How far would you go for a second chance?
Humanity thought that meeting intelligent life would bring peace.
They were wrong.
Decades after first contact, Mankind is locked in a power struggle, not with our neighbors, but with ourselves. As nuclear w...
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There was only one good thing Runt could say about riots: they were a good way to stay anonymous.
Which was good. Because there was nowhere to hide.
Runt ran his fingers over the rough brick wall silently, his eyes darting back and forth through the thrashing crowd. His feet shifted back and forth, aching to retreat further into the alley he stood at the threshold of. His tail whipped at the ground behind him, leaving slashes in the sand as his stomach tied itself in knots and the city burned itself down. His mouth was as dry as the night's desert air as he watched another pack of looters beat their way through security glass and into a building across the street while rioters cheered.
C'mon Quix... He thought, biting his lip and searching the crowd again.
His eyes, big, sad, and rainy-day blue, reflected the fires of Molotov cocktails and blinked at the report of teargas grenades.
Justice was no match for power.
A levy of riot shields doubled down as a human tidal wave smashed into the wall of Plexiglas and batons. Another dozen riot police in full gear stormed out of a van just arriving to the scene of the most recent nationalist protest. Rioters, most of them still gathering courage, stood in writhing swarms, screaming and chanting as the chilled night air churned with the smell of sweat, smoke, and alcohol.
Runt rolled his shoulder, an ache and a bruise creeping across his light grey skin from a riot wound. He clasped his hand over the bruise, his stomach in a knot as his muscles tensed at the sound of a bottle shattering on the row of riot shields nearby. He hadn't counted on riots... And he certainly wasn't equipped to survive them.
As usual, things had gone from bad to worse.
As usual. Runt thought with an anxious tic of his tail. He snapped his head to one side, scanning the tight-knit crowd for his contact. He was beginning to wonder if she was going to show up at all.
Relax, Runt. He told himself quietly, trying to sooth his anxiety with a few slow, smooth breaths. She's never missed before...
Of course, he could tell himself facts all day. They did little to fight his rampant unease.
Runt chewed his lip, taking another step back into the shadows, his bare paws settling on old newsprint and sand. The night air of New Medina wasn't a stranger to riots. Runt had seen them on the news feeds a few times before he'd left his homeworld. Mobs of rabid protesters, mostly human, bolting across the redish dunes of the desert world towards police lines. Fires licking the paint off overturned vehicles. Chants that echoed in his mind to this day.
He remembered lying in a street face down, bleeding, too. Compliments of a riot.
