Grandeur Defector

VIII

"Well, you've really pissed off the higher ups. They don't know what to do with you now."

Flippy snickered, fiddling with the collar around Eleven's neck. He brushed his short claws against the soft underside of Eleven's chin, the skin thin in the area. Eleven swallowed nervously at the touch.

"D-Do I die now?"

"Not exactly. They wanna keep you around, considering you're a tiger army superior."

What? What made them think I was special?
Flippy must've guessed his thoughts, and patted Eleven's uniform jacket— directly on his role patch.
The patch was a black and yellow paw print, the palm pad in the shape of an explosion. In the middle was a crosshair and a warning sign, encased in black.
Uh oh. They... they don't know.

"You're some sort of expert in your field. No other tiger soldier has this patch of yours."
Flippy looked confident in his words.
"Am I right? I gotta be."

Eleven cringed inwardly, not sure how to say what his real role was. There was a very good reason as to why it was rare to find that patch on someone.
A memory, one quite bitter.

...
He ran faster than most, which is exactly why he was feared the most out of the Royal Guard.
He took his place next to The General, falling in line where he belonged. The leather, spiked black collar was tight on his neck, rubbing the sensitive skin underneath raw. The chain that he was once dragged and choked in the royal hallways for years was broken, the chain link broken on its end. He felt like an attack dog more than anything, but he hadn't known anything else— perhaps he was beginning to enjoy the feeling of being degraded.
I'm nothing. I'm useless. I'm a failure.

Eleven stepped forward, peering down at what The General's attention was turned to. At his feet was a dead soldier missing half his body, face torn, and his uniform jacket ripped. Just barely visible, a yellow and black paw print patch was etched into the corpse's jacket. Eleven examined it coldly, emotionless. It was just another corpse.
How sad.
I'm glad I'm not in that role.

The General turned to Eleven, pondering something.
"Mười một."
'Eleven', he translated into his head, getting used to switching languages easily. Conversations were good practice.
My name. I'm lucky that he gave me a new name. I'm forever grateful for him.

"Vâng thưa ngài?"
'Yes sir?'

Đó là một bản vá tốt, phải không?"
'That's a good patch, isn't it?'

"Vâng, thưa ngài."
'Yes, sir.'
He was lying, but hesitation was a death wish.
I suppose the patch itself is pretty.

"Chúng ta có thể sử dụng nhiều hơn trong số họ."
'We could use more of them.'

Eleven shivered in excitement, wondering if The General would switch his bullies' roles to become this.
You DO care, I've always knew. I owe you my life. They are perfect sacrifices; they won't be missed.

But instead, The General looked down at Eleven, and pointed to his left breast.
What?
Horror filled him immediately. He tried to maintain his emotionless expression, but fear shoved it aside. The General smiled a crooked smile, clearly enjoying his inner turmoil.
No... how- how could you do this to me? No, please! No, I don't have a choice, do I? I have no choice.
So be it.
"V-Vâng thưa ngài."
...

Eleven swayed his tail, fidgety from his frazzled nerves. Flippy calmly watched the tiger's tail move back and forth; he batted it once playfully, as if his instincts demanded that he should.
It felt like a innocent kitten playing with an older cat's tail for hunting practice, for when they'd be raised into killers and monsters among men.
He kept swaying his tail despite Flippy's occasional touches, his instinct driving him to keep doing the gesture. Finally, he had a response.
"I... suppose, but special in a wrong way."