a lot more to those people than they did to Alyssa, and I don't care. I never told Alyssa what happened and she never asked about the missing shells in the cabinet. I hate it when Nemesis leaves you hanging.
Throw away the tapes from this session, you promise? I don't want to even risk her finding out about this.