Out in the streets...
Cats were on the run when dogs bared their teeth.
Dogs of many breeds pulled on leads, snarling as they looked on into the crowd, unfazed by those bearing inhuman qualities. They knew what to look for when the commands were given. Their eyes scanned to and fro to catch glimpses of their targets. They could smell them somewhere in there, among the musk of many different creatures.
The Marshal was pleased by the police dogs' display of skill and dedication to their role. There was no confusion in the presence of wolves. Wolves heads placed upon bipedal, human bodies no less. They were all secondary to the natives of Vegas, shrinking somewhere into the hairball as the armored teams put the squeeze on the hybrids. They had been cooperative so far, moving outwards from the advancing human wall with only a few taking swipes with clawed paws at the bulletproofed shields, offenses easily remedied with a coercive shove.
The K9 teams had the crowd flanked from one side, holding off on letting the dogs loose.
* * *
Hazard was somewhat curious about this news. Since its discovery back in 4776 A.S., nothing alien to Vegas besides humans and offshoots thereof had ever set foot on its soil, with the exception of the chaos that occurred during the 4949 Crisis. Ever since then, Vegas had been gripped by mass xenophobia and wouldn't have anything extra terrestrial remain on Vegas or its new found protectorates, and the most ambitious declaration, no alien spacecraft could even pass through the Vegas Coalition's astral territory. It must have been the golden rule that made Vegas citizens look like the biggest society of racists to ever exist since the turn of the fourth millennium.
To be fair, Scirinians hailed from a planet within Vegas territory and the inhabitants had been observed and communicated with extensively. Hazard knew very well and remembered his time spent on the planet occupying an island named The Emerald by the Troopers he'd been with. They all quickly learned, especially the scientists the Troopers were assigned to escort, that the Scirinians were a hard, disciplined race that was quite insightful.
Hazard was glad that Vegas and the Scirinians were still on amiable terms.
However, the picture Hazard held in his fingers almost seemed like a bastardization of what he held in his memory. In it stood a male of the species, about average height at 2.3 meters tall, maybe 120 kilos of sinewy fibers gripping the lithe frame of a humanoid alien. He was canid in appearance most notable in his visage and of course the fur that covered the exposed portions of his body. The coverings were body armor; paldrons, chestplate, codpiece, arms legs, all colored red in the protective plating sections with black underneath for the joining sections and ballistic padding. It was incomplete with missing gloves and boots, exposing the coarsely furred hands, digitigrade feet, and his wicked Scirinian bladetail. Interestingly, they had him suited in a helmet, perhaps the most complex design on his person, except for the heavy rifle held in his dextrous fingers, the claw-like nails on the tips making the human weapon seem uncomfortable in his alien grip.
Maybe this was was Lewis meant earlier about changing times. Really, it could have worked both ways. Whether for them or others, progress was for the better.
"Come on Hazard, get your mind out of the gutter," Santelli's voice growled in his head. Hazard looked down the stairs ahead of him to see the old man near the bottom, doing a neat balancing act trick to descend the stairs in his wheel chair by himself. He had a sort of complacent smile plastered on his face and had become more friendly after the meeting had ended with Hazard refusing the call a second time. "Gotta say a few words to the friends and family of Valentine and Nikula. Your presence would be appreciated."
Hazard followed Santelli as he rolled onto a podium that faced the hall still milling with people. They didn't all at once notice his presence immediately, and despite all his show of lung-power before and his telepathic faculties, he reached into his coat and pulled out a black, metallic object. Hazard saw this from afar, eyes widening at the sight. It was only a split second decision that made him lunge for the wheel chaired man, intent on wrestled the gun form his feeble old hands. But Santelli saw the movement and sent Hazard a brainwave that he would not expect. Suddenly, Hazard lost control and spilled across the podium, arms barely managing to brace his head for the fall.
Five shots shots rang out and there was a series of shrill cries in the whole room. Hazard tried to move, his unresponsive muscles finally rolling his head to the side enough to see the smoking barrel of the pistol in Santelli's hand pointed heavenward. Santelli had fired his pistol into the air and everyone had his undivided attention. Hazard was starting to feel his senses reboot themselves. He was completely taken aback at what Santelli had done to him as he shakily got up to his feet.
"Attention everyone in the room, my name is Sergeant Santelli of Valkyrie Squad." Reserved at first from the initial fright, the applause began to ring out, growing louder with every second before dying down after many seconds. "And this maggot to my left is Haze Hazard, former soldier of Valkyrie Squad." Applause was more immediate this time, only not as much of a volume.
"Alright, people," Santelli continued, "I just have a few things to say before my two friends lying down there will be interred." Santelli took a moment to flag down someone to get him two glasses of white wine, one of which he offered to Hazard who eyed it dubiously taking it only when Santelli said, "A sober man in an untrustworthy man." Hazard shrugged.
"We were all young once with dreams of women, firing big fucking guns, serving the planet in a way that matters, making a difference, and all that shit. Well, I'll tell ya, straight from the mouth of this old-fashioned, honest-to-God, gun-waving patriot, that the way these two lived and die, along with all the other of Valkyrie, show that there's no limit to what a man can do if he really wants it. They lived their lives toting around LAW cannons in the special forces to the end of their careers, going out of this world wasted, over-dosed, and knuckle deep in cooch, all when they were ripe in their eighties. And what a way to go! I'm tellin' everyone this because I'll tell you right now how much I hate solemn funerals. When I die, take me into another room and burn me. Then my family and a few good friends should get together, have a few good belts, and talk about the crazy old time we all had together. I have no doubt these two motherfuckers wouldn't have had it any other way either. They were in charge! And I'll drink to that!"
That was beautiful, Santelli, you sad, dirty old man. Hazard rubbed his aching head with his free hand. That was so painful, Hazard hoped that the clapping was only sympathy for a raving lunatic.
"Now drink it, you asshole," he jabbed Hazard's hip with his elbow. Santelli had already gulped his wine down. He then wheeled over to podium to pick up a entire bottle of the stuff leftover, wheeling back over to Hazard who had just barely touched the alcoholic beverage to his lips. "After this, we raise a toast to a fellow Vegas man returning home at last."
Then there was a very loud crashing and Santelli was no more. Hazard could feel the air rush past him, the noise setting his hair on end. A gasp rose up from crowd, murmurs of concern.
One voice called from the crowd, "Haze, what happened?"
"What's going on?"
It happened rather quickly, Hazard still held the glass to his mouth as his eyes panned up to a square hole in the ceiling ten meters above, then trailing back down to observe the huge industrial fan laying parallel with the ground where Santelli and his chair used to be, now just a pair of boots sticking out from underneath, pieces of bone, meat, and metal tubes jutting out from the impeller blades, and a huge pool blood growing in size until it spilled over the small stage. Hazard didn't need to answer them because they all began to retch as the horror started trickling down the side. Hazard simply let the wine glass spill from his hand, creating a clear splotch in the advancing red that pooled around the soles of his shoes. No one would be toasting now, so he figured he might as well make his way back out. Though he probably should have had more consideration for the janitor.
* * *
Later, Hazard, would learn that three of Santelli's bullet's dislodged the main supports for the ventilation fan in the ceiling. That resulted in the rather undignified end to a legend, so called. Accidentally hoist by his own petard.
It had been three days since that development, so Hazard paid little mind to the news-feed as he adjusted the tie he was obligated to wear to the interview. It was a relatively cool, 96 degree day on the planet Vegas and he had a new job to do.
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